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Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Das Kind wurde versorgt, aber die neue Anordnung war unausweichlich verwirrend für eine junge Intelligenz, die intensiv spürte, dass etwas geschehen war, das ziemlich wichtig sein musste und ängstlich auf die Auswirkungen eines so großen Ereignisses achtete. Das Schicksal dieses geduldigen kleinen Mädchens sollte es sein, viel mehr zu sehen, als sie anfangs verstand, aber auch schon zu Beginn viel mehr zu verstehen als jedes andere kleine Mädchen, so geduldig es auch sein mochte, jemals zuvor verstanden hatte. Nur ein Trommlerjunge in einer Ballade oder Geschichte hätte sich so mitten im Kampf befunden. Sie wurde in das Vertrauen von Leidenschaften eingeweiht, auf die sie genau den Blick heftete, den sie für Bilder an der Wand hatte, die im Lichtbild einer Laterna magica hin und her hüpften. Ihre kleine Welt war phantasmagorisch - seltsame Schatten tanzten auf einem Tuch. Es war, als ob die ganze Vorstellung für sie gegeben worden wäre - ein kleines, halb verängstigtes Kind in einem großen, düsteren Theater. Kurz gesagt wurde sie mit einer Großzügigkeit ins Leben eingeführt, bei der das Egoismus anderer seinen Vorteil fand, und es gab nichts, das das Opfer hätte abwenden können, außer der Bescheidenheit ihrer Jugend. Ihr erst Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Wir lernen Maisie kennen, die sechs Jahre alt ist, und finden heraus, wie ihre Welt aussieht, während sie ihr "erstes Semester mit ihrem Vater" verbringt. Nach der unpersönlichen Einleitung zeigt uns James' Erzähler, wie es sich anfühlt, Maisie zu sein, und der Roman wird sich weitgehend aus ihrer Perspektive zeigen. Kurz gesagt, Maisie hat ein hartes Leben vor sich. Beale Farange versteckt seinen Ärger nicht zum Vorteil seiner Tochter und lästert regelmäßig über Maisies Mutter in ihrer Gegenwart. Wir treffen auch auf Maisies Babysitterin, Moddle. Moddle erzählt Maisie immer, was für ein schlechtes Paar ihre Eltern sind. Moddle verspricht Maisie, dass es besser wird, wenn sie bei ihrer Mutter ist. Doch das Kapitel endet damit, dass Maisie auf Wunsch ihres Vaters eine Beleidigung wiederholt, die sicherlich Ida Farange ärgern wird: "'Er hat gesagt, ich soll dir das von ihm ausrichten', berichtete sie treu, 'dass du ein gemeines, böses Schwein bist!'" Autsch.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Clerval then put the following letter into my hands. "_To_ V. FRANKENSTEIN. "MY DEAR COUSIN, "I cannot describe to you the uneasiness we have all felt concerning your health. We cannot help imagining that your friend Clerval conceals the extent of your disorder: for it is now several months since we have seen your hand-writing; and all this time you have been obliged to dictate your letters to Henry. Surely, Victor, you must have been exceedingly ill; and this makes us all very wretched, as much so nearly as after the death of your dear mother. My uncle was almost persuaded that you were indeed dangerously ill, and could hardly be restrained from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. Clerval always writes that you are getting better; I eagerly hope that you will confirm this intelligence soon in your own hand-writing; for indeed, indeed, Victor, we are all very miserable on this account. Relieve us from this fear, and we shall be the happiest creatures in the world. Your father's health is now so vigorous, that he appears ten years younger since last winter. Ernest also is so much improved, that you would hardly know him: he is now nearly sixteen, and has lost that sickly appearance which he had some years ago; he is grown quite robust and active. "My uncle and I conversed a long time last night about what profession Ernest should follow. His constant illness when young has deprived him of the habits of application; and now that he enjoys good health, he is continually in the open air, climbing the hills, or rowing on the lake. I therefore proposed that he should be a farmer; which you know, Cousin, is a favourite scheme of mine. A farmer's is a very healthy happy life; and the least hurtful, or rather the most beneficial profession of any. My uncle had an idea of his being educated as an advocate, that through his interest he might become a judge. But, besides that he is not at all fitted for such an occupation, it is certainly more creditable to cultivate the earth for the sustenance of man, than to be the confidant, and sometimes the accomplice, of his vices; which is the profession of a lawyer. I said, that the employments of a prosperous farmer, if they were not a more honourable, they were at least a happier species of occupation than that of a judge, whose misfortune it was always to meddle with the dark side of human nature. My uncle smiled, and said, that I ought to be an advocate myself, which put an end to the conversation on that subject. "And now I must tell you a little story that will please, and perhaps amuse you. Do you not remember Justine Moritz? Probably you do not; I will relate her history, therefore, in a few words. Madame Moritz, her mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was the third. This girl had always been the favourite of her father; but, through a strange perversity, her mother could not endure her, and, after the death of M. Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed this; and, when Justine was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at her house. The republican institutions of our country have produced simpler and happier manners than those which prevail in the great monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less distinction between the several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower orders being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant in France and England. Justine, thus received in our family, learned the duties of a servant; a condition which, in our fortunate country, does not include the idea of ignorance, and a sacrifice of the dignity of a human being. "After what I have said, I dare say you well remember the heroine of my little tale: for Justine was a great favourite of your's; and I recollect you once remarked, that if you were in an ill humour, one glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that Ariosto gives concerning the beauty of Angelica--she looked so frank-hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment for her, by which she was induced to give her an education superior to that which she had at first intended. This benefit was fully repaid; Justine was the most grateful little creature in the world: I do not mean that she made any professions, I never heard one pass her lips; but you could see by her eyes that she almost adored her protectress. Although her disposition was gay, and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the model of all excellence, and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology and manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her. "When my dearest aunt died, every one was too much occupied in their own grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness with the most anxious affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other trials were reserved for her. "One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The conscience of the woman was troubled; she began to think that the deaths of her favourites was a judgment from heaven to chastise her partiality. She was a Roman Catholic; and I believe her confessor confirmed the idea which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months after your departure for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her repentant mother. Poor girl! she wept when she quitted our house: she was much altered since the death of my aunt; grief had given softness and a winning mildness to her manners, which had before been remarkable for vivacity. Nor was her residence at her mother's house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance. She sometimes begged Justine to forgive her unkindness, but much oftener accused her of having caused the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting at length threw Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased her irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died on the first approach of cold weather, at the beginning of this last winter. Justine has returned to us; and I assure you I love her tenderly. She is very clever and gentle, and extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her mien and her expressions continually remind me of my dear aunt. "I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling William. I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eye-lashes, and curling hair. When he smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with health. He has already had one or two little _wives_, but Louisa Biron is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age. "Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little gossip concerning the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield has already received the congratulatory visits on her approaching marriage with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon, married M. Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes since the departure of Clerval from Geneva. But he has already recovered his spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a very lively pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and much older than Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favourite with every body. "I have written myself into good spirits, dear cousin; yet I cannot conclude without again anxiously inquiring concerning your health. Dear Victor, if you are not very ill, write yourself, and make your father and all of us happy; or----I cannot bear to think of the other side of the question; my tears already flow. Adieu, my dearest cousin." "ELIZABETH LAVENZA. "Geneva, March 18th, 17--." * * * * * "Dear, dear Elizabeth!" I exclaimed when I had read her letter, "I will write instantly, and relieve them from the anxiety they must feel." I wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but my convalescence had commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another fortnight I was able to leave my chamber. One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the several professors of the university. In doing this, I underwent a kind of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had sustained. Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the beginning of my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even to the name of natural philosophy. When I was otherwise quite restored to health, the sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the agony of my nervous symptoms. Henry saw this, and had removed all my apparatus from my view. He had also changed my apartment; for he perceived that I had acquired a dislike for the room which had previously been my laboratory. But these cares of Clerval were made of no avail when I visited the professors. M. Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonishing progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that I disliked the subject; but, not guessing the real cause, he attributed my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement to the science itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me out. What could I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death. I writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt. Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn. I thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from me; and although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence that knew no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide to him that event which was so often present to my recollection, but which I feared the detail to another would only impress more deeply. M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me even more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. "D--n the fellow!" cried he; "why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us all. Aye, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster who, but a few years ago, believed Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as the gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university; and if he is not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance.--Aye, aye," continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering, "M. Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man. Young men should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval; I was myself when young: but that wears out in a very short time." M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, which happily turned the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me. Clerval was no natural philosopher. His imagination was too vivid for the minutiae of science. Languages were his principal study; and he sought, by acquiring their elements, to open a field for self-instruction on his return to Geneva. Persian, Arabic, and Hebrew, gained his attention, after he had made himself perfectly master of Greek and Latin. For my own part, idleness had ever been irksome to me; and now that I wished to fly from reflection, and hated my former studies, I felt great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend, and found not only instruction but consolation in the works of the orientalists. Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating to a degree I never experienced in studying the authors of any other country. When you read their writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and garden of roses,--in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire that consumes your own heart. How different from the manly and heroical poetry of Greece and Rome. Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable, and my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay very bitterly; for I longed to see my native town, and my beloved friends. My return had only been delayed so long from an unwillingness to leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had become acquainted with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent cheerfully; and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came, its beauty compensated for its dilatoriness. The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt that I might bid a personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited. I acceded with pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise, and Clerval had always been my favourite companion in the rambles of this nature that I had taken among the scenes of my native country. We passed a fortnight in these perambulations: my health and spirits had long been restored, and they gained additional strength from the salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and the conversation of my friend. Study had before secluded me from the intercourse of my fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but Clerval called forth the better feelings of my heart; he again taught me to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children. Excellent friend! how sincerely did you love me, and endeavour to elevate my mind, until it was on a level with your own. A selfish pursuit had cramped and narrowed me, until your gentleness and affection warmed and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature who, a few years ago, loving and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care. When happy, inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most delightful sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with ecstacy. The present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring bloomed in the hedges, while those of summer were already in bud: I was undisturbed by thoughts which during the preceding year had pressed upon me, notwithstanding my endeavours to throw them off, with an invincible burden. Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathized in my feelings: he exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations that filled his soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion were truly astonishing: his conversation was full of imagination; and very often, in imitation of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of wonderful fancy and passion. At other times he repeated my favourite poems, or drew me out into arguments, which he supported with great ingenuity. We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were dancing, and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits were high, and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Elizabeths Brief drückt Besorgnis um das Wohlergehen von Victor aus und Dankbarkeit gegenüber Henry für seine Fürsorge. Sie berichtet über lokale Klatschgeschichten und aktuelle Familienereignisse. Der vertrauenswürdigste Diener der Familie, Justine Moritz, ist nach dem Tod ihrer entfremdeten Mutter wieder zur Familie zurückgekehrt. Victor's jüngerer Bruder, Ernest, ist jetzt sechzehn Jahre alt und strebt danach, dem Auswärtigen Dienst beizutreten; sein anderer Bruder, William, ist fünf geworden und macht wunderbare Fortschritte. Elizabeth bittet Victor inständig, zu schreiben und sie zu besuchen, da sie ihn und seinen Vater schrecklich vermissen. Frankenstein wird von einem Gewissensbiss ergriffen und beschließt, ihnen sofort zu schreiben. Innerhalb von zwei Wochen kann Victor sein Zimmer verlassen. Henry hat ihm eine neue Wohnung besorgt und alle seine wissenschaftlichen Instrumente aus seinem früheren Labor entfernt, nachdem er Victors Abneigung dagegen bemerkt hat. Clerval den Professoren von Ingolstadt vorzustellen, ist reine Folter, da sie unaufhörlich den wissenschaftlichen Sachverstand von Victor bewundern. Victor selbst kann das Lob nicht ertragen und lässt sich von Henry überreden, die Wissenschaft für das Studium der orientalischen Sprachen aufzugeben. Diese - zusammen mit der glorreichen Melancholie der Poesie - bieten Frankenstein eine dringend benötigte Ablenkung. Der Sommer vergeht und Victor beschließt, am Ende des Herbstes nach Genf zurückzukehren. Zu seinem Bedauern verschiebt sich seine Abreise jedoch bis zum Frühling. In der Zwischenzeit verbringt er viele wunderbare Stunden in Begleitung von Clerval. Sie machen einen zweiwöchigen Ausflug durch die Landschaft und Victor reflektiert darüber, dass Henry in der Lage ist, "die besseren Gefühle seines Herzens" hervorzurufen. Die beiden Freunde lieben einander auf leidenschaftliche Weise. Langsam kehrt Victor zu seinem alten, sorgenfreien Selbst zurück. Er erfreut sich an der Natur und kann sein früheres Elend vergessen. Die beiden sind in Hochstimmung, als sie zur Universität zurückkehren.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW IT chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk with Mr. Enfield, that their way lay once again through the by-street; and that when they came in front of the door, both stopped to gaze on it. "Well," said Enfield, "that story's at an end at least. We shall never see more of Mr. Hyde." "I hope not," said Utterson. "Did I ever tell you that I once saw him, and shared your feeling of repulsion?" "It was impossible to do the one without the other," returned Enfield. "And by the way, what an ass you must have thought me, not to know that this was a back way to Dr. Jekyll's! It was partly your own fault that I found it out, even when I did." "So you found it out, did you?" said Utterson. "But if that be so, we may step into the court and take a look at the windows. To tell you the truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even outside, I feel as if the presence of a friend might do him good." 49) The court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature twilight, although the sky, high up overhead, was still bright with sunset. The middle one of the three windows was half-way open; and sitting close beside it, taking the air with an infinite sadness of mien, like some disconsolate prisoner, Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll. "What! Jekyll!" he cried. "I trust you are better." "I am very low, Utterson," replied the doctor, drearily, "very low. It will not last long, thank God." "You stay too much indoors," said the lawyer. "You should be out, whipping up the circulation like Mr. Enfield and me. (This is my cousin--Mr. Enfield--Dr. Jekyll.) Come, now; get your hat and take a quick turn with us." "You are very good," sighed the other. "I should like to very much; but no, no, no, it is quite impossible; I dare not. But indeed, Utterson, I am very glad to see you; this is really a great pleasure; I would ask you and Mr. Enfield up, but the place is really not fit." "Why then," said the lawyer, good-naturedly, "the best thing we can do is to stay down here and speak with you from where we are." "That is just what I was about to venture to propose," returned the doctor with a smile. But the words were hardly uttered, before the smile was struck out of his face and succeeded 50) by an expression of such abject terror and despair, as froze the very blood of the two gentlemen below. They saw it but for a glimpse, for the window was instantly thrust down; but that glimpse had been sufficient, and they turned and left the court without a word. In silence, too, they traversed the by-street; and it was not until they had come into a neighbouring thoroughfare, where even upon a Sunday there were still some stirrings of life, that Mr. Utterson at last turned and looked at his companion. They were both pale; and there was an answering horror in their eyes. "God forgive us, God forgive us," said Mr. Utterson. But Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very seriously and walked on once more in silence. 51) Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Herr Enfield und Herr Utterson gehen erneut an der geheimnisvollen Tür entlang. Durch eines der Fenster entdeckt Utterson Dr. Jekyll, den er seit Wochen nicht gesehen hat. Utterson ruft nach Jekyll und sagt ihm, er solle öfter nach draußen gehen. Jekyll antwortet, dass er es gerne würde, es sich aber nicht traut. Als er seinen Satz beendet, verschwindet sein Lächeln aus seinem Gesicht und ein Ausdruck absoluter Angst tritt ein. Es scheint, als würde Jekyll einen Art Anfall erleiden. Enfield und Utterson sahen nur kurz den Schmerz in Jekylls Gesicht, bevor er das Fenster schnell schloss, aber beide sind bestürzt. Sie gehen weiter, ohne über den Vorfall zu sprechen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: SZENE 4. Frankreich. Vor Orleans. Betrete, auf den Mauern, den OBERKANONIER VON ORLEANS und seinen JUNGEN OBERKANONIER. Hör mal, du weißt, wie Orleans belagert ist, Und wie die Engländer die Vororte gewonnen haben. JUNGE. Vater, ich weiß es; und oft habe ich auf sie geschossen, Auch wenn ich unglücklicherweise mein Ziel verfehlt habe. OBERKANONIER. Aber jetzt sollst du nicht. Sei gehorsam mir gegenüber. Ich bin der oberste Kanonier dieser Stadt; Etwas muss ich tun, um mir Gnade zu erkaufen. Die Spione des Prinzen haben mir berichtet, Wie die Engländer in den nahe gelegenen Vororten Durch ein geheimes Eisengitter In jenem Turm über die Stadt schauen, Und von dort aus entdecken, wie sie uns Am besten mit Geschossen oder Angriff quälen können. Um diese Unannehmlichkeit abzufangen, Habe ich eine Kanone dagegen platziert; Und diese drei Tage habe ich gewacht, Ob ich sie sehen könnte. Nun wach du, Denn länger kann ich nicht bleiben. Wenn du irgendwelche entdeckst, lauf und bring mir Bescheid; Und du findest mich beim Gouverneur. Geht ab JUNGE. Vater, keine Sorge; kümmere dich nicht; Ich werde dich nie stören, wenn ich sie entdecken kann. Geht ab Betreten SALISBURY und TALBOT die Türme, mit SIR WILLIAM GLANSDALE, SIR THOMAS GARGRAVE und anderen SALISBURY. Talbot, mein Leben, meine Freude, bist zurückgekehrt! Wie wurdest du behandelt als Gefangener? Oder wie hast du es geschafft, befreit zu werden? Erzähle, ich bitte dich, auf der Spitze dieses Turms. TALBOT. Der Earl von Bedford hatte einen Gefangenen Namens der tapfere Lord Ponton de Santrailles; Für ihn wurde ich ausgetauscht und freigekauft. Aber mit einem wesentlich minderwertigen Mann Würden sie sich einst in Verachtung mit mir tauschen wollen; Was ich verachtend verschmähte und den Tod wünschte, Anstatt dass ich so schändlich geschätzt werde. Kurz gesagt, erlöst wurde ich, wie ich es wünschte. Aber, oh! Der hinterhältige Fastolfe verletzt mein Herz, Den ich mit bloßen Fäusten hinrichten würde, Wenn ich ihn jetzt in meine Gewalt brächte. SALISBURY. Doch erzählst du nicht, wie du empfangen wurdest. TALBOT. Mit Spott, Hohn und verächtlichen Verhöhnungen, Im offenen Marktplatz stellten sie mich zur Schau; Hier, sagten sie, ist der Schrecken der Franzosen, Die Vogelscheuche, die unsere Kinder erschreckt. Dann brach ich von den Offizieren los, die mich führten, Und mit meinen Nägeln grub ich Steine aus dem Boden, Um sie auf die Betrachter meiner Schande zu werfen; Mein schreckliches Aussehen ließ andere fliehen; Niemand wagte es, in Angst vor plötzlichem Tod nahe zu kommen. In eisernen Wänden fühlten sie mich nicht sicher; So groß war die Furcht vor meinem Namen unter ihnen verbreitet, Dass sie glaubten, ich könnte Stahlstangen zerreißen Und Adamsapfelpfosten zertrümmern; Deshalb hatte ich eine Leibwache aus auserlesenen Schützen, Die ständig um mich herumgingen; Und wenn ich nur aus dem Bett aufstehen würde, Waren sie bereit, mich ins Herz zu schießen. Betrete der JUNGE mit einem Lunte SALISBURY. Es schmerzt mich, von den Qualen zu hören, die du ertragen hast; Aber wir werden uns ausreichend rächen. Jetzt ist es Suppenzeit in Orleans: Hier, durch dieses Gitter, zähle ich jeden einzelnen Und betrachte die Franzosen bei ihrer Befestigung. Lasst uns hineinschauen; der Anblick wird dich sehr erfreuen. Sir Thomas Gargrave und Sir William Glansdale, Lasst mich eure ausdrücklichen Meinungen haben, Wo der beste Ort ist, um unsere Kanonen als nächstes aufzustellen. GARGRAVE. Ich denke, am Nordtor; denn dort stehen die Herren. GLANSDALE. Und ich hier, an der Festung der Brücke. TALBOT. Soweit ich sehen kann, muss diese Stadt verhungern, Oder durch leichte Scharmützel geschwächt sein. [Hier schießen sie, und SALISBURY und GARGRAVE stürzen nieder] SALISBURY. Oh Herr, habe Erbarmen mit uns, armseligen Sündern! GARGRAVE. Oh Herr, habe Erbarmen mit mir, elendem Mann! TALBOT. Was ist das für ein Zufall, der uns plötzlich überfallen hat? Sprich, Salisbury; wenigstens, wenn du sprechen kannst. Wie geht es dir, Spiegelbild aller Krieger? Ein Auge und eine Wange von dir entfernt! Verfluchter Turm! Verfluchte verhängnisvolle Hand, Die dieses beklagenswerte Drama verursacht hat! In dreizehn Schlachten überwand Salisbury; Heinrich der Fünfte führte er zuerst in den Krieg; Solange eine Trompete erklang oder eine Trommel schlug, Verließ sein Schwert nie das Schlachtfeld. Lebst du dennoch, Salisbury? Obwohl dir die Worte versagen, Hast du ein Auge, um zum Himmel um Gnade zu schauen; Die Sonne betrachtet mit einem Auge die ganze Welt. Himmel, sei keinem Lebenden gnädig, Wenn Salisbury Erbarmen von dir verlangt! Tragt seinen Körper weg; ich werde bei der Beerdigung helfen. Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast du noch Leben? Sprich zu Talbot; nein, sieh zu ihm auf. Salisbury, tröste deinen Geist mit diesem Trost, Du wirst nicht sterben, Er deutet mit der Hand und lächelt mich an, Als wer sagt: 'Wenn ich tot und gegangen bin, Erinnere dich daran, die Franzosen für mich zu rächen.' Plantagenet, das werde ich tun; und wie du, Nero, Ich werde die Laute spielen und die Städte brennen sehen. Elend wird Frankreich nur in meinem Namen sein. [Hier eine Alarmglocke, und es donnert und blitzt] Was ist hier los? Was für ein Aufruhr ist im Himmel? Woher kommt dieser Alarm und der Lärm? Betritt ein BOTE BOTE. Mein Herr, mein Herr, die Franzosen haben an Stärke gewonnen, Der Dauphin, verbunden mit Jeanne d'Arc, Einer gerade erst aufgestiegenen heiligen Prophetin, Ist mit großer Macht gekommen, um die Belagerung zu brechen. [Hier erhebt sich SALISBURY und stöhnt] TALBOT. Hör, hör, wie der sterbende Salisbury stöhnt. Es schmerzt sein Herz, dass er sich nicht rächen kann. Franzosen, ich werde ein Salisbury für euch sein. Pucelle oder Täuscherin, Delphin oder Dornhai, Eure Herzen werde ich mit den Hufen meines Pferdes zertreten Und eine Matschpfütze aus eurem gemischten Gehirn machen. Bringt mich Salisbury in sein Lagerzelt, Und dann werden wir sehen, was diese feigen Franzosen wagen. Alarm. Ab Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Inzwischen, zurück auf dem Bauernhof, oder genauer gesagt, in der Stadt Orleans in Frankreich, treffen wir den Oberkanonier und seinen Jungen. Der Kanonier erinnert den Jungen daran, dass die Stadt belagert ist und die Engländer tatsächlich die Vororte eingenommen haben. Der Junge sagt, er habe oft auf die Engländer geschossen, sie aber nie getroffen; er hat etwas zu beweisen. Der Oberkanonier sagt, er habe auch etwas zu beweisen, und enthüllt seinen Plan. Die Engländer haben einen hinterhältigen Plan, um die französische Position auszuspähen, aber er hat eine Kanone aufgestellt, damit er auf sie schießen kann, wenn sie es tun. Er muss den Gouverneur aufsuchen, also wird der Junge übernehmen müssen. Der Junge stimmt zu. Zurück im englischen Lager in Orleans. Erinnert ihr euch an Talbot, den englischen Anführer, der in Szene 1 gefangen genommen wurde? Er ist frei und wieder bei den Engländern. Der englische Anführer Salisbury begrüßt ihn herzlich und fragt ihn, wie er entkommen ist. Talbot sagt, dass die Franzosen und Engländer Gefangene ausgetauscht haben. Talbot ist froh, dass der Gefangene, gegen den sie ihn ausgetauscht haben, ein tapferer Anführer ist, und er beschwert sich, dass sie ihn anfangs gegen jemanden weniger mutigen hätten tauschen wollen. Er sagt, er würde lieber sterben, als auf solch eine Weise ausgelöst zu werden, und er freut sich daher darüber, wie der Handel schließlich funktionierte. Er beschwert sich auch über die Feigheit von Sir John Fastolfe und sagt dann wie in einem klassischen Western-Film, dass er ihn mit bloßen Fäusten hinrichten würde, wenn er ihn in die Finger bekäme. Denkt daran, dass Fastolfes Feigheit der Grund war, warum Talbot überhaupt gefangen genommen wurde. Salisbury fragt, wie die Franzosen Talbot behandelt haben. Schlecht, wie sich herausstellt. Sie zerrten ihn auf den Marktplatz und machten sich öffentlich über ihn lustig. Er sagt, dass er sich von den Wachen befreit und Steine auf die Menge geworfen habe, was ziemlich beeindruckend ist, wenn man bedenkt, dass er völlig unterlegen und ein Gefangener war. Offensichtlich waren die Franzosen so beeindruckt, dass sie danach überall Scharfschützen postiert haben. Okay, Scharfschützen wie in "Die Bourne Identität" gab es zu der Zeit noch nicht. Aber ihr versteht schon. Salisbury sagt, dass es ihn betrübt, was mit Talbot passiert ist, aber keine Sorge, denn sie werden sich rächen. Sie fangen an, das französische Lager vom Standort des französischen Kanoniers auszuspionieren und entscheiden, wo sie angreifen sollen. Die französischen Kanoniere sind bereit und schießen auf sie. Sie erwischen Salisbury und einen weiteren englischen Anführer, und Talbot trauert und schwört Rache. Plötzlich gibt es einen lauten Knall und viel Donner und Blitz. Ein Bote tritt ein. Eine unheilverkündende Ankunft, oder? Das ist wie diese große Trommelwirbel und hektischen Streicher in einem Film, wenn schlechte Nachrichten kommen. Es stellt sich heraus, dass die Nachricht ziemlich schlimm ist: Die Franzosen haben einen neuen Champion, Johanna Puzel, und sie wird als heilige Prophetin angesehen. Um es klarzustellen: In dieser Zeit wollen die Menschen wirklich sagen, dass Gott auf ihrer Seite in einer Schlacht ist. Salisbury, der im Sterben liegt, stöhnt. Talbot hat definitiv keine Angst. Er schwört noch stärker Rache und sagt, er werde Salisburys Platz einnehmen und die Franzosen angreifen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: My new mistress proved to be all she appeared when I first met her at the door,--a woman of the kindest heart and finest feelings. She had never had a slave under her control previously to myself, and prior to her marriage she had been dependent upon her own industry for a living. She was by trade a weaver; and by constant application to her business, she had been in a good degree preserved from the blighting and dehumanizing effects of slavery. I was utterly astonished at her goodness. I scarcely knew how to behave towards her. She was entirely unlike any other white woman I had ever seen. I could not approach her as I was accustomed to approach other white ladies. My early instruction was all out of place. The crouching servility, usually so acceptable a quality in a slave, did not answer when manifested toward her. Her favor was not gained by it; she seemed to be disturbed by it. She did not deem it impudent or unmannerly for a slave to look her in the face. The meanest slave was put fully at ease in her presence, and none left without feeling better for having seen her. Her face was made of heavenly smiles, and her voice of tranquil music. But, alas! this kind heart had but a short time to remain such. The fatal poison of irresponsible power was already in her hands, and soon commenced its infernal work. That cheerful eye, under the influence of slavery, soon became red with rage; that voice, made all of sweet accord, changed to one of harsh and horrid discord; and that angelic face gave place to that of a demon. Very soon after I went to live with Mr. and Mrs. Auld, she very kindly commenced to teach me the A, B, C. After I had learned this, she assisted me in learning to spell words of three or four letters. Just at this point of my progress, Mr. Auld found out what was going on, and at once forbade Mrs. Auld to instruct me further, telling her, among other things, that it was unlawful, as well as unsafe, to teach a slave to read. To use his own words, further, he said, "If you give a nigger an inch, he will take an ell. A nigger should know nothing but to obey his master--to do as he is told to do. Learning would _spoil_ the best nigger in the world. Now," said he, "if you teach that nigger (speaking of myself) how to read, there would be no keeping him. It would forever unfit him to be a slave. He would at once become unmanageable, and of no value to his master. As to himself, it could do him no good, but a great deal of harm. It would make him discontented and unhappy." These words sank deep into my heart, stirred up sentiments within that lay slumbering, and called into existence an entirely new train of thought. It was a new and special revelation, explaining dark and mysterious things, with which my youthful understanding had struggled, but struggled in vain. I now understood what had been to me a most perplexing difficulty--to wit, the white man's power to enslave the black man. It was a grand achievement, and I prized it highly. From that moment, I understood the pathway from slavery to freedom. It was just what I wanted, and I got it at a time when I the least expected it. Whilst I was saddened by the thought of losing the aid of my kind mistress, I was gladdened by the invaluable instruction which, by the merest accident, I had gained from my master. Though conscious of the difficulty of learning without a teacher, I set out with high hope, and a fixed purpose, at whatever cost of trouble, to learn how to read. The very decided manner with which he spoke, and strove to impress his wife with the evil consequences of giving me instruction, served to convince me that he was deeply sensible of the truths he was uttering. It gave me the best assurance that I might rely with the utmost confidence on the results which, he said, would flow from teaching me to read. What he most dreaded, that I most desired. What he most loved, that I most hated. That which to him was a great evil, to be carefully shunned, was to me a great good, to be diligently sought; and the argument which he so warmly urged, against my learning to read, only served to inspire me with a desire and determination to learn. In learning to read, I owe almost as much to the bitter opposition of my master, as to the kindly aid of my mistress. I acknowledge the benefit of both. I had resided but a short time in Baltimore before I observed a marked difference, in the treatment of slaves, from that which I had witnessed in the country. A city slave is almost a freeman, compared with a slave on the plantation. He is much better fed and clothed, and enjoys privileges altogether unknown to the slave on the plantation. There is a vestige of decency, a sense of shame, that does much to curb and check those outbreaks of atrocious cruelty so commonly enacted upon the plantation. He is a desperate slaveholder, who will shock the humanity of his non-slaveholding neighbors with the cries of his lacerated slave. Few are willing to incur the odium attaching to the reputation of being a cruel master; and above all things, they would not be known as not giving a slave enough to eat. Every city slaveholder is anxious to have it known of him, that he feeds his slaves well; and it is due to them to say, that most of them do give their slaves enough to eat. There are, however, some painful exceptions to this rule. Directly opposite to us, on Philpot Street, lived Mr. Thomas Hamilton. He owned two slaves. Their names were Henrietta and Mary. Henrietta was about twenty-two years of age, Mary was about fourteen; and of all the mangled and emaciated creatures I ever looked upon, these two were the most so. His heart must be harder than stone, that could look upon these unmoved. The head, neck, and shoulders of Mary were literally cut to pieces. I have frequently felt her head, and found it nearly covered with festering sores, caused by the lash of her cruel mistress. I do not know that her master ever whipped her, but I have been an eye-witness to the cruelty of Mrs. Hamilton. I used to be in Mr. Hamilton's house nearly every day. Mrs. Hamilton used to sit in a large chair in the middle of the room, with a heavy cowskin always by her side, and scarce an hour passed during the day but was marked by the blood of one of these slaves. The girls seldom passed her without her saying, "Move faster, you _black gip!_" at the same time giving them a blow with the cowskin over the head or shoulders, often drawing the blood. She would then say, "Take that, you _black gip!_" continuing, "If you don't move faster, I'll move you!" Added to the cruel lashings to which these slaves were subjected, they were kept nearly half-starved. They seldom knew what it was to eat a full meal. I have seen Mary contending with the pigs for the offal thrown into the street. So much was Mary kicked and cut to pieces, that she was oftener called "_pecked_" than by her name. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Frau Sophia Auld war anders als alle weißen Personen, die Douglass zuvor getroffen hatte, denn sie hatte "das freundlichste Herz und die feinsten Gefühle". Sie hatte nie einen Sklaven besessen und war vor ihrer Ehe eine fleißige Weberin. Aber ihre Persönlichkeit änderte sich bald. Zunächst lehrte Frau Auld Douglass, wie man liest, doch Herr Auld ermahnte sie und erklärte: "Das Lernen würde den besten Neger der Welt verderben... Wenn du diesem Neger beibringst, wie man liest, gibt es kein Zurück mehr. Es würde ihn für immer unfähig machen, ein Sklave zu sein." Sklaven in den Städten wurden im Allgemeinen besser behandelt als diejenigen auf den Plantagen. Douglass wurde in Baltimore besser ernährt und gekleidet als je zuvor. Es gab auch Gemeinschaftsstandards, wie Sklaven behandelt werden sollten: "Nur wenige sind bereit, den Ruf eines grausamen Herrn zu erlangen... Jeder Sklavenhalter in der Stadt ist bestrebt, bekannt zu machen, dass er seine Sklaven gut versorgt." Douglass beendet jedoch dieses Kapitel mit einer Ausnahme – Mary, eine Sklavin in der Nachbarschaft, wird von ihrem Herrn brutal behandelt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family, which for the last two or three generations had been rising into gentility and property. He had received a good education, but, on succeeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed for any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged, and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by entering into the militia of his county, then embodied. Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his military life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was surprized, except her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who were full of pride and importance, which the connexion would offend. Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her fortune--though her fortune bore no proportion to the family-estate--was not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to the infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off with due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much happiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing due to her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him; but though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had resolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother, but not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother's unreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home. They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at once to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe. Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills, as making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of the bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years' marriage, he was rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain. From the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy had, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his mother's, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young creature of equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge of the little Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples and some reluctance the widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they were overcome by other considerations, the child was given up to the care and the wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort to seek, and his own situation to improve as he could. A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the militia and engaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in London, which afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern which brought just employment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury, where most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful occupation and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty years of his life passed cheerfully away. He had, by that time, realised an easy competence--enough to secure the purchase of a little estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed for--enough to marry a woman as portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of his own friendly and social disposition. It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth, it had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could purchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to; but he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were accomplished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained his wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through. He had never been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from that, even in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful a well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the pleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be chosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it. He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his uncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume the name of Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely, therefore, that he should ever want his father's assistance. His father had no apprehension of it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to imagine that any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and, as he believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year in London, and was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine young man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and prospects a kind of common concern. Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little returned that he had never been there in his life. His coming to visit his father had been often talked of but never achieved. Now, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a most proper attention, that the visit should take place. There was not a dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope strengthened when it was understood that he had written to his new mother on the occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received. "I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very handsome letter, indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his life." It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of course, formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most welcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation which her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate she might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and who could ill bear to part with her. She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without pain, of Emma's losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour's ennui, from the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble character; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would have been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and privations. And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female walking, and in Mr. Weston's disposition and circumstances, which would make the approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the week together. Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs. Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction--her more than satisfaction--her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent, that Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize at his being still able to pity 'poor Miss Taylor,' when they left her at Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away in the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her own. But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a gentle sigh, and saying, "Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay." There was no recovering Miss Taylor--nor much likelihood of ceasing to pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse. The compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which had been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach could bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be different from himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent any body's eating it. He had been at the pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse's life; and upon being applied to, he could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias of inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with many--perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone. There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston's wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never believe it. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Wir treffen Mr. Weston, den ehemaligen Colonel, der gerade Mrs. Weston von den Woodhouses gestohlen hat. Weston ist ein rundum guter Kerl - ein großartiger Soldat, ein Gentleman und Eigentümer einer Immobilie. Lassen Sie uns betonen, dass er ein guter Kerl ist. Verstanden? Als ob das nicht genug wäre, treffen wir auch auf Mr. Westons Sohn, Frank Churchill. Warum ist er nicht Frank Weston? Das ist eine gute Frage. Mehr dazu später.... Frank ist der Sohn aus Mr. Westons erster Ehe. Frank wurde von einer wohlhabenden Tante aufgezogen, was bedeutet, dass Mr. Weston ihn selten sieht. Gerüchten zufolge könnte Frank jedoch zu einem Hochzeitsbesuch zurückkehren, was die ganze Stadt in Aufregung versetzt. Unser Erzähler führt uns zurück zur Hochzeitsfeier, wo Mr. Woodhouse verzweifelt versucht, die gesamte Hochzeitsgesellschaft davon zu überzeugen, dass Kuchen ungesund ist. Er holt sich die fachliche Meinung seines Arztes, Mr. Perry, ein.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Erster Akt. Szene 1. Leonato, der Gouverneur von Messina, Innogen, seine Frau, Hero, seine Tochter, und Beatrice, seine Nichte, betreten die Bühne, begleitet von einem Boten. Leonato: Ich erfahre aus diesem Brief, dass Don Pedro von Arragon heute Abend nach Messina kommt. Bote: Er ist sehr nah dran. Als ich ihn verließ, war er keine drei Meilen entfernt. Leonato: Wie viele Edelleute habt ihr in dieser Aktion verloren? Bote: Nur wenige von irgendeiner Sorte, aber keiner von Bedeutung. Leonato: Ein Sieg ist doppelt so viel wert, wenn derjenige, der ihn errungen hat, eine große Anzahl von Kämpfern heimbringt. Ich sehe hier, dass Don Pedro viel Ehre einem jungen Florentiner namens Claudio erweisen hat. Bote: Das hat er sich sehr verdient und Don Pedro erinnert sich ebenso daran. Er hat sich weit über das Versprechen seines Alters hinaus bewährt. Er hat in der Gestalt eines Lammes Taten vollbracht, die einem Löwen zustehen. Tatsächlich hat er die Erwartungen übertroffen, aber ich werde euch nicht erzählen, wie sehr. Leonato: Er hat hier einen Onkel in Messina, der sehr erfreut darüber sein wird. Bote: Ich habe ihm bereits Briefe überbracht und es scheint, dass er sehr glücklich darüber ist. So glücklich, dass seine Freude sich nicht bescheiden genug zeigen konnte, ohne einen bitteren Beigeschmack. Leonato: Hat er Tränen vergossen? Bote: In großen Mengen. Leonato: Eine übermäßige Zuneigung, denn es gibt kein Gesicht, das aufrichtiger ist als eines, das mit Tränen gewaschen wurde. Wie viel besser ist es, vor Freude zu weinen, als über Freude zu jubeln? Beatrice: Sag mal, ist Signior Mountanto von den Kriegen zurückgekehrt oder nicht? Bote: Ich kenne niemanden mit diesem Namen, Lady. In der Armee gab es niemanden derartiges. Leonato: Wen fragst du da, Nichte? Hero: Meine Cousine meint Signior Benedick aus Padua. Bote: Oh ja, er ist zurückgekehrt und genauso fröhlich wie immer. Beatrice: Er hat in Messina seine Botschaften aufgehängt und den Liebesgott Cupido zum Wettstreit herausgefordert. Und mein Onkels Narr hat die Herausforderung gelesen und als Cupido unterschrieben, und ihm den Burbolt duellvorgeschlagen. Sag mal, wie viele hat er in diesem Krieg getötet und gegessen? Aber wie viele hat er getötet? Denn ich habe versprochen, alles von seinem Töten zu essen. Leonato: Im Ernst, Nichte, du überschätzt Signior Benedick. Aber er wird es dir heimzahlen, da zweifle ich nicht. Bote: Er hat guten Dienst geleistet, Mylady, in diesen Kriegen. Beatrice: Du hattest schlechtes Essen, und er hat dir geholfen, es zu verdauen: Er ist ein sehr tapferer Esser. Er hat einen exzellenten Appetit. Bote: Und ein guter Soldat, Lady. Beatrice: Und ein guter Soldat für eine Lady. Aber was ist er für einen Lord? Bote: Ein Lord für einen Lord, ein Mann für einen Mann, er ist mit allen ehrenhaften Tugenden ausgestattet. Beatrice: Das ist in der Tat so, er ist nicht weniger als ein mit Tugenden gefüllter Mann. Aber was das Füllen betrifft, so sind wir alle sterblich. Leonato: Ihr versteht meine Nichte falsch, es gibt eine Art fröhlichen Krieg zwischen Signior Benedick und ihr. Sie treffen sich nie, aber es gibt immer eine geistige Auseinandersetzung zwischen ihnen. Beatrice: Ach, er gewinnt nichts dadurch. In unserem letzten Konflikt hat er vier seiner fünf Sinne verloren und jetzt wird der ganze Mann von einem einzigen beherrscht. Wenn er genug Verstand hat, sich warm zu halten, dann möge er es als Unterschied zwischen sich und seinem Pferd betrachten. Denn das ist der einzige Reichtum, der ihm geblieben ist, als ein vernünftiges Wesen bekannt zu sein. Wer ist jetzt sein Begleiter? Jeden Monat hat er einen neuen Schwurbruder. Bote: Ist das möglich? Beatrice: Sehr leicht möglich. Er trägt seinen Glauben wie seine Hutmode, sie ändert sich immer mit dem nächsten Block. Bote: Ich sehe, Lady, der Herr ist nicht in euren Gunstbüchern. Beatrice: Nein, und wenn er es wäre, würde ich meine Studie verbrennen. Aber sag mir, wer ist sein Begleiter? Gibt es jetzt keinen jungen Hitzkopf mehr, der mit ihm in die Hölle reisen will? Bote: Er ist am meisten in der Gesellschaft des illustren Claudio. Beatrice: Oh Herr, er wird an ihm hängen wie an einer Krankheit. Er wird schneller erwischt als die Pest und derjenige, der ihn erwischt hat, wird schnell verrückt. Gott helfe dem edlen Claudio, wenn er den Benedict erwischt hat. Es wird ihn tausend Pfund kosten, bis er geheilt ist. Bote: Ich werde mich mit Ihnen versöhnen, Lady. Beatrice: Tun Sie das, guter Freund. Leonato: Meine Nichte wird nie verrückt werden. Beatrice: Nein, nicht vor einem heißen Januar. Bote: Don Pedro nähert sich. Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedicke, Balthasar und Iohn der Bastard betreten die Bühne. Don Pedro: Guter Signior Leonato, ihr seid gekommen, um euer Leid zu begrüßen. Die Mode der Welt ist es, Kosten zu vermeiden, und ihr begegnet ihnen. Leonato: Noch nie ist mir Ärger in meim Haus in der Gestalt eurer Gnade begegnet. Wenn der Ärger gegangen ist, sollte die Freude bleiben, aber wenn ihr von mir geht, bleibt die Traurigkeit und das Glück nimmt Abschied. Don Pedro: Ihr umarmt eure Pflicht zu willig. Ich nehme an, das ist eure Tochter. Leonato: Ihre Mutter hat es mir oft genug gesagt. Benedick: Hattet ihr Zweifel, dass ihr sie gefragt habt? Leonato: Signior Benedick, nein, sonst wärt ihr ja ein Kind. Don Pedro: Ihr habt es vollständig erfasst, Benedick. Anhand dessen können wir erkennen, wer ihr seid, da ihr ein Mann seid. Wahrlich, die Dame ähnelt ihrem ehrenhaften Vater. Benedick: Wenn Signior Leonato ihr Vater ist, dann würde sie seinen Kopf nicht auf ihren Schultern haben wollen, so ähnlich sieht sie ihm. Beatrice: Ich wundere mich, dass du immer noch redest, Signior Benedick. Niemand achtet auf dich. Benedick: Mein liebes Fräulein Verachtung, lebst du immer noch? Beatrice: Ist es möglich, dass Verachtung stirbt, solange sie so geeignetes Futter hat, wie Signior Benedick? Selbst die höfliche Umgangsform musste zur Verachtung werden, wenn ihr in ihrer Anwesenheit seid. Benedick: Dann ist Höflichkeit ein Verräter, aber sicherlich bin ich von allen Frauen geliebt, nur nicht von dir. Und ich wünschte, ich könnte in meinem Herzen dennoch nicht so ein hartherziger Mensch sein, denn wirklich, ich liebe niemanden. Beatrice: Eine wunderbare Sache für Frauen, sonst wären sie von einem schädlichen Verehrer geplagt worden. Ich danke Gott und meinem kühlen Blut, dass ich in dieser Hinsicht mit dir übereinstimme. Ich würde lieber meinen Hund einen Raben anbellen hören, als einen Mann schwören zu hören, dass er mich liebt. Benedick: Gott bewah Clau. Benedicke, hast du die Tochter des Herrn Leonato bemerkt? Bene. Ich habe sie nicht bemerkt, aber ich habe auf sie geschaut Claud. Ist sie nicht ein bescheidenes junges Fräulein? Bene. Fragest du mich, wie es sich für einen ehrlichen Mann gehört, nach meiner einfachen, wahren Beurteilung? Oder möchtest du, dass ich nach meiner Gewohnheit spreche, als wäre ich ein ausgesprochener Tyrann gegenüber ihrem Geschlecht? Clau. Nein, ich bitte dich, sprich in nüchterner Beurteilung Bene. Wahrhaftig, ich denke, sie ist zu gering für ein großes Lob, zu braun für ein schönes Lob und zu klein für ein großes Lob. Nur diese Empfehlung kann ich ihr geben, dass sie, wäre sie anders als sie ist, unschön wäre und da sie so ist, mag ich sie nicht Clau. Du denkst wohl, ich mache Spaß. Ich bitte dich, sag mir ehrlich, wie du sie findest Bene. Möchtest du sie kaufen, dass du so nach ihr fragst? Clau. Kann die Welt einen solchen Schatz kaufen? Bene. Ja, und ein Etui zum Aufbewahren dazu, aber sprichst du das mit ernster Miene? Oder spielst du den schelmischen Spaßvogel, um uns zu sagen, dass Amor ein guter Hase-Finder ist und Vulkan ein seltener Zimmermann: Komm, in welchem Ton willst du uns begleiten? Clau. Nach meiner Ansicht ist sie die bezauberndste Lady, die ich je gesehen habe Bene. Ich kann immer noch ohne Brille sehen, und ich sehe keine solche Schönheit: Hier ist ihre Cousine, und würde sie nicht von Raserei besessen, übertrifft sie sie genauso an Schönheit wie der erste Mai den letzten Dezember. Aber ich hoffe, du hast nicht vor, dich in einen Ehemann zu verwandeln, hast du? Clau. Ich würde mir selbst kaum vertrauen, auch wenn ich das Gegenteil geschworen hätte, wenn Hero meine Frau würde Bene. Ist es so weit gekommen? Glaubt denn die Welt, dass nur er seinen Hut mit Misstrauen tragen würde? Werde ich nie wieder einen Junggesellen von sechzig Jahren sehen? So sei es, sei doch unbesorgt und zwäng deinen Hals in ein Joch, trag den Abdruck davon und seufze jeden Sonntag dahin: Schau, Don Pedro ist zurückgekehrt, um dich zu suchen. Es treten Don Pedro und der Bastard auf. Pedr. Was hat dich hier aufgehalten, dass du nicht zu Leonato gefolgt bist? Bened. Eure Gnaden, ich wünschte, Ihr würdet mich zwingen, es zu sagen Pedro. Ich befehle es dir auf deinen Gehorsam Bene. Ihr hört, Graf Claudio, ich kann so geheimnisvoll wie ein Stummer sein. Ich möchte, dass ihr das denkt (aber bei meiner Treue, merkt euch das, bei meiner Treue) er ist verliebt. In wen? Nun, das ist Eure Aufgabe: Achtet darauf, wie kurz seine Antwort ist, in Hero, Leonatos lieber Tochter Clau. Wenn das so wäre, wäre es ausgesprochen. Bened. Wie die alte Geschichte, mein Herr, ist es nicht so, noch war es so: aber Gott bewahre, dass es so sein sollte. Clau. Wenn sich meine Leidenschaft nicht bald ändert, Gott bewahre, dass es anders sein sollte. Pedr. Amen, wenn du sie liebst, denn die Dame ist sehr würdig. Clau. Damit möchtest du mich hereinlegen, mein Herr. Pedr. Bei meiner Wahrheit sage ich, was ich denke. Clau. Und bei meiner Wahrheit, mein Herr, sage ich das, was ich denke. Bened. Und bei meiner doppelten Wahrheit, mein Herr, sage ich das, was ich denke. Clau. Dass ich sie liebe, fühle ich. Pedr. Dass sie es wert ist, weiß ich. Bened. Dass ich weder fühle, wie sie geliebt werden sollte, noch weiß, wie sie es wert sein sollte, ist mein Standpunkt, den kein Feuer in mir zum Schmelzen bringen kann. Ich werde daran festhalten bis zum Ende. Pedr. Du warst schon immer ein hartnäckiger Ketzer trotz der Schönheit. Clau. Und du konntest nie deine Meinung halten, außer wenn du deinen Willen durchsetzen konntest. Ben. Ich danke der Frau, dass sie mich empfangen hat. Dass sie mich aufgezogen hat, gebe ich ihr ebenso meinen demütigen Dank. Aber dass ich ein Horn vorne auf meiner Stirn tragen werde oder mein Horn auf einem unsichtbaren Koppel trage, wollen mir alle Frauen verzeihen. Weil ich ihnen nicht das Unrecht tun werde, ihnen zu misstrauen, werde ich mir selbst das Recht geben, niemandem zu vertrauen. Und das Schöne daran ist, (wonach ich mich besser kleiden kann) ich werde Junggeselle sein. Pedr. Ich werde dich sehen, bevor ich sterbe, blass vor Liebe. Bene. Vor Ärger, vor Krankheit oder vor Hunger, mein Herr, nicht vor Liebe. Beweise mir erst, dass ich mehr Blut durch die Liebe verliere, als ich durchs Trinken wiedererlangen werde, picke meine Augen mit der Feder eines Liedmachers heraus und hänge mich an die Tür eines Bordells als Zeichen des blinden Cupids. Pedro. Nun gut, wenn du jemals von diesem Glauben abfallen solltest, wirst du ein bemerkenswertes Beispiel abgeben. Bene. Wenn ich das tue, dann hängt mich in eine Flasche wie eine Katze und schießt auf mich, und wer mich trifft, soll auf die Schulter geklopft werden und Adam genannt werden. Pedro. Nun gut, die Zeit wird es zeigen: Mit der Zeit legt der wilde Bulle das Joch ab. Bene. Der wilde Bulle mag das tun, aber wenn der sinnliche Benedikte es je tragen würde, zupft die Hörner des Stiers ab und steckt sie auf meine Stirn und lass mich wild bemalt sein und in solch großen Buchstaben, wie sie schreiben, hier ist ein guter Hochzeitskandidat: Lasst sie unter meinem Zeichen davor wissen, hier könnt ihr Benedikte, den verheirateten Mann, sehen. Clau. Wenn das jemals passieren sollte, wärst du verrückt vor Eifersucht. Pedro. Nein, wenn Cupid nicht seinen ganzen Köcher in Venedig verschossen hat, wirst du dafür bald zittern. Bene. Dann warte ich auch auf ein Erdbeben. Pedr. Nun, du wirst mit den Stunden spielen. In der Zwischenzeit, guter Signor Benedikte, geh zu Leonato, grüße ihn von mir und sag ihm, ich werde ihn beim Abendessen nicht im Stich lassen, denn er hat sich große Mühe gemacht. Bene. Ich habe fast genug Material in mir für eine solche Botschaft, und so übergebe ich euch. Clau. Unter Gottes Aufsicht. Von meinem Haus aus, wenn ich eins hätte. Pedro. Am sechsten Juli. Dein liebevoller Freund, Benedikt. Bene. Spottet nicht, spottet nicht. Der Kern deiner Rede wird manchmal mit Bruchstücken geschützt, und die Schutzschilde sind nur oberflächlich befestigt, bevor du über alte Enden weiter spottest, untersuche dein Gewissen und so verlasse ich dich. Ped. Warum brauchst du eine Brücke, die viel breiter ist als die Flut? Die schönste Gnade ist die Notwendigkeit: Was immer dient, ist passend: Es ist einmal, du liebst, Und ich werde dich mit dem Heilmittel ausstatten, Ich weiß, wir werden heute Abend feiern, Ich werde deine Rolle in einiger Verkleidung übernehmen, Und der schönen Hero werde ich sagen, dass ich Claudio bin, Und in ihrem Herzen werde ich mein Herz entfalten, Und mit der Kraft und dem starken Aufeinandertreffen meiner liebesvollen Geschichte ihre Aufmerksamkeit gefangennehmen: Dann werde ich ihrem Vater gegenüber auftreten, Und der Schluss ist, sie wird dein sein, In der Praxis lassen uns dies sofort umsetzen. Abgang. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Einleitung - Akt I, Szene 1 - Henry IV Teil 2 beginnt, wo Teil 1 aufgehört hat. Die Schlacht von Shrewsbury wurde gerade zwischen den Kräften des Königs und den Rebellen unter der Führung von Hotspur, dem Sohn des Earls of Northumberland, geschlagen. Das Heer des Königs triumphierte. Die personifizierte Figur des Gerüchts tritt auf. Gerücht verbreitet Gerüchte, dass die Schlacht tatsächlich anders verlief. Gerücht zufolge wurde Prinz Henry, der Sohn des Königs, von Hotspur getötet. Gerücht verbreitet auch das Wort, dass der König in der Schlacht von Douglas, dem Anführer der Schotten, getötet wurde. Szene 1 beginnt in Northumberlands Schloss. Lord Bardolph trifft ein und Northumberland verlangt, die Neuigkeiten von der Schlacht zu erfahren. Bardolph glaubt, dass die Rebellen gesiegt haben, und erzählt Northumberland, dass der König tödlich verwundet ist, Prinz Henry und andere hochrangige Herren tot sind und dass Prinz John, der ebenfalls auf der Seite des Königs kämpft, zusammen mit Westmoreland und Stafford aus der Schlacht geflohen ist. Bardolph gibt zu, dass er nicht in der Schlacht war; er hat nur mit jemandem gesprochen, der von dort gekommen war. Travers, Northumberlands Diener, tritt mit völlig anderen Nachrichten ein, die er von jemandem erfahren hat, der in Shrewsbury war. Er sagt, dass Hotspur, Northumberlands Sohn, getötet wurde. Bardolph macht sich darüber lustig und sagt, dass es nicht wahr ist. Dann tritt Morton ein. Er ist direkt aus Shrewsbury gekommen und bestätigt die schlechten Nachrichten, dass Hotspur tot ist. Er hat mit eigenen Augen gesehen, wie Prinz Henry Hotspur getötet hat, woraufhin die anderen Rebellen, bestürzt über den Verlust ihres Anführers, vom Schlachtfeld geflohen sind. Worcester und Douglas wurden gefangen genommen. Der König hat nun ein Heer unter dem Befehl von Prinz John von Lancaster und Westmoreland geschickt, um Northumberland anzugreifen. Northumberland ist bestürzt über die Nachricht vom Verlust seines Sohnes und gerät in eine leidenschaftliche, verzweifelte und kriegerische Stimmung. Bardolph und Morton versuchen, ihn davon zu überzeugen, nicht den Kopf zu verlieren, sondern ruhig zu bleiben. Morton weist darauf hin, dass Northumberland, als er das rebellische Heer aufstellte, wusste, dass die Chance bestand, dass sein Sohn getötet würde. Was jetzt geschehen ist, ist nichts mehr als vernünftig zu erwarten war. Morton bringt auch die Nachricht, dass der Erzbischof von York ein Heer aufgestellt hat, das an der Seite der Rebellen kämpfen wird. Dies verleiht der Sache der Rebellen mehr Kraft und Legitimität, da der Erzbischof die Unterstützung des Himmels anruft. Northumberland erholt sich und sagt, sie müssen planen, wie sie am besten dem Heer des Königs entgegentreten können.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Italy, Philip had always maintained, is only her true self in the height of the summer, when the tourists have left her, and her soul awakes under the beams of a vertical sun. He now had every opportunity of seeing her at her best, for it was nearly the middle of August before he went out to meet Harriet in the Tirol. He found his sister in a dense cloud five thousand feet above the sea, chilled to the bone, overfed, bored, and not at all unwilling to be fetched away. "It upsets one's plans terribly," she remarked, as she squeezed out her sponges, "but obviously it is my duty." "Did mother explain it all to you?" asked Philip. "Yes, indeed! Mother has written me a really beautiful letter. She describes how it was that she gradually got to feel that we must rescue the poor baby from its terrible surroundings, how she has tried by letter, and it is no good--nothing but insincere compliments and hypocrisy came back. Then she says, 'There is nothing like personal influence; you and Philip will succeed where I have failed.' She says, too, that Caroline Abbott has been wonderful." Philip assented. "Caroline feels it as keenly almost as us. That is because she knows the man. Oh, he must be loathsome! Goodness me! I've forgotten to pack the ammonia!... It has been a terrible lesson for Caroline, but I fancy it is her turning-point. I can't help liking to think that out of all this evil good will come." Philip saw no prospect of good, nor of beauty either. But the expedition promised to be highly comic. He was not averse to it any longer; he was simply indifferent to all in it except the humours. These would be wonderful. Harriet, worked by her mother; Mrs. Herriton, worked by Miss Abbott; Gino, worked by a cheque--what better entertainment could he desire? There was nothing to distract him this time; his sentimentality had died, so had his anxiety for the family honour. He might be a puppet's puppet, but he knew exactly the disposition of the strings. They travelled for thirteen hours down-hill, whilst the streams broadened and the mountains shrank, and the vegetation changed, and the people ceased being ugly and drinking beer, and began instead to drink wine and to be beautiful. And the train which had picked them at sunrise out of a waste of glaciers and hotels was waltzing at sunset round the walls of Verona. "Absurd nonsense they talk about the heat," said Philip, as they drove from the station. "Supposing we were here for pleasure, what could be more pleasurable than this?" "Did you hear, though, they are remarking on the cold?" said Harriet nervously. "I should never have thought it cold." And on the second day the heat struck them, like a hand laid over the mouth, just as they were walking to see the tomb of Juliet. From that moment everything went wrong. They fled from Verona. Harriet's sketch-book was stolen, and the bottle of ammonia in her trunk burst over her prayer-book, so that purple patches appeared on all her clothes. Then, as she was going through Mantua at four in the morning, Philip made her look out of the window because it was Virgil's birthplace, and a smut flew in her eye, and Harriet with a smut in her eye was notorious. At Bologna they stopped twenty-four hours to rest. It was a FESTA, and children blew bladder whistles night and day. "What a religion!" said Harriet. The hotel smelt, two puppies were asleep on her bed, and her bedroom window looked into a belfry, which saluted her slumbering form every quarter of an hour. Philip left his walking-stick, his socks, and the Baedeker at Bologna; she only left her sponge-bag. Next day they crossed the Apennines with a train-sick child and a hot lady, who told them that never, never before had she sweated so profusely. "Foreigners are a filthy nation," said Harriet. "I don't care if there are tunnels; open the windows." He obeyed, and she got another smut in her eye. Nor did Florence improve matters. Eating, walking, even a cross word would bathe them both in boiling water. Philip, who was slighter of build, and less conscientious, suffered less. But Harriet had never been to Florence, and between the hours of eight and eleven she crawled like a wounded creature through the streets, and swooned before various masterpieces of art. It was an irritable couple who took tickets to Monteriano. "Singles or returns?" said he. "A single for me," said Harriet peevishly; "I shall never get back alive." "Sweet creature!" said her brother, suddenly breaking down. "How helpful you will be when we come to Signor Carella!" "Do you suppose," said Harriet, standing still among a whirl of porters--"do you suppose I am going to enter that man's house?" "Then what have you come for, pray? For ornament?" "To see that you do your duty." "Oh, thanks!" "So mother told me. For goodness sake get the tickets; here comes that hot woman again! She has the impudence to bow." "Mother told you, did she?" said Philip wrathfully, as he went to struggle for tickets at a slit so narrow that they were handed to him edgeways. Italy was beastly, and Florence station is the centre of beastly Italy. But he had a strange feeling that he was to blame for it all; that a little influx into him of virtue would make the whole land not beastly but amusing. For there was enchantment, he was sure of that; solid enchantment, which lay behind the porters and the screaming and the dust. He could see it in the terrific blue sky beneath which they travelled, in the whitened plain which gripped life tighter than a frost, in the exhausted reaches of the Arno, in the ruins of brown castles which stood quivering upon the hills. He could see it, though his head ached and his skin was twitching, though he was here as a puppet, and though his sister knew how he was here. There was nothing pleasant in that journey to Monteriano station. But nothing--not even the discomfort--was commonplace. "But do people live inside?" asked Harriet. They had exchanged railway-carriage for the legno, and the legno had emerged from the withered trees, and had revealed to them their destination. Philip, to be annoying, answered "No." "What do they do there?" continued Harriet, with a frown. "There is a caffe. A prison. A theatre. A church. Walls. A view." "Not for me, thank you," said Harriet, after a weighty pause. "Nobody asked you, Miss, you see. Now Lilia was asked by such a nice young gentleman, with curls all over his forehead, and teeth just as white as father makes them." Then his manner changed. "But, Harriet, do you see nothing wonderful or attractive in that place--nothing at all?" "Nothing at all. It's frightful." "I know it is. But it's old--awfully old." "Beauty is the only test," said Harriet. "At least so you told me when I sketched old buildings--for the sake, I suppose, of making yourself unpleasant." "Oh, I'm perfectly right. But at the same time--I don't know--so many things have happened here--people have lived so hard and so splendidly--I can't explain." "I shouldn't think you could. It doesn't seem the best moment to begin your Italy mania. I thought you were cured of it by now. Instead, will you kindly tell me what you are going to do when you arrive. I do beg you will not be taken unawares this time." "First, Harriet, I shall settle you at the Stella d'Italia, in the comfort that befits your sex and disposition. Then I shall make myself some tea. After tea I shall take a book into Santa Deodata's, and read there. It is always fresh and cool." The martyred Harriet exclaimed, "I'm not clever, Philip. I don't go in for it, as you know. But I know what's rude. And I know what's wrong." "Meaning--?" "You!" she shouted, bouncing on the cushions of the legno and startling all the fleas. "What's the good of cleverness if a man's murdered a woman?" "Harriet, I am hot. To whom do you refer?" "He. Her. If you don't look out he'll murder you. I wish he would." "Tut tut, tutlet! You'd find a corpse extraordinarily inconvenient." Then he tried to be less aggravating. "I heartily dislike the fellow, but we know he didn't murder her. In that letter, though she said a lot, she never said he was physically cruel." "He has murdered her. The things he did--things one can't even mention--" "Things which one must mention if one's to talk at all. And things which one must keep in their proper place. Because he was unfaithful to his wife, it doesn't follow that in every way he's absolutely vile." He looked at the city. It seemed to approve his remark. "It's the supreme test. The man who is unchivalrous to a woman--" "Oh, stow it! Take it to the Back Kitchen. It's no more a supreme test than anything else. The Italians never were chivalrous from the first. If you condemn him for that, you'll condemn the whole lot." "I condemn the whole lot." "And the French as well?" "And the French as well." "Things aren't so jolly easy," said Philip, more to himself than to her. But for Harriet things were easy, though not jolly, and she turned upon her brother yet again. "What about the baby, pray? You've said a lot of smart things and whittled away morality and religion and I don't know what; but what about the baby? You think me a fool, but I've been noticing you all today, and you haven't mentioned the baby once. You haven't thought about it, even. You don't care. Philip! I shall not speak to you. You are intolerable." She kept her promise, and never opened her lips all the rest of the way. But her eyes glowed with anger and resolution. For she was a straight, brave woman, as well as a peevish one. Philip acknowledged her reproof to be true. He did not care about the baby one straw. Nevertheless, he meant to do his duty, and he was fairly confident of success. If Gino would have sold his wife for a thousand lire, for how much less would he not sell his child? It was just a commercial transaction. Why should it interfere with other things? His eyes were fixed on the towers again, just as they had been fixed when he drove with Miss Abbott. But this time his thoughts were pleasanter, for he had no such grave business on his mind. It was in the spirit of the cultivated tourist that he approached his destination. One of the towers, rough as any other, was topped by a cross--the tower of the Collegiate Church of Santa Deodata. She was a holy maiden of the Dark Ages, the city's patron saint, and sweetness and barbarity mingle strangely in her story. So holy was she that all her life she lay upon her back in the house of her mother, refusing to eat, refusing to play, refusing to work. The devil, envious of such sanctity, tempted her in various ways. He dangled grapes above her, he showed her fascinating toys, he pushed soft pillows beneath her aching head. When all proved vain he tripped up the mother and flung her downstairs before her very eyes. But so holy was the saint that she never picked her mother up, but lay upon her back through all, and thus assured her throne in Paradise. She was only fifteen when she died, which shows how much is within the reach of any school-girl. Those who think her life was unpractical need only think of the victories upon Poggibonsi, San Gemignano, Volterra, Siena itself--all gained through the invocation of her name; they need only look at the church which rose over her grave. The grand schemes for a marble facade were never carried out, and it is brown unfinished stone until this day. But for the inside Giotto was summoned to decorate the walls of the nave. Giotto came--that is to say, he did not come, German research having decisively proved--but at all events the nave is covered with frescoes, and so are two chapels in the left transept, and the arch into the choir, and there are scraps in the choir itself. There the decoration stopped, till in the full spring of the Renaissance a great painter came to pay a few weeks' visit to his friend the Lord of Monteriano. In the intervals between the banquets and the discussions on Latin etymology and the dancing, he would stroll over to the church, and there in the fifth chapel to the right he has painted two frescoes of the death and burial of Santa Deodata. That is why Baedeker gives the place a star. Santa Deodata was better company than Harriet, and she kept Philip in a pleasant dream until the legno drew up at the hotel. Every one there was asleep, for it was still the hour when only idiots were moving. There were not even any beggars about. The cabman put their bags down in the passage--they had left heavy luggage at the station--and strolled about till he came on the landlady's room and woke her, and sent her to them. Then Harriet pronounced the monosyllable "Go!" "Go where?" asked Philip, bowing to the landlady, who was swimming down the stairs. "To the Italian. Go." "Buona sera, signora padrona. Si ritorna volontieri a Monteriano!" (Don't be a goose. I'm not going now. You're in the way, too.) "Vorrei due camere--" "Go. This instant. Now. I'll stand it no longer. Go!" "I'm damned if I'll go. I want my tea." "Swear if you like!" she cried. "Blaspheme! Abuse me! But understand, I'm in earnest." "Harriet, don't act. Or act better." "We've come here to get the baby back, and for nothing else. I'll not have this levity and slackness, and talk about pictures and churches. Think of mother; did she send you out for THEM?" "Think of mother and don't straddle across the stairs. Let the cabman and the landlady come down, and let me go up and choose rooms." "I shan't." "Harriet, are you mad?" "If you like. But you will not come up till you have seen the Italian." "La signorina si sente male," said Philip, "C' e il sole." "Poveretta!" cried the landlady and the cabman. "Leave me alone!" said Harriet, snarling round at them. "I don't care for the lot of you. I'm English, and neither you'll come down nor he up till he goes for the baby." "La prego-piano-piano-c e un' altra signorina che dorme--" "We shall probably be arrested for brawling, Harriet. Have you the very slightest sense of the ludicrous?" Harriet had not; that was why she could be so powerful. She had concocted this scene in the carriage, and nothing should baulk her of it. To the abuse in front and the coaxing behind she was equally indifferent. How long she would have stood like a glorified Horatius, keeping the staircase at both ends, was never to be known. For the young lady, whose sleep they were disturbing, awoke and opened her bedroom door, and came out on to the landing. She was Miss Abbott. Philip's first coherent feeling was one of indignation. To be run by his mother and hectored by his sister was as much as he could stand. The intervention of a third female drove him suddenly beyond politeness. He was about to say exactly what he thought about the thing from beginning to end. But before he could do so Harriet also had seen Miss Abbott. She uttered a shrill cry of joy. "You, Caroline, here of all people!" And in spite of the heat she darted up the stairs and imprinted an affectionate kiss upon her friend. Philip had an inspiration. "You will have a lot to tell Miss Abbott, Harriet, and she may have as much to tell you. So I'll pay my call on Signor Carella, as you suggested, and see how things stand." Miss Abbott uttered some noise of greeting or alarm. He did not reply to it or approach nearer to her. Without even paying the cabman, he escaped into the street. "Tear each other's eyes out!" he cried, gesticulating at the facade of the hotel. "Give it to her, Harriet! Teach her to leave us alone. Give it to her, Caroline! Teach her to be grateful to you. Go it, ladies; go it!" Such people as observed him were interested, but did not conclude that he was mad. This aftermath of conversation is not unknown in Italy. He tried to think how amusing it was; but it would not do--Miss Abbott's presence affected him too personally. Either she suspected him of dishonesty, or else she was being dishonest herself. He preferred to suppose the latter. Perhaps she had seen Gino, and they had prepared some elaborate mortification for the Herritons. Perhaps Gino had sold the baby cheap to her for a joke: it was just the kind of joke that would appeal to him. Philip still remembered the laughter that had greeted his fruitless journey, and the uncouth push that had toppled him on to the bed. And whatever it might mean, Miss Abbott's presence spoilt the comedy: she would do nothing funny. During this short meditation he had walked through the city, and was out on the other side. "Where does Signor Carella live?" he asked the men at the Dogana. "I'll show you," said a little girl, springing out of the ground as Italian children will. "She will show you," said the Dogana men, nodding reassuringly. "Follow her always, always, and you will come to no harm. She is a trustworthy guide. She is my daughter." cousin." sister." Philip knew these relatives well: they ramify, if need be, all over the peninsula. "Do you chance to know whether Signor Carella is in?" he asked her. She had just seen him go in. Philip nodded. He was looking forward to the interview this time: it would be an intellectual duet with a man of no great intellect. What was Miss Abbott up to? That was one of the things he was going to discover. While she had it out with Harriet, he would have it out with Gino. He followed the Dogana's relative softly, like a diplomatist. He did not follow her long, for this was the Volterra gate, and the house was exactly opposite to it. In half a minute they had scrambled down the mule-track and reached the only practicable entrance. Philip laughed, partly at the thought of Lilia in such a building, partly in the confidence of victory. Meanwhile the Dogana's relative lifted up her voice and gave a shout. For an impressive interval there was no reply. Then the figure of a woman appeared high up on the loggia. "That is Perfetta," said the girl. "I want to see Signor Carella," cried Philip. "Out!" "Out," echoed the girl complacently. "Why on earth did you say he was in?" He could have strangled her for temper. He had been just ripe for an interview--just the right combination of indignation and acuteness: blood hot, brain cool. But nothing ever did go right in Monteriano. "When will he be back?" he called to Perfetta. It really was too bad. She did not know. He was away on business. He might be back this evening, he might not. He had gone to Poggibonsi. At the sound of this word the little girl put her fingers to her nose and swept them at the plain. She sang as she did so, even as her foremothers had sung seven hundred years back-- Poggibonizzi, fatti in la, Che Monteriano si fa citta! Then she asked Philip for a halfpenny. A German lady, friendly to the Past, had given her one that very spring. "I shall have to leave a message," he called. "Now Perfetta has gone for her basket," said the little girl. "When she returns she will lower it--so. Then you will put your card into it. Then she will raise it--thus. By this means--" When Perfetta returned, Philip remembered to ask after the baby. It took longer to find than the basket, and he stood perspiring in the evening sun, trying to avoid the smell of the drains and to prevent the little girl from singing against Poggibonsi. The olive-trees beside him were draped with the weekly--or more probably the monthly--wash. What a frightful spotty blouse! He could not think where he had seen it. Then he remembered that it was Lilia's. She had brought it "to hack about in" at Sawston, and had taken it to Italy because "in Italy anything does." He had rebuked her for the sentiment. "Beautiful as an angel!" bellowed Perfetta, holding out something which must be Lilia's baby. "But who am I addressing?" "Thank you--here is my card." He had written on it a civil request to Gino for an interview next morning. But before he placed it in the basket and revealed his identity, he wished to find something out. "Has a young lady happened to call here lately--a young English lady?" Perfetta begged his pardon: she was a little deaf. "A young lady--pale, large, tall." She did not quite catch. "A YOUNG LADY!" "Perfetta is deaf when she chooses," said the Dogana's relative. At last Philip admitted the peculiarity and strode away. He paid off the detestable child at the Volterra gate. She got two nickel pieces and was not pleased, partly because it was too much, partly because he did not look pleased when he gave it to her. He caught her fathers and cousins winking at each other as he walked past them. Monteriano seemed in one conspiracy to make him look a fool. He felt tired and anxious and muddled, and not sure of anything except that his temper was lost. In this mood he returned to the Stella d'Italia, and there, as he was ascending the stairs, Miss Abbott popped out of the dining-room on the first floor and beckoned to him mysteriously. "I was going to make myself some tea," he said, with his hand still on the banisters. "I should be grateful--" So he followed her into the dining-room and shut the door. "You see," she began, "Harriet knows nothing." "No more do I. He was out." "But what's that to do with it?" He presented her with an unpleasant smile. She fenced well, as he had noticed before. "He was out. You find me as ignorant as you have left Harriet." "What do you mean? Please, please Mr. Herriton, don't be mysterious: there isn't the time. Any moment Harriet may be down, and we shan't have decided how to behave to her. Sawston was different: we had to keep up appearances. But here we must speak out, and I think I can trust you to do it. Otherwise we'll never start clear." "Pray let us start clear," said Philip, pacing up and down the room. "Permit me to begin by asking you a question. In which capacity have you come to Monteriano--spy or traitor?" "Spy!" she answered, without a moment's hesitation. She was standing by the little Gothic window as she spoke--the hotel had been a palace once--and with her finger she was following the curves of the moulding as if they might feel beautiful and strange. "Spy," she repeated, for Philip was bewildered at learning her guilt so easily, and could not answer a word. "Your mother has behaved dishonourably all through. She never wanted the child; no harm in that; but she is too proud to let it come to me. She has done all she could to wreck things; she did not tell you everything; she has told Harriet nothing at all; she has lied or acted lies everywhere. I cannot trust your mother. So I have come here alone--all across Europe; no one knows it; my father thinks I am in Normandy--to spy on Mrs. Herriton. Don't let's argue!" for he had begun, almost mechanically, to rebuke her for impertinence. "If you are here to get the child, I will help you; if you are here to fail, I shall get it instead of you." "It is hopeless to expect you to believe me," he stammered. "But I can assert that we are here to get the child, even if it costs us all we've got. My mother has fixed no money limit whatever. I am here to carry out her instructions. I think that you will approve of them, as you have practically dictated them. I do not approve of them. They are absurd." She nodded carelessly. She did not mind what he said. All she wanted was to get the baby out of Monteriano. "Harriet also carries out your instructions," he continued. "She, however, approves of them, and does not know that they proceed from you. I think, Miss Abbott, you had better take entire charge of the rescue party. I have asked for an interview with Signor Carella tomorrow morning. Do you acquiesce?" She nodded again. "Might I ask for details of your interview with him? They might be helpful to me." He had spoken at random. To his delight she suddenly collapsed. Her hand fell from the window. Her face was red with more than the reflection of evening. "My interview--how do you know of it?" "From Perfetta, if it interests you." "Who ever is Perfetta?" "The woman who must have let you in." "In where?" "Into Signor Carella's house." "Mr. Herriton!" she exclaimed. "How could you believe her? Do you suppose that I would have entered that man's house, knowing about him all that I do? I think you have very odd ideas of what is possible for a lady. I hear you wanted Harriet to go. Very properly she refused. Eighteen months ago I might have done such a thing. But I trust I have learnt how to behave by now." Philip began to see that there were two Miss Abbotts--the Miss Abbott who could travel alone to Monteriano, and the Miss Abbott who could not enter Gino's house when she got there. It was an amusing discovery. Which of them would respond to his next move? "I suppose I misunderstood Perfetta. Where did you have your interview, then?" "Not an interview--an accident--I am very sorry--I meant you to have the chance of seeing him first. Though it is your fault. You are a day late. You were due here yesterday. So I came yesterday, and, not finding you, went up to the Rocca--you know that kitchen-garden where they let you in, and there is a ladder up to a broken tower, where you can stand and see all the other towers below you and the plain and all the other hills?" "Yes, yes. I know the Rocca; I told you of it." "So I went up in the evening for the sunset: I had nothing to do. He was in the garden: it belongs to a friend of his." "And you talked." "It was very awkward for me. But I had to talk: he seemed to make me. You see he thought I was here as a tourist; he thinks so still. He intended to be civil, and I judged it better to be civil also." "And of what did you talk?" "The weather--there will be rain, he says, by tomorrow evening--the other towns, England, myself, about you a little, and he actually mentioned Lilia. He was perfectly disgusting; he pretended he loved her; he offered to show me her grave--the grave of the woman he has murdered!" "My dear Miss Abbott, he is not a murderer. I have just been driving that into Harriet. And when you know the Italians as well as I do, you will realize that in all that he said to you he was perfectly sincere. The Italians are essentially dramatic; they look on death and love as spectacles. I don't doubt that he persuaded himself, for the moment, that he had behaved admirably, both as husband and widower." "You may be right," said Miss Abbott, impressed for the first time. "When I tried to pave the way, so to speak--to hint that he had not behaved as he ought--well, it was no good at all. He couldn't or wouldn't understand." There was something very humorous in the idea of Miss Abbott approaching Gino, on the Rocca, in the spirit of a district visitor. Philip, whose temper was returning, laughed. "Harriet would say he has no sense of sin." "Harriet may be right, I am afraid." "If so, perhaps he isn't sinful!" Miss Abbott was not one to encourage levity. "I know what he has done," she said. "What he says and what he thinks is of very little importance." Philip smiled at her crudity. "I should like to hear, though, what he said about me. Is he preparing a warm reception?" "Oh, no, not that. I never told him that you and Harriet were coming. You could have taken him by surprise if you liked. He only asked for you, and wished he hadn't been so rude to you eighteen months ago." "What a memory the fellow has for little things!" He turned away as he spoke, for he did not want her to see his face. It was suffused with pleasure. For an apology, which would have been intolerable eighteen months ago, was gracious and agreeable now. She would not let this pass. "You did not think it a little thing at the time. You told me he had assaulted you." "I lost my temper," said Philip lightly. His vanity had been appeased, and he knew it. This tiny piece of civility had changed his mood. "Did he really--what exactly did he say?" "He said he was sorry--pleasantly, as Italians do say such things. But he never mentioned the baby once." What did the baby matter when the world was suddenly right way up? Philip smiled, and was shocked at himself for smiling, and smiled again. For romance had come back to Italy; there were no cads in her; she was beautiful, courteous, lovable, as of old. And Miss Abbott--she, too, was beautiful in her way, for all her gaucheness and conventionality. She really cared about life, and tried to live it properly. And Harriet--even Harriet tried. This admirable change in Philip proceeds from nothing admirable, and may therefore provoke the gibes of the cynical. But angels and other practical people will accept it reverently, and write it down as good. "The view from the Rocca (small gratuity) is finest at sunset," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "And he never mentioned the baby once," Miss Abbott repeated. But she had returned to the window, and again her finger pursued the delicate curves. He watched her in silence, and was more attracted to her than he had ever been before. She really was the strangest mixture. "The view from the Rocca--wasn't it fine?" "What isn't fine here?" she answered gently, and then added, "I wish I was Harriet," throwing an extraordinary meaning into the words. "Because Harriet--?" She would not go further, but he believed that she had paid homage to the complexity of life. For her, at all events, the expedition was neither easy nor jolly. Beauty, evil, charm, vulgarity, mystery--she also acknowledged this tangle, in spite of herself. And her voice thrilled him when she broke silence with "Mr. Herriton--come here--look at this!" She removed a pile of plates from the Gothic window, and they leant out of it. Close opposite, wedged between mean houses, there rose up one of the great towers. It is your tower: you stretch a barricade between it and the hotel, and the traffic is blocked in a moment. Farther up, where the street empties out by the church, your connections, the Merli and the Capocchi, do likewise. They command the Piazza, you the Siena gate. No one can move in either but he shall be instantly slain, either by bows or by crossbows, or by Greek fire. Beware, however, of the back bedroom windows. For they are menaced by the tower of the Aldobrandeschi, and before now arrows have stuck quivering over the washstand. Guard these windows well, lest there be a repetition of the events of February 1338, when the hotel was surprised from the rear, and your dearest friend--you could just make out that it was he--was thrown at you over the stairs. "It reaches up to heaven," said Philip, "and down to the other place." The summit of the tower was radiant in the sun, while its base was in shadow and pasted over with advertisements. "Is it to be a symbol of the town?" She gave no hint that she understood him. But they remained together at the window because it was a little cooler and so pleasant. Philip found a certain grace and lightness in his companion which he had never noticed in England. She was appallingly narrow, but her consciousness of wider things gave to her narrowness a pathetic charm. He did not suspect that he was more graceful too. For our vanity is such that we hold our own characters immutable, and we are slow to acknowledge that they have changed, even for the better. Citizens came out for a little stroll before dinner. Some of them stood and gazed at the advertisements on the tower. "Surely that isn't an opera-bill?" said Miss Abbott. Philip put on his pince-nez. "'Lucia di Lammermoor. By the Master Donizetti. Unique representation. This evening.' "But is there an opera? Right up here?" "Why, yes. These people know how to live. They would sooner have a thing bad than not have it at all. That is why they have got to have so much that is good. However bad the performance is tonight, it will be alive. Italians don't love music silently, like the beastly Germans. The audience takes its share--sometimes more." "Can't we go?" He turned on her, but not unkindly. "But we're here to rescue a child!" He cursed himself for the remark. All the pleasure and the light went out of her face, and she became again Miss Abbott of Sawston--good, oh, most undoubtedly good, but most appallingly dull. Dull and remorseful: it is a deadly combination, and he strove against it in vain till he was interrupted by the opening of the dining-room door. They started as guiltily as if they had been flirting. Their interview had taken such an unexpected course. Anger, cynicism, stubborn morality--all had ended in a feeling of good-will towards each other and towards the city which had received them. And now Harriet was here--acrid, indissoluble, large; the same in Italy as in England--changing her disposition never, and her atmosphere under protest. Yet even Harriet was human, and the better for a little tea. She did not scold Philip for finding Gino out, as she might reasonably have done. She showered civilities on Miss Abbott, exclaiming again and again that Caroline's visit was one of the most fortunate coincidences in the world. Caroline did not contradict her. "You see him tomorrow at ten, Philip. Well, don't forget the blank cheque. Say an hour for the business. No, Italians are so slow; say two. Twelve o'clock. Lunch. Well--then it's no good going till the evening train. I can manage the baby as far as Florence--" "My dear sister, you can't run on like that. You don't buy a pair of gloves in two hours, much less a baby." "Three hours, then, or four; or make him learn English ways. At Florence we get a nurse--" "But, Harriet," said Miss Abbott, "what if at first he was to refuse?" "I don't know the meaning of the word," said Harriet impressively. "I've told the landlady that Philip and I only want our rooms one night, and we shall keep to it." "I dare say it will be all right. But, as I told you, I thought the man I met on the Rocca a strange, difficult man." "He's insolent to ladies, we know. But my brother can be trusted to bring him to his senses. That woman, Philip, whom you saw will carry the baby to the hotel. Of course you must tip her for it. And try, if you can, to get poor Lilia's silver bangles. They were nice quiet things, and will do for Irma. And there is an inlaid box I lent her--lent, not gave--to keep her handkerchiefs in. It's of no real value; but this is our only chance. Don't ask for it; but if you see it lying about, just say--" "No, Harriet; I'll try for the baby, but for nothing else. I promise to do that tomorrow, and to do it in the way you wish. But tonight, as we're all tired, we want a change of topic. We want relaxation. We want to go to the theatre." "Theatres here? And at such a moment?" "We should hardly enjoy it, with the great interview impending," said Miss Abbott, with an anxious glance at Philip. He did not betray her, but said, "Don't you think it's better than sitting in all the evening and getting nervous?" His sister shook her head. "Mother wouldn't like it. It would be most unsuitable--almost irreverent. Besides all that, foreign theatres are notorious. Don't you remember those letters in the 'Church Family Newspaper'?" "But this is an opera--'Lucia di Lammermoor'--Sir Walter Scott--classical, you know." Harriet's face grew resigned. "Certainly one has so few opportunities of hearing music. It is sure to be very bad. But it might be better than sitting idle all the evening. We have no book, and I lost my crochet at Florence." "Good. Miss Abbott, you are coming too?" "It is very kind of you, Mr. Herriton. In some ways I should enjoy it; but--excuse the suggestion--I don't think we ought to go to cheap seats." "Good gracious me!" cried Harriet, "I should never have thought of that. As likely as not, we should have tried to save money and sat among the most awful people. One keeps on forgetting this is Italy." "Unfortunately I have no evening dress; and if the seats--" "Oh, that'll be all right," said Philip, smiling at his timorous, scrupulous women-kind. "We'll go as we are, and buy the best we can get. Monteriano is not formal." So this strenuous day of resolutions, plans, alarms, battles, victories, defeats, truces, ended at the opera. Miss Abbott and Harriet were both a little shame-faced. They thought of their friends at Sawston, who were supposing them to be now tilting against the powers of evil. What would Mrs. Herriton, or Irma, or the curates at the Back Kitchen say if they could see the rescue party at a place of amusement on the very first day of its mission? Philip, too, marvelled at his wish to go. He began to see that he was enjoying his time in Monteriano, in spite of the tiresomeness of his companions and the occasional contrariness of himself. He had been to this theatre many years before, on the occasion of a performance of "La Zia di Carlo." Since then it had been thoroughly done up, in the tints of the beet-root and the tomato, and was in many other ways a credit to the little town. The orchestra had been enlarged, some of the boxes had terra-cotta draperies, and over each box was now suspended an enormous tablet, neatly framed, bearing upon it the number of that box. There was also a drop-scene, representing a pink and purple landscape, wherein sported many a lady lightly clad, and two more ladies lay along the top of the proscenium to steady a large and pallid clock. So rich and so appalling was the effect, that Philip could scarcely suppress a cry. There is something majestic in the bad taste of Italy; it is not the bad taste of a country which knows no better; it has not the nervous vulgarity of England, or the blinded vulgarity of Germany. It observes beauty, and chooses to pass it by. But it attains to beauty's confidence. This tiny theatre of Monteriano spraddled and swaggered with the best of them, and these ladies with their clock would have nodded to the young men on the ceiling of the Sistine. Philip had tried for a box, but all the best were taken: it was rather a grand performance, and he had to be content with stalls. Harriet was fretful and insular. Miss Abbott was pleasant, and insisted on praising everything: her only regret was that she had no pretty clothes with her. "We do all right," said Philip, amused at her unwonted vanity. "Yes, I know; but pretty things pack as easily as ugly ones. We had no need to come to Italy like guys." This time he did not reply, "But we're here to rescue a baby." For he saw a charming picture, as charming a picture as he had seen for years--the hot red theatre; outside the theatre, towers and dark gates and mediaeval walls; beyond the walls olive-trees in the starlight and white winding roads and fireflies and untroubled dust; and here in the middle of it all, Miss Abbott, wishing she had not come looking like a guy. She had made the right remark. Most undoubtedly she had made the right remark. This stiff suburban woman was unbending before the shrine. "Don't you like it at all?" he asked her. "Most awfully." And by this bald interchange they convinced each other that Romance was here. Harriet, meanwhile, had been coughing ominously at the drop-scene, which presently rose on the grounds of Ravenswood, and the chorus of Scotch retainers burst into cry. The audience accompanied with tappings and drummings, swaying in the melody like corn in the wind. Harriet, though she did not care for music, knew how to listen to it. She uttered an acid "Shish!" "Shut it," whispered her brother. "We must make a stand from the beginning. They're talking." "It is tiresome," murmured Miss Abbott; "but perhaps it isn't for us to interfere." Harriet shook her head and shished again. The people were quiet, not because it is wrong to talk during a chorus, but because it is natural to be civil to a visitor. For a little time she kept the whole house in order, and could smile at her brother complacently. Her success annoyed him. He had grasped the principle of opera in Italy--it aims not at illusion but at entertainment--and he did not want this great evening-party to turn into a prayer-meeting. But soon the boxes began to fill, and Harriet's power was over. Families greeted each other across the auditorium. People in the pit hailed their brothers and sons in the chorus, and told them how well they were singing. When Lucia appeared by the fountain there was loud applause, and cries of "Welcome to Monteriano!" "Ridiculous babies!" said Harriet, settling down in her stall. "Why, it is the famous hot lady of the Apennines," cried Philip; "the one who had never, never before--" "Ugh! Don't. She will be very vulgar. And I'm sure it's even worse here than in the tunnel. I wish we'd never--" Lucia began to sing, and there was a moment's silence. She was stout and ugly; but her voice was still beautiful, and as she sang the theatre murmured like a hive of happy bees. All through the coloratura she was accompanied by sighs, and its top note was drowned in a shout of universal joy. So the opera proceeded. The singers drew inspiration from the audience, and the two great sextettes were rendered not unworthily. Miss Abbott fell into the spirit of the thing. She, too, chatted and laughed and applauded and encored, and rejoiced in the existence of beauty. As for Philip, he forgot himself as well as his mission. He was not even an enthusiastic visitor. For he had been in this place always. It was his home. Harriet, like M. Bovary on a more famous occasion, was trying to follow the plot. Occasionally she nudged her companions, and asked them what had become of Walter Scott. She looked round grimly. The audience sounded drunk, and even Caroline, who never took a drop, was swaying oddly. Violent waves of excitement, all arising from very little, went sweeping round the theatre. The climax was reached in the mad scene. Lucia, clad in white, as befitted her malady, suddenly gathered up her streaming hair and bowed her acknowledgment to the audience. Then from the back of the stage--she feigned not to see it--there advanced a kind of bamboo clothes-horse, stuck all over with bouquets. It was very ugly, and most of the flowers in it were false. Lucia knew this, and so did the audience; and they all knew that the clothes-horse was a piece of stage property, brought in to make the performance go year after year. None the less did it unloose the great deeps. With a scream of amazement and joy she embraced the animal, pulled out one or two practicable blossoms, pressed them to her lips, and flung them into her admirers. They flung them back, with loud melodious cries, and a little boy in one of the stageboxes snatched up his sister's carnations and offered them. "Che carino!" exclaimed the singer. She darted at the little boy and kissed him. Now the noise became tremendous. "Silence! silence!" shouted many old gentlemen behind. "Let the divine creature continue!" But the young men in the adjacent box were imploring Lucia to extend her civility to them. She refused, with a humorous, expressive gesture. One of them hurled a bouquet at her. She spurned it with her foot. Then, encouraged by the roars of the audience, she picked it up and tossed it to them. Harriet was always unfortunate. The bouquet struck her full in the chest, and a little billet-doux fell out of it into her lap. "Call this classical!" she cried, rising from her seat. "It's not even respectable! Philip! take me out at once." "Whose is it?" shouted her brother, holding up the bouquet in one hand and the billet-doux in the other. "Whose is it?" The house exploded, and one of the boxes was violently agitated, as if some one was being hauled to the front. Harriet moved down the gangway, and compelled Miss Abbott to follow her. Philip, still laughing and calling "Whose is it?" brought up the rear. He was drunk with excitement. The heat, the fatigue, and the enjoyment had mounted into his head. "To the left!" the people cried. "The innamorato is to the left." He deserted his ladies and plunged towards the box. A young man was flung stomach downwards across the balustrade. Philip handed him up the bouquet and the note. Then his own hands were seized affectionately. It all seemed quite natural. "Why have you not written?" cried the young man. "Why do you take me by surprise?" "Oh, I've written," said Philip hilariously. "I left a note this afternoon." "Silence! silence!" cried the audience, who were beginning to have enough. "Let the divine creature continue." Miss Abbott and Harriet had disappeared. "No! no!" cried the young man. "You don't escape me now." For Philip was trying feebly to disengage his hands. Amiable youths bent out of the box and invited him to enter it. "Gino's friends are ours--" "Friends?" cried Gino. "A relative! A brother! Fra Filippo, who has come all the way from England and never written." "I left a message." The audience began to hiss. "Come in to us." "Thank you--ladies--there is not time--" The next moment he was swinging by his arms. The moment after he shot over the balustrade into the box. Then the conductor, seeing that the incident was over, raised his baton. The house was hushed, and Lucia di Lammermoor resumed her song of madness and death. Philip had whispered introductions to the pleasant people who had pulled him in--tradesmen's sons perhaps they were, or medical students, or solicitors' clerks, or sons of other dentists. There is no knowing who is who in Italy. The guest of the evening was a private soldier. He shared the honour now with Philip. The two had to stand side by side in the front, and exchange compliments, whilst Gino presided, courteous, but delightfully familiar. Philip would have a spasm of horror at the muddle he had made. But the spasm would pass, and again he would be enchanted by the kind, cheerful voices, the laughter that was never vapid, and the light caress of the arm across his back. He could not get away till the play was nearly finished, and Edgardo was singing amongst the tombs of ancestors. His new friends hoped to see him at the Garibaldi tomorrow evening. He promised; then he remembered that if they kept to Harriet's plan he would have left Monteriano. "At ten o'clock, then," he said to Gino. "I want to speak to you alone. At ten." "Certainly!" laughed the other. Miss Abbott was sitting up for him when he got back. Harriet, it seemed, had gone straight to bed. "That was he, wasn't it?" she asked. "Yes, rather." "I suppose you didn't settle anything?" "Why, no; how could I? The fact is--well, I got taken by surprise, but after all, what does it matter? There's no earthly reason why we shouldn't do the business pleasantly. He's a perfectly charming person, and so are his friends. I'm his friend now--his long-lost brother. What's the harm? I tell you, Miss Abbott, it's one thing for England and another for Italy. There we plan and get on high moral horses. Here we find what asses we are, for things go off quite easily, all by themselves. My hat, what a night! Did you ever see a really purple sky and really silver stars before? Well, as I was saying, it's absurd to worry; he's not a porky father. He wants that baby as little as I do. He's been ragging my dear mother--just as he ragged me eighteen months ago, and I've forgiven him. Oh, but he has a sense of humour!" Miss Abbott, too, had a wonderful evening, nor did she ever remember such stars or such a sky. Her head, too, was full of music, and that night when she opened the window her room was filled with warm, sweet air. She was bathed in beauty within and without; she could not go to bed for happiness. Had she ever been so happy before? Yes, once before, and here, a night in March, the night Gino and Lilia had told her of their love--the night whose evil she had come now to undo. Sie gab einen plötzlichen Schrei der Scham von sich. "Dieses Mal - der gleiche Ort - das Gleiche" - und sie begann ihr Glück niederzuschlagen, wissend, dass es sündhaft war. Sie war hier, um gegen diesen Ort anzukämpfen, um eine kleine Seele zu retten - die noch unschuldig war. Sie war hier, um für Moral und Reinheit zu kämpfen und für das heilige Leben eines englischen Zuhauses. Im Frühling hatte sie aus Unwissenheit gesündigt; sie war jetzt nicht mehr unwissend. "Hilf mir!", rief sie und schloss das Fenster, als ob es Magie in der umgebenden Luft gäbe. Aber die Melodien wollten nicht aus ihrem Kopf verschwinden, und die ganze Nacht über wurde sie von einem Strom aus Musik gequält, von Applaus und Gelächter und wütenden jungen Männern, die das Distichon aus Baedeker riefen: Poggibonizzi fatti in la, Che Monteriano si fa citta! Poggibonsi wurde ihr enthüllt, als sie sangen - ein freudloser, zerzauster Ort, voller Menschen, die vorgaben. Als sie aufwachte, wusste sie, dass es Sawston gewesen war. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Philip und Harriet machen die lange Zugreise von London nach Monteriano. Auf ihrer Reise bekommt Harriet "Ruß ins Auge", nachdem sie darauf besteht, das Zugfenster offen zu lassen. Als sie in Florenz ankommen, ist Harriet noch schlechter gelaunt als sonst. Im Gegensatz zu Philip, der gerne reist und Italien liebt, misstraut Harriet Ausländern zutiefst und hasst es, die Sicherheit ihres eigenen Zuhauses zu verlassen. An einem Punkt kritisiert Harriet ihren Bruder dafür, dass er keinen soliden Plan hat, was mit dem Baby zu tun ist, und beschuldigt ihn, sich überhaupt nicht um das Wohl des Kindes zu kümmern. Philip ignoriert sie, aber er weiß, dass sie recht hat - ihm ist das Baby völlig egal, aber er beabsichtigt, seine Pflicht zu erfüllen. Er hofft, dass Gino eine angemessene Geldsumme akzeptieren wird, um das Kind so schnell wie möglich zu lösen. Als sie endlich im Hotel ankommen, besteht Harriet darauf, dass ihr Bruder sofort zu Gino geht, um über das Baby zu sprechen. Philip protestiert und sagt, dass er seinen Nachmittagstee haben möchte, aber Harriet bleibt standhaft. In diesem Moment taucht Miss Abbott auf – wie es der Zufall will, ist sie im selben Hotel untergebracht. Um sich an Harriet zu rächen, weil sie ihm Befehle gibt, schlägt Philip vor, dass sie und Miss Abbott sich treffen sollten, da Harriet Caroline nun als Feind betrachtet. Philip macht sich auf den Weg, um Gino einen Besuch abzustatten, aber als er im Haus ankommt, informiert ihn Perfetta, dass Gino nicht da ist. Was für ein Pech! Philip gibt Perfetta seine Visitenkarte und kehrt zum Hotel zurück, wo er wieder auf Miss Abbott trifft. Miss Abbott gibt zu, dass sie als "Spionin" nach Monteriano gekommen ist, weil sie vermutet, dass Mrs. Herriton das Baby tatsächlich nicht zurückhaben will. Caroline erzählt Philip, dass sie einen Tag vor ihm angekommen ist und gestern Gino in der Rocca getroffen hat, die einen wunderschönen Ausblick auf die Stadt bei Sonnenuntergang bietet. Ihr Gespräch mit Gino beschränkte sich größtenteils auf das Wetter, und sie erwähnte das Baby überhaupt nicht. Mit nichts zu tun an diesem Abend schlägt Philip vor, dass sie alle ins Theater gehen sollten, um Lucia di Lammermoor anzusehen, eine Oper, die auf dem Roman The Bride of Lammermoor von Sir Walter Scott basiert. Obwohl die Italiener im Publikum laut sind, finden Philip und Miss Abbott sie charmant. Harriet hingegen bittet sie ständig leise zu sein und wird an einer Stelle in die Brust getroffen, als die Schauspielerin, die Lucia spielt, Blumen ins Publikum wirft. Philip hebt den Strauß auf und gibt ihn einem jungen Italiener, der sich als Gino herausstellt! Ja, wir wissen, dass dieser Roman voller zufälliger Begegnungen ist. Gino, der ihn als seinen "verlorenen Bruder" umarmt, stimmt freudig zu, sich am nächsten Tag mit ihm zu treffen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The cub came upon it suddenly. It was his own fault. He had been careless. He had left the cave and run down to the stream to drink. It might have been that he took no notice because he was heavy with sleep. (He had been out all night on the meat-trail, and had but just then awakened.) And his carelessness might have been due to the familiarity of the trail to the pool. He had travelled it often, and nothing had ever happened on it. He went down past the blasted pine, crossed the open space, and trotted in amongst the trees. Then, at the same instant, he saw and smelt. Before him, sitting silently on their haunches, were five live things, the like of which he had never seen before. It was his first glimpse of mankind. But at the sight of him the five men did not spring to their feet, nor show their teeth, nor snarl. They did not move, but sat there, silent and ominous. Nor did the cub move. Every instinct of his nature would have impelled him to dash wildly away, had there not suddenly and for the first time arisen in him another and counter instinct. A great awe descended upon him. He was beaten down to movelessness by an overwhelming sense of his own weakness and littleness. Here was mastery and power, something far and away beyond him. The cub had never seen man, yet the instinct concerning man was his. In dim ways he recognised in man the animal that had fought itself to primacy over the other animals of the Wild. Not alone out of his own eyes, but out of the eyes of all his ancestors was the cub now looking upon man--out of eyes that had circled in the darkness around countless winter camp-fires, that had peered from safe distances and from the hearts of thickets at the strange, two-legged animal that was lord over living things. The spell of the cub's heritage was upon him, the fear and the respect born of the centuries of struggle and the accumulated experience of the generations. The heritage was too compelling for a wolf that was only a cub. Had he been full-grown, he would have run away. As it was, he cowered down in a paralysis of fear, already half proffering the submission that his kind had proffered from the first time a wolf came in to sit by man's fire and be made warm. One of the Indians arose and walked over to him and stooped above him. The cub cowered closer to the ground. It was the unknown, objectified at last, in concrete flesh and blood, bending over him and reaching down to seize hold of him. His hair bristled involuntarily; his lips writhed back and his little fangs were bared. The hand, poised like doom above him, hesitated, and the man spoke laughing, "_Wabam wabisca ip pit tah_." ("Look! The white fangs!") The other Indians laughed loudly, and urged the man on to pick up the cub. As the hand descended closer and closer, there raged within the cub a battle of the instincts. He experienced two great impulsions--to yield and to fight. The resulting action was a compromise. He did both. He yielded till the hand almost touched him. Then he fought, his teeth flashing in a snap that sank them into the hand. The next moment he received a clout alongside the head that knocked him over on his side. Then all fight fled out of him. His puppyhood and the instinct of submission took charge of him. He sat up on his haunches and ki-yi'd. But the man whose hand he had bitten was angry. The cub received a clout on the other side of his head. Whereupon he sat up and ki-yi'd louder than ever. The four Indians laughed more loudly, while even the man who had been bitten began to laugh. They surrounded the cub and laughed at him, while he wailed out his terror and his hurt. In the midst of it, he heard something. The Indians heard it too. But the cub knew what it was, and with a last, long wail that had in it more of triumph than grief, he ceased his noise and waited for the coming of his mother, of his ferocious and indomitable mother who fought and killed all things and was never afraid. She was snarling as she ran. She had heard the cry of her cub and was dashing to save him. She bounded in amongst them, her anxious and militant motherhood making her anything but a pretty sight. But to the cub the spectacle of her protective rage was pleasing. He uttered a glad little cry and bounded to meet her, while the man-animals went back hastily several steps. The she-wolf stood over against her cub, facing the men, with bristling hair, a snarl rumbling deep in her throat. Her face was distorted and malignant with menace, even the bridge of the nose wrinkling from tip to eyes so prodigious was her snarl. Then it was that a cry went up from one of the men. "Kiche!" was what he uttered. It was an exclamation of surprise. The cub felt his mother wilting at the sound. "Kiche!" the man cried again, this time with sharpness and authority. And then the cub saw his mother, the she-wolf, the fearless one, crouching down till her belly touched the ground, whimpering, wagging her tail, making peace signs. The cub could not understand. He was appalled. The awe of man rushed over him again. His instinct had been true. His mother verified it. She, too, rendered submission to the man- animals. The man who had spoken came over to her. He put his hand upon her head, and she only crouched closer. She did not snap, nor threaten to snap. The other men came up, and surrounded her, and felt her, and pawed her, which actions she made no attempt to resent. They were greatly excited, and made many noises with their mouths. These noises were not indication of danger, the cub decided, as he crouched near his mother still bristling from time to time but doing his best to submit. "It is not strange," an Indian was saying. "Her father was a wolf. It is true, her mother was a dog; but did not my brother tie her out in the woods all of three nights in the mating season? Therefore was the father of Kiche a wolf." "It is a year, Grey Beaver, since she ran away," spoke a second Indian. "It is not strange, Salmon Tongue," Grey Beaver answered. "It was the time of the famine, and there was no meat for the dogs." "She has lived with the wolves," said a third Indian. "So it would seem, Three Eagles," Grey Beaver answered, laying his hand on the cub; "and this be the sign of it." The cub snarled a little at the touch of the hand, and the hand flew back to administer a clout. Whereupon the cub covered its fangs, and sank down submissively, while the hand, returning, rubbed behind his ears, and up and down his back. "This be the sign of it," Grey Beaver went on. "It is plain that his mother is Kiche. But his father was a wolf. Wherefore is there in him little dog and much wolf. His fangs be white, and White Fang shall be his name. I have spoken. He is my dog. For was not Kiche my brother's dog? And is not my brother dead?" The cub, who had thus received a name in the world, lay and watched. For a time the man-animals continued to make their mouth-noises. Then Grey Beaver took a knife from a sheath that hung around his neck, and went into the thicket and cut a stick. White Fang watched him. He notched the stick at each end and in the notches fastened strings of raw-hide. One string he tied around the throat of Kiche. Then he led her to a small pine, around which he tied the other string. White Fang followed and lay down beside her. Salmon Tongue's hand reached out to him and rolled him over on his back. Kiche looked on anxiously. White Fang felt fear mounting in him again. He could not quite suppress a snarl, but he made no offer to snap. The hand, with fingers crooked and spread apart, rubbed his stomach in a playful way and rolled him from side to side. It was ridiculous and ungainly, lying there on his back with legs sprawling in the air. Besides, it was a position of such utter helplessness that White Fang's whole nature revolted against it. He could do nothing to defend himself. If this man- animal intended harm, White Fang knew that he could not escape it. How could he spring away with his four legs in the air above him? Yet submission made him master his fear, and he only growled softly. This growl he could not suppress; nor did the man-animal resent it by giving him a blow on the head. And furthermore, such was the strangeness of it, White Fang experienced an unaccountable sensation of pleasure as the hand rubbed back and forth. When he was rolled on his side he ceased to growl, when the fingers pressed and prodded at the base of his ears the pleasurable sensation increased; and when, with a final rub and scratch, the man left him alone and went away, all fear had died out of White Fang. He was to know fear many times in his dealing with man; yet it was a token of the fearless companionship with man that was ultimately to be his. After a time, White Fang heard strange noises approaching. He was quick in his classification, for he knew them at once for man-animal noises. A few minutes later the remainder of the tribe, strung out as it was on the march, trailed in. There were more men and many women and children, forty souls of them, and all heavily burdened with camp equipage and outfit. Also there were many dogs; and these, with the exception of the part-grown puppies, were likewise burdened with camp outfit. On their backs, in bags that fastened tightly around underneath, the dogs carried from twenty to thirty pounds of weight. White Fang had never seen dogs before, but at sight of them he felt that they were his own kind, only somehow different. But they displayed little difference from the wolf when they discovered the cub and his mother. There was a rush. White Fang bristled and snarled and snapped in the face of the open-mouthed oncoming wave of dogs, and went down and under them, feeling the sharp slash of teeth in his body, himself biting and tearing at the legs and bellies above him. There was a great uproar. He could hear the snarl of Kiche as she fought for him; and he could hear the cries of the man-animals, the sound of clubs striking upon bodies, and the yelps of pain from the dogs so struck. Only a few seconds elapsed before he was on his feet again. He could now see the man-animals driving back the dogs with clubs and stones, defending him, saving him from the savage teeth of his kind that somehow was not his kind. And though there was no reason in his brain for a clear conception of so abstract a thing as justice, nevertheless, in his own way, he felt the justice of the man-animals, and he knew them for what they were--makers of law and executors of law. Also, he appreciated the power with which they administered the law. Unlike any animals he had ever encountered, they did not bite nor claw. They enforced their live strength with the power of dead things. Dead things did their bidding. Thus, sticks and stones, directed by these strange creatures, leaped through the air like living things, inflicting grievous hurts upon the dogs. To his mind this was power unusual, power inconceivable and beyond the natural, power that was godlike. White Fang, in the very nature of him, could never know anything about gods; at the best he could know only things that were beyond knowing--but the wonder and awe that he had of these man-animals in ways resembled what would be the wonder and awe of man at sight of some celestial creature, on a mountain top, hurling thunderbolts from either hand at an astonished world. The last dog had been driven back. The hubbub died down. And White Fang licked his hurts and meditated upon this, his first taste of pack-cruelty and his introduction to the pack. He had never dreamed that his own kind consisted of more than One Eye, his mother, and himself. They had constituted a kind apart, and here, abruptly, he had discovered many more creatures apparently of his own kind. And there was a subconscious resentment that these, his kind, at first sight had pitched upon him and tried to destroy him. In the same way he resented his mother being tied with a stick, even though it was done by the superior man-animals. It savoured of the trap, of bondage. Yet of the trap and of bondage he knew nothing. Freedom to roam and run and lie down at will, had been his heritage; and here it was being infringed upon. His mother's movements were restricted to the length of a stick, and by the length of that same stick was he restricted, for he had not yet got beyond the need of his mother's side. He did not like it. Nor did he like it when the man-animals arose and went on with their march; for a tiny man-animal took the other end of the stick and led Kiche captive behind him, and behind Kiche followed White Fang, greatly perturbed and worried by this new adventure he had entered upon. They went down the valley of the stream, far beyond White Fang's widest ranging, until they came to the end of the valley, where the stream ran into the Mackenzie River. Here, where canoes were cached on poles high in the air and where stood fish-racks for the drying of fish, camp was made; and White Fang looked on with wondering eyes. The superiority of these man-animals increased with every moment. There was their mastery over all these sharp-fanged dogs. It breathed of power. But greater than that, to the wolf-cub, was their mastery over things not alive; their capacity to communicate motion to unmoving things; their capacity to change the very face of the world. It was this last that especially affected him. The elevation of frames of poles caught his eye; yet this in itself was not so remarkable, being done by the same creatures that flung sticks and stones to great distances. But when the frames of poles were made into tepees by being covered with cloth and skins, White Fang was astounded. It was the colossal bulk of them that impressed him. They arose around him, on every side, like some monstrous quick-growing form of life. They occupied nearly the whole circumference of his field of vision. He was afraid of them. They loomed ominously above him; and when the breeze stirred them into huge movements, he cowered down in fear, keeping his eyes warily upon them, and prepared to spring away if they attempted to precipitate themselves upon him. But in a short while his fear of the tepees passed away. He saw the women and children passing in and out of them without harm, and he saw the dogs trying often to get into them, and being driven away with sharp words and flying stones. After a time, he left Kiche's side and crawled cautiously toward the wall of the nearest tepee. It was the curiosity of growth that urged him on--the necessity of learning and living and doing that brings experience. The last few inches to the wall of the tepee were crawled with painful slowness and precaution. The day's events had prepared him for the unknown to manifest itself in most stupendous and unthinkable ways. At last his nose touched the canvas. He waited. Nothing happened. Then he smelled the strange fabric, saturated with the man-smell. He closed on the canvas with his teeth and gave a gentle tug. Nothing happened, though the adjacent portions of the tepee moved. He tugged harder. There was a greater movement. It was delightful. He tugged still harder, and repeatedly, until the whole tepee was in motion. Then the sharp cry of a squaw inside sent him scampering back to Kiche. But after that he was afraid no more of the looming bulks of the tepees. A moment later he was straying away again from his mother. Her stick was tied to a peg in the ground and she could not follow him. A part-grown puppy, somewhat larger and older than he, came toward him slowly, with ostentatious and belligerent importance. The puppy's name, as White Fang was afterward to hear him called, was Lip-lip. He had had experience in puppy fights and was already something of a bully. Lip-lip was White Fang's own kind, and, being only a puppy, did not seem dangerous; so White Fang prepared to meet him in a friendly spirit. But when the stranger's walk became stiff-legged and his lips lifted clear of his teeth, White Fang stiffened too, and answered with lifted lips. They half circled about each other, tentatively, snarling and bristling. This lasted several minutes, and White Fang was beginning to enjoy it, as a sort of game. But suddenly, with remarkable swiftness, Lip-lip leaped in, delivering a slashing snap, and leaped away again. The snap had taken effect on the shoulder that had been hurt by the lynx and that was still sore deep down near the bone. The surprise and hurt of it brought a yelp out of White Fang; but the next moment, in a rush of anger, he was upon Lip-lip and snapping viciously. But Lip-lip had lived his life in camp and had fought many puppy fights. Three times, four times, and half a dozen times, his sharp little teeth scored on the newcomer, until White Fang, yelping shamelessly, fled to the protection of his mother. It was the first of the many fights he was to have with Lip-lip, for they were enemies from the start, born so, with natures destined perpetually to clash. Kiche licked White Fang soothingly with her tongue, and tried to prevail upon him to remain with her. But his curiosity was rampant, and several minutes later he was venturing forth on a new quest. He came upon one of the man-animals, Grey Beaver, who was squatting on his hams and doing something with sticks and dry moss spread before him on the ground. White Fang came near to him and watched. Grey Beaver made mouth-noises which White Fang interpreted as not hostile, so he came still nearer. Women and children were carrying more sticks and branches to Grey Beaver. It was evidently an affair of moment. White Fang came in until he touched Grey Beaver's knee, so curious was he, and already forgetful that this was a terrible man-animal. Suddenly he saw a strange thing like mist beginning to arise from the sticks and moss beneath Grey Beaver's hands. Then, amongst the sticks themselves, appeared a live thing, twisting and turning, of a colour like the colour of the sun in the sky. White Fang knew nothing about fire. It drew him as the light, in the mouth of the cave had drawn him in his early puppyhood. He crawled the several steps toward the flame. He heard Grey Beaver chuckle above him, and he knew the sound was not hostile. Then his nose touched the flame, and at the same instant his little tongue went out to it. For a moment he was paralysed. The unknown, lurking in the midst of the sticks and moss, was savagely clutching him by the nose. He scrambled backward, bursting out in an astonished explosion of ki-yi's. At the sound, Kiche leaped snarling to the end of her stick, and there raged terribly because she could not come to his aid. But Grey Beaver laughed loudly, and slapped his thighs, and told the happening to all the rest of the camp, till everybody was laughing uproariously. But White Fang sat on his haunches and ki-yi'd and ki-yi'd, a forlorn and pitiable little figure in the midst of the man-animals. It was the worst hurt he had ever known. Both nose and tongue had been scorched by the live thing, sun-coloured, that had grown up under Grey Beaver's hands. He cried and cried interminably, and every fresh wail was greeted by bursts of laughter on the part of the man-animals. He tried to soothe his nose with his tongue, but the tongue was burnt too, and the two hurts coming together produced greater hurt; whereupon he cried more hopelessly and helplessly than ever. And then shame came to him. He knew laughter and the meaning of it. It is not given us to know how some animals know laughter, and know when they are being laughed at; but it was this same way that White Fang knew it. And he felt shame that the man-animals should be laughing at him. He turned and fled away, not from the hurt of the fire, but from the laughter that sank even deeper, and hurt in the spirit of him. And he fled to Kiche, raging at the end of her stick like an animal gone mad--to Kiche, the one creature in the world who was not laughing at him. Twilight drew down and night came on, and White Fang lay by his mother's side. His nose and tongue still hurt, but he was perplexed by a greater trouble. He was homesick. He felt a vacancy in him, a need for the hush and quietude of the stream and the cave in the cliff. Life had become too populous. There were so many of the man-animals, men, women, and children, all making noises and irritations. And there were the dogs, ever squabbling and bickering, bursting into uproars and creating confusions. The restful loneliness of the only life he had known was gone. Here the very air was palpitant with life. It hummed and buzzed unceasingly. Continually changing its intensity and abruptly variant in pitch, it impinged on his nerves and senses, made him nervous and restless and worried him with a perpetual imminence of happening. He watched the man-animals coming and going and moving about the camp. In fashion distantly resembling the way men look upon the gods they create, so looked White Fang upon the man-animals before him. They were superior creatures, of a verity, gods. To his dim comprehension they were as much wonder-workers as gods are to men. They were creatures of mastery, possessing all manner of unknown and impossible potencies, overlords of the alive and the not alive--making obey that which moved, imparting movement to that which did not move, and making life, sun-coloured and biting life, to grow out of dead moss and wood. They were fire-makers! They were gods. The days were thronged with experience for White Fang. During the time that Kiche was tied by the stick, he ran about over all the camp, inquiring, investigating, learning. He quickly came to know much of the ways of the man-animals, but familiarity did not breed contempt. The more he came to know them, the more they vindicated their superiority, the more they displayed their mysterious powers, the greater loomed their god-likeness. To man has been given the grief, often, of seeing his gods overthrown and his altars crumbling; but to the wolf and the wild dog that have come in to crouch at man's feet, this grief has never come. Unlike man, whose gods are of the unseen and the overguessed, vapours and mists of fancy eluding the garmenture of reality, wandering wraiths of desired goodness and power, intangible out-croppings of self into the realm of spirit--unlike man, the wolf and the wild dog that have come in to the fire find their gods in the living flesh, solid to the touch, occupying earth-space and requiring time for the accomplishment of their ends and their existence. No effort of faith is necessary to believe in such a god; no effort of will can possibly induce disbelief in such a god. There is no getting away from it. There it stands, on its two hind-legs, club in hand, immensely potential, passionate and wrathful and loving, god and mystery and power all wrapped up and around by flesh that bleeds when it is torn and that is good to eat like any flesh. And so it was with White Fang. The man-animals were gods unmistakable and unescapable. As his mother, Kiche, had rendered her allegiance to them at the first cry of her name, so he was beginning to render his allegiance. He gave them the trail as a privilege indubitably theirs. When they walked, he got out of their way. When they called, he came. When they threatened, he cowered down. When they commanded him to go, he went away hurriedly. For behind any wish of theirs was power to enforce that wish, power that hurt, power that expressed itself in clouts and clubs, in flying stones and stinging lashes of whips. He belonged to them as all dogs belonged to them. His actions were theirs to command. His body was theirs to maul, to stamp upon, to tolerate. Such was the lesson that was quickly borne in upon him. It came hard, going as it did, counter to much that was strong and dominant in his own nature; and, while he disliked it in the learning of it, unknown to himself he was learning to like it. It was a placing of his destiny in another's hands, a shifting of the responsibilities of existence. This in itself was compensation, for it is always easier to lean upon another than to stand alone. But it did not all happen in a day, this giving over of himself, body and soul, to the man-animals. He could not immediately forego his wild heritage and his memories of the Wild. There were days when he crept to the edge of the forest and stood and listened to something calling him far and away. And always he returned, restless and uncomfortable, to whimper softly and wistfully at Kiche's side and to lick her face with eager, questioning tongue. White Fang learned rapidly the ways of the camp. He knew the injustice and greediness of the older dogs when meat or fish was thrown out to be eaten. He came to know that men were more just, children more cruel, and women more kindly and more likely to toss him a bit of meat or bone. And after two or three painful adventures with the mothers of part-grown puppies, he came into the knowledge that it was always good policy to let such mothers alone, to keep away from them as far as possible, and to avoid them when he saw them coming. But the bane of his life was Lip-lip. Larger, older, and stronger, Lip- lip had selected White Fang for his special object of persecution. While Fang fought willingly enough, but he was outclassed. His enemy was too big. Lip-lip became a nightmare to him. Whenever he ventured away from his mother, the bully was sure to appear, trailing at his heels, snarling at him, picking upon him, and watchful of an opportunity, when no man- animal was near, to spring upon him and force a fight. As Lip-lip invariably won, he enjoyed it hugely. It became his chief delight in life, as it became White Fang's chief torment. But the effect upon White Fang was not to cow him. Though he suffered most of the damage and was always defeated, his spirit remained unsubdued. Yet a bad effect was produced. He became malignant and morose. His temper had been savage by birth, but it became more savage under this unending persecution. The genial, playful, puppyish side of him found little expression. He never played and gambolled about with the other puppies of the camp. Lip-lip would not permit it. The moment White Fang appeared near them, Lip-lip was upon him, bullying and hectoring him, or fighting with him until he had driven him away. The effect of all this was to rob White Fang of much of his puppyhood and to make him in his comportment older than his age. Denied the outlet, through play, of his energies, he recoiled upon himself and developed his mental processes. He became cunning; he had idle time in which to devote himself to thoughts of trickery. Prevented from obtaining his share of meat and fish when a general feed was given to the camp-dogs, he became a clever thief. He had to forage for himself, and he foraged well, though he was oft-times a plague to the squaws in consequence. He learned to sneak about camp, to be crafty, to know what was going on everywhere, to see and to hear everything and to reason accordingly, and successfully to devise ways and means of avoiding his implacable persecutor. It was early in the days of his persecution that he played his first really big crafty game and got therefrom his first taste of revenge. As Kiche, when with the wolves, had lured out to destruction dogs from the camps of men, so White Fang, in manner somewhat similar, lured Lip-lip into Kiche's avenging jaws. Retreating before Lip-lip, White Fang made an indirect flight that led in and out and around the various tepees of the camp. He was a good runner, swifter than any puppy of his size, and swifter than Lip-lip. But he did not run his best in this chase. He barely held his own, one leap ahead of his pursuer. Lip-lip, excited by the chase and by the persistent nearness of his victim, forgot caution and locality. When he remembered locality, it was too late. Dashing at top speed around a tepee, he ran full tilt into Kiche lying at the end of her stick. He gave one yelp of consternation, and then her punishing jaws closed upon him. She was tied, but he could not get away from her easily. She rolled him off his legs so that he could not run, while she repeatedly ripped and slashed him with her fangs. When at last he succeeded in rolling clear of her, he crawled to his feet, badly dishevelled, hurt both in body and in spirit. His hair was standing out all over him in tufts where her teeth had mauled. He stood where he had arisen, opened his mouth, and broke out the long, heart-broken puppy wail. But even this he was not allowed to complete. In the middle of it, White Fang, rushing in, sank his teeth into Lip-lip's hind leg. There was no fight left in Lip-lip, and he ran away shamelessly, his victim hot on his heels and worrying him all the way back to his own tepee. Here the squaws came to his aid, and White Fang, transformed into a raging demon, was finally driven off only by a fusillade of stones. Came the day when Grey Beaver, deciding that the liability of her running away was past, released Kiche. White Fang was delighted with his mother's freedom. He accompanied her joyfully about the camp; and, so long as he remained close by her side, Lip-lip kept a respectful distance. White Fang even bristled up to him and walked stiff-legged, but Lip-lip ignored the challenge. He was no fool himself, and whatever vengeance he desired to wreak, he could wait until he caught White Fang alone. Later on that day, Kiche and White Fang strayed into the edge of the woods next to the camp. He had led his mother there, step by step, and now when she stopped, he tried to inveigle her farther. The stream, the lair, and the quiet woods were calling to him, and he wanted her to come. He ran on a few steps, stopped, and looked back. She had not moved. He whined pleadingly, and scurried playfully in and out of the underbrush. He ran back to her, licked her face, and ran on again. And still she did not move. He stopped and regarded her, all of an intentness and eagerness, physically expressed, that slowly faded out of him as she turned her head and gazed back at the camp. There was something calling to him out there in the open. His mother heard it too. But she heard also that other and louder call, the call of the fire and of man--the call which has been given alone of all animals to the wolf to answer, to the wolf and the wild-dog, who are brothers. Kiche turned and slowly trotted back toward camp. Stronger than the physical restraint of the stick was the clutch of the camp upon her. Unseen and occultly, the gods still gripped with their power and would not let her go. White Fang sat down in the shadow of a birch and whimpered softly. There was a strong smell of pine, and subtle wood fragrances filled the air, reminding him of his old life of freedom before the days of his bondage. But he was still only a part-grown puppy, and stronger than the call either of man or of the Wild was the call of his mother. All the hours of his short life he had depended upon her. The time was yet to come for independence. So he arose and trotted forlornly back to camp, pausing once, and twice, to sit down and whimper and to listen to the call that still sounded in the depths of the forest. In the Wild the time of a mother with her young is short; but under the dominion of man it is sometimes even shorter. Thus it was with White Fang. Grey Beaver was in the debt of Three Eagles. Three Eagles was going away on a trip up the Mackenzie to the Great Slave Lake. A strip of scarlet cloth, a bearskin, twenty cartridges, and Kiche, went to pay the debt. White Fang saw his mother taken aboard Three Eagles' canoe, and tried to follow her. A blow from Three Eagles knocked him backward to the land. The canoe shoved off. He sprang into the water and swam after it, deaf to the sharp cries of Grey Beaver to return. Even a man- animal, a god, White Fang ignored, such was the terror he was in of losing his mother. But gods are accustomed to being obeyed, and Grey Beaver wrathfully launched a canoe in pursuit. When he overtook White Fang, he reached down and by the nape of the neck lifted him clear of the water. He did not deposit him at once in the bottom of the canoe. Holding him suspended with one hand, with the other hand he proceeded to give him a beating. And it _was_ a beating. His hand was heavy. Every blow was shrewd to hurt; and he delivered a multitude of blows. Impelled by the blows that rained upon him, now from this side, now from that, White Fang swung back and forth like an erratic and jerky pendulum. Varying were the emotions that surged through him. At first, he had known surprise. Then came a momentary fear, when he yelped several times to the impact of the hand. But this was quickly followed by anger. His free nature asserted itself, and he showed his teeth and snarled fearlessly in the face of the wrathful god. This but served to make the god more wrathful. The blows came faster, heavier, more shrewd to hurt. Grey Beaver continued to beat, White Fang continued to snarl. But this could not last for ever. One or the other must give over, and that one was White Fang. Fear surged through him again. For the first time he was being really man-handled. The occasional blows of sticks and stones he had previously experienced were as caresses compared with this. He broke down and began to cry and yelp. For a time each blow brought a yelp from him; but fear passed into terror, until finally his yelps were voiced in unbroken succession, unconnected with the rhythm of the punishment. At last Grey Beaver withheld his hand. White Fang, hanging limply, continued to cry. This seemed to satisfy his master, who flung him down roughly in the bottom of the canoe. In the meantime the canoe had drifted down the stream. Grey Beaver picked up the paddle. White Fang was in his way. He spurned him savagely with his foot. In that moment White Fang's free nature flashed forth again, and he sank his teeth into the moccasined foot. The beating that had gone before was as nothing compared with the beating he now received. Grey Beaver's wrath was terrible; likewise was White Fang's fright. Not only the hand, but the hard wooden paddle was used upon him; and he was bruised and sore in all his small body when he was again flung down in the canoe. Again, and this time with purpose, did Grey Beaver kick him. White Fang did not repeat his attack on the foot. He had learned another lesson of his bondage. Never, no matter what the circumstance, must he dare to bite the god who was lord and master over him; the body of the lord and master was sacred, not to be defiled by the teeth of such as he. That was evidently the crime of crimes, the one offence there was no condoning nor overlooking. When the canoe touched the shore, White Fang lay whimpering and motionless, waiting the will of Grey Beaver. It was Grey Beaver's will that he should go ashore, for ashore he was flung, striking heavily on his side and hurting his bruises afresh. He crawled tremblingly to his feet and stood whimpering. Lip-lip, who had watched the whole proceeding from the bank, now rushed upon him, knocking him over and sinking his teeth into him. White Fang was too helpless to defend himself, and it would have gone hard with him had not Grey Beaver's foot shot out, lifting Lip-lip into the air with its violence so that he smashed down to earth a dozen feet away. This was the man-animal's justice; and even then, in his own pitiable plight, White Fang experienced a little grateful thrill. At Grey Beaver's heels he limped obediently through the village to the tepee. And so it came that White Fang learned that the right to punish was something the gods reserved for themselves and denied to the lesser creatures under them. That night, when all was still, White Fang remembered his mother and sorrowed for her. He sorrowed too loudly and woke up Grey Beaver, who beat him. After that he mourned gently when the gods were around. But sometimes, straying off to the edge of the woods by himself, he gave vent to his grief, and cried it out with loud whimperings and wailings. It was during this period that he might have harkened to the memories of the lair and the stream and run back to the Wild. But the memory of his mother held him. As the hunting man-animals went out and came back, so she would come back to the village some time. So he remained in his bondage waiting for her. But it was not altogether an unhappy bondage. There was much to interest him. Something was always happening. There was no end to the strange things these gods did, and he was always curious to see. Besides, he was learning how to get along with Grey Beaver. Obedience, rigid, undeviating obedience, was what was exacted of him; and in return he escaped beatings and his existence was tolerated. Nay, Grey Beaver himself sometimes tossed him a piece of meat, and defended him against the other dogs in the eating of it. And such a piece of meat was of value. It was worth more, in some strange way, then a dozen pieces of meat from the hand of a squaw. Grey Beaver never petted nor caressed. Perhaps it was the weight of his hand, perhaps his justice, perhaps the sheer power of him, and perhaps it was all these things that influenced White Fang; for a certain tie of attachment was forming between him and his surly lord. Insidiously, and by remote ways, as well as by the power of stick and stone and clout of hand, were the shackles of White Fang's bondage being riveted upon him. The qualities in his kind that in the beginning made it possible for them to come in to the fires of men, were qualities capable of development. They were developing in him, and the camp-life, replete with misery as it was, was secretly endearing itself to him all the time. But White Fang was unaware of it. He knew only grief for the loss of Kiche, hope for her return, and a hungry yearning for the free life that had been his. Lip-lip continued so to darken his days that White Fang became wickeder and more ferocious than it was his natural right to be. Savageness was a part of his make-up, but the savageness thus developed exceeded his make- up. He acquired a reputation for wickedness amongst the man-animals themselves. Wherever there was trouble and uproar in camp, fighting and squabbling or the outcry of a squaw over a bit of stolen meat, they were sure to find White Fang mixed up in it and usually at the bottom of it. They did not bother to look after the causes of his conduct. They saw only the effects, and the effects were bad. He was a sneak and a thief, a mischief-maker, a fomenter of trouble; and irate squaws told him to his face, the while he eyed them alert and ready to dodge any quick-flung missile, that he was a wolf and worthless and bound to come to an evil end. He found himself an outcast in the midst of the populous camp. All the young dogs followed Lip-lip's lead. There was a difference between White Fang and them. Perhaps they sensed his wild-wood breed, and instinctively felt for him the enmity that the domestic dog feels for the wolf. But be that as it may, they joined with Lip-lip in the persecution. And, once declared against him, they found good reason to continue declared against him. One and all, from time to time, they felt his teeth; and to his credit, he gave more than he received. Many of them he could whip in single fight; but single fight was denied him. The beginning of such a fight was a signal for all the young dogs in camp to come running and pitch upon him. Out of this pack-persecution he learned two important things: how to take care of himself in a mass-fight against him--and how, on a single dog, to inflict the greatest amount of damage in the briefest space of time. To keep one's feet in the midst of the hostile mass meant life, and this he learnt well. He became cat-like in his ability to stay on his feet. Even grown dogs might hurtle him backward or sideways with the impact of their heavy bodies; and backward or sideways he would go, in the air or sliding on the ground, but always with his legs under him and his feet downward to the mother earth. When dogs fight, there are usually preliminaries to the actual combat--snarlings and bristlings and stiff-legged struttings. But White Fang learned to omit these preliminaries. Delay meant the coming against him of all the young dogs. He must do his work quickly and get away. So he learnt to give no warning of his intention. He rushed in and snapped and slashed on the instant, without notice, before his foe could prepare to meet him. Thus he learned how to inflict quick and severe damage. Also he learned the value of surprise. A dog, taken off its guard, its shoulder slashed open or its ear ripped in ribbons before it knew what was happening, was a dog half whipped. Furthermore, it was remarkably easy to overthrow a dog taken by surprise; while a dog, thus overthrown, invariably exposed for a moment the soft underside of its neck--the vulnerable point at which to strike for its life. White Fang knew this point. It was a knowledge bequeathed to him directly from the hunting generation of wolves. So it was that White Fang's method when he took the offensive, was: first to find a young dog alone; second, to surprise it and knock it off its feet; and third, to drive in with his teeth at the soft throat. Being but partly grown his jaws had not yet become large enough nor strong enough to make his throat-attack deadly; but many a young dog went around camp with a lacerated throat in token of White Fang's intention. And one day, catching one of his enemies alone on the edge of the woods, he managed, by repeatedly overthrowing him and attacking the throat, to cut the great vein and let out the life. There was a great row that night. He had been observed, the news had been carried to the dead dog's master, the squaws remembered all the instances of stolen meat, and Grey Beaver was beset by many angry voices. But he resolutely held the door of his tepee, inside which he had placed the culprit, and refused to permit the vengeance for which his tribespeople clamoured. White Fang became hated by man and dog. During this period of his development he never knew a moment's security. The tooth of every dog was against him, the hand of every man. He was greeted with snarls by his kind, with curses and stones by his gods. He lived tensely. He was always keyed up, alert for attack, wary of being attacked, with an eye for sudden and unexpected missiles, prepared to act precipitately and coolly, to leap in with a flash of teeth, or to leap away with a menacing snarl. As for snarling he could snarl more terribly than any dog, young or old, in camp. The intent of the snarl is to warn or frighten, and judgment is required to know when it should be used. White Fang knew how to make it and when to make it. Into his snarl he incorporated all that was vicious, malignant, and horrible. With nose serrulated by continuous spasms, hair bristling in recurrent waves, tongue whipping out like a red snake and whipping back again, ears flattened down, eyes gleaming hatred, lips wrinkled back, and fangs exposed and dripping, he could compel a pause on the part of almost any assailant. A temporary pause, when taken off his guard, gave him the vital moment in which to think and determine his action. But often a pause so gained lengthened out until it evolved into a complete cessation from the attack. And before more than one of the grown dogs White Fang's snarl enabled him to beat an honourable retreat. An outcast himself from the pack of the part-grown dogs, his sanguinary methods and remarkable efficiency made the pack pay for its persecution of him. Not permitted himself to run with the pack, the curious state of affairs obtained that no member of the pack could run outside the pack. White Fang would not permit it. What of his bushwhacking and waylaying tactics, the young dogs were afraid to run by themselves. With the exception of Lip-lip, they were compelled to hunch together for mutual protection against the terrible enemy they had made. A puppy alone by the river bank meant a puppy dead or a puppy that aroused the camp with its shrill pain and terror as it fled back from the wolf-cub that had waylaid it. But White Fang's reprisals did not cease, even when the young dogs had learned thoroughly that they must stay together. He attacked them when he caught them alone, and they attacked him when they were bunched. The sight of him was sufficient to start them rushing after him, at which times his swiftness usually carried him into safety. But woe the dog that outran his fellows in such pursuit! White Fang had learned to turn suddenly upon the pursuer that was ahead of the pack and thoroughly to rip him up before the pack could arrive. This occurred with great frequency, for, once in full cry, the dogs were prone to forget themselves in the excitement of the chase, while White Fang never forgot himself. Stealing backward glances as he ran, he was always ready to whirl around and down the overzealous pursuer that outran his fellows. Young dogs are bound to play, and out of the exigencies of the situation they realised their play in this mimic warfare. Thus it was that the hunt of White Fang became their chief game--a deadly game, withal, and at all times a serious game. He, on the other hand, being the fastest-footed, was unafraid to venture anywhere. During the period that he waited vainly for his mother to come back, he led the pack many a wild chase through the adjacent woods. But the pack invariably lost him. Its noise and outcry warned him of its presence, while he ran alone, velvet- footed, silently, a moving shadow among the trees after the manner of his father and mother before him. Further he was more directly connected with the Wild than they; and he knew more of its secrets and stratagems. A favourite trick of his was to lose his trail in running water and then lie quietly in a near-by thicket while their baffled cries arose around him. Hated by his kind and by mankind, indomitable, perpetually warred upon and himself waging perpetual war, his development was rapid and one-sided. This was no soil for kindliness and affection to blossom in. Of such things he had not the faintest glimmering. The code he learned was to obey the strong and to oppress the weak. Grey Beaver was a god, and strong. Therefore White Fang obeyed him. But the dog younger or smaller than himself was weak, a thing to be destroyed. His development was in the direction of power. In order to face the constant danger of hurt and even of destruction, his predatory and protective faculties were unduly developed. He became quicker of movement than the other dogs, swifter of foot, craftier, deadlier, more lithe, more lean with ironlike muscle and sinew, more enduring, more cruel, more ferocious, and more intelligent. He had to become all these things, else he would not have held his own nor survive the hostile environment in which he found himself. In the fall of the year, when the days were shortening and the bite of the frost was coming into the air, White Fang got his chance for liberty. For several days there had been a great hubbub in the village. The summer camp was being dismantled, and the tribe, bag and baggage, was preparing to go off to the fall hunting. White Fang watched it all with eager eyes, and when the tepees began to come down and the canoes were loading at the bank, he understood. Already the canoes were departing, and some had disappeared down the river. Quite deliberately he determined to stay behind. He waited his opportunity to slink out of camp to the woods. Here, in the running stream where ice was beginning to form, he hid his trail. Then he crawled into the heart of a dense thicket and waited. The time passed by, and he slept intermittently for hours. Then he was aroused by Grey Beaver's voice calling him by name. There were other voices. White Fang could hear Grey Beaver's squaw taking part in the search, and Mit-sah, who was Grey Beaver's son. White Fang trembled with fear, and though the impulse came to crawl out of his hiding-place, he resisted it. After a time the voices died away, and some time after that he crept out to enjoy the success of his undertaking. Darkness was coming on, and for a while he played about among the trees, pleasuring in his freedom. Then, and quite suddenly, he became aware of loneliness. He sat down to consider, listening to the silence of the forest and perturbed by it. That nothing moved nor sounded, seemed ominous. He felt the lurking of danger, unseen and unguessed. He was suspicious of the looming bulks of the trees and of the dark shadows that might conceal all manner of perilous things. Then it was cold. Here was no warm side of a tepee against which to snuggle. The frost was in his feet, and he kept lifting first one fore- foot and then the other. He curved his bushy tail around to cover them, and at the same time he saw a vision. There was nothing strange about it. Upon his inward sight was impressed a succession of memory-pictures. He saw the camp again, the tepees, and the blaze of the fires. He heard the shrill voices of the women, the gruff basses of the men, and the snarling of the dogs. He was hungry, and he remembered pieces of meat and fish that had been thrown him. Here was no meat, nothing but a threatening and inedible silence. His bondage had softened him. Irresponsibility had weakened him. He had forgotten how to shift for himself. The night yawned about him. His senses, accustomed to the hum and bustle of the camp, used to the continuous impact of sights and sounds, were now left idle. There was nothing to do, nothing to see nor hear. They strained to catch some interruption of the silence and immobility of nature. They were appalled by inaction and by the feel of something terrible impending. He gave a great start of fright. A colossal and formless something was rushing across the field of his vision. It was a tree-shadow flung by the moon, from whose face the clouds had been brushed away. Reassured, he whimpered softly; then he suppressed the whimper for fear that it might attract the attention of the lurking dangers. A tree, contracting in the cool of the night, made a loud noise. It was directly above him. He yelped in his fright. A panic seized him, and he ran madly toward the village. He knew an overpowering desire for the protection and companionship of man. In his nostrils was the smell of the camp-smoke. In his ears the camp-sounds and cries were ringing loud. He passed out of the forest and into the moonlit open where were no shadows nor darknesses. But no village greeted his eyes. He had forgotten. The village had gone away. His wild flight ceased abruptly. There was no place to which to flee. He slunk forlornly through the deserted camp, smelling the rubbish-heaps and the discarded rags and tags of the gods. He would have been glad for the rattle of stones about him, flung by an angry squaw, glad for the hand of Grey Beaver descending upon him in wrath; while he would have welcomed with delight Lip-lip and the whole snarling, cowardly pack. He came to where Grey Beaver's tepee had stood. In the centre of the space it had occupied, he sat down. He pointed his nose at the moon. His throat was afflicted by rigid spasms, his mouth opened, and in a heart- broken cry bubbled up his loneliness and fear, his grief for Kiche, all his past sorrows and miseries as well as his apprehension of sufferings and dangers to come. It was the long wolf-howl, full-throated and mournful, the first howl he had ever uttered. The coming of daylight dispelled his fears but increased his loneliness. The naked earth, which so shortly before had been so populous, thrust his loneliness more forcibly upon him. It did not take him long to make up his mind. He plunged into the forest and followed the river bank down the stream. All day he ran. He did not rest. He seemed made to run on forever. His iron-like body ignored fatigue. And even after fatigue came, his heritage of endurance braced him to endless endeavour and enabled him to drive his complaining body onward. Where the river swung in against precipitous bluffs, he climbed the high mountains behind. Rivers and streams that entered the main river he forded or swam. Often he took to the rim-ice that was beginning to form, and more than once he crashed through and struggled for life in the icy current. Always he was on the lookout for the trail of the gods where it might leave the river and proceed inland. White Fang was intelligent beyond the average of his kind; yet his mental vision was not wide enough to embrace the other bank of the Mackenzie. What if the trail of the gods led out on that side? It never entered his head. Later on, when he had travelled more and grown older and wiser and come to know more of trails and rivers, it might be that he could grasp and apprehend such a possibility. But that mental power was yet in the future. Just now he ran blindly, his own bank of the Mackenzie alone entering into his calculations. All night he ran, blundering in the darkness into mishaps and obstacles that delayed but did not daunt. By the middle of the second day he had been running continuously for thirty hours, and the iron of his flesh was giving out. It was the endurance of his mind that kept him going. He had not eaten in forty hours, and he was weak with hunger. The repeated drenchings in the icy water had likewise had their effect on him. His handsome coat was draggled. The broad pads of his feet were bruised and bleeding. He had begun to limp, and this limp increased with the hours. To make it worse, the light of the sky was obscured and snow began to fall--a raw, moist, melting, clinging snow, slippery under foot, that hid from him the landscape he traversed, and that covered over the inequalities of the ground so that the way of his feet was more difficult and painful. Grey Beaver had intended camping that night on the far bank of the Mackenzie, for it was in that direction that the hunting lay. But on the near bank, shortly before dark, a moose coming down to drink, had been espied by Kloo-kooch, who was Grey Beaver's squaw. Now, had not the moose come down to drink, had not Mit-sah been steering out of the course because of the snow, had not Kloo-kooch sighted the moose, and had not Grey Beaver killed it with a lucky shot from his rifle, all subsequent things would have happened differently. Grey Beaver would not have camped on the near side of the Mackenzie, and White Fang would have passed by and gone on, either to die or to find his way to his wild brothers and become one of them--a wolf to the end of his days. Night had fallen. The snow was flying more thickly, and White Fang, whimpering softly to himself as he stumbled and limped along, came upon a fresh trail in the snow. So fresh was it that he knew it immediately for what it was. Whining with eagerness, he followed back from the river bank and in among the trees. The camp-sounds came to his ears. He saw the blaze of the fire, Kloo-kooch cooking, and Grey Beaver squatting on his hams and mumbling a chunk of raw tallow. There was fresh meat in camp! White Fang expected a beating. He crouched and bristled a little at the thought of it. Then he went forward again. He feared and disliked the beating he knew to be waiting for him. But he knew, further, that the comfort of the fire would be his, the protection of the gods, the companionship of the dogs--the last, a companionship of enmity, but none the less a companionship and satisfying to his gregarious needs. He came cringing and crawling into the firelight. Grey Beaver saw him, and stopped munching the tallow. White Fang crawled slowly, cringing and grovelling in the abjectness of his abasement and submission. He crawled straight toward Grey Beaver, every inch of his progress becoming slower and more painful. At last he lay at the master's feet, into whose possession he now surrendered himself, voluntarily, body and soul. Of his own choice, he came in to sit by man's fire and to be ruled by him. White Fang trembled, waiting for the punishment to fall upon him. There was a movement of the hand above him. He cringed involuntarily under the expected blow. It did not fall. He stole a glance upward. Grey Beaver was breaking the lump of tallow in half! Grey Beaver was offering him one piece of the tallow! Very gently and somewhat suspiciously, he first smelled the tallow and then proceeded to eat it. Grey Beaver ordered meat to be brought to him, and guarded him from the other dogs while he ate. After that, grateful and content, White Fang lay at Grey Beaver's feet, gazing at the fire that warmed him, blinking and dozing, secure in the knowledge that the morrow would find him, not wandering forlorn through bleak forest-stretches, but in the camp of the man-animals, with the gods to whom he had given himself and upon whom he was now dependent. When December was well along, Grey Beaver went on a journey up the Mackenzie. Mit-sah and Kloo-kooch went with him. One sled he drove himself, drawn by dogs he had traded for or borrowed. A second and smaller sled was driven by Mit-sah, and to this was harnessed a team of puppies. It was more of a toy affair than anything else, yet it was the delight of Mit-sah, who felt that he was beginning to do a man's work in the world. Also, he was learning to drive dogs and to train dogs; while the puppies themselves were being broken in to the harness. Furthermore, the sled was of some service, for it carried nearly two hundred pounds of outfit and food. White Fang had seen the camp-dogs toiling in the harness, so that he did not resent overmuch the first placing of the harness upon himself. About his neck was put a moss-stuffed collar, which was connected by two pulling-traces to a strap that passed around his chest and over his back. It was to this that was fastened the long rope by which he pulled at the sled. There were seven puppies in the team. The others had been born earlier in the year and were nine and ten months old, while White Fang was only eight months old. Each dog was fastened to the sled by a single rope. No two ropes were of the same length, while the difference in length between any two ropes was at least that of a dog's body. Every rope was brought to a ring at the front end of the sled. The sled itself was without runners, being a birch-bark toboggan, with upturned forward end to keep it from ploughing under the snow. This construction enabled the weight of the sled and load to be distributed over the largest snow-surface; for the snow was crystal-powder and very soft. Observing the same principle of widest distribution of weight, the dogs at the ends of their ropes radiated fan-fashion from the nose of the sled, so that no dog trod in another's footsteps. There was, furthermore, another virtue in the fan-formation. The ropes of varying length prevented the dogs attacking from the rear those that ran in front of them. For a dog to attack another, it would have to turn upon one at a shorter rope. In which case it would find itself face to face with the dog attacked, and also it would find itself facing the whip of the driver. But the most peculiar virtue of all lay in the fact that the dog that strove to attack one in front of him must pull the sled faster, and that the faster the sled travelled, the faster could the dog attacked run away. Thus, the dog behind could never catch up with the one in front. The faster he ran, the faster ran the one he was after, and the faster ran all the dogs. Incidentally, the sled went faster, and thus, by cunning indirection, did man increase his mastery over the beasts. Mit-sah resembled his father, much of whose grey wisdom he possessed. In the past he had observed Lip-lip's persecution of White Fang; but at that time Lip-lip was another man's dog, and Mit-sah had never dared more than to shy an occasional stone at him. But now Lip-lip was his dog, and he proceeded to wreak his vengeance on him by putting him at the end of the longest rope. This made Lip-lip the leader, and was apparently an honour! but in reality it took away from him all honour, and instead of being bully and master of the pack, he now found himself hated and persecuted by the pack. Because he ran at the end of the longest rope, the dogs had always the view of him running away before them. All that they saw of him was his bushy tail and fleeing hind legs--a view far less ferocious and intimidating than his bristling mane and gleaming fangs. Also, dogs being so constituted in their mental ways, the sight of him running away gave desire to run after him and a feeling that he ran away from them. The moment the sled started, the team took after Lip-lip in a chase that extended throughout the day. At first he had been prone to turn upon his pursuers, jealous of his dignity and wrathful; but at such times Mit-sah would throw the stinging lash of the thirty-foot cariboo-gut whip into his face and compel him to turn tail and run on. Lip-lip might face the pack, but he could not face that whip, and all that was left him to do was to keep his long rope taut and his flanks ahead of the teeth of his mates. But a still greater cunning lurked in the recesses of the Indian mind. To give point to unending pursuit of the leader, Mit-sah favoured him over the other dogs. These favours aroused in them jealousy and hatred. In their presence Mit-sah would give him meat and would give it to him only. This was maddening to them. They would rage around just outside the throwing-distance of the whip, while Lip-lip devoured the meat and Mit- sah protected him. And when there was no meat to give, Mit-sah would keep the team at a distance and make believe to give meat to Lip-lip. White Fang took kindly to the work. He had travelled a greater distance than the other dogs in the yielding of himself to the rule of the gods, and he had learned more thoroughly the futility of opposing their will. In addition, the persecution he had suffered from the pack had made the pack less to him in the scheme of things, and man more. He had not learned to be dependent on his kind for companionship. Besides, Kiche was well-nigh forgotten; and the chief outlet of expression that remained to him was in the allegiance he tendered the gods he had accepted as masters. So he worked hard, learned discipline, and was obedient. Faithfulness and willingness characterised his toil. These are essential traits of the wolf and the wild-dog when they have become domesticated, and these traits White Fang possessed in unusual measure. A companionship did exist between White Fang and the other dogs, but it was one of warfare and enmity. He had never learned to play with them. He knew only how to fight, and fight with them he did, returning to them a hundred-fold the snaps and slashes they had given him in the days when Lip-lip was leader of the pack. But Lip-lip was no longer leader--except when he fled away before his mates at the end of his rope, the sled bounding along behind. In camp he kept close to Mit-sah or Grey Beaver or Kloo-kooch. He did not dare venture away from the gods, for now the fangs of all dogs were against him, and he tasted to the dregs the persecution that had been White Fang's. With the overthrow of Lip-lip, White Fang could have become leader of the pack. But he was too morose and solitary for that. He merely thrashed his team-mates. Otherwise he ignored them. They got out of his way when he came along; nor did the boldest of them ever dare to rob him of his meat. On the contrary, they devoured their own meat hurriedly, for fear that he would take it away from them. White Fang knew the law well: _to oppress the weak and obey the strong_. He ate his share of meat as rapidly as he could. And then woe the dog that had not yet finished! A snarl and a flash of fangs, and that dog would wail his indignation to the uncomforting stars while White Fang finished his portion for him. Every little while, however, one dog or another would flame up in revolt and be promptly subdued. Thus White Fang was kept in training. He was jealous of the isolation in which he kept himself in the midst of the pack, and he fought often to maintain it. But such fights were of brief duration. He was too quick for the others. They were slashed open and bleeding before they knew what had happened, were whipped almost before they had begun to fight. As rigid as the sled-discipline of the gods, was the discipline maintained by White Fang amongst his fellows. He never allowed them any latitude. He compelled them to an unremitting respect for him. They might do as they pleased amongst themselves. That was no concern of his. But it _was_ his concern that they leave him alone in his isolation, get out of his way when he elected to walk among them, and at all times acknowledge his mastery over them. A hint of stiff-leggedness on their part, a lifted lip or a bristle of hair, and he would be upon them, merciless and cruel, swiftly convincing them of the error of their way. He was a monstrous tyrant. His mastery was rigid as steel. He oppressed the weak with a vengeance. Not for nothing had he been exposed to the pitiless struggles for life in the day of his cubhood, when his mother and he, alone and unaided, held their own and survived in the ferocious environment of the Wild. And not for nothing had he learned to walk softly when superior strength went by. He oppressed the weak, but he respected the strong. And in the course of the long journey with Grey Beaver he walked softly indeed amongst the full-grown dogs in the camps of the strange man-animals they encountered. The months passed by. Still continued the journey of Grey Beaver. White Fang's strength was developed by the long hours on trail and the steady toil at the sled; and it would have seemed that his mental development was well-nigh complete. He had come to know quite thoroughly the world in which he lived. His outlook was bleak and materialistic. The world as he saw it was a fierce and brutal world, a world without warmth, a world in which caresses and affection and the bright sweetnesses of the spirit did not exist. He had no affection for Grey Beaver. True, he was a god, but a most savage god. White Fang was glad to acknowledge his lordship, but it was a lordship based upon superior intelligence and brute strength. There was something in the fibre of White Fang's being that made his lordship a thing to be desired, else he would not have come back from the Wild when he did to tender his allegiance. There were deeps in his nature which had never been sounded. A kind word, a caressing touch of the hand, on the part of Grey Beaver, might have sounded these deeps; but Grey Beaver did not caress, nor speak kind words. It was not his way. His primacy was savage, and savagely he ruled, administering justice with a club, punishing transgression with the pain of a blow, and rewarding merit, not by kindness, but by withholding a blow. So White Fang knew nothing of the heaven a man's hand might contain for him. Besides, he did not like the hands of the man-animals. He was suspicious of them. It was true that they sometimes gave meat, but more often they gave hurt. Hands were things to keep away from. They hurled stones, wielded sticks and clubs and whips, administered slaps and clouts, and, when they touched him, were cunning to hurt with pinch and twist and wrench. In strange villages he had encountered the hands of the children and learned that they were cruel to hurt. Also, he had once nearly had an eye poked out by a toddling papoose. From these experiences he became suspicious of all children. He could not tolerate them. When they came near with their ominous hands, he got up. It was in a village at the Great Slave Lake, that, in the course of resenting the evil of the hands of the man-animals, he came to modify the law that he had learned from Grey Beaver: namely, that the unpardonable crime was to bite one of the gods. In this village, after the custom of all dogs in all villages, White Fang went foraging, for food. A boy was chopping frozen moose-meat with an axe, and the chips were flying in the snow. White Fang, sliding by in quest of meat, stopped and began to eat the chips. He observed the boy lay down the axe and take up a stout club. White Fang sprang clear, just in time to escape the descending blow. The boy pursued him, and he, a stranger in the village, fled between two tepees to find himself cornered against a high earth bank. There was no escape for White Fang. The only way out was between the two tepees, and this the boy guarded. Holding his club prepared to strike, he drew in on his cornered quarry. White Fang was furious. He faced the boy, bristling and snarling, his sense of justice outraged. He knew the law of forage. All the wastage of meat, such as the frozen chips, belonged to the dog that found it. He had done no wrong, broken no law, yet here was this boy preparing to give him a beating. White Fang scarcely knew what happened. He did it in a surge of rage. And he did it so quickly that the boy did not know either. All the boy knew was that he had in some unaccountable way been overturned into the snow, and that his club-hand had been ripped wide open by White Fang's teeth. But White Fang knew that he had broken the law of the gods. He had driven his teeth into the sacred flesh of one of them, and could expect nothing but a most terrible punishment. He fled away to Grey Beaver, behind whose protecting legs he crouched when the bitten boy and the boy's family came, demanding vengeance. But they went away with vengeance unsatisfied. Grey Beaver defended White Fang. So did Mit-sah and Kloo-kooch. White Fang, listening to the wordy war and watching the angry gestures, knew that his act was justified. And so it came that he learned there were gods and gods. There were his gods, and there were other gods, and between them there was a difference. Justice or injustice, it was all the same, he must take all things from the hands of his own gods. But he was not compelled to take injustice from the other gods. It was his privilege to resent it with his teeth. And this also was a law of the gods. Before the day was out, White Fang was to learn more about this law. Mit- sah, alone, gathering firewood in the forest, encountered the boy that had been bitten. With him were other boys. Hot words passed. Then all the boys attacked Mit-sah. It was going hard with him. Blows were raining upon him from all sides. White Fang looked on at first. This was an affair of the gods, and no concern of his. Then he realised that this was Mit-sah, one of his own particular gods, who was being maltreated. It was no reasoned impulse that made White Fang do what he then did. A mad rush of anger sent him leaping in amongst the combatants. Five minutes later the landscape was covered with fleeing boys, many of whom dripped blood upon the snow in token that White Fang's teeth had not been idle. When Mit-sah told the story in camp, Grey Beaver ordered meat to be given to White Fang. He ordered much meat to be given, and White Fang, gorged and sleepy by the fire, knew that the law had received its verification. It was in line with these experiences that White Fang came to learn the law of property and the duty of the defence of property. From the protection of his god's body to the protection of his god's possessions was a step, and this step he made. What was his god's was to be defended against all the world--even to the extent of biting other gods. Not only was such an act sacrilegious in its nature, but it was fraught with peril. The gods were all-powerful, and a dog was no match against them; yet White Fang learned to face them, fiercely belligerent and unafraid. Duty rose above fear, and thieving gods learned to leave Grey Beaver's property alone. One thing, in this connection, White Fang quickly learnt, and that was that a thieving god was usually a cowardly god and prone to run away at the sounding of the alarm. Also, he learned that but brief time elapsed between his sounding of the alarm and Grey Beaver coming to his aid. He came to know that it was not fear of him that drove the thief away, but fear of Grey Beaver. White Fang did not give the alarm by barking. He never barked. His method was to drive straight at the intruder, and to sink his teeth in if he could. Because he was morose and solitary, having nothing to do with the other dogs, he was unusually fitted to guard his master's property; and in this he was encouraged and trained by Grey Beaver. One result of this was to make White Fang more ferocious and indomitable, and more solitary. The months went by, binding stronger and stronger the covenant between dog and man. This was the ancient covenant that the first wolf that came in from the Wild entered into with man. And, like all succeeding wolves and wild dogs that had done likewise, White Fang worked the covenant out for himself. The terms were simple. For the possession of a flesh-and- blood god, he exchanged his own liberty. Food and fire, protection and companionship, were some of the things he received from the god. In return, he guarded the god's property, defended his body, worked for him, and obeyed him. The possession of a god implies service. White Fang's was a service of duty and awe, but not of love. He did not know what love was. He had no experience of love. Kiche was a remote memory. Besides, not only had he abandoned the Wild and his kind when he gave himself up to man, but the terms of the covenant were such that if ever he met Kiche again he would not desert his god to go with her. His allegiance to man seemed somehow a law of his being greater than the love of liberty, of kind and kin. The spring of the year was at hand when Grey Beaver finished his long journey. It was April, and White Fang was a year old when he pulled into the home villages and was loosed from the harness by Mit-sah. Though a long way from his full growth, White Fang, next to Lip-lip, was the largest yearling in the village. Both from his father, the wolf, and from Kiche, he had inherited stature and strength, and already he was measuring up alongside the full-grown dogs. But he had not yet grown compact. His body was slender and rangy, and his strength more stringy than massive. His coat was the true wolf-grey, and to all appearances he was true wolf himself. The quarter-strain of dog he had inherited from Kiche had left no mark on him physically, though it had played its part in his mental make-up. He wandered through the village, recognising with staid satisfaction the various gods he had known before the long journey. Then there were the dogs, puppies growing up like himself, and grown dogs that did not look so large and formidable as the memory pictures he retained of them. Also, he stood less in fear of them than formerly, stalking among them with a certain careless ease that was as new to him as it was enjoyable. There was Baseek, a grizzled old fellow that in his younger days had but to uncover his fangs to send White Fang cringing and crouching to the right about. From him White Fang had learned much of his own insignificance; and from him he was now to learn much of the change and development that had taken place in himself. While Baseek had been growing weaker with age, White Fang had been growing stronger with youth. It was at the cutting-up of a moose, fresh-killed, that White Fang learned of the changed relations in which he stood to the dog-world. He had got for himself a hoof and part of the shin-bone, to which quite a bit of meat was attached. Withdrawn from the immediate scramble of the other dogs--in fact out of sight behind a thicket--he was devouring his prize, when Baseek rushed in upon him. Before he knew what he was doing, he had slashed the intruder twice and sprung clear. Baseek was surprised by the other's temerity and swiftness of attack. He stood, gazing stupidly across at White Fang, the raw, red shin-bone between them. Baseek was old, and already he had come to know the increasing valour of the dogs it had been his wont to bully. Bitter experiences these, which, perforce, he swallowed, calling upon all his wisdom to cope with them. In the old days he would have sprung upon White Fang in a fury of righteous wrath. But now his waning powers would not permit such a course. He bristled fiercely and looked ominously across the shin-bone at White Fang. And White Fang, resurrecting quite a deal of the old awe, seemed to wilt and to shrink in upon himself and grow small, as he cast about in his mind for a way to beat a retreat not too inglorious. And right here Baseek erred. Had he contented himself with looking fierce and ominous, all would have been well. White Fang, on the verge of retreat, would have retreated, leaving the meat to him. But Baseek did not wait. He considered the victory already his and stepped forward to the meat. As he bent his head carelessly to smell it, White Fang bristled slightly. Even then it was not too late for Baseek to retrieve the situation. Had he merely stood over the meat, head up and glowering, White Fang would ultimately have slunk away. But the fresh meat was strong in Baseek's nostrils, and greed urged him to take a bite of it. This was too much for White Fang. Fresh upon his months of mastery over his own team-mates, it was beyond his self-control to stand idly by while another devoured the meat that belonged to him. He struck, after his custom, without warning. With the first slash, Baseek's right ear was ripped into ribbons. He was astounded at the suddenness of it. But more things, and most grievous ones, were happening with equal suddenness. He was knocked off his feet. His throat was bitten. While he was struggling to his feet the young dog sank teeth twice into his shoulder. The swiftness of it was bewildering. He made a futile rush at White Fang, clipping the empty air with an outraged snap. The next moment his nose was laid open, and he was staggering backward away from the meat. The situation was now reversed. White Fang stood over the shin-bone, bristling and menacing, while Baseek stood a little way off, preparing to retreat. He dared not risk a fight with this young lightning-flash, and again he knew, and more bitterly, the enfeeblement of oncoming age. His attempt to maintain his dignity was heroic. Calmly turning his back upon young dog and shin-bone, as though both were beneath his notice and unworthy of his consideration, he stalked grandly away. Nor, until well out of sight, did he stop to lick his bleeding wounds. The effect on White Fang was to give him a greater faith in himself, and a greater pride. He walked less softly among the grown dogs; his attitude toward them was less compromising. Not that he went out of his way looking for trouble. Far from it. But upon his way he demanded consideration. He stood upon his right to go his way unmolested and to give trail to no dog. He had to be taken into account, that was all. He was no longer to be disregarded and ignored, as was the lot of puppies, and as continued to be the lot of the puppies that were his team-mates. They got out of the way, gave trail to the grown dogs, and gave up meat to them under compulsion. But White Fang, uncompanionable, solitary, morose, scarcely looking to right or left, redoubtable, forbidding of aspect, remote and alien, was accepted as an equal by his puzzled elders. They quickly learned to leave him alone, neither venturing hostile acts nor making overtures of friendliness. If they left him alone, he left them alone--a state of affairs that they found, after a few encounters, to be pre-eminently desirable. In midsummer White Fang had an experience. Trotting along in his silent way to investigate a new tepee which had been erected on the edge of the village while he was away with the hunters after moose, he came full upon Kiche. He paused and looked at her. He remembered her vaguely, but he _remembered_ her, and that was more than could be said for her. She lifted her lip at him in the old snarl of menace, and his memory became clear. His forgotten cubhood, all that was associated with that familiar snarl, rushed back to him. Before he had known the gods, she had been to him the centre-pin of the universe. The old familiar feelings of that time came back upon him, surged up within him. He bounded towards her joyously, and she met him with shrewd fangs that laid his cheek open to the bone. He did not understand. He backed away, bewildered and puzzled. But it was not Kiche's fault. A wolf-mother was not made to remember her cubs of a year or so before. So she did not remember White Fang. He was a strange animal, an intruder; and her present litter of puppies gave her the right to resent such intrusion. One of the puppies sprawled up to White Fang. They were half-brothers, only they did not know it. White Fang sniffed the puppy curiously, whereupon Kiche rushed upon him, gashing his face a second time. He backed farther away. All the old memories and associations died down again and passed into the grave from which they had been resurrected. He looked at Kiche licking her puppy and stopping now and then to snarl at him. She was without value to him. He had learned to get along without her. Her meaning was forgotten. There was no place for her in his scheme of things, as there was no place for him in hers. He was still standing, stupid and bewildered, the memories forgotten, wondering what it was all about, when Kiche attacked him a third time, intent on driving him away altogether from the vicinity. And White Fang allowed himself to be driven away. This was a female of his kind, and it was a law of his kind that the males must not fight the females. He did not know anything about this law, for it was no generalisation of the mind, not a something acquired by experience of the world. He knew it as a secret prompting, as an urge of instinct--of the same instinct that made him howl at the moon and stars of nights, and that made him fear death and the unknown. The months went by. White Fang grew stronger, heavier, and more compact, while his character was developing along the lines laid down by his heredity and his environment. His heredity was a life-stuff that may be likened to clay. It possessed many possibilities, was capable of being moulded into many different forms. Environment served to model the clay, to give it a particular form. Thus, had White Fang never come in to the fires of man, the Wild would have moulded him into a true wolf. But the gods had given him a different environment, and he was moulded into a dog that was rather wolfish, but that was a dog and not a wolf. And so, according to the clay of his nature and the pressure of his surroundings, his character was being moulded into a certain particular shape. There was no escaping it. He was becoming more morose, more uncompanionable, more solitary, more ferocious; while the dogs were learning more and more that it was better to be at peace with him than at war, and Grey Beaver was coming to prize him more greatly with the passage of each day. White Fang, seeming to sum up strength in all his qualities, nevertheless suffered from one besetting weakness. He could not stand being laughed at. The laughter of men was a hateful thing. They might laugh among themselves about anything they pleased except himself, and he did not mind. But the moment laughter was turned upon him he would fly into a most terrible rage. Grave, dignified, sombre, a laugh made him frantic to ridiculousness. It so outraged him and upset him that for hours he would behave like a demon. And woe to the dog that at such times ran foul of him. He knew the law too well to take it out of Grey Beaver; behind Grey Beaver were a club and godhead. But behind the dogs there was nothing but space, and into this space they flew when White Fang came on the scene, made mad by laughter. In the third year of his life there came a great famine to the Mackenzie Indians. In the summer the fish failed. In the winter the cariboo forsook their accustomed track. Moose were scarce, the rabbits almost disappeared, hunting and preying animals perished. Denied their usual food-supply, weakened by hunger, they fell upon and devoured one another. Only the strong survived. White Fang's gods were always hunting animals. The old and the weak of them died of hunger. There was wailing in the village, where the women and children went without in order that what little they had might go into the bellies of the lean and hollow-eyed hunters who trod the forest in the vain pursuit of meat. To such extremity were the gods driven that they ate the soft-tanned leather of their mocassins and mittens, while the dogs ate the harnesses off their backs and the very whip-lashes. Also, the dogs ate one another, and also the gods ate the dogs. The weakest and the more worthless were eaten first. The dogs that still lived, looked on and understood. A few of the boldest and wisest forsook the fires of the gods, which had now become a shambles, and fled into the forest, where, in the end, they starved to death or were eaten by wolves. In this time of misery, White Fang, too, stole away into the woods. He was better fitted for the life than the other dogs, for he had the training of his cubhood to guide him. Especially adept did he become in stalking small living things. He would lie concealed for hours, following every movement of a cautious tree-squirrel, waiting, with a patience as huge as the hunger he suffered from, until the squirrel ventured out upon the ground. Even then, White Fang was not premature. He waited until he was sure of striking before the squirrel could gain a tree-refuge. Then, and not until then, would he flash from his hiding- place, a grey projectile, incredibly swift, never failing its mark--the fleeing squirrel that fled not fast enough. Successful as he was with squirrels, there was one difficulty that prevented him from living and growing fat on them. There were not enough squirrels. So he was driven to hunt still smaller things. So acute did his hunger become at times that he was not above rooting out wood-mice from their burrows in the ground. Nor did he scorn to do battle with a weasel as hungry as himself and many times more ferocious. In the worst pinches of the famine he stole back to the fires of the gods. But he did not go into the fires. He lurked in the forest, avoiding discovery and robbing the snares at the rare intervals when game was caught. He even robbed Grey Beaver's snare of a rabbit at a time when Grey Beaver staggered and tottered through the forest, sitting down often to rest, what of weakness and of shortness of breath. One day White Fang encountered a young wolf, gaunt and scrawny, loose- jointed with famine. Had he not been hungry himself, White Fang might have gone with him and eventually found his way into the pack amongst his wild brethren. As it was, he ran the young wolf down and killed and ate him. Fortune seemed to favour him. Always, when hardest pressed for food, he found something to kill. Again, when he was weak, it was his luck that none of the larger preying animals chanced upon him. Thus, he was strong from the two days' eating a lynx had afforded him when the hungry wolf- pack ran full tilt upon him. It was a long, cruel chase, but he was better nourished than they, and in the end outran them. And not only did he outrun them, but, circling widely back on his track, he gathered in one of his exhausted pursuers. After that he left that part of the country and journeyed over to the valley wherein he had been born. Here, in the old lair, he encountered Kiche. Up to her old tricks, she, too, had fled the inhospitable fires of the gods and gone back to her old refuge to give birth to her young. Of this litter but one remained alive when White Fang came upon the scene, and this one was not destined to live long. Young life had little chance in such a famine. Kiche's greeting of her grown son was anything but affectionate. But White Fang did not mind. He had outgrown his mother. So he turned tail philosophically and trotted on up the stream. At the forks he took the turning to the left, where he found the lair of the lynx with whom his mother and he had fought long before. Here, in the abandoned lair, he settled down and rested for a day. During the early summer, in the last days of the famine, he met Lip-lip, who had likewise taken to the woods, where he had eked out a miserable existence. White Fang came upon him unexpectedly. Trotting in opposite directions along the base of a high bluff, they rounded a corner of rock and found themselves face to face. They paused with instant alarm, and looked at each other suspiciously. White Fang was in splendid condition. His hunting had been good, and for a week he had eaten his fill. He was even gorged from his latest kill. But in the moment he looked at Lip-lip his hair rose on end all along his back. It was an involuntary bristling on his part, the physical state that in the past had always accompanied the mental state produced in him by Lip-lip's bullying and persecution. As in the past he had bristled and snarled at sight of Lip-lip, so now, and automatically, he bristled and snarled. He did not waste any time. The thing was done thoroughly and with despatch. Lip-lip essayed to back away, but White Fang struck him hard, shoulder to shoulder. Lip-lip was overthrown and rolled upon his back. White Fang's teeth drove into the scrawny throat. There was a death-struggle, during which White Fang walked around, stiff-legged and observant. Then he resumed his course and trotted on along the base of the bluff. One day, not long after, he came to the edge of the forest, where a narrow stretch of open land sloped down to the Mackenzie. He had been over this ground before, when it was bare, but now a village occupied it. Still hidden amongst the trees, he paused to study the situation. Sights and sounds and scents were familiar to him. It was the old village changed to a new place. But sights and sounds and smells were different from those he had last had when he fled away from it. There was no whimpering nor wailing. Contented sounds saluted his ear, and when he heard the angry voice of a woman he knew it to be the anger that proceeds from a full stomach. And there was a smell in the air of fish. There was food. The famine was gone. He came out boldly from the forest and trotted into camp straight to Grey Beaver's tepee. Grey Beaver was not there; but Kloo-kooch welcomed him with glad cries and the whole of a fresh-caught fish, and he lay down to wait Grey Beaver's coming. PART IV Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Wie in den Teilen I und II bricht auch Teil III mit den vorherigen Abschnitten und führt völlig neue Elemente in den Roman ein, die zeigen, wie der graue Welpe lernt, in der Zivilisation zu leben. Auf dem Weg zum Bach zum Trinken trifft der Welpe zum ersten Mal auf Menschen und ist überrascht von seiner eigenen passiven Reaktion. Noch überraschender war die Reaktion seiner Mutter, als diese Menschentiere sie bei ihrem Namen, Kiche, nannten und sie sich vor ihnen zusammenkauerte. Nachdem er einen neuen Namen, Weißer Fang, bekommen hat, wird er in das Leben im Indianerdorf eingeführt, ein Leben, das Weißer Fang bald unerträglich finden würde. Von Anfang an wusste Weißer Fang um die Macht dieser Menschentiere und erkannte: "Die Überlegenheit dieser Menschentiere nahm mit jedem Moment zu." Der junge Wolf bemerkte schnell, dass sie nicht bissen oder kratzten, sondern ihre Stärke mit der Kraft von "totes Zeug" durchsetzten. Er lernte, sich von Keulen und Steinen fernzuhalten, war beeindruckt vom Design der Tipis und beobachtete, wie sie sich im Indianerdorf bewegten, als wären sie Götter. Er sah sie als Wesen der "Herrschaft, die das, was sich bewegte, gehorchen ließ" und vor allem waren sie Feuermacher! An diesem ersten Tag im Lager hatte Weißer Fang, als er sich von seiner gefesselten Mutter entfernte, die Gelegenheit, einen halbwüchsigen Welpen namens Lip-Lip kennenzulernen. Dieser etwas größere und ältere Hund, der bereits etwas von einem Tyrannen hatte, griff Weißer Fang sofort an und es entbrannte ein Kampf. Lip-Lip hatte sein Leben im Lager verbracht und nach vielen Welpenkämpfen war er leicht der Sieger. Diese Begegnung ging Weißer Fang nicht verloren. Obwohl Weißer Fang langsam begann, seinen "Körper und seine Seele" den Menschentieren zu übergeben, konnte er seine wilde Herkunft und seine Erinnerungen an die Wildnis nicht sofort loslassen. An manchen Tagen schlich er sich an den Waldrand und hörte etwas, das ihn rief. Vielleicht brachte ihn diese Rastlosigkeit dazu, die ständigen Quälereien von Lip-Lip zu ertragen. Immer wenn er sich von seiner Mutter entfernte, war der Tyrann da, um anzugreifen und ihn zu einem Kampf zu zwingen. Dies bringt eine Veränderung in den jungen Welpen - er ist gezwungen, einen Großteil seiner "Kindheit" aufzugeben und wird zu einer einsamen Figur im Lager. Er beginnt, seinen Verstand, seine Schlauheit und seine Fähigkeiten zu entwickeln. An einem Tag, als er gejagt wird, führt Weißer Fang Lip-Lip absichtlich an Kiche vorbei, die ihrem Sohn eine große Rache zufügt. Grauer Biber, der Herr sowohl über die Mutterhündin als auch über den Junghund ist, entscheidet eines Tages, dass Kiche keine Bedrohung mehr darstellt und bindet sie los. Weißer Fang führt seine Mutter an den Waldrand neben dem Lager und fordert sie auf, in die ruhigen Wälder zu fliehen, wo etwas ihn ruft. Kiche weigert sich zu gehen und Weißer Fang trifft eine Entscheidung - der Ruf seiner Mutter ist stärker als der Ruf der Wildnis. Kurze Zeit später gibt Grauer Biber Kiche an Drei Adler, um eine Schuld zu begleichen. Als Drei Adler Kiche in ein Kanu setzt, um den Fluss hinunterzufahren, springt Weißer Fang ins Wasser und schwimmt ihnen nach, während Grauer Biber ihn immer wieder ruft. Die Menschentiergötter sind es gewohnt, gehorcht zu werden, und die wilde Tracht Prügel, die Weißer Fang von Grauer Biber erhielt, vermittelt ihm diese neue Lektion. Das Maß der Knechtschaft von Weißem Fang wurde jeden Tag deutlicher. Jetzt, da Kiche Weißfang nicht mehr schützen kann, sieht Lip-Lip die Möglichkeit, seine Verfolgung zu verstärken. Mit den anderen Hunden des Lagers auf seiner Seite macht Lip-Lip Weißem Fang das Leben zur Hölle. Aber Weißer Fang ist klüger als die meisten anderen Hunde und lernt schnell zwei wichtige Lektionen: "wie er sich in einem Massenkampf gegen ihn selbst verteidigen kann und wie er einem einzelnen Hund in kürzester Zeit den größten Schaden zufügen kann." Mit zunehmender Grausamkeit wird Weißer Fang immer mehr von seinen Artgenossen sowie von den Menschen entfremdet. Er lernte eine weitere Lektion, nämlich den Starken zu gehorchen und den Schwachen zu unterdrücken. Er lernte weiterhin die Lektion des Überlebens des Stärksten. Im Herbst, als die Indianer ihr Lager verlegten, hatte Weißer Fang die Möglichkeit, in die Wildnis zu entkommen. Er entschied sich bewusst, zurückzubleiben und versteckte sich im nahen Wald, als Grauer Biber seinen Namen rief. Als die Nacht hereinbrach, machten sich Kälte, Hunger und Einsamkeit bemerkbar. "Seine Knechtschaft hatte ihn erweicht. Verantwortungslosigkeit hatte ihn geschwächt. Er hatte vergessen, wie er für sich selbst sorgen konnte." Die nächtlichen Bilder und Geräusche überzeugen ihn von seinem Fehler und er beschließt, am nächsten Morgen zu seinem Herrn zurückzukehren. Nachdem Weißer Fang dem Fluss gefolgt ist, findet er Grauer Biber und seine Familie. Als er sich nähert, weiß er, dass er Schläge erwartet, ist aber überrascht, als ihm Grauer Biber stattdessen Elchfleisch gibt. Er legt sich zu Füßen seines Herrn nieder und erkennt, dass "er aus eigener Wahl gekommen war, um am Feuer des Menschen zu sitzen und von ihm beherrscht zu werden." Die nächsten Monate sind voller von Weißer Fang gelernten Lektionen, Lektionen, die ihm sein ganzes Leben lang dienen werden. Zunächst lernt er, ein Schlittenhund zu sein, als Grauer Biber eine Reise den Mackenzie River hinauf plant. Es ist Mit-sah, der Sohn von Grauer Biber, der für den Schlitten verantwortlich ist und Lip-Lip zum Leithund macht. Obwohl es wie eine Ehre scheint, wurde dem Leithund jede Ehre genommen, da die anderen Hunde ihm folgten und sein Gesicht oder seine scharfen Zähne nie sehen konnten. Nachts würde Mit-sah Grauer Biber mehr füttern als die anderen Hunde und Lip-Lip fand sich jetzt vom Rudel gehasst und verfolgt. Weißer Fang lernte hart zu arbeiten und die Aussichtslosigkeit, dem Willen der Götter zu widersprechen. Er lernte auch, den Schwachen zu unterdrücken und den Starken zu gehorchen. Er hatte viel früher von Grauem Biber gelernt, dass das unverzeihliche Verbrechen darin besteht, einen der Götter zu beißen, aber jetzt lernte er, dass einige Gesetze veränderbar waren. In einem Dorf am Großen Sklavensee geht Weißer Fang auf Nahrungssuche und stößt auf einen jungen Jungen, der Elchfleisch hackt. Als Weißer Fang ein paar Stückchen des gefrorenen Fleisches isst, wird der Junge wütend und greift den Hund mit einem Knüppel an. Weißer Fang muss nun zwischen Schlägen und Selbstverteidigung entscheiden. Bevor der Junge realisiert, was passiert ist, wird er von dem Hund angegriffen und Weißer Fang erwartet nun nichts anderes als die schlimmste Strafe. Zu seiner Überraschung verteidigt Grauer Biber sein Handeln. Bevor der Tag vorbei ist, wird Mit-sah von einer Gruppe junger Indianer angegriffen. Anfangs sieht Weißer Fang nur zu - das war eine Angelegenheit der Götter und keine Angelegenheit von ihm. Als er merkt, dass der Kampf für Mit-sah schlecht läuft, befällt ihn ein rasender Zorn und er stürzt sich in den Kampf, um Grauer Beavers Sohn zu retten. Weißer Fang erkannte, dass das Gesetz des Eigentums und die Pflicht, das Eigentum zu verteidigen, ihm Rechte verliehen haben, die sonst verboten waren, nämlich das Beißen von Dieben-Göttern. Ein Bund wurde zwischen Weißem Fang und den Bedingungen ausgehandelt, die einfach waren. "Für den Besitz eines Fleisch-und-Blut-Gottes tauschte er seine eigene Freiheit ein. Nahrung und Feuer, Schutz und Gesellschaft waren einige der Dinge, die er von dem Gott erhielt. Im Gegenzug bewachte er das Eigentum des Gottes, verteidigte seinen Körper, arbeitete für ihn und gehorchte ihm." Es war ein Dienst der Pflicht und des Ehrfurchts, aber nicht der Liebe. Im nächsten Frühjahr war Weißer Fang gewachsen und im Alter von einem Jahr in der Lage, mit jedem anderen Hund im

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The following conversation, which took place between the two friends in the pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine days, is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of the delicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which marked the reasonableness of that attachment. They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five minutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, "My dearest creature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at least this age!" "Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?" "Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half hour. But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off; it looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in Milsom Street just now--very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?" "Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the black veil." "Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?" "Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me--I would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina's skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world." "Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you." "Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?" "I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time." "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?" "Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it." "Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?" "Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for you are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men." "Oh, dear!" cried Catherine, colouring. "How can you say so?" "I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly--I am sure he is in love with you." Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella laughed. "It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody's admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you"--speaking more seriously--"your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend your feelings." "But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr. Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again." "Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so!" "No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very much pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina's skeleton behind it." "It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before; but I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels." "No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself; but new books do not fall in our way." "Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume." "It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very entertaining." "Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable. But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head tonight? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you. The men take notice of that sometimes, you know." "But it does not signify if they do," said Catherine, very innocently. "Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say. They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with spirit, and make them keep their distance." "Are they? Well, I never observed that. They always behave very well to me." "Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited creatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance! By the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always forgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you like them best dark or fair?" "I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both, I think. Brown--not fair, and--and not very dark." "Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your description of Mr. Tilney--'a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather dark hair.' Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to complexion--do you know--I like a sallow better than any other. You must not betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance answering that description." "Betray you! What do you mean?" "Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop the subject." Catherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her at that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina's skeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying, "For heaven's sake! Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there." Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it was Catherine's employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming young men. "They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am determined I will not look up." In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her that she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the pump-room. "Und in welche Richtung sind sie gegangen?", sagte Isabella und drehte sich schnell um. "Einer von ihnen war ein sehr gut aussehender junger Mann." "Sie sind zum Friedhof gegangen." "Nun, ich bin erstaunlich froh, dass wir sie losgeworden sind! Und was sagst du dazu, mit mir zu Edgar's Buildings zu gehen und meinen neuen Hut anzuschauen? Du hast gesagt, du möchtest ihn gerne sehen." Catherine stimmte sofort zu. "Nur," fügte sie hinzu, "vielleicht können wir die beiden jungen Männer einholen." "Oh! Das macht nichts. Wenn wir uns beeilen, werden wir gleich an ihnen vorbeigehen, und ich brenne darauf, dir meinen Hut zu zeigen." "Aber wenn wir nur ein paar Minuten warten, besteht keine Gefahr, dass wir sie überhaupt sehen." "Ich werde ihnen eine solche Höflichkeit sicher nicht erweisen. Ich versichere dir, ich habe keine Vorstellung davon, Männer so zu behandeln. Das ist der Weg, um sie zu verderben." Catherine hatte nichts gegen diese Argumentation einzuwenden; und deshalb, um die Unabhängigkeit von Miss Thorpe zu zeigen und ihren Entschluss, das andere Geschlecht zu demütigen, machten sie sich sofort so schnell wie möglich auf den Weg, um die beiden jungen Männer zu verfolgen. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Catherine und Isabella kennen sich seit etwa zehn Tagen. Sie treffen sich im Pump-room, dem beliebtesten Hotspot in Bath, um ein bisschen zu tratschen. Isabella beschwert sich, dass Catherine sie ewig hat warten lassen. Catherine dachte, sie sei pünktlich gekommen. Die beiden unterhalten sich über Anne Radcliffes Roman "Die Geheimnisse von Udolpho". Catherine liest ihn zum ersten Mal und will keine Details über die Handlung wissen, daher verrät Isabella ihr keine Einzelheiten. Catherine sagt, dass sie ihr ganzes Leben mit dem Lesen von Udolpho verbringen könnte, aber sie wollte unbedingt Isabella sehen, also musste sie sich losreißen. Isabella gibt Catherine eine Liste mit einigen ihrer Lieblings-Gothic-Romane, um sicherzustellen, dass Catherine für mindestens ein paar Monate nichts wirklich Bildendes liest. Isabella wechselt das Thema und tratscht über ihre Freundin Miss Andrews, die von Männern nicht bewundert wird. Isabella ist darüber verärgert. Sie hat es abgelehnt, mit einem Mann zu tanzen, es sei denn, er würde zugeben, dass Miss Andrews schön ist. Isabella versichert Catherine, dass sie sie verteidigen wird, wenn jemand schlecht über sie spricht, und sagt ihr, dass sie bei den Jungs beliebt sein muss. Catherine ist darüber peinlich berührt. Isabella wechselt wieder das Thema und bezeichnet Miss Andrews nun als langweilig oder dumm. Gut zu sehen, dass sie zu ihrer Meinung und ihren Freunden steht. Isabella hört nicht auf zu reden. Sie deutet jetzt auf Catherines Schwärmerei für Henry hin und sagt ihr, dass sie ihre Gefühle versteht - sie verrät jedoch nicht den Namen ihres Schwarms. Catherine weist darauf hin, dass sie Henry vielleicht nie wiedersehen wird und fängt an, über Udolpho zu sprechen. Wenn sie Internet hätten, würde Catherine wahrscheinlich den ganzen Tag auf einem Udolpho-Diskussionsforum hocken. Sie und Isabella diskutieren darüber, was Mrs. Morland liest. Mrs. Morland liest Romane, aber nicht die Gothic-Romane, die Isabella und Catherine so mögen. Isabella besteht darauf, dass sie und Catherine sich für den Ball heute Abend gleich kleiden. Sie behauptet, dass Männer solche Dinge bemerken. Nachdem Isabella eine Weile über Männer gelästert hat, fragt sie, welche Art von Mann Catherine attraktiv findet. Catherine ist etwas unschlüssig und entscheidet sich dann für einen Mann mit etwas gebräunter Haut. Isabella hängt sich daran und bemerkt, wie gut das auf Henry Tilney zutrifft. Dann sagt sie, dass sie selbst helle Haut bevorzugt und stoppt, weil sie zu viel verrät. Catherine ist verwirrt. Isabella sagt, dass sie von einigen Männern belästigt wird und darauf besteht, dass sie und Catherine den Ort wechseln. Die Männer gehen bald darauf weg und Isabella besteht nun darauf, dass sie Catherine einen Hut in einem Geschäft zeigen muss, also gehen sie in die Richtung, in die die Männer gelaufen sind. Bequemerweise.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The purpose of a chronicler of moods and deeds does not require him to express his personal views upon the grave controversy above given. That the twain were happy--between their times of sadness--was indubitable. And when the unexpected apparition of Jude's child in the house had shown itself to be no such disturbing event as it had looked, but one that brought into their lives a new and tender interest of an ennobling and unselfish kind, it rather helped than injured their happiness. To be sure, with such pleasing anxious beings as they were, the boy's coming also brought with it much thought for the future, particularly as he seemed at present to be singularly deficient in all the usual hopes of childhood. But the pair tried to dismiss, for a while at least, a too strenuously forward view. There is in Upper Wessex an old town of nine or ten thousand souls; the town may be called Stoke-Barehills. It stands with its gaunt, unattractive, ancient church, and its new red brick suburb, amid the open, chalk-soiled cornlands, near the middle of an imaginary triangle which has for its three corners the towns of Aldbrickham and Wintoncester, and the important military station of Quartershot. The great western highway from London passes through it, near a point where the road branches into two, merely to unite again some twenty miles further westward. Out of this bifurcation and reunion there used to arise among wheeled travellers, before railway days, endless questions of choice between the respective ways. But the question is now as dead as the scot-and-lot freeholder, the road waggoner, and the mail coachman who disputed it; and probably not a single inhabitant of Stoke-Barehills is now even aware that the two roads which part in his town ever meet again; for nobody now drives up and down the great western highway dally. The most familiar object in Stoke-Barehills nowadays is its cemetery, standing among some picturesque mediaeval ruins beside the railway; the modern chapels, modern tombs, and modern shrubs having a look of intrusiveness amid the crumbling and ivy-covered decay of the ancient walls. On a certain day, however, in the particular year which has now been reached by this narrative--the month being early June--the features of the town excite little interest, though many visitors arrive by the trains; some down-trains, in especial, nearly emptying themselves here. It is the week of the Great Wessex Agricultural Show, whose vast encampment spreads over the open outskirts of the town like the tents of an investing army. Rows of marquees, huts, booths, pavilions, arcades, porticoes--every kind of structure short of a permanent one--cover the green field for the space of a square half-mile, and the crowds of arrivals walk through the town in a mass, and make straight for the exhibition ground. The way thereto is lined with shows, stalls, and hawkers on foot, who make a market-place of the whole roadway to the show proper, and lead some of the improvident to lighten their pockets appreciably before they reach the gates of the exhibition they came expressly to see. It is the popular day, the shilling day, and of the fast arriving excursion trains two from different directions enter the two contiguous railway stations at almost the same minute. One, like several which have preceded it, comes from London: the other by a cross-line from Aldbrickham; and from the London train alights a couple; a short, rather bloated man, with a globular stomach and small legs, resembling a top on two pegs, accompanied by a woman of rather fine figure and rather red face, dressed in black material, and covered with beads from bonnet to skirt, that made her glisten as if clad in chain-mail. They cast their eyes around. The man was about to hire a fly as some others had done, when the woman said, "Don't be in such a hurry, Cartlett. It isn't so very far to the show-yard. Let us walk down the street into the place. Perhaps I can pick up a cheap bit of furniture or old china. It is years since I was here--never since I lived as a girl at Aldbrickham, and used to come across for a trip sometimes with my young man." "You can't carry home furniture by excursion train," said, in a thick voice, her husband, the landlord of The Three Horns, Lambeth; for they had both come down from the tavern in that "excellent, densely populated, gin-drinking neighbourhood," which they had occupied ever since the advertisement in those words had attracted them thither. The configuration of the landlord showed that he, too, like his customers, was becoming affected by the liquors he retailed. "Then I'll get it sent, if I see any worth having," said his wife. They sauntered on, but had barely entered the town when her attention was attracted by a young couple leading a child, who had come out from the second platform, into which the train from Aldbrickham had steamed. They were walking just in front of the inn-keepers. "Sakes alive!" said Arabella. "What's that?" said Cartlett. "Who do you think that couple is? Don't you recognize the man?" "No." "Not from the photos I have showed you?" "Is it Fawley?" "Yes--of course." "Oh, well. I suppose he was inclined for a little sight-seeing like the rest of us." Cartlett's interest in Jude whatever it might have been when Arabella was new to him, had plainly flagged since her charms and her idiosyncrasies, her supernumerary hair-coils, and her optional dimples, were becoming as a tale that is told. Arabella so regulated her pace and her husband's as to keep just in the rear of the other three, which it was easy to do without notice in such a stream of pedestrians. Her answers to Cartlett's remarks were vague and slight, for the group in front interested her more than all the rest of the spectacle. "They are rather fond of one another and of their child, seemingly," continued the publican. "THEIR child! 'Tisn't their child," said Arabella with a curious, sudden covetousness. "They haven't been married long enough for it to be theirs!" But although the smouldering maternal instinct was strong enough in her to lead her to quash her husband's conjecture, she was not disposed on second thoughts to be more candid than necessary. Mr. Cartlett had no other idea than that his wife's child by her first husband was with his grandparents at the Antipodes. "Oh I suppose not. She looks quite a girl." "They are only lovers, or lately married, and have the child in charge, as anybody can see." All continued to move ahead. The unwitting Sue and Jude, the couple in question, had determined to make this agricultural exhibition within twenty miles of their own town the occasion of a day's excursion which should combine exercise and amusement with instruction, at small expense. Not regardful of themselves alone, they had taken care to bring Father Time, to try every means of making him kindle and laugh like other boys, though he was to some extent a hindrance to the delightfully unreserved intercourse in their pilgrimages which they so much enjoyed. But they soon ceased to consider him an observer, and went along with that tender attention to each other which the shyest can scarcely disguise, and which these, among entire strangers as they imagined, took less trouble to disguise than they might have done at home. Sue, in her new summer clothes, flexible and light as a bird, her little thumb stuck up by the stem of her white cotton sunshade, went along as if she hardly touched ground, and as if a moderately strong puff of wind would float her over the hedge into the next field. Jude, in his light grey holiday-suit, was really proud of her companionship, not more for her external attractiveness than for her sympathetic words and ways. That complete mutual understanding, in which every glance and movement was as effectual as speech for conveying intelligence between them, made them almost the two parts of a single whole. The pair with their charge passed through the turnstiles, Arabella and her husband not far behind them. When inside the enclosure the publican's wife could see that the two ahead began to take trouble with the youngster, pointing out and explaining the many objects of interest, alive and dead; and a passing sadness would touch their faces at their every failure to disturb his indifference. "How she sticks to him!" said Arabella. "Oh no--I fancy they are not married, or they wouldn't be so much to one another as that... I wonder!" "But I thought you said he did marry her?" "I heard he was going to--that's all, going to make another attempt, after putting it off once or twice... As far as they themselves are concerned they are the only two in the show. I should be ashamed of making myself so silly if I were he!" "I don't see as how there's anything remarkable in their behaviour. I should never have noticed their being in love, if you hadn't said so." "You never see anything," she rejoined. Nevertheless Cartlett's view of the lovers' or married pair's conduct was undoubtedly that of the general crowd, whose attention seemed to be in no way attracted by what Arabella's sharpened vision discerned. "He's charmed by her as if she were some fairy!" continued Arabella. "See how he looks round at her, and lets his eyes rest on her. I am inclined to think that she don't care for him quite so much as he does for her. She's not a particular warm-hearted creature to my thinking, though she cares for him pretty middling much--as much as she's able to; and he could make her heart ache a bit if he liked to try--which he's too simple to do. There--now they are going across to the cart-horse sheds. Come along." "I don't want to see the cart-horses. It is no business of ours to follow these two. If we have come to see the show let us see it in our own way, as they do in theirs." "Well--suppose we agree to meet somewhere in an hour's time--say at that refreshment tent over there, and go about independent? Then you can look at what you choose to, and so can I." Cartlett was not loath to agree to this, and they parted--he proceeding to the shed where malting processes were being exhibited, and Arabella in the direction taken by Jude and Sue. Before, however, she had regained their wake a laughing face met her own, and she was confronted by Anny, the friend of her girlhood. Anny had burst out in hearty laughter at the mere fact of the chance encounter. "I am still living down there," she said, as soon as she was composed. "I am soon going to be married, but my intended couldn't come up here to-day. But there's lots of us come by excursion, though I've lost the rest of 'em for the present." "Have you met Jude and his young woman, or wife, or whatever she is? I saw 'em by now." "No. Not a glimpse of un for years!" "Well, they are close by here somewhere. Yes--there they are--by that grey horse!" "Oh, that's his present young woman--wife did you say? Has he married again?" "I don't know." "She's pretty, isn't she!" "Yes--nothing to complain of; or jump at. Not much to depend on, though; a slim, fidgety little thing like that." "He's a nice-looking chap, too! You ought to ha' stuck to un, Arabella." "I don't know but I ought," murmured she. Anny laughed. "That's you, Arabella! Always wanting another man than your own." "Well, and what woman don't I should like to know? As for that body with him--she don't know what love is--at least what I call love! I can see in her face she don't." "And perhaps, Abby dear, you don't know what she calls love." "I'm sure I don't wish to! ... Ah--they are making for the art department. I should like to see some pictures myself. Suppose we go that way?-- Why, if all Wessex isn't here, I verily believe! There's Dr. Vilbert. Haven't seen him for years, and he's not looking a day older than when I used to know him. How do you do, Physician? I was just saying that you don't look a day older than when you knew me as a girl." "Simply the result of taking my own pills regular, ma'am. Only two and threepence a box--warranted efficacious by the Government stamp. Now let me advise you to purchase the same immunity from the ravages of time by following my example? Only two-and-three." The physician had produced a box from his waistcoat pocket, and Arabella was induced to make the purchase. "At the same time," continued he, when the pills were paid for, "you have the advantage of me, Mrs.-- Surely not Mrs. Fawley, once Miss Donn, of the vicinity of Marygreen?" "Yes. But Mrs. Cartlett now." "Ah--you lost him, then? Promising young fellow! A pupil of mine, you know. I taught him the dead languages. And believe me, he soon knew nearly as much as I." "I lost him; but not as you think," said Arabella dryly. "The lawyers untied us. There he is, look, alive and lusty; along with that young woman, entering the art exhibition." "Ah--dear me! Fond of her, apparently." "They SAY they are cousins." "Cousinship is a great convenience to their feelings, I should say?" "Yes. So her husband thought, no doubt, when he divorced her... Shall we look at the pictures, too?" The trio followed across the green and entered. Jude and Sue, with the child, unaware of the interest they were exciting, had gone up to a model at one end of the building, which they regarded with considerable attention for a long while before they went on. Arabella and her friends came to it in due course, and the inscription it bore was: "Model of Cardinal College, Christminster; by J. Fawley and S. F. M. Bridehead." "Admiring their own work," said Arabella. "How like Jude--always thinking of colleges and Christminster, instead of attending to his business!" They glanced cursorily at the pictures, and proceeded to the band-stand. When they had stood a little while listening to the music of the military performers, Jude, Sue, and the child came up on the other side. Arabella did not care if they should recognize her; but they were too deeply absorbed in their own lives, as translated into emotion by the military band, to perceive her under her beaded veil. She walked round the outside of the listening throng, passing behind the lovers, whose movements had an unexpected fascination for her to-day. Scrutinizing them narrowly from the rear she noticed that Jude's hand sought Sue's as they stood, the two standing close together so as to conceal, as they supposed, this tacit expression of their mutual responsiveness. "Silly fools--like two children!" Arabella whispered to herself morosely, as she rejoined her companions, with whom she preserved a preoccupied silence. Anny meanwhile had jokingly remarked to Vilbert on Arabella's hankering interest in her first husband. "Now," said the physician to Arabella, apart; "do you want anything such as this, Mrs. Cartlett? It is not compounded out of my regular pharmacopoeia, but I am sometimes asked for such a thing." He produced a small phial of clear liquid. "A love-philtre, such as was used by the ancients with great effect. I found it out by study of their writings, and have never known it to fail." "What is it made of?" asked Arabella curiously. "Well--a distillation of the juices of doves' hearts--otherwise pigeons'--is one of the ingredients. It took nearly a hundred hearts to produce that small bottle full." "How do you get pigeons enough?" "To tell a secret, I get a piece of rock-salt, of which pigeons are inordinately fond, and place it in a dovecot on my roof. In a few hours the birds come to it from all points of the compass--east, west, north, and south--and thus I secure as many as I require. You use the liquid by contriving that the desired man shall take about ten drops of it in his drink. But remember, all this is told you because I gather from your questions that you mean to be a purchaser. You must keep faith with me?" "Very well--I don't mind a bottle--to give some friend or other to try it on her young man." She produced five shillings, the price asked, and slipped the phial in her capacious bosom. Saying presently that she was due at an appointment with her husband, she sauntered away towards the refreshment bar, Jude, his companion, and the child having gone on to the horticultural tent, where Arabella caught a glimpse of them standing before a group of roses in bloom. She waited a few minutes observing them, and then proceeded to join her spouse with no very amiable sentiments. She found him seated on a stool by the bar, talking to one of the gaily dressed maids who had served him with spirits. "I should think you had enough of this business at home!" Arabella remarked gloomily. "Surely you didn't come fifty miles from your own bar to stick in another? Come, take me round the show, as other men do their wives! Dammy, one would think you were a young bachelor, with nobody to look after but yourself!" "But we agreed to meet here; and what could I do but wait?" "Well, now we have met, come along," she returned, ready to quarrel with the sun for shining on her. And they left the tent together, this pot-bellied man and florid woman, in the antipathetic, recriminatory mood of the average husband and wife of Christendom. In the meantime the more exceptional couple and the boy still lingered in the pavilion of flowers--an enchanted palace to their appreciative taste--Sue's usually pale cheeks reflecting the pink of the tinted roses at which she gazed; for the gay sights, the air, the music, and the excitement of a day's outing with Jude had quickened her blood and made her eyes sparkle with vivacity. She adored roses, and what Arabella had witnessed was Sue detaining Jude almost against his will while she learnt the names of this variety and that, and put her face within an inch of their blooms to smell them. "I should like to push my face quite into them--the dears!" she had said. "But I suppose it is against the rules to touch them--isn't it, Jude?" "Yes, you baby," said he: and then playfully gave her a little push, so that her nose went among the petals. "The policeman will be down on us, and I shall say it was my husband's fault!" Then she looked up at him, and smiled in a way that told so much to Arabella. "Happy?" he murmured. She nodded. "Why? Because you have come to the great Wessex Agricultural Show--or because WE have come?" "You are always trying to make me confess to all sorts of absurdities. Because I am improving my mind, of course, by seeing all these steam-ploughs, and threshing-machines, and chaff-cutters, and cows, and pigs, and sheep." Jude was quite content with a baffle from his ever evasive companion. But when he had forgotten that he had put the question, and because he no longer wished for an answer, she went on: "I feel that we have returned to Greek joyousness, and have blinded ourselves to sickness and sorrow, and have forgotten what twenty-five centuries have taught the race since their time, as one of your Christminster luminaries says... There is one immediate shadow, however--only one." And she looked at the aged child, whom, though they had taken him to everything likely to attract a young intelligence, they had utterly failed to interest. He knew what they were saying and thinking. "I am very, very sorry, Father and Mother," he said. "But please don't mind!--I can't help it. I should like the flowers very very much, if I didn't keep on thinking they'd be all withered in a few days!" Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

An einem Sommertag besuchen Jude, Sue und Kleiner Vater Zeit die große landwirtschaftliche Ausstellung in Stoke-Barehills. Es gibt viele Besucher und Schaulustige, darunter auch Arabella und ihr Mann Cartlett. Als Jude und seine Familie Arabella sehen, folgt sie ihnen heimlich. Arabella beobachtet Jude und Sue zusammen und ihre offensichtliche Zuneigung zueinander weckt ihren Neid. Arabella trifft auch ihre alte Freundin Anny und den Arzt Vilbert, von dem sie ein Liebestrunk kauft. Jude und Sue sind sich der Beobachtung nicht bewusst und erfreuen sich an der Ausstellung, bewundern ein Modell des Cardinal College, das sie selbst gemacht haben. Sie gehen weiter zu einem Blumenpavillon, wo Sue von den Rosen begeistert ist. Aber Kleiner Vater Zeit teilt ihre Begeisterung nicht, obwohl sie versuchen, sein Interesse an den Exponaten zu wecken.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Nachdem sie sich in ihrem gemütlichen Zimmer eingerichtet hatte, fragte sich Carrie, wie Hurstwood ihren Abschied aufgenommen hatte. Sie arrangierte ein paar Dinge hastig und machte sich dann auf den Weg zum Theater, in der Hoffnung, ihn an der Tür anzutreffen. Als sie ihn nicht fand, ließ ihre Angst nach und sie fühlte sich freundlicher ihm gegenüber. Sie vergaß ihn komplett, bis sie kurz vor dem Verlassen des Theaters, nach der Vorstellung, plötzlich Angst hatte, dass er dort sein könnte. Mit jeder vergangenen Tag war die Möglichkeit, von ihm belästigt zu werden, immer unwahrscheinlicher. Nach kurzer Zeit war sie, bis auf gelegentliche Gedanken, völlig frei von der Schwere, mit der ihr Leben in der Wohnung belastet war. Es ist interessant zu bemerken, wie schnell man von einem Beruf absorbiert wird. Carrie wurde in der Theaterbranche weise und hörte die Klatschgeschichten von der kleinen Lola. Sie erfuhr, welche Theaterzeitungen es gab, welche Artikel über Schauspielerinnen und Ähnliches veröffentlichten. Sie begann, die Zeitungsartikel zu lesen, nicht nur über die Oper, in der sie eine kleine Rolle spielte, sondern auch über andere. Allmählich wurde der Wunsch nach Aufmerksamkeit in ihr wach. Sie sehnte sich danach, wie andere berühmt zu sein, und sie las begierig die lobenden oder kritischen Kommentare über andere, die hoch in ihrem Beruf standen. Die glamouröse Welt, für die sie sich interessierte, absorbierte sie vollständig. Es war um diese Zeit herum, dass Zeitungen und Magazine begannen, besondere Aufmerksamkeit den Schönheiten der Bühne zu schenken, was später sehr intensiv wurde. Die Zeitungen, insbesondere die Sonntagszeitungen, präsentierten aufwendige Theaterseiten mit Bildern und Darstellungen von bekannten Schauspielerinnen, umrahmt von kunstvollen Ornamenten. Auch die Magazine, zumindest ein oder zwei der neueren, veröffentlichten gelegentlich Porträts von hübschen Stars und hin und wieder Fotoszenen aus verschiedenen Stücken. Carrie beobachtete dies mit wachsendem Interesse. Wann würde eine Szene aus ihrer Oper erscheinen? Wann würde eine Zeitung ihr Foto für wert erachten? Am Sonntag vor ihrem neuen Auftritt durchsuchte sie die Theaterseiten nach einer kleinen Notiz. Es hätte ihren Erwartungen entsprochen, wenn nichts gesagt worden wäre, aber dort, inmitten einiger robusterer Artikel, war eine kurze Notiz. Carrie las sie und spürte ein Kribbeln im Körper: "Die Rolle der Katisha, das Landmädchen, in 'Die Frauen von Abdul' am Broadway, bisher gespielt von Inez Carew, wird in Zukunft von Carrie Madenda, einem der talentiertesten Mitglieder des Chors, übernommen." Carrie freute sich sehr. Oh, war das nicht wunderbar! Endlich! Die erste, lang ersehnte, herrliche Anerkennung! Und sie nannten sie talentiert. Sie konnte sich kaum zurückhalten, laut zu lachen. Hatte Lola es gesehen? "Sie haben hier eine Notiz über die Rolle, die ich morgen Abend spielen werde", sagte Carrie zu ihrer Freundin. "Oh, toll! Wirklich?", rief Lola und rannte zu ihr. "Das ist großartig", sagte sie und schaute. "Du wirst jetzt mehr bekommen, wenn du gut spielst. Einmal hatte ich mein Bild in der 'World'." "Wirklich?", fragte Carrie. "Ja, wirklich", antwortete das kleine Mädchen. "Es war sogar gerahmt." Carrie lachte. "Aber sie haben nie mein Bild veröffentlicht." "Aber das werden sie", sagte Lola. "Du wirst sehen. Du machst es besser als die meisten anderen." Carrie war sehr dankbar dafür. Sie liebte Lola fast für die Hilfe und das Lob, das sie ihr zuteilwerden ließ. Es war so hilfreich für sie, fast schon notwendig. Indem sie ihre Rolle gut erfüllte, erhielt sie eine weitere Notiz in den Zeitungen, dass sie ihre Arbeit akzeptabel machte. Das erfreute sie sehr. Sie begann zu glauben, dass die Welt sie zur Kenntnis nahm. Die erste Woche, in der sie ihre fünfunddreißig Dollar erhielt, schien eine enorme Summe zu sein. Es schien lächerlich, nur drei Dollar für die Miete zu zahlen. Nachdem sie Lola fünfundzwanzig Dollar gegeben hatte, hatte sie noch sieben Dollar übrig. Zusammen mit den vier übrig gebliebenen von vorher hatte sie elf. Fünf davon gingen für die reguläre Rate der Kleidung aus, die sie kaufen musste. In der nächsten Woche war sie noch besser dran. Jetzt mussten nur noch drei Dollar für die Miete und fünf für ihre Kleidung gezahlt werden. Den Rest hatte sie für Essen und ihre eigenen Wünsche. "Du solltest ein bisschen für den Sommer sparen", warnte Lola. "Wir werden wahrscheinlich im Mai schließen." "Das habe ich vor", sagte Carrie. Der regelmäßige Verdienst von fünfunddreißig Dollar pro Woche für jemanden, der mehrere Jahre lang knappe Zuschüsse erhalten hatte, ist demoralisierend. Carrie fand ihre Brieftasche voller grüner Scheine in angenehmen Stückelungen. Da sie niemanden hatte, der von ihr abhängig war, begann sie hübsche Kleider und schöne Schmuckstücke zu kaufen, gut zu essen und ihr Zimmer zu schmücken. Freunde sammelten sich schnell um sie. Sie traf ein paar junge Männer, die zum Team von Lola gehörten. Die Mitglieder der Opernkompanie lernten sie ohne förmliche Vorstellung kennen. Einer von ihnen fand Gefallen an ihr. Mehrmals ging er mit ihr nach Hause. "Lass uns rein gehen und eine Käseschnitte essen", schlug er ihr eines Nachts vor. "In Ordnung", sagte Carrie. In dem rosigen Restaurant, das mit fröhlichen Nachtschwärmern gefüllt war, begann sie, diesen Mann zu kritisieren. Er war zu förmlich, zu von sich eingenommen. Er sprach nicht über Dinge, die sie über die gewöhnliche Mode und den materiellen Erfolg hinaus hoben. Als alles vorbei war, lächelte er sehr freundlich. "Möchtest du dich direkt nach Hause begeben?", sagte er. "Ja", antwortete sie mit einer ruhigen Verständnis. "Sie ist nicht so unerfahren, wie sie aussieht", dachte er und danach nahm sein Respekt und Eifer zu. Sie konnte es nicht vermeiden, Lola's Liebe zu einem guten Leben zu teilen. Es gab Tage, an denen sie Kutschfahrten unternahmen, Nächte, an denen sie nach der Vorstellung zu Abend aßen, Nachmittage, an denen sie stilvoll entlang des Broadway flanierten. Sie wurde Teil des Vergnügens der Metropole. Schließlich erschien ihr Bild in einer der wöchentlichen Ausgaben. Sie hatte nichts davon gewusst und war sprachlos. "Miss Carrie Madenda" stand darauf. "Eine der Favoritinnen der 'Die Frauen von Abdul'-Truppe". Auf Lolas Rat hin hatte sie sich bei Sarony einige Bilder machen lassen. Ein Bild hatte es geschafft. Sie dachte daran, hinunterzugehen und ein paar Exemplare der Zeitung zu kaufen, erinnerte sich dann jedoch daran, dass es niemanden gab, den sie gut genug kannte, um sie ihnen zu schicken. Nur Lola schien sich überhaupt zu interessieren. Die Stadt ist sozial eine kalte Gegend und Carrie erkannte bald, dass ein wenig Geld ihr nichts brachte. Die Welt des Reichtums und Ansehens war genauso fern wie je zuvor. Sie spürte, dass es kein warmes, mitfühlendes Freundschaftsgefühl hinter dem unbeschwerten Spaß gab, mit dem viele Menschen auf sie zukamen. Alle schienen nur nach ihrem eigenen Vergnügen zu suchen, ungeachtet der möglichen traurigen Konsequenzen für andere. So viel zu den Lektionen von Hurstwood und Drouet. Im April erfuhr sie, dass die Oper wahrscheinlich bis Mitte oder Ende Mai laufen würde, je nach Größe der Zuschauer. Nächste Saison würde sie auf Tournee gehen. Sie fragte sich, ob sie dabei sein würde. Wie üblich versuchte Miss Osborne aufgrund ihres bescheidenen Gehalts eine Heimverpflichtung zu bekommen. "Sie bringen ein Sommerstück im Casino heraus", verkündete sie, nachdem sie im übertragenen Sinne das Ohr ans Schienbein gelegt hatte. "Lass uns versuchen, da reinzukommen." "Ich bin Jetzt, weil Carrie hübsch war, wählten die Herren, die die Vorabbilder für Shows auswählten, die bald in den Sonntagszeitungen erscheinen sollten, Carries Foto zusammen mit anderen aus, um die Ankündigung zu illustrieren. Weil sie sehr hübsch war, bekam es einen ausgezeichneten Platz und es wurden Schriftrollen darum gezeichnet. Carrie war begeistert. Trotzdem schien das Management nichts davon bemerkt zu haben. Zumindest wurde keinen weiteren Aufmerksamkeit auf sie gelegt als zuvor. Gleichzeitig schien es in ihrer Rolle sehr wenig zu geben. Sie bestand darin, in allen möglichen Szenen herumzustehen, eine stille kleine Quäkerin. Der Autor des Skets hatte sich eingebildet, dass aus so einer Rolle, die der richtigen Schauspielerin überlassen würde, viel gemacht werden könnte, aber jetzt, da Carrie sie bekommen hatte, hätte er sie lieber gestrichen haben wollen. "Reg dich nicht auf, alter Mann", bemerkte der Manager. "Wenn es in der ersten Woche nicht läuft, streichen wir es." Carrie hatte keine Vorwarnung von dieser glückverheißenden Absicht. Sie probierte ihre Rolle betrübt und fühlte, dass sie effektiv ins Abseits geschoben wurde. Bei der Kostümprobe war sie niedergeschlagen. "So schlimm ist es nicht", sagte der Autor, der Manager bemerkte den seltsamen Effekt, den Carries Traurigkeit auf die Rolle hatte. "Sagen Sie ihr, dass sie mehr die Stirn runzeln soll, wenn Sparks tanzt." Carrie wusste es nicht, aber zwischen ihren Augen und ihrem Mund zeigten sich die geringsten Anzeichen von Falten und ihr Mund war auf eine eigenartige Weise verzogen. "Runzeln Sie ein wenig mehr die Stirn, Miss Madenda", sagte der Inspizient. Carrie hellte sich sofort auf und dachte, er hätte es als Tadel gemeint. "Nein, runzeln Sie", sagte er. "Runzeln Sie so wie vorher". Carrie schaute ihn erstaunt an. "Ich meine es ernst", sagte er. "Runzeln Sie die Stirn stark, wenn Mr. Sparks tanzt. Ich möchte sehen, wie das aussieht." Es war leicht genug zu tun. Carrie runzelte die Stirn. Der Effekt war etwas so skurril und komisch, dass selbst der Manager es bemerkte. "Das ist gut", sagte er. "Wenn sie das die ganze Zeit durchzieht, denke ich, es wird ziehen." Er ging zu Carrie und sagte: "Versuchen Sie mal, die ganze Zeit zu runzeln. Machen Sie es mit Kraft. Schauen Sie wütend aus. Das wird die Rolle wirklich komisch machen." Am Eröffnungsabend schien es Carrie, als wäre ihre Rolle nach allem nichts Besonderes. Das glückliche, schwitzende Publikum schien sie in der ersten Szene nicht zu bemerken. Sie runzelte und runzelte, aber ohne Erfolg. Die Augen waren auf die aufwändigeren Darbietungen der Stars gerichtet. In der zweiten Szene wanderte das Publikum, von einer langweiligen Unterhaltung ermüdet, mit den Augen über die Bühne und entdeckte sie. Da war sie, in einem grauen Anzug, mit einem süßen Gesicht, keusch, aber schmollend. Zuerst dachte man allgemein, sie sei vorübergehend gereizt, dass der Ausdruck echt und überhaupt nicht lustig war. Als sie weiterhin die Stirn runzelte und nun mal den einen Protagonisten und mal den anderen anschaute, begann das Publikum zu lächeln. Die beleibten Herren in den vorderen Reihen fingen an zu denken, dass sie ein köstliches kleines Häppchen war. Es war die Art von schmollender Miene, die sie gerne mit Küssen vertreiben würden. Alle Herren sehnten sich nach ihr. Sie war großartig. Schließlich bemerkte der Hauptkomiker, der in der Mitte der Bühne sang, ein Kichern, wo es nicht erwartet wurde. Dann ein weiteres und ein weiteres. Als die Stelle kam, in der eigentlich lauter Beifall zu erwarten war, war er nur verhalten. Was konnte das Problem sein? Ihm wurde klar, dass hier etwas nicht stimmte. Auf einmal entdeckte er, nachdem er abgetreten war, Carrie. Sie stand alleine auf der Bühne und das Publikum kicherte und lachte. "Verdammt, das werde ich nicht hinnehmen!" dachte der Schauspieler. "Ich lasse mir meine Arbeit nicht von jemand anderem kaputt machen. Entweder hört sie damit auf, wenn ich an der Reihe bin, oder ich höre auf." "Nun, das ist doch okay", sagte der Manager, als er die Beschwerde hörte. "Das ist es, was sie tun soll. Du brauchst darauf keine Rücksicht zu nehmen." "Aber sie ruiniert meine Arbeit." "Nein, tut sie nicht", entgegnete der Manager beschwichtigend. "Es ist nur etwas kleiner Spaß am Rande." "Ist das so?" rief der große Komiker aus. "Sie hat mir die Hand vermasselt. Das werde ich nicht dulden." "Nun gut, warte bis nach der Show. Warte bis morgen. Mal sehen, was wir machen können." Die nächste Szene entschied jedoch, was zu tun war. Carrie war das Highlight des Stücks. Je mehr das Publikum sie studierte, desto mehr zeigte es seine Begeisterung. Jede andere Darbietung verblich im Vergleich zur eigenartigen, neckenden und herrlichen Atmosphäre, die Carrie auf die Bühne brachte. Manager und Ensemble erkannten, dass sie Erfolg hatte. Die Kritiker der Tageszeitungen besiegelten ihren Triumph. Es gab lange Lobeshymnen auf die Qualität der Burleske, die immer wieder auf Carrie Bezug nahmen. Die ansteckende Heiterkeit der Sache wurde immer wieder betont. "Miss Madenda präsentiert eine der herrlichsten Charakterrollen, die je auf der Bühne des Casinos zu sehen waren", bemerkte der Bühnenkritiker des "Sun". "Es handelt sich dabei um ein Stück ruhiger, bescheidener Komik, das wie guter Wein wärmt. Offensichtlich sollte die Rolle nicht im Vordergrund stehen, da Miss Madenda nicht oft auf der Bühne steht, aber das Publikum hat es, mit der charakteristischen Eigensinnigkeit solcher Gruppen, selbst ausgewählt. Die kleine Quäkerin war von Beginn an als Favoritin auserkoren und konnte danach mühelos Aufmerksamkeit und Beifall halten. Die Kapriolen des Schicksals sind wirklich seltsam." Der Kritiker der "Evening World", der wie üblich versuchte, einen prägnanten Satz zu finden, der bei der Stadt "ankommt", schloss mit dem Rat: "Wenn Sie lachen wollen, sehen Sie Carrie schmollen." Das Ergebnis war für Carries Karriere sehr erfolgreich. Schon am Morgen erhielt sie eine Glückwunsch-Nachricht des Managers. "Du scheinst die Stadt im Sturm erobert zu haben", schrieb er. "Das ist herrlich. Ich freue mich für dich genauso wie für mich." Der Autor schickte auch eine Nachricht. An diesem Abend, als sie ins Theater kam, hatte der Manager eine sehr angenehme Begrüßung für sie. Herr Stevens", sagte er und bezog sich auf den Autor, "schreibt ein kleines Lied, das er dich nächste Woche singen lassen möchte." "Oh, ich kann nicht singen", erwiderte Carrie. "Es ist nichts Schwieriges. Es ist etwas sehr Einfaches", sagt er, "und es würde perfekt zu dir passen." "Natürlich hätte ich nichts dagegen, es zu versuchen", sagte Carrie schalkhaft. "Hättest du etwas dagegen, einige Augenblicke vor dem Anziehen an der Abendkasse vorbeizukommen?" fügte der Manager hinzu. "Es gibt eine kleine Angelegenheit, wegen der ich mit dir sprechen möchte." "Natürlich", antwortete Carrie. An der Kasse zog der Manager einen Zettel heraus. "Nun, natürlich wollen wir fair mit dir sein, was das Gehalt betrifft. Dein Vertrag hier sieht nur 30 Dollar pro Woche für die nächsten drei Monate vor. Wie wäre es, wenn wir es auf 150 Dollar pro Woche erhöhen würden und es um zwölf Monate verlängert?" "Oh, sehr gut", sagte Carrie und konnte ihren Ohren kaum trauen. "Also, würdest du das bitte unterschreiben." Carrie schaute und sah einen neuen Vertrag, der genauso wie der andere gemacht war, mit Ausnahme der neuen Zahlen für Gehalt und Zeit. Mit zitternder Hand Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Carrie richtet sich in ihrer neuen Wohnung ein und fragt sich, was Hurstwood über ihre Abreise denkt. Sie geht ins Theater und fürchtet, dass er dort sein könnte, aber er ist es nicht. Sie bleibt die nächsten Tage ängstlich, dass er im Theater auftauchen könnte, aber das tut er nicht und die Furcht verschwindet. Carrie hat "die theatralischen Zeitungen" gelesen, die im Grunde genommen die version des späten neunzehnten Jahrhunderts von Promi-obsessiven Magazinen wie US Weekly oder People sind. Sie denkt, es wäre großartig, eine dieser Zeitschriften aufzuschlagen und sich eines Tages erwähnt zu sehen. Und dann, eines Tages, tut sie es. Okay, es ist kein fünfseitiger Bericht oder so etwas, nur ein paar Zeilen, die ihre Rolle als Landmädchen in "The Wives of Abdul" ankündigen - aber sie ist total begeistert. Sie ist auch super glücklich, dass sie all das Geld, das sie verdient, für Kleidung, schickes Essen und die Ausstattung ihres neuen Zimmers ausgeben kann. Außerdem ist sie dank ihres aufsteigenden Stars plötzlich von neuen Freunden und Kerlen umgeben, die es kaum erwarten können, sie auszuführen. Und dann - oh mein - taucht Carries Bild in einer der theatrical papers auf. Sie wird nun zurückhalten müssen, damit die Paparazzi sie nicht überfallen. Aber es gibt Ärger im Paradies, als Carrie feststellt, dass sie zwar das Äquivalent von tausend Twitter-Followern haben mag, aber keine wirkliche Kameradschaft. Das Stück, in dem Carrie spielt, soll auf Tournee gehen, aber Lola überzeugt sie davon, dass es keine gute Idee ist, auf Tournee zu gehen, und dass es besser wäre, für eine andere lokale Show vorzusprechen. Sie machen ein Vorsprechen und bekommen die Rollen. Carries Rolle ist ziemlich klein, aber sie macht das Beste daraus und wird zum Publikumsliebling. Das scheint sich jedoch nachteilig auszuwirken: Sie stiehlt die Show und einer der Stars des Stücks droht damit, zu kündigen, wenn der Manager sie nicht feuert. Der Manager mag Carries Leistung jedoch so sehr, dass er sie behält und sie bekommt mehr Publicity in den Zeitungen. Der Manager ist so begeistert, dass er ihr ein Lied in der Produktion singen lässt und ihr eine große Gehaltserhöhung gibt. Plötzlich wechseln wir zu Hurstwood, der jetzt in einem "drittklassigen Hotel in der Bleecker Street" lebt... was genauso schlimm ist, wie es sich anhört. Er hat in der Zeitung über Carrie gelesen, aber man wird ihn nicht verfolgen, um einen Teil der Aktion abzubekommen. Nein, trotz seiner finanziellen Probleme schlägt sein Stolz ein und er beschließt, sie nicht zu belästigen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: 33 A London Cab Horse Jeremiah Barker was my new master's name, but as every one called him Jerry, I shall do the same. Polly, his wife, was just as good a match as a man could have. She was a plump, trim, tidy little woman, with smooth, dark hair, dark eyes, and a merry little mouth. The boy was twelve years old, a tall, frank, good-tempered lad; and little Dorothy (Dolly they called her) was her mother over again, at eight years old. They were all wonderfully fond of each other; I never knew such a happy, merry family before or since. Jerry had a cab of his own, and two horses, which he drove and attended to himself. His other horse was a tall, white, rather large-boned animal called "Captain". He was old now, but when he was young he must have been splendid; he had still a proud way of holding his head and arching his neck; in fact, he was a high-bred, fine-mannered, noble old horse, every inch of him. He told me that in his early youth he went to the Crimean War; he belonged to an officer in the cavalry, and used to lead the regiment. I will tell more of that hereafter. The next morning, when I was well-groomed, Polly and Dolly came into the yard to see me and make friends. Harry had been helping his father since the early morning, and had stated his opinion that I should turn out a "regular brick". Polly brought me a slice of apple, and Dolly a piece of bread, and made as much of me as if I had been the "Black Beauty" of olden time. It was a great treat to be petted again and talked to in a gentle voice, and I let them see as well as I could that I wished to be friendly. Polly thought I was very handsome, and a great deal too good for a cab, if it was not for the broken knees. "Of course there's no one to tell us whose fault that was," said Jerry, "and as long as I don't know I shall give him the benefit of the doubt; for a firmer, neater stepper I never rode. We'll call him 'Jack', after the old one--shall we, Polly?" "Do," she said, "for I like to keep a good name going." Captain went out in the cab all the morning. Harry came in after school to feed me and give me water. In the afternoon I was put into the cab. Jerry took as much pains to see if the collar and bridle fitted comfortably as if he had been John Manly over again. When the crupper was let out a hole or two it all fitted well. There was no check-rein, no curb, nothing but a plain ring snaffle. What a blessing that was! After driving through the side street we came to the large cab stand where Jerry had said "Good-night". On one side of this wide street were high houses with wonderful shop fronts, and on the other was an old church and churchyard, surrounded by iron palisades. Alongside these iron rails a number of cabs were drawn up, waiting for passengers; bits of hay were lying about on the ground; some of the men were standing together talking; some were sitting on their boxes reading the newspaper; and one or two were feeding their horses with bits of hay, and giving them a drink of water. We pulled up in the rank at the back of the last cab. Two or three men came round and began to look at me and pass their remarks. "Very good for a funeral," said one. "Too smart-looking," said another, shaking his head in a very wise way; "you'll find out something wrong one of these fine mornings, or my name isn't Jones." "Well," said Jerry pleasantly, "I suppose I need not find it out till it finds me out, eh? And if so, I'll keep up my spirits a little longer." Then there came up a broad-faced man, dressed in a great gray coat with great gray cape and great white buttons, a gray hat, and a blue comforter loosely tied round his neck; his hair was gray, too; but he was a jolly-looking fellow, and the other men made way for him. He looked me all over, as if he had been going to buy me; and then straightening himself up with a grunt, he said, "He's the right sort for you, Jerry; I don't care what you gave for him, he'll be worth it." Thus my character was established on the stand. This man's name was Grant, but he was called "Gray Grant", or "Governor Grant". He had been the longest on that stand of any of the men, and he took it upon himself to settle matters and stop disputes. He was generally a good-humored, sensible man; but if his temper was a little out, as it was sometimes when he had drunk too much, nobody liked to come too near his fist, for he could deal a very heavy blow. The first week of my life as a cab horse was very trying. I had never been used to London, and the noise, the hurry, the crowds of horses, carts, and carriages that I had to make my way through made me feel anxious and harassed; but I soon found that I could perfectly trust my driver, and then I made myself easy and got used to it. Jerry was as good a driver as I had ever known, and what was better, he took as much thought for his horses as he did for himself. He soon found out that I was willing to work and do my best, and he never laid the whip on me unless it was gently drawing the end of it over my back when I was to go on; but generally I knew this quite well by the way in which he took up the reins, and I believe his whip was more frequently stuck up by his side than in his hand. In a short time I and my master understood each other as well as horse and man can do. In the stable, too, he did all that he could for our comfort. The stalls were the old-fashioned style, too much on the slope; but he had two movable bars fixed across the back of our stalls, so that at night, and when we were resting, he just took off our halters and put up the bars, and thus we could turn about and stand whichever way we pleased, which is a great comfort. Jerry kept us very clean, and gave us as much change of food as he could, and always plenty of it; and not only that, but he always gave us plenty of clean fresh water, which he allowed to stand by us both night and day, except of course when we came in warm. Some people say that a horse ought not to drink all he likes; but I know if we are allowed to drink when we want it we drink only a little at a time, and it does us a great deal more good than swallowing down half a bucketful at a time, because we have been left without till we are thirsty and miserable. Some grooms will go home to their beer and leave us for hours with our dry hay and oats and nothing to moisten them; then of course we gulp down too much at once, which helps to spoil our breathing and sometimes chills our stomachs. But the best thing we had here was our Sundays for rest; we worked so hard in the week that I do not think we could have kept up to it but for that day; besides, we had then time to enjoy each other's company. It was on these days that I learned my companion's history. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Der neue Besitzer von Beauty, Jeremiah "Jerry" Barker, ist ein Londoner Taxifahrer und Beauty mag ihn und seine Familie sofort: "Ich habe noch nie eine so glückliche, lustige Familie kennengelernt, weder davor noch danach", sagt Beauty. Jerry besitzt sein eigenes Taxi und ein weiteres Pferd namens Captain, ein großes, weißes, älteres Pferd, "hochgezüchtet, fein erzogen" und "edel". Captain ist ein Veteran des Krimkrieges und Beauty verspricht, später mehr Details darüber zu verraten. Jerry's Familie kommt tatsächlich heraus, um sich am ersten Morgen mit Beauty anzufreunden - so süß - und bringt ihm Leckereien mit, die er liebt. Jerry beschließt, Beauty "Jack" nach einem alten Pferd zu nennen. Als Jerry Beauty zum ersten Mal ins Taxi setzt, kümmert er sich sehr darum, dass es ihm bequem ist: "Es gab keine Gebissleine, keinen Kandarren, nichts außer einem einfachen Trensenring. Was für ein Segen das war!" Beauty lernt Jerry's Kollegen kennen, darunter jemand namens Grey Grant oder Governor Grant. Zunächst ist es stressig und schwer, einen Wagen durch die überfüllten Straßen Londons zu ziehen, aber Beauty lobt Jerry's Fahrkünste und schreibt ihm zu, dass er sich recht schmerzlos an die Situation gewöhnt hat. Außerdem peitscht er Beauty fast nie aus und vertraut darauf, dass er hart arbeitet. Jerry kümmert sich auch sehr gut um Beauty im Stall, mit reichlich gutem Futter und frischem Wasser. Die Pferde ruhen nur am Sonntag aus, was dringend nötig ist, und Beauty hat Zeit, mehr über Captain's Leben zu erfahren.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: "Ha, ha, ha! You will be finding enjoyment in toothache next," you cry, with a laugh. "Well, even in toothache there is enjoyment," I answer. I had toothache for a whole month and I know there is. In that case, of course, people are not spiteful in silence, but moan; but they are not candid moans, they are malignant moans, and the malignancy is the whole point. The enjoyment of the sufferer finds expression in those moans; if he did not feel enjoyment in them he would not moan. It is a good example, gentlemen, and I will develop it. Those moans express in the first place all the aimlessness of your pain, which is so humiliating to your consciousness; the whole legal system of nature on which you spit disdainfully, of course, but from which you suffer all the same while she does not. They express the consciousness that you have no enemy to punish, but that you have pain; the consciousness that in spite of all possible Wagenheims you are in complete slavery to your teeth; that if someone wishes it, your teeth will leave off aching, and if he does not, they will go on aching another three months; and that finally if you are still contumacious and still protest, all that is left you for your own gratification is to thrash yourself or beat your wall with your fist as hard as you can, and absolutely nothing more. Well, these mortal insults, these jeers on the part of someone unknown, end at last in an enjoyment which sometimes reaches the highest degree of voluptuousness. I ask you, gentlemen, listen sometimes to the moans of an educated man of the nineteenth century suffering from toothache, on the second or third day of the attack, when he is beginning to moan, not as he moaned on the first day, that is, not simply because he has toothache, not just as any coarse peasant, but as a man affected by progress and European civilisation, a man who is "divorced from the soil and the national elements," as they express it now-a-days. His moans become nasty, disgustingly malignant, and go on for whole days and nights. And of course he knows himself that he is doing himself no sort of good with his moans; he knows better than anyone that he is only lacerating and harassing himself and others for nothing; he knows that even the audience before whom he is making his efforts, and his whole family, listen to him with loathing, do not put a ha'porth of faith in him, and inwardly understand that he might moan differently, more simply, without trills and flourishes, and that he is only amusing himself like that from ill-humour, from malignancy. Well, in all these recognitions and disgraces it is that there lies a voluptuous pleasure. As though he would say: "I am worrying you, I am lacerating your hearts, I am keeping everyone in the house awake. Well, stay awake then, you, too, feel every minute that I have toothache. I am not a hero to you now, as I tried to seem before, but simply a nasty person, an impostor. Well, so be it, then! I am very glad that you see through me. It is nasty for you to hear my despicable moans: well, let it be nasty; here I will let you have a nastier flourish in a minute...." You do not understand even now, gentlemen? No, it seems our development and our consciousness must go further to understand all the intricacies of this pleasure. You laugh? Delighted. My jests, gentlemen, are of course in bad taste, jerky, involved, lacking self-confidence. But of course that is because I do not respect myself. Can a man of perception respect himself at all? Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Der Erzähler erklärt, wie Menschen Freude am Schmerz empfinden, den sie erleiden. Er verwendet einen Zahnschmerz als Beispiel. Eine Person stöhnt, wenn ihr Zahn schmerzt, weil es eine Art Vergnügen im Stöhnen gibt. Wenn das Stöhnen von einer anderen Person gehört wird, ist es noch angenehmer, denn der Stöhner fügt jemand anderem sein Leiden zu.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Arabella was preparing breakfast in the downstairs back room of this small, recently hired tenement of her father's. She put her head into the little pork-shop in front, and told Mr. Donn it was ready. Donn, endeavouring to look like a master pork-butcher, in a greasy blue blouse, and with a strap round his waist from which a steel dangled, came in promptly. "You must mind the shop this morning," he said casually. "I've to go and get some inwards and half a pig from Lumsdon, and to call elsewhere. If you live here you must put your shoulder to the wheel, at least till I get the business started!" "Well, for to-day I can't say." She looked deedily into his face. "I've got a prize upstairs." "Oh? What's that?" "A husband--almost." "No!" "Yes. It's Jude. He's come back to me." "Your old original one? Well, I'm damned!" "Well, I always did like him, that I will say." "But how does he come to be up there?" said Donn, humour-struck, and nodding to the ceiling. "Don't ask inconvenient questions, Father. What we've to do is to keep him here till he and I are--as we were." "How was that?" "Married." "Ah... Well it is the rummest thing I ever heard of--marrying an old husband again, and so much new blood in the world! He's no catch, to my thinking. I'd have had a new one while I was about it." "It isn't rum for a woman to want her old husband back for respectability, though for a man to want his old wife back--well, perhaps it is funny, rather!" And Arabella was suddenly seized with a fit of loud laughter, in which her father joined more moderately. "Be civil to him, and I'll do the rest," she said when she had recovered seriousness. "He told me this morning that his head ached fit to burst, and he hardly seemed to know where he was. And no wonder, considering how he mixed his drink last night. We must keep him jolly and cheerful here for a day or two, and not let him go back to his lodging. Whatever you advance I'll pay back to you again. But I must go up and see how he is now, poor deary." Arabella ascended the stairs, softly opened the door of the first bedroom, and peeped in. Finding that her shorn Samson was asleep she entered to the bedside and stood regarding him. The fevered flush on his face from the debauch of the previous evening lessened the fragility of his ordinary appearance, and his long lashes, dark brows, and curly back hair and beard against the white pillow completed the physiognomy of one whom Arabella, as a woman of rank passions, still felt it worth while to recapture, highly important to recapture as a woman straitened both in means and in reputation. Her ardent gaze seemed to affect him; his quick breathing became suspended, and he opened his eyes. "How are you now, dear?" said she. "It is I--Arabella." "Ah!--where--oh yes, I remember! You gave me shelter... I am stranded--ill--demoralized--damn bad! That's what I am!" "Then do stay here. There's nobody in the house but father and me, and you can rest till you are thoroughly well. I'll tell them at the stoneworks that you are knocked up." "I wonder what they are thinking at the lodgings!" "I'll go round and explain. Perhaps you had better let me pay up, or they'll think we've run away?" "Yes. You'll find enough money in my pocket there." Quite indifferent, and shutting his eyes because he could not bear the daylight in his throbbing eye-balls, Jude seemed to doze again. Arabella took his purse, softly left the room, and putting on her outdoor things went off to the lodgings she and he had quitted the evening before. Scarcely half an hour had elapsed ere she reappeared round the corner, walking beside a lad wheeling a truck on which were piled all Jude's household possessions, and also the few of Arabella's things which she had taken to the lodging for her short sojourn there. Jude was in such physical pain from his unfortunate break-down of the previous night, and in such mental pain from the loss of Sue and from having yielded in his half-somnolent state to Arabella, that when he saw his few chattels unpacked and standing before his eyes in this strange bedroom, intermixed with woman's apparel, he scarcely considered how they had come there, or what their coming signalized. "Now," said Arabella to her father downstairs, "we must keep plenty of good liquor going in the house these next few days. I know his nature, and if he once gets into that fearfully low state that he does get into sometimes, he'll never do the honourable thing by me in this world, and I shall be left in the lurch. He must be kept cheerful. He has a little money in the savings bank, and he has given me his purse to pay for anything necessary. Well, that will be the licence; for I must have that ready at hand, to catch him the moment he's in the humour. You must pay for the liquor. A few friends, and a quiet convivial party would be the thing, if we could get it up. It would advertise the shop, and help me too." "That can be got up easy enough by anybody who'll afford victuals and drink... Well yes--it would advertise the shop--that's true." Three days later, when Jude had recovered somewhat from the fearful throbbing of his eyes and brain, but was still considerably confused in his mind by what had been supplied to him by Arabella during the interval--to keep him, jolly, as she expressed it--the quiet convivial gathering, suggested by her, to wind Jude up to the striking point, took place. Donn had only just opened his miserable little pork and sausage shop, which had as yet scarce any customers; nevertheless that party advertised it well, and the Donns acquired a real notoriety among a certain class in Christminster who knew not the colleges, nor their works, nor their ways. Jude was asked if he could suggest any guest in addition to those named by Arabella and her father, and in a saturnine humour of perfect recklessness mentioned Uncle Joe, and Stagg, and the decayed auctioneer, and others whom he remembered as having been frequenters of the well-known tavern during his bout therein years before. He also suggested Freckles and Bower o' Bliss. Arabella took him at his word so far as the men went, but drew the line at the ladies. Another man they knew, Tinker Taylor, though he lived in the same street, was not invited; but as he went homeward from a late job on the evening of the party, he had occasion to call at the shop for trotters. There were none in, but he was promised some the next morning. While making his inquiry Taylor glanced into the back room, and saw the guests sitting round, card-playing, and drinking, and otherwise enjoying themselves at Donn's expense. He went home to bed, and on his way out next morning wondered how the party went off. He thought it hardly worth while to call at the shop for his provisions at that hour, Donn and his daughter being probably not up, if they caroused late the night before. However, he found in passing that the door was open, and he could hear voices within, though the shutters of the meat-stall were not down. He went and tapped at the sitting-room door, and opened it. "Well--to be sure!" he said, astonished. Hosts and guests were sitting card-playing, smoking, and talking, precisely as he had left them eleven hours earlier; the gas was burning and the curtains drawn, though it had been broad daylight for two hours out of doors. "Yes!" cried Arabella, laughing. "Here we are, just the same. We ought to be ashamed of ourselves, oughtn't we? But it is a sort of housewarming, you see; and our friends are in no hurry. Come in, Mr. Taylor, and sit down." The tinker, or rather reduced ironmonger, was nothing loath, and entered and took a seat. "I shall lose a quarter, but never mind," he said. "Well, really, I could hardly believe my eyes when I looked in! It seemed as if I was flung back again into last night, all of a sudden." "So you are. Pour out for Mr. Taylor." He now perceived that she was sitting beside Jude, her arm being round his waist. Jude, like the rest of the company, bore on his face the signs of how deeply he had been indulging. "Well, we've been waiting for certain legal hours to arrive, to tell the truth," she continued bashfully, and making her spirituous crimson look as much like a maiden blush as possible. "Jude and I have decided to make up matters between us by tying the knot again, as we find we can't do without one another after all. So, as a bright notion, we agreed to sit on till it was late enough, and go and do it off-hand." Jude seemed to pay no great heed to what she was announcing, or indeed to anything whatever. The entrance of Taylor infused fresh spirit into the company, and they remained sitting, till Arabella whispered to her father: "Now we may as well go." "But the parson don't know?" "Yes, I told him last night that we might come between eight and nine, as there were reasons of decency for doing it as early and quiet as possible; on account of it being our second marriage, which might make people curious to look on if they knew. He highly approved." "Oh very well, I'm ready," said her father, getting up and shaking himself. "Now, old darling," she said to Jude. "Come along, as you promised." "When did I promise anything?" asked he, whom she had made so tipsy by her special knowledge of that line of business as almost to have made him sober again--or to seem so to those who did not know him. "Why!" said Arabella, affecting dismay. "You've promised to marry me several times as we've sat here to-night. These gentlemen have heard you." "I don't remember it," said Jude doggedly. "There's only one woman--but I won't mention her in this Capharnaum!" Arabella looked towards her father. "Now, Mr. Fawley be honourable," said Donn. "You and my daughter have been living here together these three or four days, quite on the understanding that you were going to marry her. Of course I shouldn't have had such goings on in my house if I hadn't understood that. As a point of honour you must do it now." "Don't say anything against my honour!" enjoined Jude hotly, standing up. "I'd marry the W---- of Babylon rather than do anything dishonourable! No reflection on you, my dear. It is a mere rhetorical figure--what they call in the books, hyperbole." "Keep your figures for your debts to friends who shelter you," said Donn. "If I am bound in honour to marry her--as I suppose I am--though how I came to be here with her I know no more than a dead man--marry her I will, so help me God! I have never behaved dishonourably to a woman or to any living thing. I am not a man who wants to save himself at the expense of the weaker among us!" "There--never mind him, deary," said she, putting her cheek against Jude's. "Come up and wash your face, and just put yourself tidy, and off we'll go. Make it up with Father." They shook hands. Jude went upstairs with her, and soon came down looking tidy and calm. Arabella, too, had hastily arranged herself, and accompanied by Donn away they went. "Don't go," she said to the guests at parting. "I've told the little maid to get the breakfast while we are gone; and when we come back we'll all have some. A good strong cup of tea will set everybody right for going home." When Arabella, Jude, and Donn had disappeared on their matrimonial errand the assembled guests yawned themselves wider awake, and discussed the situation with great interest. Tinker Taylor, being the most sober, reasoned the most lucidly. "I don't wish to speak against friends," he said. "But it do seem a rare curiosity for a couple to marry over again! If they couldn't get on the first time when their minds were limp, they won't the second, by my reckoning." "Do you think he'll do it?" "He's been put upon his honour by the woman, so he med." "He'd hardly do it straight off like this. He's got no licence nor anything." "She's got that, bless you. Didn't you hear her say so to her father?" "Well," said Tinker Taylor, relighting his pipe at the gas-jet. "Take her all together, limb by limb, she's not such a bad-looking piece--particular by candlelight. To be sure, halfpence that have been in circulation can't be expected to look like new ones from the mint. But for a woman that's been knocking about the four hemispheres for some time, she's passable enough. A little bit thick in the flitch perhaps: but I like a woman that a puff o' wind won't blow down." Their eyes followed the movements of the little girl as she spread the breakfast-cloth on the table they had been using, without wiping up the slops of the liquor. The curtains were undrawn, and the expression of the house made to look like morning. Some of the guests, however, fell asleep in their chairs. One or two went to the door, and gazed along the street more than once. Tinker Taylor was the chief of these, and after a time he came in with a leer on his face. "By Gad, they are coming! I think the deed's done!" "No," said Uncle Joe, following him in. "Take my word, he turned rusty at the last minute. They are walking in a very unusual way; and that's the meaning of it!" They waited in silence till the wedding-party could be heard entering the house. First into the room came Arabella boisterously; and her face was enough to show that her strategy had succeeded. "Mrs. Fawley, I presume?" said Tinker Taylor with mock courtesy. "Certainly. Mrs. Fawley again," replied Arabella blandly, pulling off her glove and holding out her left hand. "There's the padlock, see... Well, he was a very nice, gentlemanly man indeed. I mean the clergyman. He said to me as gentle as a babe when all was done: 'Mrs. Fawley, I congratulate you heartily,' he says. 'For having heard your history, and that of your husband, I think you have both done the right and proper thing. And for your past errors as a wife, and his as a husband, I think you ought now to be forgiven by the world, as you have forgiven each other,' says he. Yes; he was a very nice, gentlemanly man. 'The Church don't recognize divorce in her dogma, strictly speaking,' he says: 'and bear in mind the words of the service in your goings out and your comings in: What God hath joined together let no man put asunder.' Yes; he was a very nice, gentlemanly man... But, Jude, my dear, you were enough to make a cat laugh! You walked that straight, and held yourself that steady, that one would have thought you were going 'prentice to a judge; though I knew you were seeing double all the time, from the way you fumbled with my finger." "I said I'd do anything to--save a woman's honour," muttered Jude. "And I've done it!" "Well now, old deary, come along and have some breakfast." "I want--some--more whisky," said Jude stolidly. "Nonsense, dear. Not now! There's no more left. The tea will take the muddle out of our heads, and we shall be as fresh as larks." "All right. I've--married you. She said I ought to marry you again, and I have straightway. It is true religion! Ha--ha--ha!" Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Arabella schmiedet mit ihrem Vater Pläne, um Jude dazu zu bringen, bei ihnen zu bleiben, bis sie ihn wieder heiraten kann. Sie arrangiert, dass seine Habseligkeiten herübergebracht werden, und währenddessen versorgen sie Jude mit Alkohol. Schließlich veranstalten sie eine nächtliche Party, um für den Laden ihres Vaters Werbung zu machen, und am Morgen besteht Arabella darauf, dass Jude ihr versprochen hat, sie zu heiraten. Jude, der betrunken und benommen ist, behauptet, er habe ein solches Versprechen nicht gegeben. Als Mr. Donn Jude's "Ehre" in Frage stellt, gibt Jude nach. Er verteidigt sich und behauptet, dass er niemals in seinem Leben die Absicht hatte, jemanden würdelos zu behandeln. Er ist auch zu verwirrt, um weitere Proteste einzulegen. Sie gehen zur Kirche und werden erneut getraut. Als sie zurückkommen, triumphiert Arabella darüber, ihr Ziel erreicht zu haben, während Jude immer noch betrunken und benommen ist.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The King and Queen of Hearts were seated on their throne when they arrived, with a great crowd assembled about them--all sorts of little birds and beasts, as well as the whole pack of cards: the Knave was standing before them, in chains, with a soldier on each side to guard him; and near the King was the White Rabbit, with a trumpet in one hand and a scroll of parchment in the other. In the very middle of the court was a table, with a large dish of tarts upon it. "I wish they'd get the trial done," Alice thought, "and hand 'round the refreshments!" The judge, by the way, was the King and he wore his crown over his great wig. "That's the jury-box," thought Alice; "and those twelve creatures (some were animals and some were birds) I suppose they are the jurors." Just then the White Rabbit cried out "Silence in the court!" "Herald, read the accusation!" said the King. On this, the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, then unrolled the parchment-scroll and read as follows: "The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts, All on a summer day; The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts And took them quite away!" "Call the first witness," said the King; and the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet and called out, "First witness!" The first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in one hand and a piece of bread and butter in the other. "You ought to have finished," said the King. "When did you begin?" The Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the court, arm in arm with the Dormouse. "Fourteenth of March, I _think_ it was," he said. "Give your evidence," said the King, "and don't be nervous, or I'll have you executed on the spot." This did not seem to encourage the witness at all; he kept shifting from one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Queen, and, in his confusion, he bit a large piece out of his teacup instead of the bread and butter. Just at this moment Alice felt a very curious sensation--she was beginning to grow larger again. The miserable Hatter dropped his teacup and bread and butter and went down on one knee. "I'm a poor man, Your Majesty," he began. "You're a _very_ poor _speaker_," said the King. "You may go," said the King, and the Hatter hurriedly left the court. "Call the next witness!" said the King. The next witness was the Duchess's cook. She carried the pepper-box in her hand and the people near the door began sneezing all at once. "Give your evidence," said the King. "Sha'n't," said the cook. The King looked anxiously at the White Rabbit, who said, in a low voice, "Your Majesty must cross-examine _this_ witness." "Well, if I must, I must," the King said. "What are tarts made of?" "Pepper, mostly," said the cook. For some minutes the whole court was in confusion and by the time they had settled down again, the cook had disappeared. "Never mind!" said the King, "call the next witness." Alice watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list. Imagine her surprise when he read out, at the top of his shrill little voice, the name "Alice!" Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Alice findet sich zu Beginn dieses Kapitels in der nervigen Gesellschaft der Herzogin wieder. Sie unterhalten sich irgendwie über das Geschehen des Tages, aber größtenteils denkt Alice für sich selbst nach und die Herzogin versucht, in allem einfache Moralvorstellungen zu finden. Das Gespräch handelt im Allgemeinen davon, wie langweilig Höflichkeit manchmal sein kann und wie zu viel Höflichkeit den Verstand bedrohen kann. Das Gespräch endet jedoch, als die Königin Alice zurück ins Spiel bringt. Das Spiel geht interessanterweise voran, aus Angst vor der Königin und nicht aus Spaß am Spiel. Sobald alle anderen Spieler zum Tode verurteilt wurden und die einzigen Menschen, die nicht in der Gewalt der Soldaten sind, Alice, der König und die Königin sind, sagt die Königin Alice, dass sie die Geschichte der Hummer-Schildkröte hören muss. Die Königin lässt ein Greif Alice zur Hummer-Schildkröte bringen. Als sie ihn erreichen, weint die Hummer-Schildkröte. Langsam erzählt sie ihnen von ihrer Schulzeit, die im Meer war. Die Geschichte bereitet hauptsächlich das nächste Kapitel vor, in dem die Hummer-Schildkröte Alice von den Spielen erzählen soll, die sie gespielt haben. Dieses Kapitel ist eine Art Übergang vom Krocket-Spiel zur Geschichte der Hummer-Schildkröte, und es ist schwer zu sagen, was sonst noch darin vorkommt. Am Anfang gibt es viel Wortspiel zwischen Alice und der Herzogin, aber abgesehen davon bereitet es den Leser nur auf das nächste Kapitel vor.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: XIII. ANOTHER VIEW OF HESTER. In her late singular interview with Mr. Dimmesdale, Hester Prynne was shocked at the condition to which she found the clergyman reduced. His nerve seemed absolutely destroyed. His moral force was abased into more than childish weakness. It grovelled helpless on the ground, even while his intellectual faculties retained their pristine strength, or had perhaps acquired a morbid energy, which disease only could have given them. With her knowledge of a train of circumstances hidden from all others, she could readily infer that, besides the legitimate action of his own conscience, a terrible machinery had been brought to bear, and was still operating, on Mr. Dimmesdale's well-being and repose. Knowing what this poor, fallen man had once been, her whole soul was moved by the shuddering terror with which he had appealed to her,--the outcast woman,--for support against his instinctively discovered enemy. She decided, moreover, that he had a right to her utmost aid. Little accustomed, in her long seclusion from society, to measure her ideas of right and wrong by any standard external to herself, Hester saw--or seemed to see--that there lay a responsibility upon her, in reference to the clergyman, which she owed to no other, nor to the whole world besides. The links that united her to the rest of human kind--links of flowers, or silk, or gold, or whatever the material--had all been broken. Here was the iron link of mutual crime, which neither he nor she could break. Like all other ties, it brought along with it its obligations. Hester Prynne did not now occupy precisely the same position in which we beheld her during the earlier periods of her ignominy. Years had come and gone. Pearl was now seven years old. Her mother, with the scarlet letter on her breast, glittering in its fantastic embroidery, had long been a familiar object to the towns-people. As is apt to be the case when a person stands out in any prominence before the community, and, at the same time, interferes neither with public nor individual interests and convenience, a species of general regard had ultimately grown up in reference to Hester Prynne. It is to the credit of human nature, that, except where its selfishness is brought into play, it loves more readily than it hates. Hatred, by a gradual and quiet process, will even be transformed to love, unless the change be impeded by a continually new irritation of the original feeling of hostility. In this matter of Hester Prynne, there was neither irritation nor irksomeness. She never battled with the public, but submitted, uncomplainingly, to its worst usage; she made no claim upon it, in requital for what she suffered; she did not weigh upon its sympathies. Then, also, the blameless purity of her life during all these years in which she had been set apart to infamy, was reckoned largely in her favor. With nothing now to lose, in the sight of mankind, and with no hope, and seemingly no wish, of gaining anything, it could only be a genuine regard for virtue that had brought back the poor wanderer to its paths. [Illustration: Hester in the House of Mourning] It was perceived, too, that while Hester never put forward even the humblest title to share in the world's privileges,--further than to breathe the common air, and earn daily bread for little Pearl and herself by the faithful labor of her hands,--she was quick to acknowledge her sisterhood with the race of man, whenever benefits were to be conferred. None so ready as she to give of her little substance to every demand of poverty; even though the bitter-hearted pauper threw back a gibe in requital of the food brought regularly to his door, or the garments wrought for him by the fingers that could have embroidered a monarch's robe. None so self-devoted as Hester, when pestilence stalked through the town. In all seasons of calamity, indeed, whether general or of individuals, the outcast of society at once found her place. She came, not as a guest, but as a rightful inmate, into the household that was darkened by trouble; as if its gloomy twilight were a medium in which she was entitled to hold intercourse with her fellow-creatures. There glimmered the embroidered letter, with comfort in its unearthly ray. Elsewhere the token of sin, it was the taper of the sick-chamber. It had even thrown its gleam, in the sufferer's hard extremity, across the verge of time. It had shown him where to set his foot, while the light of earth was fast becoming dim, and ere the light of futurity could reach him. In such emergencies, Hester's nature showed itself warm and rich; a well-spring of human tenderness, unfailing to every real demand, and inexhaustible by the largest. Her breast, with its badge of shame, was but the softer pillow for the head that needed one. She was self-ordained a Sister of Mercy; or, we may rather say, the world's heavy hand had so ordained her, when neither the world nor she looked forward to this result. The letter was the symbol of her calling. Such helpfulness was found in her,--so much power to do, and power to sympathize,--that many people refused to interpret the scarlet A by its original signification. They said that it meant Able; so strong was Hester Prynne, with a woman's strength. It was only the darkened house that could contain her. When sunshine came again, she was not there. Her shadow had faded across the threshold. The helpful inmate had departed, without one backward glance to gather up the meed of gratitude, if any were in the hearts of those whom she had served so zealously. Meeting them in the street, she never raised her head to receive their greeting. If they were resolute to accost her, she laid her finger on the scarlet letter, and passed on. This might be pride, but was so like humility, that it produced all the softening influence of the latter quality on the public mind. The public is despotic in its temper; it is capable of denying common justice, when too strenuously demanded as a right; but quite as frequently it awards more than justice, when the appeal is made, as despots love to have it made, entirely to its generosity. Interpreting Hester Prynne's deportment as an appeal of this nature, society was inclined to show its former victim a more benign countenance than she cared to be favored with, or, perchance, than she deserved. The rulers, and the wise and learned men of the community, were longer in acknowledging the influence of Hester's good qualities than the people. The prejudices which they shared in common with the latter were fortified in themselves by an iron framework of reasoning, that made it a far tougher labor to expel them. Day by day, nevertheless, their sour and rigid wrinkles were relaxing into something which, in the due course of years, might grow to be an expression of almost benevolence. Thus it was with the men of rank, on whom their eminent position imposed the guardianship of the public morals. Individuals in private life, meanwhile, had quite forgiven Hester Prynne for her frailty; nay, more, they had begun to look upon the scarlet letter as the token, not of that one sin, for which she had borne so long and dreary a penance, but of her many good deeds since. "Do you see that woman with the embroidered badge?" they would say to strangers. "It is our Hester,--the town's own Hester, who is so kind to the poor, so helpful to the sick, so comfortable to the afflicted!" Then, it is true, the propensity of human nature to tell the very worst of itself, when embodied in the person of another, would constrain them to whisper the black scandal of bygone years. It was none the less a fact, however, that, in the eyes of the very men who spoke thus, the scarlet letter had the effect of the cross on a nun's bosom. It imparted to the wearer a kind of sacredness, which enabled her to walk securely amid all peril. Had she fallen among thieves, it would have kept her safe. It was reported, and believed by many, that an Indian had drawn his arrow against the badge, and that the missile struck it, but fell harmless to the ground. The effect of the symbol--or, rather, of the position in respect to society that was indicated by it--on the mind of Hester Prynne herself, was powerful and peculiar. All the light and graceful foliage of her character had been withered up by this red-hot brand, and had long ago fallen away, leaving a bare and harsh outline, which might have been repulsive, had she possessed friends or companions to be repelled by it. Even the attractiveness of her person had undergone a similar change. It might be partly owing to the studied austerity of her dress, and partly to the lack of demonstration in her manners. It was a sad transformation, too, that her rich and luxuriant hair had either been cut off, or was so completely hidden by a cap, that not a shining lock of it ever once gushed into the sunshine. It was due in part to all these causes, but still more to something else, that there seemed to be no longer anything in Hester's face for Love to dwell upon; nothing in Hester's form, though majestic and statue-like, that Passion would ever dream of clasping in its embrace; nothing in Hester's bosom, to make it ever again the pillow of Affection. Some attribute had departed from her, the permanence of which had been essential to keep her a woman. Such is frequently the fate, and such the stern development, of the feminine character and person, when the woman has encountered, and lived through, an experience of peculiar severity. If she be all tenderness, she will die. If she survive, the tenderness will either be crushed out of her, or--and the outward semblance is the same--crushed so deeply into her heart that it can never show itself more. The latter is perhaps the truest theory. She who has once been woman, and ceased to be so, might at any moment become a woman again if there were only the magic touch to effect the transfiguration. We shall see whether Hester Prynne were ever afterwards so touched, and so transfigured. Much of the marble coldness of Hester's impression was to be attributed to the circumstance, that her life had turned, in a great measure, from passion and feeling, to thought. Standing alone in the world,--alone, as to any dependence on society, and with little Pearl to be guided and protected,--alone, and hopeless of retrieving her position, even had she not scorned to consider it desirable,--she cast away the fragments of a broken chain. The world's law was no law for her mind. It was an age in which the human intellect, newly emancipated, had taken a more active and a wider range than for many centuries before. Men of the sword had overthrown nobles and kings. Men bolder than these had overthrown and rearranged--not actually, but within the sphere of theory, which was their most real abode--the whole system of ancient prejudice, wherewith was linked much of ancient principle. Hester Prynne imbibed this spirit. She assumed a freedom of speculation, then common enough on the other side of the Atlantic, but which our forefathers, had they known it, would have held to be a deadlier crime than that stigmatized by the scarlet letter. In her lonesome cottage, by the sea-shore, thoughts visited her, such as dared to enter no other dwelling in New England; shadowy guests, that would have been as perilous as demons to their entertainer, could they have been seen so much as knocking at her door. It is remarkable, that persons who speculate the most boldly often conform with the most perfect quietude to the external regulations of society. The thought suffices them, without investing itself in the flesh and blood of action. So it seemed to be with Hester. Yet, had little Pearl never come to her from the spiritual world, it might have been far otherwise. Then, she might have come down to us in history, hand in hand with Ann Hutchinson, as the foundress of a religious sect. She might, in one of her phases, have been a prophetess. She might, and not improbably would, have suffered death from the stern tribunals of the period, for attempting to undermine the foundations of the Puritan establishment. But, in the education of her child, the mother's enthusiasm of thought had something to wreak itself upon. Providence, in the person of this little girl, had assigned to Hester's charge the germ and blossom of womanhood, to be cherished and developed amid a host of difficulties. Everything was against her. The world was hostile. The child's own nature had something wrong in it, which continually betokened that she had been born amiss,--the effluence of her mother's lawless passion,--and often impelled Hester to ask, in bitterness of heart, whether it were for ill or good that the poor little creature had been born at all. Indeed, the same dark question often rose into her mind, with reference to the whole race of womanhood. Was existence worth accepting, even to the happiest among them? As concerned her own individual existence, she had long ago decided in the negative, and dismissed the point as settled. A tendency to speculation, though it may keep woman quiet, as it does man, yet makes her sad. She discerns, it may be, such a hopeless task before her. As a first step, the whole system of society is to be torn down, and built up anew. Then, the very nature of the opposite sex, or its long hereditary habit, which has become like nature, is to be essentially modified, before woman can be allowed to assume what seems a fair and suitable position. Finally, all other difficulties being obviated, woman cannot take advantage of these preliminary reforms, until she herself shall have undergone a still mightier change; in which, perhaps, the ethereal essence, wherein she has her truest life, will be found to have evaporated. A woman never overcomes these problems by any exercise of thought. They are not to be solved, or only in one way. If her heart chance to come uppermost, they vanish. Thus, Hester Prynne, whose heart had lost its regular and healthy throb, wandered without a clew in the dark labyrinth of mind; now turned aside by an insurmountable precipice; now starting back from a deep chasm. There was wild and ghastly scenery all around her, and a home and comfort nowhere. At times, a fearful doubt strove to possess her soul, whether it were not better to send Pearl at once to heaven, and go herself to such futurity as Eternal Justice should provide. The scarlet letter had not done its office. Now, however, her interview with the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, on the night of his vigil, had given her a new theme of reflection, and held up to her an object that appeared worthy of any exertion and sacrifice for its attainment. She had witnessed the intense misery beneath which the minister struggled, or, to speak more accurately, had ceased to struggle. She saw that he stood on the verge of lunacy, if he had not already stepped across it. It was impossible to doubt, that, whatever painful efficacy there might be in the secret sting of remorse, a deadlier venom had been infused into it by the hand that proffered relief. A secret enemy had been continually by his side, under the semblance of a friend and helper, and had availed himself of the opportunities thus afforded for tampering with the delicate springs of Mr. Dimmesdale's nature. Hester could not but ask herself, whether there had not originally been a defect of truth, courage, and loyalty, on her own part, in allowing the minister to be thrown into a position where so much evil was to be foreboded, and nothing auspicious to be hoped. Her only justification lay in the fact, that she had been able to discern no method of rescuing him from a blacker ruin than had overwhelmed herself, except by acquiescing in Roger Chillingworth's scheme of disguise. Under that impulse, she had made her choice, and had chosen, as it now appeared, the more wretched alternative of the two. She determined to redeem her error, so far as it might yet be possible. Strengthened by years of hard and solemn trial, she felt herself no longer so inadequate to cope with Roger Chillingworth as on that night, abased by sin, and half maddened by the ignominy that was still new, when they had talked together in the prison-chamber. She had climbed her way, since then, to a higher point. The old man, on the other hand, had brought himself nearer to her level, or perhaps below it, by the revenge which he had stooped for. Am Ende beschloss Hester Prynne, ihren früheren Ehemann zu treffen und zu tun, was auch immer in ihrer Macht stand, um das Opfer zu retten, auf das er offensichtlich so großen Einfluss hatte. Die Gelegenheit ließ nicht lange auf sich warten. An einem Nachmittag spazierte sie mit Pearl in einem abgelegenen Teil der Halbinsel und sah dort den alten Arzt, mit einem Korb in einem Arm und einem Stock in der anderen Hand, wie er sich bückte, um nach Wurzeln und Kräutern zu suchen, um seine Medikamente herzustellen. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Nach ihrem Gespräch mit Dimmesdale auf dem Schafott ist Hester schockiert über die Veränderungen in ihm. Obwohl er seinen Intellekt zu haben scheint, ist er nervlich am Ende. Er ist moralisch schwach und sie kann nur zu dem Schluss kommen, dass "eine schreckliche Maschinerie in Gang gesetzt wurde und immer noch auf Mr. Dimmesdales Wohl und Ruhe wirkt". Hester beschließt, dass sie die Pflicht hat, diesem Mann zu helfen. Vier Jahre sind vergangen und Hesters Stellung in der Gemeinschaft hat sich verändert: Sie wird dafür gelobt, ihre Schande mutig getragen zu haben und ihr Leben ist seit Pearls Geburt geprägt von Reinheit. Während Dimmesdales Predigten aufgrund seines Leidens menschlicher und gelobt werden, steigt Hesters Ansehen aufgrund ihrer Wohltätigkeit. Ihr scharlachroter Buchstabe steht nun für "Tüchtig". Doch dies hat seinen Preis: keine Freunde, keine Leidenschaft, keine Liebe oder Zuneigung. Durch Widrigkeiten hat Hester sich einen neuen Platz am Rand der puritanischen Gesellschaft geschaffen. Im Gegensatz dazu hat Dimmesdales geistiges Gleichgewicht stark gelitten. Nun muss sie dem Mann helfen, der scheinbar "am Rande des Wahnsinns" steht. Tatsächlich glaubt sie, dass es ein Fehler von ihr war, nicht schon früher vorzutreten. Also beschließt sie, mit ihrem Ehemann zu sprechen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: It was all very well to join them, but speaking to them proved quite as much as ever an effort beyond my strength--offered, in close quarters, difficulties as insurmountable as before. This situation continued a month, and with new aggravations and particular notes, the note above all, sharper and sharper, of the small ironic consciousness on the part of my pupils. It was not, I am as sure today as I was sure then, my mere infernal imagination: it was absolutely traceable that they were aware of my predicament and that this strange relation made, in a manner, for a long time, the air in which we moved. I don't mean that they had their tongues in their cheeks or did anything vulgar, for that was not one of their dangers: I do mean, on the other hand, that the element of the unnamed and untouched became, between us, greater than any other, and that so much avoidance could not have been so successfully effected without a great deal of tacit arrangement. It was as if, at moments, we were perpetually coming into sight of subjects before which we must stop short, turning suddenly out of alleys that we perceived to be blind, closing with a little bang that made us look at each other--for, like all bangs, it was something louder than we had intended--the doors we had indiscreetly opened. All roads lead to Rome, and there were times when it might have struck us that almost every branch of study or subject of conversation skirted forbidden ground. Forbidden ground was the question of the return of the dead in general and of whatever, in especial, might survive, in memory, of the friends little children had lost. There were days when I could have sworn that one of them had, with a small invisible nudge, said to the other: "She thinks she'll do it this time--but she WON'T!" To "do it" would have been to indulge for instance--and for once in a way--in some direct reference to the lady who had prepared them for my discipline. They had a delightful endless appetite for passages in my own history, to which I had again and again treated them; they were in possession of everything that had ever happened to me, had had, with every circumstance the story of my smallest adventures and of those of my brothers and sisters and of the cat and the dog at home, as well as many particulars of the eccentric nature of my father, of the furniture and arrangement of our house, and of the conversation of the old women of our village. There were things enough, taking one with another, to chatter about, if one went very fast and knew by instinct when to go round. They pulled with an art of their own the strings of my invention and my memory; and nothing else perhaps, when I thought of such occasions afterward, gave me so the suspicion of being watched from under cover. It was in any case over MY life, MY past, and MY friends alone that we could take anything like our ease--a state of affairs that led them sometimes without the least pertinence to break out into sociable reminders. I was invited--with no visible connection--to repeat afresh Goody Gosling's celebrated mot or to confirm the details already supplied as to the cleverness of the vicarage pony. It was partly at such junctures as these and partly at quite different ones that, with the turn my matters had now taken, my predicament, as I have called it, grew most sensible. The fact that the days passed for me without another encounter ought, it would have appeared, to have done something toward soothing my nerves. Since the light brush, that second night on the upper landing, of the presence of a woman at the foot of the stair, I had seen nothing, whether in or out of the house, that one had better not have seen. There was many a corner round which I expected to come upon Quint, and many a situation that, in a merely sinister way, would have favored the appearance of Miss Jessel. The summer had turned, the summer had gone; the autumn had dropped upon Bly and had blown out half our lights. The place, with its gray sky and withered garlands, its bared spaces and scattered dead leaves, was like a theater after the performance--all strewn with crumpled playbills. There were exactly states of the air, conditions of sound and of stillness, unspeakable impressions of the KIND of ministering moment, that brought back to me, long enough to catch it, the feeling of the medium in which, that June evening out of doors, I had had my first sight of Quint, and in which, too, at those other instants, I had, after seeing him through the window, looked for him in vain in the circle of shrubbery. I recognized the signs, the portents--I recognized the moment, the spot. But they remained unaccompanied and empty, and I continued unmolested; if unmolested one could call a young woman whose sensibility had, in the most extraordinary fashion, not declined but deepened. I had said in my talk with Mrs. Grose on that horrid scene of Flora's by the lake--and had perplexed her by so saying--that it would from that moment distress me much more to lose my power than to keep it. I had then expressed what was vividly in my mind: the truth that, whether the children really saw or not--since, that is, it was not yet definitely proved--I greatly preferred, as a safeguard, the fullness of my own exposure. I was ready to know the very worst that was to be known. What I had then had an ugly glimpse of was that my eyes might be sealed just while theirs were most opened. Well, my eyes WERE sealed, it appeared, at present--a consummation for which it seemed blasphemous not to thank God. There was, alas, a difficulty about that: I would have thanked him with all my soul had I not had in a proportionate measure this conviction of the secret of my pupils. How can I retrace today the strange steps of my obsession? There were times of our being together when I would have been ready to swear that, literally, in my presence, but with my direct sense of it closed, they had visitors who were known and were welcome. Then it was that, had I not been deterred by the very chance that such an injury might prove greater than the injury to be averted, my exultation would have broken out. "They're here, they're here, you little wretches," I would have cried, "and you can't deny it now!" The little wretches denied it with all the added volume of their sociability and their tenderness, in just the crystal depths of which--like the flash of a fish in a stream--the mockery of their advantage peeped up. The shock, in truth, had sunk into me still deeper than I knew on the night when, looking out to see either Quint or Miss Jessel under the stars, I had beheld the boy over whose rest I watched and who had immediately brought in with him--had straightway, there, turned it on me--the lovely upward look with which, from the battlements above me, the hideous apparition of Quint had played. If it was a question of a scare, my discovery on this occasion had scared me more than any other, and it was in the condition of nerves produced by it that I made my actual inductions. They harassed me so that sometimes, at odd moments, I shut myself up audibly to rehearse--it was at once a fantastic relief and a renewed despair--the manner in which I might come to the point. I approached it from one side and the other while, in my room, I flung myself about, but I always broke down in the monstrous utterance of names. As they died away on my lips, I said to myself that I should indeed help them to represent something infamous, if, by pronouncing them, I should violate as rare a little case of instinctive delicacy as any schoolroom, probably, had ever known. When I said to myself: "THEY have the manners to be silent, and you, trusted as you are, the baseness to speak!" I felt myself crimson and I covered my face with my hands. After these secret scenes I chattered more than ever, going on volubly enough till one of our prodigious, palpable hushes occurred--I can call them nothing else--the strange, dizzy lift or swim (I try for terms!) into a stillness, a pause of all life, that had nothing to do with the more or less noise that at the moment we might be engaged in making and that I could hear through any deepened exhilaration or quickened recitation or louder strum of the piano. Then it was that the others, the outsiders, were there. Though they were not angels, they "passed," as the French say, causing me, while they stayed, to tremble with the fear of their addressing to their younger victims some yet more infernal message or more vivid image than they had thought good enough for myself. What it was most impossible to get rid of was the cruel idea that, whatever I had seen, Miles and Flora saw MORE--things terrible and unguessable and that sprang from dreadful passages of intercourse in the past. Such things naturally left on the surface, for the time, a chill which we vociferously denied that we felt; and we had, all three, with repetition, got into such splendid training that we went, each time, almost automatically, to mark the close of the incident, through the very same movements. It was striking of the children, at all events, to kiss me inveterately with a kind of wild irrelevance and never to fail--one or the other--of the precious question that had helped us through many a peril. "When do you think he WILL come? Don't you think we OUGHT to write?"--there was nothing like that inquiry, we found by experience, for carrying off an awkwardness. "He" of course was their uncle in Harley Street; and we lived in much profusion of theory that he might at any moment arrive to mingle in our circle. It was impossible to have given less encouragement than he had done to such a doctrine, but if we had not had the doctrine to fall back upon we should have deprived each other of some of our finest exhibitions. He never wrote to them--that may have been selfish, but it was a part of the flattery of his trust of me; for the way in which a man pays his highest tribute to a woman is apt to be but by the more festal celebration of one of the sacred laws of his comfort; and I held that I carried out the spirit of the pledge given not to appeal to him when I let my charges understand that their own letters were but charming literary exercises. They were too beautiful to be posted; I kept them myself; I have them all to this hour. This was a rule indeed which only added to the satiric effect of my being plied with the supposition that he might at any moment be among us. It was exactly as if my charges knew how almost more awkward than anything else that might be for me. There appears to me, moreover, as I look back, no note in all this more extraordinary than the mere fact that, in spite of my tension and of their triumph, I never lost patience with them. Adorable they must in truth have been, I now reflect, that I didn't in these days hate them! Would exasperation, however, if relief had longer been postponed, finally have betrayed me? It little matters, for relief arrived. I call it relief, though it was only the relief that a snap brings to a strain or the burst of a thunderstorm to a day of suffocation. It was at least change, and it came with a rush. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Einen Monat lang lebt die Gouvernante in einem unangenehmen Zustand des Misstrauens gegenüber ihren Schützlingen und sagt nichts. In all dem sind die Wahrnehmungen der Gouvernante schärfer als je zuvor. Sie ist sich sicher, dass es nicht ihre Einbildung ist, sondern dass Flora und Miles von ihrem Wissen wissen. Gespräche nehmen scharfe Wendungen, wann immer sie das Thema der Toten oder des Lebens nach dem Tod ansprechen. Die Kinder scheinen zu wissen, dass sie das Thema Quint und Miss Jessel zur Sprache bringen möchte, es aber nicht kann. Stattdessen drehen sich alle Gespräche um die Familie, Nachbarn und sogar Haustiere der Gouvernante, aber keines berührt die Vergangenheit der Kinder. Die ständigen Fragen der Kinder über ihr Leben machen sie am meisten misstrauisch hinsichtlich ihrer Absichten. Seitdem sie Miss Jessel auf der Treppe gesehen hat, hat sich der Sommer in den Herbst verwandelt und sie hat seitdem keinen der Geister mehr getroffen. Auch wenn es viele Gelegenheiten gab, in denen sie erwartet hat, sie zu sehen, aufgrund des ähnlichen Wetters wie in der ersten Nacht, in der sie Quint gesehen hat, hat sie sie überhaupt nicht gesehen. Tatsächlich wünscht sie sich, sie sehen zu können und das Schlimmste zu wissen, und fragt sich, ob sie ihre Fähigkeit, die Geister zu sehen, verloren hat. Dies beängstigt sie besonders, weil sie glaubt, dass die Kinder die Geister weiterhin sehen, auch wenn sie es nicht kann. Manchmal ist sie mit den Kindern zusammen, wenn sie sicher ist, dass auch die Geister anwesend sind, wenn auch unsichtbar für sie. Sie möchte die Kinder zur Rede stellen, aber ihr Verhalten in diesen Momenten ist umso freundlicher und süßer. Sie übt ihre Konfrontationen, wenn sie alleine in ihrem Zimmer ist, aber selbst dort kann sie sich nicht dazu bringen, von Quint und Miss Jessel zu sprechen. Es ist, als ob es einen Verhaltenskodex gibt, der nicht verletzt werden kann, auch wenn in der Schulstube eine Stille herrscht, die sie sicher macht, dass die Geister anwesend sind. Ihre größte Angst ist, dass die Kinder noch schlimmere Dinge sehen als sie – und immer wenn dieser Gedanke auftaucht, scheint es ein Ritual zu geben, bei dem sie und die Kinder dies leugnen, indem sie sich küssen und erwähnen, dass sie ihrem Onkel in der Harley Street schreiben werden. Das Warten auf den Besuch des Onkels ist eine häufige Situation und die Gouvernante erlaubt den Kindern, Briefe an ihn zu schreiben, die sie nicht abschickt. Sein Versäumnis zu schreiben oder zu besuchen sieht sie nicht als egoistisch an, sondern als Beweis für sein Vertrauen in sie. An diesem Punkt, sagt sie, hasst sie die Kinder noch nicht und sie fragt sich, ob, wenn nichts anderes passiert wäre, sie frustriert geworden wäre und sie schließlich zur Rede gestellt hätte.

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Nun, ich zweifle nicht daran, dass ich für all das einen fairen Tod sterben werde, wenn ich für den Mord an diesem Schurken nicht gehängt werde. Ich habe seinen Umgang stündlich seit zweiundzwanzig Jahren abgeschworen, und dennoch bin ich von der Gesellschaft der Schurken verhext. Wenn der Schurke mir nicht Medizin gegeben hat, um mich in ihn verliebt zu machen, dann werde ich gehängt werden; es kann nicht anders sein: Ich habe Medizin getrunken. Poines, Hal, verdammte euch beide. Bardolph, Peto: Ich werde lieber verhungern, als auch nur einen Schritt weiter zu stehlen. Und wenn es nicht so gut wäre wie trinken, ein ehrlicher Mann zu sein und diese Schurken zu verlassen, dann bin ich der elendeste Schurke, der je mit einem Zahn gekaut hat. Acht Yards unebener Boden sind mit mir vierundsiebzig Meilen zu Fuß: Und diese herzlosen Schurken wissen es nur allzu gut. Ein Fluch darauf, wenn Diebe nicht einmal einander vertrauen können. Sie pfeifen. Whew: Verflucht sollen sie alle sein. Gebt mir mein Pferd, ihr Schurken: Gebt mir mein Pferd und hängt euch. Prinz: Ruhe du fetter Bauch, leg dich hin, leg dein Ohr dicht an den Boden und hör zu, ob du die Schritte der Reisenden hören kannst. Falstaff: Hast du einen Hebel, um mich wieder hochzuziehen, wenn ich unten bin? Ich werde meinen eigenen Körper nicht so weit laufen, nicht für all das Geld in der Schatzkammer deines Vaters. Was zum Teufel meinst du damit, mich so zu hintergehen? Prinz: Du lügst, du wurdest nicht hereingelegt, du wurdest nicht getäuscht. Falstaff: Ich bitte dich, guter Prinz Hal, hilf mir auf mein Pferd, guter Königssohn. Prinz: Wirst du mein Stallbursche sein? Falstaff: Häng dich selbst an deinen eigenen Erbfolgegürtel: Wenn ich erwischt werde, werde ich euch alle verraten: Und wenn ich auf allen Balladen singe, die zu schmutzigen Melodien gesungen werden, dann sei ein Becher Sack mein Gift: Wenn ein Witz so weit geht, und ein Fuß auch, dann hasse ich es. Betritt Gads-Hill. Gad: Steht. Falstaff: Das mache ich widerwillig. Poines: Oh, das ist unser Verräter, ich erkenne seine Stimme. Bardolph, was gibt es Neues? Bardolph: Schwieg, schwieg, auf mit euren Masken, da sind viele Leute des Königs auf dem Weg den Hügel hinunter, sie gehen zur königlichen Schatzkammer. Falstaff: Du lügst, du Schurke, sie gehen in den königlichen Gasthof. Gad: Da gibt es genug, um uns alle zu machen. Falstaff: Zum Aufhängen. Prinz: Ihr vier sollt sie in der schmalen Gasse stellen: Ned und ich werden tiefer gehen; wenn sie eurer Begegnung entkommen, dann treffen sie auf uns. Peto: Aber wie viele sind es? Gad: Ungefähr acht oder zehn. Falstaff: Werden sie uns nicht ausrauben? Prinz: Was, ein feiger Sir John Wanst? Falstaff: In der Tat, ich bin nicht John von Gaunt, dein Großvater; aber doch kein Feigling, Hal. Prinz: Das werden wir sehen. Poines: Hör zu, Jack, dein Pferd steht hinter der Hecke, dort findest du ihn, wenn du ihn brauchst. Leb wohl und bleib standhaft. Falstaff: Jetzt kann ich ihn nicht schlagen, wenn ich gehängt würde. Prinz: Ned, wo sind unsere Verkleidungen? Poines: Hier gleich in der Nähe: Steht dicht beieinander. Falstaff: Jetzt, meine Herren, möge das Glück euch begünstigen, sage ich: Jeder Mann kümmere sich um sein Geschäft. Betritt Reisende. Reisender: Komm, Nachbar: Der Junge wird unsere Pferde den Hügel hinunterführen: Wir werden eine Weile zu Fuß gehen und unsere Beine ausruhen. Diebe: Halt. Reisender: Jesus, hilf uns. Falstaff: Schlachtet sie nieder, schlitzt ihnen die Kehlen auf; verdammte Raupen: Mit Speck gefütterte Schurken, sie hassen uns Jungen; nieder mit ihnen, plündert sie aus. Reisender: Oh, wir sind verloren, für immer wir und unsere. Falstaff: Hängt euch auf, ihr Knallköpfe, seid ihr verloren? Nein, ihr fetten Lumpen, ich wünschte, euer Vorrat wäre hier. Weiter, weiter mit euch, ihr Schurken! Junge Männer müssen leben! Ihr seid die großen Geschworenem, nicht wahr? Wir werden das schwören, wenn es sein muss. Sie rauben sie aus und binden sie fest. Der Prinz und Poines treten auf. Prinz: Die Diebe haben die ehrlichen Männer gefesselt: Nun könnten du und ich die Diebe ausrauben und fröhlich nach London reiten, das wäre eine Woche lang ein Argument, ein Monat lang ein Gelächter und ein guter Scherz für immer. Poines: Steht dicht beieinander, ich höre sie kommen. Die Diebe treten wieder auf. Falstaff: Kommt, meine Herren, lasst uns teilen und dann vor Sonnenaufgang abreisen: Wenn der Prinz und Poines nicht zwei erbärmliche Feiglinge sind, dann ist hier nichts, was uns aufhalten könnte. In Poines steckt nicht mehr Mut als in einer wilden Ente. Prinz: Gebt euer Geld her. Poines: Schurken. Während sie sich aufteilen, greifen der Prinz und Poines sie an. Sie rennen alle weg und lassen die Beute zurück. Prinz: Mit Leichtigkeit erbeutet. Nun, fröhlich aufs Pferd: Die Diebe sind zerstreut und so sehr von Angst erfüllt, dass sie sich nicht gegenseitig treffen wollen: Jeder hält seinen Kameraden für einen Offizier. Auf geht's, gut Ned, Falstaff schwitzt zu Tode und fettet die schlanke Erde, während er geht: Wenn es nicht zum Lachen wäre, würde ich Mitleid mit ihm haben. Poines: Wie der Schurke gebrüllt hat. Abgang. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Räuber tauchen in der Nähe von Gad's Hill auf. Poins verkündet, dass er Falstaffs Pferd versteckt hat und verschwindet mit Bardolph und Peto, als Falstaff hereintritt und ihn verflucht. Hal bietet an, Poins zu suchen, und Falstaff fängt an zu meckern. Als Hal und die anderen zurückkehren, verflucht er sie und verlangt sein Pferd. Hal sagt ihm, dass er ruhig sein und den Reisenden zuhören soll, und neckt ihn wegen seines fehlenden Pferdes. Falstaff bittet Hal dann, ihm bei der Suche nach seinem Pferd zu helfen, und als der Prinz ablehnt, verflucht er ihn weiter. Gadshill tritt ein und verkündet, dass die Reisenden auf dem Weg sind. Hal stellt den Plan vor: Bardolph, Peto, Gadshill und Falstaff werden die Reisenden in einer engen Gasse angreifen, während Hal und Poins unten warten, falls die Reisenden aus dem Angriff der ersten Gruppe entkommen. Die Räuber teilen sich auf. Die Reisenden kommen den Hügel hinunter, wo sie von der ersten Gruppe ausgeraubt und gefesselt werden. Falstaff sagt, dass Hal und Poins Feiglinge sind und keinen Anteil an der Beute verdienen. Als sie anfangen, sie aufzuteilen, erscheinen Hal und Poins verkleidet und rauben sie aus. Gadshill, Bardolph und Peto laufen sofort weg. Falstaff kämpft einen Moment lang und flieht dann ebenfalls. Hal und Poins sammeln die Beute und lachen über ihr Abenteuer.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: CHAPTER XII Some pow'r impart the spear and shield, At which the wizard passions fly, By which the giant follies die. COLLINS Madame Cheron's house stood at a little distance from the city of Tholouse, and was surrounded by extensive gardens, in which Emily, who had risen early, amused herself with wandering before breakfast. From a terrace, that extended along the highest part of them, was a wide view over Languedoc. On the distant horizon to the south, she discovered the wild summits of the Pyrenees, and her fancy immediately painted the green pastures of Gascony at their feet. Her heart pointed to her peaceful home--to the neighbourhood where Valancourt was--where St. Aubert had been; and her imagination, piercing the veil of distance, brought that home to her eyes in all its interesting and romantic beauty. She experienced an inexpressible pleasure in believing, that she beheld the country around it, though no feature could be distinguished, except the retiring chain of the Pyrenees; and, inattentive to the scene immediately before her, and to the flight of time, she continued to lean on the window of a pavilion, that terminated the terrace, with her eyes fixed on Gascony, and her mind occupied with the interesting ideas which the view of it awakened, till a servant came to tell her breakfast was ready. Her thoughts thus recalled to the surrounding objects, the straight walks, square parterres, and artificial fountains of the garden, could not fail, as she passed through it, to appear the worse, opposed to the negligent graces, and natural beauties of the grounds of La Vallee, upon which her recollection had been so intensely employed. 'Whither have you been rambling so early?' said Madame Cheron, as her niece entered the breakfast-room. 'I don't approve of these solitary walks;' and Emily was surprised, when, having informed her aunt, that she had been no further than the gardens, she understood these to be included in the reproof. 'I desire you will not walk there again at so early an hour unattended,' said Madame Cheron; 'my gardens are very extensive; and a young woman, who can make assignations by moon-light, at La Vallee, is not to be trusted to her own inclinations elsewhere.' Emily, extremely surprised and shocked, had scarcely power to beg an explanation of these words, and, when she did, her aunt absolutely refused to give it, though, by her severe looks, and half sentences, she appeared anxious to impress Emily with a belief, that she was well informed of some degrading circumstances of her conduct. Conscious innocence could not prevent a blush from stealing over Emily's cheek; she trembled, and looked confusedly under the bold eye of Madame Cheron, who blushed also; but hers was the blush of triumph, such as sometimes stains the countenance of a person, congratulating himself on the penetration which had taught him to suspect another, and who loses both pity for the supposed criminal, and indignation of his guilt, in the gratification of his own vanity. Emily, not doubting that her aunt's mistake arose from the having observed her ramble in the garden on the night preceding her departure from La Vallee, now mentioned the motive of it, at which Madame Cheron smiled contemptuously, refusing either to accept this explanation, or to give her reasons for refusing it; and, soon after, she concluded the subject by saying, 'I never trust people's assertions, I always judge of them by their actions; but I am willing to try what will be your behaviour in future.' Emily, less surprised by her aunt's moderation and mysterious silence, than by the accusation she had received, deeply considered the latter, and scarcely doubted, that it was Valancourt whom she had seen at night in the gardens of La Vallee, and that he had been observed there by Madame Cheron; who now passing from one painful topic only to revive another almost equally so, spoke of the situation of her niece's property, in the hands of M. Motteville. While she thus talked with ostentatious pity of Emily's misfortunes, she failed not to inculcate the duties of humility and gratitude, or to render Emily fully sensible of every cruel mortification, who soon perceived, that she was to be considered as a dependant, not only by her aunt, but by her aunt's servants. She was now informed, that a large party were expected to dinner, on which account Madame Cheron repeated the lesson of the preceding night, concerning her conduct in company, and Emily wished, that she might have courage enough to practise it. Her aunt then proceeded to examine the simplicity of her dress, adding, that she expected to see her attired with gaiety and taste; after which she condescended to shew Emily the splendour of her chateau, and to point out the particular beauty, or elegance, which she thought distinguished each of her numerous suites of apartments. She then withdrew to her toilet, the throne of her homage, and Emily to her chamber, to unpack her books, and to try to charm her mind by reading, till the hour of dressing. When the company arrived, Emily entered the saloon with an air of timidity, which all her efforts could not overcome, and which was increased by the consciousness of Madame Cheron's severe observation. Her mourning dress, the mild dejection of her beautiful countenance, and the retiring diffidence of her manner, rendered her a very interesting object to many of the company; among whom she distinguished Signor Montoni, and his friend Cavigni, the late visitors at M. Quesnel's, who now seemed to converse with Madame Cheron with the familiarity of old acquaintance, and she to attend to them with particular pleasure. This Signor Montoni had an air of conscious superiority, animated by spirit, and strengthened by talents, to which every person seemed involuntarily to yield. The quickness of his perceptions was strikingly expressed on his countenance, yet that countenance could submit implicitly to occasion; and, more than once in this day, the triumph of art over nature might have been discerned in it. His visage was long, and rather narrow, yet he was called handsome; and it was, perhaps, the spirit and vigour of his soul, sparkling through his features, that triumphed for him. Emily felt admiration, but not the admiration that leads to esteem; for it was mixed with a degree of fear she knew not exactly wherefore. Cavigni was gay and insinuating as formerly; and, though he paid almost incessant attention to Madame Cheron, he found some opportunities of conversing with Emily, to whom he directed, at first, the sallies of his wit, but now and then assumed an air of tenderness, which she observed, and shrunk from. Though she replied but little, the gentleness and sweetness of her manners encouraged him to talk, and she felt relieved when a young lady of the party, who spoke incessantly, obtruded herself on his notice. This lady, who possessed all the sprightliness of a Frenchwoman, with all her coquetry, affected to understand every subject, or rather there was no affectation in the case; for, never looking beyond the limits of her own ignorance, she believed she had nothing to learn. She attracted notice from all; amused some, disgusted others for a moment, and was then forgotten. This day passed without any material occurrence; and Emily, though amused by the characters she had seen, was glad when she could retire to the recollections, which had acquired with her the character of duties. A fortnight passed in a round of dissipation and company, and Emily, who attended Madame Cheron in all her visits, was sometimes entertained, but oftener wearied. She was struck by the apparent talents and knowledge displayed in the various conversations she listened to, and it was long before she discovered, that the talents were for the most part those of imposture, and the knowledge nothing more than was necessary to assist them. But what deceived her most, was the air of constant gaiety and good spirits, displayed by every visitor, and which she supposed to arise from content as constant, and from benevolence as ready. At length, from the over-acting of some, less accomplished than the others, she could perceive, that, though contentment and benevolence are the only sure sources of cheerfulness, the immoderate and feverish animation, usually exhibited in large parties, results partly from an insensibility to the cares, which benevolence must sometimes derive from the sufferings of others, and partly from a desire to display the appearance of that prosperity, which they know will command submission and attention to themselves. Emily's pleasantest hours were passed in the pavilion of the terrace, to which she retired, when she could steal from observation, with a book to overcome, or a lute to indulge, her melancholy. There, as she sat with her eyes fixed on the far-distant Pyrenees, and her thoughts on Valancourt and the beloved scenes of Gascony, she would play the sweet and melancholy songs of her native province--the popular songs she had listened to from her childhood. One evening, having excused herself from accompanying her aunt abroad, she thus withdrew to the pavilion, with books and her lute. It was the mild and beautiful evening of a sultry day, and the windows, which fronted the west, opened upon all the glory of a setting sun. Its rays illuminated, with strong splendour, the cliffs of the Pyrenees, and touched their snowy tops with a roseate hue, that remained, long after the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the shades of twilight had stolen over the landscape. Emily touched her lute with that fine melancholy expression, which came from her heart. The pensive hour and the scene, the evening light on the Garonne, that flowed at no great distance, and whose waves, as they passed towards La Vallee, she often viewed with a sigh,--these united circumstances disposed her mind to tenderness, and her thoughts were with Valancourt, of whom she had heard nothing since her arrival at Tholouse, and now that she was removed from him, and in uncertainty, she perceived all the interest he held in her heart. Before she saw Valancourt she had never met a mind and taste so accordant with her own, and, though Madame Cheron told her much of the arts of dissimulation, and that the elegance and propriety of thought, which she so much admired in her lover, were assumed for the purpose of pleasing her, she could scarcely doubt their truth. This possibility, however, faint as it was, was sufficient to harass her mind with anxiety, and she found, that few conditions are more painful than that of uncertainty, as to the merit of a beloved object; an uncertainty, which she would not have suffered, had her confidence in her own opinions been greater. She was awakened from her musing by the sound of horses' feet along a road, that wound under the windows of the pavilion, and a gentleman passed on horseback, whose resemblance to Valancourt, in air and figure, for the twilight did not permit a view of his features, immediately struck her. She retired hastily from the lattice, fearing to be seen, yet wishing to observe further, while the stranger passed on without looking up, and, when she returned to the lattice, she saw him faintly through the twilight, winding under the high trees, that led to Tholouse. This little incident so much disturbed her spirits, that the temple and its scenery were no longer interesting to her, and, after walking awhile on the terrace, she returned to the chateau. Madame Cheron, whether she had seen a rival admired, had lost at play, or had witnessed an entertainment more splendid than her own, was returned from her visit with a temper more than usually discomposed; and Emily was glad, when the hour arrived, in which she could retire to the solitude of her own apartment. On the following morning, she was summoned to Madame Cheron, whose countenance was inflamed with resentment, and, as Emily advanced, she held out a letter to her. 'Do you know this hand?' said she, in a severe tone, and with a look that was intended to search her heart, while Emily examined the letter attentively, and assured her, that she did not. 'Do not provoke me,' said her aunt; 'you do know it, confess the truth immediately. I insist upon your confessing the truth instantly.' Emily was silent, and turned to leave the room, but Madame called her back. 'O you are guilty, then,' said she, 'you do know the hand.' 'If you was before in doubt of this, madam,' replied Emily calmly, 'why did you accuse me of having told a falsehood.' Madame Cheron did not blush; but her niece did, a moment after, when she heard the name of Valancourt. It was not, however, with the consciousness of deserving reproof, for, if she ever had seen his hand-writing, the present characters did not bring it to her recollection. 'It is useless to deny it,' said Madame Cheron, 'I see in your countenance, that you are no stranger to this letter; and, I dare say, you have received many such from this impertinent young man, without my knowledge, in my own house.' Emily, shocked at the indelicacy of this accusation, still more than by the vulgarity of the former, instantly forgot the pride, that had imposed silence, and endeavoured to vindicate herself from the aspersion, but Madame Cheron was not to be convinced. 'I cannot suppose,' she resumed, 'that this young man would have taken the liberty of writing to me, if you had not encouraged him to do so, and I must now'--'You will allow me to remind you, madam,' said Emily timidly, 'of some particulars of a conversation we had at La Vallee. I then told you truly, that I had only not forbade Monsieur Valancourt from addressing my family.' 'I will not be interrupted,' said Madame Cheron, interrupting her niece, 'I was going to say--I--I-have forgot what I was going to say. But how happened it that you did not forbid him?' Emily was silent. 'How happened it that you encouraged him to trouble me with this letter?--A young man that nobody knows;--an utter stranger in the place,--a young adventurer, no doubt, who is looking out for a good fortune. However, on that point he has mistaken his aim.' 'His family was known to my father,' said Emily modestly, and without appearing to be sensible of the last sentence. 'O! that is no recommendation at all,' replied her aunt, with her usual readiness upon this topic; 'he took such strange fancies to people! He was always judging persons by their countenances, and was continually deceived.' 'Yet it was but now, madam, that you judged me guilty by my countenance,' said Emily, with a design of reproving Madame Cheron, to which she was induced by this disrespectful mention of her father. 'I called you here,' resumed her aunt, colouring, 'to tell you, that I will not be disturbed in my own house by any letters, or visits from young men, who may take a fancy to flatter you. This M. de Valantine--I think you call him, has the impertinence to beg I will permit him to pay his respects to me! I shall send him a proper answer. And for you, Emily, I repeat it once for all--if you are not contented to conform to my directions, and to my way of live, I shall give up the task of overlooking your conduct--I shall no longer trouble myself with your education, but shall send you to board in a convent.' 'Dear madam,' said Emily, bursting into tears, and overcome by the rude suspicions her aunt had expressed, 'how have I deserved these reproofs?' She could say no more; and so very fearful was she of acting with any degree of impropriety in the affair itself, that, at the present moment, Madame Cheron might perhaps have prevailed with her to bind herself by a promise to renounce Valancourt for ever. Her mind, weakened by her terrors, would no longer suffer her to view him as she had formerly done; she feared the error of her own judgment, not that of Madame Cheron, and feared also, that, in her former conversation with him, at La Vallee, she had not conducted herself with sufficient reserve. She knew, that she did not deserve the coarse suspicions, which her aunt had thrown out, but a thousand scruples rose to torment her, such as would never have disturbed the peace of Madame Cheron. Thus rendered anxious to avoid every opportunity of erring, and willing to submit to any restrictions, that her aunt should think proper, she expressed an obedience, to which Madame Cheron did not give much confidence, and which she seemed to consider as the consequence of either fear, or artifice. 'Well, then,' said she, 'promise me that you will neither see this young man, nor write to him without my consent.' 'Dear madam,' replied Emily, 'can you suppose I would do either, unknown to you!' 'I don't know what to suppose; there is no knowing how young women will act. It is difficult to place any confidence in them, for they have seldom sense enough to wish for the respect of the world.' 'Alas, madam!' said Emily, 'I am anxious for my own respect; my father taught me the value of that; he said if I deserved my own esteem, that the world would follow of course.' 'My brother was a good kind of a man,' replied Madame Cheron, 'but he did not know the world. I am sure I have always felt a proper respect for myself, yet--' she stopped, but she might have added, that the world had not always shewn respect to her, and this without impeaching its judgment. 'Well!' resumed Madame Cheron, 'you have not give me the promise, though, that I demand.' Emily readily gave it, and, being then suffered to withdraw, she walked in the garden; tried to compose her spirits, and, at length, arrived at her favourite pavilion at the end of the terrace, where, seating herself at one of the embowered windows, that opened upon a balcony, the stillness and seclusion of the scene allowed her to recollect her thoughts, and to arrange them so as to form a clearer judgment of her former conduct. She endeavoured to review with exactness all the particulars of her conversation with Valancourt at La Vallee, had the satisfaction to observe nothing, that could alarm her delicate pride, and thus to be confirmed in the self-esteem, which was so necessary to her peace. Her mind then became tranquil, and she saw Valancourt amiable and intelligent, as he had formerly appeared, and Madame Cheron neither the one, or the other. The remembrance of her lover, however, brought with it many very painful emotions, for it by no means reconciled her to the thought of resigning him; and, Madame Cheron having already shewn how highly she disapproved of the attachment, she foresaw much suffering from the opposition of interests; yet with all this was mingled a degree of delight, which, in spite of reason, partook of hope. She determined, however, that no consideration should induce her to permit a clandestine correspondence, and to observe in her conversation with Valancourt, should they ever meet again, the same nicety of reserve, which had hitherto marked her conduct. As she repeated the words--'should we ever meet again!' she shrunk as if this was a circumstance, which had never before occurred to her, and tears came to her eyes, which she hastily dried, for she heard footsteps approaching, and then the door of the pavilion open, and, on turning, she saw--Valancourt. An emotion of mingled pleasure, surprise and apprehension pressed so suddenly upon her heart as almost to overcome her spirits; the colour left her cheeks, then returned brighter than before, and she was for a moment unable to speak, or to rise from her chair. His countenance was the mirror, in which she saw her own emotions reflected, and it roused her to self-command. The joy, which had animated his features, when he entered the pavilion, was suddenly repressed, as, approaching, he perceived her agitation, and, in a tremulous voice, enquired after her health. Recovered from her first surprise, she answered him with a tempered smile; but a variety of opposite emotions still assailed her heart, and struggled to subdue the mild dignity of her manner. It was difficult to tell which predominated--the joy of seeing Valancourt, or the terror of her aunt's displeasure, when she should hear of this meeting. After some short and embarrassed conversation, she led him into the gardens, and enquired if he had seen Madame Cheron. 'No,' said he, 'I have not yet seen her, for they told me she was engaged, and as soon as I learned that you were in the gardens, I came hither.' He paused a moment, in great agitation, and then added, 'May I venture to tell you the purport of my visit, without incurring your displeasure, and to hope, that you will not accuse me of precipitation in now availing myself of the permission you once gave me of addressing your family?' Emily, who knew not what to reply, was spared from further perplexity, and was sensible only of fear, when on raising her eyes, she saw Madame Cheron turn into the avenue. As the consciousness of innocence returned, this fear was so far dissipated as to permit her to appear tranquil, and, instead of avoiding her aunt, she advanced with Valancourt to meet her. The look of haughty and impatient displeasure, with which Madame Cheron regarded them, made Emily shrink, who understood from a single glance, that this meeting was believed to have been more than accidental: having mentioned Valancourt's name, she became again too much agitated to remain with them, and returned into the chateau; where she awaited long, in a state of trembling anxiety, the conclusion of the conference. She knew not how to account for Valancourt's visit to her aunt, before he had received the permission he solicited, since she was ignorant of a circumstance, which would have rendered the request useless, even if Madame Cheron had been inclined to grant it. Valancourt, in the agitation of his spirits, had forgotten to date his letter, so that it was impossible for Madame Cheron to return an answer; and, when he recollected this circumstance, he was, perhaps, not so sorry for the omission as glad of the excuse it allowed him for waiting on her before she could send a refusal. Madame Cheron had a long conversation with Valancourt, and, when she returned to the chateau, her countenance expressed ill-humour, but not the degree of severity, which Emily had apprehended. 'I have dismissed this young man, at last,' said she, 'and I hope my house will never again be disturbed with similar visits. He assures me, that your interview was not preconcerted.' 'Dear madam!' said Emily in extreme emotion, 'you surely did not ask him the question!' 'Most certainly I did; you could not suppose I should be so imprudent as to neglect it.' 'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, 'what an opinion must he form of me, since you, Madam, could express a suspicion of such ill conduct!' 'It is of very little consequence what opinion he may form of you,' replied her aunt, 'for I have put an end to the affair; but I believe he will not form a worse opinion of me for my prudent conduct. I let him see, that I was not to be trifled with, and that I had more delicacy, than to permit any clandestine correspondence to be carried on in my house.' Emily had frequently heard Madame Cheron use the word delicacy, but she was now more than usually perplexed to understand how she meant to apply it in this instance, in which her whole conduct appeared to merit the very reverse of the term. 'It was very inconsiderate of my brother,' resumed Madame Cheron, 'to leave the trouble of overlooking your conduct to me; I wish you was well settled in life. But if I find, that I am to be further troubled with such visitors as this M. Valancourt, I shall place you in a convent at once;--so remember the alternative. This young man has the impertinence to own to me,--he owns it! that his fortune is very small, and that he is chiefly dependent on an elder brother and on the profession he has chosen! He should have concealed these circumstances, at least, if he expected to succeed with me. Had he the presumption to suppose I would marry my niece to a person such as he describes himself!' Emily dried her tears when she heard of the candid confession of Valancourt; and, though the circumstances it discovered were afflicting to her hopes, his artless conduct gave her a degree of pleasure, that overcame every other emotion. But she was compelled, even thus early in life, to observe, that good sense and noble integrity are not always sufficient to cope with folly and narrow cunning; and her heart was pure enough to allow her, even at this trying moment, to look with more pride on the defeat of the former, than with mortification on the conquests of the latter. Madame Cheron pursued her triumph. 'He has also thought proper to tell me, that he will receive his dismission from no person but yourself; this favour, however, I have absolutely refused him. He shall learn, that it is quite sufficient, that I disapprove him. And I take this opportunity of repeating,--that if you concert any means of interview unknown to me, you shall leave my house immediately.' 'How little do you know me, madam, that you should think such an injunction necessary!' said Emily, trying to suppress her emotion, 'how little of the dear parents, who educated me!' Madame Cheron now went to dress for an engagement, which she had made for the evening; and Emily, who would gladly have been excused from attending her aunt, did not ask to remain at home lest her request should be attributed to an improper motive. When she retired to her own room, the little fortitude, which had supported her in the presence of her relation, forsook her; she remembered only that Valancourt, whose character appeared more amiable from every circumstance, that unfolded it, was banished from her presence, perhaps, for ever, and she passed the time in weeping, which, according to her aunt's direction, she ought to have employed in dressing. This important duty was, however, quickly dispatched; though, when she joined Madame Cheron at table, her eyes betrayed, that she had been in tears, and drew upon her a severe reproof. Her efforts to appear cheerful did not entirely fail when she joined the company at the house of Madame Clairval, an elderly widow lady, who had lately come to reside at Tholouse, on an estate of her late husband. She had lived many years at Paris in a splendid style; had naturally a gay temper, and, since her residence at Tholouse, had given some of the most magnificent entertainments, that had been seen in that neighbourhood. These excited not only the envy, but the trifling ambition of Madame Cheron, who, since she could not rival the splendour of her festivities, was desirous of being ranked in the number of her most intimate friends. For this purpose she paid her the most obsequious attention, and made a point of being disengaged, whenever she received an invitation from Madame Clairval, of whom she talked, wherever she went, and derived much self-consequence from impressing a belief on her general acquaintance, that they were on the most familiar footing. The entertainments of this evening consisted of a ball and supper; it was a fancy ball, and the company danced in groups in the gardens, which were very extensive. The high and luxuriant trees, under which the groups assembled, were illuminated with a profusion of lamps, disposed with taste and fancy. The gay and various dresses of the company, some of whom were seated on the turf, conversing at their ease, observing the cotillons, taking refreshments, and sometimes touching sportively a guitar; the gallant manners of the gentlemen, the exquisitely capricious air of the ladies; the light fantastic steps of their dances; the musicians, with the lute, the hautboy, and the tabor, seated at the foot of an elm, and the sylvan scenery of woods around were circumstances, that unitedly formed a characteristic and striking picture of French festivity. Emily surveyed the gaiety of the scene with a melancholy kind of pleasure, and her emotion may be imagined when, as she stood with her aunt, looking at one of the groups, she perceived Valancourt; saw him dancing with a young and beautiful lady, saw him conversing with her with a mixture of attention and familiarity, such as she had seldom observed in his manner. She turned hastily from the scene, and attempted to draw away Madame Cheron, who was conversing with Signor Cavigni, and neither perceived Valancourt, or was willing to be interrupted. A faintness suddenly came over Emily, and, unable to support herself, she sat down on a turf bank beneath the trees, where several other persons were seated. One of these, observing the extreme paleness of her countenance, enquired if she was ill, and begged she would allow him to fetch her a glass of water, for which politeness she thanked him, but did not accept it. Her apprehension lest Valancourt should observe her emotion made her anxious to overcome it, and she succeeded so far as to re-compose her countenance. Madame Cheron was still conversing with Cavigni; and the Count Bauvillers, who had addressed Emily, made some observations upon the scene, to which she answered almost unconsciously, for her mind was still occupied with the idea of Valancourt, to whom it was with extreme uneasiness that she remained so near. Some remarks, however, which the Count made upon the dance obliged her to turn her eyes towards it, and, at that moment, Valancourt's met hers. Her colour faded again, she felt, that she was relapsing into faintness, and instantly averted her looks, but not before she had observed the altered countenance of Valancourt, on perceiving her. She would have left the spot immediately, had she not been conscious, that this conduct would have shewn him more obviously the interest he held in her heart; and, having tried to attend to the Count's conversation, and to join in it, she, at length, recovered her spirits. But, when he made some observation on Valancourt's partner, the fear of shewing that she was interested in the remark, would have betrayed it to him, had not the Count, while he spoke, looked towards the person of whom he was speaking. 'The lady,' said he, 'dancing with that young Chevalier, who appears to be accomplished in every thing, but in dancing, is ranked among the beauties of Tholouse. She is handsome, and her fortune will be very large. I hope she will make a better choice in a partner for life than she has done in a partner for the dance, for I observe he has just put the set into great confusion; he does nothing but commit blunders. I am surprised, that, with his air and figure, he has not taken more care to accomplish himself in dancing.' Emily, whose heart trembled at every word, that was now uttered, endeavoured to turn the conversation from Valancourt, by enquiring the name of the lady, with whom he danced; but, before the Count could reply, the dance concluded, and Emily, perceiving that Valancourt was coming towards her, rose and joined Madame Cheron. 'Here is the Chevalier Valancourt, madam,' said she in a whisper, 'pray let us go.' Her aunt immediately moved on, but not before Valancourt had reached them, who bowed lowly to Madame Cheron, and with an earnest and dejected look to Emily, with whom, notwithstanding all her effort, an air of more than common reserve prevailed. The presence of Madame Cheron prevented Valancourt from remaining, and he passed on with a countenance, whose melancholy reproached her for having increased it. Emily was called from the musing fit, into which she had fallen, by the Count Bauvillers, who was known to her aunt. 'I have your pardon to beg, ma'amselle,' said he, 'for a rudeness, which you will readily believe was quite unintentional. I did not know, that the Chevalier was your acquaintance, when I so freely criticised his dancing.' Emily blushed and smiled, and Madame Cheron spared her the difficulty of replying. 'If you mean the person, who has just passed us,' said she, 'I can assure you he is no acquaintance of either mine, or ma'amselle St. Aubert's: I know nothing of him.' 'O! that is the Chevalier Valancourt,' said Cavigni carelessly, and looking back. 'You know him then?' said Madame Cheron. 'I am not acquainted with him,' replied Cavigni. 'You don't know, then, the reason I have to call him impertinent;--he has had the presumption to admire my niece!' 'If every man deserves the title of impertinent, who admires ma'amselle St. Aubert,' replied Cavigni, 'I fear there are a great many impertinents, and I am willing to acknowledge myself one of the number.' 'O Signor!' said Madame Cheron, with an affected smile, 'I perceive you have learnt the art of complimenting, since you came into France. But it is cruel to compliment children, since they mistake flattery for truth.' Cavigni turned away his face for a moment, and then said with a studied air, 'Whom then are we to compliment, madam? for it would be absurd to compliment a woman of refined understanding; SHE is above all praise.' As he finished the sentence he gave Emily a sly look, and the smile, that had lurked in his eye, stole forth. She perfectly understood it, and blushed for Madame Cheron, who replied, 'You are perfectly right, signor, no woman of understanding can endure compliment.' 'I have heard Signor Montoni say,' rejoined Cavigni, 'that he never knew but one woman who deserved it.' 'Well!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, with a short laugh, and a smile of unutterable complacency, 'and who could she be?' 'O!' replied Cavigni, 'it is impossible to mistake her, for certainly there is not more than one woman in the world, who has both the merit to deserve compliment and the wit to refuse it. Most women reverse the case entirely.' He looked again at Emily, who blushed deeper than before for her aunt, and turned from him with displeasure. 'Well, signor!' said Madame Cheron, 'I protest you are a Frenchman; I never heard a foreigner say any thing half so gallant as that!' 'True, madam,' said the Count, who had been some time silent, and with a low bow, 'but the gallantry of the compliment had been utterly lost, but for the ingenuity that discovered the application.' Madame Cheron did not perceive the meaning of this too satirical sentence, and she, therefore, escaped the pain, which Emily felt on her account. 'O! here comes Signor Montoni himself,' said her aunt, 'I protest I will tell him all the fine things you have been saying to me.' The Signor, however, passed at this moment into another walk. 'Pray, who is it, that has so much engaged your friend this evening?' asked Madame Cheron, with an air of chagrin, 'I have not seen him once.' 'He had a very particular engagement with the Marquis La Riviere,' replied Cavigni, 'which has detained him, I perceive, till this moment, or he would have done himself the honour of paying his respects to you, madam, sooner, as he commissioned me to say. But, I know not how it is--your conversation is so fascinating--that it can charm even memory, I think, or I should certainly have delivered my friend's apology before.' 'The apology, sir, would have been more satisfactory from himself,' said Madame Cheron, whose vanity was more mortified by Montoni's neglect, than flattered by Cavigni's compliment. Her manner, at this moment, and Cavigni's late conversation, now awakened a suspicion in Emily's mind, which, notwithstanding that some recollections served to confirm it, appeared preposterous. She thought she perceived, that Montoni was paying serious addresses to her aunt, and that she not only accepted them, but was jealously watchful of any appearance of neglect on his part.--That Madame Cheron at her years should elect a second husband was ridiculous, though her vanity made it not impossible; but that Montoni, with his discernment, his figure, and pretensions, should make a choice of Madame Cheron--appeared most wonderful. Her thoughts, however, did not dwell long on the subject; nearer interests pressed upon them; Valancourt, rejected of her aunt, and Valancourt dancing with a gay and beautiful partner, alternately tormented her mind. As she passed along the gardens she looked timidly forward, half fearing and half hoping that he might appear in the crowd; and the disappointment she felt on not seeing him, told her, that she had hoped more than she had feared. Montoni soon after joined the party. He muttered over some short speech about regret for having been so long detained elsewhere, when he knew he should have the pleasure of seeing Madame Cheron here; and she, receiving the apology with the air of a pettish girl, addressed herself entirely to Cavigni, who looked archly at Montoni, as if he would have said, 'I will not triumph over you too much; I will have the goodness to bear my honours meekly; but look sharp, Signor, or I shall certainly run away with your prize.' The supper was served in different pavilions in the gardens, as well as in one large saloon of the chateau, and with more of taste, than either of splendour, or even of plenty. Madame Cheron and her party supped with Madame Clairval in the saloon, and Emily, with difficulty, disguised her emotion, when she saw Valancourt placed at the same table with herself. There, Madame Cheron having surveyed him with high displeasure, said to some person who sat next to her, 'Pray, who IS that young man?' 'It is the Chevalier Valancourt,' was the answer. 'Yes, I am not ignorant of his name, but who is this Chevalier Valancourt that thus intrudes himself at this table?' The attention of the person, who whom she spoke, was called off before she received a second reply. The table, at which they sat, was very long, and, Valancourt being seated, with his partner, near the bottom, and Emily near the top, the distance between them may account for his not immediately perceiving her. She avoided looking to that end of the table, but whenever her eyes happened to glance towards it, she observed him conversing with his beautiful companion, and the observation did not contribute to restore her peace, any more than the accounts she heard of the fortune and accomplishments of this same lady. Madame Cheron, to whom these remarks were sometimes addressed, because they supported topics for trivial conversation, seemed indefatigable in her attempts to depreciate Valancourt, towards whom she felt all the petty resentment of a narrow pride. 'I admire the lady,' said she, 'but I must condemn her choice of a partner.' 'Oh, the Chevalier Valancourt is one of the most accomplished young men we have,' replied the lady, to whom this remark was addressed: 'it is whispered, that Mademoiselle D'Emery, and her large fortune, are to be his.' 'Impossible!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, reddening with vexation, 'it is impossible that she can be so destitute of taste; he has so little the air of a person of condition, that, if I did not see him at the table of Madame Clairval, I should never have suspected him to be one. I have besides particular reasons for believing the report to be erroneous.' 'I cannot doubt the truth of it,' replied the lady gravely, disgusted by the abrupt contradiction she had received, concerning her opinion of Valancourt's merit. 'You will, perhaps, doubt it,' said Madame Cheron, 'when I assure you, that it was only this morning that I rejected his suit.' This was said without any intention of imposing the meaning it conveyed, but simply from a habit of considering herself to be the most important person in every affair that concerned her niece, and because literally she had rejected Valancourt. 'Your reasons are indeed such as cannot be doubted,' replied the lady, with an ironical smile. 'Any more than the discernment of the Chevalier Valancourt,' added Cavigni, who stood by the chair of Madame Cheron, and had heard her arrogate to herself, as he thought, a distinction which had been paid to her niece. 'His discernment MAY be justly questioned, Signor,' said Madame Cheron, who was not flattered by what she understood to be an encomium on Emily. 'Alas!' exclaimed Cavigni, surveying Madame Cheron with affected ecstasy, 'how vain is that assertion, while that face--that shape--that air--combine to refute it! Unhappy Valancourt! his discernment has been his destruction.' Emily looked surprised and embarrassed; the lady, who had lately spoke, astonished, and Madame Cheron, who, though she did not perfectly understand this speech, was very ready to believe herself complimented by it, said smilingly, 'O Signor! you are very gallant; but those, who hear you vindicate the Chevalier's discernment, will suppose that I am the object of it.' 'They cannot doubt it,' replied Cavigni, bowing low. 'And would not that be very mortifying, Signor?' 'Unquestionably it would,' said Cavigni. 'I cannot endure the thought,' said Madame Cheron. 'It is not to be endured,' replied Cavigni. 'What can be done to prevent so humiliating a mistake?' rejoined Madame Cheron. 'Alas! I cannot assist you,' replied Cavigni, with a deliberating air. 'Your only chance of refuting the calumny, and of making people understand what you wish them to believe, is to persist in your first assertion; for, when they are told of the Chevalier's want of discernment, it is possible they may suppose he never presumed to distress you with his admiration.--But then again--that diffidence, which renders you so insensible to your own perfections--they will consider this, and Valancourt's taste will not be doubted, though you arraign it. In short, they will, in spite of your endeavours, continue to believe, what might very naturally have occurred to them without any hint of mine--that the Chevalier has taste enough to admire a beautiful woman.' 'All this is very distressing!' said Madame Cheron, with a profound sigh. 'May I be allowed to ask what is so distressing?' said Madame Clairval, who was struck with the rueful countenance and doleful accent, with which this was delivered. 'It is a delicate subject,' replied Madame Cheron, 'a very mortifying one to me.' 'I am concerned to hear it,' said Madame Clairval, 'I hope nothing has occurred, this evening, particularly to distress you?' 'Alas, yes! within this half hour; and I know not where the report may end;--my pride was never so shocked before, but I assure you the report is totally void of foundation.' 'Good God!' exclaimed Madame Clairval,' what can be done? Can you point out any way, by which I can assist, or console you?' 'The only way, by which you can do either,' replied Madame Cheron, 'is to contradict the report wherever you go.' 'Well! but pray inform me what I am to contradict.' 'It is so very humiliating, that I know not how to mention it,' continued Madame Cheron, 'but you shall judge. Do you observe that young man seated near the bottom of the table, who is conversing with Mademoiselle D'Emery?' 'Yes, I perceive whom you mean.' 'You observe how little he has the air of a person of condition; I was saying just now, that I should not have thought him a gentleman, if I had not seen him at this table.' 'Well! but the report,' said Madame Clairval, 'let me understand the subject of your distress.' 'Ah! the subject of my distress,' replied Madame Cheron; 'this person, whom nobody knows--(I beg pardon, madam, I did not consider what I said)--this impertinent young man, having had the presumption to address my niece, has, I fear, given rise to a report, that he had declared himself my admirer. Now only consider how very mortifying such a report must be! You, I know, will feel for my situation. A woman of my condition!--think how degrading even the rumour of such an alliance must be.' 'Degrading indeed, my poor friend!' said Madame Clairval. 'You may rely upon it I will contradict the report wherever I go;' as she said which, she turned her attention upon another part of the company; and Cavigni, who had hitherto appeared a grave spectator of the scene, now fearing he should be unable to smother the laugh, that convulsed him, walked abruptly away. 'I perceive you do not know,' said the lady who sat near Madame Cheron, 'that the gentleman you have been speaking of is Madame Clairval's nephew!' 'Impossible!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, who now began to perceive, that she had been totally mistaken in her judgment of Valancourt, and to praise him aloud with as much servility, as she had before censured him with frivolous malignity. Emily, who, during the greater part of this conversation, had been so absorbed in thought as to be spared the pain of hearing it, was now extremely surprised by her aunt's praise of Valancourt, with whose relationship to Madame Clairval she was unacquainted; but she was not sorry when Madame Cheron, who, though she now tried to appear unconcerned, was really much embarrassed, prepared to withdraw immediately after supper. Montoni then came to hand Madame Cheron to her carriage, and Cavigni, with an arch solemnity of countenance, followed with Emily, who, as she wished them good night, and drew up the glass, saw Valancourt among the crowd at the gates. Before the carriage drove off, he disappeared. Madame Cheron forbore to mention him to Emily, and, as soon as they reached the chateau, they separated for the night. On the following morning, as Emily sat at breakfast with her aunt, a letter was brought to her, of which she knew the handwriting upon the cover; and, as she received it with a trembling hand, Madame Cheron hastily enquired from whom it came. Emily, with her leave, broke the seal, and, observing the signature of Valancourt, gave it unread to her aunt, who received it with impatience; and, as she looked it over, Emily endeavoured to read on her countenance its contents. Having returned the letter to her niece, whose eyes asked if she might examine it, 'Yes, read it, child,' said Madame Cheron, in a manner less severe than she had expected, and Emily had, perhaps, never before so willingly obeyed her aunt. In this letter Valancourt said little of the interview of the preceding day, but concluded with declaring, that he would accept his dismission from Emily only, and with entreating, that she would allow him to wait upon her, on the approaching evening. When she read this, she was astonished at the moderation of Madame Cheron, and looked at her with timid expectation, as she said sorrowfully--'What am I to say, madam?' 'Why--we must see the young man, I believe,' replied her aunt, 'and hear what he has further to say for himself. You may tell him he may come.' Emily dared scarcely credit what she heard. 'Yet, stay,' added Madame Cheron, 'I will tell him so myself.' She called for pen and ink; Emily still not daring to trust the emotions she felt, and almost sinking beneath them. Her surprise would have been less had she overheard, on the preceding evening, what Madame Cheron had not forgotten--that Valancourt was the nephew of Madame Clairval. What were the particulars of her aunt's note Emily did not learn, but the result was a visit from Valancourt in the evening, whom Madame Cheron received alone, and they had a long conversation before Emily was called down. When she entered the room, her aunt was conversing with complacency, and she saw the eyes of Valancourt, as he impatiently rose, animated with hope. 'We have been talking over this affair,' said Madame Cheron, 'the chevalier has been telling me, that the late Monsieur Clairval was the brother of the Countess de Duvarney, his mother. I only wish he had mentioned his relationship to Madame Clairval before; I certainly should have considered that circumstance as a sufficient introduction to my house.' Valancourt bowed, and was going to address Emily, but her aunt prevented him. 'I have, therefore, consented that you shall receive his visits; and, though I will not bind myself by any promise, or say, that I shall consider him as my nephew, yet I shall permit the intercourse, and shall look forward to any further connection as an event, which may possibly take place in a course of years, provided the chevalier rises in his profession, or any circumstance occurs, which may make it prudent for him to take a wife. But Mons. Valancourt will observe, and you too, Emily, that, till that happens, I positively forbid any thoughts of marrying.' Emily's countenance, during this coarse speech, varied every instant, and, towards its conclusion, her distress had so much increased, that she was on the point of leaving the room. Valancourt, meanwhile, scarcely less embarrassed, did not dare to look at her, for whom he was thus distressed; but, when Madame Cheron was silent, he said, 'Flattering, madam, as your approbation is to me--highly as I am honoured by it--I have yet so much to fear, that I scarcely dare to hope.' 'Pray, sir, explain yourself,' said Madame Cheron; an unexpected requisition, which embarrassed Valancourt again, and almost overcame him with confusion, at circumstances, on which, had he been only a spectator of the scene, he would have smiled. 'Till I receive Mademoiselle St. Aubert's permission to accept your indulgence,' said he, falteringly--'till she allows me to hope--' 'O! is that all?' interrupted Madame Cheron. 'Well, I will take upon me to answer for her. But at the same time, sir, give me leave to observe to you, that I am her guardian, and that I expect, in every instance, that my will is hers.' As she said this, she rose and quitted the room, leaving Emily and Valancourt in a state of mutual embarrassment; and, when Valancourt's hopes enabled him to overcome his fears, and to address her with the zeal and sincerity so natural to him, it was a considerable time before she was sufficiently recovered to hear with distinctness his solicitations and inquiries. The conduct of Madame Cheron in this affair had been entirely governed by selfish vanity. Valancourt, in his first interview, had with great candour laid open to her the true state of his present circumstances, and his future expectancies, and she, with more prudence than humanity, had absolutely and abruptly rejected his suit. She wished her niece to marry ambitiously, not because she desired to see her in possession of the happiness, which rank and wealth are usually believed to bestow, but because she desired to partake the importance, which such an alliance would give. When, therefore, she discovered that Valancourt was the nephew of a person of so much consequence as Madame Clairval, she became anxious for the connection, since the prospect it afforded of future fortune and distinction for Emily, promised the exaltation she coveted for herself. Her calculations concerning fortune in this alliance were guided rather by her wishes, than by any hint of Valancourt, or strong appearance of probability; and, when she rested her expectation on the wealth of Madame Clairval, she seemed totally to have forgotten, that the latter had a daughter. Valancourt, however, had not forgotten this circumstance, and the consideration of it had made him so modest in his expectations from Madame Clairval, that he had not even named the relationship in his first conversation with Madame Cheron. But, whatever might be the future fortune of Emily, the present distinction, which the connection would afford for herself, was certain, since the splendour of Madame Clairval's establishment was such as to excite the general envy and partial imitation of the neighbourhood. Thus had she consented to involve her niece in an engagement, to which she saw only a distant and uncertain conclusion, with as little consideration of her happiness, as when she had so precipitately forbade it: for though she herself possessed the means of rendering this union not only certain, but prudent, yet to do so was no part of her present intention. From this period Valancourt made frequent visits to Madame Cheron, and Emily passed in his society the happiest hours she had known since the death of her father. They were both too much engaged by the present moments to give serious consideration to the future. They loved and were beloved, and saw not, that the very attachment, which formed the delight of their present days, might possibly occasion the sufferings of years. Meanwhile, Madame Cheron's intercourse with Madame Clairval became more frequent than before, and her vanity was already gratified by the opportunity of proclaiming, wherever she went, the attachment that subsisted between their nephew and niece. Montoni was now also become a daily guest at the chateau, and Emily was compelled to observe, that he really was a suitor, and a favoured suitor, to her aunt. Thus passed the winter months, not only in peace, but in happiness, to Valancourt and Emily; the station of his regiment being so near Tholouse, as to allow this frequent intercourse. The pavilion on the terrace was the favourite scene of their interviews, and there Emily, with Madame Cheron, would work, while Valancourt read aloud works of genius and taste, listened to her enthusiasm, expressed his own, and caught new opportunities of observing, that their minds were formed to constitute the happiness of each other, the same taste, the same noble and benevolent sentiments animating each. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Em steht früh auf, um einen kleinen Spaziergang um Tholouse zu machen. Sie muss zugeben, die Aussicht ist ziemlich schön. Aber verdammt, Madame Cheron kann die Sache mit Valancourt nicht loslassen. Sie sagt Em, dass sie nicht will, dass sie ohne Begleitung durch die Gärten schlendert - schließlich kann man ihr nicht vertrauen. Madame Cheron veranstaltet erneut ein Abendessen mit Cavigni und Montoni, den italienischen Adligen. Irgendetwas an Montoni stört Emily. Sie hat ein wenig Angst vor ihm, aber sie kann nicht herausfinden, warum. Ein paar Tage später sieht Em jemanden, der Valancourt verblüffend ähnlich sieht, auf einem Pferd vorbeireiten. Zufall? Auf keinen Fall, denn Madame Cheron bekommt einen Brief von Emilys Liebsten. Er möchte "seine Aufwartung machen". Valancourt ist zurück. Emily bekommt von Madame Cheron eine Standpauke ihres Lebens, denn sie ist nicht begeistert von den Liebesbriefen ihrer Nichte. Sie lässt Emily versprechen, Valancourt nicht zu sehen oder mit ihm zu sprechen, ohne ihre Zustimmung. Ups, Emily trifft Valancourt heimlich im Garten. Da sind die dummen Versprechen wohl umsonst gewesen. Wie ein Uhrwerk kommt Madame Cheron um die Ecke. Emily ist zu aufgeregt, um zu bleiben und zu hören, was ihre Tante zu sagen hat, aber man kann wetten, dass Madame Valancourt die Leviten liest. Emily kommt jedoch nicht ungeschoren davon. Madame Cheron lässt Em unmissverständlich wissen, dass weitere Valancourt-Episoden sie hinauswerfen werden. Zum Glück gibt es einen schicken Ball, um Emily von der Demütigung abzulenken. Großartig, Valancourt beschließt zum Ball zu gehen. Und er tanzt mit einer wunderschönen Frau. Noch schlimmer, die wunderschöne Frau hat ein ordentliches Vermögen zu vererben. Emily ist ziemlich aufgebracht, bis sich ihre Augen mit Valancourts im Raum treffen. Valancourt holt Madame Cheron und Emily ein, um seine Aufwartung zu machen, aber die gute Madame schwört, ihn nicht zu kennen. Cavigni flirtet ziemlich offensichtlich mit Emily, aber Madame Cheron verwechselt die Komplimente als an sie gerichtet. Dieser Cavigni weiß, wie man das Spiel spielt. Emily fängt an zu begreifen, dass Montoni vielleicht plant, Madame Cheron zu heiraten. Em denkt, sie wären wie das originale seltsame Paar, aber über Geschmack lässt sich nicht streiten. Beim Abendessen kursieren Gerüchte, dass Valancourt seine Tanzpartnerin Madame D'Emery heiraten wird. Madame Cheron sagt allen: "Ich bezweifle es." Alle sind daran interessiert, warum Madame Cheron über Valancourt so gut Bescheid weiß. Stellt euch vor - sie erzählt jedem, dass sie Valancourt erst heute Morgen abgelehnt hat. Cavigni macht ein wenig Spaß mit Madame Clairval, aber sie ist zu begriffsstutzig, um zu verstehen, was gerade passiert. Nach all dem Gerede über Valancourt fängt Madame Cheron an, ihre Ablehnung von ihm zu überdenken. Wenn er die richtigen Verbindungen hat, kann er genauso gut um die Hand ihrer Nichte anhalten. Valancourt und Em verbringen viel Zeit miteinander. Sie sind nicht die einzigen Verliebten. Montoni und Madame Cheron hängen regelmäßig zusammen ab.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Emma and Harriet had been walking together one morning, and, in Emma's opinion, had been talking enough of Mr. Elton for that day. She could not think that Harriet's solace or her own sins required more; and she was therefore industriously getting rid of the subject as they returned;--but it burst out again when she thought she had succeeded, and after speaking some time of what the poor must suffer in winter, and receiving no other answer than a very plaintive--"Mr. Elton is so good to the poor!" she found something else must be done. They were just approaching the house where lived Mrs. and Miss Bates. She determined to call upon them and seek safety in numbers. There was always sufficient reason for such an attention; Mrs. and Miss Bates loved to be called on, and she knew she was considered by the very few who presumed ever to see imperfection in her, as rather negligent in that respect, and as not contributing what she ought to the stock of their scanty comforts. She had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley and some from her own heart, as to her deficiency--but none were equal to counteract the persuasion of its being very disagreeable,--a waste of time--tiresome women--and all the horror of being in danger of falling in with the second-rate and third-rate of Highbury, who were calling on them for ever, and therefore she seldom went near them. But now she made the sudden resolution of not passing their door without going in--observing, as she proposed it to Harriet, that, as well as she could calculate, they were just now quite safe from any letter from Jane Fairfax. The house belonged to people in business. Mrs. and Miss Bates occupied the drawing-room floor; and there, in the very moderate-sized apartment, which was every thing to them, the visitors were most cordially and even gratefully welcomed; the quiet neat old lady, who with her knitting was seated in the warmest corner, wanting even to give up her place to Miss Woodhouse, and her more active, talking daughter, almost ready to overpower them with care and kindness, thanks for their visit, solicitude for their shoes, anxious inquiries after Mr. Woodhouse's health, cheerful communications about her mother's, and sweet-cake from the beaufet--"Mrs. Cole had just been there, just called in for ten minutes, and had been so good as to sit an hour with them, and _she_ had taken a piece of cake and been so kind as to say she liked it very much; and, therefore, she hoped Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith would do them the favour to eat a piece too." The mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by that of Mr. Elton. There was intimacy between them, and Mr. Cole had heard from Mr. Elton since his going away. Emma knew what was coming; they must have the letter over again, and settle how long he had been gone, and how much he was engaged in company, and what a favourite he was wherever he went, and how full the Master of the Ceremonies' ball had been; and she went through it very well, with all the interest and all the commendation that could be requisite, and always putting forward to prevent Harriet's being obliged to say a word. This she had been prepared for when she entered the house; but meant, having once talked him handsomely over, to be no farther incommoded by any troublesome topic, and to wander at large amongst all the Mistresses and Misses of Highbury, and their card-parties. She had not been prepared to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton; but he was actually hurried off by Miss Bates, she jumped away from him at last abruptly to the Coles, to usher in a letter from her niece. "Oh! yes--Mr. Elton, I understand--certainly as to dancing--Mrs. Cole was telling me that dancing at the rooms at Bath was--Mrs. Cole was so kind as to sit some time with us, talking of Jane; for as soon as she came in, she began inquiring after her, Jane is so very great a favourite there. Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how to shew her kindness enough; and I must say that Jane deserves it as much as any body can. And so she began inquiring after her directly, saying, 'I know you cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is not her time for writing;' and when I immediately said, 'But indeed we have, we had a letter this very morning,' I do not know that I ever saw any body more surprized. 'Have you, upon your honour?' said she; 'well, that is quite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says.'" Emma's politeness was at hand directly, to say, with smiling interest-- "Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am extremely happy. I hope she is well?" "Thank you. You are so kind!" replied the happily deceived aunt, while eagerly hunting for the letter.--"Oh! here it is. I was sure it could not be far off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without being aware, and so it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very lately that I was almost sure it must be on the table. I was reading it to Mrs. Cole, and since she went away, I was reading it again to my mother, for it is such a pleasure to her--a letter from Jane--that she can never hear it often enough; so I knew it could not be far off, and here it is, only just under my huswife--and since you are so kind as to wish to hear what she says;--but, first of all, I really must, in justice to Jane, apologise for her writing so short a letter--only two pages you see--hardly two--and in general she fills the whole paper and crosses half. My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well. She often says, when the letter is first opened, 'Well, Hetty, now I think you will be put to it to make out all that checker-work'--don't you, ma'am?--And then I tell her, I am sure she would contrive to make it out herself, if she had nobody to do it for her--every word of it--I am sure she would pore over it till she had made out every word. And, indeed, though my mother's eyes are not so good as they were, she can see amazingly well still, thank God! with the help of spectacles. It is such a blessing! My mother's are really very good indeed. Jane often says, when she is here, 'I am sure, grandmama, you must have had very strong eyes to see as you do--and so much fine work as you have done too!--I only wish my eyes may last me as well.'" All this spoken extremely fast obliged Miss Bates to stop for breath; and Emma said something very civil about the excellence of Miss Fairfax's handwriting. "You are extremely kind," replied Miss Bates, highly gratified; "you who are such a judge, and write so beautifully yourself. I am sure there is nobody's praise that could give us so much pleasure as Miss Woodhouse's. My mother does not hear; she is a little deaf you know. Ma'am," addressing her, "do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging to say about Jane's handwriting?" And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly compliment repeated twice over before the good old lady could comprehend it. She was pondering, in the meanwhile, upon the possibility, without seeming very rude, of making her escape from Jane Fairfax's letter, and had almost resolved on hurrying away directly under some slight excuse, when Miss Bates turned to her again and seized her attention. "My mother's deafness is very trifling you see--just nothing at all. By only raising my voice, and saying any thing two or three times over, she is sure to hear; but then she is used to my voice. But it is very remarkable that she should always hear Jane better than she does me. Jane speaks so distinct! However, she will not find her grandmama at all deafer than she was two years ago; which is saying a great deal at my mother's time of life--and it really is full two years, you know, since she was here. We never were so long without seeing her before, and as I was telling Mrs. Cole, we shall hardly know how to make enough of her now." "Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?" "Oh yes; next week." "Indeed!--that must be a very great pleasure." "Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Every body is so surprized; and every body says the same obliging things. I am sure she will be as happy to see her friends at Highbury, as they can be to see her. Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel Campbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days. So very good of them to send her the whole way! But they always do, you know. Oh yes, Friday or Saturday next. That is what she writes about. That is the reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for, in the common course, we should not have heard from her before next Tuesday or Wednesday." "Yes, so I imagined. I was afraid there could be little chance of my hearing any thing of Miss Fairfax to-day." "So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if it had not been for this particular circumstance, of her being to come here so soon. My mother is so delighted!--for she is to be three months with us at least. Three months, she says so, positively, as I am going to have the pleasure of reading to you. The case is, you see, that the Campbells are going to Ireland. Mrs. Dixon has persuaded her father and mother to come over and see her directly. They had not intended to go over till the summer, but she is so impatient to see them again--for till she married, last October, she was never away from them so much as a week, which must make it very strange to be in different kingdoms, I was going to say, but however different countries, and so she wrote a very urgent letter to her mother--or her father, I declare I do not know which it was, but we shall see presently in Jane's letter--wrote in Mr. Dixon's name as well as her own, to press their coming over directly, and they would give them the meeting in Dublin, and take them back to their country seat, Baly-craig, a beautiful place, I fancy. Jane has heard a great deal of its beauty; from Mr. Dixon, I mean--I do not know that she ever heard about it from any body else; but it was very natural, you know, that he should like to speak of his own place while he was paying his addresses--and as Jane used to be very often walking out with them--for Colonel and Mrs. Campbell were very particular about their daughter's not walking out often with only Mr. Dixon, for which I do not at all blame them; of course she heard every thing he might be telling Miss Campbell about his own home in Ireland; and I think she wrote us word that he had shewn them some drawings of the place, views that he had taken himself. He is a most amiable, charming young man, I believe. Jane was quite longing to go to Ireland, from his account of things." At this moment, an ingenious and animating suspicion entering Emma's brain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this charming Mr. Dixon, and the not going to Ireland, she said, with the insidious design of farther discovery, "You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be allowed to come to you at such a time. Considering the very particular friendship between her and Mrs. Dixon, you could hardly have expected her to be excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs. Campbell." "Very true, very true, indeed. The very thing that we have always been rather afraid of; for we should not have liked to have her at such a distance from us, for months together--not able to come if any thing was to happen. But you see, every thing turns out for the best. They want her (Mr. and Mrs. Dixon) excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell; quite depend upon it; nothing can be more kind or pressing than their _joint_ invitation, Jane says, as you will hear presently; Mr. Dixon does not seem in the least backward in any attention. He is a most charming young man. Ever since the service he rendered Jane at Weymouth, when they were out in that party on the water, and she, by the sudden whirling round of something or other among the sails, would have been dashed into the sea at once, and actually was all but gone, if he had not, with the greatest presence of mind, caught hold of her habit-- (I can never think of it without trembling!)--But ever since we had the history of that day, I have been so fond of Mr. Dixon!" "But, in spite of all her friends' urgency, and her own wish of seeing Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs. Bates?" "Yes--entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and Colonel and Mrs. Campbell think she does quite right, just what they should recommend; and indeed they particularly _wish_ her to try her native air, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately." "I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely. But Mrs. Dixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs. Dixon, I understand, has no remarkable degree of personal beauty; is not, by any means, to be compared with Miss Fairfax." "Oh! no. You are very obliging to say such things--but certainly not. There is no comparison between them. Miss Campbell always was absolutely plain--but extremely elegant and amiable." "Yes, that of course." "Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the 7th of November, (as I am going to read to you,) and has never been well since. A long time, is not it, for a cold to hang upon her? She never mentioned it before, because she would not alarm us. Just like her! so considerate!--But however, she is so far from well, that her kind friends the Campbells think she had better come home, and try an air that always agrees with her; and they have no doubt that three or four months at Highbury will entirely cure her--and it is certainly a great deal better that she should come here, than go to Ireland, if she is unwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we should do." "It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world." "And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells leave town in their way to Holyhead the Monday following--as you will find from Jane's letter. So sudden!--You may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse, what a flurry it has thrown me in! If it was not for the drawback of her illness--but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin, and looking very poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to me, as to that. I always make a point of reading Jane's letters through to myself first, before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for fear of there being any thing in them to distress her. Jane desired me to do it, so I always do: and so I began to-day with my usual caution; but no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, than I burst out, quite frightened, with 'Bless me! poor Jane is ill!'--which my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed at. However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to her, that she does not think much about it. But I cannot imagine how I could be so off my guard. If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr. Perry. The expense shall not be thought of; and though he is so liberal, and so fond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for attendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife and family to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time. Well, now I have just given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her." "I am afraid we must be running away," said Emma, glancing at Harriet, and beginning to rise--"My father will be expecting us. I had no intention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes, when I first entered the house. I merely called, because I would not pass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so pleasantly detained! Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates good morning." And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. She regained the street--happy in this, that though much had been forced on her against her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of Jane Fairfax's letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself. 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Während eines Spaziergangs hat Emma wenig Erfolg darin, Harriets Gedanken von Mr. Elton abzulenken, und entscheidet daher, dass sie bei Mrs. und Miss Bates vorbeischauen sollten, eine Aufgabe, der Emma normalerweise aus dem Weg geht. Während ihres Besuchs werden sie gezwungen, von Mr. Elton und seinen Reisen zu hören, und obwohl Emma versucht hat, ihren Besuch so zu timen, dass sie nichts von Miss Bates' Nichte Jane Fairfax hören muss, zeigt Miss Bates einen Brief von Jane, die bei ihren Vormündern, Colonel und Mrs. Campbell, lebt. Die Campbells wollen ihre frisch verheiratete Tochter, Mrs. Dixon, in Irland besuchen, was bedeutet, dass Jane in einer Woche für einen längeren Besuch nach Highbury kommen wird. Basierend auf geringen Beweisen vermutet Emma, dass es eine Romanze zwischen Jane und dem Ehemann der Tochter der Campbells, Mr. Dixon, gegeben hat und dass dies der Grund dafür ist, dass Jane nicht mit nach Irland reist.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: CHAPTER IX I SHE had tripped into the meadow to teach the lambs a pretty educational dance and found that the lambs were wolves. There was no way out between their pressing gray shoulders. She was surrounded by fangs and sneering eyes. She could not go on enduring the hidden derision. She wanted to flee. She wanted to hide in the generous indifference of cities. She practised saying to Kennicott, "Think perhaps I'll run down to St. Paul for a few days." But she could not trust herself to say it carelessly; could not abide his certain questioning. Reform the town? All she wanted was to be tolerated! She could not look directly at people. She flushed and winced before citizens who a week ago had been amusing objects of study, and in their good-mornings she heard a cruel sniggering. She encountered Juanita Haydock at Ole Jenson's grocery. She besought, "Oh, how do you do! Heavens, what beautiful celery that is!" "Yes, doesn't it look fresh. Harry simply has to have his celery on Sunday, drat the man!" Carol hastened out of the shop exulting, "She didn't make fun of me. . . . Did she?" In a week she had recovered from consciousness of insecurity, of shame and whispering notoriety, but she kept her habit of avoiding people. She walked the streets with her head down. When she spied Mrs. McGanum or Mrs. Dyer ahead she crossed over with an elaborate pretense of looking at a billboard. Always she was acting, for the benefit of every one she saw--and for the benefit of the ambushed leering eyes which she did not see. She perceived that Vida Sherwin had told the truth. Whether she entered a store, or swept the back porch, or stood at the bay-window in the living-room, the village peeped at her. Once she had swung along the street triumphant in making a home. Now she glanced at each house, and felt, when she was safely home, that she had won past a thousand enemies armed with ridicule. She told herself that her sensitiveness was preposterous, but daily she was thrown into panic. She saw curtains slide back into innocent smoothness. Old women who had been entering their houses slipped out again to stare at her--in the wintry quiet she could hear them tiptoeing on their porches. When she had for a blessed hour forgotten the searchlight, when she was scampering through a chill dusk, happy in yellow windows against gray night, her heart checked as she realized that a head covered with a shawl was thrust up over a snow-tipped bush to watch her. She admitted that she was taking herself too seriously; that villagers gape at every one. She became placid, and thought well of her philosophy. But next morning she had a shock of shame as she entered Ludelmeyer's. The grocer, his clerk, and neurotic Mrs. Dave Dyer had been giggling about something. They halted, looked embarrassed, babbled about onions. Carol felt guilty. That evening when Kennicott took her to call on the crochety Lyman Casses, their hosts seemed flustered at their arrival. Kennicott jovially hooted, "What makes you so hang-dog, Lym?" The Casses tittered feebly. Except Dave Dyer, Sam Clark, and Raymie Wutherspoon, there were no merchants of whose welcome Carol was certain. She knew that she read mockery into greetings but she could not control her suspicion, could not rise from her psychic collapse. She alternately raged and flinched at the superiority of the merchants. They did not know that they were being rude, but they meant to have it understood that they were prosperous and "not scared of no doctor's wife." They often said, "One man's as good as another--and a darn sight better." This motto, however, they did not commend to farmer customers who had had crop failures. The Yankee merchants were crabbed; and Ole Jenson, Ludelmeyer, and Gus Dahl, from the "Old Country," wished to be taken for Yankees. James Madison Howland, born in New Hampshire, and Ole Jenson, born in Sweden, both proved that they were free American citizens by grunting, "I don't know whether I got any or not," or "Well, you can't expect me to get it delivered by noon." It was good form for the customers to fight back. Juanita Haydock cheerfully jabbered, "You have it there by twelve or I'll snatch that fresh delivery-boy bald-headed." But Carol had never been able to play the game of friendly rudeness; and now she was certain that she never would learn it. She formed the cowardly habit of going to Axel Egge's. Axel was not respectable and rude. He was still a foreigner, and he expected to remain one. His manner was heavy and uninterrogative. His establishment was more fantastic than any cross-roads store. No one save Axel himself could find anything. A part of the assortment of children's stockings was under a blanket on a shelf, a part in a tin ginger-snap box, the rest heaped like a nest of black-cotton snakes upon a flour-barrel which was surrounded by brooms, Norwegian Bibles, dried cod for ludfisk, boxes of apricots, and a pair and a half of lumbermen's rubber-footed boots. The place was crowded with Scandinavian farmwives, standing aloof in shawls and ancient fawn-colored leg o' mutton jackets, awaiting the return of their lords. They spoke Norwegian or Swedish, and looked at Carol uncomprehendingly. They were a relief to her--they were not whispering that she was a poseur. But what she told herself was that Axel Egge's was "so picturesque and romantic." It was in the matter of clothes that she was most self-conscious. When she dared to go shopping in her new checked suit with the black-embroidered sulphur collar, she had as good as invited all of Gopher Prairie (which interested itself in nothing so intimately as in new clothes and the cost thereof) to investigate her. It was a smart suit with lines unfamiliar to the dragging yellow and pink frocks of the town. The Widow Bogart's stare, from her porch, indicated, "Well I never saw anything like that before!" Mrs. McGanum stopped Carol at the notions shop to hint, "My, that's a nice suit--wasn't it terribly expensive?" The gang of boys in front of the drug store commented, "Hey, Pudgie, play you a game of checkers on that dress." Carol could not endure it. She drew her fur coat over the suit and hastily fastened the buttons, while the boys snickered. II No group angered her quite so much as these staring young roues. She had tried to convince herself that the village, with its fresh air, its lakes for fishing and swimming, was healthier than the artificial city. But she was sickened by glimpses of the gang of boys from fourteen to twenty who loafed before Dyer's Drug Store, smoking cigarettes, displaying "fancy" shoes and purple ties and coats of diamond-shaped buttons, whistling the Hoochi-Koochi and catcalling, "Oh, you baby-doll" at every passing girl. She saw them playing pool in the stinking room behind Del Snafflin's barber shop, and shaking dice in "The Smoke House," and gathered in a snickering knot to listen to the "juicy stories" of Bert Tybee, the bartender of the Minniemashie House. She heard them smacking moist lips over every love-scene at the Rosebud Movie Palace. At the counter of the Greek Confectionery Parlor, while they ate dreadful messes of decayed bananas, acid cherries, whipped cream, and gelatinous ice-cream, they screamed to one another, "Hey, lemme 'lone," "Quit dog-gone you, looka what you went and done, you almost spilled my glass swater," "Like hell I did," "Hey, gol darn your hide, don't you go sticking your coffin nail in my i-scream," "Oh you Batty, how juh like dancing with Tillie McGuire, last night? Some squeezing, heh, kid?" By diligent consultation of American fiction she discovered that this was the only virile and amusing manner in which boys could function; that boys who were not compounded of the gutter and the mining-camp were mollycoddles and unhappy. She had taken this for granted. She had studied the boys pityingly, but impersonally. It had not occurred to her that they might touch her. Now she was aware that they knew all about her; that they were waiting for some affectation over which they could guffaw. No schoolgirl passed their observation-posts more flushingly than did Mrs. Dr. Kennicott. In shame she knew that they glanced appraisingly at her snowy overshoes, speculating about her legs. Theirs were not young eyes--there was no youth in all the town, she agonized. They were born old, grim and old and spying and censorious. She cried again that their youth was senile and cruel on the day when she overheard Cy Bogart and Earl Haydock. Cyrus N. Bogart, son of the righteous widow who lived across the alley, was at this time a boy of fourteen or fifteen. Carol had already seen quite enough of Cy Bogart. On her first evening in Gopher Prairie Cy had appeared at the head of a "charivari," banging immensely upon a discarded automobile fender. His companions were yelping in imitation of coyotes. Kennicott had felt rather complimented; had gone out and distributed a dollar. But Cy was a capitalist in charivaris. He returned with an entirely new group, and this time there were three automobile fenders and a carnival rattle. When Kennicott again interrupted his shaving, Cy piped, "Naw, you got to give us two dollars," and he got it. A week later Cy rigged a tic-tac to a window of the living-room, and the tattoo out of the darkness frightened Carol into screaming. Since then, in four months, she had beheld Cy hanging a cat, stealing melons, throwing tomatoes at the Kennicott house, and making ski-tracks across the lawn, and had heard him explaining the mysteries of generation, with great audibility and dismaying knowledge. He was, in fact, a museum specimen of what a small town, a well-disciplined public school, a tradition of hearty humor, and a pious mother could produce from the material of a courageous and ingenious mind. Carol was afraid of him. Far from protesting when he set his mongrel on a kitten, she worked hard at not seeing him. The Kennicott garage was a shed littered with paint-cans, tools, a lawn-mower, and ancient wisps of hay. Above it was a loft which Cy Bogart and Earl Haydock, young brother of Harry, used as a den, for smoking, hiding from whippings, and planning secret societies. They climbed to it by a ladder on the alley side of the shed. This morning of late January, two or three weeks after Vida's revelations, Carol had gone into the stable-garage to find a hammer. Snow softened her step. She heard voices in the loft above her: "Ah gee, lez--oh, lez go down the lake and swipe some mushrats out of somebody's traps," Cy was yawning. "And get our ears beat off!" grumbled Earl Haydock. "Gosh, these cigarettes are dandy. 'Member when we were just kids, and used to smoke corn-silk and hayseed?" "Yup. Gosh!" Spit. "Silence." "Say Earl, ma says if you chew tobacco you get consumption." "Aw rats, your old lady is a crank." "Yuh, that's so." Pause. "But she says she knows a fella that did." "Aw, gee whiz, didn't Doc Kennicott used to chew tobacco all the time before he married this-here girl from the Cities? He used to spit---Gee! Some shot! He could hit a tree ten feet off." This was news to the girl from the Cities. "Say, how is she?" continued Earl. "Huh? How's who?" "You know who I mean, smarty." A tussle, a thumping of loose boards, silence, weary narration from Cy: "Mrs. Kennicott? Oh, she's all right, I guess." Relief to Carol, below. "She gimme a hunk o' cake, one time. But Ma says she's stuck-up as hell. Ma's always talking about her. Ma says if Mrs. Kennicott thought as much about the doc as she does about her clothes, the doc wouldn't look so peaked." Spit. Silence. "Yuh. Juanita's always talking about her, too," from Earl. "She says Mrs. Kennicott thinks she knows it all. Juanita says she has to laugh till she almost busts every time she sees Mrs. Kennicott peerading along the street with that 'take a look--I'm a swell skirt' way she's got. But gosh, I don't pay no attention to Juanita. She's meaner 'n a crab." "Ma was telling somebody that she heard that Mrs. Kennicott claimed she made forty dollars a week when she was on some job in the Cities, and Ma says she knows posolutely that she never made but eighteen a week--Ma says that when she's lived here a while she won't go round making a fool of herself, pulling that bighead stuff on folks that know a whole lot more than she does. They're all laughing up their sleeves at her." "Say, jever notice how Mrs. Kennicott fusses around the house? Other evening when I was coming over here, she'd forgot to pull down the curtain, and I watched her for ten minutes. Jeeze, you'd 'a' died laughing. She was there all alone, and she must 'a' spent five minutes getting a picture straight. It was funny as hell the way she'd stick out her finger to straighten the picture--deedle-dee, see my tunnin' 'ittle finger, oh my, ain't I cute, what a fine long tail my cat's got!" "But say, Earl, she's some good-looker, just the same, and O Ignatz! the glad rags she must of bought for her wedding. Jever notice these low-cut dresses and these thin shimmy-shirts she wears? I had a good squint at 'em when they were out on the line with the wash. And some ankles she's got, heh?" Then Carol fled. In her innocence she had not known that the whole town could discuss even her garments, her body. She felt that she was being dragged naked down Main Street. The moment it was dusk she pulled down the window-shades, all the shades flush with the sill, but beyond them she felt moist fleering eyes. III She remembered, and tried to forget, and remembered more sharply the vulgar detail of her husband's having observed the ancient customs of the land by chewing tobacco. She would have preferred a prettier vice--gambling or a mistress. For these she might have found a luxury of forgiveness. She could not remember any fascinatingly wicked hero of fiction who chewed tobacco. She asserted that it proved him to be a man of the bold free West. She tried to align him with the hairy-chested heroes of the motion-pictures. She curled on the couch a pallid softness in the twilight, and fought herself, and lost the battle. Spitting did not identify him with rangers riding the buttes; it merely bound him to Gopher Prairie--to Nat Hicks the tailor and Bert Tybee the bartender. "But he gave it up for me. Oh, what does it matter! We're all filthy in some things. I think of myself as so superior, but I do eat and digest, I do wash my dirty paws and scratch. I'm not a cool slim goddess on a column. There aren't any! He gave it up for me. He stands by me, believing that every one loves me. He's the Rock of Ages--in a storm of meanness that's driving me mad . . . it will drive me mad." All evening she sang Scotch ballads to Kennicott, and when she noticed that he was chewing an unlighted cigar she smiled maternally at his secret. She could not escape asking (in the exact words and mental intonations which a thousand million women, dairy wenches and mischief-making queens, had used before her, and which a million million women will know hereafter), "Was it all a horrible mistake, my marrying him?" She quieted the doubt--without answering it. IV Kennicott had taken her north to Lac-qui-Meurt, in the Big Woods. It was the entrance to a Chippewa Indian reservation, a sandy settlement among Norway pines on the shore of a huge snow-glaring lake. She had her first sight of his mother, except the glimpse at the wedding. Mrs. Kennicott had a hushed and delicate breeding which dignified her woodeny over-scrubbed cottage with its worn hard cushions in heavy rockers. She had never lost the child's miraculous power of wonder. She asked questions about books and cities. She murmured: "Will is a dear hard-working boy but he's inclined to be too serious, and you've taught him how to play. Last night I heard you both laughing about the old Indian basket-seller, and I just lay in bed and enjoyed your happiness." Carol forgot her misery-hunting in this solidarity of family life. She could depend upon them; she was not battling alone. Watching Mrs. Kennicott flit about the kitchen she was better able to translate Kennicott himself. He was matter-of-fact, yes, and incurably mature. He didn't really play; he let Carol play with him. But he had his mother's genius for trusting, her disdain for prying, her sure integrity. From the two days at Lac-qui-Meurt Carol drew confidence in herself, and she returned to Gopher Prairie in a throbbing calm like those golden drugged seconds when, because he is for an instant free from pain, a sick man revels in living. A bright hard winter day, the wind shrill, black and silver clouds booming across the sky, everything in panicky motion during the brief light. They struggled against the surf of wind, through deep snow. Kennicott was cheerful. He hailed Loren Wheeler, "Behave yourself while I been away?" The editor bellowed, "B' gosh you stayed so long that all your patients have got well!" and importantly took notes for the Dauntless about their journey. Jackson Elder cried, "Hey, folks! How's tricks up North?" Mrs. McGanum waved to them from her porch. "They're glad to see us. We mean something here. These people are satisfied. Why can't I be? But can I sit back all my life and be satisfied with 'Hey, folks'? They want shouts on Main Street, and I want violins in a paneled room. Why----?" V Vida Sherwin ran in after school a dozen times. She was tactful, torrentially anecdotal. She had scuttled about town and plucked compliments: Mrs. Dr. Westlake had pronounced Carol a "very sweet, bright, cultured young woman," and Brad Bemis, the tinsmith at Clark's Hardware Store, had declared that she was "easy to work for and awful easy to look at." But Carol could not yet take her in. She resented this outsider's knowledge of her shame. Vida was not too long tolerant. She hinted, "You're a great brooder, child. Buck up now. The town's quit criticizing you, almost entirely. Come with me to the Thanatopsis Club. They have some of the BEST papers, and current-events discussions--SO interesting." In Vida's demands Carol felt a compulsion, but she was too listless to obey. It was Bea Sorenson who was really her confidante. However charitable toward the Lower Classes she may have thought herself, Carol had been reared to assume that servants belong to a distinct and inferior species. But she discovered that Bea was extraordinarily like girls she had loved in college, and as a companion altogether superior to the young matrons of the Jolly Seventeen. Daily they became more frankly two girls playing at housework. Bea artlessly considered Carol the most beautiful and accomplished lady in the country; she was always shrieking, "My, dot's a swell hat!" or, "Ay t'ink all dese ladies yoost die when dey see how elegant you do your hair!" But it was not the humbleness of a servant, nor the hypocrisy of a slave; it was the admiration of Freshman for Junior. They made out the day's menus together. Though they began with propriety, Carol sitting by the kitchen table and Bea at the sink or blacking the stove, the conference was likely to end with both of them by the table, while Bea gurgled over the ice-man's attempt to kiss her, or Carol admitted, "Everybody knows that the doctor is lots more clever than Dr. McGanum." When Carol came in from marketing, Bea plunged into the hall to take off her coat, rub her frostied hands, and ask, "Vos dere lots of folks up-town today?" This was the welcome upon which Carol depended. VI Through her weeks of cowering there was no change in her surface life. No one save Vida was aware of her agonizing. On her most despairing days she chatted to women on the street, in stores. But without the protection of Kennicott's presence she did not go to the Jolly Seventeen; she delivered herself to the judgment of the town only when she went shopping and on the ritualistic occasions of formal afternoon calls, when Mrs. Lyman Cass or Mrs. George Edwin Mott, with clean gloves and minute handkerchiefs and sealskin card-cases and countenances of frozen approbation, sat on the edges of chairs and inquired, "Do you find Gopher Prairie pleasing?" When they spent evenings of social profit-and-loss at the Haydocks' or the Dyers' she hid behind Kennicott, playing the simple bride. Now she was unprotected. Kennicott had taken a patient to Rochester for an operation. He would be away for two or three days. She had not minded; she would loosen the matrimonial tension and be a fanciful girl for a time. But now that he was gone the house was listeningly empty. Bea was out this afternoon--presumably drinking coffee and talking about "fellows" with her cousin Tina. It was the day for the monthly supper and evening-bridge of the Jolly Seventeen, but Carol dared not go. She sat alone. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Carol wird von der Art und Weise, wie die Leute sie kritisieren, verängstigt. Sie sehnt sich danach, zurück in die Stadt zu kommen, wo sie anonym sein könnte. Sie wünscht sich, für ein paar Tage nach St. Paul zu fahren, weiß aber nicht, wie sie ihren Wunsch an Kennicott übermitteln soll. Sie fühlt sich schmerzhaft selbstbewusst vor den Menschen und fragt sich ständig, ob sie über sie lachen, auch wenn sie sie grüßen. Sie erkennt, dass sie einfach akzeptiert werden will. Obwohl sie ihre Selbstbewusstlosigkeit nach ein paar Tagen überwindet, hat sie die Gewohnheit, Menschen zu meiden. Sie behält die Gewohnheit bei, sich ständig zu verstellen, um Kritik zu vermeiden. Sie erkennt, dass Vida ihr die Wahrheit gesagt hatte, dass die Dorfbewohner sie die ganze Zeit beobachten. Obwohl sie sich selbst überzeugt, dass die Dorfbewohner jeden anstarren, bemerkt sie, dass, sobald sie Ludlmeyers Laden, den Lebensmittelhändler, betritt, sein Clark und Frau Dave Dyer, die gerade über etwas gekichert haben, aufhören zu kichern und anfangen, über Zwiebeln zu reden. Als Carol und Kennicott bei den Casses vorbeischauen, scheinen sie über ihre Ankunft beunruhigt zu sein. Sie vermutet, dass jeder außer Sam Clark, Dave Dyer und Raymie Wutherspoon über sie lacht. Sie machen in ihrer Anwesenheit deutlich, dass ein Mann genauso gut ist wie der andere. Die Händler wie Ole Jonson und Howland sind schlecht gelaunt, um zu beweisen, dass sie Amerikaner sind, denn amerikanische Händler sind schlecht gelaunt. Von den Kunden wird erwartet, dass sie zurückschlagen. Carol findet es schwierig, das freundliche Spiel der Unhöflichkeit zu spielen. Daher zieht sie es vor, bei Axel Egge einzukaufen. Sie zieht es auch deshalb vor, weil Axel sich nie um sie kümmert und seine Kunden sie nicht einmal kennen. Carol wird sogar beim Tragen ihrer Kleidung schmerzhaft bewusst. Einmal, als sie einen karierten schwarzen Anzug trägt, bemerkt sie, dass Frau Boggart auf ihr Kleid starrt. Frau Mac Ganum fragt sie, ob es sehr teuer ist. Die Jungen bemerken, dass sie auf ihrem Rock Schach spielen könnten. Die Jungen der Stadt hängen vor Dave Dyers Laden herum, tragen auffällige Kleidung, rauchen und ärgern jedes vorbeigehende Mädchen. Carol empfindet ihre Verhaltensweise als abstoßend. Sie spielen Billard und Würfelspiele in stinkenden Räumen und hören sich die schmierigen Geschichten des Barmanns an. Sie essen verdorbene Bananen, saure Kirschen, Schlagsahne und gelatinöses Eis. Carol hatte von den Problemen der Jungen gelesen und den Eindruck, dass sie unglücklich waren. Aber die Jungen von Gopher Prairie haben sie durch ihr Verhalten und ihre Kommentare eingeschüchtert. Sie weiß, dass sie persönliche Kommentare über sie abgeben. Sie hat das Gefühl, dass sie geboren wurden, um alt und altersschwach zu sein. Sie hat einmal gesehen, wie Cyrus Bogart eine Katze erhängt hat. Sie hat ihn auch dabei erwischt, wie er Melonen gestohlen und sogar Tomaten auf ihr Haus geworfen hat, und sie hat Angst vor ihm. Die Garage auf dem Dachboden von Kennicott dient ihnen als Versteck. Einmal belauscht Carol ein Gespräch zwischen Cyrus Bogart und Earl Haydock. Sie reden darüber, wie Kennicott früher Tabak kaute und spuckte. Carol kann es kaum glauben, dass ihr Mann diese Angewohnheit hatte. Dann diskutieren sie über Carol. Sie erfährt, dass Frau Bogart dachte, dass Kennicott krank aussah, weil Carol mehr Aufmerksamkeit auf ihre Kleidung als auf ihren Ehemann legte. Sie dachten, dass sie mit ihrer schönen Kleidung angeben wollte und dass sie im Haus herumfuhrwerkte. Dann beginnen sie über ihre tief ausgeschnittenen Kleider und ihre ansehnlichen Knöchel zu sprechen. Carol kann es nicht mehr ertragen, ihnen zuzuhören. Sie versäumt es nie, nach dem Zuhören die Fensterläden herunterzuziehen. Sie schämt sich, dass Kennicott einmal die Gewohnheit hatte, Tabak zu kauen, was ihn auf das Niveau der Faulenzer brachte. Sie versucht Trost darin zu finden, dass er die Angewohnheit schon vor ihrer Heirat für sie aufgegeben hat.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: SCENE X. The camp of the Volsces A flourish. Cornets. Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS bloody, with two or three soldiers AUFIDIUS. The town is ta'en. FIRST SOLDIER. 'Twill be deliver'd back on good condition. AUFIDIUS. Condition! I would I were a Roman; for I cannot, Being a Volsce, be that I am. Condition? What good condition can a treaty find I' th' part that is at mercy? Five times, Marcius, I have fought with thee; so often hast thou beat me; And wouldst do so, I think, should we encounter As often as we eat. By th' elements, If e'er again I meet him beard to beard, He's mine or I am his. Mine emulation Hath not that honour in't it had; for where I thought to crush him in an equal force, True sword to sword, I'll potch at him some way, Or wrath or craft may get him. FIRST SOLDIER. He's the devil. AUFIDIUS. Bolder, though not so subtle. My valour's poison'd With only suff'ring stain by him; for him Shall fly out of itself. Nor sleep nor sanctuary, Being naked, sick, nor fane nor Capitol, The prayers of priests nor times of sacrifice, Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up Their rotten privilege and custom 'gainst My hate to Marcius. Where I find him, were it At home, upon my brother's guard, even there, Against the hospitable canon, would I Wash my fierce hand in's heart. Go you to th' city; Learn how 'tis held, and what they are that must Be hostages for Rome. FIRST SOLDIER. Will not you go? AUFIDIUS. I am attended at the cypress grove; I pray you- 'Tis south the city mills- bring me word thither How the world goes, that to the pace of it I may spur on my journey. FIRST SOLDIER. I shall, sir. Exeunt Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Inzwischen, in dem besiegten Camp der Volsker, ist Tullus Aufidius total niedergeschlagen darüber, dass er gegen seinen Erzfeind verloren hat. Dann sagt Aufidius so etwas wie: "Ich komme wieder."

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: >From the respect paid to property flow, as from a poisoned fountain, most of the evils and vices which render this world such a dreary scene to the contemplative mind. For it is in the most polished society that noisome reptiles and venomous serpents lurk under the rank herbage; and there is voluptuousness pampered by the still sultry air, which relaxes every good disposition before it ripens into virtue. One class presses on another; for all are aiming to procure respect on account of their property: and property, once gained, will procure the respect due only to talents and virtue. Men neglect the duties incumbent on man, yet are treated like demi-gods; religion is also separated from morality by a ceremonial veil, yet men wonder that the world is almost, literally speaking, a den of sharpers or oppressors. There is a homely proverb, which speaks a shrewd truth, that whoever the devil finds idle he will employ. And what but habitual idleness can hereditary wealth and titles produce? For man is so constituted that he can only attain a proper use of his faculties by exercising them, and will not exercise them unless necessity, of some kind, first set the wheels in motion. Virtue likewise can only be acquired by the discharge of relative duties; but the importance of these sacred duties will scarcely be felt by the being who is cajoled out of his humanity by the flattery of sycophants. There must be more equality established in society, or morality will never gain ground, and this virtuous equality will not rest firmly even when founded on a rock, if one half of mankind are chained to its bottom by fate, for they will be continually undermining it through ignorance or pride. It is vain to expect virtue from women till they are, in some degree, independent of men; nay, it is vain to expect that strength of natural affection, which would make them good wives and good mothers. Whilst they are absolutely dependent on their husbands, they will be cunning, mean, and selfish, and the men who can be gratified by the fawning fondness, of spaniel-like affection, have not much delicacy, for love is not to be bought, in any sense of the word, its silken wings are instantly shrivelled up when any thing beside a return in kind is sought. Yet whilst wealth enervates men; and women live, as it were, by their personal charms, how, can we expect them to discharge those ennobling duties which equally require exertion and self-denial. Hereditary property sophisticates the mind, and the unfortunate victims to it, if I may so express myself, swathed from their birth, seldom exert the locomotive faculty of body or mind; and, thus viewing every thing through one medium, and that a false one, they are unable to discern in what true merit and happiness consist. False, indeed, must be the light when the drapery of situation hides the man, and makes him stalk in masquerade, dragging from one scene of dissipation to another the nerveless limbs that hang with stupid listlessness, and rolling round the vacant eye which plainly tells us that there is no mind at home. I mean, therefore, to infer, that the society is not properly organized which does not compel men and women to discharge their respective duties, by making it the only way to acquire that countenance from their fellow creatures, which every human being wishes some way to attain. The respect, consequently, which is paid to wealth and mere personal charms, is a true north-east blast, that blights the tender blossoms of affection and virtue. Nature has wisely attached affections to duties, to sweeten toil, and to give that vigour to the exertions of reason which only the heart can give. But, the affection which is put on merely because it is the appropriated insignia of a certain character, when its duties are not fulfilled is one of the empty compliments which vice and folly are obliged to pay to virtue and the real nature of things. To illustrate my opinion, I need only observe, that when a woman is admired for her beauty, and suffers herself to be so far intoxicated by the admiration she receives, as to neglect to discharge the indispensable duty of a mother, she sins against herself by neglecting to cultivate an affection that would equally tend to make her useful and happy. True happiness, I mean all the contentment, and virtuous satisfaction that can be snatched in this imperfect state, must arise from well regulated affections; and an affection includes a duty. Men are not aware of the misery they cause, and the vicious weakness they cherish, by only inciting women to render themselves pleasing; they do not consider, that they thus make natural and artificial duties clash, by sacrificing the comfort and respectability of a woman's life to voluptuous notions of beauty, when in nature they all harmonize. Cold would be the heart of a husband, were he not rendered unnatural by early debauchery, who did not feel more delight at seeing his child suckled by its mother, than the most artful wanton tricks could ever raise; yet this natural way of cementing the matrimonial tie, and twisting esteem with fonder recollections, wealth leads women to spurn. To preserve their beauty, and wear the flowery crown of the day, that gives them a kind of right to reign for a short time over the sex, they neglect to stamp impressions on their husbands' hearts, that would be remembered with more tenderness when the snow on the head began to chill the bosom, than even their virgin charms. The maternal solicitude of a reasonable affectionate woman is very interesting, and the chastened dignity with which a mother returns the caresses that she and her child receive from a father who has been fulfilling the serious duties of his station, is not only a respectable, but a beautiful sight. So singular, indeed, are my feelings, and I have endeavoured not to catch factitious ones, that after having been fatigued with the sight of insipid grandeur and the slavish ceremonies that with cumberous pomp supplied the place of domestic affections, I have turned to some other scene to relieve my eye, by resting it on the refreshing green every where scattered by nature. I have then viewed with pleasure a woman nursing her children, and discharging the duties of her station with, perhaps, merely a servant made to take off her hands the servile part of the household business. I have seen her prepare herself and children, with only the luxury of cleanliness, to receive her husband, who returning weary home in the evening, found smiling babes and a clean hearth. My heart has loitered in the midst of the group, and has even throbbed with sympathetic emotion, when the scraping of the well known foot has raised a pleasing tumult. Whilst my benevolence has been gratified by contemplating this artless picture, I have thought that a couple of this description, equally necessary and independent of each other, because each fulfilled the respective duties of their station, possessed all that life could give. Raised sufficiently above abject poverty not to be obliged to weigh the consequence of every farthing they spend, and having sufficient to prevent their attending to a frigid system of economy which narrows both heart and mind. I declare, so vulgar are my conceptions, that I know not what is wanted to render this the happiest as well as the most respectable situation in the world, but a taste for literature, to throw a little variety and interest into social converse, and some superfluous money to give to the needy, and to buy books. For it is not pleasant when the heart is opened by compassion, and the head active in arranging plans of usefulness, to have a prim urchin continually twitching back the elbow to prevent the hand from drawing out an almost empty purse, whispering at the same time some prudential maxim about the priority of justice. Destructive, however, as riches and inherited honours are to the human character, women are more debased and cramped, if possible by them, than men, because men may still, in some degree, unfold their faculties by becoming soldiers and statesmen. As soldiers, I grant, they can now only gather, for the most part, vainglorious laurels, whilst they adjust to a hair the European balance, taking especial care that no bleak northern nook or sound incline the beam. But the days of true heroism are over, when a citizen fought for his country like a Fabricius or a Washington, and then returned to his farm to let his virtuous fervour run in a more placid, but not a less salutary stream. No, our British heroes are oftener sent from the gaming table than from the plough; and their passions have been rather inflamed by hanging with dumb suspense on the turn of a die, than sublimated by panting after the adventurous march of virtue in the historic page. The statesman, it is true, might with more propriety quit the Faro Bank, or card-table, to guide the helm, for he has still but to shuffle and trick. The whole system of British politics, if system it may courteously be called, consisting in multiplying dependents and contriving taxes which grind the poor to pamper the rich; thus a war, or any wild goose chace is, as the vulgar use the phrase, a lucky turn-up of patronage for the minister, whose chief merit is the art of keeping himself in place. It is not necessary then that he should have bowels for the poor, so he can secure for his family the odd trick. Or should some show of respect, for what is termed with ignorant ostentation an Englishman's birth-right, be expedient to bubble the gruff mastiff that he has to lead by the nose, he can make an empty show, very safely, by giving his single voice, and suffering his light squadron to file off to the other side. And when a question of humanity is agitated, he may dip a sop in the milk of human kindness, to silence Cerberus, and talk of the interest which his heart takes in an attempt to make the earth no longer cry for vengeance as it sucks in its children's blood, though his cold hand may at the very moment rivet their chains, by sanctioning the abominable traffick. A minister is no longer a minister than while he can carry a point, which he is determined to carry. Yet it is not necessary that a minister should feel like a man, when a bold push might shake his seat. But, to have done with these episodical observations, let me return to the more specious slavery which chains the very soul of woman, keeping her for ever under the bondage of ignorance. The preposterous distinctions of rank, which render civilization a curse, by dividing the world between voluptuous tyrants, and cunning envious dependents, corrupt, almost equally, every class of people, because respectability is not attached to the discharge of the relative duties of life, but to the station, and when the duties are not fulfilled, the affections cannot gain sufficient strength to fortify the virtue of which they are the natural reward. Still there are some loop-holes out of which a man may creep, and dare to think and act for himself; but for a woman it is an herculean task, because she has difficulties peculiar to her sex to overcome, which require almost super-human powers. A truly benevolent legislator always endeavours to make it the interest of each individual to be virtuous; and thus private virtue becoming the cement of public happiness, an orderly whole is consolidated by the tendency of all the parts towards a common centre. But, the private or public virtue of women is very problematical; for Rousseau, and a numerous list of male writers, insist that she should all her life, be subjected to a severe restraint, that of propriety. Why subject her to propriety--blind propriety, if she be capable of acting from a nobler spring, if she be an heir of immortality? Is sugar always to be produced by vital blood? Is one half of the human species, like the poor African slaves, to be subject to prejudices that brutalize them, when principles would be a surer guard only to sweeten the cup of man? Is not this indirectly to deny women reason? for a gift is a mockery, if it be unfit for use. Women are in common with men, rendered weak and luxurious by the relaxing pleasures which wealth procures; but added to this, they are made slaves to their persons, and must render them alluring, that man may lend them his reason to guide their tottering steps aright. Or should they be ambitious, they must govern their tyrants by sinister tricks, for without rights there cannot be any incumbent duties. The laws respecting woman, which I mean to discuss in a future part, make an absurd unit of a man and his wife; and then, by the easy transition of only considering him as responsible, she is reduced to a mere cypher. The being who discharges the duties of its station, is independent; and, speaking of women at large, their first duty is to themselves as rational creatures, and the next, in point of importance, as citizens, is that, which includes so many, of a mother. The rank in life which dispenses with their fulfilling this duty, necessarily degrades them by making them mere dolls. Or, should they turn to something more important than merely fitting drapery upon a smooth block, their minds are only occupied by some soft platonic attachment; or, the actual management of an intrigue may keep their thoughts in motion; for when they neglect domestic duties, they have it not in their power to take the field and march and counter-march like soldiers, or wrangle in the senate to keep their faculties from rusting. I know, that as a proof of the inferiority of the sex, Rousseau has exultingly exclaimed, How can they leave the nursery for the camp! And the camp has by some moralists been termed the school of the most heroic virtues; though, I think, it would puzzle a keen casuist to prove the reasonableness of the greater number of wars, that have dubbed heroes. I do not mean to consider this question critically; because, having frequently viewed these freaks of ambition as the first natural mode of civilization, when the ground must be torn up, and the woods cleared by fire and sword, I do not choose to call them pests; but surely the present system of war, has little connection with virtue of any denomination, being rather the school of FINESSE and effeminacy, than of fortitude. Yet, if defensive war, the only justifiable war, in the present advanced state of society, where virtue can show its face and ripen amidst the rigours which purify the air on the mountain's top, were alone to be adopted as just and glorious, the true heroism of antiquity might again animate female bosoms. But fair and softly, gentle reader, male or female, do not alarm thyself, for though I have contrasted the character of a modern soldier with that of a civilized woman, I am not going to advise them to turn their distaff into a musket, though I sincerely wish to see the bayonet converted into a pruning hook. I only recreated an imagination, fatigued by contemplating the vices and follies which all proceed from a feculent stream of wealth that has muddied the pure rills of natural affection, by supposing that society will some time or other be so constituted, that man must necessarily fulfil the duties of a citizen, or be despised, and that while he was employed in any of the departments of civil life, his wife, also an active citizen, should be equally intent to manage her family, educate her children, and assist her neighbours. But, to render her really virtuous and useful, she must not, if she discharge her civil duties, want, individually, the protection of civil laws; she must not be dependent on her husband's bounty for her subsistence during his life, or support after his death--for how can a being be generous who has nothing of its own? or, virtuous, who is not free? The wife, in the present state of things, who is faithful to her husband, and neither suckles nor educates her children, scarcely deserves the name of a wife, and has no right to that of a citizen. But take away natural rights, and there is of course an end of duties. Women thus infallibly become only the wanton solace of men, when they are so weak in mind and body, that they cannot exert themselves, unless to pursue some frothy pleasure, or to invent some frivolous fashion. What can be a more melancholy sight to a thinking mind, than to look into the numerous carriages that drive helter-skelter about this metropolis in a morning, full of pale-faced creatures who are flying from themselves. I have often wished, with Dr. Johnson, to place some of them in a little shop, with half a dozen children looking up to their languid countenances for support. I am much mistaken, if some latent vigour would not soon give health and spirit to their eyes, and some lines drawn by the exercise of reason on the blank cheeks, which before were only undulated by dimples, might restore lost dignity to the character, or rather enable it to attain the true dignity of its nature. Virtue is not to be acquired even by speculation, much less by the negative supineness that wealth naturally generates. Besides, when poverty is more disgraceful than even vice, is not morality cut to the quick? Still to avoid misconstruction, though I consider that women in the common walks of life are called to fulfil the duties of wives and mothers, by religion and reason, I cannot help lamenting that women of a superiour cast have not a road open by which they can pursue more extensive plans of usefulness and independence. I may excite laughter, by dropping an hint, which I mean to pursue, some future time, for I really think that women ought to have representatives, instead of being arbitrarily governed without having any direct share allowed them in the deliberations of government. But, as the whole system of representation is now, in this country, only a convenient handle for despotism, they need not complain, for they are as well represented as a numerous class of hard working mechanics, who pay for the support of royality when they can scarcely stop their children's mouths with bread. How are they represented, whose very sweat supports the splendid stud of an heir apparent, or varnishes the chariot of some female favourite who looks down on shame? Taxes on the very necessaries of life, enable an endless tribe of idle princes and princesses to pass with stupid pomp before a gaping crowd, who almost worship the very parade which costs them so dear. This is mere gothic grandeur, something like the barbarous, useless parade of having sentinels on horseback at Whitehall, which I could never view without a mixture of contempt and indignation. How strangely must the mind be sophisticated when this sort of state impresses it! But till these monuments of folly are levelled by virtue, similar follies will leaven the whole mass. For the same character, in some degree, will prevail in the aggregate of society: and the refinements of luxury, or the vicious repinings of envious poverty, will equally banish virtue from society, considered as the characteristic of that society, or only allow it to appear as one of the stripes of the harlequin coat, worn by the civilized man. In the superiour ranks of life, every duty is done by deputies, as if duties could ever be waved, and the vain pleasures which consequent idleness forces the rich to pursue, appear so enticing to the next rank, that the numerous scramblers for wealth sacrifice every thing to tread on their heels. The most sacred trusts are then considered as sinecures, because they were procured by interest, and only sought to enable a man to keep GOOD COMPANY. Women, in particular, all want to be ladies. Which is simply to have nothing to do, but listlessly to go they scarcely care where, for they cannot tell what. But what have women to do in society? I may be asked, but to loiter with easy grace; surely you would not condemn them all to suckle fools, and chronicle small beer! No. Women might certainly study the art of healing, and be physicians as well as nurses. And midwifery, decency seems to allot to them, though I am afraid the word midwife, in our dictionaries, will soon give place to accoucheur, and one proof of the former delicacy of the sex be effaced from the language. They might, also study politics, and settle their benevolence on the broadest basis; for the reading of history will scarcely be more useful than the perusal of romances, if read as mere biography; if the character of the times, the political improvements, arts, etc. be not observed. In short, if it be not considered as the history of man; and not of particular men, who filled a niche in the temple of fame, and dropped into the black rolling stream of time, that silently sweeps all before it, into the shapeless void called eternity. For shape can it be called, "that shape hath none?" Business of various kinds, they might likewise pursue, if they were educated in a more orderly manner, which might save many from common and legal prostitution. Women would not then marry for a support, as men accept of places under government, and neglect the implied duties; nor would an attempt to earn their own subsistence, a most laudable one! sink them almost to the level of those poor abandoned creatures who live by prostitution. For are not milliners and mantuamakers reckoned the next class? The few employments open to women, so far from being liberal, are menial; and when a superior education enables them to take charge of the education of children as governesses, they are not treated like the tutors of sons, though even clerical tutors are not always treated in a manner calculated to render them respectable in the eyes of their pupils, to say nothing of the private comfort of the individual. But as women educated like gentlewomen, are never designed for the humiliating situation which necessity sometimes forces them to fill; these situations are considered in the light of a degradation; and they know little of the human heart, who need to be told, that nothing so painfully sharpens the sensibility as such a fall in life. Some of these women might be restrained from marrying by a proper spirit or delicacy, and others may not have had it in their power to escape in this pitiful way from servitude; is not that government then very defective, and very unmindful of the happiness of one half of its members, that does not provide for honest, independent women, by encouraging them to fill respectable stations? But in order to render their private virtue a public benefit, they must have a civil existence in the state, married or single; else we shall continually see some worthy woman, whose sensibility has been rendered painfully acute by undeserved contempt, droop like "the lily broken down by a plough share." It is a melancholy truth; yet such is the blessed effects of civilization! the most respectable women are the most oppressed; and, unless they have understandings far superiour to the common run of understandings, taking in both sexes, they must, from being treated like contemptible beings, become contemptible. How many women thus waste life away, the prey of discontent, who might have practised as physicians, regulated a farm, managed a shop, and stood erect, supported by their own industry, instead of hanging their heads surcharged with the dew of sensibility, that consumes the beauty to which it at first gave lustre; nay, I doubt whether pity and love are so near a-kin as poets feign, for I have seldom seen much compassion excited by the helplessness of females, unless they were fair; then, perhaps, pity was the soft handmaid of love, or the harbinger of lust. How much more respectable is the woman who earns her own bread by fulfilling any duty, than the most accomplished beauty! beauty did I say? so sensible am I of the beauty of moral loveliness, or the harmonious propriety that attunes the passions of a well-regulated mind, that I blush at making the comparison; yet I sigh to think how few women aim at attaining this respectability, by withdrawing from the giddy whirl of pleasure, or the indolent calm that stupifies the good sort of women it sucks in. Proud of their weakness, however, they must always be protected, guarded from care, and all the rough toils that dignify the mind. If this be the fiat of fate, if they will make themselves insignificant and contemptible, sweetly to waste "life away," let them not expect to be valued when their beauty fades, for it is the fate of the fairest flowers to be admired and pulled to pieces by the careless hand that plucked them. In how many ways do I wish, from the purest benevolence, to impress this truth on my sex; yet I fear that they will not listen to a truth, that dear-bought experience has brought home to many an agitated bosom, nor willingly resign the privileges of rank and sex for the privileges of humanity, to which those have no claim who do not discharge its duties. Those writers are particularly useful, in my opinion, who make man feel for man, independent of the station he fills, or the drapery of factitious sentiments. I then would fain convince reasonable men of the importance of some of my remarks and prevail on them to weigh dispassionately the whole tenor of my observations. I appeal to their understandings; and, as a fellow-creature claim, in the name of my sex, some interest in their hearts. I entreat them to assist to emancipate their companion to make her a help meet for them! Would men but generously snap our chains, and be content with rational fellowship, instead of slavish obedience, they would find us more observant daughters, more affectionate sisters, more faithful wives, more reasonable mothers--in a word, better citizens. We should then love them with true affection, because we should learn to respect ourselves; and the peace of mind of a worthy man would not be interrupted by the idle vanity of his wife, nor his babes sent to nestle in a strange bosom, having never found a home in their mother's. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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In diesem Kapitel greift Wollstonecraft alle sozialen Probleme an, die aus der Ungleichheit in der Gesellschaft und dem Reichtum resultieren. Für sie bekommen Menschen, die viel Reichtum haben, viel Respekt, den sie eigentlich nicht verdienen. Nur Menschen, die Tugend haben, sollten Respekt bekommen. Wollstonecraft besteht darauf, dass es ohne mehr Gleichheit in der Gesellschaft niemals Moral geben wird. Außerdem ist es unmöglich, Tugend von Frauen zu erwarten, solange sie keine Unabhängigkeit von Männern erreichen. Laut Wollstonecraft neigt Reichtum dazu, Frauen egoistisch zu machen, besonders wenn sie Mütter werden. Die meisten wohlhabenden Mütter übergeben ihre Kinder an Babysitter und denken nicht mehr an sie. Sie sind zu beschäftigt damit, ihre Juwelen zu zählen. Der einzige Weg, Frauen als Individuen weiterzuentwickeln, besteht darin, ihnen die Mittel zu geben, die sie benötigen, um sich finanziell selbst versorgen zu können. Frauen dürfen nicht von Männern abhängig sein, wenn es um Nahrung und Unterkunft geht, sondern müssen in der Lage sein, dies selbst zu bieten. Wie ist es, fragt Wollstonecraft, dass arme Handwerker immer noch Steuern zahlen, um den königlichen Palast zu erhalten, wenn sie kaum genug zum Essen haben? Wollstonecraft macht für ihre Zeit eine ziemlich gewagte Aussage, wenn sie darauf besteht, dass Frauen als Ärztinnen und Heilerinnen aller Art ausgebildet werden sollten. Sie sollten auch Politik studieren dürfen. Damit Frauen ihre private Güte nutzen können, um der Öffentlichkeit zu helfen, müssen sie eine Art öffentliches Leben haben, entweder durch Jobs oder öffentliche politische Positionen. Wenn Männer nur die Ketten von Frauen abnehmen würden, würden sie feststellen, dass Frauen großartige Freunde und Lebenspartner sind. Frauen wären wahrscheinlich auch liebevoller, wenn sie mehr Unabhängigkeit bekommen würden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Sometimes, while meditating on these things in solitude, I've got up in a sudden terror, and put on my bonnet to go see how all was at the farm. I've persuaded my conscience that it was a duty to warn him how people talked regarding his ways; and then I've recollected his confirmed bad habits, and, hopeless of benefiting him, have flinched from re-entering the dismal house, doubting if I could bear to be taken at my word. One time I passed the old gate, going out of my way, on a journey to Gimmerton. It was about the period that my narrative has reached: a bright frosty afternoon; the ground bare, and the road hard and dry. I came to a stone where the highway branches off on to the moor at your left hand; a rough sand-pillar, with the letters W. H. cut on its north side, on the east, G., and on the south-west, T. G. It serves as a guide-post to the Grange, the Heights, and village. The sun shone yellow on its grey head, reminding me of summer; and I cannot say why, but all at once a gush of child's sensations flowed into my heart. Hindley and I held it a favourite spot twenty years before. I gazed long at the weather-worn block; and, stooping down, perceived a hole near the bottom still full of snail-shells and pebbles, which we were fond of storing there with more perishable things; and, as fresh as reality, it appeared that I beheld my early playmate seated on the withered turf: his dark, square head bent forward, and his little hand scooping out the earth with a piece of slate. 'Poor Hindley!' I exclaimed, involuntarily. I started: my bodily eye was cheated into a momentary belief that the child lifted its face and stared straight into mine! It vanished in a twinkling; but immediately I felt an irresistible yearning to be at the Heights. Superstition urged me to comply with this impulse: supposing he should be dead! I thought--or should die soon!--supposing it were a sign of death! The nearer I got to the house the more agitated I grew; and on catching sight of it I trembled in every limb. The apparition had outstripped me: it stood looking through the gate. That was my first idea on observing an elf-locked, brown-eyed boy setting his ruddy countenance against the bars. Further reflection suggested this must be Hareton, _my_ Hareton, not altered greatly since I left him, ten months since. 'God bless thee, darling!' I cried, forgetting instantaneously my foolish fears. 'Hareton, it's Nelly! Nelly, thy nurse.' He retreated out of arm's length, and picked up a large flint. 'I am come to see thy father, Hareton,' I added, guessing from the action that Nelly, if she lived in his memory at all, was not recognised as one with me. He raised his missile to hurl it; I commenced a soothing speech, but could not stay his hand: the stone struck my bonnet; and then ensued, from the stammering lips of the little fellow, a string of curses, which, whether he comprehended them or not, were delivered with practised emphasis, and distorted his baby features into a shocking expression of malignity. You may be certain this grieved more than angered me. Fit to cry, I took an orange from my pocket, and offered it to propitiate him. He hesitated, and then snatched it from my hold; as if he fancied I only intended to tempt and disappoint him. I showed another, keeping it out of his reach. 'Who has taught you those fine words, my bairn?' I inquired. 'The curate?' 'Damn the curate, and thee! Gie me that,' he replied. 'Tell us where you got your lessons, and you shall have it,' said I. 'Who's your master?' 'Devil daddy,' was his answer. 'And what do you learn from daddy?' I continued. He jumped at the fruit; I raised it higher. 'What does he teach you?' I asked. 'Naught,' said he, 'but to keep out of his gait. Daddy cannot bide me, because I swear at him.' 'Ah! and the devil teaches you to swear at daddy?' I observed. 'Ay--nay,' he drawled. 'Who, then?' 'Heathcliff.' 'I asked if he liked Mr. Heathcliff.' 'Ay!' he answered again. Desiring to have his reasons for liking him, I could only gather the sentences--'I known't: he pays dad back what he gies to me--he curses daddy for cursing me. He says I mun do as I will.' 'And the curate does not teach you to read and write, then?' I pursued. 'No, I was told the curate should have his--teeth dashed down his--throat, if he stepped over the threshold--Heathcliff had promised that!' I put the orange in his hand, and bade him tell his father that a woman called Nelly Dean was waiting to speak with him, by the garden gate. He went up the walk, and entered the house; but, instead of Hindley, Heathcliff appeared on the door-stones; and I turned directly and ran down the road as hard as ever I could race, making no halt till I gained the guide-post, and feeling as scared as if I had raised a goblin. This is not much connected with Miss Isabella's affair: except that it urged me to resolve further on mounting vigilant guard, and doing my utmost to check the spread of such bad influence at the Grange: even though I should wake a domestic storm, by thwarting Mrs. Linton's pleasure. The next time Heathcliff came my young lady chanced to be feeding some pigeons in the court. She had never spoken a word to her sister-in-law for three days; but she had likewise dropped her fretful complaining, and we found it a great comfort. Heathcliff had not the habit of bestowing a single unnecessary civility on Miss Linton, I knew. Now, as soon as he beheld her, his first precaution was to take a sweeping survey of the house-front. I was standing by the kitchen-window, but I drew out of sight. He then stepped across the pavement to her, and said something: she seemed embarrassed, and desirous of getting away; to prevent it, he laid his hand on her arm. She averted her face: he apparently put some question which she had no mind to answer. There was another rapid glance at the house, and supposing himself unseen, the scoundrel had the impudence to embrace her. 'Judas! Traitor!' I ejaculated. 'You are a hypocrite, too, are you? A deliberate deceiver.' 'Who is, Nelly?' said Catherine's voice at my elbow: I had been over-intent on watching the pair outside to mark her entrance. 'Your worthless friend!' I answered, warmly: 'the sneaking rascal yonder. Ah, he has caught a glimpse of us--he is coming in! I wonder will he have the heart to find a plausible excuse for making love to Miss, when he told you he hated her?' Mrs. Linton saw Isabella tear herself free, and run into the garden; and a minute after, Heathcliff opened the door. I couldn't withhold giving some loose to my indignation; but Catherine angrily insisted on silence, and threatened to order me out of the kitchen, if I dared to be so presumptuous as to put in my insolent tongue. 'To hear you, people might think you were the mistress!' she cried. 'You want setting down in your right place! Heathcliff, what are you about, raising this stir? I said you must let Isabella alone!--I beg you will, unless you are tired of being received here, and wish Linton to draw the bolts against you!' 'God forbid that he should try!' answered the black villain. I detested him just then. 'God keep him meek and patient! Every day I grow madder after sending him to heaven!' 'Hush!' said Catherine, shutting the inner door! 'Don't vex me. Why have you disregarded my request? Did she come across you on purpose?' 'What is it to you?' he growled. 'I have a right to kiss her, if she chooses; and you have no right to object. I am not _your_ husband: _you_ needn't be jealous of me!' 'I'm not jealous of you,' replied the mistress; 'I'm jealous for you. Clear your face: you sha'n't scowl at me! If you like Isabella, you shall marry her. But do you like her? Tell the truth, Heathcliff! There, you won't answer. I'm certain you don't.' 'And would Mr. Linton approve of his sister marrying that man?' I inquired. 'Mr. Linton should approve,' returned my lady, decisively. 'He might spare himself the trouble,' said Heathcliff: 'I could do as well without his approbation. And as to you, Catherine, I have a mind to speak a few words now, while we are at it. I want you to be aware that I _know_ you have treated me infernally--infernally! Do you hear? And if you flatter yourself that I don't perceive it, you are a fool; and if you think I can be consoled by sweet words, you are an idiot: and if you fancy I'll suffer unrevenged, I'll convince you of the contrary, in a very little while! Meantime, thank you for telling me your sister-in-law's secret: I swear I'll make the most of it. And stand you aside!' 'What new phase of his character is this?' exclaimed Mrs. Linton, in amazement. 'I've treated you infernally--and you'll take your revenge! How will you take it, ungrateful brute? How have I treated you infernally?' 'I seek no revenge on you,' replied Heathcliff, less vehemently. 'That's not the plan. The tyrant grinds down his slaves and they don't turn against him; they crush those beneath them. You are welcome to torture me to death for your amusement, only allow me to amuse myself a little in the same style, and refrain from insult as much as you are able. Having levelled my palace, don't erect a hovel and complacently admire your own charity in giving me that for a home. If I imagined you really wished me to marry Isabel, I'd cut my throat!' 'Oh, the evil is that I am _not_ jealous, is it?' cried Catherine. 'Well, I won't repeat my offer of a wife: it is as bad as offering Satan a lost soul. Your bliss lies, like his, in inflicting misery. You prove it. Edgar is restored from the ill-temper he gave way to at your coming; I begin to be secure and tranquil; and you, restless to know us at peace, appear resolved on exciting a quarrel. Quarrel with Edgar, if you please, Heathcliff, and deceive his sister: you'll hit on exactly the most efficient method of revenging yourself on me.' The conversation ceased. Mrs. Linton sat down by the fire, flushed and gloomy. The spirit which served her was growing intractable: she could neither lay nor control it. He stood on the hearth with folded arms, brooding on his evil thoughts; and in this position I left them to seek the master, who was wondering what kept Catherine below so long. 'Ellen,' said he, when I entered, 'have you seen your mistress?' 'Yes; she's in the kitchen, sir,' I answered. 'She's sadly put out by Mr. Heathcliff's behaviour: and, indeed, I do think it's time to arrange his visits on another footing. There's harm in being too soft, and now it's come to this--.' And I related the scene in the court, and, as near as I dared, the whole subsequent dispute. I fancied it could not be very prejudicial to Mrs. Linton; unless she made it so afterwards, by assuming the defensive for her guest. Edgar Linton had difficulty in hearing me to the close. His first words revealed that he did not clear his wife of blame. 'This is insufferable!' he exclaimed. 'It is disgraceful that she should own him for a friend, and force his company on me! Call me two men out of the hall, Ellen. Catherine shall linger no longer to argue with the low ruffian--I have humoured her enough.' He descended, and bidding the servants wait in the passage, went, followed by me, to the kitchen. Its occupants had recommenced their angry discussion: Mrs. Linton, at least, was scolding with renewed vigour; Heathcliff had moved to the window, and hung his head, somewhat cowed by her violent rating apparently. He saw the master first, and made a hasty motion that she should be silent; which she obeyed, abruptly, on discovering the reason of his intimation. 'How is this?' said Linton, addressing her; 'what notion of propriety must you have to remain here, after the language which has been held to you by that blackguard? I suppose, because it is his ordinary talk you think nothing of it: you are habituated to his baseness, and, perhaps, imagine I can get used to it too!' 'Have you been listening at the door, Edgar?' asked the mistress, in a tone particularly calculated to provoke her husband, implying both carelessness and contempt of his irritation. Heathcliff, who had raised his eyes at the former speech, gave a sneering laugh at the latter; on purpose, it seemed, to draw Mr. Linton's attention to him. He succeeded; but Edgar did not mean to entertain him with any high flights of passion. 'I've been so far forbearing with you, sir,' he said quietly; 'not that I was ignorant of your miserable, degraded character, but I felt you were only partly responsible for that; and Catherine wishing to keep up your acquaintance, I acquiesced--foolishly. Your presence is a moral poison that would contaminate the most virtuous: for that cause, and to prevent worse consequences, I shall deny you hereafter admission into this house, and give notice now that I require your instant departure. Three minutes' delay will render it involuntary and ignominious.' Heathcliff measured the height and breadth of the speaker with an eye full of derision. 'Cathy, this lamb of yours threatens like a bull!' he said. 'It is in danger of splitting its skull against my knuckles. By God! Mr. Linton, I'm mortally sorry that you are not worth knocking down!' My master glanced towards the passage, and signed me to fetch the men: he had no intention of hazarding a personal encounter. I obeyed the hint; but Mrs. Linton, suspecting something, followed; and when I attempted to call them, she pulled me back, slammed the door to, and locked it. 'Fair means!' she said, in answer to her husband's look of angry surprise. 'If you have not courage to attack him, make an apology, or allow yourself to be beaten. It will correct you of feigning more valour than you possess. No, I'll swallow the key before you shall get it! I'm delightfully rewarded for my kindness to each! After constant indulgence of one's weak nature, and the other's bad one, I earn for thanks two samples of blind ingratitude, stupid to absurdity! Edgar, I was defending you and yours; and I wish Heathcliff may flog you sick, for daring to think an evil thought of me!' It did not need the medium of a flogging to produce that effect on the master. He tried to wrest the key from Catherine's grasp, and for safety she flung it into the hottest part of the fire; whereupon Mr. Edgar was taken with a nervous trembling, and his countenance grew deadly pale. For his life he could not avert that excess of emotion: mingled anguish and humiliation overcame him completely. He leant on the back of a chair, and covered his face. 'Oh, heavens! In old days this would win you knighthood!' exclaimed Mrs. Linton. 'We are vanquished! we are vanquished! Heathcliff would as soon lift a finger at you as the king would march his army against a colony of mice. Cheer up! you sha'n't be hurt! Your type is not a lamb, it's a sucking leveret.' 'I wish you joy of the milk-blooded coward, Cathy!' said her friend. 'I compliment you on your taste. And that is the slavering, shivering thing you preferred to me! I would not strike him with my fist, but I'd kick him with my foot, and experience considerable satisfaction. Is he weeping, or is he going to faint for fear?' The fellow approached and gave the chair on which Linton rested a push. He'd better have kept his distance: my master quickly sprang erect, and struck him full on the throat a blow that would have levelled a slighter man. It took his breath for a minute; and while he choked, Mr. Linton walked out by the back door into the yard, and from thence to the front entrance. 'There! you've done with coming here,' cried Catherine. 'Get away, now; he'll return with a brace of pistols and half-a-dozen assistants. If he did overhear us, of course he'd never forgive you. You've played me an ill turn, Heathcliff! But go--make haste! I'd rather see Edgar at bay than you.' 'Do you suppose I'm going with that blow burning in my gullet?' he thundered. 'By hell, no! I'll crush his ribs in like a rotten hazel-nut before I cross the threshold! If I don't floor him now, I shall murder him some time; so, as you value his existence, let me get at him!' 'He is not coming,' I interposed, framing a bit of a lie. 'There's the coachman and the two gardeners; you'll surely not wait to be thrust into the road by them! Each has a bludgeon; and master will, very likely, be watching from the parlour-windows to see that they fulfil his orders.' The gardeners and coachman were there: but Linton was with them. They had already entered the court. Heathcliff, on the second thoughts, resolved to avoid a struggle against three underlings: he seized the poker, smashed the lock from the inner door, and made his escape as they tramped in. Mrs. Linton, who was very much excited, bade me accompany her up-stairs. She did not know my share in contributing to the disturbance, and I was anxious to keep her in ignorance. 'I'm nearly distracted, Nelly!' she exclaimed, throwing herself on the sofa. 'A thousand smiths' hammers are beating in my head! Tell Isabella to shun me; this uproar is owing to her; and should she or any one else aggravate my anger at present, I shall get wild. And, Nelly, say to Edgar, if you see him again to-night, that I'm in danger of being seriously ill. I wish it may prove true. He has startled and distressed me shockingly! I want to frighten him. Besides, he might come and begin a string of abuse or complainings; I'm certain I should recriminate, and God knows where we should end! Will you do so, my good Nelly? You are aware that I am no way blamable in this matter. What possessed him to turn listener? Heathcliff's talk was outrageous, after you left us; but I could soon have diverted him from Isabella, and the rest meant nothing. Now all is dashed wrong; by the fool's craving to hear evil of self, that haunts some people like a demon! Had Edgar never gathered our conversation, he would never have been the worse for it. Really, when he opened on me in that unreasonable tone of displeasure after I had scolded Heathcliff till I was hoarse for him, I did not care hardly what they did to each other; especially as I felt that, however the scene closed, we should all be driven asunder for nobody knows how long! Well, if I cannot keep Heathcliff for my friend--if Edgar will be mean and jealous, I'll try to break their hearts by breaking my own. That will be a prompt way of finishing all, when I am pushed to extremity! But it's a deed to be reserved for a forlorn hope; I'd not take Linton by surprise with it. To this point he has been discreet in dreading to provoke me; you must represent the peril of quitting that policy, and remind him of my passionate temper, verging, when kindled, on frenzy. I wish you could dismiss that apathy out of that countenance, and look rather more anxious about me.' The stolidity with which I received these instructions was, no doubt, rather exasperating: for they were delivered in perfect sincerity; but I believed a person who could plan the turning of her fits of passion to account, beforehand, might, by exerting her will, manage to control herself tolerably, even while under their influence; and I did not wish to 'frighten' her husband, as she said, and multiply his annoyances for the purpose of serving her selfishness. Therefore I said nothing when I met the master coming towards the parlour; but I took the liberty of turning back to listen whether they would resume their quarrel together. He began to speak first. 'Remain where you are, Catherine,' he said; without any anger in his voice, but with much sorrowful despondency. 'I shall not stay. I am neither come to wrangle nor be reconciled; but I wish just to learn whether, after this evening's events, you intend to continue your intimacy with--' 'Oh, for mercy's sake,' interrupted the mistress, stamping her foot, 'for mercy's sake, let us hear no more of it now! Your cold blood cannot be worked into a fever: your veins are full of ice-water; but mine are boiling, and the sight of such chillness makes them dance.' 'To get rid of me, answer my question,' persevered Mr. Linton. 'You must answer it; and that violence does not alarm me. I have found that you can be as stoical as anyone, when you please. Will you give up Heathcliff hereafter, or will you give up me? It is impossible for you to be _my_ friend and _his_ at the same time; and I absolutely _require_ to know which you choose.' 'I require to be let alone!' exclaimed Catherine, furiously. 'I demand it! Don't you see I can scarcely stand? Edgar, you--you leave me!' She rang the bell till it broke with a twang; I entered leisurely. It was enough to try the temper of a saint, such senseless, wicked rages! There she lay dashing her head against the arm of the sofa, and grinding her teeth, so that you might fancy she would crash them to splinters! Mr. Linton stood looking at her in sudden compunction and fear. He told me to fetch some water. She had no breath for speaking. I brought a glass full; and as she would not drink, I sprinkled it on her face. In a few seconds she stretched herself out stiff, and turned up her eyes, while her cheeks, at once blanched and livid, assumed the aspect of death. Linton looked terrified. 'There is nothing in the world the matter,' I whispered. I did not want him to yield, though I could not help being afraid in my heart. 'She has blood on her lips!' he said, shuddering. 'Never mind!' I answered, tartly. And I told him how she had resolved, previous to his coming, on exhibiting a fit of frenzy. I incautiously gave the account aloud, and she heard me; for she started up--her hair flying over her shoulders, her eyes flashing, the muscles of her neck and arms standing out preternaturally. I made up my mind for broken bones, at least; but she only glared about her for an instant, and then rushed from the room. The master directed me to follow; I did, to her chamber-door: she hindered me from going further by securing it against me. As she never offered to descend to breakfast next morning, I went to ask whether she would have some carried up. 'No!' she replied, peremptorily. The same question was repeated at dinner and tea; and again on the morrow after, and received the same answer. Mr. Linton, on his part, spent his time in the library, and did not inquire concerning his wife's occupations. Isabella and he had had an hour's interview, during which he tried to elicit from her some sentiment of proper horror for Heathcliff's advances: but he could make nothing of her evasive replies, and was obliged to close the examination unsatisfactorily; adding, however, a solemn warning, that if she were so insane as to encourage that worthless suitor, it would dissolve all bonds of relationship between herself and him. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Nelly reist nach Wuthering Heights, um mit Hindley zu sprechen, doch stattdessen trifft sie auf Hareton, der nach ihr wirft und Flüche ausspricht. Nelly erfährt von Hareton, dass Heathcliff dem Jungen beigebracht hat, seinen Vater Hindley zu beschimpfen, und dem Kaplan, der angeboten hat, Hareton zu unterrichten, verboten hat, das Anwesen zu betreten. Heathcliff erscheint und Nelly flieht. Am nächsten Tag beobachtet Nelly im Grange, wie Heathcliff Isabella umarmt. In der Küche fordert Catherine Heathcliff auf, ihr seine wahren Gefühle für Isabella zu offenbaren. Sie bietet an, Edgar zu überreden, die Ehe zu erlauben, wenn Heathcliff die Frau wirklich liebt. Heathcliff lehnt diese Idee jedoch ab und erklärt, dass Catherine ihm Unrecht getan hat, indem sie Edgar geheiratet hat, und dass er Rache nehmen will. Nelly informiert Edgar von der Begegnung zwischen Catherine und Heathcliff in der Küche, und Edgar stürmt herein und fordert Heathcliff auf, sein Anwesen zu verlassen. Als Heathcliff sich weigert zu gehen, ruft Edgar seine Diener um Hilfe. Catherine jedoch sperrt sich und die beiden Männer in der Küche ein und wirft den Schlüssel ins Feuer, sodass Edgar sich ohne die Hilfe weiterer Männer Heathcliff stellen muss. Von Angst und Scham überwältigt, versteckt Edgar sein Gesicht. Dennoch reizen Catherines Spottreden Edgar dazu, Heathcliff einen Schlag in den Hals zu versetzen, woraufhin Edgar durch den Garten geht. In Todesangst vor dem stärkeren Heathcliff eilt Edgar, um Hilfe zu holen, und Heathcliff entscheidet, dass er gegen drei bewaffnete Diener nicht kämpfen kann und geht. In Wut erklärt Edgar, dass Catherine zwischen Heathcliff und ihm wählen muss. Catherine weigert sich, mit ihm zu sprechen, sperrt sich in einem Raum ein und weigert sich zu essen. Zwei Tage vergehen auf diese Weise und Edgar warnt Isabella davor, dass er sie aus der Familie Linton verstößt, wenn sie Heathcliff verfolgt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The night was bitter cold. The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a hard thick crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways and corners were affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad: which, as if expending increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it savagely up in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies, scattered it in air. Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night for the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright fire and thank God they were at home; and for the homeless, starving wretch to lay him down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare streets, at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may, can hardly open them in a more bitter world. Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mrs. Corney, the matron of the workhouse to which our readers have been already introduced as the birthplace of Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a cheerful fire in her own little room, and glanced, with no small degree of complacency, at a small round table: on which stood a tray of corresponding size, furnished with all necessary materials for the most grateful meal that matrons enjoy. In fact, Mrs. Corney was about to solace herself with a cup of tea. As she glanced from the table to the fireplace, where the smallest of all possible kettles was singing a small song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidently increased,--so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled. 'Well!' said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking reflectively at the fire; 'I'm sure we have all on us a great deal to be grateful for! A great deal, if we did but know it. Ah!' Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental blindness of those paupers who did not know it; and thrusting a silver spoon (private property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea. How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds! The black teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs. Corney was moralising; and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney's hand. 'Drat the pot!' said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on the hob; 'a little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups! What use is it of, to anybody! Except,' said Mrs. Corney, pausing, 'except to a poor desolate creature like me. Oh dear!' With these words, the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more resting her elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The small teapot, and the single cup, had awakened in her mind sad recollections of Mr. Corney (who had not been dead more than five-and-twenty years); and she was overpowered. 'I shall never get another!' said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; 'I shall never get another--like him.' Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is uncertain. It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it as she spoke; and took it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first cup, when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door. 'Oh, come in with you!' said Mrs. Corney, sharply. 'Some of the old women dying, I suppose. They always die when I'm at meals. Don't stand there, letting the cold air in, don't. What's amiss now, eh?' 'Nothing, ma'am, nothing,' replied a man's voice. 'Dear me!' exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, 'is that Mr. Bumble?' 'At your service, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping outside to rub his shoes clean, and to shake the snow off his coat; and who now made his appearance, bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a bundle in the other. 'Shall I shut the door, ma'am?' The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any impropriety in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors. Mr. Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold himself, shut it without permission. 'Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,' said the matron. 'Hard, indeed, ma'am,' replied the beadle. 'Anti-porochial weather this, ma'am. We have given away, Mrs. Corney, we have given away a matter of twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half, this very blessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented.' 'Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?' said the matron, sipping her tea. 'When, indeed, ma'am!' rejoined Mr. Bumble. 'Why here's one man that, in consideration of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and a good pound of cheese, full weight. Is he grateful, ma'am? Is he grateful? Not a copper farthing's worth of it! What does he do, ma'am, but ask for a few coals; if it's only a pocket handkerchief full, he says! Coals! What would he do with coals? Toast his cheese with 'em and then come back for more. That's the way with these people, ma'am; give 'em a apron full of coals to-day, and they'll come back for another, the day after to-morrow, as brazen as alabaster.' The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible simile; and the beadle went on. 'I never,' said Mr. Bumble, 'see anything like the pitch it's got to. The day afore yesterday, a man--you have been a married woman, ma'am, and I may mention it to you--a man, with hardly a rag upon his back (here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer's door when he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he must be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn't go away, and shocked the company very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal. "My heart!" says the ungrateful villain, "what's the use of _this_ to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles!" "Very good," says our overseer, taking 'em away again, "you won't get anything else here." "Then I'll die in the streets!" says the vagrant. "Oh no, you won't," says our overseer.' 'Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn't it?' interposed the matron. 'Well, Mr. Bumble?' 'Well, ma'am,' rejoined the beadle, 'he went away; and he _did_ die in the streets. There's a obstinate pauper for you!' 'It beats anything I could have believed,' observed the matron emphatically. 'But don't you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing, any way, Mr. Bumble? You're a gentleman of experience, and ought to know. Come.' 'Mrs. Corney,' said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious of superior information, 'out-of-door relief, properly managed: properly managed, ma'am: is the porochial safeguard. The great principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what they don't want; and then they get tired of coming.' 'Dear me!' exclaimed Mrs. Corney. 'Well, that is a good one, too!' 'Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma'am,' returned Mr. Bumble, 'that's the great principle; and that's the reason why, if you look at any cases that get into them owdacious newspapers, you'll always observe that sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese. That's the rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however,' said the beadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, 'these are official secrets, ma'am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may say, among the porochial officers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma'am, that the board ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only out of the cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!' Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers; folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go. 'You'll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble,' said the matron. 'It blows, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, 'enough to cut one's ears off.' The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether--whether he wouldn't take a cup of tea? Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled. Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr. Bumble coughed--louder this time than he had coughed yet. 'Sweet? Mr. Bumble?' inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin. 'Very sweet, indeed, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment. The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department. 'You have a cat, ma'am, I see,' said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; 'and kittens too, I declare!' 'I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think,' replied the matron. 'They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me.' 'Very nice animals, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; 'so very domestic.' 'Oh, yes!' rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; 'so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure.' 'Mrs. Corney, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, 'I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am.' 'Oh, Mr. Bumble!' remonstrated Mrs. Corney. 'It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; 'I would drown it myself, with pleasure.' 'Then you're a cruel man,' said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle's cup; 'and a very hard-hearted man besides.' 'Hard-hearted, ma'am?' said Mr. Bumble. 'Hard?' Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire. It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble's part: he being in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings, which however well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be the sternest and most inflexible among them all. Whatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was seated. Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble stopped. Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have been scorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen into Mr. Bumble's arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt foreseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained where she was, and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea. 'Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?' said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and looking up into the matron's face; 'are _you_ hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?' 'Dear me!' exclaimed the matron, 'what a very curious question from a single man. What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?' The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of toast; whisked the crumbs off his knees; wiped his lips; and deliberately kissed the matron. 'Mr. Bumble!' cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for the fright was so great, that she had quite lost her voice, 'Mr. Bumble, I shall scream!' Mr. Bumble made no reply; but in a slow and dignified manner, put his arm round the matron's waist. As the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she would have screamed at this additional boldness, but that the exertion was rendered unnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door: which was no sooner heard, than Mr. Bumble darted, with much agility, to the wine bottles, and began dusting them with great violence: while the matron sharply demanded who was there. It is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance of the efficacy of a sudden surprise in counteracting the effects of extreme fear, that her voice had quite recovered all its official asperity. 'If you please, mistress,' said a withered old female pauper, hideously ugly: putting her head in at the door, 'Old Sally is a-going fast.' 'Well, what's that to me?' angrily demanded the matron. 'I can't keep her alive, can I?' 'No, no, mistress,' replied the old woman, 'nobody can; she's far beyond the reach of help. I've seen a many people die; little babes and great strong men; and I know when death's a-coming, well enough. But she's troubled in her mind: and when the fits are not on her,--and that's not often, for she is dying very hard,--she says she has got something to tell, which you must hear. She'll never die quiet till you come, mistress.' At this intelligence, the worthy Mrs. Corney muttered a variety of invectives against old women who couldn't even die without purposely annoying their betters; and, muffling herself in a thick shawl which she hastily caught up, briefly requested Mr. Bumble to stay till she came back, lest anything particular should occur. Bidding the messenger walk fast, and not be all night hobbling up the stairs, she followed her from the room with a very ill grace, scolding all the way. Mr. Bumble's conduct on being left to himself, was rather inexplicable. He opened the closet, counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs, closely inspected a silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the genuine metal, and, having satisfied his curiosity on these points, put on his cocked hat corner-wise, and danced with much gravity four distinct times round the table. Having gone through this very extraordinary performance, he took off the cocked hat again, and, spreading himself before the fire with his back towards it, seemed to be mentally engaged in taking an exact inventory of the furniture. It was no unfit messenger of death, who had disturbed the quiet of the matron's room. Her body was bent by age; her limbs trembled with palsy; her face, distorted into a mumbling leer, resembled more the grotesque shaping of some wild pencil, than the work of Nature's hand. Alas! How few of Nature's faces are left alone to gladden us with their beauty! The cares, and sorrows, and hungerings, of the world, change them as they change hearts; and it is only when those passions sleep, and have lost their hold for ever, that the troubled clouds pass off, and leave Heaven's surface clear. It is a common thing for the countenances of the dead, even in that fixed and rigid state, to subside into the long-forgotten expression of sleeping infancy, and settle into the very look of early life; so calm, so peaceful, do they grow again, that those who knew them in their happy childhood, kneel by the coffin's side in awe, and see the Angel even upon earth. The old crone tottered along the passages, and up the stairs, muttering some indistinct answers to the chidings of her companion; being at length compelled to pause for breath, she gave the light into her hand, and remained behind to follow as she might: while the more nimble superior made her way to the room where the sick woman lay. It was a bare garret-room, with a dim light burning at the farther end. There was another old woman watching by the bed; the parish apothecary's apprentice was standing by the fire, making a toothpick out of a quill. 'Cold night, Mrs. Corney,' said this young gentleman, as the matron entered. 'Very cold, indeed, sir,' replied the mistress, in her most civil tones, and dropping a curtsey as she spoke. 'You should get better coals out of your contractors,' said the apothecary's deputy, breaking a lump on the top of the fire with the rusty poker; 'these are not at all the sort of thing for a cold night.' 'They're the board's choosing, sir,' returned the matron. 'The least they could do, would be to keep us pretty warm: for our places are hard enough.' The conversation was here interrupted by a moan from the sick woman. 'Oh!' said the young mag, turning his face towards the bed, as if he had previously quite forgotten the patient, 'it's all U.P. there, Mrs. Corney.' 'It is, is it, sir?' asked the matron. 'If she lasts a couple of hours, I shall be surprised,' said the apothecary's apprentice, intent upon the toothpick's point. 'It's a break-up of the system altogether. Is she dozing, old lady?' The attendant stooped over the bed, to ascertain; and nodded in the affirmative. 'Then perhaps she'll go off in that way, if you don't make a row,' said the young man. 'Put the light on the floor. She won't see it there.' The attendant did as she was told: shaking her head meanwhile, to intimate that the woman would not die so easily; having done so, she resumed her seat by the side of the other nurse, who had by this time returned. The mistress, with an expression of impatience, wrapped herself in her shawl, and sat at the foot of the bed. The apothecary's apprentice, having completed the manufacture of the toothpick, planted himself in front of the fire and made good use of it for ten minutes or so: when apparently growing rather dull, he wished Mrs. Corney joy of her job, and took himself off on tiptoe. When they had sat in silence for some time, the two old women rose from the bed, and crouching over the fire, held out their withered hands to catch the heat. The flame threw a ghastly light on their shrivelled faces, and made their ugliness appear terrible, as, in this position, they began to converse in a low voice. 'Did she say any more, Anny dear, while I was gone?' inquired the messenger. 'Not a word,' replied the other. 'She plucked and tore at her arms for a little time; but I held her hands, and she soon dropped off. She hasn't much strength in her, so I easily kept her quiet. I ain't so weak for an old woman, although I am on parish allowance; no, no!' 'Did she drink the hot wine the doctor said she was to have?' demanded the first. 'I tried to get it down,' rejoined the other. 'But her teeth were tight set, and she clenched the mug so hard that it was as much as I could do to get it back again. So I drank it; and it did me good!' Looking cautiously round, to ascertain that they were not overheard, the two hags cowered nearer to the fire, and chuckled heartily. 'I mind the time,' said the first speaker, 'when she would have done the same, and made rare fun of it afterwards.' 'Ay, that she would,' rejoined the other; 'she had a merry heart. 'A many, many, beautiful corpses she laid out, as nice and neat as waxwork. My old eyes have seen them--ay, and those old hands touched them too; for I have helped her, scores of times.' Stretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke, the old creature shook them exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket, brought out an old time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook a few grains into the outstretched palm of her companion, and a few more into her own. While they were thus employed, the matron, who had been impatiently watching until the dying woman should awaken from her stupor, joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she was to wait? 'Not long, mistress,' replied the second woman, looking up into her face. 'We have none of us long to wait for Death. Patience, patience! He'll be here soon enough for us all.' 'Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!' said the matron sternly. 'You, Martha, tell me; has she been in this way before?' 'Often,' answered the first woman. 'But will never be again,' added the second one; 'that is, she'll never wake again but once--and mind, mistress, that won't be for long!' 'Long or short,' said the matron, snappishly, 'she won't find me here when she does wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for nothing. It's no part of my duty to see all the old women in the house die, and I won't--that's more. Mind that, you impudent old harridans. If you make a fool of me again, I'll soon cure you, I warrant you!' She was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned towards the bed, caused her to look round. The patient had raised herself upright, and was stretching her arms towards them. 'Who's that?' she cried, in a hollow voice. 'Hush, hush!' said one of the women, stooping over her. 'Lie down, lie down!' 'I'll never lie down again alive!' said the woman, struggling. 'I _will_ tell her! Come here! Nearer! Let me whisper in your ear.' She clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the bedside, was about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of the two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners. 'Turn them away,' said the woman, drowsily; 'make haste! make haste!' The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves. 'Now listen to me,' said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy. 'In this very room--in this very bed--I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think--what was the year again!' 'Never mind the year,' said the impatient auditor; 'what about her?' 'Ay,' murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, 'what about her?--what about--I know!' she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head--'I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold--I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!' 'Stole what, for God's sake?' cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. '_It_!' replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. 'The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!' 'Gold!' echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. 'Go on, go on--yes--what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?' 'She charged me to keep it safe,' replied the woman with a groan, 'and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!' 'Known what?' asked the other. 'Speak!' 'The boy grew so like his mother,' said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, 'that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?' 'No, no,' replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. 'Be quick, or it may be too late!' 'The mother,' said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; 'the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named. "And oh, kind Heaven!" she said, folding her thin hands together, "whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!"' 'The boy's name?' demanded the matron. 'They _called_ him Oliver,' replied the woman, feebly. 'The gold I stole was--' 'Yes, yes--what?' cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. * * * * * 'Stone dead!' said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened. 'And nothing to tell, after all,' rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away. The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body. 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"Düster, dunkel und eisige Kälte", so ist eine Nacht, "in der sich der obdachlose, verhungernde Elende hinlegt und stirbt." Doch in der Armenanstalt, in der Oliver geboren wurde, bereitet sich Mrs. Corney, die Vorsteherin, darauf vor, den guten Genuss ihres Tees zu genießen. Das Ritual wird unterbrochen durch den Besuch einer Person, die Schutz vor dem "anti-porochialen Wetter" sucht. Der Besucher, Mr. Bumble, beschwert sich über diejenigen, die die Armenspeisungen zu höheren Forderungen ermutigen, doch undankbar wie eh und je besteht die Bedürftigkeit "unverblümt wie Alabaster". Die Frau beugt sich dem, was sie für Bumbles überlegenes Verständnis hält. Er erkennt einen Nutzen in der direkten Almosenvergabe: "Das große Prinzip der Unterstützung außerhalb des Hauses besteht darin, den Armen genau das zu geben, was sie nicht wollen. Dann werden sie des Kommens müde." Als Bumble gehen will, lädt ihn Mrs. Corney schüchtern zu einem Tee ein, und er nimmt gierig an. Nach einem Austausch von Freundlichkeiten schafft Bumble es, seinen Stuhl um den runden Tisch herumzudrehen, bis er neben der Vorsteherin sitzt. Dann küsst er seine Gastgeberin kühn und legt den Arm um sie. Diese zärtliche Szene wird jäh durch die Forderungen eines alten Armen unterbrochen, der verkündet, dass die alte Sally, die dem Tod nahe ist, die Vorsteherin sprechen möchte. Mrs. Corney bittet Bumble, zu warten, und folgt dem Boten hochgradig irritiert. Bumble, allein gelassen, inspiziert verschiedene Gegenstände im Raum und scheint eine virtuelle Inventur der Möbel durchzuführen. In dem Dachzimmer liegt die sterbende Insassin, Sally, im Koma. Die ungeduldige Vorsteherin steht gerade kurz davor zu gehen, als die kranke Frau sich aufrichtet und darum bittet, dass die beiden Betreuer den Raum verlassen. Die rapide schwächelnde Patientin beginnt ihre unzusammenhängende Geschichte: In diesemselben Zimmer pflegte sie vor Jahren eine hübsche junge Frau, die ein Kind bekam und starb. Doch vor ihrem Tod vertraute die Mutter ihrem Pfleger einen goldenen Gegenstand an. Die Erzählerin gesteht jedoch, dass sie den Artikel gestohlen hat, obwohl sie wusste, dass der Junge "besser behandelt worden wäre, wenn sie alles gewusst hätten!" In ihren letzten Momenten äußerte das Mädchen den Wunsch, dass ihr Kind, falls es überlebte, eines Tages keinen Grund haben sollte, sich für seine Mutter zu schämen. Die letzten Worte der Sprecherin lauten: "Sie nannten ihn Oliver ... Das Gold, das ich gestohlen habe, war -." Der Tod behütet wieder einmal die Geheimnisse der Lebenden. Die Vorsteherin geht gelassen hinaus und bemerkt, dass es schließlich nichts zu enthüllen gab.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: No apartment-house in Zenith had more resolutely experimented in condensation than the Revelstoke Arms, in which Paul and Zilla Riesling had a flat. By sliding the beds into low closets the bedrooms were converted into living-rooms. The kitchens were cupboards each containing an electric range, a copper sink, a glass refrigerator, and, very intermittently, a Balkan maid. Everything about the Arms was excessively modern, and everything was compressed--except the garages. The Babbitts were calling on the Rieslings at the Arms. It was a speculative venture to call on the Rieslings; interesting and sometimes disconcerting. Zilla was an active, strident, full-blown, high-bosomed blonde. When she condescended to be good-humored she was nervously amusing. Her comments on people were saltily satiric and penetrative of accepted hypocrisies. "That's so!" you said, and looked sheepish. She danced wildly, and called on the world to be merry, but in the midst of it she would turn indignant. She was always becoming indignant. Life was a plot against her and she exposed it furiously. She was affable to-night. She merely hinted that Orville Jones wore a toupe, that Mrs. T. Cholmondeley Frink's singing resembled a Ford going into high, and that the Hon. Otis Deeble, mayor of Zenith and candidate for Congress, was a flatulent fool (which was quite true). The Babbitts and Rieslings sat doubtfully on stone-hard brocade chairs in the small living-room of the flat, with its mantel unprovided with a fireplace, and its strip of heavy gilt fabric upon a glaring new player-piano, till Mrs. Riesling shrieked, "Come on! Let's put some pep in it! Get out your fiddle, Paul, and I'll try to make Georgie dance decently." The Babbitts were in earnest. They were plotting for the escape to Maine. But when Mrs. Babbitt hinted with plump smilingness, "Does Paul get as tired after the winter's work as Georgie does?" then Zilla remembered an injury; and when Zilla Riesling remembered an injury the world stopped till something had been done about it. "Does he get tired? No, he doesn't get tired, he just goes crazy, that's all! You think Paul is so reasonable, oh, yes, and he loves to make out he's a little lamb, but he's stubborn as a mule. Oh, if you had to live with him--! You'd find out how sweet he is! He just pretends to be meek so he can have his own way. And me, I get the credit for being a terrible old crank, but if I didn't blow up once in a while and get something started, we'd die of dry-rot. He never wants to go any place and--Why, last evening, just because the car was out of order--and that was his fault, too, because he ought to have taken it to the service-station and had the battery looked at--and he didn't want to go down to the movies on the trolley. But we went, and then there was one of those impudent conductors, and Paul wouldn't do a thing. "I was standing on the platform waiting for the people to let me into the car, and this beast, this conductor, hollered at me, 'Come on, you, move up!' Why, I've never had anybody speak to me that way in all my life! I was so astonished I just turned to him and said--I thought there must be some mistake, and so I said to him, perfectly pleasant, 'Were you speaking to me?' and he went on and bellowed at me, 'Yes, I was! You're keeping the whole car from starting!' he said, and then I saw he was one of these dirty ill-bred hogs that kindness is wasted on, and so I stopped and looked right at him, and I said, 'I--beg--your--pardon, I am not doing anything of the kind,' I said, 'it's the people ahead of me, who won't move up,' I said, 'and furthermore, let me tell you, young man, that you're a low-down, foul-mouthed, impertinent skunk,' I said, 'and you're no gentleman! I certainly intend to report you, and we'll see,' I said, 'whether a lady is to be insulted by any drunken bum that chooses to put on a ragged uniform, and I'd thank you,' I said, 'to keep your filthy abuse to yourself.' And then I waited for Paul to show he was half a man and come to my defense, and he just stood there and pretended he hadn't heard a word, and so I said to him, 'Well,' I said--" "Oh, cut it, cut it, Zill!" Paul groaned. "We all know I'm a mollycoddle, and you're a tender bud, and let's let it go at that." "Let it go?" Zilla's face was wrinkled like the Medusa, her voice was a dagger of corroded brass. She was full of the joy of righteousness and bad temper. She was a crusader and, like every crusader, she exulted in the opportunity to be vicious in the name of virtue. "Let it go? If people knew how many things I've let go--" "Oh, quit being such a bully." "Yes, a fine figure you'd cut if I didn't bully you! You'd lie abed till noon and play your idiotic fiddle till midnight! You're born lazy, and you're born shiftless, and you're born cowardly, Paul Riesling--" "Oh, now, don't say that, Zilla; you don't mean a word of it!" protested Mrs. Babbitt. "I will say that, and I mean every single last word of it!" "Oh, now, Zilla, the idea!" Mrs. Babbitt was maternal and fussy. She was no older than Zilla, but she seemed so--at first. She was placid and puffy and mature, where Zilla, at forty-five, was so bleached and tight-corseted that you knew only that she was older than she looked. "The idea of talking to poor Paul like that!" "Poor Paul is right! We'd both be poor, we'd be in the poorhouse, if I didn't jazz him up!" "Why, now, Zilla, Georgie and I were just saying how hard Paul's been working all year, and we were thinking it would be lovely if the Boys could run off by themselves. I've been coaxing George to go up to Maine ahead of the rest of us, and get the tired out of his system before we come, and I think it would be lovely if Paul could manage to get away and join him." At this exposure of his plot to escape, Paul was startled out of impassivity. He rubbed his fingers. His hands twitched. Zilla bayed, "Yes! You're lucky! You can let George go, and not have to watch him. Fat old Georgie! Never peeps at another woman! Hasn't got the spunk!" "The hell I haven't!" Babbitt was fervently defending his priceless immorality when Paul interrupted him--and Paul looked dangerous. He rose quickly; he said gently to Zilla: "I suppose you imply I have a lot of sweethearts." "Yes, I do!" "Well, then, my dear, since you ask for it--There hasn't been a time in the last ten years when I haven't found some nice little girl to comfort me, and as long as you continue your amiability I shall probably continue to deceive you. It isn't hard. You're so stupid." Zilla gibbered; she howled; words could not be distinguished in her slaver of abuse. Then the bland George F. Babbitt was transformed. If Paul was dangerous, if Zilla was a snake-locked fury, if the neat emotions suitable to the Revelstoke Arms had been slashed into raw hatreds, it was Babbitt who was the most formidable. He leaped up. He seemed very large. He seized Zilla's shoulder. The cautions of the broker were wiped from his face, and his voice was cruel: "I've had enough of all this damn nonsense! I've known you for twenty-five years, Zil, and I never knew you to miss a chance to take your disappointments out on Paul. You're not wicked. You're worse. You're a fool. And let me tell you that Paul is the finest boy God ever made. Every decent person is sick and tired of your taking advantage of being a woman and springing every mean innuendo you can think of. Who the hell are you that a person like Paul should have to ask your PERMISSION to go with me? You act like you were a combination of Queen Victoria and Cleopatra. You fool, can't you see how people snicker at you, and sneer at you?" Zilla was sobbing, "I've never--I've never--nobody ever talked to me like this in all my life!" "No, but that's the way they talk behind your back! Always! They say you're a scolding old woman. Old, by God!" That cowardly attack broke her. Her eyes were blank. She wept. But Babbitt glared stolidly. He felt that he was the all-powerful official in charge; that Paul and Mrs. Babbitt looked on him with awe; that he alone could handle this case. Zilla writhed. She begged, "Oh, they don't!" "They certainly do!" "I've been a bad woman! I'm terribly sorry! I'll kill myself! I'll do anything. Oh, I'll--What do you want?" She abased herself completely. Also, she enjoyed it. To the connoisseur of scenes, nothing is more enjoyable than a thorough, melodramatic, egoistic humility. "I want you to let Paul beat it off to Maine with me," Babbitt demanded. "How can I help his going? You've just said I was an idiot and nobody paid any attention to me." "Oh, you can help it, all right, all right! What you got to do is to cut out hinting that the minute he gets out of your sight, he'll go chasing after some petticoat. Matter fact, that's the way you start the boy off wrong. You ought to have more sense--" "Oh, I will, honestly, I will, George. I know I was bad. Oh, forgive me, all of you, forgive me--" She enjoyed it. So did Babbitt. He condemned magnificently and forgave piously, and as he went parading out with his wife he was grandly explanatory to her: "Kind of a shame to bully Zilla, but course it was the only way to handle her. Gosh, I certainly did have her crawling!" She said calmly, "Yes. You were horrid. You were showing off. You were having a lovely time thinking what a great fine person you were!" "Well, by golly! Can you beat it! Of course I might of expected you to not stand by me! I might of expected you'd stick up for your own sex!" "Yes. Poor Zilla, she's so unhappy. She takes it out on Paul. She hasn't a single thing to do, in that little flat. And she broods too much. And she used to be so pretty and gay, and she resents losing it. And you were just as nasty and mean as you could be. I'm not a bit proud of you--or of Paul, boasting about his horrid love-affairs!" He was sulkily silent; he maintained his bad temper at a high level of outraged nobility all the four blocks home. At the door he left her, in self-approving haughtiness, and tramped the lawn. With a shock it was revealed to him: "Gosh, I wonder if she was right--if she was partly right?" Overwork must have flayed him to abnormal sensitiveness; it was one of the few times in his life when he had queried his eternal excellence; and he perceived the summer night, smelled the wet grass. Then: "I don't care! I've pulled it off. We're going to have our spree. And for Paul, I'd do anything." II They were buying their Maine tackle at Ijams Brothers', the Sporting Goods Mart, with the help of Willis Ijams, fellow member of the Boosters' Club. Babbitt was completely mad. He trumpeted and danced. He muttered to Paul, "Say, this is pretty good, eh? To be buying the stuff, eh? And good old Willis Ijams himself coming down on the floor to wait on us! Say, if those fellows that are getting their kit for the North Lakes knew we were going clear up to Maine, they'd have a fit, eh? . . . Well, come on, Brother Ijams--Willis, I mean. Here's your chance! We're a couple of easy marks! Whee! Let me at it! I'm going to buy out the store!" He gloated on fly-rods and gorgeous rubber hip-boots, on tents with celluloid windows and folding chairs and ice-boxes. He simple-heartedly wanted to buy all of them. It was the Paul whom he was always vaguely protecting who kept him from his drunken desires. But even Paul lightened when Willis Ijams, a salesman with poetry and diplomacy, discussed flies. "Now, of course, you boys know." he said, "the great scrap is between dry flies and wet flies. Personally, I'm for dry flies. More sporting." "That's so. Lots more sporting," fulminated Babbitt, who knew very little about flies either wet or dry. "Now if you'll take my advice, Georgie, you'll stock up well on these pale evening dims, and silver sedges, and red ants. Oh, boy, there's a fly, that red ant!" "You bet! That's what it is--a fly!" rejoiced Babbitt. "Yes, sir, that red ant," said Ijams, "is a real honest-to-God FLY!" "Oh, I guess ole Mr. Trout won't come a-hustling when I drop one of those red ants on the water!" asserted Babbitt, and his thick wrists made a rapturous motion of casting. "Yes, and the landlocked salmon will take it, too," said Ijams, who had never seen a landlocked salmon. "Salmon! Trout! Say, Paul, can you see Uncle George with his khaki pants on haulin' 'em in, some morning 'bout seven? Whee!" III They were on the New York express, incredibly bound for Maine, incredibly without their families. They were free, in a man's world, in the smoking-compartment of the Pullman. Outside the car window was a glaze of darkness stippled with the gold of infrequent mysterious lights. Babbitt was immensely conscious, in the sway and authoritative clatter of the train, of going, of going on. Leaning toward Paul he grunted, "Gosh, pretty nice to be hiking, eh?" The small room, with its walls of ocher-colored steel, was filled mostly with the sort of men he classified as the Best Fellows You'll Ever Meet--Real Good Mixers. There were four of them on the long seat; a fat man with a shrewd fat face, a knife-edged man in a green velour hat, a very young young man with an imitation amber cigarette-holder, and Babbitt. Facing them, on two movable leather chairs, were Paul and a lanky, old-fashioned man, very cunning, with wrinkles bracketing his mouth. They all read newspapers or trade journals, boot-and-shoe journals, crockery journals, and waited for the joys of conversation. It was the very young man, now making his first journey by Pullman, who began it. "Say, gee, I had a wild old time in Zenith!" he gloried. "Say, if a fellow knows the ropes there he can have as wild a time as he can in New York!" "Yuh, I bet you simply raised the old Ned. I figured you were a bad man when I saw you get on the train!" chuckled the fat one. The others delightedly laid down their papers. "Well, that's all right now! I guess I seen some things in the Arbor you never seen!" complained the boy. "Oh, I'll bet you did! I bet you lapped up the malted milk like a reg'lar little devil!" Then, the boy having served as introduction, they ignored him and charged into real talk. Only Paul, sitting by himself, reading at a serial story in a newspaper, failed to join them and all but Babbitt regarded him as a snob, an eccentric, a person of no spirit. Which of them said which has never been determined, and does not matter, since they all had the same ideas and expressed them always with the same ponderous and brassy assurance. If it was not Babbitt who was delivering any given verdict, at least he was beaming on the chancellor who did deliver it. "At that, though," announced the first "they're selling quite some booze in Zenith. Guess they are everywhere. I don't know how you fellows feel about prohibition, but the way it strikes me is that it's a mighty beneficial thing for the poor zob that hasn't got any will-power but for fellows like us, it's an infringement of personal liberty." "That's a fact. Congress has got no right to interfere with a fellow's personal liberty," contended the second. A man came in from the car, but as all the seats were full he stood up while he smoked his cigarette. He was an Outsider; he was not one of the Old Families of the smoking-compartment. They looked upon him bleakly and, after trying to appear at ease by examining his chin in the mirror, he gave it up and went out in silence. "Just been making a trip through the South. Business conditions not very good down there," said one of the council. "Is that a fact! Not very good, eh?" "No, didn't strike me they were up to normal." "Not up to normal, eh?" "No, I wouldn't hardly say they were." The whole council nodded sagely and decided, "Yump, not hardly up to snuff." "Well, business conditions ain't what they ought to be out West, neither, not by a long shot." "That's a fact. And I guess the hotel business feels it. That's one good thing, though: these hotels that've been charging five bucks a day--yes, and maybe six--seven!--for a rotten room are going to be darn glad to get four, and maybe give you a little service." "That's a fact. Say, uh, speaknubout hotels, I hit the St. Francis at San Francisco for the first time, the other day, and, say, it certainly is a first-class place." "You're right, brother! The St. Francis is a swell place--absolutely A1." "That's a fact. I'm right with you. It's a first-class place." "Yuh, but say, any of you fellows ever stay at the Rippleton, in Chicago? I don't want to knock--I believe in boosting wherever you can--but say, of all the rotten dumps that pass 'emselves off as first-class hotels, that's the worst. I'm going to get those guys, one of these days, and I told 'em so. You know how I am--well, maybe you don't know, but I'm accustomed to first-class accommodations, and I'm perfectly willing to pay a reasonable price. I got into Chicago late the other night, and the Rippleton's near the station--I'd never been there before, but I says to the taxi-driver--I always believe in taking a taxi when you get in late; may cost a little more money, but, gosh, it's worth it when you got to be up early next morning and out selling a lot of crabs--and I said to him, 'Oh, just drive me over to the Rippleton.' "Well, we got there, and I breezed up to the desk and said to the clerk, 'Well, brother, got a nice room with bath for Cousin Bill?' Saaaay! You'd 'a' thought I'd sold him a second, or asked him to work on Yom Kippur! He hands me the cold-boiled stare and yaps, 'I dunno, friend, I'll see,' and he ducks behind the rigamajig they keep track of the rooms on. Well, I guess he called up the Credit Association and the American Security League to see if I was all right--he certainly took long enough--or maybe he just went to sleep; but finally he comes out and looks at me like it hurts him, and croaks, 'I think I can let you have a room with bath.' 'Well, that's awful nice of you--sorry to trouble you--how much 'll it set me back?' I says, real sweet. 'It'll cost you seven bucks a day, friend,' he says. "Well, it was late, and anyway, it went down on my expense-account--gosh, if I'd been paying it instead of the firm, I'd 'a' tramped the streets all night before I'd 'a' let any hick tavern stick me seven great big round dollars, believe me! So I lets it go at that. Well, the clerk wakes a nice young bell hop--fine lad--not a day over seventy-nine years old--fought at the Battle of Gettysburg and doesn't know it's over yet--thought I was one of the Confederates, I guess, from the way he looked at me--and Rip van Winkle took me up to something--I found out afterwards they called it a room, but first I thought there'd been some mistake--I thought they were putting me in the Salvation Army collection-box! At seven per each and every diem! Gosh!" "Yuh, I've heard the Rippleton was pretty cheesy. Now, when I go to Chicago I always stay at the Blackstone or the La Salle--first-class places." "Say, any of you fellows ever stay at the Birchdale at Terre Haute? How is it?" "Oh, the Birchdale is a first-class hotel." (Twelve minutes of conference on the state of hotels in South Bend, Flint, Dayton, Tulsa, Wichita, Fort Worth, Winona, Erie, Fargo, and Moose Jaw.) "Speaknubout prices," the man in the velour hat observed, fingering the elk-tooth on his heavy watch-chain, "I'd like to know where they get this stuff about clothes coming down. Now, you take this suit I got on." He pinched his trousers-leg. "Four years ago I paid forty-two fifty for it, and it was real sure-'nough value. Well, here the other day I went into a store back home and asked to see a suit, and the fellow yanks out some hand-me-downs that, honest, I wouldn't put on a hired man. Just out of curiosity I asks him, 'What you charging for that junk?' 'Junk,' he says, 'what d' you mean junk? That's a swell piece of goods, all wool--' Like hell! It was nice vegetable wool, right off the Ole Plantation! 'It's all wool,' he says, 'and we get sixty-seven ninety for it.' 'Oh, you do, do you!' I says. 'Not from me you don't,' I says, and I walks right out on him. You bet! I says to the wife, 'Well,' I said, 'as long as your strength holds out and you can go on putting a few more patches on papa's pants, we'll just pass up buying clothes."' "That's right, brother. And just look at collars, frinstance--" "Hey! Wait!" the fat man protested. "What's the matter with collars? I'm selling collars! D' you realize the cost of labor on collars is still two hundred and seven per cent. above--" They voted that if their old friend the fat man sold collars, then the price of collars was exactly what it should be; but all other clothing was tragically too expensive. They admired and loved one another now. They went profoundly into the science of business, and indicated that the purpose of manufacturing a plow or a brick was so that it might be sold. To them, the Romantic Hero was no longer the knight, the wandering poet, the cowpuncher, the aviator, nor the brave young district attorney, but the great sales-manager, who had an Analysis of Merchandizing Problems on his glass-topped desk, whose title of nobility was "Go-getter," and who devoted himself and all his young samurai to the cosmic purpose of Selling--not of selling anything in particular, for or to anybody in particular, but pure Selling. The shop-talk roused Paul Riesling. Though he was a player of violins and an interestingly unhappy husband, he was also a very able salesman of tar-roofing. He listened to the fat man's remarks on "the value of house-organs and bulletins as a method of jazzing-up the Boys out on the road;" and he himself offered one or two excellent thoughts on the use of two-cent stamps on circulars. Then he committed an offense against the holy law of the Clan of Good Fellows. He became highbrow. They were entering a city. On the outskirts they passed a steel-mill which flared in scarlet and orange flame that licked at the cadaverous stacks, at the iron-sheathed walls and sullen converters. "My Lord, look at that--beautiful!" said Paul. "You bet it's beautiful, friend. That's the Shelling-Horton Steel Plant, and they tell me old John Shelling made a good three million bones out of munitions during the war!" the man with the velour hat said reverently. "I didn't mean--I mean it's lovely the way the light pulls that picturesque yard, all littered with junk, right out of the darkness," said Paul. They stared at him, while Babbitt crowed, "Paul there has certainly got one great little eye for picturesque places and quaint sights and all that stuff. 'D of been an author or something if he hadn't gone into the roofing line." Paul looked annoyed. (Babbitt sometimes wondered if Paul appreciated his loyal boosting.) The man in the velour hat grunted, "Well, personally, I think Shelling-Horton keep their works awful dirty. Bum routing. But I don't suppose there's any law against calling 'em 'picturesque' if it gets you that way!" Paul sulkily returned to his newspaper and the conversation logically moved on to trains. "What time do we get into Pittsburg?" asked Babbitt. "Pittsburg? I think we get in at--no, that was last year's schedule--wait a minute--let's see--got a time-table right here." "I wonder if we're on time?" "Yuh, sure, we must be just about on time." "No, we aren't--we were seven minutes late, last station." "Were we? Straight? Why, gosh, I thought we were right on time." "No, we're about seven minutes late." "Yuh, that's right; seven minutes late." The porter entered--a negro in white jacket with brass buttons. "How late are we, George?" growled the fat man. "'Deed, I don't know, sir. I think we're about on time," said the porter, folding towels and deftly tossing them up on the rack above the washbowls. The council stared at him gloomily and when he was gone they wailed: "I don't know what's come over these niggers, nowadays. They never give you a civil answer." "That's a fact. They're getting so they don't have a single bit of respect for you. The old-fashioned coon was a fine old cuss--he knew his place--but these young dinges don't want to be porters or cotton-pickers. Oh, no! They got to be lawyers and professors and Lord knows what all! I tell you, it's becoming a pretty serious problem. We ought to get together and show the black man, yes, and the yellow man, his place. Now, I haven't got one particle of race-prejudice. I'm the first to be glad when a nigger succeeds--so long as he stays where he belongs and doesn't try to usurp the rightful authority and business ability of the white man." "That's the i.! And another thing we got to do," said the man with the velour hat (whose name was Koplinsky), "is to keep these damn foreigners out of the country. Thank the Lord, we're putting a limit on immigration. These Dagoes and Hunkies have got to learn that this is a white man's country, and they ain't wanted here. When we've assimilated the foreigners we got here now and learned 'em the principles of Americanism and turned 'em into regular folks, why then maybe we'll let in a few more." "You bet. That's a fact," they observed, and passed on to lighter topics. They rapidly reviewed motor-car prices, tire-mileage, oil-stocks, fishing, and the prospects for the wheat-crop in Dakota. But the fat man was impatient at this waste of time. He was a veteran traveler and free of illusions. Already he had asserted that he was "an old he-one." He leaned forward, gathered in their attention by his expression of sly humor, and grumbled, "Oh, hell, boys, let's cut out the formality and get down to the stories!" They became very lively and intimate. Paul and the boy vanished. The others slid forward on the long seat, unbuttoned their vests, thrust their feet up on the chairs, pulled the stately brass cuspidors nearer, and ran the green window-shade down on its little trolley, to shut them in from the uncomfortable strangeness of night. After each bark of laughter they cried, "Say, jever hear the one about--" Babbitt was expansive and virile. When the train stopped at an important station, the four men walked up and down the cement platform, under the vast smoky train-shed roof, like a stormy sky, under the elevated footways, beside crates of ducks and sides of beef, in the mystery of an unknown city. They strolled abreast, old friends and well content. At the long-drawn "Alllll aboarrrrrd"--like a mountain call at dusk--they hastened back into the smoking-compartment, and till two of the morning continued the droll tales, their eyes damp with cigar-smoke and laughter. When they parted they shook hands, and chuckled, "Well, sir, it's been a great session. Sorry to bust it up. Mighty glad to met you." Babbitt lay awake in the close hot tomb of his Pullman berth, shaking with remembrance of the fat man's limerick about the lady who wished to be wild. He raised the shade; he lay with a puffy arm tucked between his head and the skimpy pillow, looking out on the sliding silhouettes of trees, and village lamps like exclamation-points. He was very happy. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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An einem Abend besuchen Babbitt und seine Frau die Rieslings in ihrer modernen Wohnung. Sie verbringen ein paar angenehme Stunden, bis Zilla wie gewöhnlich über Paul herzieht und ihn kritisiert und nervt, bis er unfreundlich wird. Die Babbitts versuchen die Sache zu bereinigen, aber ohne Erfolg. Schließlich kann Babbitt es nicht länger ertragen. Er erhebt sich und ruft eine Reihe von Anschuldigungen gegen Zilla aus, und sie bricht in Tränen aus. Er verlangt von Zilla, dass sie Paul erlaubt, mit ihm nach Maine zu fahren, und sie stimmt schluchzend zu. Sie bittet Babbitt, zu verstehen, dass es ihr leid tut, dass sie keinen Schaden anrichten will und dass sie in Zukunft versuchen wird, eine bessere Ehefrau zu sein. Auf dem Heimweg wirft Myra Babbitt vor, Zilla zu schikanieren, und sie suggeriert, dass sein einziges Motiv dafür gewesen sei, sich edel und selbstgerecht zu fühlen. Babbitt bestreitet die Anschuldigung, aber später erkennt er, dass Myra Recht gehabt haben könnte. Der Gedanke beschäftigt ihn eine Weile, aber schließlich entscheidet er, dass seine Überempfindlichkeit auf seine Nervosität zurückzuführen ist. Nach der Reise nach Maine werden sowohl er als auch Paul emotional gesünder sein. Wie zwei aufgeregte Jungs kaufen Babbitt und Riesling ihre Angel- und Campingausrüstung und beginnen nach ein paar weiteren Tagen ihre Reise. Sie steigen in den New York Express ein und fahren im Raucherabteil mit einer Reihe anderer Geschäftsleute. Paul bleibt distanziert und verbringt die meiste Zeit mit Lesen; Babbitt wiederum hat eine anregende, befriedigende Zeit mit ein paar gerade kennengelernten Kumpels und spricht über Politik, Geschäftsprobleme und erzählt anzügliche Witze.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: THE next Saturday evening there was much excited discussion at the Donnithorne Arms concerning an incident which had occurred that very day--no less than a second appearance of the smart man in top-boots said by some to be a mere farmer in treaty for the Chase Farm, by others to be the future steward, but by Mr. Casson himself, the personal witness to the stranger's visit, pronounced contemptuously to be nothing better than a bailiff, such as Satchell had been before him. No one had thought of denying Mr. Casson's testimony to the fact that he had seen the stranger; nevertheless, he proffered various corroborating circumstances. "I see him myself," he said; "I see him coming along by the Crab-tree Meadow on a bald-faced hoss. I'd just been t' hev a pint--it was half after ten i' the fore-noon, when I hev my pint as reg'lar as the clock--and I says to Knowles, as druv up with his waggon, 'You'll get a bit o' barley to-day, Knowles,' I says, 'if you look about you'; and then I went round by the rick-yard, and towart the Treddles'on road, and just as I come up by the big ash-tree, I see the man i' top-boots coming along on a bald-faced hoss--I wish I may never stir if I didn't. And I stood still till he come up, and I says, 'Good morning, sir,' I says, for I wanted to hear the turn of his tongue, as I might know whether he was a this-country man; so I says, 'Good morning, sir: it 'll 'old hup for the barley this morning, I think. There'll be a bit got hin, if we've good luck.' And he says, 'Eh, ye may be raight, there's noo tallin',' he says, and I knowed by that"--here Mr. Casson gave a wink--"as he didn't come from a hundred mile off. I daresay he'd think me a hodd talker, as you Loamshire folks allays does hany one as talks the right language." "The right language!" said Bartle Massey, contemptuously. "You're about as near the right language as a pig's squeaking is like a tune played on a key-bugle." "Well, I don't know," answered Mr. Casson, with an angry smile. "I should think a man as has lived among the gentry from a by, is likely to know what's the right language pretty nigh as well as a schoolmaster." "Aye, aye, man," said Bartle, with a tone of sarcastic consolation, "you talk the right language for you. When Mike Holdsworth's goat says ba-a-a, it's all right--it 'ud be unnatural for it to make any other noise." The rest of the party being Loamshire men, Mr. Casson had the laugh strongly against him, and wisely fell back on the previous question, which, far from being exhausted in a single evening, was renewed in the churchyard, before service, the next day, with the fresh interest conferred on all news when there is a fresh person to hear it; and that fresh hearer was Martin Poyser, who, as his wife said, "never went boozin' with that set at Casson's, a-sittin' soakin' in drink, and looking as wise as a lot o' cod-fish wi' red faces." It was probably owing to the conversation she had had with her husband on their way from church concerning this problematic stranger that Mrs. Poyser's thoughts immediately reverted to him when, a day or two afterwards, as she was standing at the house-door with her knitting, in that eager leisure which came to her when the afternoon cleaning was done, she saw the old squire enter the yard on his black pony, followed by John the groom. She always cited it afterwards as a case of prevision, which really had something more in it than her own remarkable penetration, that the moment she set eyes on the squire she said to herself, "I shouldna wonder if he's come about that man as is a-going to take the Chase Farm, wanting Poyser to do something for him without pay. But Poyser's a fool if he does." Something unwonted must clearly be in the wind, for the old squire's visits to his tenantry were rare; and though Mrs. Poyser had during the last twelvemonth recited many imaginary speeches, meaning even more than met the ear, which she was quite determined to make to him the next time he appeared within the gates of the Hall Farm, the speeches had always remained imaginary. "Good-day, Mrs. Poyser," said the old squire, peering at her with his short-sighted eyes--a mode of looking at her which, as Mrs. Poyser observed, "allays aggravated me: it was as if you was a insect, and he was going to dab his finger-nail on you." However, she said, "Your servant, sir," and curtsied with an air of perfect deference as she advanced towards him: she was not the woman to misbehave towards her betters, and fly in the face of the catechism, without severe provocation. "Is your husband at home, Mrs. Poyser?" "Yes, sir; he's only i' the rick-yard. I'll send for him in a minute, if you'll please to get down and step in." "Thank you; I will do so. I want to consult him about a little matter; but you are quite as much concerned in it, if not more. I must have your opinion too." "Hetty, run and tell your uncle to come in," said Mrs. Poyser, as they entered the house, and the old gentleman bowed low in answer to Hetty's curtsy; while Totty, conscious of a pinafore stained with gooseberry jam, stood hiding her face against the clock and peeping round furtively. "What a fine old kitchen this is!" said Mr. Donnithorne, looking round admiringly. He always spoke in the same deliberate, well-chiselled, polite way, whether his words were sugary or venomous. "And you keep it so exquisitely clean, Mrs. Poyser. I like these premises, do you know, beyond any on the estate." "Well, sir, since you're fond of 'em, I should be glad if you'd let a bit o' repairs be done to 'em, for the boarding's i' that state as we're like to be eaten up wi' rats and mice; and the cellar, you may stan' up to your knees i' water in't, if you like to go down; but perhaps you'd rather believe my words. Won't you please to sit down, sir?" "Not yet; I must see your dairy. I have not seen it for years, and I hear on all hands about your fine cheese and butter," said the squire, looking politely unconscious that there could be any question on which he and Mrs. Poyser might happen to disagree. "I think I see the door open, there. You must not be surprised if I cast a covetous eye on your cream and butter. I don't expect that Mrs. Satchell's cream and butter will bear comparison with yours." "I can't say, sir, I'm sure. It's seldom I see other folks's butter, though there's some on it as one's no need to see--the smell's enough." "Ah, now this I like," said Mr. Donnithorne, looking round at the damp temple of cleanliness, but keeping near the door. "I'm sure I should like my breakfast better if I knew the butter and cream came from this dairy. Thank you, that really is a pleasant sight. Unfortunately, my slight tendency to rheumatism makes me afraid of damp: I'll sit down in your comfortable kitchen. Ah, Poyser, how do you do? In the midst of business, I see, as usual. I've been looking at your wife's beautiful dairy--the best manager in the parish, is she not?" Mr. Poyser had just entered in shirt-sleeves and open waistcoat, with a face a shade redder than usual, from the exertion of "pitching." As he stood, red, rotund, and radiant, before the small, wiry, cool old gentleman, he looked like a prize apple by the side of a withered crab. "Will you please to take this chair, sir?" he said, lifting his father's arm-chair forward a little: "you'll find it easy." "No, thank you, I never sit in easy-chairs," said the old gentleman, seating himself on a small chair near the door. "Do you know, Mrs. Poyser--sit down, pray, both of you--I've been far from contented, for some time, with Mrs. Satchell's dairy management. I think she has not a good method, as you have." "Indeed, sir, I can't speak to that," said Mrs. Poyser in a hard voice, rolling and unrolling her knitting and looking icily out of the window, as she continued to stand opposite the squire. Poyser might sit down if he liked, she thought; she wasn't going to sit down, as if she'd give in to any such smooth-tongued palaver. Mr. Poyser, who looked and felt the reverse of icy, did sit down in his three-cornered chair. "And now, Poyser, as Satchell is laid up, I am intending to let the Chase Farm to a respectable tenant. I'm tired of having a farm on my own hands--nothing is made the best of in such cases, as you know. A satisfactory bailiff is hard to find; and I think you and I, Poyser, and your excellent wife here, can enter into a little arrangement in consequence, which will be to our mutual advantage." "Oh," said Mr. Poyser, with a good-natured blankness of imagination as to the nature of the arrangement. "If I'm called upon to speak, sir," said Mrs. Poyser, after glancing at her husband with pity at his softness, "you know better than me; but I don't see what the Chase Farm is t' us--we've cumber enough wi' our own farm. Not but what I'm glad to hear o' anybody respectable coming into the parish; there's some as ha' been brought in as hasn't been looked on i' that character." "You're likely to find Mr. Thurle an excellent neighbour, I assure you--such a one as you will feel glad to have accommodated by the little plan I'm going to mention, especially as I hope you will find it as much to your own advantage as his." "Indeed, sir, if it's anything t' our advantage, it'll be the first offer o' the sort I've heared on. It's them as take advantage that get advantage i' this world, I think. Folks have to wait long enough afore it's brought to 'em." "The fact is, Poyser," said the squire, ignoring Mrs. Poyser's theory of worldly prosperity, "there is too much dairy land, and too little plough land, on the Chase Farm to suit Thurle's purpose--indeed, he will only take the farm on condition of some change in it: his wife, it appears, is not a clever dairy-woman, like yours. Now, the plan I'm thinking of is to effect a little exchange. If you were to have the Hollow Pastures, you might increase your dairy, which must be so profitable under your wife's management; and I should request you, Mrs. Poyser, to supply my house with milk, cream, and butter at the market prices. On the other hand, Poyser, you might let Thurle have the Lower and Upper Ridges, which really, with our wet seasons, would be a good riddance for you. There is much less risk in dairy land than corn land." Mr. Poyser was leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees, his head on one side, and his mouth screwed up--apparently absorbed in making the tips of his fingers meet so as to represent with perfect accuracy the ribs of a ship. He was much too acute a man not to see through the whole business, and to foresee perfectly what would be his wife's view of the subject; but he disliked giving unpleasant answers. Unless it was on a point of farming practice, he would rather give up than have a quarrel, any day; and, after all, it mattered more to his wife than to him. So, after a few moments' silence, he looked up at her and said mildly, "What dost say?" Mrs. Poyser had had her eyes fixed on her husband with cold severity during his silence, but now she turned away her head with a toss, looked icily at the opposite roof of the cow-shed, and spearing her knitting together with the loose pin, held it firmly between her clasped hands. "Say? Why, I say you may do as you like about giving up any o' your corn-land afore your lease is up, which it won't be for a year come next Michaelmas, but I'll not consent to take more dairy work into my hands, either for love or money; and there's nayther love nor money here, as I can see, on'y other folks's love o' theirselves, and the money as is to go into other folks's pockets. I know there's them as is born t' own the land, and them as is born to sweat on't"--here Mrs. Poyser paused to gasp a little--"and I know it's christened folks's duty to submit to their betters as fur as flesh and blood 'ull bear it; but I'll not make a martyr o' myself, and wear myself to skin and bone, and worret myself as if I was a churn wi' butter a-coming in't, for no landlord in England, not if he was King George himself." "No, no, my dear Mrs. Poyser, certainly not," said the squire, still confident in his own powers of persuasion, "you must not overwork yourself; but don't you think your work will rather be lessened than increased in this way? There is so much milk required at the Abbey that you will have little increase of cheese and butter making from the addition to your dairy; and I believe selling the milk is the most profitable way of disposing of dairy produce, is it not?" "Aye, that's true," said Mr. Poyser, unable to repress an opinion on a question of farming profits, and forgetting that it was not in this case a purely abstract question. "I daresay," said Mrs. Poyser bitterly, turning her head half-way towards her husband and looking at the vacant arm-chair--"I daresay it's true for men as sit i' th' chimney-corner and make believe as everything's cut wi' ins an' outs to fit int' everything else. If you could make a pudding wi' thinking o' the batter, it 'ud be easy getting dinner. How do I know whether the milk 'ull be wanted constant? What's to make me sure as the house won't be put o' board wage afore we're many months older, and then I may have to lie awake o' nights wi' twenty gallons o' milk on my mind--and Dingall 'ull take no more butter, let alone paying for it; and we must fat pigs till we're obliged to beg the butcher on our knees to buy 'em, and lose half of 'em wi' the measles. And there's the fetching and carrying, as 'ud be welly half a day's work for a man an' hoss--that's to be took out o' the profits, I reckon? But there's folks 'ud hold a sieve under the pump and expect to carry away the water." "That difficulty--about the fetching and carrying--you will not have, Mrs. Poyser," said the squire, who thought that this entrance into particulars indicated a distant inclination to compromise on Mrs. Poyser's part. "Bethell will do that regularly with the cart and pony." "Oh, sir, begging your pardon, I've never been used t' having gentlefolks's servants coming about my back places, a-making love to both the gells at once and keeping 'em with their hands on their hips listening to all manner o' gossip when they should be down on their knees a-scouring. If we're to go to ruin, it shanna be wi' having our back kitchen turned into a public." "Well, Poyser," said the squire, shifting his tactics and looking as if he thought Mrs. Poyser had suddenly withdrawn from the proceedings and left the room, "you can turn the Hollows into feeding-land. I can easily make another arrangement about supplying my house. And I shall not forget your readiness to accommodate your landlord as well as a neighbour. I know you will be glad to have your lease renewed for three years, when the present one expires; otherwise, I daresay Thurle, who is a man of some capital, would be glad to take both the farms, as they could be worked so well together. But I don't want to part with an old tenant like you." To be thrust out of the discussion in this way would have been enough to complete Mrs. Poyser's exasperation, even without the final threat. Her husband, really alarmed at the possibility of their leaving the old place where he had been bred and born--for he believed the old squire had small spite enough for anything--was beginning a mild remonstrance explanatory of the inconvenience he should find in having to buy and sell more stock, with, "Well, sir, I think as it's rether hard..." when Mrs. Poyser burst in with the desperate determination to have her say out this once, though it were to rain notices to quit and the only shelter were the work-house. "Then, sir, if I may speak--as, for all I'm a woman, and there's folks as thinks a woman's fool enough to stan' by an' look on while the men sign her soul away, I've a right to speak, for I make one quarter o' the rent, and save another quarter--I say, if Mr. Thurle's so ready to take farms under you, it's a pity but what he should take this, and see if he likes to live in a house wi' all the plagues o' Egypt in't--wi' the cellar full o' water, and frogs and toads hoppin' up the steps by dozens--and the floors rotten, and the rats and mice gnawing every bit o' cheese, and runnin' over our heads as we lie i' bed till we expect 'em to eat us up alive--as it's a mercy they hanna eat the children long ago. I should like to see if there's another tenant besides Poyser as 'ud put up wi' never having a bit o' repairs done till a place tumbles down--and not then, on'y wi' begging and praying and having to pay half--and being strung up wi' the rent as it's much if he gets enough out o' the land to pay, for all he's put his own money into the ground beforehand. See if you'll get a stranger to lead such a life here as that: a maggot must be born i' the rotten cheese to like it, I reckon. You may run away from my words, sir," continued Mrs. Poyser, following the old squire beyond the door--for after the first moments of stunned surprise he had got up, and, waving his hand towards her with a smile, had walked out towards his pony. But it was impossible for him to get away immediately, for John was walking the pony up and down the yard, and was some distance from the causeway when his master beckoned. "You may run away from my words, sir, and you may go spinnin' underhand ways o' doing us a mischief, for you've got Old Harry to your friend, though nobody else is, but I tell you for once as we're not dumb creatures to be abused and made money on by them as ha' got the lash i' their hands, for want o' knowing how t' undo the tackle. An' if I'm th' only one as speaks my mind, there's plenty o' the same way o' thinking i' this parish and the next to 't, for your name's no better than a brimstone match in everybody's nose--if it isna two-three old folks as you think o' saving your soul by giving 'em a bit o' flannel and a drop o' porridge. An' you may be right i' thinking it'll take but little to save your soul, for it'll be the smallest savin' y' iver made, wi' all your scrapin'." There are occasions on which two servant-girls and a waggoner may be a formidable audience, and as the squire rode away on his black pony, even the gift of short-sightedness did not prevent him from being aware that Molly and Nancy and Tim were grinning not far from him. Perhaps he suspected that sour old John was grinning behind him--which was also the fact. Meanwhile the bull-dog, the black-and-tan terrier, Alick's sheep-dog, and the gander hissing at a safe distance from the pony's heels carried out the idea of Mrs. Poyser's solo in an impressive quartet. Mrs. Poyser, however, had no sooner seen the pony move off than she turned round, gave the two hilarious damsels a look which drove them into the back kitchen, and unspearing her knitting, began to knit again with her usual rapidity as she re-entered the house. "Thee'st done it now," said Mr. Poyser, a little alarmed and uneasy, but not without some triumphant amusement at his wife's outbreak. "Yes, I know I've done it," said Mrs. Poyser; "but I've had my say out, and I shall be th' easier for't all my life. There's no pleasure i' living if you're to be corked up for ever, and only dribble your mind out by the sly, like a leaky barrel. I shan't repent saying what I think, if I live to be as old as th' old squire; and there's little likelihood--for it seems as if them as aren't wanted here are th' only folks as aren't wanted i' th' other world." "But thee wutna like moving from th' old place, this Michaelmas twelvemonth," said Mr. Poyser, "and going into a strange parish, where thee know'st nobody. It'll be hard upon us both, and upo' Father too." "Eh, it's no use worreting; there's plenty o' things may happen between this and Michaelmas twelvemonth. The captain may be master afore them, for what we know," said Mrs. Poyser, inclined to take an unusually hopeful view of an embarrassment which had been brought about by her own merit and not by other people's fault. "I'm none for worreting," said Mr. Poyser, rising from his three-cornered chair and walking slowly towards the door; "but I should be loath to leave th' old place, and the parish where I was bred and born, and Father afore me. We should leave our roots behind us, I doubt, and niver thrive again." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Am nächsten Tag besucht Squire Donnithorne die Poysers, um mit ihnen ein Geschäft abzuschließen. Er hat einen möglichen Mieter für die Chase Farm, aber der Mann möchte mehr Ackerland. Wenn die Poysers etwas Ackerland aufgeben würden, könnten sie mehr Weideland haben und dann könnte Frau Poyser mit ihrer Molkerei mehr Geld verdienen. Die Poysers durchschauen diesen Plan, sie um ihr Land zu betrügen. Als nächstes droht der Squire ihnen, dass sie, wenn sie ihren Pachtvertrag verlängern wollen, seinen Wünschen entsprechen sollten. Das ist zu viel für Mrs. Poyser, die im Namen aller Mieter dem Squire für seine billigen und geizigen Methoden die Leviten liest, dafür dass er das Anwesen vernachlässigt und alle Gewinne für sich behält. Er reitet weg und Herr Poyser, obwohl er über die Reaktion seiner Frau erfreut ist, ist besorgt, dass sie vertrieben werden könnten.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Roxane, Cyrano and, for a moment, Sister Martha. ROXANE (without turning round): What was I saying?. . . (She embroiders. Cyrano, very pale, his hat pulled down over his eyes, appears. The sister who had announced him retires. He descends the steps slowly, with a visible difficulty in holding himself upright, bearing heavily on his cane. Roxane still works at her tapestry): Time has dimmed the tints. . . How harmonize them now? (To Cyrano, with playful reproach): For the first time Late!--For the first time, all these fourteen years! CYRANO (who has succeeded in reaching the chair, and has seated himself--in a lively voice, which is in great contrast with his pale face): Ay! It is villainous! I raged--was stayed. . . ROXANE: By?. . . CYRANO: By a bold, unwelcome visitor. ROXANE (absently, working): Some creditor? CYRANO: Ay, cousin,--the last creditor Who has a debt to claim from me. ROXANE: And you Have paid it? CYRANO: No, not yet! I put it off; --Said, 'Cry you mercy; this is Saturday, When I have get a standing rendezvous That naught defers. Call in an hour's time!' ROXANE (carelessly): Oh, well, a creditor can always wait! I shall not let you go ere twilight falls. CYRANO: Haply, perforce, I quit you ere it falls! (He shuts his eyes, and is silent for a moment. Sister Martha crosses the park from the chapel to the flight of steps. Roxane, seeing her, signs to her to approach.) ROXANE (to Cyrano): How now? You have not teased the Sister? CYRANO (hastily opening his eyes): True! (In a comically loud voice): Sister! come here! (The sister glides up to him): Ha! ha! What? Those bright eyes Bent ever on the ground? SISTER MARTHA (who makes a movement of astonishment on seeing his face): Oh! CYRANO (in a whisper, pointing to Roxane): Hush! 'tis naught!-- (Loudly, in a blustering voice): I broke fast yesterday! SISTER MARTHA (aside): I know, I know! That's how he is so pale! Come presently To the refectory, I'll make you drink A famous bowl of soup. . .You'll come? CYRANO: Ay, ay! SISTER MARTHA: There, see! You are more reasonable to-day! ROXANE (who hears them whispering): The Sister would convert you? SISTER MARTHA: Nay, not I! CYRANO: Hold! but it's true! You preach to me no more, You, once so glib with holy words! I am Astonished!. . . (With burlesque fury): Stay, I will surprise you too! Hark! I permit you. . . (He pretends to be seeking for something to tease her with, and to have found it): . . .It is something new!-- To--pray for me, to-night, at chapel-time! ROXANE: Oh! oh! CYRANO (laughing): Good Sister Martha is struck dumb! SISTER MARTHA (gently): I did not wait your leave to pray for you. (She goes out.) CYRANO (turning to Roxane, who is still bending over her work): That tapestry! Beshrew me if my eyes Will ever see it finished! ROXANE: I was sure To hear that well-known jest! (A light breeze causes the leaves to fall.) CYRANO: The autumn leaves! ROXANE (lifting her head, and looking down the distant alley): Soft golden brown, like a Venetian's hair. --See how they fall! CYRANO: Ay, see how brave they fall, In their last journey downward from the bough, To rot within the clay; yet, lovely still, Hiding the horror of the last decay, With all the wayward grace of careless flight! ROXANE: What, melancholy--you? CYRANO (collecting himself): Nay, nay, Roxane! ROXANE: Then let the dead leaves fall the way they will. . . And chat. What, have you nothing new to tell, My Court Gazette? CYRANO: Listen. ROXANE: Ah! CYRANO (growing whiter and whiter): Saturday The nineteenth: having eaten to excess Of pear-conserve, the King felt feverish; The lancet quelled this treasonable revolt, And the august pulse beats at normal pace. At the Queen's ball on Sunday thirty score Of best white waxen tapers were consumed. Our troops, they say, have chased the Austrians. Four sorcerers were hanged. The little dog Of Madame d'Athis took a dose. . . ROXANE: I bid You hold your tongue, Monsieur de Bergerac! CYRANO: Monday--not much--Claire changed protector. ROXANE: Oh! CYRANO (whose face changes more and more): Tuesday, the Court repaired to Fontainebleau. Wednesday, the Montglat said to Comte de Fiesque. . . No! Thursday--Mancini, Queen of France! (almost!) Friday, the Monglat to Count Fiesque said--'Yes!' And Saturday the twenty-sixth. . . (He closes his eyes. His head falls forward. Silence.) ROXANE (surprised at his voice ceasing, turns round, looks at him, and rising, terrified): He swoons! (She runs toward him crying): Cyrano! CYRANO (opening his eyes, in an unconcerned voice): What is this? (He sees Roxane bending over him, and, hastily pressing his hat on his head, and shrinking back in his chair): Nay, on my word 'Tis nothing! Let me be! ROXANE: But. . . CYRANO: That old wound Of Arras, sometimes,--as you know. . . ROXANE: Dear friend! CYRANO: 'Tis nothing, 'twill pass soon; (He smiles with an effort): See!--it has passed! ROXANE: Each of us has his wound; ay, I have mine,-- Never healed up--not healed yet, my old wound! (She puts her hand on her breast): 'Tis here, beneath this letter brown with age, All stained with tear-drops, and still stained with blood. (Twilight begins to fall.) CYRANO: His letter! Ah! you promised me one day That I should read it. ROXANE: What would you?--His letter? CYRANO: Yes, I would fain,--to-day. . . ROXANE (giving the bag hung at her neck): See! here it is! CYRANO (taking it): Have I your leave to open? ROXANE: Open--read! (She comes back to her tapestry frame, folds it up, sorts her wools.) CYRANO (reading): 'Roxane, adieu! I soon must die! This very night, beloved; and I Feel my soul heavy with love untold. I die! No more, as in days of old, My loving, longing eyes will feast On your least gesture--ay, the least! I mind me the way you touch your cheek With your finger, softly, as you speak! Ah me! I know that gesture well! My heart cries out!--I cry "Farewell"!' ROXANE: But how you read that letter! One would think. . . CYRANO (continuing to read): 'My life, my love, my jewel, my sweet, My heart has been yours in every beat!' (The shades of evening fall imperceptibly.) ROXANE: You read in such a voice--so strange--and yet-- It is not the first time I hear that voice! (She comes nearer very softly, without his perceiving it, passes behind his chair, and, noiselessly leaning over him, looks at the letter. The darkness deepens.) CYRANO: 'Here, dying, and there, in the land on high, I am he who loved, who loves you,--I. . .' ROXANE (putting her hand on his shoulder): How can you read? It is too dark to see! (He starts, turns, sees her close to him. Suddenly alarmed, he holds his head down. Then in the dusk, which has now completely enfolded them, she says, very slowly, with clasped hands): And, fourteen years long, he has played this part Of the kind old friend who comes to laugh and chat. CYRANO: Roxane! ROXANE: 'Twas you! CYRANO: No, never; Roxane, no! ROXANE: I should have guessed, each time he said my name! CYRANO: No, it was not I! ROXANE: It was you! CYRANO: I swear! ROXANE: I see through all the generous counterfeit-- The letters--you! CYRANO: No. ROXANE: The sweet, mad love-words! You! CYRANO: No! ROXANE: The voice that thrilled the night--you, you! CYRANO: I swear you err. ROXANE: The soul--it was your soul! CYRANO: I loved you not. ROXANE: You loved me not? CYRANO: 'Twas he! ROXANE: You loved me! CYRANO: No! ROXANE: See! how you falter now! CYRANO: No, my sweet love, I never loved you! ROXANE: Ah! Things dead, long dead, see! how they rise again! --Why, why keep silence all these fourteen years, When, on this letter, which he never wrote, The tears were your tears? CYRANO (holding out the letter to her): The bloodstains were his. ROXANE: Why, then, that noble silence,--kept so long-- Broken to-day for the first time--why? CYRANO: Why?. . . (Le Bret and Ragueneau enter running.) Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Cyrano nähert sich, stützt sich auf einen Stock. Obwohl sein Hut sein Gesicht verdeckt, ist offensichtlich, dass er blass und schwach ist. Roxane ist jedoch so vertieft in ihre Arbeit am Wandteppich, dass sie sich nicht umdreht, um Cyrano zu begrüßen; stattdessen tadelt sie ihn dafür, dass er zu spät ist. Er antwortet, dass er einen Besucher hatte, den er fortschickte, um sie zu besuchen. Bevor er verstummt, gibt er einen Hinweis darauf, dass er früher gehen muss. Schwester Marthe, eine der Nonnen, die Cyrano normalerweise neckt, geht vorbei. Cyrano versucht, sich normal zu verhalten, und ruft nach ihr. Sie erschrickt über sein schlechtes Aussehen und möchte ihm etwas Suppe bringen. Cyrano macht sich keine Sorgen um sich selbst, sondern um Roxane; er warnt die Nonne davor, Roxane über ihn zu alarmieren. Er bittet die Nonne jedoch, für ihn zu beten. Er stellt auch fest, dass er Roxanes Wandteppich niemals fertig sehen wird. Er bemerkt auch die roten Herbstblätter, die vor ihm anmutig fallen. Roxane möchte Neuigkeiten aus der Pariser Gesellschaft hören. Eine Weile lang nennt Cyrano die banalen Ereignisse des täglichen Lebens, aber er bricht bald vor Erschöpfung zusammen. Roxane eilt zu ihm. Als er wieder zu Bewusstsein kommt, gibt er vor, dass es eine Wirkung einer Wunde sei, die er vor vielen Jahren in Arras erhalten habe. Roxane bemerkt, wie auch sie in Arras verwundet wurde, und zeigt auf den Abschiedsbrief über ihrem Herzen. Cyrano bittet sie, den Brief zu lesen, den er flüssig und wunderschön mit einer Stimme vorträgt, wie er es schon einmal unter Roxanes Fenster getan hatte. Da offensichtlich ist, dass Cyrano die Worte nicht wirklich liest, sondern sie auswendig kennt, erkennt sie, dass er derjenige ist, der die Briefe im Namen von Christian geschrieben hat. Sie weiß nun, dass sie Cyrano wirklich geliebt hat und nicht Christian. Als Roxane Cyrano mit der Täuschung konfrontiert, leugnet er es. Bevor sie es weiter besprechen kann, betreten Le Bret und Ragueneau den Raum. Sie platzen heraus, dass Cyrano sich durch Anstrengung selbst töten wird. Roxane versteht jetzt seine Schwächeanfälle und verlangt zu wissen, was passiert ist. Cyrano erklärt den Angriff auf ihn und zeigt ihr seine Bandagen. Er beklagt die Ironie des Schicksals, das ihn daran gehindert hat, einen noble Tod durch das Schwert zu sterben. Er fügt hinzu, dass sowohl sein Leben als auch sein Tod scheitern waren. Roxane sagt, dass es ihr leid tut, dass sie der Grund für sein Unglück ist. Cyrano versichert ihr jedoch, dass er für ihre Freundschaft dankbar ist. Cyrano wendet sich an Ragueneau, um über Literatur zu sprechen. Ragueneau beschuldigt Moliere, eine Szene aus Cyrano's Schreiben plagiiert zu haben. Cyrano scheint sich nicht daran zu stören. Er sagt, dass er immer Worte und Ideen für andere geliefert hat. Es ist offensichtlich eine Anspielung darauf, was er für Christian getan hat. Cyrano, der weiß, dass sein Tod bald bevorsteht, vergleicht seine Liebe zu Roxane mit der Liebe zwischen Schönheit und Biest. Dann bittet er Roxane, für ihn zu trauern, so wie sie es für Christian getan hat. Schließlich steht er auf, das Schwert in der Hand, um sein Ende würdevoll anzunehmen. Er stirbt stolz auf die Integrität, die er im Leben gezeigt hat.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: SCENE IV. Rome. Before the palace Enter the EMPEROR, and the EMPRESS and her two sons, DEMETRIUS and CHIRON; LORDS and others. The EMPEROR brings the arrows in his hand that TITUS shot at him SATURNINUS. Why, lords, what wrongs are these! Was ever seen An emperor in Rome thus overborne, Troubled, confronted thus; and, for the extent Of egal justice, us'd in such contempt? My lords, you know, as know the mightful gods, However these disturbers of our peace Buzz in the people's ears, there nought hath pass'd But even with law against the wilful sons Of old Andronicus. And what an if His sorrows have so overwhelm'd his wits, Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks, His fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness? And now he writes to heaven for his redress. See, here's 'To Jove' and this 'To Mercury'; This 'To Apollo'; this 'To the God of War'- Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome! What's this but libelling against the Senate, And blazoning our unjustice every where? A goodly humour, is it not, my lords? As who would say in Rome no justice were. But if I live, his feigned ecstasies Shall be no shelter to these outrages; But he and his shall know that justice lives In Saturninus' health; whom, if she sleep, He'll so awake as he in fury shall Cut off the proud'st conspirator that lives. TAMORA. My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine, Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts, Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus' age, Th' effects of sorrow for his valiant sons Whose loss hath pierc'd him deep and scarr'd his heart; And rather comfort his distressed plight Than prosecute the meanest or the best For these contempts. [Aside] Why, thus it shall become High-witted Tamora to gloze with all. But, Titus, I have touch'd thee to the quick, Thy life-blood on't; if Aaron now be wise, Then is all safe, the anchor in the port. Enter CLOWN How now, good fellow! Wouldst thou speak with us? CLOWN. Yes, forsooth, an your mistriship be Emperial. TAMORA. Empress I am, but yonder sits the Emperor. CLOWN. 'Tis he.- God and Saint Stephen give you godden. I have brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here. [SATURNINUS reads the letter] SATURNINUS. Go take him away, and hang him presently. CLOWN. How much money must I have? TAMORA. Come, sirrah, you must be hang'd. CLOWN. Hang'd! by'r lady, then I have brought up a neck to a fair end. [Exit guarded] SATURNINUS. Despiteful and intolerable wrongs! Shall I endure this monstrous villainy? I know from whence this same device proceeds. May this be borne- as if his traitorous sons That died by law for murder of our brother Have by my means been butchered wrongfully? Go drag the villain hither by the hair; Nor age nor honour shall shape privilege. For this proud mock I'll be thy slaughterman, Sly frantic wretch, that holp'st to make me great, In hope thyself should govern Rome and me. Enter NUNTIUS AEMILIUS What news with thee, Aemilius? AEMILIUS. Arm, my lords! Rome never had more cause. The Goths have gathered head; and with a power Of high resolved men, bent to the spoil, They hither march amain, under conduct Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus; Who threats in course of this revenge to do As much as ever Coriolanus did. SATURNINUS. Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths? These tidings nip me, and I hang the head As flowers with frost, or grass beat down with storms. Ay, now begins our sorrows to approach. 'Tis he the common people love so much; Myself hath often heard them say- When I have walked like a private man- That Lucius' banishment was wrongfully, And they have wish'd that Lucius were their emperor. TAMORA. Why should you fear? Is not your city strong? SATURNINUS. Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius, And will revolt from me to succour him. TAMORA. King, be thy thoughts imperious like thy name! Is the sun dimm'd, that gnats do fly in it? The eagle suffers little birds to sing, And is not careful what they mean thereby, Knowing that with the shadow of his wings He can at pleasure stint their melody; Even so mayest thou the giddy men of Rome. Then cheer thy spirit; for know thou, Emperor, I will enchant the old Andronicus With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous, Than baits to fish or honey-stalks to sheep, When as the one is wounded with the bait, The other rotted with delicious feed. SATURNINUS. But he will not entreat his son for us. TAMORA. If Tamora entreat him, then he will; For I can smooth and fill his aged ears With golden promises, that, were his heart Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf, Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue. [To AEMILIUS] Go thou before to be our ambassador; Say that the Emperor requests a parley Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting Even at his father's house, the old Andronicus. SATURNINUS. Aemilius, do this message honourably; And if he stand on hostage for his safety, Bid him demand what pledge will please him best. AEMILIUS. Your bidding shall I do effectually. Exit TAMORA. Now will I to that old Andronicus, And temper him with all the art I have, To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths. And now, sweet Emperor, be blithe again, And bury all thy fear in my devices. SATURNINUS. Then go successantly, and plead to him. Exeunt Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Im Palast beschwert sich Saturninus bei Tamora, Demetrius und Chiron darüber, dass Titus Pfeile auf ihn geschossen hat. Saturninus ist von diesem Streich nicht amüsiert und glaubt, dass Titus nur so tut, als wäre er verrückt. Der alte Mann sollte besser aufpassen, denn Saturninus kauft ihm seine verrückte Show nicht ab. Tamora tritt auf und beruhigt Saturninus, indem sie sagt, dass Titus' Trauer und sein hohes Alter ihn wirklich verrückt gemacht haben. Dann flüstert sie dem Publikum zu, dass alles nach ihrem köstlich bösen Plan läuft. Der Narr tritt ein und bietet einen Korb Tauben und Titus' Brief an. Saturninus liest den Brief und verurteilt den Narren sofort zum Tod durch Erhängen. Der Clown, der keine Ahnung hat, was los ist, steht herum und wartet darauf, für seine Bemühungen belohnt zu werden. Saturninus befiehlt seinen Männern, Titus zu holen, der ganz sicher für das bezahlen wird, was er in dem Brief geschrieben hat. Aemilius tritt ein und verkündet, dass Lucius eine Armee der Goten aufgestellt hat und sie sich darauf vorbereiten, anzugreifen. Saturninus entscheidet, dass das schlecht sein könnte. Eine riesige Armee kommt auf ihn zu, und es scheint auch, dass sein Volk Lucius mehr liebt als ihn – jeder will, dass Lucius Kaiser wird. Saturninus scheint das zu wissen, denn in seiner Freizeit verkleidet er sich als einfacher Bürger und geht durch die Straßen Roms, um zu hören, was alle über ihn sagen. Tamora sagt Saturninus, er solle sich keine Sorgen machen – sie werde Titus besuchen und den verrückten alten Mann überreden, aufzuhören, schlecht über Saturninus zu reden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: ACT IV. SCENE I. _The moated grange at ST LUKE'S._ _Enter MARIANA and a BOY._ _BOY sings._ Take, O, take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn: But my kisses bring again, bring again; 5 Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain. _Mari._ Break off thy song, and haste thee quick away: Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often still'd my brawling discontent. [_Exit Boy._ _Enter DUKE disguised as before._ I cry you mercy, sir; and well could wish 10 You had not found me here so musical: Let me excuse me, and believe me so, My mirth it much displeased, but pleased my woe. _Duke._ 'Tis good; though music oft hath such a charm To make bad good, and good provoke to harm. 15 I pray you, tell me, hath any body inquired for me here to-day? much upon this time have I promised here to meet. _Mari._ You have not been inquired after: I have sat here all day. _Enter ISABELLA._ _Duke._ I do constantly believe you. The time is come 20 even now. I shall crave your forbearance a little: may be I will call upon you anon, for some advantage to yourself. _Mari._ I am always bound to you. [_Exit._ _Duke._ Very well met, and well come. What is the news from this good Deputy? 25 _Isab._ He hath a garden circummured with brick, Whose western side is with a vineyard back'd; And to that vineyard is a planched gate, That makes his opening with this bigger key: This other doth command a little door 30 Which from the vineyard to the garden leads; There have I made my promise Upon the heavy middle of the night To call upon him. _Duke._ But shall you on your knowledge find this way? 35 _Isab._ I have ta'en a due and wary note upon't: With whispering and most guilty diligence, In action all of precept, he did show me The way twice o'er. _Duke._ Are there no other tokens Between you 'greed concerning her observance? 40 _Isab._ No, none, but only a repair i' the dark; And that I have possess'd him my most stay Can be but brief; for I have made him know I have a servant comes with me along, That stays upon me, whose persuasion is 45 I come about my brother. _Duke._ 'Tis well borne up. I have not yet made known to Mariana A word of this. What, ho! within! come forth! _Re-enter MARIANA._ I pray you, be acquainted with this maid; She comes to do you good. _Isab._ I do desire the like. 50 _Duke._ Do you persuade yourself that I respect you? _Mari._ Good friar, I know you do, and have found it. _Duke._ Take, then, this your companion by the hand, Who hath a story ready for your ear. I shall attend your leisure: but make haste; 55 The vaporous night approaches. _Mari._ Will't please you walk aside? [_Exeunt Mariana and Isabella._ _Duke._ O place and greatness, millions of false eyes Are stuck upon thee! volumes of report Run with these false and most contrarious quests 60 Upon thy doings! thousand escapes of wit Make thee the father of their idle dreams, And rack thee in their fancies! _Re-enter MARIANA and ISABELLA._ Welcome, how agreed? _Isab._ She'll take the enterprise upon her, father, If you advise it. _Duke._ It is not my consent, 65 But my entreaty too. _Isab._ Little have you to say When you depart from him, but, soft and low, 'Remember now my brother.' _Mari._ Fear me not. _Duke._ Nor, gentle daughter, fear you not at all. He is your husband on a pre-contract: 70 To bring you thus together, 'tis no sin, Sith that the justice of your title to him Doth flourish the deceit. Come, let us go: Our corn's to reap, for yet our tithe's to sow. [_Exeunt._ NOTES: IV, 1. SCENE I. Enter M.] Ff. M. discovered sitting. Steevens. 5, 6: F4 omits the refrain in l. 6. Rowe omits it in both lines. 6: _but_] _though_ Fletcher's version. 13: _it_] _is_ Warburton. 17: _meet_] _meet one_ Hanmer. 19: Enter I.] Transferred by Singer to line 23. 24: SCENE II. Pope. _well come_] Ff. _welcome_ Warburton. 32, 33, 34: _There have I made my promise Upon the heavy middle of the night To call upon him._] S. Walker conj. _There have I made my promise, upon the Heavy middle of the night to call upon him._ Ff. _There on the heavy middle of the night Have I my promise made to call upon him._ Pope. _There have I made my promise to call on him Upon the heavy middle of the night._ Capell. _There have I made my promise in the heavy Middle...._ Singer. _There have I made my promise on the heavy Middle...._ Dyce. Delius and Staunton read with Ff. but print as prose. 38: _action all of precept_] _precept of all action_ Johnson conj. 49: SCENE III. Pope. 52: _have_] _I have_ Pope. 58-63: _O place ... fancies_] These lines to precede III. 2. 178. Warburton conj. 60: _these_] _their_ Hanmer. _base_ Collier MS. _quests_] _quest_ F1. 61: _escapes_] _'scapes_ Pope. 62: _their idle dreams_] Pope. _their idle dreame_ Ff. _an idle dream_ Rowe. 63: _Welcome, how agreed?_] _Well! agreed?_ Hanmer. SCENE IV. Pope. 65: _It is_] _'Tis_ Pope. 74: _tithe's_] _Tithes_ F1 F2 F3. _Tythes_ F4. _tilth's_ Hanmer (Warburton). _Our ... sow_] _Our tythe's to reap, for yet our corn's to sow_ Capell conj. MS. SCENE II. _A room in the prison._ _Enter PROVOST and POMPEY._ _Prov._ Come hither, sirrah. Can you cut off a man's head? _Pom._ If the man be a bachelor, sir, I can; but if he be a married man, he's his wife's head, and I can never cut off a woman's head. _Prov._ Come, sir, leave me your snatches, and yield me 5 a direct answer. To-morrow morning are to die Claudio and Barnardine. Here is in our prison a common executioner, who in his office lacks a helper: if you will take it on you to assist him, it shall redeem you from your gyves; if not, you shall have your full time of imprisonment, and 10 your deliverance with an unpitied whipping, for you have been a notorious bawd. _Pom._ Sir, I have been an unlawful bawd time out of mind; but yet I will be content to be a lawful hangman. I would be glad to receive some instruction from my fellow 15 partner. _Prov._ What, ho! Abhorson! Where's Abhorson, there? _Enter ABHORSON._ _Abhor._ Do you call, sir? _Prov._ Sirrah, here's a fellow will help you to-morrow in your execution. If you think it meet, compound with 20 him by the year, and let him abide here with you; if not, use him for the present, and dismiss him. He cannot plead his estimation with you; he hath been a bawd. _Abhor._ A bawd, sir? fie upon him! he will discredit our mystery. 25 _Prov._ Go to, sir; you weigh equally; a feather will turn the scale. [_Exit._ _Pom._ Pray, sir, by your good favour,--for surely, sir, a good favour you have, but that you have a hanging look,-- do you call, sir, your occupation a mystery? 30 _Abhor._ Ay, sir; a mystery. _Pom._ Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a mystery; and your whores, sir, being members of my occupation, using painting, do prove my occupation a mystery: but what mystery there should be in hanging, if I should be 35 hanged, I cannot imagine. _Abhor._ Sir, it is a mystery. _Pom._ Proof? _Abhor._ Every true man's apparel fits your thief: if it be too little for your thief, your true man thinks it big 40 enough; if it be too big for your thief, your thief thinks it little enough: so every true man's apparel fits your thief. _Re-enter PROVOST._ _Prov._ Are you agreed? _Pom._ Sir, I will serve him; for I do find your hangman is a more penitent trade than your bawd; he doth 45 oftener ask forgiveness. _Prov._ You, sirrah, provide your block and your axe to-morrow four o'clock. _Abhor._ Come on, bawd; I will instruct thee in my trade; follow. 50 _Pom._ I do desire to learn, sir: and I hope, if you have occasion to use me for your own turn, you shall find me yare; for, truly, sir, for your kindness I owe you a good turn. _Prov._ Call hither Barnardine and Claudio: [_Exeunt Pompey and Abhorson._ 55 The one has my pity; not a jot the other, Being a murderer, though he were my brother. _Enter CLAUDIO._ Look, here's the warrant, Claudio, for thy death: 'Tis now dead midnight, and by eight to-morrow Thou must be made immortal. Where's Barnardine? 60 _Claud._ As fast lock'd up in sleep as guiltless labour When it lies starkly in the traveller's bones: He will not wake. _Prov._ Who can do good on him? Well, go, prepare yourself. [_Knocking within._] But, hark, what noise?-- Heaven give your spirits comfort! [_Exit Clandio._] By and by.-- 65 I hope it is some pardon or reprieve For the most gentle Claudio. _Enter DUKE disguised as before._ Welcome, father. _Duke._ The best and wholesomest spirits of the night Envelop you, good Provost! Who call'd here of late? _Prov._ None, since the curfew rung. 70 _Duke._ Not Isabel? _Prov._ No. _Duke._ They will, then, ere't be long. _Prov._ What comfort is for Claudio? _Duke._ There's some in hope. _Prov._ It is a bitter Deputy. _Duke._ Not so, not so; his life is parallel'd 75 Even with the stroke and line of his great justice: He doth with holy abstinence subdue That in himself which he spurs on his power To qualify in others: were he meal'd with that Which he corrects, then were he tyrannous; 80 But this being so, he's just. [_Knocking within._ Now are they come. [_Exit Provost._ This is a gentle provost: seldom when The steeled gaoler is the friend of men. [_Knocking within._ How now! what noise? That spirit's possessed with haste That wounds the unsisting postern with these strokes. 85 _Re-enter PROVOST._ _Prov._ There he must stay until the officer Arise to let him in: he is call'd up. _Duke._ Have you no countermand for Claudio yet, But he must die to-morrow? _Prov._ None, sir, none. _Duke._ As near the dawning, provost, as it is, 90 You shall hear more ere morning. _Prov._ Happily You something know; yet I believe there comes No countermand; no such example have we: Besides, upon the very siege of justice Lord Angelo hath to the public ear 95 Profess'd the contrary. _Enter a MESSENGER._ This is his lordship's man. _Duke._ And here comes Claudio's pardon. _Mes._ [_Giving a paper_] My lord hath sent you this note; and by me this further charge, that you swerve not from the smallest article of it, neither in time, matter, or other circumstance. 100 Good morrow; for, as I take it, it is almost day. _Prov._ I shall obey him. [_Exit Messenger._ _Duke._ [_Aside_] This is his pardon, purchased by such sin For which the pardoner himself is in. Hence hath offence his quick celerity, 105 When it is borne in high authority: When vice makes mercy, mercy's so extended, That for the fault's love is the offender friended. Now, sir, what news? _Prov._ I told you. Lord Angelo, belike thinking me remiss 110 in mine office, awakens me with this unwonted putting-on; methinks strangely, for he hath not used it before. _Duke._ Pray you, let's hear. [Transcriber's Note: In order to preserve the marked line breaks without losing readability, each line of the quoted message has been split into two equal halves.] _Prov._ [_Reads_] Whatsoever you may hear to the contrary, let Claudio be executed by four of the clock; and in the afternoon Barnardine: for my 115 better satisfaction, let me have Claudio's head sent me by five. Let this be duly performed; with a thought that more depends on it than we must yet deliver. Thus fail not to do your office, as you will answer it at your peril. What say you to this, sir? 120 _Duke._ What is that Barnardine who is to be executed in the afternoon? _Prov._ A Bohemian born, but here nursed up and bred; one that is a prisoner nine years old. _Duke._ How came it that the absent Duke had not 125 either delivered him to his liberty or executed him? I have heard it was ever his manner to do so. _Prov._ His friends still wrought reprieves for him: and, indeed, his fact, till now in the government of Lord Angclo, came not to an undoubtful proof. 130 _Duke._ It is now apparent? _Prov._ Most manifest, and not denied by himself. _Duke._ Hath he borne himself penitently in prison? how seems he to be touched? _Prov._ A man that apprehends death no more dreadfully 135 but as a drunken sleep; careless, reckless, and fearless of what's past, present, or to come; insensible of mortality, and desperately mortal. _Duke._ He wants advice. _Prov._ He will hear none: he hath evermore had the 140 liberty of the prison; give him leave to escape hence, he would not: drunk many times a day, if not many days entirely drunk. We have very oft awaked him, as if to carry him to execution, and showed him a seeming warrant for it: it hath not moved him at all. 145 _Duke._ More of him anon. There is written in your brow, provost, honesty and constancy: if I read it not truly, my ancient skill beguiles me; but, in the boldness of my cunning, I will lay my self in hazard. Claudio, whom here you have warrant to execute, is no greater forfeit to the 150 law than Angelo who hath sentenced him. To make you understand this in a manifested effect, I crave but four days' respite; for the which you are to do me both a present and a dangerous courtesy. _Prov._ Pray, sir, in what? 155 _Duke._ In the delaying death. _Prov._ Alack, how may I do it, having the hour limited, and an express command, under penalty, to deliver his head in the view of Angelo? I may make my case as Claudio's, to cross this in the smallest. 160 _Duke._ By the vow of mine order I warrant you, if my instructions may be your guide. Let this Barnardine be this morning executed, and his head borne to Angelo. _Prov._ Angelo hath seen them both, and will discover the favour. 165 _Duke._ O, death's a great disguiser; and you may add to it. Shave the head, and tie the beard; and say it was the desire of the penitent to be so bared before his death: you know the course is common. If any thing fall to you upon this, more than thanks and good fortune, by the Saint 170 whom I profess, I will plead against it with my life. _Prov._ Pardon me, good father; it is against my oath. _Duke._ Were you sworn to the Duke, or to the Deputy? _Prov._ To him, and to his substitutes. _Duke._ You will think you have made no offence, if the 175 Duke avouch the justice of your dealing? _Prov._ But what likelihood is in that? _Duke._ Not a resemblance, but a certainty. Yet since I see you fearful, that neither my coat, integrity, nor persuasion can with ease attempt you, I will go further than I 180 meant, to pluck all fears out of you. Look you, sir, here is the hand and seal of the Duke: you know the character, I doubt not; and the signet is not strange to you. _Prov._ I know them both. _Duke._ The contents of this is the return of the Duke: 185 you shall anon over-read it at your pleasure; where you shall find, within these two days he will be here. This is a thing that Angelo knows not; for he this very day receives letters of strange tenour; perchance of the Duke's death; perchance entering into some monastery; but, by 190 chance, nothing of what is writ. Look, the unfolding star calls up the shepherd. Put not yourself into amazement how these things should be: all difficulties are but easy when they are known. Call your executioner, and off with Barnardine's head: I will give him a present shrift and 195 advise him for a better place. Yet you are amazed; but this shall absolutely resolve you. Come away; it is almost clear dawn. [_Exeunt._ NOTES: IV, 2. SCENE II.] SCENE V. Pope. 2-4: Printed as verse in Ff. 37-42: Abhor. _Sir,.......thief_] Abhor. ***Clown.*** _Sir, it is a mystery._ Abhor. _Proof.--_ Clown. _Every ... thief_ (42) Hanmer. Pom. _Proof ... thief_ (42) Lloyd conj. 39-42: _Every......thief_] Capell. Abh. _Every....thief_ (39). Clo. _If it be ... thief_ (41) Ff. Abh. _Every ... thief, Clown: if it be......thief_ (42) Theobald. 45: _your_] _you_ F2. 53: _yare_] Theobald. _y'are_ Ff. _yours_ Rowe. 56: _The one_] _Th' one_ Ff. _One_ Hamner. 58: SCENE VI. Pope. 63: _He will not wake_] F1 F2. _He will not awake_ F3 F4. _He'll not awake_ Pope. 64: _yourself_] _yourself_ [Ex. Claudio.] Theobald. 65: _comfort!_ [Exit Claudio.] _By and by.--_] Capell. _comfort: by and by,_ Ff. 70: _None_] F1. _Now_ F2 F3 F4. 71: _They_] _She_ Hawkins conj. _There_ Collier MS. 85: _unsisting_] F1 F2 F3. _insisting_ F4. _unresisting_ Rowe. _unresting_ Hanmer. _unshifting_ Capell. _unlist'ning_ Steevens conj. _resisting_ Collier conj. _unlisting_ Mason conj. _unfeeling_ Johnson conj. _unwisting_ Singer. 86: ....Provost] ....Provost, speaking to one at the door, after which he comes forward. Capell. 91: _Happily_] _Happely_ F1 F2. _Happily_ F3 F4. See note (XVIII). 96: SCENE VII. Pope. _lordship's_] Pope. _lords_ Ff. om. Capell. 96, 97: _This ... man._ Duke. _And ... pardon_] Knight (Tyrwhitt conj.). Duke. _This ... man._ Pro. _And ... pardon_ Ff. 98-101: Printed as verse in Ff. 113: _you_] om. F4. 114: Prov. [Reads] Rowe. The letter. Ff. 117: _duly_] _truly_ Capell (a misprint). 131: _It is_] Ff. _Is it_ Pope. 136: _reckless_] Theobald. _wreaklesse_ F1 F2 F3. _wreakless_ F4. _rechless_ Pope. 138: _desperately mortal_] _mortally desperate_ Hanmer. 161-165: Printed as verse in Ff. Rowe. 167: _tie_] F1 F4. _tye_ F2 F3. _tire_ Theobald conj. _dye_ Simpson conj. 168: _bared_] Malone. _bar'de_ F1 F2 F3. _barb'd_ F4. 179: _persuasion_] Ff. _my persuasion_ Rowe. 188: _that_] F1 F2 F3. _which_ F4. 191: _writ_] _here writ_ Hanmer. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Der Herzog besucht Mariana und ist dort, als Isabella ankommt. Isabella sagt, dass Angelo ihr zwei Schlüssel und Anweisungen gegeben hat, um ihn in einem Garten zu treffen. Angelo hat ihr zweimal den Weg gezeigt. Sie sagte Angelo, dass ein Diener sie begleiten wird und dachte, dass sie über ihren Bruder sprechen kommt, also kann sie nicht lange bleiben. Der Herzog stellt Mariana Isabella vor und sagt ihnen, die Pläne zusammen zu besprechen. Sie gehen spazieren und wenn sie zurückkommen, haben sie den Plan vereinbart. Isabella erzählt ihr, dass sie sehr wenig sagen, aber ihm unbedingt "Erinnere dich jetzt an meinen Bruder" sagen soll, bevor sie geht. Der Herzog sagt Mariana, dass sie keine Sünde begeht, da sie und Angelo einen Ehevertrag hatten. In der Zwischenzeit im Gefängnis fragt der Provost Pompey, ob er helfen wird, Claudio und einen anderen Gefangenen hinzurichten. Wenn er dies tut, werden die Anklagen gegen ihn fallen gelassen. Pompey stimmt zu und der Provost stellt ihn Abhorson, dem Henker, vor. Abhorson sagt, dass Pompey das Hinrichtungsgeschäft diskreditieren wird. Pompey stimmt jedoch zu, sein Helfer zu sein, und Abhorson wird gesagt, dass er am nächsten Tag um vier Uhr bereit sein soll. Der Herzog kommt an und der Provost fragt, ob es noch Hoffnung gibt, Claudio zu retten. Der Herzog sagt, dass möglicherweise eine Begnadigung vor dem Morgen ankommt. Ein Bote kommt an und der Herzog sagt, dass es wahrscheinlich die Begnadigung ist, aber sie enthält Anweisungen, Claudio bis vier Uhr hinzurichten und Barnadine am Nachmittag und Claudios Kopf bis fünf Uhr an Angelo zu schicken. Der Herzog fragt, wer Barnadine ist, und der Provost sagt ihm, dass er ein Böhme ist, der seit neun Jahren im Gefängnis ist. Der Herzog fragt, ob er reumütig ist, und der Provost sagt, dass er genauso rücksichtslos und sorglos wie immer ist. Der Provost sagt, dass es ihm egal ist, dass er im Gefängnis ist, und er nicht von der Nachricht über seine demnächst bevorstehende Hinrichtung betroffen ist. Der Herzog bittet darum, Claudios Hinrichtung um vier Tage zu verschieben. Der Provost fragt, wie er so etwas tun könnte, angesichts der Präzision von Angelos Anweisungen. Der Herzog sagt dem Provost, anstelle von Claudios Kopf den Kopf von Barnadine zu schicken. Der Provost argumentiert, dass Angelo feststellen wird, dass es die falsche Person ist, aber der Herzog sagt ihm, den Kopf und Bart von Barnadine zu rasieren, um ihn zu verkleiden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Akt IV. Szene 1. Troy. Eine Straße. Betreten, auf der einen Seite, AENEAS, und ein Diener mit einer Fackel; auf der anderen Seite, PARIS, DEIPHOBUS, ANTENOR, DIOMEDES der Grieche, und andere, mit Fackeln PARIS. Sieh da, ho! Wer ist da? DEIPHOBUS. Es ist der Herr Aeneas. AENEAS. Ist der Prinz persönlich anwesend? Hätte ich nur einen so guten Grund gehabt, lange zu lügen Wie du, Prinz Paris, würde nichts als göttliche Geschäfte Meinen Bettnachbarn von meiner Gesellschaft berauben. DIOMEDES. Das sehe ich genauso. Guten Morgen, Lord Aeneas. PARIS. Ein tapferer Grieche, Aeneas -schüttelt ihm die Hand: Zeuge den Verlauf deiner Rede, in der du erzählt hast, Wie dich Diomed, eine ganze Woche lang, Auf dem Feld verfolgt hat. AENEAS. Gesundheit für dich, tapferer Herr, Während aller Fragen des sanften Waffenstillstands; Aber wenn ich dich bewaffnet treffe, so schwarzer Trotz Wie das Herz denken oder der Mut ausführen kann. DIOMEDES. Der eine wie der andere Diomed umarmt. Unser Blut ist jetzt ruhig; und so lange Gesundheit! Aber wenn Streit und Anlass aufeinandertreffen, Bei Jove, werde ich der Jäger für dein Leben sein Mit meiner ganzen Kraft, Verfolgung und List. AENEAS. Und du wirst einen Löwen jagen, der fliehen wird Mit seinem Gesicht nach hinten. In menschlicher Freundlichkeit, Willkommen in Troja! Nun, beim Leben des Anchises, Herzlich willkommen! Bei Venus' Hand schwöre ich, Kein Mann kann leidenschaftlicher lieben Das Ding, das er zu töten beabsichtigt, vorzüglicher. DIOMEDES. Wir fühlen mit dir. Jove lasse Aeneas leben, Wenn nicht mein Schwert sein Ruhm ist, Tausend volle Durchläufe der Sonne! Aber in meiner ehrgeizigen Ehre sterbe er Mit jeder Gliedmaße eine Wunde, und das morgen! AENEAS. Wir kennen uns gut. DIOMEDES. Das tun wir; und sehnen uns, uns noch besser kennenzulernen. PARIS. Das ist der verachtenswerteste freundliche Gruß, Die bewundernswerteste verhasste Liebe, von der ich je gehört habe. Was hast du so früh vor, Herr? AENEAS. Ich wurde zum König gerufen; aber warum, weiß ich nicht. PARIS. Sein Vorhaben trifft auf dich: Er wollte diesen Griechen Zu Calchas' Haus bringen und ihn dort übergeben Als Gegenleistung für den freigekauften Antenor, die schöne Cressida. Lass uns deine Gesellschaft haben; oder, wenn es dir lieber ist, Beeil dich dort vor uns hin. Ich glaube fest daran- Oder besser gesagt, nenne meinen Gedanken sicheres Wissen- Mein Bruder Troilus ist dort heute Nacht untergebracht. Weck ihn auf und informiere ihn über unser Kommen, Mit allem, was dich betrifft; es ist zu befürchten, Dass wir sehr unwillkommen sein werden. AENEAS. Das versichere ich dir: Troilus würde lieber sehen, dass Troja nach Griechenland gebracht wird Als Cressida von Troja weggebracht wird. PARIS. Es gibt keine Hilfe; Die giftige Veranlagung der Zeit Wird es so haben wollen. Auf, Herr; wir werden dir folgen. AENEAS. Guten Morgen, allerseits. Abgang mit Diener PARIS. Und sag mir, edler Diomed -ehrlich, sag mir, Auch in der Seele von wahrem Kameradschaft- Wer verdient deiner Meinung nach Helena am besten, Ich selbst oder Menelaus? DIOMEDES. Beide gleich: Wer sie verdient, ist derjenige, der sie sucht, Ohne Bedenken wegen ihrer Schändlichkeit, Mit so viel Hölle von Schmerz und Last der Welt; Und du auch, um sie zu behalten, verteidigst sie, Ohne den Geschmack ihrer Schande zu verhüllen, Mit einem so kostspieligen Verlust von Reichtum und Freunden. Er würde wie ein weinerlicher Hahnrei die Reste und Überbleibsel einer platten gezähmten Schönheit trinken; Du, wie ein Wüstling, aus hurereischen Lenden Freust du dich über deine Nachkommen. Beide Verdienste abgewogen, wiegen sie weder weniger noch mehr; Aber er, so wie er ist, schwerer für eine Hure. PARIS. Du bist zu bitter zu deiner Landsmännin. DIOMEDES. Sie ist bitter zu ihrer Heimat. Hör zu, Paris: Für jeden falschen Tropfen in ihren lüsternen Adern Ist ein Grieche gestorben; für jedes Stückchen Ihrer verunreinigten gammeligen Masse Ist ein Trojaner getötet worden; seit sie sprechen konnte, Hat sie nicht so viele warme Worte gegeben Wie an Griechen und Trojaner der Tod gebracht hat. PARIS. Schöner Diomed, du redest wie ein Krämer, Lästerst das Ding, das du kaufen willst; Aber wir halten diese Tugend in Stille hoch: Wir werden nicht empfehlen, was wir verkaufen wollen. Hier liegt unser Weg. Abgang Akt IV. Szene 2. Troy. Der Hof von PANDARUS' Haus Betreten TROILUS und CRESSIDA TROILUS. Liebe, mach dir keine Sorgen; der Morgen ist kalt. CRESSIDA. Dann, mein lieber Herr, werde ich meinen Onkel rufen; Er wird die Tore entriegeln. TROILUS. Mach ihm keine Umstände; Zu Bett, zu Bett! Schlaf, der diese hübschen Augen tötet, Und gib deinen Sinnen eine sanfte Bindung, Wie bei Kindern, frei von allen Gedanken! CRESSIDA. Guten Morgen, dann. TROILUS. Ich bitte dich, jetzt zu Bett. CRESSIDA. Hast du genug von mir? TROILUS. Oh Cressida! Aber dass der geschäftige Tag, Aufgeweckt vom Lerchen, die ungehobelten Raben weckt, Und die träumende Nacht unsere Freuden nicht länger versteckt, Würde ich nicht von dir weggehen. CRESSIDA. Die Nacht war zu kurz. TROILUS. Verflucht sei der Hexe! Sie bleibt bei giftigen Kreaturen So langsam wie die Hölle, aber sie entzieht sich den Umarmungen der Liebe Mit schnelleren Flügeln als der Gedanke. Du wirst dich erkälten und mich verfluchen. CRESSIDA. Bitte bleib. Ihr Männer werdet niemals bleiben. O törichte Cressida! Ich hätte mich immer noch zurückhalten können, Und dann wärst du geblieben. Hör! Da ist jemand wach. PANDARUS. [Im Inneren] Warum sind hier alle Türen offen? TROILUS. Es ist dein Onkel. Betreten PANDARUS CRESSIDA. Mit der Pest soll er gehen! Jetzt wird er sich über mich lustig machen. Ich werde ein solches Leben führen! PANDARUS. Wie jetzt, wie jetzt! Wie geht es Jungfräulichkeit? Hier, du Jungfer! Wo ist meine Cousine Cressida? CRESSIDA. Geh und erhänge dich, du böser Spott-Onkel. Du bringst mich dazu, etwas zu tun, TROILUS. Was ist los? AENEAS. Mein Herr, ich habe kaum Zeit, Sie zu begrüßen, Mein Anliegen ist so dringend. Dein Bruder Paris ist hier, Und Deiphobus, der griechische Diomedes und unser Antenor wurden uns ausgeliefert; und für ihn, gleich danach, noch vor dem ersten Opfer, müssen wir Lady Cressida an Diomedes übergeben. TROILUS. Ist das so beschlossen? AENEAS. Von Priam und dem allgemeinen Zustand von Troja. Sie sind bereit und stehen bereit, es durchzuführen. TROILUS. Wie verhöhnen mich meine Erfolge! Ich werde ihnen entgegengehen; und, mein Herr Aeneas, Wir haben uns zufällig getroffen; Sie haben mich hier nicht gefunden. AENEAS. Gut, gut, mein Herr, die Geheimnisse von Nachbar Pandarus Haben nicht mehr Schweigsamkeitsgabe. TROILUS und AENEAS ab PANDARUS. Ist es möglich? Kaum habe ich es bekommen, schon verloren? Zum Teufel mit Antenor! Der junge Prinz wird verrückt. Eine Plage über Antenor! Ich wünschte, sie hätten ihm das Genick gebrochen. CRESSIDA kommt wieder herein CRESSIDA. Was ist los? Wer war hier? PANDARUS. Ah, ah! CRESSIDA. Warum seufzt du so tief? Ist mein Herr fort? Sags mir, lieber Onkel, was ist los? PANDARUS. Wäre ich doch genauso tief unter der Erde wie ich jetzt darüber bin! CRESSIDA. Oh Götter! Was ist los? PANDARUS. Bitte, komm rein. Wünschte, du wärst niemals geboren worden! Ich wusste, du würdest ihm den Tod bringen! Oh, armer Herr! Eine Plage über Antenor! CRESSIDA. Lieber Onkel, ich bitte dich, auf meinen Knien bitte ich dich, was ist los? PANDARUS. Du musst gehen, Mädchen, du musst gehen; du wurdest gegen Antenor ausgetauscht; du musst zu deinem Vater und von Troilus gehen. Es wird ihm den Tod bringen; es wird sein Verderben sein; er kann es nicht ertragen. CRESSIDA. Oh, ihr unsterblichen Götter! Ich werde nicht gehen. PANDARUS. Du musst. CRESSIDA. Ich werde nicht gehen, Onkel. Ich habe meinen Vater vergessen; Ich spüre keinen Hauch von Blutsverwandtschaft, Keine Verbindung, keine Liebe, kein Blut, keine Seele, die mir so nahe ist Wie der süße Troilus. Ach, ihr göttlichen Götter, Lasst Cressidas Name die Krone der Lüge sein, Wenn sie jemals Troilus verlässt! Zeit, Gewalt und Tod, Tut diesem Körper, was ihr könnt, Aber das starke Fundament und der Bau meiner Liebe Sind wie das Zentrum der Erde selbst, Das alles zu sich zieht. Ich werde hineingehen und weinen- PANDARUS. Ja, ja. CRESSIDA. Zieh an meinen hellen Haaren und zerkratze meine gelobten Wangen, Breche meine klare Stimme mit Schluchzen und zerschmettere mein Herz, Mit klingendem 'Troilus'. Ich werde nicht aus Troja gehen. GEHEN aus PANDARUS. Hier, hier, hier kommt er. Ah, süße Enten! CRESSIDA. O Troilus! Troilus! [Umarmt ihn] PANDARUS. Was für ein Augenschmaus das ist! Lass mich auch umarmen. 'O Herz,' wie der treffliche Spruch lautet, O Herz, schweres Herz, Warum seufzt du, ohne zu brechen? und er antwortet wieder Weil du deinen Schmerz nicht lindern kannst Durch Freundschaft oder Reden. Es gab nie einen wahreren Reim. Lass uns nichts wegwerfen, denn wir könnten solch einen Vers noch brauchen. Wir sehen es, wir sehen es. Wie geht's, Lämmer! TROILUS. Cressida, ich liebe dich mit so einer reinen Reinheit, Dass die seligen Götter, zornig auf meine Einbildungskraft, Heller in Eifer sind als die Hingabe, die Kalte Lippen ihren Gottheiten zuhauchen, nehmen dich mir weg. CRESSIDA. Haben die Götter Neid? PANDARUS. Ja, ja, ja; Es ist zu offensichtlich. CRESSIDA. Und ist es wahr, dass ich von Troja weg muss? TROILUS. Eine schreckliche Wahrheit. CRESSIDA. Was, auch von Troilus? TROILUS. Von Troja und Troilus. CRESSIDA. Ist es möglich? TROILUS. Und plötzlich; wo Schicksalsschaden Den Abschied verschiebt, grob herumschubst, Jede Pausezeit grob übergeht, Unsere verriegelten Umarmungen gewaltsam verhindert, Unsere geliebten Gelübde erstickt Sogar bei der Geburt unseres eigenen atemlosen Atems. Wir zwei, die mit so vielen tausend Seufzern Uns gegenseitig erkauft haben, müssen uns armselig verkaufen Mit der rohen Kürze und Entlassung eines Einzelnen. Verletzende Zeit drängelt jetzt mit der Hast eines Räubers Seinen reichen Raub zusammen, ohne zu wissen wie. So viele Abschiede wie Sterne am Himmel, Mit unterschiedlichem Atem und zugefügten Küssen, Wühlt er einen locker verknoteten Abschied auf, Und knausert uns mit einem einzigen hungernden Kuss, Mit dem Salz gebrochener Tränen missgeschmeckt. AENEAS. [Im Inneren] Mein Herr, ist die Dame bereit? TROILUS. Hör zu! Du wirst gebeten. Man sagt, der Genius Ruft 'Komm' zu denen, die sofort sterben müssen. Sag ihnen, sie sollen geduldig sein; sie wird gleich kommen. PANDARUS. Wo sind meine Tränen? Regen, um diesen Wind zu legen, oder mein Herz wird durch die Wurzel hinaufgeblasen werden? Abgang CRESSIDA. Muss ich dann zu den Griechen? TROILUS. Keine Abhilfe. CRESSIDA. Eine betrübte Cressida unter den fröhlichen Griechen! Wann werden wir uns wiedersehen? TROILUS. Hör mir zu, meine Liebe. Sei du nur treu im Herzen- CRESSIDA. Ich treu! Was hast du da vor! Was für eine böse Anschuldigung ist das? TROILUS. Nein, wir müssen uns freundlich auseinandersetzen, Denn es ist eine Trennung von uns. Ich sage 'Sei du treu' nicht aus Furcht vor dir, Denn ich werfe meinen Handschuh selbst dem Tod zu Dass in deinem Herzen keine Makel sind; Aber 'Sei du treu' sage ich, um in Meiner folgenden Protestation zu formen: Sei du treu, Und ich werde dich sehen. CRESSIDA. Oh, du wirst bloßgestellt, mein Herr, Gefahren ausgesetzt sein So unendlich wie bedrohlich! Aber ich werde treu sein. TROILUS. Und ich werde mit Gefahr Freundschaft schließen. Trage diesen Ärmel. CRESSIDA. Und du diesen Handschuh. Wann werde ich dich sehen? TROILUS. Ich werde die griechischen Wachen bestechen, Dich nächtlich zu besuchen. Aber sei trotzdem treu. CRESSIDA. Oh Himmel! 'Wieder sei treu'! TROILUS. Hör warum ich es sage, Liebe. Die jungen Griechen sind von guter Qualität; Sie sind liebevoll, naturbegabt, Und überfließen vor Kunst und Übung. Wie Neuheiten bewegen können, und Teile mit Person, Alas, eine Art gottesfürchtige Eifersucht, Die ich dich bitte, eine tugendhafte Sünde zu nennen, Erschreckt mich. CRESSIDA. Oh Himmel! Du liebst mich nicht. TROILUS. Stirbe ich als Schurke dann! Hiermit stelle ich deinen Glauben nicht in Frage, So sehr wie meine Verdienste. Ich kann nicht singen, Nicht den hohen Lavolt tanzen, das Gespräch versüßen, Oder in subtilen Spielen glänzen - alles bewundernswerte Tugenden, Für die die Griechen besonders geschickt und talentiert sind; Aber ich kann dir sagen, dass in jeder dieser Tugenden Ein noch immer und stummer verstohlener Teufel lauert, Der auf die geschickteste Weise verführt. Lass dich nicht verführen. CRESSIDA. Glaubst du, dass ich mich verführen lassen werde? TROILUS. Nein. Aber etwas könnte getan werden, was wir nicht wollen; Und manchmal sind wir uns selbst Teufel, Wenn wir die Schwäche unserer Kräfte herausfordern, Und auf ihre wandelbare Macht hoffen. AENEAS. [Von innen] Nein, mein Herr! TROILUS. Komm, lass uns uns küssen und uns verabschieden. PARIS. [Von innen] Bruder Troilus! TROILUS. Guter Bruder, komm hierher; Und bring Aeneas und den Griechen mit dir. CRESSIDA. Mein Herr, wirst du treu sein? TROILUS. Wer? Ich? Ach, es ist mein Fehler, mein Fehler! Während andere mit Geschick nach großer Meinung fischen, Fange ich mit großer Wahrheit bloße Einfachheit; Während manche mit List ihre Kupferkronen vergolden, Trage ich meine bloß mit Wahrheit und Einfachheit. Betreten AENEAS, PARIS, ANTENOR, DEIPHOBUS und DIOMEDES Fürchte dich nicht vor meiner Wahrheit: Die Kernbotschaft meiner Intelligenz Ist 'einfach und wahr'; das ist alles, was dahinter steckt. Willkommen, Sir Diomed! Hier ist die Dame Die wir für Antenor zu dir bringen; Am Hafen, Herr, werde ich sie in deine Hände geben, Und auf dem Weg werde ich dich wissen lassen, wer sie ist. Behandle sie freundlich, und, bei meiner Seele, schöne Griechin, Wenn du jemals meiner Klinge Gnade erbittest, Nenne Cressida, und dein Leben wird so sicher sein Wie Priams in Ilion. DIOMEDES. Schöne Dame Cressida, Wenn es Ihnen gefällt, verschonen Sie mich mit den Dankesworten, die dieser Prinz erwartet. Der Glanz in deinen Augen, der Himmel in deinem Gesicht, Bittet um freundliche Behandlung; und Diomed Wirst du beherrschen und ihm vollkommen gehorchen. TROILUS. Grieche, du benutzt mich nicht höflich, Um den Eifer meines Antrags auf dich zu beschämen, Wenn ich sie preise. Ich sage dir, Fürst von Griechenland, Sie schwebt hoch über deinen Lobpreisungen, So unwürdig, dass du nicht ihr Diener genannt werden solltest. Ich befehle dir, behandle sie gut, nur schon meiner Bitte wegen; Denn bei dem furchterregenden Pluto, wenn Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Diomedes kommt nach Troja, um den Austausch von Antenor gegen Cressida vorzunehmen, und wird herzlich von Aeneas und Paris empfangen. Aeneas geht, um Cressida zu holen und bemerkt, dass dieser Austausch Troilus schwer treffen wird; Paris stimmt zu, sagt jedoch bedauernd, dass sie keine Wahl haben: "die bittere Stimmung der Zeit wird es so haben wollen". Nachdem Aeneas gegangen ist, wird Diomedes gefragt, wer seiner Meinung nach Helen mehr verdient - Paris oder Menelaus? Mit großer Verbitterung antwortet der Grieche, dass beide sie verdienen, da beide Narren sind, die bereit sind, einen hohen Preis in Blut für eine "Hure" zu zahlen. In der Zwischenzeit, als der Morgen anbricht, verabschiedet sich Troilus reuevoll von Cressida, während sie ihn bittet, noch etwas länger zu bleiben. Pandarus tritt ein und macht einige anzügliche Witze über ihr kürzliches Liebesspiel; plötzlich klopft es an der Tür und Cressida versteckt Troilus in ihrem Schlafzimmer. Aeneas betritt das Zimmer und verlangt von Pandarus, Troilus herauszubringen. Als der junge Prinz auftaucht, überbringt ihm Aeneas die schwere Nachricht, dass Cressida an ihren Vater im griechischen Lager geschickt werden muss. Troilus ist am Boden zerstört und geht mit Aeneas, um seinen Vater Priam zu sehen, während Pandarus die Nachricht Cressida überbringt, die anfängt zu weinen. Troilus bringt Diomedes, zusammen mit den großen Herren von Troja, zu Cressidas Haus und bittet darum, sich von seiner Dame verabschieden zu dürfen. Als sie allein sind, schwört er, treu zu sein, und Cressida verspricht, auch im griechischen Lager ihm treu zu bleiben. Dann wird Diomedes hineingeführt und Troilus fordert ihn auf, sie gut zu behandeln...., denn bei dem furchtbaren Pluto, wenn du es nicht tust, werde ich dir die Kehle durchschneiden." Diomedes erwidert, dass er keine Versprechen machen wird - er wird Cressida so behandeln, wie sie es verdient, aber nicht, weil irgendein trojanischer Prinz ihm das befiehlt. In diesem Moment erklingt eine Trompete, die sie alle ins griechische Lager zum Duell zwischen Hector und Ajax ruft.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: When Jo came home that spring, she had been struck with the change in Beth. No one spoke of it or seemed aware of it, for it had come too gradually to startle those who saw her daily, but to eyes sharpened by absence, it was very plain and a heavy weight fell on Jo's heart as she saw her sister's face. It was no paler and but littler thinner than in the autumn, yet there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if the mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining through the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty. Jo saw and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the first impression lost much of its power, for Beth seemed happy, no one appeared to doubt that she was better, and presently in other cares Jo for a time forgot her fear. But when Laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again, the vague anxiety returned and haunted her. She had confessed her sins and been forgiven, but when she showed her savings and proposed a mountain trip, Beth had thanked her heartily, but begged not to go so far away from home. Another little visit to the seashore would suit her better, and as Grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Jo took Beth down to the quiet place, where she could live much in the open air, and let the fresh sea breezes blow a little color into her pale cheeks. It was not a fashionable place, but even among the pleasant people there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for one another. Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo too wrapped up in her to care for anyone else. So they were all in all to each other, and came and went, quite unconscious of the interest they excited in those about them, who watched with sympathetic eyes the strong sister and the feeble one, always together, as if they felt instinctively that a long separation was not far away. They did feel it, yet neither spoke of it, for often between ourselves and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve which it is very hard to overcome. Jo felt as if a veil had fallen between her heart and Beth's, but when she put out her hand to lift it up, there seemed something sacred in the silence, and she waited for Beth to speak. She wondered, and was thankful also, that her parents did not seem to see what she saw, and during the quiet weeks when the shadows grew so plain to her, she said nothing of it to those at home, believing that it would tell itself when Beth came back no better. She wondered still more if her sister really guessed the hard truth, and what thoughts were passing through her mind during the long hours when she lay on the warm rocks with her head in Jo's lap, while the winds blew healthfully over her and the sea made music at her feet. One day Beth told her. Jo thought she was asleep, she lay so still, and putting down her book, sat looking at her with wistful eyes, trying to see signs of hope in the faint color on Beth's cheeks. But she could not find enough to satisfy her, for the cheeks were very thin, and the hands seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little shells they had been collecting. It came to her then more bitterly than ever that Beth was slowly drifting away from her, and her arms instinctively tightened their hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed. For a minute her eyes were too dim for seeing, and when they cleared, Beth was looking up at her so tenderly that there was hardly any need for her to say, "Jo, dear, I'm glad you know it. I've tried to tell you, but I couldn't." There was no answer except her sister's cheek against her own, not even tears, for when most deeply moved, Jo did not cry. She was the weaker then, and Beth tried to comfort and sustain her, with her arms about her and the soothing words she whispered in her ear. "I've known it for a good while, dear, and now I'm used to it, it isn't hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so and don't be troubled about me, because it's best, indeed it is." "Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel it then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?" asked Jo, refusing to see or say that it was best, but glad to know that Laurie had no part in Beth's trouble. "Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn't like to own it. I tried to think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble anyone. But when I saw you all so well and strong and full of happy plans, it was hard to feel that I could never be like you, and then I was miserable, Jo." "Oh, Beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort and help you? How could you shut me out, bear it all alone?" Jo's voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say goodbye to health, love, and life, and take up her cross so cheerfully. "Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right. I wasn't sure, no one said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have been selfish to frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg, and Amy away, and you so happy with Laurie--at least I thought so then." "And I thought you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I couldn't," cried Jo, glad to say all the truth. Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of her pain, and added softly, "Then you didn't, dearie? I was afraid it was so, and imagined your poor little heart full of lovelornity all that while." "Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?" asked Beth, as innocently as a child. "I do love him dearly. He is so good to me, how can I help It? But he could never be anything to me but my brother. I hope he truly will be, sometime." "Not through me," said Jo decidedly. "Amy is left for him, and they would suit excellently, but I have no heart for such things, now. I don't care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You must get well." "I want to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little, and feel more sure that I shall never gain it back. It's like the tide, Jo, when it turns, it goes slowly, but it can't be stopped." "It shall be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too young, Beth. I can't let you go. I'll work and pray and fight against it. I'll keep you in spite of everything. There must be ways, it can't be too late. God won't be so cruel as to take you from me," cried poor Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously submissive than Beth's. Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety. It shows itself in acts rather than in words, and has more influence than homilies or protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and cheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, she asked no questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father and Mother of us all, feeling sure that they, and they only, could teach and strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come. She did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only loved her better for her passionate affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love, from which our Father never means us to be weaned, but through which He draws us closer to Himself. She could not say, "I'm glad to go," for life was very sweet for her. She could only sob out, "I try to be willing," while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of this great sorrow broke over them together. By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity, "You'll tell them this when we go home?" "I think they will see it without words," sighed Jo, for now it seemed to her that Beth changed every day. "Perhaps not. I've heard that the people who love best are often blindest to such things. If they don't see it, you will tell them for me. I don't want any secrets, and it's kinder to prepare them. Meg has John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by Father and Mother, won't you Jo?" "If I can. But, Beth, I don't give up yet. I'm going to believe that it is a sick fancy, and not let you think it's true." said Jo, trying to speak cheerfully. Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way, "I don't know how to express myself, and shouldn't try to anyone but you, because I can't speak out except to my Jo. I only mean to say that I have a feeling that it never was intended I should live long. I'm not like the rest of you. I never made any plans about what I'd do when I grew up. I never thought of being married, as you all did. I couldn't seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about at home, of no use anywhere but there. I never wanted to go away, and the hard part now is the leaving you all. I'm not afraid, but it seems as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven." Jo could not speak, and for several minutes there was no sound but the sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged gull flew by, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast. Beth watched it till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness. A little gray-coated sand bird came tripping over the beach 'peeping' softly to itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea. It came quite close to Beth, and looked at her with a friendly eye and sat upon a warm stone, dressing its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled and felt comforted, for the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship and remind her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed. "Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps better than the gulls. They are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy, confiding little things. I used to call them my birds last summer, and Mother said they reminded her of me--busy, quaker-colored creatures, always near the shore, and always chirping that contented little song of theirs. You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone. Meg is the turtledove, and Amy is like the lark she writes about, trying to get up among the clouds, but always dropping down into its nest again. Dear little girl! She's so ambitious, but her heart is good and tender, and no matter how high she flies, she never will forget home. I hope I shall see her again, but she seems so far away." "She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall be all ready to see and enjoy her. I'm going to have you well and rosy by that time," began Jo, feeling that of all the changes in Beth, the talking change was the greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort now, and she thought aloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth. "Jo, dear, don't hope any more. It won't do any good. I'm sure of that. We won't be miserable, but enjoy being together while we wait. We'll have happy times, for I don't suffer much, and I think the tide will go out easily, if you help me." Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face, and with that silent kiss, she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth. She was right. There was no need of any words when they got home, for Father and Mother saw plainly now what they had prayed to be saved from seeing. Tired with her short journey, Beth went at once to bed, saying how glad she was to be home, and when Jo went down, she found that she would be spared the hard task of telling Beth's secret. Her father stood leaning his head on the mantelpiece and did not turn as she came in, but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and Jo went to comfort her without a word. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Jo verwendet das Geld, das sie vom Volcano verdient hat, um Beth für einen weiteren Besuch am Meer mitzunehmen. Während des kleinen Urlaubs erfährt Jo, dass Beth nie in Laurie verliebt war, sondern dass der Grund für ihre Traurigkeit im letzten Jahr darin lag, dass sie langsam erkannte, dass sie sterben würde. Sie scheint jeden Tag ein bisschen mehr zu verblassen. Beth hat die Vorstellung akzeptiert, dass ihr Tod unvermeidlich ist und dass es so sein sollte. Als die Mädchen nach Hause zurückkehren, ist Beth so geschwächt, dass ihre Eltern ihren Zustand erkennen können, ohne darauf hingewiesen zu werden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. KAPITEL III. DER AUTOR UNTERHÄLT DEN KAISER UND SEINE ADLIGEN BEIDER GESCHLECHTER AUF UNGEWOHNLICHE WEISE. DIE UNTERHALTUNGEN AM HOF VON LILLIPUT WERDEN BESCHRIEBEN. DEM AUTOR WIRD UNTER GEWISSEN BEDINGUNGEN DIE FREIHEIT GEWÄHRT. Meine Sanftmut und gutes Benehmen hatten beim Kaiser und seinem Hof, ja sogar bei der Armee und dem Volk im Allgemeinen, so viel Anklang gefunden, dass ich begann, Hoffnung zu schöpfen, bald meine Freiheit zu erlangen. Ich unternahm alles, um diese günstige Stimmung zu fördern. Die Einheimischen wurden nach und nach weniger ängstlich vor mir. Manchmal legte ich mich hin und ließ fünf oder sechs von ihnen auf meiner Hand tanzen, und schließlich trauten sich die Jungen und Mädchen sogar zu kommen und Verstecken in meinen Haaren zu spielen. Ich hatte nun große Fortschritte beim Verständnis und Sprechen ihrer Sprache gemacht. Eines Tages hatte der Kaiser den Wunsch, mich mit einer der ländlichen Vorstellungen zu unterhalten, die alle mir bekannten Nationen sowohl an Geschicklichkeit als auch an Pracht übertreffen. Besonders amüsierten mich die Seiltänzer, die auf einem dünnen weißen Faden auftraten, der etwa zwei Fuß über dem Boden gespannt war. Darüber möchte ich, mit der Geduld des Lesers, etwas ausführlicher berichten. Diese Unterhaltung wird nur von Personen praktiziert, die auf hohe Ämter und Gunst am Hof hoffen. Sie werden von Jugend an in dieser Kunst ausgebildet und sind nicht immer von adliger Herkunft oder haben eine liberale Bildung genossen. Wenn ein hohes Amt entweder durch Tod oder Schande frei wird (was häufig vorkommt), bitten fünf oder sechs dieser Kandidaten den Kaiser darum, seine Majestät und den Hof mit einem Tanz auf dem Seil zu unterhalten, und wer am höchsten springt, ohne zu fallen, bekommt das Amt. Sehr oft werden auch die obersten Minister selbst aufgefordert, ihre Fähigkeiten zu zeigen und den Kaiser davon zu überzeugen, dass sie nichts verlernt haben. Flimnap, der Schatzmeister, darf auf dem geraden Seil einen Handstand machen, mindestens einen Zoll höher als jeder Lord im gesamten Kaiserreich. Ich habe ihn mehrmals hintereinander einen Purzelbaum auf einem Teller auf einem Seil machen sehen, das nicht dicker ist als ein einfacher Bindfaden in England. Mein Freund Reldresal, der Hauptsekretär für private Angelegenheiten, ist meiner Meinung nach, wenn ich nicht parteiisch bin, der Zweitbeste nach dem Schatzmeister; die übrigen hohen Offiziere stehen ihm kaum nach. Diese Unterhaltungen gehen oft mit tödlichen Unfällen einher, von denen zahlreiche Aufzeichnungen existieren. Ich selbst habe gesehen, wie sich zwei oder drei Kandidaten ein Bein brachen. Doch die Gefahr ist viel größer, wenn die Minister selbst aufgefordert werden, ihre Geschicklichkeit zu zeigen! Denn indem sie versuchen, sich selbst und ihre Mitstreiter zu übertreffen, überanstrengen sie sich so sehr, dass kaum einer von ihnen ist, der nicht gestürzt ist, und manche von ihnen sogar zwei oder drei Mal. Mir wurde versichert, dass Flimnap ein Jahr oder zwei vor meiner Ankunft mit Sicherheit sein Genick gebrochen hätte, wenn nicht eines der Königskissen, das zufällig auf dem Boden lag, den Aufprall abgeschwächt hätte. Es gibt auch eine andere Unterhaltung, die nur vor dem Kaiser, der Kaiserin und dem ersten Minister, zu besonderen Anlässen gezeigt wird. Der Kaiser legt auf den Tisch drei schöne seidene Fäden von je sechs Zoll Länge; einer ist lila, der andere gelb und der dritte weiß. Diese Fäden werden als Preise für diejenigen Personen vorgeschlagen, die der Kaiser mit einer besonderen Auszeichnung begünstigen möchte. Die Zeremonie findet in der großen Audienzkammer seiner Majestät statt, wo die Kandidaten einer Geschicklichkeitsprüfung unterzogen werden, die sich wesentlich von der vorherigen unterscheidet und von der ich in keinem anderen Land der alten oder neuen Welt auch nur die geringste Ähnlichkeit festgestellt habe. Der Kaiser hält einen Stock in seinen Händen, beide Enden parallel zum Horizont, während die Kandidaten einer nach dem anderen auf ihn zukommen und manchmal über den Stock springen, manchmal darunter kriechen, rückwärts und vorwärts, je nachdem, wie der Stock gehoben oder gesenkt wird. Manchmal hält der Kaiser ein Ende des Stockes, und sein erster Minister das andere, manchmal hat der Minister ihn ganz für sich allein. Wer seine Aufgabe mit der größten Gewandtheit erfüllt und beim Springen und Krabbeln am längsten durchhält, wird mit purpurfarbener Seide belohnt; die gelbe Seide erhält der Nächste, und die grüne der Dritte, die alle die Seidengürtel zweimal um die Taille tragen; und man sieht kaum eine bedeutende Persönlichkeit am Hof, die nicht mit einem dieser Gürtel geschmückt ist. Die Pferde der Armee und der königlichen Stallungen wurden täglich vor mir hergeführt und waren nicht mehr scheu, sondern kamen bis zu meinen Füßen, ohne zurückzuschrecken. Die Reiter sprangen über meine ausgestreckte Hand, während ich sie auf dem Boden hielt, und einer der königlichen Jäger sprang auf einem großen Reitpferd auf meinen Fuß, mit Schuh und allem, was wirklich ein erstaunlicher Sprung war. Ich hatte das Glück, den Kaiser eines Tages auf sehr ungewöhnliche Weise zu unterhalten. Ich wünschte mir, dass er mir mehrere zwei Fuß hohe Stöcke von der Stärke eines gewöhnlichen Rohrstockes bringen ließ; daraufhin befahl seine Majestät dem Leiter seiner Wälder, entsprechende Anweisungen zu geben; und am nächsten Morgen kamen sechs Holzfäller mit ebenso vielen Wagen, von je acht Pferden gezogen. Ich nahm neun von diesen Stöcken und stellte sie in einer quadratischen Form mit einer Seitenlänge von zwei Fuß und einem halben fest im Boden auf; dann nahm ich vier weitere Stöcke und band sie parallel an jeder Ecke etwa zwei Fuß über dem Boden zusammen; danach befestigte ich mein Taschentuch an den neun aufrecht stehenden Stöcken und spannte es auf allen Seiten, bis es so straff wie der Deckel einer Trommel war; und die vier parallel verlaufenden Stöcke, die etwa fünf Zoll höher als das Taschentuch waren, dienten als Leisten an beiden Seiten. Als ich mit meiner Arbeit fertig war, bat ich den Kaiser, eine Truppe seiner besten Pferde, insgesamt vierundzwanzig, kommen zu lassen und auf dieser Ebene zu üben. Seine Majestät stimmte dem Vorschlag zu, und ich nahm sie nacheinander in meine Hände, bereit, bestiegen und bewaffnet, mit den entsprechenden Offizieren, um sie zu trainieren. Sobald sie in Formation waren, teilten sie sich in zwei Gruppen, führten Scheingefechte durch, schossen stumpfe Pfeile ab, zogen ihre Schwerter, flohen und verfolgten sich, griffen an und zogen sich zurück und zeigten insgesamt die beste militärische Disziplin, die ich je gesehen habe. Die parallel verlaufenden Stöcke sicherten sie und ihre Pferde vor dem Herunterfallen von der Bühne ab, und der Kaiser war so begeistert, dass er diese Darbietung an mehreren Tagen wiederholen ließ und sogar mit großer Mühe die Kaiserin selbst dazu überredete, sich von mir in ihrem Lehnstuhl in nur zwei Metern Abstand von der Bühne halten zu lassen, von wo aus sie eine vollständige Sicht auf die gesamte Vorstellung hatte. Es war mein Glück, dass bei diesen Unterhaltungen kein schlimmer Unfall geschah. Nur einmal stieß ein feuriges Pferd, das einem der Hauptleute gehörte, mit seinem Huf gegen mein Taschentuch und schlug ein Loch hinein. Sein Fuß rutschte ab, woraufhin er sich und seinen Reiter umwarf. Aber ich half ihnen sofort auf, bedeckte das Loch mit einer Hand und setzte die Truppe mit der anderen Hand wieder ab, auf die gleiche Weise, Ich wusste bereits, was sie meinten, und war froh, diese Information zu erhalten. Anscheinend war ich nach dem Schiffbruch so verwirrt, dass mein Hut, den ich mit einer Schnur an meinem Kopf befestigt hatte, während ich ruderte und auch beim Schwimmen aufbehielt, nachdem ich an Land kam herunterfiel; die Schnur war offensichtlich durch irgendeinen Unfall gerissen, den ich nie bemerkt hatte, aber ich dachte, mein Hut wäre im Meer verloren gegangen. Ich bat seinen kaiserlichen Majestät, anzuordnen, dass er mir so bald wie möglich gebracht wird, und beschrieb ihm den Zweck und die Natur davon; und am nächsten Tag kamen die Fuhrleute damit an, allerdings nicht in sehr gutem Zustand; sie hatten zwei Löcher am Rand gebohrt, etwa eineinhalb Zoll von der Kante entfernt, und darin zwei Haken befestigt; diese Haken waren mit einer langen Schnur am Geschirr befestigt; und so wurde mein Hut über eine halbe englische Meile gezogen. Aber der Boden in diesem Land war äußerst glatt und eben, daher erlitt er weniger Schaden als ich erwartet hatte. Zwei Tage nach diesem Abenteuer hatte der Kaiser befohlen, dass der Teil der Armee, der in und um seine Metropole stationiert war, bereit sein sollte, und er hatte Lust, sich auf sehr eigentümliche Art zu amüsieren. Er wünschte, dass ich wie ein Koloss mit weit auseinanderstehenden Beinen dastehen sollte, so weit wie möglich. Er befahl dann seinem General (der ein alter, erfahrener Anführer war und ein großer Förderer von mir), die Truppen in geschlossener Ordnung aufzustellen und unter mir herumzumarschieren; die Fußsoldaten in Reihen zu je vierundzwanzig und die Reiter zu je sechzehn, begleitet von Trommeln, fliegenden Fahnen und vorgestreckten Piken. Diese Einheit bestand aus dreitausend Fußsoldaten und eintausend Reitern. Ich hatte so viele Bitten und Petitionen für meine Freiheit geschickt, dass Seine Majestät schließlich das Thema erwähnte, zunächst im Kabinett und dann im Vollrat, wo es nur von Skyrris Bolgolam, der sich ohne jegliche Provokation dazu entschlossen hatte, mein Todfeind zu sein, abgelehnt wurde. Aber der gesamte Rat stimmte dagegen, und der Kaiser bestätigte es. Dieser Minister war _Galbet_, oder Admiral des Reiches, sehr in der Gunst seines Herrschers und ein Fachmann in Angelegenheiten, aber von mürrischer und bitterer Natur. Letztendlich ließ er sich jedoch überreden, zu kooperieren; jedoch setzte er durch, dass die Artikel und Bedingungen, zu denen ich freigelassen werden sollte und auf die ich schwören müsste, von ihm selbst verfasst werden sollten. Diese Artikel wurden mir persönlich von Skyrris Bolgolam überbracht, begleitet von zwei Unterstaatssekretären und mehreren bedeutenden Personen. Nachdem sie vorgelesen worden waren, wurde von mir verlangt, ihnen zuzustimmen, zuerst auf die Art meines eigenen Landes und dann nach der Methode, die ihre Gesetze vorschrieben; das bedeutete, dass ich meinen rechten Fuß in meine linke Hand nehmen und den Mittelfinger meiner rechten Hand auf die Krone meines Kopfes und meinen Daumen auf die Spitze meines rechten Ohrs legen sollte. Aber weil der Leser vielleicht neugierig ist, einen Eindruck vom Stil und der Ausdrucksweise dieses Volkes zu bekommen und auch die Artikel zu erfahren, aufgrund derer ich meine Freiheit zurückerlangte, habe ich eine wörtliche Übersetzung des gesamten Dokuments angefertigt, so genau wie möglich, die ich hier der Öffentlichkeit anbiete. _Golbasto Momaren Evlame Gurdilo Shefin Mully Ully Gue_, der mächtigste Kaiser von Lilliput, Freude und Schrecken des Universums, dessen Herrschaft fünftausend _Blustrugs_ (etwa zwölf Meilen im Umfang) bis an die äußersten Enden der Erde reicht; König aller Könige, größer als die Söhne der Menschen; dessen Füße bis zum Zentrum drücken und dessen Kopf gegen die Sonne stößt; auf dessen Wink die Fürsten der Erde ihre Knie schlottern lassen; angenehm wie der Frühling, komfortabel wie der Sommer, fruchtbar wie der Herbst, furchterregend wie der Winter. Seine erhabene Majestät schlägt dem Menschenberg, der kürzlich in unseren himmlischen Gebieten angekommen ist, die folgenden Artikel vor, zu deren Einhaltung er durch ein feierliches Gelübde verpflichtet sein wird. Erstens. Der Menschberg darf unsere Gebiete nicht ohne unsere Erlaubnis unter unserem großen Siegel verlassen. Zweitens. Er darf ohne unseren ausdrücklichen Befehl nicht in unsere Metropole kommen, zu diesem Zeitpunkt müssen die Bewohner zwei Stunden im Voraus gewarnt werden, um sich in ihren Häusern aufzuhalten. Drittens. Der besagte Menschberg soll seine Spaziergänge auf unsere Hauptstraßen beschränken und sich nicht erlauben, auf einer Wiese oder einem Feld aus Getreide zu gehen oder sich hinzulegen. Viertens. Während er auf den genannten Straßen geht, soll er die größtmögliche Vorsicht walten lassen, um nicht auf die Körper unserer lieben Untertanen, ihre Pferde oder Wagen zu treten, und darf keine unserer Untertanen ohne deren Einwilligung in seine Hände nehmen. Fünftens. Wenn ein Kurier außergewöhnliche Eile erfordert, ist der Menschberg verpflichtet, den Kurier und das Pferd in seiner Tasche für eine sechstägige Reise pro Monat mitzunehmen und den Kurier sicher zurück zu unserer kaiserlichen Gegenwart zu bringen, falls erforderlich. Sechstens. Er wird unser Verbündeter gegen unsere Feinde auf der Insel Blefuscu sein und sein Äußerstes tun, um ihre Flotte zu zerstören, die jetzt im Begriff ist, uns anzugreifen. Siebtens. Der besagte Menschberg soll zu seinen Zeiten der Freizeit unseren Arbeitern behilflich sein, indem er hilft, gewisse große Steine zu heben, um die Mauer des Hauptparks und andere unserer königlichen Bauwerke zu bedecken. Achtens. Der besagte Menschberg soll in zwei Monaten eine genaue Vermessung des Umfangs unserer Gebiete vorlegen, indem er seine eigenen Schritte entlang der Küste zählt. Zu guter Letzt. Wenn der besagte Menschberg feierlich schwört, alle oben genannten Artikel einzuhalten, soll er eine tägliche Ration Fleisch und Trinken erhalten, die für die Unterstützung von 1724 unserer Untertanen ausreicht, mit freiem Zugang zu unserer königlichen Person und weiteren Zeichen unserer Gunst. Gegeben in unserem Palast in Belfaborac, am zwölften Tag des einundneunzigsten Mondes unserer Herrschaft. Ich schwor und unterzeichnete die Artikel mit großer Freude und Zufriedenheit, obwohl einige davon nicht so ehrenhaft waren, wie ich es mir gewünscht hätte; dies ging ausschließlich von der Boshaftigkeit von Skyrris Bolgolam, dem hohen Admiral, aus. Daraufhin wurden meine Ketten sofort geöffnet, und ich war in voller Freiheit. Der Kaiser persönlich nahm an der gesamten Zeremonie teil. Ich drückte meine Dankbarkeit aus, indem ich mich vor den Füßen seiner Majestät niederwarf, aber er befahl mir, aufzustehen; und nach vielen gnädigen Worten, die ich aus Bescheidenheit nicht wiederholen werde, fügte er hinzu, dass er hoffe, dass ich mich als nützlicher Diener erweisen werde und alle Gunstbezeugungen, die er mir bereits gewährt hatte oder auch in Zukunft gewähren möge, verdient hätte. Der Leser mag bitte beachten, dass in dem letzten Artikel für die Wiedererlangung meiner Freiheit der Kaiser vereinbart, mir eine Menge Fleisch und Trinken zu gewähren, die ausreicht, um 1724 Lilliputianer zu versorgen. Einige Zeit später fragte ich einen Freund am Hof, wie sie auf diese bestimmte Zahl gekommen waren, und er erklärte mir, dass die Mathematiker Seiner Majestät meine Körpergröße mit Hilfe eines Quadranten gemessen hätten und feststellten, dass meine Körpergröße ihre Körpergröße im Verhältnis von zwölf zu eins überstieg. Daraus schlossen sie, aufgrund der Ähnlichkeit unserer Körper, dass meiner mindestens 1724 ihrer enthalten müsste und daher genauso viel Nahrung benötigen würde wie für diese Anzahl von Lilliputianern notwendig war. Damit kann sich der Leser eine Vorstellung von der Raffinesse dieses Volkes sowie von der klugen und genauen Wirtschaft eines so großen Prinzen machen. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Der Autor wird ans Hof gerufen. Die Königin kauft ihn von seinem Meister, dem Bauern, und stellt ihn dem König vor. Er debattiert mit den großen Gelehrten des Königs. Ein Appartement am Hof wird für den Autor bereitgestellt. Er ist bei der Königin sehr beliebt. Er tritt für die Ehre seines eigenen Landes ein. Er hat Streit mit dem Zwerg der Königin. Nachdem er von dem wundersamen kleinen Wesen gehört hat, das im Königreich für Aufsehen sorgt, bittet die Königin ihn und seinen Meister, an den Hof zu kommen. Gulliver beeindruckt die Königin sofort mit Komplimenten und seinem allgemeinen Auftreten, also fragt sie den Bauern, ob er bereit wäre, Gulliver zu verkaufen. Der Bauer, der davon ausgeht, dass Gulliver in etwa einem Monat sterben wird, da er beim Auftreten so viel Gewicht verloren hat, nennt schnell einen Preis. Gulliver ist glücklich, am Hof zu leben und nicht mehr auftreten zu müssen. Er bittet lediglich darum, dass Glumdalclitch ebenfalls bleibt, um weiterhin für ihn zu sorgen. Anschließend bringt die Königin Gulliver in das Gemach des Königs. Der König glaubt anfangs, dass Gulliver eine Art mechanisches Wesen ist, aber er kommt schließlich zu der Überzeugung, dass Gulliver einfach hilflos ist. Gulliver versucht zu erklären, dass in seiner Heimat alles proportional zu ihm ist. Die Königin lässt ein kleines Appartement bauen und neue feine Kleidung für Gulliver schneidern. Sie genießt seine Gesellschaft sehr. Gulliver bemerkt oft, dass es ziemlich abstoßend ist, den Brobdingnagischen Menschen beim Essen zuzusehen oder ihnen zu nahe an ihre Gesichter zu kommen. Gulliver und der König verbringen viel Zeit damit, über Politik zu diskutieren. Gulliver erklärt, wie Dinge in seiner Heimat funktionieren. Der König lacht über die englische Politik, was Gulliver zunächst abstoßt. Doch bald erkennt Gulliver, dass seine Abenteuer ihn zu derselben Meinung neigen lassen; seine Perspektive hat sich zu ändern begonnen. Gulliver findet einen Feind in dem Zwerg der Königin, der anscheinend eifersüchtig auf die ganze Aufmerksamkeit ist, die Gulliver bekommt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Actus Quartus. Szene Eins. Tritt in das Parlament ein: Bullingbrooke, Aumerle, Northumberland, Percie, FitzWater, Surrey, Carlile, Abt von Westminster, Herauld, Offiziere und Bagot. Bullingbrooke: Ruf Bagot herbei. Jetzt Bagot, sprich frei aus, was du über den Tod des edlen Gloucesters weißt: Wer hat es zusammen mit dem König geplant und wer hat das blutige Werk seines frühzeitigen Endes vollbracht? Bagot: Dann lasst den Lord Aumerle vor mein Gesicht treten. Bull: Cousin, steh auf und schau dir diesen Mann an. Bagot: Mein Herr Aumerle, ich weiß, dass deine kühne Zunge es verachtet, zurückzunehmen, was sie einmal geäußert hat. In jener toten Zeit, als Gloucesters Tod geplant wurde, hörte ich dich sagen: "Ist mein Arm nicht lang genug, um vom ruhigen englischen Hof bis nach Calais zu reichen, zum Kopf meines Onkels?" Unter viel anderem Gerede hörte ich dich zu dieser Zeit sagen, dass du eher das Angebot von hunderttausend Kronen ablehnen würdest, als Bullingbrookes Rückkehr nach England. Und du hast hinzugefügt, wie gesegnet dieses Land wäre, wenn dein Cousin sterben würde. Aumerle: Fürsten und edle Herren, welche Antwort soll ich diesem niedrigen Mann geben? Soll ich meine schönen Sterne so sehr entehren, dass ich ihm Bestrafung auf gleicher Ebene geben werde? Entweder muss ich das tun oder mein Ansehen durch die Verleumdung seiner lästernden Lippen beschmutzen. Hier ist mein Handschuh, das päpstliche Siegel des Todes, das dich als Menschen im Höllenschlund markiert. Du lügst und wirst weiterhin behaupten, dass das, was du gesagt hast, falsch ist - selbst wenn es alles in dir viel zu niedrig ist, um die Klinge meines ritterlichen Schwerts zu beschmutzen. Bull: Bagot, lass es sein, du darfst es nicht aufnehmen. Aumerle: Abgesehen von einem Einzigen, wäre ich froh, wenn er der Beste in diesem Raum wäre, der mich so gereizt hat. FitzWater: Wenn dein Mut mitfühlt, hier ist mein Handschuh, Aumerle, um deinem gleichzutun. Mit dieser freundlichen Sonne als Zeuge, die mir zeigt, wo du stehst, habe ich dich sagen hören (und du hast es prahlerisch ausgesprochen), dass du die Ursache für den Tod des edlen Gloucesters warst. Wenn du es leugnest, lügst du zwanzigmal und ich werde deine Falschheit mit meinem Rapierpunkt in dein Herz zurückwerfen, wo sie geschmiedet wurde. Aumerle: Du traust dich nicht (Feigling), den Tag zu erleben. FitzWater: Nun, bei meiner Seele, ich wünschte, es wäre diese Stunde. Aumerle: Fitzwater, du bist für dieses Verhalten in der Hölle verdammt. Percie: Aumerle, du lügst: Seine Ehre ist genauso wahr in dieser Anklage, wie du völlig ungerecht bist. Und dass du so bist, hier werfe ich meinen Handschuh hin, um es dir bis zum äußersten Punkt des menschlichen Atmens zu beweisen. Nehme ihn an, wenn du dich traust. Aumerle: Und wenn ich es nicht tue, dann mögen meine Hände verfaulen und niemals wieder rachsüchtiges Stahl über den glänzenden Helm meines Feindes schwingen. Surrey: Mein Lord Fitzwater, ich erinnere mich gut an die Zeit, als Aumerle und du miteinander gesprochen habt. FitzWater: Mein Herr, es ist wahr, du warst damals anwesend und du kannst bezeugen, dass dies die Wahrheit ist. Surrey: So falsch wie der Himmel selbst wahr ist. FitzWater: Surrey, du lügst. Surrey: Ehrloses Kind! Diese Lüge wird so schwer auf meinem Schwert lasten, dass es Rache und Vergeltung bringen wird, bis du, der Lügner, und diese Lüge in der Erde so ruhig liegen wie der Schädel deines Vaters. Als Beweis dafür ist hier mein Ehrenpfand. Engagiere es für den Prozess, wenn du dich traust. FitzWater: Wie albern jagst du ein wildes Pferd an? Wenn ich es wage zu essen, zu trinken, zu atmen oder zu leben, dann wage ich es, Surrey in einer Wildnis zu treffen und auf ihn zu spucken, während ich sage, dass er lügt. Und er lügt, lügt und lügt. Hier ist mein Treueschwur, um dich meiner strengen Züchtigung zu unterwerfen. Wie ich vorhabe, in dieser neuen Welt zu gedeihen, so ist Aumerle schuldig meiner wahren Anklage. Außerdem hörte ich den verbannten Norfolk sagen, dass du, Aumerle, zwei deiner Männer geschickt hast, um den Edlen Herzog in Calais hinzurichten. Aumerle: Ein ehrlicher Christ möge mir einen Handschuh geben, dass Norfolk lügt. Hier werfe ich diesen nieder, falls er abberufen werden kann, um seine Ehre zu prüfen. Bull: Diese Meinungsverschiedenheiten sollen alle außerhalb des Prozesses bleiben, bis Norfolk abberufen wird. Abberufen wird er; und obwohl er mein Feind ist, wird ihm all sein Land und all seine Lehensrechte wiedergegeben, wenn er zurückkehrt. Gegen Aumerle werden wir seinen Prozess erzwingen. Carlile: Dieser ehrenhafte Tag wird nie kommen. Oft hat der verbannte Norfolk für Jesus Christus gekämpft, auf den glorreichen christlichen Schlachtfeldern das Banner des christlichen Kreuzes getragen und sich mit Kriegerschüssen zurückgezogen, nach Italien gereist und dort in Venedig seinen Körper in den angenehmen Boden des Landes gegeben und seine reine Seele seinem Hauptmann Christus übergeben, unter dessen Flagge er so lange gekämpft hatte. Bull: Warum, Bischof, ist Norfolk tot? Carlile: So sicher wie ich lebe, mein Herr. Bull: Süßer Friede, führe seine süße Seele in den Schoß des guten alten Abraham. Lords, eure Meinungsverschiedenheiten sollen bis zum Prozess ruhen. Ihr, Lords Apellanten, gewährt ihr den Wunsch des Volkes? Bull: Bringt Richard herbei, dass er öffentlich kapitulieren kann. So werden wir fortfahren, ohne Verdacht. York: Ich werde sein Begleiter sein. Ende. I I'm glad to see the sample you've provided! Here's my translation: Achtung, Herren, die ihr hier unter unserer Arrest steht, Besorgt euch Bürgen für eure Tage der Antwort: Wir sind euch wenig dankbar für eure Liebe, Und wenig haben wir von eurem helfenden Händen erwartet. Richard und York treten auf. Rich. Ach, warum werde ich zu einem König geschickt, Bevor ich die königlichen Gedanken abgeschüttelt habe, Mit denen ich regiert habe? Ich habe kaum gelernt, Mich einzuschmeicheln, zu schmeicheln, mich zu verbeugen, und auf die Knie zu fallen. Lasst mich eine Weile den Kummer verlassen, um mich Dieser Unterwerfung zu beugen. Doch ich erinnere mich gut An die Gunst dieser Männer: Waren sie nicht meine? Haben sie nicht manchmal "Sei gegrüßt!" zu mir gerufen? So wie Judas zu Christus sagte: Aber er fand in allen Zwölfen die Wahrheit, Ich fand sie in zwölftausend nicht. Gott schütze den König: Wird das niemand sagen? Amen? Bin ich sowohl Priester als auch Schreiber? Nun denn, Amen. Gott schütze den König, obwohl ich es nicht bin: Und doch Amen, wenn der Himmel denkt, dass er es ist. Wozu bin ich hierher geschickt worden, um welche Aufgabe zu erfüllen? York. Um das Amt deines eigenen freien Willens zu erfüllen, Das die müde Hoheit dich anbieten ließ: Die Aufgabe, deinen Zustand und deine Krone An Henry Bullingbrooke abzutreten. Rich. Gebt mir die Krone. Hier, Cousin, ergreife deine Krone: Hier, Cousin, auf dieser Seite meine Hand, auf jener deine. Nun ähnelt diese goldene Krone einem tiefen Brunnen, Der zwei Eimer bereithält, die einander füllen, Der leere tanzt immer in der Luft, Der andere unten, unsichtbar und voller Wasser: Dieser Eimer unten, und ich bin voller Tränen, Ich trinke meine Trauer, während du hoch aufsteigst. Bull. Ich dachte, du wärst bereit, abzudanken. Rich. Meine Krone mag ich abgeben, meine Trauer aber bleibt auf ewig bei mir: Du kannst meine Herrlichkeit und meinen Zustand abnehmen, Aber nicht meine Trauer; immer noch bin ich König davon. Bull. Du gibst mir einen Teil deiner Sorgen mit deiner Krone. Rich. Indem du dich aufrichtest, senkst du meine Sorgen nicht herab. Meine Sorge ist der Verlust der Sorgen, die durch alte Sorgen verursacht wurden, Deine Sorge ist der Gewinn von Sorgen, die durch neue Sorgen gewonnen wurden: Die Sorgen, die ich gebe, habe ich selbst, obwohl sie weggegeben wurden, Sie kümmern sich um die Krone, bleiben aber dennoch bei mir. Bull. Bist du bereit, die Krone abzugeben? Rich. Nein, nein: Denn ich darf nichts sein: Deshalb nein, nein, denn ich gebe sie dir auf. Hört jetzt zu, wie ich mich selbst entledigen werde. Ich nehme dieses schwere Gewicht von meinem Kopf, Und der unhandliche Zepter aus meiner Hand, Der Stolz königlicher Herrschaft aus meinem Herzen. Mit meinen eigenen Tränen wasche ich meinen Balsam hinweg, Mit meinen eigenen Händen gebe ich meine Krone fort, Mit meiner eigenen Zunge verneine ich meinen heiligen Zustand, Mit meinem eigenen Atem entbinde ich alle Treueschwüre; Aller Glanz und Majestät schwöre ich ab: Mein Besitztum, Miet- und Einkommensquelle gebe ich auf; Meine Taten, Dekrete und Statuten leugne ich: Gott verzeihe alle Gebrochenen Eide gegen mich, Gott erhalte alle ungebrochenen Gelübde, die dir gemacht wurden. Mach mich als nichts, mit nichts gebeugt, Und du als alles zufrieden, der alles erreicht hat. Mögest du lange auf Richards Thron sitzen, Und Richard bald in einem irdischen Grab liegen. Gott schütze König Heinrich, sagt der entthronte Richard, Und schenke ihm viele Jahre sonniger Tage. Was bleibt noch zu tun? North. Nichts weiter: außer dass du Diese Anschuldigungen und Verbrechen Liest, die von dir und deinen Gefolgsleuten Gegen den Staat und den Gewinn dieses Landes begangen wurden: Durch ihr Geständnis sollen die Seelen der Menschen Urteilen, dass du zu Recht abgesetzt wurdest. Rich. Muss ich das tun? Und muss ich meine verstrickten Narrheiten aufdecken? Gentleman Northumberland, Wenn deine Vergehen aufgezeichnet wären, Würde es dich nicht beschämen, in so guter Gesellschaft Eine Vorlesung darüber zu halten? Wenn du es wolltest, Würdest du dort einen abscheulichen Artikel finden, In dem die Entthronung eines Königs steht, Und das Brechen des starken Eids, Gekennzeichnet von einem Fleck, verdammt in Gottes Buch. Ach, alle, die mich ansehen, Während mein Elend mich selbst quält, Obwohl einige von euch ihre Hände wie Pilatus waschen, Mit einem äußeren Mitleid zeigen: Doch ihr Pilatusse Habt mich hier meinem bitteren Kreuz übergeben, Und Wasser kann eure Sünden nicht abwaschen. North. My Lord, beeilt euch, lest über diese Anklagen. Rich. Meine Augen sind voller Tränen, ich kann nicht sehen: Und doch machen sie mich nicht so blind vor salzigem Wasser, Dass ich hier keine Verräter sehe. Wenn ich meine Augen auf mich selbst richte, Finde ich mich selbst als Verräter mit den anderen: Denn ich habe hier meiner Seele zugestimmt, Die prächtige Gestalt eines Königs zu enthüllen; Glanz erniedrigt, Herrschaft versklavt, Stolze Majestät, ein Untertan; Staat, ein Bauer. North. My Lord... Rich. Nicht mein Lord von dir, du hochnäsiger Mann; Nein, nicht der Lord irgendeines Mannes: Ich habe weder Name noch Titel; Nein, nicht der Name, der mir bei der Taufe gegeben wurde, Aber es ist usurpiert: ach, der schwere Tag, An dem ich so viele Winter erlebt habe, Und nicht mehr weiß, welchen Namen ich mir selbst geben soll. Oh, wäre ich nur eine Schneekönig, eine Zuckerfigur, Die vor Bullingbrookes Sonne steht, Um mich in Wassertropfen aufzulösen. Guter König, großer König, und doch nicht wirklich gut, Und wenn mein Wort noch in England gilt, Lass einen Spiegel sofort hierher gebracht werden, Damit er mir mein Gesicht zeigt, Da es seiner Majestät beraubt ist. Bull. Geht, holt einen Spiegel herbei. North. Lest derweil diesen Bericht, bis der Spiegel kommt. Rich. Qual, du quälst mich, bevor ich zur Hölle komme. Bull. Dränge nicht weiter, mein Lord Northumberland. North. Die Bevölkerung wird dann nicht zufrieden sein. Rich. Sie werden zufrieden sein: Ich werde genug lesen, Wenn ich tatsächlich das Buch sehe, In dem all meine Sünden beschrieben sind und das bin ich selbst. Ein Mann mit einem Spiegel tritt auf. Gebt mir diesen Spiegel, darin werde ich lesen. Noch tiefer sind keine Falten? Hat der Kummer So viele Schläge auf mein Gesicht versetzt, Ohne tiefere Wunden zu hinterlassen? Oh, schmeichelnder Spiegel, Wie meine Anhänger im Glück, Betrügst du mich. War dieses Gesicht das Gesicht, Das jeden Tag, unter seinem eigenen Dach, Zehntausend Männer beherbergte? War das das Gesicht, Das wie die Sonne die Menschen bl Rich. Und werde ich? Bull. Du wirst. Rich. Dann erlaube mir zu gehen. Bull. Wohin? Rich. Wohin du willst, solange ich nicht mehr vor deinen Augen bin. Bull. Bringt ihn einige von euch zum Tower. Rich. Oh gut: Bringt ihn weg: Ihr seid alle Überbringer, Die sich so geschwind durch den Sturz eines wahren Königs erheben. Bull. Am nächsten Mittwoch setzen wir feierlich unsere Krönung fest: Lords, bereitet euch vor. Abgang. Abt. Ein betrübliches Schauspiel haben wir hier gesehen. Carl. Das Leid, das noch kommenden Kindern scharf wie Dornen in diesem Tag empfunden wird. Aum. Ihr heiligen Geistlichen, gibt es keine Verschwörung, um das Reich von diesem schädlichen Fleck zu befreien? Abt. Bevor ich hier frei meine Meinung sage, müsst ihr nicht nur das Sakrament nehmen, um meine Absichten zu begraben, sondern auch alles umsetzen, was ich planen werde. Ich sehe, eure Stirnen sind voller Unzufriedenheit, euer Herz voller Kummer und eure Augen voller Tränen. Kommt mit mir nach Hause zum Abendessen, ich werde eine Verschwörung aufdecken, die uns allen einen fröhlichen Tag bescheren wird. Abgang. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Szene eins: Bolingbroke, der nun England regiert, befiehlt Bagot, den eigentlichen Mörder des Herzogs von Gloucester preiszugeben. Bagot behauptet, es sei Aumerle gewesen, der daraufhin in Wut seinen Handschuh als Herausforderung zu einem Duell niederwirft. Bolingbroke verbietet Bagot, den Handschuh aufzuheben, aber Fitzwalter mischt sich ein und wirft seinen Handschuh ebenfalls nieder, diesmal als Herausforderung an Aumerle. Zwei weitere Männer werfen kurz darauf ebenfalls ihre Handschuhe nieder, sodass Bolingbroke gezwungen ist, einzugreifen und die Männer auffordert, ihre Herausforderungen bis zu einem festgesetzten Prozesstag zurückzustellen. York kommt hinzu und teilt Bolingbroke mit, dass Richard bereit ist, ihn zum Erben des Thrones zu ernennen. Sofort protestiert der Bischof von Carlisle und erklärt, dass ein Untertan des Königs nicht das Recht hat, anstelle des wahren Königs zu regieren. Northumberland verhaftet ihn wegen Hochverrats und führt Richard herbei, damit er sich ihnen ergibt. Richard kommt mit seiner Krone und seinem Zepter und bereitet sich auf die Abdankungszeremonie vor. Er sagt zu Bolingbroke: "Hier, Cousin, nimm die Krone. Auf dieser Seite meine Hand, auf jener Seite die deine". Bolingbroke fragt, ob Richard beabsichtige, die Krone niederzulegen oder nicht, aber Richard antwortet mehrdeutig: "Ja, nein; nein, ja; denn ich soll nichts sein; / Deshalb nein, nein, denn ich trete zurück zugunsten von dir. / Nun merke, wie ich mir selbst schade". Richard übergibt dann die Krone und sein Zepter und wünscht Bolingbroke eine lange Regentschaft. Northumberland händigt Richard ein Blatt mit Anklagen gegen ihn und seine Anhänger aus, das er vorlesen soll. Richard lehnt ab mit der Begründung, dass jeder Mann im Raum ein Verräter ist und daher schwerere Verbrechen begangen hat als die, die er vorlesen soll. Er fordert sie auf, ihm einen Spiegel zu bringen, den er nach dem Hineinsehen zerschmettert. Dann bittet er Bolingbroke um Erlaubnis, gehen zu dürfen, und wird in den Tower gebracht.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: SCENE II. Another street. Enter Othello, Iago, and Attendants with torches. IAGO. Though in the trade of war I have slain men, Yet do I hold it very stuff o' the conscience To do no contrived murther. I lack iniquity Sometimes to do me service. Nine or ten times I had thought to have yerk'd him here under the ribs. OTHELLO. 'Tis better as it is. IAGO. Nay, but he prated And spoke such scurvy and provoking terms Against your honor That, with the little godliness I have, I did full hard forbear him. But I pray you, sir, Are you fast married? Be assured of this, That the magnifico is much beloved, And hath in his effect a voice potential As double as the Duke's. He will divorce you, Or put upon you what restraint and grievance The law, with all his might to enforce it on, Will give him cable. OTHELLO. Let him do his spite. My services, which I have done the signiory, Shall out--tongue his complaints. 'Tis yet to know-- Which, when I know that boasting is an honor, I shall promulgate--I fetch my life and being From men of royal siege, and my demerits May speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune As this that I have reach'd. For know, Iago, But that I love the gentle Desdemona, I would not my unhoused free condition Put into circumscription and confine For the sea's worth. But, look! What lights come yond? IAGO. Those are the raised father and his friends. You were best go in. OTHELLO. Not I; I must be found. My parts, my title, and my perfect soul Shall manifest me rightly. Is it they? IAGO. By Janus, I think no. Enter Cassio and certain Officers with torches. OTHELLO. The servants of the Duke? And my lieutenant? The goodness of the night upon you, friends! What is the news? CASSIO. The Duke does greet you, general, And he requires your haste--post--haste appearance, Even on the instant. OTHELLO. What is the matter, think you? CASSIO. Something from Cyprus, as I may divine; It is a business of some heat. The galleys Have sent a dozen sequent messengers This very night at one another's heels; And many of the consuls, raised and met, Are at the Duke's already. You have been hotly call'd for, When, being not at your lodging to be found, The Senate hath sent about three several quests To search you out. OTHELLO. 'Tis well I am found by you. I will but spend a word here in the house And go with you. Exit. CASSIO. Ancient, what makes he here? IAGO. Faith, he tonight hath boarded a land carack; If it prove lawful prize, he's made forever. CASSIO. I do not understand. IAGO. He's married. CASSIO. To who? Re-enter Othello. IAGO. Marry, to--Come, captain, will you go? OTHELLO. Have with you. CASSIO. Here comes another troop to seek for you. IAGO. It is Brabantio. General, be advised, He comes to bad intent. Enter Brabantio, Roderigo, and Officers with torches and weapons. OTHELLO. Holla! Stand there! RODERIGO. Signior, it is the Moor. BRABANTIO. Down with him, thief! They draw on both sides. IAGO. You, Roderigo! Come, sir, I am for you. OTHELLO. Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them. Good signior, you shall more command with years Than with your weapons. BRABANTIO. O thou foul thief, where hast thou stow'd my daughter? Damn'd as thou art, thou hast enchanted her, For I'll refer me to all things of sense, If she in chains of magic were not bound, Whether a maid so tender, fair, and happy, So opposite to marriage that she shunn'd The wealthy, curled darlings of our nation, Would ever have, to incur a general mock, Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom Of such a thing as thou--to fear, not to delight. Judge me the world, if 'tis not gross in sense That thou hast practiced on her with foul charms, Abused her delicate youth with drugs or minerals That weaken motion. I'll have't disputed on; 'Tis probable, and palpable to thinking. I therefore apprehend and do attach thee For an abuser of the world, a practicer Of arts inhibited and out of warrant. Lay hold upon him. If he do resist, Subdue him at his peril. OTHELLO. Hold your hands, Both you of my inclining and the rest. Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it Without a prompter. Where will you that I go To answer this your charge? BRABANTIO. To prison, till fit time Of law and course of direct session Call thee to answer. OTHELLO. What if I do obey? How may the Duke be therewith satisfied, Whose messengers are here about my side, Upon some present business of the state To bring me to him? FIRST OFFICER. 'Tis true, most worthy signior; The Duke's in council, and your noble self, I am sure, is sent for. BRABANTIO. How? The Duke in council? In this time of the night? Bring him away; Mine's not an idle cause. The Duke himself, Or any of my brothers of the state, Cannot but feel this wrong as 'twere their own; For if such actions may have passage free, Bond slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be. Exeunt. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Iago warnt Othello, dass es möglicherweise einen rechtlichen Versuch geben könnte, die Ehe zu brechen, aber Othello kennt seinen militärischen Wert für Venedig und trifft mit Zuversicht den Herzog und die Senatoren. Cassio wurde losgeschickt, um ihn zu einem dringenden Treffen über die Situation in Zypern zu holen. Iago erzählt Cassio von Othellos Ehe. Brabantios Gruppe trifft ein; Brabantio bedroht Othello mit Gewalt und beschuldigt ihn, Zauberei angewendet zu haben, um Desdemona zu verführen. Seine Begründung ist, dass sie niemals freiwillig Othello geheiratet hätte. Brabantio ruft zur Verhaftung und Inhaftierung Othellos auf, gibt jedoch der Vorladung des Herzogs zu dem Notfalltreffen Vorrang.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: He did not leave for Cambridge the next day, as he had said he would. He deferred his departure a whole week, and during that time he made me feel what severe punishment a good yet stern, a conscientious yet implacable man can inflict on one who has offended him. Without one overt act of hostility, one upbraiding word, he contrived to impress me momently with the conviction that I was put beyond the pale of his favour. Not that St. John harboured a spirit of unchristian vindictiveness--not that he would have injured a hair of my head, if it had been fully in his power to do so. Both by nature and principle, he was superior to the mean gratification of vengeance: he had forgiven me for saying I scorned him and his love, but he had not forgotten the words; and as long as he and I lived he never would forget them. I saw by his look, when he turned to me, that they were always written on the air between me and him; whenever I spoke, they sounded in my voice to his ear, and their echo toned every answer he gave me. He did not abstain from conversing with me: he even called me as usual each morning to join him at his desk; and I fear the corrupt man within him had a pleasure unimparted to, and unshared by, the pure Christian, in evincing with what skill he could, while acting and speaking apparently just as usual, extract from every deed and every phrase the spirit of interest and approval which had formerly communicated a certain austere charm to his language and manner. To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a speaking instrument--nothing more. All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime. Especially I felt this when I made any attempt to propitiate him. No ruth met my ruth. _He_ experienced no suffering from estrangement--no yearning after reconciliation; and though, more than once, my fast falling tears blistered the page over which we both bent, they produced no more effect on him than if his heart had been really a matter of stone or metal. To his sisters, meantime, he was somewhat kinder than usual: as if afraid that mere coldness would not sufficiently convince me how completely I was banished and banned, he added the force of contrast; and this I am sure he did not by force, but on principle. The night before he left home, happening to see him walking in the garden about sunset, and remembering, as I looked at him, that this man, alienated as he now was, had once saved my life, and that we were near relations, I was moved to make a last attempt to regain his friendship. I went out and approached him as he stood leaning over the little gate; I spoke to the point at once. "St. John, I am unhappy because you are still angry with me. Let us be friends." "I hope we are friends," was the unmoved reply; while he still watched the rising of the moon, which he had been contemplating as I approached. "No, St. John, we are not friends as we were. You know that." "Are we not? That is wrong. For my part, I wish you no ill and all good." "I believe you, St. John; for I am sure you are incapable of wishing any one ill; but, as I am your kinswoman, I should desire somewhat more of affection than that sort of general philanthropy you extend to mere strangers." "Of course," he said. "Your wish is reasonable, and I am far from regarding you as a stranger." This, spoken in a cool, tranquil tone, was mortifying and baffling enough. Had I attended to the suggestions of pride and ire, I should immediately have left him; but something worked within me more strongly than those feelings could. I deeply venerated my cousin's talent and principle. His friendship was of value to me: to lose it tried me severely. I would not so soon relinquish the attempt to reconquer it. "Must we part in this way, St. John? And when you go to India, will you leave me so, without a kinder word than you have yet spoken?" He now turned quite from the moon and faced me. "When I go to India, Jane, will I leave you! What! do you not go to India?" "You said I could not unless I married you." "And you will not marry me! You adhere to that resolution?" Reader, do you know, as I do, what terror those cold people can put into the ice of their questions? How much of the fall of the avalanche is in their anger? of the breaking up of the frozen sea in their displeasure? "No. St. John, I will not marry you. I adhere to my resolution." The avalanche had shaken and slid a little forward, but it did not yet crash down. "Once more, why this refusal?" he asked. "Formerly," I answered, "because you did not love me; now, I reply, because you almost hate me. If I were to marry you, you would kill me. You are killing me now." His lips and cheeks turned white--quite white. "_I should kill you_--_I am killing you_? Your words are such as ought not to be used: violent, unfeminine, and untrue. They betray an unfortunate state of mind: they merit severe reproof: they would seem inexcusable, but that it is the duty of man to forgive his fellow even until seventy-and-seven times." I had finished the business now. While earnestly wishing to erase from his mind the trace of my former offence, I had stamped on that tenacious surface another and far deeper impression, I had burnt it in. "Now you will indeed hate me," I said. "It is useless to attempt to conciliate you: I see I have made an eternal enemy of you." A fresh wrong did these words inflict: the worse, because they touched on the truth. That bloodless lip quivered to a temporary spasm. I knew the steely ire I had whetted. I was heart-wrung. "You utterly misinterpret my words," I said, at once seizing his hand: "I have no intention to grieve or pain you--indeed, I have not." Most bitterly he smiled--most decidedly he withdrew his hand from mine. "And now you recall your promise, and will not go to India at all, I presume?" said he, after a considerable pause. "Yes, I will, as your assistant," I answered. A very long silence succeeded. What struggle there was in him between Nature and Grace in this interval, I cannot tell: only singular gleams scintillated in his eyes, and strange shadows passed over his face. He spoke at last. "I before proved to you the absurdity of a single woman of your age proposing to accompany abroad a single man of mine. I proved it to you in such terms as, I should have thought, would have prevented your ever again alluding to the plan. That you have done so, I regret--for your sake." I interrupted him. Anything like a tangible reproach gave me courage at once. "Keep to common sense, St. John: you are verging on nonsense. You pretend to be shocked by what I have said. You are not really shocked: for, with your superior mind, you cannot be either so dull or so conceited as to misunderstand my meaning. I say again, I will be your curate, if you like, but never your wife." Again he turned lividly pale; but, as before, controlled his passion perfectly. He answered emphatically but calmly-- "A female curate, who is not my wife, would never suit me. With me, then, it seems, you cannot go: but if you are sincere in your offer, I will, while in town, speak to a married missionary, whose wife needs a coadjutor. Your own fortune will make you independent of the Society's aid; and thus you may still be spared the dishonour of breaking your promise and deserting the band you engaged to join." Now I never had, as the reader knows, either given any formal promise or entered into any engagement; and this language was all much too hard and much too despotic for the occasion. I replied-- "There is no dishonour, no breach of promise, no desertion in the case. I am not under the slightest obligation to go to India, especially with strangers. With you I would have ventured much, because I admire, confide in, and, as a sister, I love you; but I am convinced that, go when and with whom I would, I should not live long in that climate." "Ah! you are afraid of yourself," he said, curling his lip. "I am. God did not give me my life to throw away; and to do as you wish me would, I begin to think, be almost equivalent to committing suicide. Moreover, before I definitively resolve on quitting England, I will know for certain whether I cannot be of greater use by remaining in it than by leaving it." "What do you mean?" "It would be fruitless to attempt to explain; but there is a point on which I have long endured painful doubt, and I can go nowhere till by some means that doubt is removed." "I know where your heart turns and to what it clings. The interest you cherish is lawless and unconsecrated. Long since you ought to have crushed it: now you should blush to allude to it. You think of Mr. Rochester?" It was true. I confessed it by silence. "Are you going to seek Mr. Rochester?" "I must find out what is become of him." "It remains for me, then," he said, "to remember you in my prayers, and to entreat God for you, in all earnestness, that you may not indeed become a castaway. I had thought I recognised in you one of the chosen. But God sees not as man sees: _His_ will be done--" He opened the gate, passed through it, and strayed away down the glen. He was soon out of sight. On re-entering the parlour, I found Diana standing at the window, looking very thoughtful. Diana was a great deal taller than I: she put her hand on my shoulder, and, stooping, examined my face. "Jane," she said, "you are always agitated and pale now. I am sure there is something the matter. Tell me what business St. John and you have on hands. I have watched you this half hour from the window; you must forgive my being such a spy, but for a long time I have fancied I hardly know what. St. John is a strange being--" She paused--I did not speak: soon she resumed-- "That brother of mine cherishes peculiar views of some sort respecting you, I am sure: he has long distinguished you by a notice and interest he never showed to any one else--to what end? I wish he loved you--does he, Jane?" I put her cool hand to my hot forehead; "No, Die, not one whit." "Then why does he follow you so with his eyes, and get you so frequently alone with him, and keep you so continually at his side? Mary and I had both concluded he wished you to marry him." "He does--he has asked me to be his wife." Diana clapped her hands. "That is just what we hoped and thought! And you will marry him, Jane, won't you? And then he will stay in England." "Far from that, Diana; his sole idea in proposing to me is to procure a fitting fellow-labourer in his Indian toils." "What! He wishes you to go to India?" "Yes." "Madness!" she exclaimed. "You would not live three months there, I am certain. You never shall go: you have not consented, have you, Jane?" "I have refused to marry him--" "And have consequently displeased him?" she suggested. "Deeply: he will never forgive me, I fear: yet I offered to accompany him as his sister." "It was frantic folly to do so, Jane. Think of the task you undertook--one of incessant fatigue, where fatigue kills even the strong, and you are weak. St. John--you know him--would urge you to impossibilities: with him there would be no permission to rest during the hot hours; and unfortunately, I have noticed, whatever he exacts, you force yourself to perform. I am astonished you found courage to refuse his hand. You do not love him then, Jane?" "Not as a husband." "Yet he is a handsome fellow." "And I am so plain, you see, Die. We should never suit." "Plain! You? Not at all. You are much too pretty, as well as too good, to be grilled alive in Calcutta." And again she earnestly conjured me to give up all thoughts of going out with her brother. "I must indeed," I said; "for when just now I repeated the offer of serving him for a deacon, he expressed himself shocked at my want of decency. He seemed to think I had committed an impropriety in proposing to accompany him unmarried: as if I had not from the first hoped to find in him a brother, and habitually regarded him as such." "What makes you say he does not love you, Jane?" "You should hear himself on the subject. He has again and again explained that it is not himself, but his office he wishes to mate. He has told me I am formed for labour--not for love: which is true, no doubt. But, in my opinion, if I am not formed for love, it follows that I am not formed for marriage. Would it not be strange, Die, to be chained for life to a man who regarded one but as a useful tool?" "Insupportable--unnatural--out of the question!" "And then," I continued, "though I have only sisterly affection for him now, yet, if forced to be his wife, I can imagine the possibility of conceiving an inevitable, strange, torturing kind of love for him, because he is so talented; and there is often a certain heroic grandeur in his look, manner, and conversation. In that case, my lot would become unspeakably wretched. He would not want me to love him; and if I showed the feeling, he would make me sensible that it was a superfluity, unrequired by him, unbecoming in me. I know he would." "And yet St. John is a good man," said Diana. "He is a good and a great man; but he forgets, pitilessly, the feelings and claims of little people, in pursuing his own large views. It is better, therefore, for the insignificant to keep out of his way, lest, in his progress, he should trample them down. Here he comes! I will leave you, Diana." And I hastened upstairs as I saw him entering the garden. But I was forced to meet him again at supper. During that meal he appeared just as composed as usual. I had thought he would hardly speak to me, and I was certain he had given up the pursuit of his matrimonial scheme: the sequel showed I was mistaken on both points. He addressed me precisely in his ordinary manner, or what had, of late, been his ordinary manner--one scrupulously polite. No doubt he had invoked the help of the Holy Spirit to subdue the anger I had roused in him, and now believed he had forgiven me once more. For the evening reading before prayers, he selected the twenty-first chapter of Revelation. It was at all times pleasant to listen while from his lips fell the words of the Bible: never did his fine voice sound at once so sweet and full--never did his manner become so impressive in its noble simplicity, as when he delivered the oracles of God: and to-night that voice took a more solemn tone--that manner a more thrilling meaning--as he sat in the midst of his household circle (the May moon shining in through the uncurtained window, and rendering almost unnecessary the light of the candle on the table): as he sat there, bending over the great old Bible, and described from its page the vision of the new heaven and the new earth--told how God would come to dwell with men, how He would wipe away all tears from their eyes, and promised that there should be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, nor any more pain, because the former things were passed away. The succeeding words thrilled me strangely as he spoke them: especially as I felt, by the slight, indescribable alteration in sound, that in uttering them, his eye had turned on me. "He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my son. But," was slowly, distinctly read, "the fearful, the unbelieving, &c., shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone, which is the second death." Henceforward, I knew what fate St. John feared for me. A calm, subdued triumph, blent with a longing earnestness, marked his enunciation of the last glorious verses of that chapter. The reader believed his name was already written in the Lamb's book of life, and he yearned after the hour which should admit him to the city to which the kings of the earth bring their glory and honour; which has no need of sun or moon to shine in it, because the glory of God lightens it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. In the prayer following the chapter, all his energy gathered--all his stern zeal woke: he was in deep earnest, wrestling with God, and resolved on a conquest. He supplicated strength for the weak-hearted; guidance for wanderers from the fold: a return, even at the eleventh hour, for those whom the temptations of the world and the flesh were luring from the narrow path. He asked, he urged, he claimed the boon of a brand snatched from the burning. Earnestness is ever deeply solemn: first, as I listened to that prayer, I wondered at his; then, when it continued and rose, I was touched by it, and at last awed. He felt the greatness and goodness of his purpose so sincerely: others who heard him plead for it, could not but feel it too. The prayer over, we took leave of him: he was to go at a very early hour in the morning. Diana and Mary having kissed him, left the room--in compliance, I think, with a whispered hint from him: I tendered my hand, and wished him a pleasant journey. "Thank you, Jane. As I said, I shall return from Cambridge in a fortnight: that space, then, is yet left you for reflection. If I listened to human pride, I should say no more to you of marriage with me; but I listen to my duty, and keep steadily in view my first aim--to do all things to the glory of God. My Master was long-suffering: so will I be. I cannot give you up to perdition as a vessel of wrath: repent--resolve, while there is yet time. Remember, we are bid to work while it is day--warned that 'the night cometh when no man shall work.' Remember the fate of Dives, who had his good things in this life. God give you strength to choose that better part which shall not be taken from you!" He laid his hand on my head as he uttered the last words. He had spoken earnestly, mildly: his look was not, indeed, that of a lover beholding his mistress, but it was that of a pastor recalling his wandering sheep--or better, of a guardian angel watching the soul for which he is responsible. All men of talent, whether they be men of feeling or not; whether they be zealots, or aspirants, or despots--provided only they be sincere--have their sublime moments, when they subdue and rule. I felt veneration for St. John--veneration so strong that its impetus thrust me at once to the point I had so long shunned. I was tempted to cease struggling with him--to rush down the torrent of his will into the gulf of his existence, and there lose my own. I was almost as hard beset by him now as I had been once before, in a different way, by another. I was a fool both times. To have yielded then would have been an error of principle; to have yielded now would have been an error of judgment. So I think at this hour, when I look back to the crisis through the quiet medium of time: I was unconscious of folly at the instant. I stood motionless under my hierophant's touch. My refusals were forgotten--my fears overcome--my wrestlings paralysed. The Impossible--_i.e._, my marriage with St. John--was fast becoming the Possible. All was changing utterly with a sudden sweep. Religion called--Angels beckoned--God commanded--life rolled together like a scroll--death's gates opening, showed eternity beyond: it seemed, that for safety and bliss there, all here might be sacrificed in a second. The dim room was full of visions. "Could you decide now?" asked the missionary. The inquiry was put in gentle tones: he drew me to him as gently. Oh, that gentleness! how far more potent is it than force! I could resist St. John's wrath: I grew pliant as a reed under his kindness. Yet I knew all the time, if I yielded now, I should not the less be made to repent, some day, of my former rebellion. His nature was not changed by one hour of solemn prayer: it was only elevated. "I could decide if I were but certain," I answered: "were I but convinced that it is God's will I should marry you, I could vow to marry you here and now--come afterwards what would!" "My prayers are heard!" ejaculated St. John. He pressed his hand firmer on my head, as if he claimed me: he surrounded me with his arm, _almost_ as if he loved me (I say _almost_--I knew the difference--for I had felt what it was to be loved; but, like him, I had now put love out of the question, and thought only of duty). I contended with my inward dimness of vision, before which clouds yet rolled. I sincerely, deeply, fervently longed to do what was right; and only that. "Show me, show me the path!" I entreated of Heaven. I was excited more than I had ever been; and whether what followed was the effect of excitement the reader shall judge. All the house was still; for I believe all, except St. John and myself, were now retired to rest. The one candle was dying out: the room was full of moonlight. My heart beat fast and thick: I heard its throb. Suddenly it stood still to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it through, and passed at once to my head and extremities. The feeling was not like an electric shock, but it was quite as sharp, as strange, as startling: it acted on my senses as if their utmost activity hitherto had been but torpor, from which they were now summoned and forced to wake. They rose expectant: eye and ear waited while the flesh quivered on my bones. "What have you heard? What do you see?" asked St. John. I saw nothing, but I heard a voice somewhere cry-- "Jane! Jane! Jane!"--nothing more. "O God! what is it?" I gasped. I might have said, "Where is it?" for it did not seem in the room--nor in the house--nor in the garden; it did not come out of the air--nor from under the earth--nor from overhead. I had heard it--where, or whence, for ever impossible to know! And it was the voice of a human being--a known, loved, well-remembered voice--that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe, wildly, eerily, urgently. "I am coming!" I cried. "Wait for me! Oh, I will come!" I flew to the door and looked into the passage: it was dark. I ran out into the garden: it was void. "Where are you?" I exclaimed. The hills beyond Marsh Glen sent the answer faintly back--"Where are you?" I listened. The wind sighed low in the firs: all was moorland loneliness and midnight hush. "Down superstition!" I commented, as that spectre rose up black by the black yew at the gate. "This is not thy deception, nor thy witchcraft: it is the work of nature. She was roused, and did--no miracle--but her best." I broke from St. John, who had followed, and would have detained me. It was _my_ time to assume ascendency. _My_ powers were in play and in force. I told him to forbear question or remark; I desired him to leave me: I must and would be alone. He obeyed at once. Where there is energy to command well enough, obedience never fails. I mounted to my chamber; locked myself in; fell on my knees; and prayed in my way--a different way to St. John's, but effective in its own fashion. I seemed to penetrate very near a Mighty Spirit; and my soul rushed out in gratitude at His feet. I rose from the thanksgiving--took a resolve--and lay down, unscared, enlightened--eager but for the daylight. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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St. John bleibt nicht wie angekündigt am nächsten Tag nach Cambridge. Er bleibt eine weitere Woche. Während dieser Zeit bemerkt Jane, dass er nicht alles vergessen hat, was sie zu ihm gesagt hat. Am Abend vor seiner Abreise nach Cambridge bittet Jane ihn, mit ihr befreundet zu sein. Er sagt, dass er dachte, sie seien bereits Freunde, aber er ist nicht gerührt. Als Jane fragt, ob er sie so allein nach Indien gehen lassen will, ist er überrascht und fragt dann, ob sie nicht mit ihm gehen möchte. Sie sagt ihm erneut, dass sie ihn nicht heiraten wird, und als er erneut nach einem Grund fragt, sagt sie, dass er sie fast hasst und sie töten würde, wenn sie heiraten würden. Sie versucht zu erklären, was sie meint, aber er versteht es nicht. Er versucht weiterhin, sie davon zu überzeugen, ihn zu heiraten und mit ihm zu gehen, aber sie lehnt ab und sagt, dass es Dinge in England gibt, die sie herausfinden muss. Er versteht, dass sie von Rochester spricht, und sagt, dass er für sie beten wird, damit sie nicht abtrifft. Diana hat sie beim Reden gesehen und fragt Jane, ob St. John in sie verliebt ist. Jane sagt ihr Nein, aber dass er sie gefragt hat, ob sie ihn heiraten und ihn auf seiner Reise begleiten möchte. Diana ist einverstanden, dass es undenkbar ist, einen Mann zu heiraten, der sie nur als nützliches Werkzeug betrachtet. Nach dem Abendessen verabschieden sie sich und St. John sagt Jane, dass sie während seiner Abwesenheit nachdenken sollte. Er legt seine Hand auf Janes Kopf und in diesem Moment empfindet sie so eine Verehrung für ihn, dass sie ihm fast nachgibt und ihre Ablehnung vergisst. Aber genau in dem Moment, in dem sie es ihm vielleicht sagen würde, schlägt ihr Herz schneller und sie bekommt ein seltsames Gefühl. Plötzlich hört sie jemanden "Jane. Jane. Jane." rufen. Sie erkennt die Stimme und ruft "Ich komme. Wo bist du?" Natürlich findet sie nicht Rochester, sagt aber St. John Lebewohl und geht in ihr Zimmer.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack from the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no dread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at neither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for her at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. They determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object from almost every opening in Bath. "I never look at it," said Catherine, as they walked along the side of the river, "without thinking of the south of France." "You have been abroad then?" said Henry, a little surprised. "Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?" "Why not?" "Because they are not clever enough for you--gentlemen read better books." "The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho, when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember finishing it in two days--my hair standing on end the whole time." "Yes," added Miss Tilney, "and I remember that you undertook to read it aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it." "Thank you, Eleanor--a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland, the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion." "I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly." "It is amazingly; it may well suggest amazement if they do--for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of 'Have you read this?' and 'Have you read that?' I shall soon leave you as far behind me as--what shall I say?--I want an appropriate simile.--as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!" "Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?" "The nicest--by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding." "Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you. The word 'nicest,' as you used it, did not suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way." "I am sure," cried Catherine, "I did not mean to say anything wrong; but it is a nice book, and why should not I call it so?" "Very true," said Henry, "and this is a very nice day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement--people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word." "While, in fact," cried his sister, "it ought only to be applied to you, without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come, Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms we like best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind of reading?" "To say the truth, I do not much like any other." "Indeed!" "That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and do not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be interested in. Can you?" "Yes, I am fond of history." "I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all--it is very tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it must be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes' mouths, their thoughts and designs--the chief of all this must be invention, and invention is what delights me in other books." "Historians, you think," said Miss Tilney, "are not happy in their flights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I am fond of history--and am very well contented to take the false with the true. In the principal facts they have sources of intelligence in former histories and records, which may be as much depended on, I conclude, as anything that does not actually pass under one's own observation; and as for the little embellishments you speak of, they are embellishments, and I like them as such. If a speech be well drawn up, I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made--and probably with much greater, if the production of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than if the genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great." "You are fond of history! And so are Mr. Allen and my father; and I have two brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within my small circle of friends is remarkable! At this rate, I shall not pity the writers of history any longer. If people like to read their books, it is all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling great volumes, which, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look into, to be labouring only for the torment of little boys and girls, always struck me as a hard fate; and though I know it is all very right and necessary, I have often wondered at the person's courage that could sit down on purpose to do it." "That little boys and girls should be tormented," said Henry, "is what no one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can deny; but in behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must observe that they might well be offended at being supposed to have no higher aim, and that by their method and style, they are perfectly well qualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature time of life. I use the verb 'to torment,' as I observed to be your own method, instead of 'to instruct,' supposing them to be now admitted as synonymous." "You think me foolish to call instruction a torment, but if you had been as much used as myself to hear poor little children first learning their letters and then learning to spell, if you had ever seen how stupid they can be for a whole morning together, and how tired my poor mother is at the end of it, as I am in the habit of seeing almost every day of my life at home, you would allow that 'to torment' and 'to instruct' might sometimes be used as synonymous words." "Very probably. But historians are not accountable for the difficulty of learning to read; and even you yourself, who do not altogether seem particularly friendly to very severe, very intense application, may perhaps be brought to acknowledge that it is very well worth-while to be tormented for two or three years of one's life, for the sake of being able to read all the rest of it. Consider--if reading had not been taught, Mrs. Radcliffe would have written in vain--or perhaps might not have written at all." Catherine assented--and a very warm panegyric from her on that lady's merits closed the subject. The Tilneys were soon engaged in another on which she had nothing to say. They were viewing the country with the eyes of persons accustomed to drawing, and decided on its capability of being formed into pictures, with all the eagerness of real taste. Here Catherine was quite lost. She knew nothing of drawing--nothing of taste: and she listened to them with an attention which brought her little profit, for they talked in phrases which conveyed scarcely any idea to her. The little which she could understand, however, appeared to contradict the very few notions she had entertained on the matter before. It seemed as if a good view were no longer to be taken from the top of an high hill, and that a clear blue sky was no longer a proof of a fine day. She was heartily ashamed of her ignorance. A misplaced shame. Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant. To come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would always wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can. The advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been already set forth by the capital pen of a sister author; and to her treatment of the subject I will only add, in justice to men, that though to the larger and more trifling part of the sex, imbecility in females is a great enhancement of their personal charms, there is a portion of them too reasonable and too well informed themselves to desire anything more in woman than ignorance. But Catherine did not know her own advantages--did not know that a good-looking girl, with an affectionate heart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a clever young man, unless circumstances are particularly untoward. In the present instance, she confessed and lamented her want of knowledge, declared that she would give anything in the world to be able to draw; and a lecture on the picturesque immediately followed, in which his instructions were so clear that she soon began to see beauty in everything admired by him, and her attention was so earnest that he became perfectly satisfied of her having a great deal of natural taste. He talked of foregrounds, distances, and second distances--side-screens and perspectives--lights and shades; and Catherine was so hopeful a scholar that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily rejected the whole city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a landscape. Delighted with her progress, and fearful of wearying her with too much wisdom at once, Henry suffered the subject to decline, and by an easy transition from a piece of rocky fragment and the withered oak which he had placed near its summit, to oaks in general, to forests, the enclosure of them, waste lands, crown lands and government, he shortly found himself arrived at politics; and from politics, it was an easy step to silence. The general pause which succeeded his short disquisition on the state of the nation was put an end to by Catherine, who, in rather a solemn tone of voice, uttered these words, "I have heard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London." Miss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and hastily replied, "Indeed! And of what nature?" "That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only heard that it is to be more horrible than anything we have met with yet." "Good heaven! Where could you hear of such a thing?" "A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter from London yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect murder and everything of the kind." "You speak with astonishing composure! But I hope your friend's accounts have been exaggerated; and if such a design is known beforehand, proper measures will undoubtedly be taken by government to prevent its coming to effect." "Government," said Henry, endeavouring not to smile, "neither desires nor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and government cares not how much." The ladies stared. He laughed, and added, "Come, shall I make you understand each other, or leave you to puzzle out an explanation as you can? No--I will be noble. I will prove myself a man, no less by the generosity of my soul than the clearness of my head. I have no patience with such of my sex as disdain to let themselves sometimes down to the comprehension of yours. Perhaps the abilities of women are neither sound nor acute--neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they may want observation, discernment, judgment, fire, genius, and wit." "Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have the goodness to satisfy me as to this dreadful riot." "Riot! What riot?" "My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain. The confusion there is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking of nothing more dreadful than a new publication which is shortly to come out, in three duodecimo volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with a frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern--do you understand? And you, Miss Morland--my stupid sister has mistaken all your clearest expressions. You talked of expected horrors in London--and instead of instantly conceiving, as any rational creature would have done, that such words could relate only to a circulating library, she immediately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand men assembling in St. George's Fields, the Bank attacked, the Tower threatened, the streets of London flowing with blood, a detachment of the Twelfth Light Dragoons (the hopes of the nation) called up from Northampton to quell the insurgents, and the gallant Captain Frederick Tilney, in the moment of charging at the head of his troop, knocked off his horse by a brickbat from an upper window. Forgive her stupidity. The fears of the sister have added to the weakness of the woman; but she is by no means a simpleton in general." Catherine looked grave. "And now, Henry," said Miss Tilney, "that you have made us understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland understand yourself--unless you mean to have her think you intolerably rude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in general. Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways." "I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted with them." "No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present." "What am I to do?" "You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely before her. Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of women." "Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding of all the women in the world--especially of those--whoever they may be--with whom I happen to be in company." "That is not enough. Be more serious." "Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of the understanding of women than I do. In my opinion, nature has given them so much that they never find it necessary to use more than half." "We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is not in a sober mood. But I do assure you that he must be entirely misunderstood, if he can ever appear to say an unjust thing of any woman at all, or an unkind one of me." It was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney could never be wrong. His manner might sometimes surprise, but his meaning must always be just: and what she did not understand, she was almost as ready to admire, as what she did. The whole walk was delightful, and though it ended too soon, its conclusion was delightful too; her friends attended her into the house, and Miss Tilney, before they parted, addressing herself with respectful form, as much to Mrs. Allen as to Catherine, petitioned for the pleasure of her company to dinner on the day after the next. No difficulty was made on Mrs. Allen's side, and the only difficulty on Catherine's was in concealing the excess of her pleasure. The morning had passed away so charmingly as to banish all her friendship and natural affection, for no thought of Isabella or James had crossed her during their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, she became amiable again, but she was amiable for some time to little effect; Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give that could relieve her anxiety; she had heard nothing of any of them. Towards the end of the morning, however, Catherine, having occasion for some indispensable yard of ribbon which must be bought without a moment's delay, walked out into the town, and in Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe as she was loitering towards Edgar's Buildings between two of the sweetest girls in the world, who had been her dear friends all the morning. From her, she soon learned that the party to Clifton had taken place. "They set off at eight this morning," said Miss Anne, "and I am sure I do not envy them their drive. I think you and I are very well off to be out of the scrape. It must be the dullest thing in the world, for there is not a soul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went with your brother, and John drove Maria." Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this part of the arrangement. "Oh! yes," rejoined the other, "Maria is gone. She was quite wild to go. She thought it would be something very fine. I cannot say I admire her taste; and for my part, I was determined from the first not to go, if they pressed me ever so much." Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help answering, "I wish you could have gone too. It is a pity you could not all go." "Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. Indeed, I would not have gone on any account. I was saying so to Emily and Sophia when you overtook us." Catherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her, she bade her adieu without much uneasiness, and returned home, pleased that the party had not been prevented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily wishing that it might be too pleasant to allow either James or Isabella to resent her resistance any longer. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Der Morgen bricht an, ohne neue Einladungen von James, Isabella und John. Catherine geht mit Henry und Eleanor spazieren. Catherine, schüchtern nach ihrer Begegnung mit John, erwähnt Romane, aber legt nahe, dass Henry sie nicht lesen könnte, da sie für Herren wie ihn nicht "klug genug" seien. Henry antwortet, dass diejenigen, die keinen Spaß an einem Roman haben, "unglaublich dumm" sein müssen. Henry erlaubt sich eine kleine Eitelkeit, indem er erwähnt, dass er "Hunderte und Aberhunderte" von Romanen gelesen hat. Henry bemängelt Catherines Verwendung des Wortes "nett" und offenbart sich dabei als sprachlicher Perfektionist, woraufhin Eleanor ihn spielerisch tadelnd anspricht. Catherine bemerkt, wie sehr sie Romane gegenüber Geschichtsbüchern bevorzugt, und Henry versucht, Historiker und den Wert der von ihnen verfassten Bücher zu verteidigen. Die Tilneys beginnen dann, die Landschaft in Bezug auf Zeichnungen zu besprechen, und Catherine findet sich bald außerhalb ihres Elementes wieder. Sie kennt keine der künstlerischen Begriffe und ist ein wenig beschämt über ihre Unwissenheit. Der Erzähler verteidigt Catherine, indem er darauf hinweist, dass viele Männer zu gut erzogenen Frauen mit einem unwissenden Verstand hingezogen sind, wenn sie lernbegierig sind. Nachdem Catherine viele Fragen stellt, beginnt Henry ihr beizubringen, die Welt mit den Augen eines Künstlers zu sehen, und ist zufrieden, dass sie "ziemlich viel natürlichen Geschmack" hat. Catherine bemerkt, dass bald etwas "Schockierendes in London bekannt werden wird", und bezieht sich dabei auf einen neuen Schauerroman; aber Eleanor denkt fälschlicherweise, dass Catherine etwas Ähnliches wie einen Aufstand oder eine Verschwörung des Krieges meint. Henry macht sich lustig über die Intelligenz von Frauen. Eleanor versichert Catherine, dass er nicht wirklich so denkt, aber Henry bleibt spielerisch trotzig. Bei der Rückkehr nach Bath erfährt Catherine von einer der jüngeren Schwestern von Isabella, dass James, Isabella und John trotzdem nach Clifton gegangen sind, mit einer der anderen Thorpe-Schwestern.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Szene vier. Betritt Lear, Kent und den Narren. Kent. Hier ist der Ort, mein Lord, bitte treten Sie ein. Die Tyrannei der offenen Nacht ist zu rau, Für die Natur zu ertragen. Sturm immer noch. Lear. Lass mich allein. Kent. Guter Herr, treten Sie hier ein. Lear. Willst du mein Herz brechen? Kent. Ich würde lieber meins brechen, Guter Herr, treten Sie ein. Lear. Du denkst, dass dieser streitlustige Sturm Uns bis auf die Haut eindringt: Für dich mag das so sein, Aber wo die größere Krankheit verankert ist, Wird die kleinere kaum gespürt. Du würdest einem Bären ausweichen, Aber wenn deine Flucht zum brüllenden Meer führen würde, Würdest du dem Bären im Maul begegnen, wenn der Geist frei ist, Der Körper empfindlich: Der Sturm in meinem Geist Nimmt mir alle anderen Empfindungen außer demjenigen, Was dort schlägt, und ingratiale Undankbarkeit, Ist es nicht so, als würde dieser Mund diese Hand zerreißen, Weil sie Nahrung zum Mund führt? Aber ich werde es zu Hause bestrafen; Nein, ich werde nicht mehr weinen; in so einer Nacht, Mich aussperren? Gieße auf, ich werde es ertragen: In so einer Nacht wie dieser? Oh Regan, Gonerill, Euer alter freundlicher Vater, dessen großzügiges Herz alles gab, Oh, auf diese Weise liegt der Wahnsinn, lass mich das meiden: Nichts mehr davon. Kent. Guter Herr, treten Sie hier ein. Lear. Bitte geh selbst hinein, suche dein eigenes Wohl, Dieser Sturm lässt mir keine Ruhe, um über Dinge nachzudenken, Die mir mehr schaden würden, aber ich werde hineingehen, Dein Junge geht zuerst. Du obdachlose Armut, Betrete. Na los, geh rein; ich werde beten und dann schlafen. Arme, nackte Elende, wo auch immer ihr seid, Die ihr diesem erbarmungslosen Sturm ausgesetzt seid, Wie sollen eure obdachlosen Köpfe und unversorgten Körper, Eure abgelichteten und verfallenen Lumpen euch schützen Vor solchen Jahreszeiten? Oh, ich habe Zu wenig auf das geachtet: Nimm Medizin, Pompeius, Exponiere dich selbst, um zu fühlen, was die Elenden fühlen, Damit du den Überschuss mit ihnen teilen kannst Und den Himmel gerechter erscheinen lassen. Betritt Edgar und den Narren. Edg. Verdammt und halb, verdammt und halb; armer Tom. Nar. Komm nicht hierher, Onkel, hier ist ein Geist, hilf mir, hilf mir. Kent. Gib mir deine Hand, wer ist da? Nar. Ein Geist, ein Geist, er sagt, sein Name ist armer Tom. Kent. Wer bist du, der dort im Stroh grummelt? Komm heraus. Edg. Weg, der böse Teufel folgt mir, durch den scharfen Dornen blasen die Winde. Hm, gehe zu deinem Bett und wärme dich. Lear. Hast du alles deinen Töchtern gegeben? Und bist du zu diesem Punkt gekommen? Edgar. Wer gibt etwas an armen Tom? Geführt durch Feuer und Flamme von dem bösen Teufel, durch Schwert und Wirbelsturm, über Sumpf und Moor, der Messer unter sein Kissen legte und Stricke in seine Kanzel, Rattengift in seinen Brei stellte, ihn stolz machte, auf einem gescheckten Pferd zu reiten, über Vier-Zoll-Brücken, um seinen eigenen Schatten zu verfolgen. Segne dich und deine fünf Sinne, Tom ist kalt. Oh ja, tu das, tu das, tu das, tu das, bless dich vor Wirbelstürmen, Sternenexplosionen und Flüchen, erweise armen Tom etwas Barmherzigkeit, den der böse Teufel quält. Dort hätte ich ihn jetzt, und dort, und dort wieder und dort. Sturm immer noch. Lear. Haben seine Töchter ihn in diesen Zustand gebracht? Konntest du nichts retten? Wolltest du ihnen alles geben? Nar. Nein, er hat eine Decke zurückbehalten, sonst wären wir alle beschämt gewesen. Lear. Nun, alle Plagen, die in der schwingenden Luft Über den Fehlern der Menschen schweben, fallen auf deine Töchter! Kent. Er hat keine Töchter, Sir. Lear. Verräterischer Tod, nichts hätte die Natur So erniedrigen können, außer seinen undankbaren Töchtern. Ist es Mode, dass verstoßene Väter So wenig Gnade mit ihrem Fleisch haben? Gerechte Strafe, dieses Fleisch hat erzeugt Diese pelikanartigen Töchter. Edg. Pillicock saß auf dem Hügel von Pillicock, tief: tief, lu, lu. Nar. Diese kalte Nacht wird uns alle zu Narren und Verrückten machen. Edgar. Hüte dich vor dem bösen Teufel, gehorche deinen Eltern, achte auf deine Worte, sei gerecht, schwöre nicht, begehe keine sündigen Handlungen mit verheirateten Männern, stelle nicht dein Herz auf stolze Dinge. Tom ist kalt. Lear. Was bist du gewesen? Edgar. Ein Diener? Stolz im Herzen und Geist; der mein Haar lockte und Handschuhe in meiner Mütze trug; der die Lust des Herzens meiner Herrin befriedigte und die Tat der Dunkelheit mit ihr beging. So viele Schwüre leistete ich, wie ich Worte sprach, und brach sie im süßen Angesicht des Himmels. Einer, der im Trachten nach Lust schlief und aufwachte, um es zu tun. Wein liebte ich leidenschaftlich, Würfelspiele leidenschaftlich; und bei Frauen betörte ich den türkischen Sultan. Falsch im Herzen, leichtfertig im Ohr, blutig in der Hand; faul wie ein Schwein, hinterhältig wie ein Fuchs, gierig wie ein Wolf, verrückt wie ein Hund, geizig wie ein Löwe. Lass das Quietschen von Schuhen nicht, Noch das Rascheln von Seide, verrate dein armes Herz nicht an eine Frau. Halte deinen Fuß aus Bordellen, deine Hand aus Höschen, deine Feder von Kreditgebern Büchern fern und trotze dem bösen Teufel. Durch den Dornen weht immer noch der kalte Wind: Sagt sum, mun, nonny, Delphin mein Junge, Junger Mann, lass ihn vorbei trotten. Sturm immer noch. Lear. Du wärst besser in einem Grab als hier, mit deinem unbedeckten Körper, dieser Härte des Himmels. Ist der Mensch nicht mehr als das? Bedenke ihn gut. Du schuldest dem Wurm keine Seide; dem Tier keine Haut; dem Schaf keine Wolle; der Katze keinen Duft. Hm? Hier sind drei von ihnen veredelt. Du bist die Sache selbst; der unbeholfene Mensch ist nichts anderes als ein armes, nacktes, gabelzweigiges Tier wie du. Weg, weg mit diesen Kleidern: Komm, mach auf hier. Betritt Gloucester mit einer Fackel. Nar. Bitte, Onkel, sei zufrieden, es ist eine schlimme Nacht zum Schwimmen. Ein kleines Feuer in einem wilden Feld wäre wie das Herz eines alten Lustmolchs, ein kleiner Funke, alles andere kalt am Rest seines Körpers: Schau, hier kommt ein wandelndes Feuer. Edg. Das ist der böse Flibbertigibbet; er beginnt bei der Abendglocke und geht bei der ersten Gockel. Er gibt den Spinnrocken und den Pin, schielt mit den Augen und macht die Hasenscharte, verschimmelt den weißen Weizen und schadet der armen Kreatur auf Erden. Withhold trat dreimal auf den Alten, Er traf auf den Nachtmahr und ihre neunfache Gestalt; Er bat sie, auszusteigen und ihre Treue zu brechen, und du Hexe, verschwinde, du Hexe! Kent. Wie geht es Eurer Gnaden? Lear. Wer ist er? Kent. Wer ist da? Was sucht Ihr? Glou. Was sucht Ihr hier? Eure Namen? Edg. Armer Tom, der den schwimmenden Frosch isst, die Kröte, den Laich, die Wasseragame und das Wasser: der in der Wut seines Herzens, wenn der böse Geist wütet, Kuhdung als Salat isst; die alte Ratte und den Grabhund verschluckt; den grünen Mantel des stehenden Teiches trinkt: der von Bezirk zu Bezirk verprügelt wird und bestraft, eingesperrt wird: der drei Anzüge auf dem Rücken, sechs Hemden am Leib hat, ein Pferd zum Reiten und eine Waffe zum Tragen: Aber Mäuse und Ratten und solch kleine Tiere waren Toms Nahrung, schon sieben lange Jahre. Hüte dich vor meinem Anhänger. Frieden Smulkin, Frieden du böser Geist. Glou. Ach, hat Eure Gnaden keine bessere Gesellschaft? Edg. Der Prinz der Finsternis ist ein Gentleman. Er wird Modo genannt und Mahu. Glou. Unser Fleisch und Blut, mein Herr, ist so verdorben, dass es das hasst, was es erlangt. Edg. Armer Tom friert. Glou. Komm mit mir rein; meine Pflicht kann es nicht ertragen, mich Ihren harten Anordnungen zu beugen: Auch wenn es ihren Befehl ist, meine Türen zu verriegeln, und diese tyrannische Nacht von Ihnen Besitz zu ergreifen, habe ich mich gewagt, Sie zu suchen und Sie dorthin zu bringen, wo sowohl Feuer als auch Essen bereit sind. Lear. Lassen Sie mich zuerst mit diesem Philosophen sprechen. Was ist die Ursache für Donner? Kent. Sehr gütig, mein Herr, akzeptieren Sie sein Angebot, gehen Sie ins Haus. Lear. Ich möchte ein Wort mit diesem gelehrten Thebaner sprechen: Was studieren Sie? Edg. Wie man den bösen Geist verhindert und Ungeziefer tötet. Lear. Lassen Sie mich Sie etwas in privatem fragen. Kent. Dringen Sie noch einmal darauf, dass er geht, mein Herr, seine Sinne beginnen sich zu verwirren. Glou. Kannst du es ihm verdenken? Sturm immer noch Seine Töchter suchen seinen Tod: Ach, das gute Kent, er sagte, es würde so sein: armer verbannter Mann: Du sagst, der König wird verrückt, ich werde dir sagen, Freund, ich bin fast selbst verrückt. Ich hatte einen Sohn, der gerade aus meinem Blut verbannt wurde: Er suchte mein Leben, aber erst kürzlich: sehr spät: Ich habe ihn geliebt (Freund), kein Vater liebt seinen Sohn mehr: um es dir zu sagen, die Trauer hat meinen Verstand verrückt gemacht. Was für eine Nacht ist das? Ich flehe Eure Gnade an. Lear. Oh, verzeihen Sie mir, Sir: Verehrter Philosoph, Ihre Gesellschaft. Edg. Tom friert. Glou. Komm schon, in die Hütte; bleib warm. Lear. Kommt, lasst uns alle reingehen. Kent. Diesen Weg, mein Herr. Lear. Mit ihm; ich werde weiterhin bei meinem Philosophen bleiben. Kent. Gütiger Herr, beruhige ihn: Lass ihn den Mann nehmen. Glou. Nimm ihn du. Kent. Kamerad, komm weiter mit uns. Lear. Komm, guter Athener. Glou. Keine Worte, keine Worte, schhhh. Edg. 'Childe Rowland zum dunklen Turm kam, sein Ruf war immer fie, foh und fumme, ich rieche das Blut eines Briten. Abgang. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Auf einer Heide im Sturm versucht Kent, Lear und den Narren in eine kleine Höhle zu manövrieren, die er gefunden hat, wo sie Schutz finden können. Aber Lear sagt, dass er nicht hineingehen will - der heftige Sturm ist nichts im Vergleich zum "Orkan" in Lears eigenem Verstand. Lear beklagt, dass seine Kinder solche Undankbaren sind, aber entscheidet, dass es am besten ist, nicht weiter darüber nachzudenken - sich mit Goneril und Regan zu beschäftigen würde ihn wahnsinnig machen. Lear befiehlt seinem Narren und Kent, Schutz zu suchen und hält dann eine Rede über die Notlage von Obdachlosen, die er nun selbst aus erster Hand erlebt. Lear erkennt, dass er nicht genug für benachteiligte Menschen getan hat und schwört, in Zukunft mehr zu helfen. Der Narr, der mittlerweile in den Unterschlupf gegangen ist, kommt mit einem Schrei heraus. Er hat die Hütte bereits von der seltsamen Gestalt des armen Tom besetzen lassen. Edgar ist immer tiefer in die Rolle eingetaucht: Er bettelt und schmeichelt, singt Lieder, beschwert sich über die Kälte und benimmt sich im Allgemeinen wie ein Verrückter. In Anwesenheit von Poor Toms vorgetäuschtem Wahnsinn beginnt Lear den Verstand zu verlieren. Er gibt Poor Toms nacktes Elend die Schuld an Poor Toms "Kindern". "Er hat keine Töchter, Sir", erklärt Kent und versucht, Lear zu beruhigen. "Tod, Verräter!" antwortet Lear. "Nichts konnte die Natur so weit zerbrechen / außer seinen unliebsamen Töchtern." Während er auf Poor Toms fast nackten und zitternden Körper starrt, beginnt Lear zu philosophieren. Immer noch von seinem Mitleid für die Armen erfüllt, fragt Lear: "Ist der Mensch nicht mehr als das? Unangezogener Mensch ist nichts anderes als ein so armseliges, karges Tier wie du," sagt er zu Edgar. Nachdem er zu dem Schluss gekommen ist, dass Kleidung und gesellschaftliche Konventionen künstliche Ergänzungen zum natürlichen Zustand des Menschen sind, fängt Lear an, seine eigene Kleidung auszuziehen. Wir unterbrechen dieses Programm für einen kleinen Geistesimbiss: Als Ian McKellen als König Lear in der Inszenierung von König Lear der Royal Shakespeare Company 2007 nackt auftrat, löste er große Aufregung aus und führte dazu, dass einige Journalisten einen Scherz über den Zauberstab des Zauberers machten. Der Narr versucht, Lear aufzuhalten, und erklärt, dass obwohl er ein heißes Herz habe, der Rest seines Körpers noch ziemlich kalt sei und der Gefahr einer Unterkühlung ausgesetzt sei... in mehr als einer Hinsicht des Wortes. Gloucester betritt die Szene und wird von einer seltsamen Rede seines eigenen Sohnes Edgar begrüßt. Dennoch erkennt Gloucester Edgar nicht in der Verkleidung als armer Tom, und scheint stattdessen besorgt darüber zu sein, dass der König mit Bettlern herumhängt. "Was, habt Ihr gnädiger Herr kein besseres Gefolge?" fragt er. Gloucester teilt uns mit, dass er, entgegen den Anweisungen und trotz großer Drohungen, gekommen ist, um Lear vom Sturm hereinzubringen und ihm Essen und Feuer zu geben. Lear lässt sich nicht bewegen, nicht einmal von der Aussicht auf eine warme Mahlzeit. Lear spricht mit Poor Tom und nennt ihn einen Philosophen. Gloucester sagt, Lear habe allen Grund, zum Wahnsinn getrieben zu werden, da seine eigenen Töchter ihn tot sehen wollen. Wenn sie doch nur auf Kent gehört hätten! Gloucester sagt, er könne den Schmerz des Königs nachempfinden, da er vor kurzem seinen über alles geliebten Sohn verloren hat. Gloucester sagt, seine Trauer mache ihn verrückt, aber er versucht es erneut, den König hereinzurufen. Gloucester überzeugt schließlich Lear, aus der Witterung herauszukommen, aber Lear wird nur gehen, wenn er seinen Mitverrückten nackt mitnimmt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: It was the 22nd of November; the departure was to take place in ten days. One operation alone remained to be accomplished to bring all to a happy termination; an operation delicate and perilous, requiring infinite precautions, and against the success of which Captain Nicholl had laid his third bet. It was, in fact, nothing less than the loading of the Columbiad, and the introduction into it of 400,000 pounds of gun-cotton. Nicholl had thought, not perhaps without reason, that the handling of such formidable quantities of pyroxyle would, in all probability, involve a grave catastrophe; and at any rate, that this immense mass of eminently inflammable matter would inevitably ignite when submitted to the pressure of the projectile. There were indeed dangers accruing as before from the carelessness of the Americans, but Barbicane had set his heart on success, and took all possible precautions. In the first place, he was very careful as to the transportation of the gun-cotton to Stones Hill. He had it conveyed in small quantities, carefully packed in sealed cases. These were brought by rail from Tampa Town to the camp, and from thence were taken to the Columbiad by barefooted workmen, who deposited them in their places by means of cranes placed at the orifice of the cannon. No steam-engine was permitted to work, and every fire was extinguished within two miles of the works. Even in November they feared to work by day, lest the sun's rays acting on the gun-cotton might lead to unhappy results. This led to their working at night, by light produced in a vacuum by means of Ruhmkorff's apparatus, which threw an artificial brightness into the depths of the Columbiad. There the cartridges were arranged with the utmost regularity, connected by a metallic thread, destined to communicate to them all simultaneously the electric spark, by which means this mass of gun-cotton was eventually to be ignited. By the 28th of November eight hundred cartridges had been placed in the bottom of the Columbiad. So far the operation had been successful! But what confusion, what anxieties, what struggles were undergone by President Barbicane! In vain had he refused admission to Stones Hill; every day the inquisitive neighbors scaled the palisades, some even carrying their imprudence to the point of smoking while surrounded by bales of gun-cotton. Barbicane was in a perpetual state of alarm. J. T. Maston seconded him to the best of his ability, by giving vigorous chase to the intruders, and carefully picking up the still lighted cigar ends which the Yankees threw about. A somewhat difficult task! seeing that more than 300,000 persons were gathered round the enclosure. Michel Ardan had volunteered to superintend the transport of the cartridges to the mouth of the Columbiad; but the president, having surprised him with an enormous cigar in his mouth, while he was hunting out the rash spectators to whom he himself offered so dangerous an example, saw that he could not trust this fearless smoker, and was therefore obliged to mount a special guard over him. At last, Providence being propitious, this wonderful loading came to a happy termination, Captain Nicholl's third bet being thus lost. It remained now to introduce the projectile into the Columbiad, and to place it on its soft bed of gun-cotton. But before doing this, all those things necessary for the journey had to be carefully arranged in the projectile vehicle. These necessaries were numerous; and had Ardan been allowed to follow his own wishes, there would have been no space remaining for the travelers. It is impossible to conceive of half the things this charming Frenchman wished to convey to the moon. A veritable stock of useless trifles! But Barbicane interfered and refused admission to anything not absolutely needed. Several thermometers, barometers, and telescopes were packed in the instrument case. The travelers being desirous of examing the moon carefully during their voyage, in order to facilitate their studies, they took with them Boeer and Moeller's excellent _Mappa Selenographica_, a masterpiece of patience and observation, which they hoped would enable them to identify those physical features in the moon, with which they were acquainted. This map reproduced with scrupulous fidelity the smallest details of the lunar surface which faces the earth; the mountains, valleys, craters, peaks, and ridges were all represented, with their exact dimensions, relative positions, and names; from the mountains Doerfel and Leibnitz on the eastern side of the disc, to the _Mare frigoris_ of the North Pole. They took also three rifles and three fowling-pieces, and a large quantity of balls, shot, and powder. "We cannot tell whom we shall have to deal with," said Michel Ardan. "Men or beasts may possibly object to our visit. It is only wise to take all precautions." These defensive weapons were accompanied by pickaxes, crowbars, saws, and other useful implements, not to mention clothing adapted to every temperature, from that of polar regions to that of the torrid zone. Ardan wished to convey a number of animals of different sorts, not indeed a pair of every known species, as he could not see the necessity of acclimatizing serpents, tigers, alligators, or any other noxious beasts in the moon. "Nevertheless," he said to Barbicane, "some valuable and useful beasts, bullocks, cows, horses, and donkeys, would bear the journey very well, and would also be very useful to us." "I dare say, my dear Ardan," replied the president, "but our projectile-vehicle is no Noah's ark, from which it differs both in dimensions and object. Let us confine ourselves to possibilities." After a prolonged discussion, it was agreed that the travelers should restrict themselves to a sporting-dog belonging to Nicholl, and to a large Newfoundland. Several packets of seeds were also included among the necessaries. Michel Ardan, indeed, was anxious to add some sacks full of earth to sow them in; as it was, he took a dozen shrubs carefully wrapped up in straw to plant in the moon. The important question of provisions still remained; it being necessary to provide against the possibility of their finding the moon absolutely barren. Barbicane managed so successfully, that he supplied them with sufficient rations for a year. These consisted of preserved meats and vegetables, reduced by strong hydraulic pressure to the smallest possible dimensions. They were also supplied with brandy, and took water enough for two months, being confident, from astronomical observations, that there was no lack of water on the moon's surface. As to provisions, doubtless the inhabitants of the _earth_ would find nourishment somewhere in the _moon_. Ardan never questioned this; indeed, had he done so, he would never have undertaken the journey. "Besides," he said one day to his friends, "we shall not be completely abandoned by our terrestrial friends; they will take care not to forget us." "No, indeed!" replied J. T. Maston. "Nothing would be simpler," replied Ardan; "the Columbiad will be always there. Well! whenever the moon is in a favorable condition as to the zenith, if not to the perigee, that is to say about once a year, could you not send us a shell packed with provisions, which we might expect on some appointed day?" "Hurrah! hurrah!" cried J. T. Matson; "what an ingenious fellow! what a splendid idea! Indeed, my good friends, we shall not forget you!" "I shall reckon upon you! Then, you see, we shall receive news regularly from the earth, and we shall indeed be stupid if we hit upon no plan for communicating with our good friends here!" These words inspired such confidence, that Michel Ardan carried all the Gun Club with him in his enthusiasm. What he said seemed so simple and so easy, so sure of success, that none could be so sordidly attached to this earth as to hesitate to follow the three travelers on their lunar expedition. All being ready at last, it remained to place the projectile in the Columbiad, an operation abundantly accompanied by dangers and difficulties. The enormous shell was conveyed to the summit of Stones Hill. There, powerful cranes raised it, and held it suspended over the mouth of the cylinder. It was a fearful moment! What if the chains should break under its enormous weight? The sudden fall of such a body would inevitably cause the gun-cotton to explode! Fortunately this did not happen; and some hours later the projectile-vehicle descended gently into the heart of the cannon and rested on its couch of pyroxyle, a veritable bed of explosive eider-down. Its pressure had no result, other than the more effectual ramming down of the charge in the Columbiad. "I have lost," said the captain, who forthwith paid President Barbicane the sum of three thousand dollars. Barbicane did not wish to accept the money from one of his fellow-travelers, but gave way at last before the determination of Nicholl, who wished before leaving the earth to fulfill all his engagements. "Now," said Michel Ardan, "I have only one thing more to wish for you, my brave captain." "What is that?" asked Nicholl. "It is that you may lose your two other bets! Then we shall be sure not to be stopped on our journey!" Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Es sind jetzt nur noch zehn Tage bis zum Start. Das Schießbaumwolle wurde erfolgreich geladen, obwohl die Leute "nicht zögerten, ihre Zigarren" direkt neben diesem hochexplosiven Material zu rauchen. Allerdings können sie nur eine begrenzte Menge an Lebensmitteln mitbringen. Um dem entgegenzuwirken, sagen sie Maston, er solle Kapseln mit Lebensmitteln aus der Kanone schießen, wenn der Mond nahe genug ist. Schließlich - und mit viel Tamtam - laden sie die Kapsel in die Kanone.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The evening after the funeral, my young lady and I were seated in the library; now musing mournfully--one of us despairingly--on our loss, now venturing conjectures as to the gloomy future. We had just agreed the best destiny which could await Catherine would be a permission to continue resident at the Grange; at least during Linton's life: he being allowed to join her there, and I to remain as housekeeper. That seemed rather too favourable an arrangement to be hoped for; and yet I did hope, and began to cheer up under the prospect of retaining my home and my employment, and, above all, my beloved young mistress; when a servant--one of the discarded ones, not yet departed--rushed hastily in, and said 'that devil Heathcliff' was coming through the court: should he fasten the door in his face? If we had been mad enough to order that proceeding, we had not time. He made no ceremony of knocking or announcing his name: he was master, and availed himself of the master's privilege to walk straight in, without saying a word. The sound of our informant's voice directed him to the library; he entered and motioning him out, shut the door. It was the same room into which he had been ushered, as a guest, eighteen years before: the same moon shone through the window; and the same autumn landscape lay outside. We had not yet lighted a candle, but all the apartment was visible, even to the portraits on the wall: the splendid head of Mrs. Linton, and the graceful one of her husband. Heathcliff advanced to the hearth. Time had little altered his person either. There was the same man: his dark face rather sallower and more composed, his frame a stone or two heavier, perhaps, and no other difference. Catherine had risen with an impulse to dash out, when she saw him. 'Stop!' he said, arresting her by the arm. 'No more runnings away! Where would you go? I'm come to fetch you home; and I hope you'll be a dutiful daughter and not encourage my son to further disobedience. I was embarrassed how to punish him when I discovered his part in the business: he's such a cobweb, a pinch would annihilate him; but you'll see by his look that he has received his due! I brought him down one evening, the day before yesterday, and just set him in a chair, and never touched him afterwards. I sent Hareton out, and we had the room to ourselves. In two hours, I called Joseph to carry him up again; and since then my presence is as potent on his nerves as a ghost; and I fancy he sees me often, though I am not near. Hareton says he wakes and shrieks in the night by the hour together, and calls you to protect him from me; and, whether you like your precious mate, or not, you must come: he's your concern now; I yield all my interest in him to you.' 'Why not let Catherine continue here,' I pleaded, 'and send Master Linton to her? As you hate them both, you'd not miss them: they can only be a daily plague to your unnatural heart.' 'I'm seeking a tenant for the Grange,' he answered; 'and I want my children about me, to be sure. Besides, that lass owes me her services for her bread. I'm not going to nurture her in luxury and idleness after Linton is gone. Make haste and get ready, now; and don't oblige me to compel you.' 'I shall,' said Catherine. 'Linton is all I have to love in the world, and though you have done what you could to make him hateful to me, and me to him, you cannot make us hate each other. And I defy you to hurt him when I am by, and I defy you to frighten me!' 'You are a boastful champion,' replied Heathcliff; 'but I don't like you well enough to hurt him: you shall get the full benefit of the torment, as long as it lasts. It is not I who will make him hateful to you--it is his own sweet spirit. He's as bitter as gall at your desertion and its consequences: don't expect thanks for this noble devotion. I heard him draw a pleasant picture to Zillah of what he would do if he were as strong as I: the inclination is there, and his very weakness will sharpen his wits to find a substitute for strength.' 'I know he has a bad nature,' said Catherine: 'he's your son. But I'm glad I've a better, to forgive it; and I know he loves me, and for that reason I love him. Mr. Heathcliff _you_ have _nobody_ to love you; and, however miserable you make us, we shall still have the revenge of thinking that your cruelty arises from your greater misery. You _are_ miserable, are you not? Lonely, like the devil, and envious like him? _Nobody_ loves you--_nobody_ will cry for you when you die! I wouldn't be you!' Catherine spoke with a kind of dreary triumph: she seemed to have made up her mind to enter into the spirit of her future family, and draw pleasure from the griefs of her enemies. 'You shall be sorry to be yourself presently,' said her father-in-law, 'if you stand there another minute. Begone, witch, and get your things!' She scornfully withdrew. In her absence I began to beg for Zillah's place at the Heights, offering to resign mine to her; but he would suffer it on no account. He bid me be silent; and then, for the first time, allowed himself a glance round the room and a look at the pictures. Having studied Mrs. Linton's, he said--'I shall have that home. Not because I need it, but--' He turned abruptly to the fire, and continued, with what, for lack of a better word, I must call a smile--'I'll tell you what I did yesterday! I got the sexton, who was digging Linton's grave, to remove the earth off her coffin lid, and I opened it. I thought, once, I would have stayed there: when I saw her face again--it is hers yet!--he had hard work to stir me; but he said it would change if the air blew on it, and so I struck one side of the coffin loose, and covered it up: not Linton's side, damn him! I wish he'd been soldered in lead. And I bribed the sexton to pull it away when I'm laid there, and slide mine out too; I'll have it made so: and then by the time Linton gets to us he'll not know which is which!' 'You were very wicked, Mr. Heathcliff!' I exclaimed; 'were you not ashamed to disturb the dead?' 'I disturbed nobody, Nelly,' he replied; 'and I gave some ease to myself. I shall be a great deal more comfortable now; and you'll have a better chance of keeping me underground, when I get there. Disturbed her? No! she has disturbed me, night and day, through eighteen years--incessantly--remorselessly--till yesternight; and yesternight I was tranquil. I dreamt I was sleeping the last sleep by that sleeper, with my heart stopped and my cheek frozen against hers.' 'And if she had been dissolved into earth, or worse, what would you have dreamt of then?' I said. 'Of dissolving with her, and being more happy still!' he answered. 'Do you suppose I dread any change of that sort? I expected such a transformation on raising the lid--but I'm better pleased that it should not commence till I share it. Besides, unless I had received a distinct impression of her passionless features, that strange feeling would hardly have been removed. It began oddly. You know I was wild after she died; and eternally, from dawn to dawn, praying her to return to me her spirit! I have a strong faith in ghosts: I have a conviction that they can, and do, exist among us! The day she was buried, there came a fall of snow. In the evening I went to the churchyard. It blew bleak as winter--all round was solitary. I didn't fear that her fool of a husband would wander up the glen so late; and no one else had business to bring them there. Being alone, and conscious two yards of loose earth was the sole barrier between us, I said to myself--"I'll have her in my arms again! If she be cold, I'll think it is this north wind that chills _me_; and if she be motionless, it is sleep." I got a spade from the tool-house, and began to delve with all my might--it scraped the coffin; I fell to work with my hands; the wood commenced cracking about the screws; I was on the point of attaining my object, when it seemed that I heard a sigh from some one above, close at the edge of the grave, and bending down. "If I can only get this off," I muttered, "I wish they may shovel in the earth over us both!" and I wrenched at it more desperately still. There was another sigh, close at my ear. I appeared to feel the warm breath of it displacing the sleet-laden wind. I knew no living thing in flesh and blood was by; but, as certainly as you perceive the approach to some substantial body in the dark, though it cannot be discerned, so certainly I felt that Cathy was there: not under me, but on the earth. A sudden sense of relief flowed from my heart through every limb. I relinquished my labour of agony, and turned consoled at once: unspeakably consoled. Her presence was with me: it remained while I re-filled the grave, and led me home. You may laugh, if you will; but I was sure I should see her there. I was sure she was with me, and I could not help talking to her. Having reached the Heights, I rushed eagerly to the door. It was fastened; and, I remember, that accursed Earnshaw and my wife opposed my entrance. I remember stopping to kick the breath out of him, and then hurrying up-stairs, to my room and hers. I looked round impatiently--I felt her by me--I could _almost_ see her, and yet I _could not_! I ought to have sweat blood then, from the anguish of my yearning--from the fervour of my supplications to have but one glimpse! I had not one. She showed herself, as she often was in life, a devil to me! And, since then, sometimes more and sometimes less, I've been the sport of that intolerable torture! Infernal! keeping my nerves at such a stretch that, if they had not resembled catgut, they would long ago have relaxed to the feebleness of Linton's. When I sat in the house with Hareton, it seemed that on going out I should meet her; when I walked on the moors I should meet her coming in. When I went from home I hastened to return; she _must_ be somewhere at the Heights, I was certain! And when I slept in her chamber--I was beaten out of that. I couldn't lie there; for the moment I closed my eyes, she was either outside the window, or sliding back the panels, or entering the room, or even resting her darling head on the same pillow as she did when a child; and I must open my lids to see. And so I opened and closed them a hundred times a night--to be always disappointed! It racked me! I've often groaned aloud, till that old rascal Joseph no doubt believed that my conscience was playing the fiend inside of me. Now, since I've seen her, I'm pacified--a little. It was a strange way of killing: not by inches, but by fractions of hairbreadths, to beguile me with the spectre of a hope through eighteen years!' Mr. Heathcliff paused and wiped his forehead; his hair clung to it, wet with perspiration; his eyes were fixed on the red embers of the fire, the brows not contracted, but raised next the temples; diminishing the grim aspect of his countenance, but imparting a peculiar look of trouble, and a painful appearance of mental tension towards one absorbing subject. He only half addressed me, and I maintained silence. I didn't like to hear him talk! After a short period he resumed his meditation on the picture, took it down and leant it against the sofa to contemplate it at better advantage; and while so occupied Catherine entered, announcing that she was ready, when her pony should be saddled. 'Send that over to-morrow,' said Heathcliff to me; then turning to her, he added: 'You may do without your pony: it is a fine evening, and you'll need no ponies at Wuthering Heights; for what journeys you take, your own feet will serve you. Come along.' 'Good-bye, Ellen!' whispered my dear little mistress. As she kissed me, her lips felt like ice. 'Come and see me, Ellen; don't forget.' 'Take care you do no such thing, Mrs. Dean!' said her new father. 'When I wish to speak to you I'll come here. I want none of your prying at my house!' He signed her to precede him; and casting back a look that cut my heart, she obeyed. I watched them, from the window, walk down the garden. Heathcliff fixed Catherine's arm under his: though she disputed the act at first evidently; and with rapid strides he hurried her into the alley, whose trees concealed them. I have paid a visit to the Heights, but I have not seen her since she left: Joseph held the door in his hand when I called to ask after her, and wouldn't let me pass. He said Mrs. Linton was 'thrang,' and the master was not in. Zillah has told me something of the way they go on, otherwise I should hardly know who was dead and who living. She thinks Catherine haughty, and does not like her, I can guess by her talk. My young lady asked some aid of her when she first came; but Mr. Heathcliff told her to follow her own business, and let his daughter-in-law look after herself; and Zillah willingly acquiesced, being a narrow-minded, selfish woman. Catherine evinced a child's annoyance at this neglect; repaid it with contempt, and thus enlisted my informant among her enemies, as securely as if she had done her some great wrong. I had a long talk with Zillah about six weeks ago, a little before you came, one day when we foregathered on the moor; and this is what she told me. 'The first thing Mrs. Linton did,' she said, 'on her arrival at the Heights, was to run up-stairs, without even wishing good-evening to me and Joseph; she shut herself into Linton's room, and remained till morning. Then, while the master and Earnshaw were at breakfast, she entered the house, and asked all in a quiver if the doctor might be sent for? her cousin was very ill. '"We know that!" answered Heathcliff; "but his life is not worth a farthing, and I won't spend a farthing on him." '"But I cannot tell how to do," she said; "and if nobody will help me, he'll die!" '"Walk out of the room," cried the master, "and let me never hear a word more about him! None here care what becomes of him; if you do, act the nurse; if you do not, lock him up and leave him." 'Then she began to bother me, and I said I'd had enough plague with the tiresome thing; we each had our tasks, and hers was to wait on Linton: Mr. Heathcliff bid me leave that labour to her. 'How they managed together, I can't tell. I fancy he fretted a great deal, and moaned hisseln night and day; and she had precious little rest: one could guess by her white face and heavy eyes. She sometimes came into the kitchen all wildered like, and looked as if she would fain beg assistance; but I was not going to disobey the master: I never dare disobey him, Mrs. Dean; and, though I thought it wrong that Kenneth should not be sent for, it was no concern of mine either to advise or complain, and I always refused to meddle. Once or twice, after we had gone to bed, I've happened to open my door again and seen her sitting crying on the stairs'-top; and then I've shut myself in quick, for fear of being moved to interfere. I did pity her then, I'm sure: still I didn't wish to lose my place, you know. 'At last, one night she came boldly into my chamber, and frightened me out of my wits, by saying, "Tell Mr. Heathcliff that his son is dying--I'm sure he is, this time. Get up, instantly, and tell him." 'Having uttered this speech, she vanished again. I lay a quarter of an hour listening and trembling. Nothing stirred--the house was quiet. 'She's mistaken, I said to myself. He's got over it. I needn't disturb them; and I began to doze. But my sleep was marred a second time by a sharp ringing of the bell--the only bell we have, put up on purpose for Linton; and the master called to me to see what was the matter, and inform them that he wouldn't have that noise repeated. 'I delivered Catherine's message. He cursed to himself, and in a few minutes came out with a lighted candle, and proceeded to their room. I followed. Mrs. Heathcliff was seated by the bedside, with her hands folded on her knees. Her father-in-law went up, held the light to Linton's face, looked at him, and touched him; afterwards he turned to her. '"Now--Catherine," he said, "how do you feel?" 'She was dumb. '"How do you feel, Catherine?" he repeated. '"He's safe, and I'm free," she answered: "I should feel well--but," she continued, with a bitterness she couldn't conceal, "you have left me so long to struggle against death alone, that I feel and see only death! I feel like death!" 'And she looked like it, too! I gave her a little wine. Hareton and Joseph, who had been wakened by the ringing and the sound of feet, and heard our talk from outside, now entered. Joseph was fain, I believe, of the lad's removal; Hareton seemed a thought bothered: though he was more taken up with staring at Catherine than thinking of Linton. But the master bid him get off to bed again: we didn't want his help. He afterwards made Joseph remove the body to his chamber, and told me to return to mine, and Mrs. Heathcliff remained by herself. 'In the morning, he sent me to tell her she must come down to breakfast: she had undressed, and appeared going to sleep, and said she was ill; at which I hardly wondered. I informed Mr. Heathcliff, and he replied,--"Well, let her be till after the funeral; and go up now and then to get her what is needful; and, as soon as she seems better, tell me."' Cathy stayed upstairs a fortnight, according to Zillah; who visited her twice a day, and would have been rather more friendly, but her attempts at increasing kindness were proudly and promptly repelled. Heathcliff went up once, to show her Linton's will. He had bequeathed the whole of his, and what had been her, moveable property, to his father: the poor creature was threatened, or coaxed, into that act during her week's absence, when his uncle died. The lands, being a minor, he could not meddle with. However, Mr. Heathcliff has claimed and kept them in his wife's right and his also: I suppose legally; at any rate, Catherine, destitute of cash and friends, cannot disturb his possession. 'Nobody,' said Zillah, 'ever approached her door, except that once, but I; and nobody asked anything about her. The first occasion of her coming down into the house was on a Sunday afternoon. She had cried out, when I carried up her dinner, that she couldn't bear any longer being in the cold; and I told her the master was going to Thrushcross Grange, and Earnshaw and I needn't hinder her from descending; so, as soon as she heard Heathcliff's horse trot off, she made her appearance, donned in black, and her yellow curls combed back behind her ears as plain as a Quaker: she couldn't comb them out. 'Joseph and I generally go to chapel on Sundays:' the kirk, you know, has no minister now, explained Mrs. Dean; and they call the Methodists' or Baptists' place (I can't say which it is) at Gimmerton, a chapel. 'Joseph had gone,' she continued, 'but I thought proper to bide at home. Young folks are always the better for an elder's over-looking; and Hareton, with all his bashfulness, isn't a model of nice behaviour. I let him know that his cousin would very likely sit with us, and she had been always used to see the Sabbath respected; so he had as good leave his guns and bits of indoor work alone, while she stayed. He coloured up at the news, and cast his eyes over his hands and clothes. The train-oil and gunpowder were shoved out of sight in a minute. I saw he meant to give her his company; and I guessed, by his way, he wanted to be presentable; so, laughing, as I durst not laugh when the master is by, I offered to help him, if he would, and joked at his confusion. He grew sullen, and began to swear. 'Now, Mrs. Dean,' Zillah went on, seeing me not pleased by her manner, 'you happen think your young lady too fine for Mr. Hareton; and happen you're right: but I own I should love well to bring her pride a peg lower. And what will all her learning and her daintiness do for her, now? She's as poor as you or I: poorer, I'll be bound: you're saying, and I'm doing my little all that road.' Hareton allowed Zillah to give him her aid; and she flattered him into a good humour; so, when Catherine came, half forgetting her former insults, he tried to make himself agreeable, by the housekeeper's account. 'Missis walked in,' she said, 'as chill as an icicle, and as high as a princess. I got up and offered her my seat in the arm-chair. No, she turned up her nose at my civility. Earnshaw rose, too, and bid her come to the settle, and sit close by the fire: he was sure she was starved. '"I've been starved a month and more," she answered, resting on the word as scornful as she could. 'And she got a chair for herself, and placed it at a distance from both of us. Having sat till she was warm, she began to look round, and discovered a number of books on the dresser; she was instantly upon her feet again, stretching to reach them: but they were too high up. Her cousin, after watching her endeavours a while, at last summoned courage to help her; she held her frock, and he filled it with the first that came to hand. 'That was a great advance for the lad. She didn't thank him; still, he felt gratified that she had accepted his assistance, and ventured to stand behind as she examined them, and even to stoop and point out what struck his fancy in certain old pictures which they contained; nor was he daunted by the saucy style in which she jerked the page from his finger: he contented himself with going a bit farther back and looking at her instead of the book. She continued reading, or seeking for something to read. His attention became, by degrees, quite centred in the study of her thick silky curls: her face he couldn't see, and she couldn't see him. And, perhaps, not quite awake to what he did, but attracted like a child to a candle, at last he proceeded from staring to touching; he put out his hand and stroked one curl, as gently as if it were a bird. He might have stuck a knife into her neck, she started round in such a taking. '"Get away this moment! How dare you touch me? Why are you stopping there?" she cried, in a tone of disgust. "I can't endure you! I'll go upstairs again, if you come near me." 'Mr. Hareton recoiled, looking as foolish as he could do: he sat down in the settle very quiet, and she continued turning over her volumes another half hour; finally, Earnshaw crossed over, and whispered to me. '"Will you ask her to read to us, Zillah? I'm stalled of doing naught; and I do like--I could like to hear her! Dunnot say I wanted it, but ask of yourseln." '"Mr. Hareton wishes you would read to us, ma'am," I said, immediately. "He'd take it very kind--he'd be much obliged." 'She frowned; and looking up, answered-- '"Mr. Hareton, and the whole set of you, will be good enough to understand that I reject any pretence at kindness you have the hypocrisy to offer! I despise you, and will have nothing to say to any of you! When I would have given my life for one kind word, even to see one of your faces, you all kept off. But I won't complain to you! I'm driven down here by the cold; not either to amuse you or enjoy your society." '"What could I ha' done?" began Earnshaw. "How was I to blame?" '"Oh! you are an exception," answered Mrs. Heathcliff. "I never missed such a concern as you." '"But I offered more than once, and asked," he said, kindling up at her pertness, "I asked Mr. Heathcliff to let me wake for you--" '"Be silent! I'll go out of doors, or anywhere, rather than have your disagreeable voice in my ear!" said my lady. 'Hareton muttered she might go to hell, for him! and unslinging his gun, restrained himself from his Sunday occupations no longer. He talked now, freely enough; and she presently saw fit to retreat to her solitude: but the frost had set in, and, in spite of her pride, she was forced to condescend to our company, more and more. However, I took care there should be no further scorning at my good nature: ever since, I've been as stiff as herself; and she has no lover or liker among us: and she does not deserve one; for, let them say the least word to her, and she'll curl back without respect of any one. She'll snap at the master himself, and as good as dares him to thrash her; and the more hurt she gets, the more venomous she grows.' At first, on hearing this account from Zillah, I determined to leave my situation, take a cottage, and get Catherine to come and live with me: but Mr. Heathcliff would as soon permit that as he would set up Hareton in an independent house; and I can see no remedy, at present, unless she could marry again; and that scheme it does not come within my province to arrange. * * * * * Thus ended Mrs. Dean's story. Notwithstanding the doctor's prophecy, I am rapidly recovering strength; and though it be only the second week in January, I propose getting out on horseback in a day or two, and riding over to Wuthering Heights, to inform my landlord that I shall spend the next six months in London; and, if he likes, he may look out for another tenant to take the place after October. I would not pass another winter here for much. Yesterday was bright, calm, and frosty. I went to the Heights as I proposed: my housekeeper entreated me to bear a little note from her to her young lady, and I did not refuse, for the worthy woman was not conscious of anything odd in her request. The front door stood open, but the jealous gate was fastened, as at my last visit; I knocked and invoked Earnshaw from among the garden-beds; he unchained it, and I entered. The fellow is as handsome a rustic as need be seen. I took particular notice of him this time; but then he does his best apparently to make the least of his advantages. I asked if Mr. Heathcliff were at home? He answered, No; but he would be in at dinner-time. It was eleven o'clock, and I announced my intention of going in and waiting for him; at which he immediately flung down his tools and accompanied me, in the office of watchdog, not as a substitute for the host. We entered together; Catherine was there, making herself useful in preparing some vegetables for the approaching meal; she looked more sulky and less spirited than when I had seen her first. She hardly raised her eyes to notice me, and continued her employment with the same disregard to common forms of politeness as before; never returning my bow and good-morning by the slightest acknowledgment. 'She does not seem so amiable,' I thought, 'as Mrs. Dean would persuade me to believe. She's a beauty, it is true; but not an angel.' Earnshaw surlily bid her remove her things to the kitchen. 'Remove them yourself,' she said, pushing them from her as soon as she had done; and retiring to a stool by the window, where she began to carve figures of birds and beasts out of the turnip-parings in her lap. I approached her, pretending to desire a view of the garden; and, as I fancied, adroitly dropped Mrs. Dean's note on to her knee, unnoticed by Hareton--but she asked aloud, 'What is that?' And chucked it off. 'A letter from your old acquaintance, the housekeeper at the Grange,' I answered; annoyed at her exposing my kind deed, and fearful lest it should be imagined a missive of my own. She would gladly have gathered it up at this information, but Hareton beat her; he seized and put it in his waistcoat, saying Mr. Heathcliff should look at it first. Thereat, Catherine silently turned her face from us, and, very stealthily, drew out her pocket-handkerchief and applied it to her eyes; and her cousin, after struggling awhile to keep down his softer feelings, pulled out the letter and flung it on the floor beside her, as ungraciously as he could. Catherine caught and perused it eagerly; then she put a few questions to me concerning the inmates, rational and irrational, of her former home; and gazing towards the hills, murmured in soliloquy: 'I should like to be riding Minny down there! I should like to be climbing up there! Oh! I'm tired--I'm _stalled_, Hareton!' And she leant her pretty head back against the sill, with half a yawn and half a sigh, and lapsed into an aspect of abstracted sadness: neither caring nor knowing whether we remarked her. 'Mrs. Heathcliff,' I said, after sitting some time mute, 'you are not aware that I am an acquaintance of yours? so intimate that I think it strange you won't come and speak to me. My housekeeper never wearies of talking about and praising you; and she'll be greatly disappointed if I return with no news of or from you, except that you received her letter and said nothing!' She appeared to wonder at this speech, and asked,-- 'Does Ellen like you?' 'Yes, very well,' I replied, hesitatingly. 'You must tell her,' she continued, 'that I would answer her letter, but I have no materials for writing: not even a book from which I might tear a leaf.' 'No books!' I exclaimed. 'How do you contrive to live here without them? if I may take the liberty to inquire. Though provided with a large library, I'm frequently very dull at the Grange; take my books away, and I should be desperate!' 'I was always reading, when I had them,' said Catherine; 'and Mr. Heathcliff never reads; so he took it into his head to destroy my books. I have not had a glimpse of one for weeks. Only once, I searched through Joseph's store of theology, to his great irritation; and once, Hareton, I came upon a secret stock in your room--some Latin and Greek, and some tales and poetry: all old friends. I brought the last here--and you gathered them, as a magpie gathers silver spoons, for the mere love of stealing! They are of no use to you; or else you concealed them in the bad spirit that, as you cannot enjoy them, nobody else shall. Perhaps _your_ envy counselled Mr. Heathcliff to rob me of my treasures? But I've most of them written on my brain and printed in my heart, and you cannot deprive me of those!' Earnshaw blushed crimson when his cousin made this revelation of his private literary accumulations, and stammered an indignant denial of her accusations. 'Mr. Hareton is desirous of increasing his amount of knowledge,' I said, coming to his rescue. 'He is not _envious_, but _emulous_ of your attainments. He'll be a clever scholar in a few years.' 'And he wants me to sink into a dunce, meantime,' answered Catherine. 'Yes, I hear him trying to spell and read to himself, and pretty blunders he makes! I wish you would repeat Chevy Chase as you did yesterday: it was extremely funny. I heard you; and I heard you turning over the dictionary to seek out the hard words, and then cursing because you couldn't read their explanations!' The young man evidently thought it too bad that he should be laughed at for his ignorance, and then laughed at for trying to remove it. I had a similar notion; and, remembering Mrs. Dean's anecdote of his first attempt at enlightening the darkness in which he had been reared, I observed,--'But, Mrs. Heathcliff, we have each had a commencement, and each stumbled and tottered on the threshold; had our teachers scorned instead of aiding us, we should stumble and totter yet.' 'Oh!' she replied, 'I don't wish to limit his acquirements: still, he has no right to appropriate what is mine, and make it ridiculous to me with his vile mistakes and mispronunciations! Those books, both prose and verse, are consecrated to me by other associations; and I hate to have them debased and profaned in his mouth! Besides, of all, he has selected my favourite pieces that I love the most to repeat, as if out of deliberate malice.' Hareton's chest heaved in silence a minute: he laboured under a severe sense of mortification and wrath, which it was no easy task to suppress. I rose, and, from a gentlemanly idea of relieving his embarrassment, took up my station in the doorway, surveying the external prospect as I stood. He followed my example, and left the room; but presently reappeared, bearing half a dozen volumes in his hands, which he threw into Catherine's lap, exclaiming,--'Take them! I never want to hear, or read, or think of them again!' 'I won't have them now,' she answered. 'I shall connect them with you, and hate them.' She opened one that had obviously been often turned over, and read a portion in the drawling tone of a beginner; then laughed, and threw it from her. 'And listen,' she continued, provokingly, commencing a verse of an old ballad in the same fashion. But his self-love would endure no further torment: I heard, and not altogether disapprovingly, a manual check given to her saucy tongue. The little wretch had done her utmost to hurt her cousin's sensitive though uncultivated feelings, and a physical argument was the only mode he had of balancing the account, and repaying its effects on the inflictor. He afterwards gathered the books and hurled them on the fire. I read in his countenance what anguish it was to offer that sacrifice to spleen. I fancied that as they consumed, he recalled the pleasure they had already imparted, and the triumph and ever-increasing pleasure he had anticipated from them; and I fancied I guessed the incitement to his secret studies also. He had been content with daily labour and rough animal enjoyments, till Catherine crossed his path. Shame at her scorn, and hope of her approval, were his first prompters to higher pursuits; and instead of guarding him from one and winning him to the other, his endeavours to raise himself had produced just the contrary result. 'Yes that's all the good that such a brute as you can get from them!' cried Catherine, sucking her damaged lip, and watching the conflagration with indignant eyes. 'You'd _better_ hold your tongue, now,' he answered fiercely. And his agitation precluded further speech; he advanced hastily to the entrance, where I made way for him to pass. But ere he had crossed the door-stones, Mr. Heathcliff, coming up the causeway, encountered him, and laying hold of his shoulder asked,--'What's to do now, my lad?' 'Naught, naught,' he said, and broke away to enjoy his grief and anger in solitude. Heathcliff gazed after him, and sighed. 'It will be odd if I thwart myself,' he muttered, unconscious that I was behind him. 'But when I look for his father in his face, I find _her_ every day more! How the devil is he so like? I can hardly bear to see him.' He bent his eyes to the ground, and walked moodily in. There was a restless, anxious expression in his countenance. I had never remarked there before; and he looked sparer in person. His daughter-in-law, on perceiving him through the window, immediately escaped to the kitchen, so that I remained alone. 'I'm glad to see you out of doors again, Mr. Lockwood,' he said, in reply to my greeting; 'from selfish motives partly: I don't think I could readily supply your loss in this desolation. I've wondered more than once what brought you here.' 'An idle whim, I fear, sir,' was my answer; 'or else an idle whim is going to spirit me away. I shall set out for London next week; and I must give you warning that I feel no disposition to retain Thrushcross Grange beyond the twelve months I agreed to rent it. I believe I shall not live there any more.' 'Oh, indeed; you're tired of being banished from the world, are you?' he said. 'But if you be coming to plead off paying for a place you won't occupy, your journey is useless: I never relent in exacting my due from any one.' 'I'm coming to plead off nothing about it,' I exclaimed, considerably irritated. 'Should you wish it, I'll settle with you now,' and I drew my note-book from my pocket. 'No, no,' he replied, coolly; 'you'll leave sufficient behind to cover your debts, if you fail to return: I'm not in such a hurry. Sit down and take your dinner with us; a guest that is safe from repeating his visit can generally be made welcome. Catherine! bring the things in: where are you?' Catherine reappeared, bearing a tray of knives and forks. 'You may get your dinner with Joseph,' muttered Heathcliff, aside, 'and remain in the kitchen till he is gone.' She obeyed his directions very punctually: perhaps she had no temptation to transgress. Living among clowns and misanthropists, she probably cannot appreciate a better class of people when she meets them. With Mr. Heathcliff, grim and saturnine, on the one hand, and Hareton, absolutely dumb, on the other, I made a somewhat cheerless meal, and bade adieu early. I would have departed by the back way, to get a last glimpse of Catherine and annoy old Joseph; but Hareton received orders to lead up my horse, and my host himself escorted me to the door, so I could not fulfil my wish. 'How dreary life gets over in that house!' I reflected, while riding down the road. 'What a realisation of something more romantic than a fairy tale it would have been for Mrs. Linton Heathcliff, had she and I struck up an attachment, as her good nurse desired, and migrated together into the stirring atmosphere of the town!' 1802.--This September I was invited to devastate the moors of a friend in the north, and on my journey to his abode, I unexpectedly came within fifteen miles of Gimmerton. The ostler at a roadside public-house was holding a pail of water to refresh my horses, when a cart of very green oats, newly reaped, passed by, and he remarked,--'Yon's frough Gimmerton, nah! They're allas three wick' after other folk wi' ther harvest.' 'Gimmerton?' I repeated--my residence in that locality had already grown dim and dreamy. 'Ah! I know. How far is it from this?' 'Happen fourteen mile o'er th' hills; and a rough road,' he answered. A sudden impulse seized me to visit Thrushcross Grange. It was scarcely noon, and I conceived that I might as well pass the night under my own roof as in an inn. Besides, I could spare a day easily to arrange matters with my landlord, and thus save myself the trouble of invading the neighbourhood again. Having rested awhile, I directed my servant to inquire the way to the village; and, with great fatigue to our beasts, we managed the distance in some three hours. I left him there, and proceeded down the valley alone. The grey church looked greyer, and the lonely churchyard lonelier. I distinguished a moor-sheep cropping the short turf on the graves. It was sweet, warm weather--too warm for travelling; but the heat did not hinder me from enjoying the delightful scenery above and below: had I seen it nearer August, I'm sure it would have tempted me to waste a month among its solitudes. In winter nothing more dreary, in summer nothing more divine, than those glens shut in by hills, and those bluff, bold swells of heath. I reached the Grange before sunset, and knocked for admittance; but the family had retreated into the back premises, I judged, by one thin, blue wreath, curling from the kitchen chimney, and they did not hear. I rode into the court. Under the porch, a girl of nine or ten sat knitting, and an old woman reclined on the housesteps, smoking a meditative pipe. 'Is Mrs. Dean within?' I demanded of the dame. 'Mistress Dean? Nay!' she answered, 'she doesn't bide here: shoo's up at th' Heights.' 'Are you the housekeeper, then?' I continued. 'Eea, aw keep th' hause,' she replied. 'Well, I'm Mr. Lockwood, the master. Are there any rooms to lodge me in, I wonder? I wish to stay all night.' 'T' maister!' she cried in astonishment. 'Whet, whoiver knew yah wur coming? Yah sud ha' send word. They's nowt norther dry nor mensful abaht t' place: nowt there isn't!' She threw down her pipe and bustled in, the girl followed, and I entered too; soon perceiving that her report was true, and, moreover, that I had almost upset her wits by my unwelcome apparition, I bade her be composed. I would go out for a walk; and, meantime she must try to prepare a corner of a sitting-room for me to sup in, and a bedroom to sleep in. No sweeping and dusting, only good fire and dry sheets were necessary. She seemed willing to do her best; though she thrust the hearth-brush into the grates in mistake for the poker, and malappropriated several other articles of her craft: but I retired, confiding in her energy for a resting-place against my return. Wuthering Heights was the goal of my proposed excursion. An afterthought brought me back, when I had quitted the court. 'All well at the Heights?' I inquired of the woman. 'Eea, f'r owt ee knaw!' she answered, skurrying away with a pan of hot cinders. I would have asked why Mrs. Dean had deserted the Grange, but it was impossible to delay her at such a crisis, so I turned away and made my exit, rambling leisurely along, with the glow of a sinking sun behind, and the mild glory of a rising moon in front--one fading, and the other brightening--as I quitted the park, and climbed the stony by-road branching off to Mr. Heathcliff's dwelling. Before I arrived in sight of it, all that remained of day was a beamless amber light along the west: but I could see every pebble on the path, and every blade of grass, by that splendid moon. I had neither to climb the gate nor to knock--it yielded to my hand. That is an improvement, I thought. And I noticed another, by the aid of my nostrils; a fragrance of stocks and wallflowers wafted on the air from amongst the homely fruit-trees. Both doors and lattices were open; and yet, as is usually the case in a coal-district, a fine red fire illumined the chimney: the comfort which the eye derives from it renders the extra heat endurable. But the house of Wuthering Heights is so large that the inmates have plenty of space for withdrawing out of its influence; and accordingly what inmates there were had stationed themselves not far from one of the windows. I could both see them and hear them talk before I entered, and looked and listened in consequence; being moved thereto by a mingled sense of curiosity and envy, that grew as I lingered. 'Con-_trary_!' said a voice as sweet as a silver bell. 'That for the third time, you dunce! I'm not going to tell you again. Recollect, or I'll pull your hair!' 'Contrary, then,' answered another, in deep but softened tones. 'And now, kiss me, for minding so well.' 'No, read it over first correctly, without a single mistake.' The male speaker began to read: he was a young man, respectably dressed and seated at a table, having a book before him. His handsome features glowed with pleasure, and his eyes kept impatiently wandering from the page to a small white hand over his shoulder, which recalled him by a smart slap on the cheek, whenever its owner detected such signs of inattention. Its owner stood behind; her light, shining ringlets blending, at intervals, with his brown looks, as she bent to superintend his studies; and her face--it was lucky he could not see her face, or he would never have been so steady. I could; and I bit my lip in spite, at having thrown away the chance I might have had of doing something besides staring at its smiting beauty. The task was done, not free from further blunders; but the pupil claimed a reward, and received at least five kisses; which, however, he generously returned. Then they came to the door, and from their conversation I judged they were about to issue out and have a walk on the moors. I supposed I should be condemned in Hareton Earnshaw's heart, if not by his mouth, to the lowest pit in the infernal regions if I showed my unfortunate person in his neighbourhood then; and feeling very mean and malignant, I skulked round to seek refuge in the kitchen. There was unobstructed admittance on that side also; and at the door sat my old friend Nelly Dean, sewing and singing a song; which was often interrupted from within by harsh words of scorn and intolerance, uttered in far from musical accents. 'I'd rayther, by th' haulf, hev' 'em swearing i' my lugs fro'h morn to neeght, nor hearken ye hahsiver!' said the tenant of the kitchen, in answer to an unheard speech of Nelly's. 'It's a blazing shame, that I cannot oppen t' blessed Book, but yah set up them glories to sattan, and all t' flaysome wickednesses that iver were born into th' warld! Oh! ye're a raight nowt; and shoo's another; and that poor lad 'll be lost atween ye. Poor lad!' he added, with a groan; 'he's witched: I'm sartin on't. Oh, Lord, judge 'em, for there's norther law nor justice among wer rullers!' 'No! or we should be sitting in flaming fagots, I suppose,' retorted the singer. 'But wisht, old man, and read your Bible like a Christian, and never mind me. This is "Fairy Annie's Wedding"--a bonny tune--it goes to a dance.' Mrs. Dean was about to recommence, when I advanced; and recognising me directly, she jumped to her feet, crying--'Why, bless you, Mr. Lockwood! How could you think of returning in this way? All's shut up at Thrushcross Grange. You should have given us notice!' 'I've arranged to be accommodated there, for as long as I shall stay,' I answered. 'I depart again to-morrow. And how are you transplanted here, Mrs. Dean? tell me that.' 'Zillah left, and Mr. Heathcliff wished me to come, soon after you went to London, and stay till you returned. But, step in, pray! Have you walked from Gimmerton this evening?' 'From the Grange,' I replied; 'and while they make me lodging room there, I want to finish my business with your master; because I don't think of having another opportunity in a hurry.' 'What business, sir?' said Nelly, conducting me into the house. 'He's gone out at present, and won't return soon.' 'About the rent,' I answered. 'Oh! then it is with Mrs. Heathcliff you must settle,' she observed; 'or rather with me. She has not learnt to manage her affairs yet, and I act for her: there's nobody else.' I looked surprised. 'Ah! you have not heard of Heathcliff's death, I see,' she continued. 'Heathcliff dead!' I exclaimed, astonished. 'How long ago?' 'Three months since: but sit down, and let me take your hat, and I'll tell you all about it. Stop, you have had nothing to eat, have you?' 'I want nothing: I have ordered supper at home. You sit down too. I never dreamt of his dying! Let me hear how it came to pass. You say you don't expect them back for some time--the young people?' 'No--I have to scold them every evening for their late rambles: but they don't care for me. At least, have a drink of our old ale; it will do you good: you seem weary.' She hastened to fetch it before I could refuse, and I heard Joseph asking whether 'it warn't a crying scandal that she should have followers at her time of life? And then, to get them jocks out o' t' maister's cellar! He fair shaamed to 'bide still and see it.' She did not stay to retaliate, but re-entered in a minute, bearing a reaming silver pint, whose contents I lauded with becoming earnestness. And afterwards she furnished me with the sequel of Heathcliff's history. He had a 'queer' end, as she expressed it. I was summoned to Wuthering Heights, within a fortnight of your leaving us, she said; and I obeyed joyfully, for Catherine's sake. My first interview with her grieved and shocked me: she had altered so much since our separation. Mr. Heathcliff did not explain his reasons for taking a new mind about my coming here; he only told me he wanted me, and he was tired of seeing Catherine: I must make the little parlour my sitting-room, and keep her with me. It was enough if he were obliged to see her once or twice a day. She seemed pleased at this arrangement; and, by degrees, I smuggled over a great number of books, and other articles, that had formed her amusement at the Grange; and flattered myself we should get on in tolerable comfort. The delusion did not last long. Catherine, contented at first, in a brief space grew irritable and restless. For one thing, she was forbidden to move out of the garden, and it fretted her sadly to be confined to its narrow bounds as spring drew on; for another, in following the house, I was forced to quit her frequently, and she complained of loneliness: she preferred quarrelling with Joseph in the kitchen to sitting at peace in her solitude. I did not mind their skirmishes: but Hareton was often obliged to seek the kitchen also, when the master wanted to have the house to himself! and though in the beginning she either left it at his approach, or quietly joined in my occupations, and shunned remarking or addressing him--and though he was always as sullen and silent as possible--after a while, she changed her behaviour, and became incapable of letting him alone: talking at him; commenting on his stupidity and idleness; expressing her wonder how he could endure the life he lived--how he could sit a whole evening staring into the fire, and dozing. 'He's just like a dog, is he not, Ellen?' she once observed, 'or a cart-horse? He does his work, eats his food, and sleeps eternally! What a blank, dreary mind he must have! Do you ever dream, Hareton? And, if you do, what is it about? But you can't speak to me!' Then she looked at him; but he would neither open his mouth nor look again. 'He's, perhaps, dreaming now,' she continued. 'He twitched his shoulder as Juno twitches hers. Ask him, Ellen.' 'Mr. Hareton will ask the master to send you up-stairs, if you don't behave!' I said. He had not only twitched his shoulder but clenched his fist, as if tempted to use it. 'I know why Hareton never speaks, when I am in the kitchen,' she exclaimed, on another occasion. 'He is afraid I shall laugh at him. Ellen, what do you think? He began to teach himself to read once; and, because I laughed, he burned his books, and dropped it: was he not a fool?' 'Were not you naughty?' I said; 'answer me that.' 'Perhaps I was,' she went on; 'but I did not expect him to be so silly. Hareton, if I gave you a book, would you take it now? I'll try!' She placed one she had been perusing on his hand; he flung it off, and muttered, if she did not give over, he would break her neck. 'Well, I shall put it here,' she said, 'in the table-drawer; and I'm going to bed.' Then she whispered me to watch whether he touched it, and departed. But he would not come near it; and so I informed her in the morning, to her great disappointment. I saw she was sorry for his persevering sulkiness and indolence: her conscience reproved her for frightening him off improving himself: she had done it effectually. But her ingenuity was at work to remedy the injury: while I ironed, or pursued other such stationary employments as I could not well do in the parlour, she would bring some pleasant volume and read it aloud to me. When Hareton was there, she generally paused in an interesting part, and left the book lying about: that she did repeatedly; but he was as obstinate as a mule, and, instead of snatching at her bait, in wet weather he took to smoking with Joseph; and they sat like automatons, one on each side of the fire, the elder happily too deaf to understand her wicked nonsense, as he would have called it, the younger doing his best to seem to disregard it. On fine evenings the latter followed his shooting expeditions, and Catherine yawned and sighed, and teased me to talk to her, and ran off into the court or garden the moment I began; and, as a last resource, cried, and said she was tired of living: her life was useless. Mr. Heathcliff, who grew more and more disinclined to society, had almost banished Earnshaw from his apartment. Owing to an accident at the commencement of March, he became for some days a fixture in the kitchen. His gun burst while out on the hills by himself; a splinter cut his arm, and he lost a good deal of blood before he could reach home. The consequence was that, perforce, he was condemned to the fireside and tranquillity, till he made it up again. It suited Catherine to have him there: at any rate, it made her hate her room up-stairs more than ever: and she would compel me to find out business below, that she might accompany me. On Easter Monday, Joseph went to Gimmerton fair with some cattle; and, in the afternoon, I was busy getting up linen in the kitchen. Earnshaw sat, morose as usual, at the chimney corner, and my little mistress was beguiling an idle hour with drawing pictures on the window-panes, varying her amusement by smothered bursts of songs, and whispered ejaculations, and quick glances of annoyance and impatience in the direction of her cousin, who steadfastly smoked, and looked into the grate. At a notice that I could do with her no longer intercepting my light, she removed to the hearthstone. I bestowed little attention on her proceedings, but, presently, I heard her begin--'I've found out, Hareton, that I want--that I'm glad--that I should like you to be my cousin now, if you had not grown so cross to me, and so rough.' Hareton returned no answer. 'Hareton, Hareton, Hareton! do you hear?' she continued. 'Get off wi' ye!' he growled, with uncompromising gruffness. 'Let me take that pipe,' she said, cautiously advancing her hand and abstracting it from his mouth. Before he could attempt to recover it, it was broken, and behind the fire. He swore at her and seized another. 'Stop,' she cried, 'you must listen to me first; and I can't speak while those clouds are floating in my face.' 'Will you go to the devil!' he exclaimed, ferociously, 'and let me be!' 'No,' she persisted, 'I won't: I can't tell what to do to make you talk to me; and you are determined not to understand. When I call you stupid, I don't mean anything: I don't mean that I despise you. Come, you shall take notice of me, Hareton: you are my cousin, and you shall own me.' 'I shall have naught to do wi' you and your mucky pride, and your damned mocking tricks!' he answered. 'I'll go to hell, body and soul, before I look sideways after you again. Side out o' t' gate, now, this minute!' Catherine frowned, and retreated to the window-seat chewing her lip, and endeavouring, by humming an eccentric tune, to conceal a growing tendency to sob. 'You should be friends with your cousin, Mr. Hareton,' I interrupted, 'since she repents of her sauciness. It would do you a great deal of good: it would make you another man to have her for a companion.' 'A companion!' he cried; 'when she hates me, and does not think me fit to wipe her shoon! Nay, if it made me a king, I'd not be scorned for seeking her good-will any more.' 'It is not I who hate you, it is you who hate me!' wept Cathy, no longer disguising her trouble. 'You hate me as much as Mr. Heathcliff does, and more.' 'You're a damned liar,' began Earnshaw: 'why have I made him angry, by taking your part, then, a hundred times? and that when you sneered at and despised me, and--Go on plaguing me, and I'll step in yonder, and say you worried me out of the kitchen!' 'I didn't know you took my part,' she answered, drying her eyes; 'and I was miserable and bitter at everybody; but now I thank you, and beg you to forgive me: what can I do besides?' She returned to the hearth, and frankly extended her hand. He blackened and scowled like a thunder-cloud, and kept his fists resolutely clenched, and his gaze fixed on the ground. Catherine, by instinct, must have divined it was obdurate perversity, and not dislike, that prompted this dogged conduct; for, after remaining an instant undecided, she stooped and impressed on his cheek a gentle kiss. The little rogue thought I had not seen her, and, drawing back, she took her former station by the window, quite demurely. I shook my head reprovingly, and then she blushed and whispered--'Well! what should I have done, Ellen? He wouldn't shake hands, and he wouldn't look: I must show him some way that I like him--that I want to be friends.' Whether the kiss convinced Hareton, I cannot tell: he was very careful, for some minutes, that his face should not be seen, and when he did raise it, he was sadly puzzled where to turn his eyes. Catherine employed herself in wrapping a handsome book neatly in white paper, and having tied it with a bit of ribbon, and addressed it to 'Mr. Hareton Earnshaw,' she desired me to be her ambassadress, and convey the present to its destined recipient. 'And tell him, if he'll take it, I'll come and teach him to read it right,' she said; 'and, if he refuse it, I'll go upstairs, and never tease him again.' I carried it, and repeated the message; anxiously watched by my employer. Hareton would not open his fingers, so I laid it on his knee. He did not strike it off, either. I returned to my work. Catherine leaned her head and arms on the table, till she heard the slight rustle of the covering being removed; then she stole away, and quietly seated herself beside her cousin. He trembled, and his face glowed: all his rudeness and all his surly harshness had deserted him: he could not summon courage, at first, to utter a syllable in reply to her questioning look, and her murmured petition. 'Say you forgive me, Hareton, do. You can make me so happy by speaking that little word.' He muttered something inaudible. 'And you'll be my friend?' added Catherine, interrogatively. 'Nay, you'll be ashamed of me every day of your life,' he answered; 'and the more ashamed, the more you know me; and I cannot bide it.' 'So you won't be my friend?' she said, smiling as sweet as honey, and creeping close up. I overheard no further distinguishable talk, but, on looking round again, I perceived two such radiant countenances bent over the page of the accepted book, that I did not doubt the treaty had been ratified on both sides; and the enemies were, thenceforth, sworn allies. The work they studied was full of costly pictures; and those and their position had charm enough to keep them unmoved till Joseph came home. He, poor man, was perfectly aghast at the spectacle of Catherine seated on the same bench with Hareton Earnshaw, leaning her hand on his shoulder; and confounded at his favourite's endurance of her proximity: it affected him too deeply to allow an observation on the subject that night. His emotion was only revealed by the immense sighs he drew, as he solemnly spread his large Bible on the table, and overlaid it with dirty bank-notes from his pocket-book, the produce of the day's transactions. At length he summoned Hareton from his seat. 'Tak' these in to t' maister, lad,' he said, 'and bide there. I's gang up to my own rahm. This hoile's neither mensful nor seemly for us: we mun side out and seearch another.' 'Come, Catherine,' I said, 'we must "side out" too: I've done my ironing. Are you ready to go?' 'It is not eight o'clock!' she answered, rising unwillingly. 'Hareton, I'll leave this book upon the chimney-piece, and I'll bring some more to-morrow.' 'Ony books that yah leave, I shall tak' into th' hahse,' said Joseph, 'and it'll be mitch if yah find 'em agean; soa, yah may plase yerseln!' Cathy threatened that his library should pay for hers; and, smiling as she passed Hareton, went singing up-stairs: lighter of heart, I venture to say, than ever she had been under that roof before; except, perhaps, during her earliest visits to Linton. The intimacy thus commenced grew rapidly; though it encountered temporary interruptions. Earnshaw was not to be civilized with a wish, and my young lady was no philosopher, and no paragon of patience; but both their minds tending to the same point--one loving and desiring to esteem, and the other loving and desiring to be esteemed--they contrived in the end to reach it. Sie sehen, Mr. Lockwood, es war ziemlich einfach, das Herz von Mrs. Heathcliff zu gewinnen. Aber ich bin froh, dass Sie es nicht versucht haben. Die Krönung all meiner Wünsche wird die Vereinigung dieser beiden sein. An ihrem Hochzeitstag werde ich niemanden beneiden: Es wird keine glücklichere Frau in England geben als mich! Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Heathcliff zwingt Catherine, zurück nach Wuthering Heights zu gehen. Rechtlich gesehen hat er durch Linton den größeren Anspruch auf das Grange-Anwesen, deshalb hat Catherine keine Wahl, als ihrem Schwiegervater zu gehorchen. Heathcliff wird Catherine in Wuthering Heights brauchen, um für sich selbst zu arbeiten. Unheilschwanger erklärt Heathcliff, dass er Linton für seine Missachtung bestraft hat, indem er Catherine entkommen ließ, und dass er ihn nicht noch einmal missachten wird. Heathcliff erzählt Nelly, dass ihn seit Cathys Tod vor achtzehn Jahren ihr Geist verfolgt und dass Cathy nicht möchte, dass Nelly Wuthering Heights besucht. In Wuthering Heights kümmert sich Catherine um ihren Mann. Sie erhält keine Hilfe von Zillah oder Hareton. Nach Lintons Tod wird sie zu einer einsamen Figur in Wuthering Heights. Heathcliff gibt Nelly den Rat, nach einem Mieter für das Grange-Anwesen Ausschau zu halten. Lockwood besucht Wuthering Heights und hat eine Nachricht von Nelly für Catherine. Hareton nimmt den Zettel, gibt ihn jedoch schließlich Catherine, die ihn verspottet, weil er nicht lesen kann. Hareton ist von dieser Demütigung so peinlich berührt, dass er seine Bücher ins Feuer wirft. Jedoch gibt es eine beunruhigende Entwicklung, die von Heathcliff nicht vorhergesehen wurde: Hareton beginnt, Gefühle für Catherine zu entwickeln. Heathcliff fällt Haretons Ähnlichkeit mit seiner Tante Cathy auf. Es nagt an Heathcliff, denn nun gibt es einen ständigen Reminder in seinem Zuhause bezüglich seiner verlorenen Liebe. Nach weiteren sechs Monaten kehrt Lockwood in die Gegend zurück, um zu erfahren, dass Nelly jetzt in Wuthering Heights ist. Er ist gespannt, was sich seit seinem ersten Besuch entwickelt hat. Nelly wurde nach Wuthering Heights gerufen, um Catherine Gesellschaft zu leisten, da Zillah gegangen ist. Catherine bereut es, Hareton in der Vergangenheit gedemütigt zu haben, und er meidet sie jetzt. Heathcliff ist völlig zurückgezogen. Der unglückliche Hareton ist in einen Schießunfall verwickelt, und Catherine stimmt schließlich zu, dass die beiden richtige Cousins sein sollten. Catherine bietet sogar an, Hareton das Lesen beizubringen und sagt ihm, dass sie ihn nicht mehr hänseln wird.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: DER HAUPTSITZ DER SOZIALEN ARBEIT DER FRAUEN, LOWER CLAPTON ROAD Der Hauptsitz der Sozialarbeit der Frauen der Heilsarmee in England befindet sich in Clapton. Es handelt sich um ein Grundstück von knapp drei Acres, auf dem vier Häuser stehen, die immer dann neu errichtet werden, wenn Mittel für den Bau des Geburtskrankenhauses und der Ausbildungseinrichtung für Krankenschwestern und Hebammen vorhanden sind, von denen ich bereits erwähnt habe. Derzeit arbeiten hier etwa vierzig Offiziere, von denen die meisten Frauen sind, unter dem Kommando von Kommissarin Cox, einer der führenden von 600 Frauenoffizieren der Heilsarmee im Vereinigten Königreich, die ihre Dienste der sozialen Arbeit für Frauen widmen. Es ist fast überflüssig zu erwähnen, dass Kommissarin Cox eine äußerst fähige Dame ist, die sich ganz der Sache gewidmet hat, der sie ihr Leben gewidmet hat. Einer der Gründe für den großen Erfolg der Heilsarmee ist, dass nur fähige Personen, die genau für die jeweilige Aufgabe geeignet sind, mit der Leitung dieser Aufgabe betraut werden. Hier gibt es keine Versorgungsposten, keine käuflichen Pfründen und keine erblichen Lehen. Darüber hinaus besteht die Politik der Armee im Allgemeinen darin, niemanden zu lange auf einem Amt zu belassen, damit er oder sie nicht versteinert oder lokalen Einflüssen unterliegt. Ich erinnere mich, als ich in Amerika war, von einem Fall gehört zu haben, bei dem ein sehr führender Offizier der Armee, der zufällig ein nahe Verwandter von General Booth war, sich weigerte, einem Befehl zu gehorchen und sein Kommando für ein anderes in einer völlig anderen Weltregion zu wechseln. Der Befehl wurde einmal oder zweimal wiederholt und jedes Mal missachtet. Es folgte ein Rücktritt und der Versuch, eine konkurrierende Organisation zu gründen. Ich erwähne dies nur, um zu zeigen, dass in dieser Gesellschaft Disziplin ohne Furcht, Gefälligkeit oder Voreingenommenheit durchgesetzt wird, was vielleicht ein Hauptgrund für ihre Effizienz ist. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Burns wird vor das Medizinalboard gebracht, und obwohl Rivers Burns versichert hat, dass er eine bedingungslose Entlassung empfohlen hat, ist Burns extrem ängstlich. Während des Gesprächs hilft Rivers einem gefangenen Insekt, seinen Weg zum Fenster zu finden. Prior ist wieder in der Krankenstation, nachdem er auf der Zugfahrt nach Hause mit Sarah bewusstlos geworden ist. Er spricht mit Rivers, der ihm sagt, dass sein asthmatischer Zustand dem Board gemeldet werden muss. Prior ist frustriert, er möchte nach Frankreich zurückkehren, weil er das Gefühl hat, dass er nirgendwo anders hinpasst. Er braucht Menschen, mit denen er sprechen kann, und er fühlt, dass die Soldaten an der Front die einzigen Männer sind, die sich mit ihm identifizieren können. Prior fühlt sich gescheitert, weil er zusammengebrochen ist, und er möchte an die Front zurückkehren, um sich zu beweisen. Rivers erhält einen Anruf, dass etwas mit Anderson nicht stimmt. Rivers eilt in Andersons Zimmer und findet ihn auf dem Boden in Fötalposition, vor dem Blut von der Rasierwunde seines Zimmernachbarn ängstlich. Rivers macht Anderson sauber, beruhigt ihn und bittet ihn ernsthaft darüber nachzudenken, welchen Beruf er ausüben möchte, wenn er das Krankenhaus verlässt. Rivers beginnt dann mit seinen täglichen Terminen. Der erste Patient ist Willard, der darum bittet, von Prior in der Krankenstation getrennt zu werden; er kann Prior Albträume und Schreie nicht ertragen und außerdem denkt er, dass Prior schwul ist. Der nächste Patient ist Featherstone, der um ein anderes Zimmer bittet; er kann Anderson als Zimmernachbar nicht länger ertragen. Rivers hat viel zu tun mit einer Reihe von Patienten und Terminen. Es stellt sich heraus, dass Broadbent, der schwor, dass seine Mutter gestorben sei und der sich für die Beerdigung freigestellt hatte, völlig entsetzt war, als seine Mutter auftauchte und fragte, warum sie nie etwas von ihrem Sohn gehört habe. Am Ende des Tages ist Rivers erschöpft. Er geht früh zu Bett, wacht aber mitten in der Nacht mit schrecklichen Brustschmerzen auf. Als am nächsten Morgen Dr. Bryce hereinkommt, untersucht er Rivers, stellt einen unregelmäßigen Herzschlag fest und ordnet an, dass er drei Wochen Urlaub nehmen soll. In dieser Nacht tobt ein schweres Unwetter. Sassoon geht in Owens Zimmer und gemeinsam arbeiten sie einige Stunden an Gedichten. Als Sassoon in sein eigenes Zimmer zurückkehrt, denkt er an all die Männer unter seinem Kommando: wie sie in schlechtem körperlichen Zustand waren, viele davon nur fünf Fuß groß, "fast eine andere Spezies". Sassoon fällt in einen unruhigen Schlaf und träumt, dass sein Freund Orme an der Tür ist, dann jedoch bemerkt er, dass Orme tot ist. Sassoon wacht auf und wartet auf den Morgen, um mit Rivers sprechen zu können, bevor er in Urlaub geht. Er eilt in Rivers' Büro, nur um festzustellen, dass der Arzt bereits mit dem frühen Zug abgereist ist. Sassoon ist niedergeschlagen. Er kehrt in sein Zimmer zurück und denkt an seinen Vater, der ihn verlassen hat. Er erkennt, wie vollständig Rivers seinen Platz eingenommen hat und wie sehr sich das wie eine zweite Verlassenschaft anfühlt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: To Garum Firs While the possible troubles of Maggie's future were occupying her father's mind, she herself was tasting only the bitterness of the present. Childhood has no forebodings; but then, it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow. The fact was, the day had begun ill with Maggie. The pleasure of having Lucy to look at, and the prospect of the afternoon visit to Garum Firs, where she would hear uncle Pullet's musical box, had been marred as early as eleven o'clock by the advent of the hair-dresser from St. Ogg's, who had spoken in the severest terms of the condition in which he had found her hair, holding up one jagged lock after another and saying, "See here! tut, tut, tut!" in a tone of mingled disgust and pity, which to Maggie's imagination was equivalent to the strongest expression of public opinion. Mr. Rappit, the hair-dresser, with his well-anointed coronal locks tending wavily upward, like the simulated pyramid of flame on a monumental urn, seemed to her at that moment the most formidable of her contemporaries, into whose street at St. Ogg's she would carefully refrain from entering through the rest of her life. Moreover, the preparation for a visit being always a serious affair in the Dodson family, Martha was enjoined to have Mrs. Tulliver's room ready an hour earlier than usual, that the laying out of the best clothes might not be deferred till the last moment, as was sometimes the case in families of lax views, where the ribbon-strings were never rolled up, where there was little or no wrapping in silver paper, and where the sense that the Sunday clothes could be got at quite easily produced no shock to the mind. Already, at twelve o'clock, Mrs. Tulliver had on her visiting costume, with a protective apparatus of brown holland, as if she had been a piece of satin furniture in danger of flies; Maggie was frowning and twisting her shoulders, that she might if possible shrink away from the prickliest of tuckers, while her mother was remonstrating, "Don't, Maggie, my dear; don't make yourself so ugly!" and Tom's cheeks were looking particularly brilliant as a relief to his best blue suit, which he wore with becoming calmness, having, after a little wrangling, effected what was always the one point of interest to him in his toilet: he had transferred all the contents of his every-day pockets to those actually in wear. As for Lucy, she was just as pretty and neat as she had been yesterday; no accidents ever happened to her clothes, and she was never uncomfortable in them, so that she looked with wondering pity at Maggie, pouting and writhing under the exasperating tucker. Maggie would certainly have torn it off, if she had not been checked by the remembrance of her recent humiliation about her hair; as it was, she confined herself to fretting and twisting, and behaving peevishly about the card-houses which they were allowed to build till dinner, as a suitable amusement for boys and girls in their best clothes. Tom could build perfect pyramids of houses; but Maggie's would never bear the laying on the roof. It was always so with the things that Maggie made; and Tom had deduced the conclusion that no girls could ever make anything. But it happened that Lucy proved wonderfully clever at building; she handled the cards so lightly, and moved so gently, that Tom condescended to admire her houses as well as his own, the more readily because she had asked him to teach her. Maggie, too, would have admired Lucy's houses, and would have given up her own unsuccessful building to contemplate them, without ill temper, if her tucker had not made her peevish, and if Tom had not inconsiderately laughed when her houses fell, and told her she was "a stupid." "Don't laugh at me, Tom!" she burst out angrily; "I'm not a stupid. I know a great many things you don't." "Oh, I dare say, Miss Spitfire! I'd never be such a cross thing as you, making faces like that. Lucy doesn't do so. I like Lucy better than you; _I_ wish Lucy was _my_ sister." "Then it's very wicked and cruel of you to wish so," said Maggie, starting up hurriedly from her place on the floor, and upsetting Tom's wonderful pagoda. She really did not mean it, but the circumstantial evidence was against her, and Tom turned white with anger, but said nothing; he would have struck her, only he knew it was cowardly to strike a girl, and Tom Tulliver was quite determined he would never do anything cowardly. Maggie stood in dismay and terror, while Tom got up from the floor and walked away, pale, from the scattered ruins of his pagoda, and Lucy looked on mutely, like a kitten pausing from its lapping. "Oh, Tom," said Maggie, at last, going half-way toward him, "I didn't mean to knock it down, indeed, indeed I didn't." Tom took no notice of her, but took, instead, two or three hard peas out of his pocket, and shot them with his thumbnail against the window, vaguely at first, but presently with the distinct aim of hitting a superannuated blue-bottle which was exposing its imbecility in the spring sunshine, clearly against the views of Nature, who had provided Tom and the peas for the speedy destruction of this weak individual. Thus the morning had been made heavy to Maggie, and Tom's persistent coldness to her all through their walk spoiled the fresh air and sunshine for her. He called Lucy to look at the half-built bird's nest without caring to show it Maggie, and peeled a willow switch for Lucy and himself, without offering one to Maggie. Lucy had said, "Maggie, shouldn't _you_ like one?" but Tom was deaf. Still, the sight of the peacock opportunely spreading his tail on the stackyard wall, just as they reached Garum Firs, was enough to divert the mind temporarily from personal grievances. And this was only the beginning of beautiful sights at Garum Firs. All the farmyard life was wonderful there,--bantams, speckled and top-knotted; Friesland hens, with their feathers all turned the wrong way; Guinea-fowls that flew and screamed and dropped their pretty spotted feathers; pouter-pigeons and a tame magpie; nay, a goat, and a wonderful brindled dog, half mastiff, half bull-dog, as large as a lion. Then there were white railings and white gates all about, and glittering weathercocks of various design, and garden-walks paved with pebbles in beautiful patterns,--nothing was quite common at Garum Firs; and Tom thought that the unusual size of the toads there was simply due to the general unusualness which characterized uncle Pullet's possessions as a gentleman farmer. Toads who paid rent were naturally leaner. As for the house, it was not less remarkable; it had a receding centre, and two wings with battlemented turrets, and was covered with glittering white stucco. Uncle Pullet had seen the expected party approaching from the window, and made haste to unbar and unchain the front door, kept always in this fortified condition from fear of tramps, who might be supposed to know of the glass case of stuffed birds in the hall, and to contemplate rushing in and carrying it away on their heads. Aunt Pullet, too, appeared at the doorway, and as soon as her sister was within hearing said, "Stop the children, for God's sake! Bessy; don't let 'em come up the door-steps; Sally's bringing the old mat and the duster, to rub their shoes." Mrs. Pullet's front-door mats were by no means intended to wipe shoes on; the very scraper had a deputy to do its dirty work. Tom rebelled particularly against this shoewiping, which he always considered in the light of an indignity to his sex. He felt it as the beginning of the disagreeables incident to a visit at aunt Pullet's, where he had once been compelled to sit with towels wrapped round his boots; a fact which may serve to correct the too-hasty conclusion that a visit to Garum Firs must have been a great treat to a young gentleman fond of animals,--fond, that is, of throwing stones at them. The next disagreeable was confined to his feminine companions; it was the mounting of the polished oak stairs, which had very handsome carpets rolled up and laid by in a spare bedroom, so that the ascent of these glossy steps might have served, in barbarous times, as a trial by ordeal from which none but the most spotless virtue could have come off with unbroken limbs. Sophy's weakness about these polished stairs was always a subject of bitter remonstrance on Mrs. Glegg's part; but Mrs. Tulliver ventured on no comment, only thinking to herself it was a mercy when she and the children were safe on the landing. "Mrs. Gray has sent home my new bonnet, Bessy," said Mrs. Pullet, in a pathetic tone, as Mrs. Tulliver adjusted her cap. "Has she, sister?" said Mrs. Tulliver, with an air of much interest. "And how do you like it?" "It's apt to make a mess with clothes, taking 'em out and putting 'em in again," said Mrs. Pullet, drawing a bunch of keys from her pocket and looking at them earnestly, "but it 'ud be a pity for you to go away without seeing it. There's no knowing what may happen." Mrs. Pullet shook her head slowly at this last serious consideration, which determined her to single out a particular key. "I'm afraid it'll be troublesome to you getting it out, sister," said Mrs. Tulliver; "but I _should_ like to see what sort of a crown she's made you." Mrs. Pullet rose with a melancholy air and unlocked one wing of a very bright wardrobe, where you may have hastily supposed she would find a new bonnet. Not at all. Such a supposition could only have arisen from a too-superficial acquaintance with the habits of the Dodson family. In this wardrobe Mrs. Pullet was seeking something small enough to be hidden among layers of linen,--it was a door-key. "You must come with me into the best room," said Mrs. Pullet. "May the children come too, sister?" inquired Mrs. Tulliver, who saw that Maggie and Lucy were looking rather eager. "Well," said aunt Pullet, reflectively, "it'll perhaps be safer for 'em to come; they'll be touching something if we leave 'em behind." So they went in procession along the bright and slippery corridor, dimly lighted by the semi-lunar top of the window which rose above the closed shutter; it was really quite solemn. Aunt Pullet paused and unlocked a door which opened on something still more solemn than the passage,--a darkened room, in which the outer light, entering feebly, showed what looked like the corpses of furniture in white shrouds. Everything that was not shrouded stood with its legs upward. Lucy laid hold of Maggie's frock, and Maggie's heart beat rapidly. Aunt Pullet half-opened the shutter and then unlocked the wardrobe, with a melancholy deliberateness which was quite in keeping with the funereal solemnity of the scene. The delicious scent of rose-leaves that issued from the wardrobe made the process of taking out sheet after sheet of silver paper quite pleasant to assist at, though the sight of the bonnet at last was an anticlimax to Maggie, who would have preferred something more strikingly preternatural. But few things could have been more impressive to Mrs. Tulliver. She looked all round it in silence for some moments, and then said emphatically, "Well, sister, I'll never speak against the full crowns again!" It was a great concession, and Mrs. Pullet felt it; she felt something was due to it. "You'd like to see it on, sister?" she said sadly. "I'll open the shutter a bit further." "Well, if you don't mind taking off your cap, sister," said Mrs. Tulliver. Mrs. Pullet took off her cap, displaying the brown silk scalp with a jutting promontory of curls which was common to the more mature and judicious women of those times, and placing the bonnet on her head, turned slowly round, like a draper's lay-figure, that Mrs. Tulliver might miss no point of view. "I've sometimes thought there's a loop too much o' ribbon on this left side, sister; what do you think?" said Mrs. Pullet. Mrs. Tulliver looked earnestly at the point indicated, and turned her head on one side. "Well, I think it's best as it is; if you meddled with it, sister, you might repent." "That's true," said aunt Pullet, taking off the bonnet and looking at it contemplatively. "How much might she charge you for that bonnet, sister?" said Mrs. Tulliver, whose mind was actively engaged on the possibility of getting a humble imitation of this _chef-d'oeuvre_ made from a piece of silk she had at home. Mrs. Pullet screwed up her mouth and shook her head, and then whispered, "Pullet pays for it; he said I was to have the best bonnet at Garum Church, let the next best be whose it would." She began slowly to adjust the trimmings, in preparation for returning it to its place in the wardrobe, and her thoughts seemed to have taken a melancholy turn, for she shook her head. "Ah," she said at last, "I may never wear it twice, sister; who knows?" "Don't talk o' that sister," answered Mrs. Tulliver. "I hope you'll have your health this summer." "Ah! but there may come a death in the family, as there did soon after I had my green satin bonnet. Cousin Abbott may go, and we can't think o' wearing crape less nor half a year for him." "That _would_ be unlucky," said Mrs. Tulliver, entering thoroughly into the possibility of an inopportune decease. "There's never so much pleasure i' wearing a bonnet the second year, especially when the crowns are so chancy,--never two summers alike." "Ah, it's the way i' this world," said Mrs. Pullet, returning the bonnet to the wardrobe and locking it up. She maintained a silence characterized by head-shaking, until they had all issued from the solemn chamber and were in her own room again. Then, beginning to cry, she said, "Sister, if you should never see that bonnet again till I'm dead and gone, you'll remember I showed it you this day." Mrs. Tulliver felt that she ought to be affected, but she was a woman of sparse tears, stout and healthy; she couldn't cry so much as her sister Pullet did, and had often felt her deficiency at funerals. Her effort to bring tears into her eyes issued in an odd contraction of her face. Maggie, looking on attentively, felt that there was some painful mystery about her aunt's bonnet which she was considered too young to understand; indignantly conscious, all the while, that she could have understood that, as well as everything else, if she had been taken into confidence. When they went down, uncle Pullet observed, with some acumen, that he reckoned the missis had been showing her bonnet,--that was what had made them so long upstairs. With Tom the interval had seemed still longer, for he had been seated in irksome constraint on the edge of a sofa directly opposite his uncle Pullet, who regarded him with twinkling gray eyes, and occasionally addressed him as "Young sir." "Well, young sir, what do you learn at school?" was a standing question with uncle Pullet; whereupon Tom always looked sheepish, rubbed his hands across his face, and answered, "I don't know." It was altogether so embarrassing to be seated _tete-a-tete_ with uncle Pullet, that Tom could not even look at the prints on the walls, or the flycages, or the wonderful flower-pots; he saw nothing but his uncle's gaiters. Not that Tom was in awe of his uncle's mental superiority; indeed, he had made up his mind that he didn't want to be a gentleman farmer, because he shouldn't like to be such a thin-legged, silly fellow as his uncle Pullet,--a molly-coddle, in fact. A boy's sheepishness is by no means a sign of overmastering reverence; and while you are making encouraging advances to him under the idea that he is overwhelmed by a sense of your age and wisdom, ten to one he is thinking you extremely queer. The only consolation I can suggest to you is, that the Greek boys probably thought the same of Aristotle. It is only when you have mastered a restive horse, or thrashed a drayman, or have got a gun in your hand, that these shy juniors feel you to be a truly admirable and enviable character. At least, I am quite sure of Tom Tulliver's sentiments on these points. In very tender years, when he still wore a lace border under his outdoor cap, he was often observed peeping through the bars of a gate and making minatory gestures with his small forefinger while he scolded the sheep with an inarticulate burr, intended to strike terror into their astonished minds; indicating thus early that desire for mastery over the inferior animals, wild and domestic, including cockchafers, neighbors' dogs, and small sisters, which in all ages has been an attribute of so much promise for the fortunes of our race. Now, Mr. Pullet never rode anything taller than a low pony, and was the least predatory of men, considering firearms dangerous, as apt to go off of themselves by nobody's particular desire. So that Tom was not without strong reasons when, in confidential talk with a chum, he had described uncle Pullet as a nincompoop, taking care at the same time to observe that he was a very "rich fellow." The only alleviating circumstance in a _tete-a-tete_ with uncle Pullet was that he kept a variety of lozenges and peppermint-drops about his person, and when at a loss for conversation, he filled up the void by proposing a mutual solace of this kind. "Do you like peppermints, young sir?" required only a tacit answer when it was accompanied by a presentation of the article in question. The appearance of the little girls suggested to uncle Pullet the further solace of small sweet-cakes, of which he also kept a stock under lock and key for his own private eating on wet days; but the three children had no sooner got the tempting delicacy between their fingers, than aunt Pullet desired them to abstain from eating it till the tray and the plates came, since with those crisp cakes they would make the floor "all over" crumbs. Lucy didn't mind that much, for the cake was so pretty, she thought it was rather a pity to eat it; but Tom, watching his opportunity while the elders were talking, hastily stowed it in his mouth at two bites, and chewed it furtively. As for Maggie, becoming fascinated, as usual, by a print of Ulysses and Nausicaa, which uncle Pullet had bought as a "pretty Scripture thing," she presently let fall her cake, and in an unlucky movement crushed it beneath her foot,--a source of so much agitation to aunt Pullet and conscious disgrace to Maggie, that she began to despair of hearing the musical snuff-box to-day, till, after some reflection, it occurred to her that Lucy was in high favor enough to venture on asking for a tune. So she whispered to Lucy; and Lucy, who always did what she was desired to do, went up quietly to her uncle's knee, and blush-all over her neck while she fingered her necklace, said, "Will you please play us a tune, uncle?" Lucy thought it was by reason of some exceptional talent in uncle Pullet that the snuff-box played such beautiful tunes, and indeed the thing was viewed in that light by the majority of his neighbors in Garum. Mr. Pullet had _bought_ the box, to begin with, and he understood winding it up, and knew which tune it was going to play beforehand; altogether the possession of this unique "piece of music" was a proof that Mr. Pullet's character was not of that entire nullity which might otherwise have been attributed to it. But uncle Pullet, when entreated to exhibit his accomplishment, never depreciated it by a too-ready consent. "We'll see about it," was the answer he always gave, carefully abstaining from any sign of compliance till a suitable number of minutes had passed. Uncle Pullet had a programme for all great social occasions, and in this way fenced himself in from much painful confusion and perplexing freedom of will. Perhaps the suspense did heighten Maggie's enjoyment when the fairy tune began; for the first time she quite forgot that she had a load on her mind, that Tom was angry with her; and by the time "Hush, ye pretty warbling choir," had been played, her face wore that bright look of happiness, while she sat immovable with her hands clasped, which sometimes comforted her mother with the sense that Maggie could look pretty now and then, in spite of her brown skin. But when the magic music ceased, she jumped up, and running toward Tom, put her arm round his neck and said, "Oh, Tom, isn't it pretty?" Lest you should think it showed a revolting insensibility in Tom that he felt any new anger toward Maggie for this uncalled-for and, to him, inexplicable caress, I must tell you that he had his glass of cowslip wine in his hand, and that she jerked him so as to make him spill half of it. He must have been an extreme milksop not to say angrily, "Look there, now!" especially when his resentment was sanctioned, as it was, by general disapprobation of Maggie's behavior. "Why don't you sit still, Maggie?" her mother said peevishly. "Little gells mustn't come to see me if they behave in that way," said aunt Pullet. "Why, you're too rough, little miss," said uncle Pullet. Poor Maggie sat down again, with the music all chased out of her soul, and the seven small demons all in again. Mrs. Tulliver, foreseeing nothing but misbehavior while the children remained indoors, took an early opportunity of suggesting that, now they were rested after their walk, they might go and play out of doors; and aunt Pullet gave permission, only enjoining them not to go off the paved walks in the garden, and if they wanted to see the poultry fed, to view them from a distance on the horse-block; a restriction which had been imposed ever since Tom had been found guilty of running after the peacock, with an illusory idea that fright would make one of its feathers drop off. Mrs. Tulliver's thoughts had been temporarily diverted from the quarrel with Mrs. Glegg by millinery and maternal cares, but now the great theme of the bonnet was thrown into perspective, and the children were out of the way, yesterday's anxieties recurred. "It weighs on my mind so as never was," she said, by way of opening the subject, "sister Glegg's leaving the house in that way. I'm sure I'd no wish t' offend a sister." "Ah," said aunt Pullet, "there's no accounting for what Jane 'ull do. I wouldn't speak of it out o' the family, if it wasn't to Dr. Turnbull; but it's my belief Jane lives too low. I've said so to Pullet often and often, and he knows it." "Why, you said so last Monday was a week, when we came away from drinking tea with 'em," said Mr. Pullet, beginning to nurse his knee and shelter it with his pocket-hand-kerchief, as was his way when the conversation took an interesting turn. "Very like I did," said Mrs. Pullet, "for you remember when I said things, better than I can remember myself. He's got a wonderful memory, Pullet has," she continued, looking pathetically at her sister. "I should be poorly off if he was to have a stroke, for he always remembers when I've got to take my doctor's stuff; and I'm taking three sorts now." "There's the 'pills as before' every other night, and the new drops at eleven and four, and the 'fervescing mixture 'when agreeable,'" rehearsed Mr. Pullet, with a punctuation determined by a lozenge on his tongue. "Ah, perhaps it 'ud be better for sister Glegg if _she'd_ go to the doctor sometimes, instead o' chewing Turkey rhubarb whenever there's anything the matter with her," said Mrs. Tulliver, who naturally saw the wide subject of medicine chiefly in relation to Mrs. Glegg. "It's dreadful to think on," said aunt Pullet, raising her hands and letting them fall again, "people playing with their own insides in that way! And it's flying i' the face o' Providence; for what are the doctors for, if we aren't to call 'em in? And when folks have got the money to pay for a doctor, it isn't respectable, as I've told Jane many a time. I'm ashamed of acquaintance knowing it." "Well, _we've_ no call to be ashamed," said Mr. Pullet, "for Doctor Turnbull hasn't got such another patient as you i' this parish, now old Mrs. Sutton's gone." "Pullet keeps all my physic-bottles, did you know, Bessy?" said Mrs. Pullet. "He won't have one sold. He says it's nothing but right folks should see 'em when I'm gone. They fill two o' the long store-room shelves a'ready; but," she added, beginning to cry a little, "it's well if they ever fill three. I may go before I've made up the dozen o' these last sizes. The pill-boxes are in the closet in my room,--you'll remember that, sister,--but there's nothing to show for the boluses, if it isn't the bills." "Don't talk o' your going, sister," said Mrs. Tulliver; "I should have nobody to stand between me and sister Glegg if you was gone. And there's nobody but you can get her to make it up with Mr. Tulliver, for sister Deane's never o' my side, and if she was, it's not to be looked for as she can speak like them as have got an independent fortin." "Well, your husband _is_ awk'ard, you know, Bessy," said Mrs. Pullet, good-naturedly ready to use her deep depression on her sister's account as well as her own. "He's never behaved quite so pretty to our family as he should do, and the children take after him,--the boy's very mischievous, and runs away from his aunts and uncles, and the gell's rude and brown. It's your bad luck, and I'm sorry for you, Bessy; for you was allays my favorite sister, and we allays liked the same patterns." "I know Tulliver's hasty, and says odd things," said Mrs. Tulliver, wiping away one small tear from the corner of her eye; "but I'm sure he's never been the man, since he married me, to object to my making the friends o' my side o' the family welcome to the house." "_I_ don't want to make the worst of you, Bessy," said Mrs. Pullet, compassionately, "for I doubt you'll have trouble enough without that; and your husband's got that poor sister and her children hanging on him,--and so given to lawing, they say. I doubt he'll leave you poorly off when he dies. Not as I'd have it said out o' the family." This view of her position was naturally far from cheering to Mrs. Tulliver. Her imagination was not easily acted on, but she could not help thinking that her case was a hard one, since it appeared that other people thought it hard. "I'm sure, sister, I can't help myself," she said, urged by the fear lest her anticipated misfortunes might be held retributive, to take comprehensive review of her past conduct. "There's no woman strives more for her children; and I'm sure at scouring-time this Lady-day as I've had all the bedhangings taken down I did as much as the two gells put together; and there's the last elder-flower wine I've made--beautiful! I allays offer it along with the sherry, though sister Glegg will have it I'm so extravagant; and as for liking to have my clothes tidy, and not go a fright about the house, there's nobody in the parish can say anything against me in respect o' backbiting and making mischief, for I don't wish anybody any harm; and nobody loses by sending me a porkpie, for my pies are fit to show with the best o' my neighbors'; and the linen's so in order as if I was to die to-morrow I shouldn't be ashamed. A woman can do no more nor she can." "But it's all o' no use, you know, Bessy," said Mrs. Pullet, holding her head on one side, and fixing her eyes pathetically on her sister, "if your husband makes away with his money. Not but what if you was sold up, and other folks bought your furniture, it's a comfort to think as you've kept it well rubbed. And there's the linen, with your maiden mark on, might go all over the country. It 'ud be a sad pity for our family." Mrs. Pullet shook her head slowly. "But what can I do, sister?" said Mrs. Tulliver. "Mr. Tulliver's not a man to be dictated to,--not if I was to go to the parson and get by heart what I should tell my husband for the best. And I'm sure I don't pretend to know anything about putting out money and all that. I could never see into men's business as sister Glegg does." "Well, you're like me in that, Bessy," said Mrs. Pullet; "and I think it 'ud be a deal more becoming o' Jane if she'd have that pier-glass rubbed oftener,--there was ever so many spots on it last week,--instead o' dictating to folks as have more comings in than she ever had, and telling 'em what they're to do with their money. But Jane and me were allays contrairy; she _would_ have striped things, and I like spots. You like a spot too, Bessy; we allays hung together i' that." "Yes, Sophy," said Mrs. Tulliver, "I remember our having a blue ground with a white spot both alike,--I've got a bit in a bed-quilt now; and if you would but go and see sister Glegg, and persuade her to make it up with Tulliver, I should take it very kind of you. You was allays a good sister to me." "But the right thing 'ud be for Tulliver to go and make it up with her himself, and say he was sorry for speaking so rash. If he's borrowed money of her, he shouldn't be above that," said Mrs. Pullet, whose partiality did not blind her to principles; she did not forget what was due to people of independent fortune. "It's no use talking o' that," said poor Mrs. Tulliver, almost peevishly. "If I was to go down on my bare knees on the gravel to Tulliver, he'd never humble himself." "Well, you can't expect me to persuade _Jane_ to beg pardon," said Mrs. Pullet. "Her temper's beyond everything; it's well if it doesn't carry her off her mind, though there never _was_ any of our family went to a madhouse." "I'm not thinking of her begging pardon," said Mrs. Tulliver. "But if she'd just take no notice, and not call her money in; as it's not so much for one sister to ask of another; time 'ud mend things, and Tulliver 'ud forget all about it, and they'd be friends again." Mrs. Tulliver, you perceive, was not aware of her husband's irrevocable determination to pay in the five hundred pounds; at least such a determination exceeded her powers of belief. "Well, Bessy," said Mrs. Pullet, mournfully, "_I_ don't want to help you on to ruin. I won't be behindhand i' doing you a good turn, if it is to be done. And I don't like it said among acquaintance as we've got quarrels in the family. I shall tell Jane that; and I don't mind driving to Jane's tomorrow, if Pullet doesn't mind. What do you say, Mr. Pullet?" "Keine Einwände von meiner Seite", sagte Herr Pullet, der mit jedem möglichen Verlauf des Streits zufrieden war, solange Mr. Tulliver _ihn_ nicht um Geld bat. Herr Pullet war besorgt um seine Investitionen und sah nicht ein, wie ein Mann seine Sicherheit haben könnte, es sei denn, er legte sein Geld in Land an. Nach etwas weiterer Diskussion darüber, ob es nicht besser wäre, wenn Frau Tulliver sie auf einem Besuch bei ihrer Schwester Glegg begleiten würde, wandte sich Mrs. Pullet, nachdem sie bemerkte, dass es Zeit für Tee war, zu einer Schublade, um sich ein zartes Damast-Serviettchen zu nehmen, das sie sich vorne im Stil eines Schürzen ansteckte. Die Tür öffnete sich tatsächlich kurz darauf, aber anstelle des Tee-Servierbretts brachte Sally einen so schockierenden Gegenstand herein, dass sowohl Mrs. Pullet als auch Mrs. Tulliver aufschrien und Herr Pullet seine Tablette verschluckte – zum fünften Mal in seinem Leben, wie er sich später merkte. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Während ihr Vater zu den Mooren gegangen ist, ist Maggie zusammen mit ihrer Mutter, Tom und Lucy zu Besuch bei den Pullets in Garum Firs gegangen. Maggie fühlt sich unwohl in ihren guten Kleidern, aber Lucy ist wie immer hübsch und ordentlich. Sie sind früh angezogen worden und die Kinder vertreiben sich die Zeit damit, Kartenhäuser zu bauen. Maggie ist darin nicht gut und sie wird wütend, als Tom lacht. Er revanchiert sich, indem er sagt, dass er Lucy lieber mag als sie. In ihrer Aufregung stößt sie Tom's Kartenhaus um, was ihn sehr wütend macht. Er beachtet ihre Entschuldigungen nicht. In Garum Firs werden sie an der Tür von Tante Pullet empfangen, die ihnen eine alte Fußmatte zum Reinigen der Füße gibt, damit die gute nicht verschmutzt wird. Im Inneren des Hauses ist es genauso -- die Treppenteppiche sind hochgerollt, um Abnutzung zu vermeiden, und die polierten Stufen sind rutschig. Frau Pullet bietet an, Frau Tulliver ihre neue Haube zu zeigen, aber zunächst muss der Wäscheschrank aufgeschlossen werden, um den Schlüssel zum besten Zimmer zu bekommen, in dem die Haube deponiert ist. Die Kinder werden mitgenommen, damit sie nicht an die Sachen gehen. Im besten Zimmer liegen die Möbel unter weißen Tüchern, und die Haube ist in viele Schichten Papier gewickelt. Frau Pullet ist betrübt über die Möglichkeit, dass Cousin Abbott sterben könne, sodass sie Trauer tragen müsste und die Haube nicht tragen könnte. Tom hat sich von Onkel Pullet unterhalten lassen, den er für einen albernen Kerl hält, obwohl er reich ist. Als die Frauen zurückkehren, schlägt Onkel Pullet vor, dass sie ein paar Süßigkeiten haben. Maggie schafft es, ihre unter den Fuß zu zerquetschen. Das macht sie verzweifelt, denn sie hatte sich darauf gefreut, Pullet's Spieluhr zu hören, und nun fürchtet sie, dass ihr dieses Vergnügen verwehrt wird. Allerdings schafft sie es, Lucy dazu zu bringen, ihren Onkel zu bitten, sie spielen zu lassen, und nach angemessener Verzögerung kommt er dem nach. Maggie ist von der Musik begeistert und rennt, als sie vorbei ist, zu Tom, um ihre Arme um ihn zu legen. Dabei stößt sie versehentlich sein Schlüsselblumenwein um, und er wehrt sie zu Recht ab. Frau Tulliver, die weitere Ungebührlichkeiten voraussieht, schlägt vor, dass die Kinder nach draußen gehen. Frau Tulliver nutzt die Gelegenheit, um das Gespräch auf ihre Schwester Glegg zu lenken, wird aber auf das Thema der Gesundheit von Frau Glegg und Frau Pullet und auf Mr. Pullets ausgezeichnetes Gedächtnis für den richtigen Zeitpunkt zur Einnahme von Medikamenten abgelenkt. Jedoch wird Frau Pullet schließlich dazu gebracht, sich bei Frau Glegg einzusetzen, um die Schulden der Tullivers stehen zu lassen. Frau Tulliver ist überzeugt, dass dies getan werden muss, weil sich ihr Mann niemals demütigen wird. Sie ist sich noch nicht bewusst, dass er fest entschlossen ist, die Schulden zu begleichen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Das sich mit der Osborne Familie befasst Es ist eine beträchtliche Zeit vergangen, seitdem wir unseren angesehenen Freund, den alten Herrn Osborne von Russell Square, gesehen haben. Seitdem wir ihn das letzte Mal getroffen haben, war er nicht der glücklichste Mensch. Es sind Ereignisse eingetreten, die seine Stimmung nicht verbessert haben, und mehr als einmal wurde ihm nicht erlaubt, seinen eigenen Willen zu haben. In diesem vernünftigen Verlangen vereitelt zu werden, war für den alten Herrn immer sehr schädlich, und der Widerstand wurde doppelt frustrierend, als Gicht, Alter, Einsamkeit und die Last vieler Enttäuschungen auf ihn lasteten. Sein steifes schwarzes Haar begann kurz nach dem Tod seines Sohnes ganz weiß zu werden, sein Gesicht wurde röter, seine Hände zitterten immer mehr, als er sein Glas Portwein einschenkte. Er machte seinen Angestellten in der City das Leben zur Hölle, seine Familie zu Hause war nicht viel glücklicher. Ich bezweifle, ob sich Rebecca, die wir andächtig für Konsols beten sahen, gegen ihren eigenen Geldmangel und die riskante Aufregung und die Chancen ihres Lebens mit Osborne's Geld und der langweiligen Trübsal, die ihn umgab, hätte eintauschen wollen. Er hatte um Miss Swartz geworben, war aber von den Parteigängern der Dame verächtlich abgelehnt worden, die sie mit einem jungen schottischen Adligen verheirateten. Er war ein Mann, der eine Frau aus niedrigem Stand geheiratet und sie später furchtbar schikaniert hätte. Aber niemand, der seinem Geschmack entsprach, meldete sich, und stattdessen tyrannisierte er seine unverheiratete Tochter zu Hause. Sie hatte eine feine Kutsche und feine Pferde und saß an der Spitze eines mit wertvollem Silber beladenen Tisches. Sie hatte ein Scheckbuch, einen Prunklakai, der ihr folgte, wenn sie spazieren ging, unbegrenzten Kredit und Bows und Komplimente von allen Kaufleuten und allem, was zu einem Erbe gehört, aber sie hatte eine elende Zeit. Die kleinen Wohltätigkeitsmädchen im Foundling Hospital, die Straßenkehrerin am Übergang, das ärmste Küchenmädchen in der Bedienstetenstube war glücklicher im Vergleich zu dieser unglücklichen und nun mittelalten jungen Dame. Frederick Bullock, Esq., von der Firma Bullock, Hulker und Bullock, hatte Maria Osborne geheiratet, nicht ohne viel Schwierigkeiten und Murren seitens Mr. Bullock. Da George tot war und aus dem Testament seines Vaters gestrichen wurde, bestand Frederick darauf, dass die Hälfte des Vermögens des alten Herrn auf seine Maria übertragen werden sollte. Tatsächlich weigerte er sich lange Zeit, "andere Bedingungen zu akzeptieren" (um es mit Mr. Fredericks eigenem Ausdruck zu sagen). Osborne sagte, Fred habe zugestimmt, seine Tochter mit zwanzigtausend zu nehmen, und er sollte sich zu keinem weiteren Betrag verpflichten. "Fred kann es nehmen und willkommen sein oder es lassen und zum Teufel gehen." Fred, dessen Hoffnungen gestiegen waren, als George enterbt worden war, hielt den alten Kaufmann für abscheulich betrogen und drohte eine Weile, die Verbindung ganz abzubrechen. Osborne zog sein Konto von Bullock und Hulker ab, ging auf die Börse mit einer Reitgerte, mit der er schwor, einem gewissen Schurken, der ungenannt bleiben sollte, damit den Rücken zu verprügeln, und benahm sich auf gewohnt gewaltsame Weise. Jane Osborne tröstete ihre Schwester Maria während dieser familiären Feindschaft. "Ich habe dir immer gesagt, Maria, dass er dein Geld liebt und nicht dich", sagte sie beruhigend. "Er hat zumindest mich und mein Geld ausgewählt. Er hat nicht dich und deins gewählt", antwortete Maria und warf den Kopf zurück. Die Begeisterung war jedoch nur von kurzer Dauer. Freds Vater und seine älteren Partner rieten ihm, Maria zu nehmen, auch mit den zwanzigtausend, die festgelegt wurden, die Hälfte sofort und die andere Hälfte nach dem Tod von Mr. Osborne, zusammen mit den Aussichten auf die weitere Aufteilung des Vermögens. Also "rückte er ein", um seinen eigenen Ausdruck zu verwenden, und schickte den alten Hulker mit friedlichen Angeboten zu Osborne. Es war sein Vater, sagte er, der von der Verbindung nichts wissen wolle und die Schwierigkeiten gemacht habe. Er wolle unbedingt die Verlobung aufrechterhalten. Die Ausrede wurde von Mr. Osborne mürrisch akzeptiert. Hulker und Bullock waren eine angesehene Familie der City-Aristokratie und mit den "Nobs" in der Westend verbunden. Es war für den alten Herrn etwas, von dem er sagen konnte: "Mein Sohn, Herr, von der Firma Hulker, Bullock und Co., Herr; die Cousine meiner Tochter, Lady Mary Mango, Herr, Tochter des Right Honourable! Der Earl of Castlemouldy." In seiner Vorstellung sah er sein Haus mit den "Nobs" bevölkert. Also vergab er dem jungen Bullock und stimmte zu, dass die Hochzeit stattfinden sollte. Es war eine großartige Angelegenheit, die Verwandten des Bräutigams gaben das Frühstück, ihre Wohnsitze lagen in der Nähe von St. George's, Hanover Square, wo die Angelegenheit stattfand. Die "Nobs des Westend" waren eingeladen und viele von ihnen unterschrieben das Buch. Mr. Mango und Lady Mary Mango waren da, mit den lieben jungen Gwendoline und Guinever Mango als Brautjungfern; Oberst Bludyer von den Dragoon Guards (ältester Sohn des Hauses Bludyer Brothers, Mincing Lane), ein weiterer Cousin des Bräutigams, und die ehrenwerte Frau Bludyer; der ehrenwerte George Boulter, der Sohn von Lord Levant, und seine Frau, Miss Mango, die es war; Lord Viscount Castletoddy; der ehrenwerte James McMull und Frau McMull (ehemals Miss Swartz); und viele Modebewusste, die alle in der Lombard Street eingeheiratet haben und viel dazu beigetragen haben, Cornhill zu adeln. Das junge Paar hatte ein Haus in der Nähe von Berkeley Square und eine kleine Villa in Roehampton, inmitten der Bankierskolonie dort. Man betrachtete es als eine Mesalliance von Fred, von den Damen seiner Familie, deren Großvater in einer Wohltätigkeitsschule gewesen war und die durch ihre Ehemänner mit einigem der besten Blut in England verwandt waren. Und Maria fühlte sich durch überlegenen Stolz und große Sorgfalt bei der Erstellung ihrer Besuchsliste verpflichtet, die Mängel ihrer Geburt auszugleichen. Sie hielt es für ihre Pflicht, ihren Vater und ihre Schwester so wenig wie möglich zu sehen. Es wäre absurd anzunehmen, dass sie den alten Mann, der noch so viele Tausend Pfund zu verschenken hatte, völlig fallen lassen würde. Fred Bullock würde es ihr niemals erlauben. Aber sie war immer noch jung und unfähig, ihre Gefühle zu verbergen. Durch Einladungen ihres Vaters und ihrer Schwester zu ihren minderwertigen Partys, einem sehr kühlen Verhalten ihnen gegenüber, wenn sie kamen, dem Vermeiden von Russell Square und der unklugen Bitte an ihren Vater, diesen abscheulichen vulgären Ort zu verlassen, richtete sie mehr Schaden an als all die Diplomatie von Frederick reparieren konnte und riskierte ihre Chance auf ihr Erbe wie ein leichtsinniges, unbedachtes Wesen, das sie war Man kann sich vorstellen, mit welchen Schmerzen Miss Osborne in ihrer Einsamkeit in Russell Square die Morning Post las, in der der Name ihrer Schwester ab und zu in den Artikeln mit der Überschrift "Modische Zusammenkünfte" auftauchte, und wo sie die Beschreibung von Mrs. F. Bullocks Kostüm lesen konnte, als sie von Lady Frederica Bullock bei der Hofführung vorgestellt wurde. Das eigene Leben von Jane, wie bereits gesagt, ließ eine solche Pracht nicht zu. Es war ein furchtbares Dasein. Sie musste an schwarzen Wintermorgenen aufstehen, um das Frühstück für ihren finsteren alten Vater zuzubereiten, der das ganze Haus hinausgeworfen hätte, wenn sein Tee nicht um halb neun bereit gestanden hätte. Sie blieb ihm gegenüber schweigsam sitzen, hörte dem zischenden Wasserkocher zu und saß voller Angst, während der Vater seine Zeitung las und seinen gewohnten Anteil an Muffins und Tee zu sich nahm. Um halb zehn stand er auf und ging in die City, und sie war fast bis zum Abendessen frei, um Besuche in der Küche zu machen und das Dienstpersonal anzuschimpfen; um Ausfahrten zu unternehmen und die Handwerker aufzusuchen, die außerordentlich respektvoll waren; um ihre Karten und die ihres Vaters bei den großen düsteren respektablen Häusern ihrer Freunde in der City abzugeben; oder um alleine im großen Wohnzimmer zu sitzen und Besucher zu erwarten; und sie arbeitete an einem großen Wollknäuel neben dem Kamin auf dem Sofa, nahe der großen Iphigenia-Uhr, die in dem trostlosen Raum traurig tickte und schlug. Das große Glas über dem Kamin, gegenüber dem anderen großen Konsolenglas am anderen Ende des Raumes, vermehrte und multiplizierte zwischen ihnen die braune Hollandtasche, an der der Kronleuchter hing, bis man diese braunen Hollandtaschen in endlosen Perspektiven verblassen sah, und dieser Raum von Miss Osborne schien das Zentrum eines Systems von Wohnzimmern zu sein. Als sie das Cordovaleder vom Flügel entfernte und sich traute, ein paar Noten darauf zu spielen, klang es mit einer traurigen Traurigkeit, die die düsteren Echoes des Hauses erschütterte. Georges Bild war weg und wurde oben auf dem Dachboden in einem Abstellraum untergebracht; und obwohl es ein Bewusstsein von ihm gab und Vater und Tochter oft instinktiv wussten, dass sie an ihn dachten, wurde kein Wort über den tapferen und einst geliebten Sohn verloren. Um fünf Uhr kehrte Mr. Osborne zum Abendessen zurück, das er und seine Tochter in Schweigen einnahmen (selten unterbrochen, außer wenn er fluchte und wütend wurde, wenn das Essen nicht nach seinem Geschmack war), oder das sie zweimal im Monat mit einer Gruppe trostloser Freunde von Osbornes Stand und Alter teilten. Der alte Herr Doktor Gulp und seine Dame aus der Bloomsbury Square; Der alte Mr. Frowser, der Anwalt, aus der Bedford Row, ein sehr wichtiger Mann und in seinem Geschäft Hand in Hand mit den "Nobs am West End"; Der alte Colonel Livermore, von der Bombay Army, und Mrs. Livermore aus der Upper Bedford Place; Der alte Sergeant Toffy und Mrs. Toffy; und manchmal auch der alte Sir Thomas Coffin und Lady Coffin aus der Bedford Square. Sir Thomas war als ein grausamer Richter bekannt, und der besondere Tawny-Portwein wurde serviert, wenn er mit Herrn Osborne zum Abendessen kam. Diese Leute und ihre Artgenossen gaben dem pompösen russischen Kaufmann von Russell Square pompöse Abendessen zurück. Sie spielten förmliche Whistrunden, wenn sie nach dem Trinken nach oben gingen, und ihre Kutschen wurden um halb elf gerufen. Viele reiche Leute, die wir armen Teufel so beneiden, führen zufriedener ein solches Dasein wie das oben beschriebene. Jane Osborne traf kaum einen Mann unter sechzig, und der einzige Junggeselle, der in ihrer Gesellschaft erschien, war Mr. Smirk, der berühmte Damenarzt. Ich kann nicht sagen, dass nichts passiert ist, um die Monotonie dieses schrecklichen Daseins zu stören: Tatsache ist, dass es ein Geheimnis in dem armen Leben von Jane gab, das ihren Vater noch wilder und mürrischer gemacht hatte, als die Natur, der Stolz und das Überfüttern es getan hatten. Dieses Geheimnis hatte mit Miss Wirt zu tun, die einen Künstlercousin namens Mr. Smee hatte, der seitdem als Porträtmaler und R.A. sehr berühmt war, aber der damals froh war, Damen der Gesellschaft Zeichenunterricht zu geben. Mr. Smee hat vergessen, wo Russell Square jetzt ist, aber er war im Jahr 1818 froh, es zu besuchen, als Miss Osborne Unterricht bei ihm hatte. Smee (früher Schüler von Sharpe von der Frith Street, ein liederlicher, unregelmäßiger und erfolgloser Mann, aber ein Mann mit großer Kenntnis von seiner Kunst) war also der Cousin von Miss Wirt, und wurde von ihr Miss Osborne vorgestellt, deren Hand und Herz nach verschiedenen unvollendeten Liebesaffären immer noch frei waren. Er empfand eine große Zuneigung für diese Dame und wo es heißt, sie hätte in ihr etwas Ähnliches empfunden. Miss Wirt war die Vertraute dieser Intrige. Ich weiß nicht, ob sie den Raum verlassen hat, in dem der Meister und seine Schülerin gemalt haben, um ihnen Gelegenheit zum Austausch dieser Gelübde und Empfindungen zu geben, die sich in Anwesenheit einer dritten Person nicht vorteilhaft aussprechen lassen. Ich weiß nicht, ob sie gehofft hat, dass ihr Cousin Erfolg haben würde, um die reiche Kaufmannstochter wegzunehmen, und ihr einen Teil des Reichtums zu geben, den sie ihm geholfen hatte zu gewinnen - alles was sicher ist, ist dass Herr Osborne einen Hinweis auf den Vorgang bekam, abrupt aus der City zurückkehrte und das Wohnzimmer mit seinem Bambusstock betrat; er fand den Maler, die Schülerin und die Begleiterin dort alle sehr blass, er warf den ersten hinaus, drohte ihm, ihm alle Knochen zu brechen, und entließ Miss Wirt eine halbe Stunde später auch, indem er ihre Koffer die Treppe hinunterkickte, ihre Bandboxen zertrat und die Faust gegen ihren Hackney-Wagen schwang, als er sie wegfuhr. Jane Osborne hielt viele Tage ihr Schlafzimmer. Ihr wurde danach nicht erlaubt, eine Begleiterin zu haben. Ihr Vater schwor ihr, dass sie keinen einzigen Penny seines Geldes erhalten würde, wenn sie eine Heirat ohne seine Zustimmung einging. Und da er eine Frau brauchte, um sein Haus zu führen, wollte er nicht, dass sie heiratete, so dass sie alle Projekte, an denen Amor beteiligt war, aufgeben musste. Während ihres Vaters Lebens ergab sie sich also der hier beschriebenen Existenzweise und war mit dem Dasein einer alten Jungfer zufrieden. Ihre Schwester hatte in der Zwischenzeit jedes Jahr Kinder mit immer schöneren Namen und der Kontakt zwischen den beiden wurde immer schwächer. "Jane und ich bewegen uns nicht in derselben Sphäre des Lebens", sagte Mrs. Bullock. "Ich betrachte sie natürlich als eine Schwester" - was bedeutet das, wenn eine Dame sagt, dass sie Jane als Schwester betrachtet? Es wurde bereits beschrieben, wie die Misses Dobbin mit ihrem Vater in einem schönen Landhaus am Denmark Hill lebten, wo es schöne Weinberge und Pfirsichbäume gab, die den kleinen Georgy Osborne erfreuten. Die Misses Dobbin, die oft nach Brompton fuhren, um unsere liebe Amelia zu sehen, kamen manchmal auch nach Russell Square, um ihrer alten Bekannten Miss Osborne einen Besuch abzustatten. Ich glaube, es war aufgrund der Anweisungen ihres Bruders, des Majors in Indien (für den ihr Papa großen Respekt hatte), dass sie sich um Mrs. George kümmerten; denn der Major, der der Taufpate und Vormund von Amelias kleinem Jungen war, hoffte immer noch, dass der Großvater des Kindes zu einer Versöhnung bewegt werden könnte und ihn um seines Sohnes willen anerkennen würde. Die Misses Dobbin hielten Miss Osborne über den Zustand von Amelias Angelegenheiten auf dem Laufenden; wie sie mit ihrem Vater und ihrer Mutter lebte; wie arm sie waren; wie sie sich wunderten, was Männer, und solche Männer wie ihr Bruder und der liebe Captain Osborne, in einer so unbedeutenden kleinen Eines Tages, nach großem Drängen seitens der Misses Dobbin, erlaubte Amelia dem kleinen George, einen Tag mit ihnen in Denmark Hill zu verbringen, von dem sie selbst einen Teil damit verbrachte, einen Brief an den Major in Indien zu schreiben. Sie gratulierte ihm zu den glücklichen Neuigkeiten, die seine Schwestern ihr gerade mitgeteilt hatten. Sie betete für seinen Wohlstand und den der Braut, die er gewählt hatte. Sie bedankte sich für tausendfreundliche Gesten und Beweise seiner treuen Freundschaft in ihrer Not. Sie erzählte ihm die neuesten Nachrichten über den kleinen Georgy und wie er diesen Tag bei seinen Schwestern auf dem Land verbrachte. Sie unterstrich den Brief sehr und unterschrieb liebevoll als seine Freundin, Amelia Osborne. Sie vergaß, irgendeine Art von Freundlichkeit an Lady O'Dowd zu senden, wie es ihre Gewohnheit war, und erwähnte Glorvina nicht beim Namen, sondern nur kursiv als Major's BRIDE, für die sie Segen erbat. Aber die Nachricht von der Hochzeit löste die Zurückhaltung, die sie ihm gegenüber bewahrt hatte. Sie war froh, offen und warm für ihn empfinden zu können, und was die Idee betraf, eifersüchtig auf Glorvina zu sein (Glorvina, wirklich!), würde Amelia sie verachtet haben, selbst wenn ihr ein Engel vom Himmel davon erzählt hätte. An diesem Abend, als Georgy in der Ponykutsche, in der er sich freute und die vom alten Kutscher von Sir Wm. Dobbin gefahren wurde, zurückkam, trug er um den Hals eine feine Goldkette und eine Uhr. Er sagte, eine alte Dame, nicht hübsch, habe sie ihm gegeben, die viel geweint und ihn geküsst habe. Aber er mochte sie nicht. Er mochte Weintrauben sehr gerne. Und er mochte nur seine Mama. Amelia schrak zusammen und erschrak; die ängstliche Seele spürte eine Vorahnung des Schreckens, als sie hörte, dass die Verwandten des Kindsvaters ihn gesehen hatten. Miss Osborne kam zurück, um ihrem Vater sein Mittagessen zu geben. Er hatte an diesem Tag eine gute Spekulation in der City gemacht und war deshalb eher gut gelaunt und bemerkte zufällig die Aufregung, unter der sie litt. "Was ist los, Miss Osborne?", ließ er sich herab zu sagen. Die Frau brach in Tränen aus. "Oh, Sir," sagte sie, "ich habe den kleinen George gesehen. Er ist so schön wie ein Engel - und so wie er!" Der alte Mann gegenüber sagte kein Wort, aber er wurde rot und begann in allen Gliedern zu zittern. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Ja, wie geht es der Familie Osborne? Mr. Osborne wird immer mürrischer und elender. Er hat Miss Swartz, das reiche Mädchen gemischter Herkunft, der er versucht hat, George zur Heirat zu überreden, einen Heiratsantrag gemacht, wurde aber von ihr und ihren Aufpassern sofort abgelehnt. Maria hat sich schließlich mit Fred Bullock verheiratet. Jane ist eine alte Jungfer und lebt in totaler Depression, Einsamkeit und Elend mit ihrem schrecklichen Vater. Die Bullock Familie steht in Verbindung mit der Aristokratie, also um ihren eigenen niedrigeren sozialen Rang auszugleichen, fängt Maria an, ihren Vater und ihre Schwester zu ignorieren und zu meiden. Sie hat sie nie zu ihren Partys eingeladen und ist leider zu dumm und schlecht als Schauspielerin, um ihnen nichts merken zu lassen. Dobbin's Schwestern besuchen manchmal Jane Osborne, genauso wie Amelia. Sie haben Jane alles über George Jr. erzählt und wie liebenswert und wunderbar er ist. Eines Tages, nachdem George Jr. einen Tag bei Dobbin's Schwestern auf ihrem Anwesen verbracht hat, schreibt Amelia einen Brief an Dobbin und gratuliert ihm zu seiner bevorstehenden Hochzeit. Der Erzähler verwendet hier viel Sarkasmus darüber, wie glücklich Amelia über die Idee ist, dass Dobbin heiratet. George Jr. kommt mit einer goldenen Kette nach Hause und erzählt Amelia, dass ihm eine alte, unattraktive Dame sie geschenkt hat. Amelias Herz setzt einen Schlag aus, weil sie erkennt, dass es sich um Jane Osborne handeln muss. Als Mr. Osborne an diesem Abend nach Hause kommt, bemerkt er, dass es Jane wirklich schlecht geht. Als er sie fragt, was los ist, erzählt sie ihm, dass sie den kleinen George Jr. gesehen hat und dass er wie sein Vater aussieht. Mr. Osborne sagt nichts, aber fängt an zu zittern.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The train pursued its course, that evening, without interruption, passing Fort Saunders, crossing Cheyne Pass, and reaching Evans Pass. The road here attained the highest elevation of the journey, eight thousand and ninety-two feet above the level of the sea. The travellers had now only to descend to the Atlantic by limitless plains, levelled by nature. A branch of the "grand trunk" led off southward to Denver, the capital of Colorado. The country round about is rich in gold and silver, and more than fifty thousand inhabitants are already settled there. Thirteen hundred and eighty-two miles had been passed over from San Francisco, in three days and three nights; four days and nights more would probably bring them to New York. Phileas Fogg was not as yet behind-hand. During the night Camp Walbach was passed on the left; Lodge Pole Creek ran parallel with the road, marking the boundary between the territories of Wyoming and Colorado. They entered Nebraska at eleven, passed near Sedgwick, and touched at Julesburg, on the southern branch of the Platte River. It was here that the Union Pacific Railroad was inaugurated on the 23rd of October, 1867, by the chief engineer, General Dodge. Two powerful locomotives, carrying nine cars of invited guests, amongst whom was Thomas C. Durant, vice-president of the road, stopped at this point; cheers were given, the Sioux and Pawnees performed an imitation Indian battle, fireworks were let off, and the first number of the Railway Pioneer was printed by a press brought on the train. Thus was celebrated the inauguration of this great railroad, a mighty instrument of progress and civilisation, thrown across the desert, and destined to link together cities and towns which do not yet exist. The whistle of the locomotive, more powerful than Amphion's lyre, was about to bid them rise from American soil. Fort McPherson was left behind at eight in the morning, and three hundred and fifty-seven miles had yet to be traversed before reaching Omaha. The road followed the capricious windings of the southern branch of the Platte River, on its left bank. At nine the train stopped at the important town of North Platte, built between the two arms of the river, which rejoin each other around it and form a single artery, a large tributary, whose waters empty into the Missouri a little above Omaha. The one hundred and first meridian was passed. Mr. Fogg and his partners had resumed their game; no one--not even the dummy--complained of the length of the trip. Fix had begun by winning several guineas, which he seemed likely to lose; but he showed himself a not less eager whist-player than Mr. Fogg. During the morning, chance distinctly favoured that gentleman. Trumps and honours were showered upon his hands. Once, having resolved on a bold stroke, he was on the point of playing a spade, when a voice behind him said, "I should play a diamond." Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Fix raised their heads, and beheld Colonel Proctor. Stamp Proctor and Phileas Fogg recognised each other at once. "Ah! it's you, is it, Englishman?" cried the colonel; "it's you who are going to play a spade!" "And who plays it," replied Phileas Fogg coolly, throwing down the ten of spades. "Well, it pleases me to have it diamonds," replied Colonel Proctor, in an insolent tone. He made a movement as if to seize the card which had just been played, adding, "You don't understand anything about whist." "Perhaps I do, as well as another," said Phileas Fogg, rising. "You have only to try, son of John Bull," replied the colonel. Aouda turned pale, and her blood ran cold. She seized Mr. Fogg's arm and gently pulled him back. Passepartout was ready to pounce upon the American, who was staring insolently at his opponent. But Fix got up, and, going to Colonel Proctor said, "You forget that it is I with whom you have to deal, sir; for it was I whom you not only insulted, but struck!" "Mr. Fix," said Mr. Fogg, "pardon me, but this affair is mine, and mine only. The colonel has again insulted me, by insisting that I should not play a spade, and he shall give me satisfaction for it." "When and where you will," replied the American, "and with whatever weapon you choose." Aouda in vain attempted to retain Mr. Fogg; as vainly did the detective endeavour to make the quarrel his. Passepartout wished to throw the colonel out of the window, but a sign from his master checked him. Phileas Fogg left the car, and the American followed him upon the platform. "Sir," said Mr. Fogg to his adversary, "I am in a great hurry to get back to Europe, and any delay whatever will be greatly to my disadvantage." "Well, what's that to me?" replied Colonel Proctor. "Sir," said Mr. Fogg, very politely, "after our meeting at San Francisco, I determined to return to America and find you as soon as I had completed the business which called me to England." "Really!" "Will you appoint a meeting for six months hence?" "Why not ten years hence?" "I say six months," returned Phileas Fogg; "and I shall be at the place of meeting promptly." "All this is an evasion," cried Stamp Proctor. "Now or never!" "Very good. You are going to New York?" "No." "To Chicago?" "No." "To Omaha?" "What difference is it to you? Do you know Plum Creek?" "No," replied Mr. Fogg. "It's the next station. The train will be there in an hour, and will stop there ten minutes. In ten minutes several revolver-shots could be exchanged." "Very well," said Mr. Fogg. "I will stop at Plum Creek." "And I guess you'll stay there too," added the American insolently. "Who knows?" replied Mr. Fogg, returning to the car as coolly as usual. He began to reassure Aouda, telling her that blusterers were never to be feared, and begged Fix to be his second at the approaching duel, a request which the detective could not refuse. Mr. Fogg resumed the interrupted game with perfect calmness. At eleven o'clock the locomotive's whistle announced that they were approaching Plum Creek station. Mr. Fogg rose, and, followed by Fix, went out upon the platform. Passepartout accompanied him, carrying a pair of revolvers. Aouda remained in the car, as pale as death. The door of the next car opened, and Colonel Proctor appeared on the platform, attended by a Yankee of his own stamp as his second. But just as the combatants were about to step from the train, the conductor hurried up, and shouted, "You can't get off, gentlemen!" "Why not?" asked the colonel. "We are twenty minutes late, and we shall not stop." "But I am going to fight a duel with this gentleman." "I am sorry," said the conductor; "but we shall be off at once. There's the bell ringing now." The train started. "I'm really very sorry, gentlemen," said the conductor. "Under any other circumstances I should have been happy to oblige you. But, after all, as you have not had time to fight here, why not fight as we go along?" "That wouldn't be convenient, perhaps, for this gentleman," said the colonel, in a jeering tone. "It would be perfectly so," replied Phileas Fogg. "Well, we are really in America," thought Passepartout, "and the conductor is a gentleman of the first order!" So muttering, he followed his master. The two combatants, their seconds, and the conductor passed through the cars to the rear of the train. The last car was only occupied by a dozen passengers, whom the conductor politely asked if they would not be so kind as to leave it vacant for a few moments, as two gentlemen had an affair of honour to settle. The passengers granted the request with alacrity, and straightway disappeared on the platform. The car, which was some fifty feet long, was very convenient for their purpose. The adversaries might march on each other in the aisle, and fire at their ease. Never was duel more easily arranged. Mr. Fogg and Colonel Proctor, each provided with two six-barrelled revolvers, entered the car. The seconds, remaining outside, shut them in. They were to begin firing at the first whistle of the locomotive. After an interval of two minutes, what remained of the two gentlemen would be taken from the car. Nothing could be more simple. Indeed, it was all so simple that Fix and Passepartout felt their hearts beating as if they would crack. They were listening for the whistle agreed upon, when suddenly savage cries resounded in the air, accompanied by reports which certainly did not issue from the car where the duellists were. The reports continued in front and the whole length of the train. Cries of terror proceeded from the interior of the cars. Colonel Proctor and Mr. Fogg, revolvers in hand, hastily quitted their prison, and rushed forward where the noise was most clamorous. They then perceived that the train was attacked by a band of Sioux. This was not the first attempt of these daring Indians, for more than once they had waylaid trains on the road. A hundred of them had, according to their habit, jumped upon the steps without stopping the train, with the ease of a clown mounting a horse at full gallop. The Sioux were armed with guns, from which came the reports, to which the passengers, who were almost all armed, responded by revolver-shots. The Indians had first mounted the engine, and half stunned the engineer and stoker with blows from their muskets. A Sioux chief, wishing to stop the train, but not knowing how to work the regulator, had opened wide instead of closing the steam-valve, and the locomotive was plunging forward with terrific velocity. The Sioux had at the same time invaded the cars, skipping like enraged monkeys over the roofs, thrusting open the doors, and fighting hand to hand with the passengers. Penetrating the baggage-car, they pillaged it, throwing the trunks out of the train. The cries and shots were constant. The travellers defended themselves bravely; some of the cars were barricaded, and sustained a siege, like moving forts, carried along at a speed of a hundred miles an hour. Aouda behaved courageously from the first. She defended herself like a true heroine with a revolver, which she shot through the broken windows whenever a savage made his appearance. Twenty Sioux had fallen mortally wounded to the ground, and the wheels crushed those who fell upon the rails as if they had been worms. Several passengers, shot or stunned, lay on the seats. It was necessary to put an end to the struggle, which had lasted for ten minutes, and which would result in the triumph of the Sioux if the train was not stopped. Fort Kearney station, where there was a garrison, was only two miles distant; but, that once passed, the Sioux would be masters of the train between Fort Kearney and the station beyond. The conductor was fighting beside Mr. Fogg, when he was shot and fell. At the same moment he cried, "Unless the train is stopped in five minutes, we are lost!" "It shall be stopped," said Phileas Fogg, preparing to rush from the car. "Stay, monsieur," cried Passepartout; "I will go." Mr. Fogg had not time to stop the brave fellow, who, opening a door unperceived by the Indians, succeeded in slipping under the car; and while the struggle continued and the balls whizzed across each other over his head, he made use of his old acrobatic experience, and with amazing agility worked his way under the cars, holding on to the chains, aiding himself by the brakes and edges of the sashes, creeping from one car to another with marvellous skill, and thus gaining the forward end of the train. There, suspended by one hand between the baggage-car and the tender, with the other he loosened the safety chains; but, owing to the traction, he would never have succeeded in unscrewing the yoking-bar, had not a violent concussion jolted this bar out. The train, now detached from the engine, remained a little behind, whilst the locomotive rushed forward with increased speed. Carried on by the force already acquired, the train still moved for several minutes; but the brakes were worked and at last they stopped, less than a hundred feet from Kearney station. The soldiers of the fort, attracted by the shots, hurried up; the Sioux had not expected them, and decamped in a body before the train entirely stopped. But when the passengers counted each other on the station platform several were found missing; among others the courageous Frenchman, whose devotion had just saved them. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Der Zug setzt seinen Kurs fort. Dreizehnhundertzweiundachtzig Meilen wurden nun in drei Tagen und drei Nächten von San Francisco aus zurückgelegt. Fogg und seine Partner waren mit Karten beschäftigt, als plötzlich Colonel Proctor zu ihnen stößt. Er ist unhöflich und sarkastisch zu Fogg und es kommt zu einem Wortgefecht. Fogg und der Colonel entscheiden sich, gegeneinander zu duellieren, und Fogg möchte ein Treffen in sechs Monaten vereinbaren. Aber der Colonel will sofort kämpfen, und so beschließen sie, das an der Zugstation Plum Greek zu tun. Fix soll der Sekundant in dem bevorstehenden Duell sein. Aber der Zugführer stürmt auf sie zu und sagt, dass der Zug dort nicht anhalten wird. Der Zugführer schlägt vor, dass die beiden in dem Zug selbst kämpfen sollten - in den hinteren Waggons. Kurz bevor Fogg und der Colonel das Duell beginnen, werden die Luft von wilden Schreien und Explosionen zerrissen. Der Zug wird von einer Gruppe Sioux angegriffen, die bewaffnet sind. Sie überfallen die Waggons und ein Kampf zwischen ihnen und den Passagieren entbrennt. Aouda zeigt großen Mut und verteidigt sich heldenhaft. Der Zugführer, der an Foggs Seite kämpft, ruft, dass die Sioux gewinnen würden, wenn der Zug nicht gestoppt wird. Auch Passepartout hört das und schafft es unter die Zugwaggons zu schlüpfen. Er entfernt die Sicherheitsketten und ein heftiger Ruck trennt den Zug von der Lokomotive. Der Zug bleibt in der Nähe der Station Kearney Fort stehen. Die Soldaten des Forts hören das Feuergefecht und eilen herbei, und die Sioux flüchten. Aber als die Passagiere auf dem Bahnsteig gezählt werden, stellt sich heraus, dass mehrere fehlen, darunter Passepartout.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Der Tag verging weitgehend wie der vorherige. Mrs. Hurst und Miss Bingley hatten einige Stunden am Morgen bei dem Kranken verbracht, der sich langsam, aber stetig erholte. Am Abend gesellte sich Elizabeth zu ihrer Runde im Salon. Der Kartentisch war jedoch nicht da. Mr. Darcy schrieb und Miss Bingley saß in seiner Nähe und beobachtete den Fortschritt seines Briefes. Dabei rief sie wiederholt seine Aufmerksamkeit durch Nachrichten an seine Schwester ab. Mr. Hurst und Mr. Bingley spielten Pikett und Mrs. Hurst beobachtete ihr Spiel. Elizabeth nahm sich etwas Handarbeit vor und amüsierte sich ausreichend damit, Darcy und seinem Begleiter zuzuhören. Die ständigen Komplimente der Dame entweder über seine Handschrift, die Geradlinigkeit seiner Linien oder die Länge seines Briefes, und die vollkommene Gleichgültigkeit, mit der ihre Lobpreisungen aufgenommen wurden, bildeten einen interessanten Dialog und stimmten perfekt mit ihrer Meinung überein. "Miss Darcy wird sich freuen, solch einen Brief zu bekommen!" Er antwortete nicht. "Du schreibst außergewöhnlich schnell." "Du irrst dich. Ich schreibe eher langsam." "Wie viele Briefe musst du wohl im Laufe des Jahres schreiben! Geschäftliche Briefe auch! Wie abstoßend ich sie finden würde!" "Es ist dann wohl Glück für mich, dass sie mir zufallen und nicht dir." "Sag deiner Schwester, dass ich mich freue, sie zu sehen." "Das habe ich bereits einmal ausgerichtet, auf deinen Wunsch." "Ich fürchte, du magst deine Feder nicht. Lass mich sie für dich verbessern. Ich kann Feder gut reparieren." "Danke, aber ich repariere meine eigenen Federn." "Wie schaffst du es, so gleichmäßig zu schreiben?" Er schwieg. "Sag deiner Schwester, dass ich begeistert bin von ihrer Verbesserung in Harfenspiel. Und lass sie wissen, dass ich völlig in Entzücken bin über ihr wunderschönes kleines Tischdesign und dass ich es für unendlich besser halte als das von Miss Grantley." "Darf ich deine Begeisterung aufschieben, bis ich wieder schreibe? Im Moment habe ich keinen Platz, um ihnen gerecht zu werden." "Oh, das spielt keine Rolle. Ich werde sie im Januar sehen. Aber schreibst du ihr immer solch wunderbar lange Briefe, Mr. Darcy?" "Generell sind sie lang; aber ob sie immer bezaubernd sind, liegt nicht in meiner Hand zu bestimmen." "Für jemanden, der einen langen Brief mühelos schreiben kann, kann er nicht schlecht schreiben." "Das gilt nicht als Kompliment für Darcy, Caroline", rief ihr Bruder, "weil er nicht mühelos schreibt. Er studiert viel für Wörter mit vier Silben. Nicht wahr, Darcy?" "Mein Schreibstil unterscheidet sich sehr von deinem." "Oh!" rief Miss Bingley, "Charles schreibt auf die nachlässigste Art und Weise vorstellbar. Er lässt die Hälfte seiner Worte weg und verschmiert den Rest." "Meine Gedanken fließen so schnell, dass ich keine Zeit habe, sie auszudrücken. Dadurch vermitteln meine Briefe manchmal gar keine Ideen an meine Korrespondenten." "Deine Bescheidenheit, Mr. Bingley", sagte Elizabeth, "soll bestätigt werden." "Nichts ist trügerischer", sagte Darcy, "als der Anschein von Bescheidenheit. Es ist oft nur eine Gleichgültigkeit gegenüber Meinungen und manchmal ein indirektes Prahlen." "Und welches von beidem bezeichnest du als _mein_ kürzliches Stück Bescheidenheit?" "Das indirekte Prahlen; denn du bist wirklich stolz auf deine Schreibfehler, weil du sie als Ergebnis einer Schnelligkeit des Denkens und einer Nachlässigkeit in der Ausführung betrachtest, die, wenn auch nicht schätzbar, zumindest sehr interessant ist. Die Fähigkeit, etwas schnell zu tun, wird vom Besitzer immer sehr geschätzt, oft sogar ohne Rücksicht auf die Unvollkommenheit der Leistung. Als du Mrs. Bennet heute Morgen gesagt hast, dass du, wenn du jemals Netherfield verlassen wolltest, in fünf Minuten weg sein würdest, hast du es als eine Art Lobrede, als Kompliment an dich selbst, gemeint, und doch gibt es darin nichts so Lobenswertes an einer überstürzten Handlung, die notwendige Geschäfte unerledigt lässt und für dich selbst oder jemand anderen von keinem wirklichen Vorteil ist." "Nun", rief Bingley, "das geht zu weit, sich nachts an all den Unsinn zu erinnern, der morgens gesagt wurde. Und doch, bei meiner Ehre, ich glaubte, was ich von mir selbst sagte, und ich glaube es jetzt noch. Zumindest habe ich mich nicht als unnötig überstürzt dargestellt, nur um vor den Damen anzugeben." "Ich nehme an, du hast es geglaubt; aber ich bin keineswegs überzeugt, dass du mit solcher Schnelligkeit gegangen wärst. Dein Verhalten wäre genauso abhängig vom Zufall wie das eines jeden anderen Mannes, den ich kenne. Und wenn ein Freund, als du gerade auf dein Pferd steigen wolltest, zu dir sagen würde: 'Bingley, du solltest lieber bis nächste Woche bleiben', würdest du es wahrscheinlich tun, du würdest wahrscheinlich nicht gehen, und mit einem anderen Wort könntest du einen Monat bleiben." "Du hast nur damit bewiesen, dass Mr. Bingley seiner eigenen Veranlagung nicht gerecht wurde. Du hast ihn jetzt viel mehr zur Geltung gebracht als er selbst." "Ich bin äußerst erfreut", sagte Bingley, "dass du, was mein Freund sagt, in ein Kompliment über die Freundlichkeit meines Temperaments umwandelst. Aber ich befürchte, du interpretierst es in einer Weise, die dieser Herr keineswegs beabsichtigt hat; denn er würde mit Sicherheit besser von mir denken, wenn ich unter solchen Umständen eine klare Verneinung geben und so schnell wie möglich losreiten würde." "Würde Mr. Darcy dann die Leichtfertigkeit deiner ursprünglichen Absicht als wiedergutmachend betrachten, durch deine Hartnäckigkeit daran festzuhalten?" "Bei meiner Ehre, ich kann die Angelegenheit nicht genau erklären; Darcy muss für sich selbst sprechen." "Du erwartest von mir, für Meinungen Rechenschaft abzulegen, die du als meine bezeichnest, aber die ich nie anerkannt habe. Selbst wenn wir den Fall laut deiner Darstellung betrachten, musst du bedenken, Miss Bennet, dass der Freund, von dem angenommen wird, dass er seine Rückkehr ins Haus wünscht und die Verzögerung seines Plans, es nur gewünscht hat, ohne ein Argument für seine Angemessenheit vorzubringen." "Zu einer Freundschaft und Zuneigung bereitwillig, leicht zu überreden zu sein, ist kein Verdienst in deinen Augen." "Zu einem Nachgeben ohne Überzeugung ist keine Anerkennung für das Verständnis beider Seiten." "Sie schein mir, Mr. Darcy, nichts für den Einfluss von Freundschaft und Zuneigung übrig zu haben. Die Wertschätzung für den Bittsteller würde oft dazu führen, dass man einem Wunsch ohne Warten auf Argumente nachgibt. Ich spreche nicht besonders von einem Fall wie dem, den du dir über Mr. Bingley vorgestellt hast. Vielleicht sollten wir also bis zum Eintreten der Umstände warten, bevor wir die Klugheit seines Verhaltens darüber diskutieren. Aber im Allgemeinen und in gewöhnlichen Fällen zwischen Freund und Freund, wo einer von ihnen vom anderen gebeten wird, eine Entscheidung von geringer Bedeutung zu ändern, würdest du schlecht von dieser Person denken, wenn sie dem Wunsch ohne Warten auf Überzeugung nachgeben würde?" "Wäre es nicht ratsam, bevor wir auf dieses Thema eingehen, Frau Hurst sang mit ihrer Schwester und während sie so beschäftigt waren, konnte Elizabeth nicht umhin zu bemerken, als sie einige Musikbücher durchblätterte, die auf dem Instrument lagen, wie oft Herr Darcys Augen auf sie gerichtet waren. Sie wusste kaum, wie sie annehmen konnte, dass sie ein Objekt der Bewunderung für einen so großen Mann sein könnte; und doch war es noch seltsamer, dass er sie ansah, weil er sie nicht mochte. Sie konnte sich jedoch nur vorstellen, dass sie seine Aufmerksamkeit erregte, weil es an ihr etwas gab, das nach seinen Vorstellungen von Richtigkeit und Tadelhaften nicht stimmt. Die Annahme schmerzte sie nicht. Sie mochte ihn zu wenig, um sich um seine Anerkennung zu kümmern. Nachdem einige italienische Lieder gespielt worden waren, brach Miss Bingley den Zauber mit einem fröhlichen schottischen Lied, und kurz darauf sagte Herr Darcy und näherte sich Elizabeth: "Haben Sie nicht große Lust, Miss Bennet, einen Rundtanz zu tanzen?" Sie lächelte, antwortete aber nicht. Er wiederholte die Frage mit einigem Erstaunen über ihr Schweigen. "Oh!" sagte sie, "ich habe dich schon gehört, konnte aber nicht sofort entscheiden, was ich antworten sollte. Du wolltest, dass ich "Ja" sage, damit du dich über meinen Geschmack lustig machen könntest; aber ich freue mich immer, solche Pläne zu vereiteln und jemanden um seine vorgesehene Verachtung zu betrügen. Deshalb habe ich mich entschlossen, dir zu sagen, dass ich überhaupt nicht einen Rundtanz tanzen möchte - und verachte mich nun, wenn du dich traust." "Tatsächlich traue ich mich nicht." Elizabeth, die eher erwartet hatte, ihn zu verletzen, war erstaunt über seine Galanterie; aber ihre Art hatte eine Mischung aus Süße und Schalkhaftigkeit, die es ihr schwer machte, jemanden zu beleidigen. Darcy war noch nie von einer Frau so verzaubert worden wie von ihr. Er glaubte wirklich, dass er bei einer anderen Verbindung als ihrer niedrigeren Herkunft in Gefahr sein könnte. Miss Bingley bemerkte oder vermutete genug, um eifersüchtig zu sein; und ihre große Sorge um die Genesung ihrer lieben Freundin Jane erhielt etwas Unterstützung durch den Wunsch, Elizabeth loszuwerden. Sie versuchte oft, Darcy dazu zu bringen, ihre Gästin nicht zu mögen, indem sie von ihrer vermeintlichen Ehe sprach und sein Glück in einer solchen Allianz plante. "Ich hoffe", sagte sie, als sie zusammen im Garten spazieren gingen, "dass du deiner Schwiegermutter ein paar Hinweise gibst, wenn dieses erwünschte Ereignis eintritt, wie vorteilhaft es für sie ist, den Mund zu halten; und wenn du es schaffst, versuch die jüngeren Mädchen davon abzuhalten, den Offizieren nachzulaufen. Und wenn ich so ein heikles Thema ansprechen darf, bemühe dich, dieses kleine Etwas, das an Überheblichkeit und Unverschämtheit grenzt, das deine Lady besitzt, einzudämmen." "Hast du noch etwas anderes, um mein häusliches Glück vorzuschlagen?" "Oh ja. Lass die Porträts deines Onkels und Tantes Philips in der Galerie in Pemberley aufhängen. Stell sie neben deinen Großonkel, dem Richter. Sie haben den gleichen Beruf, weißt du; nur in verschiedenen Bereichen. Was Elizabeths Porträt betrifft, solltest du gar nicht erst versuchen, es machen zu lassen. Welcher Maler könnte diesen schönen Augen gerecht werden?" "Es wäre in der Tat nicht einfach, ihren Ausdruck einzufangen, aber ihre Farbe und Form und die Wimpern, die so bemerkenswert fein sind, könnten kopiert werden." In diesem Moment trafen sie auf Mrs. Hurst und Elizabeth selbst, die von einem anderen Spaziergang kamen. "Ich wusste nicht, dass ihr spazieren gehen wolltet", sagte Miss Bingley etwas verwirrt, aus Angst, dass sie belauscht worden wären. "Ihr habt uns schrecklich schlecht behandelt", antwortete Mrs. Hurst, "indem ihr uns nicht gesagt habt, dass ihr rausgeht." Dann nahm sie sich den freien Arm von Mr. Darcy und ließ Elizabeth alleine gehen. Der Weg ermöglichte es nur drei Personen nebeneinander zu gehen. Mr. Darcy spürte ihre Rücksichtslosigkeit und sagte sofort: "Dieser Weg ist nicht breit genug für unsere Gruppe. Wir sollten in die Allee gehen." Aber Elizabeth, die keinerlei Lust hatte, bei ihnen zu bleiben, antwortete lachend: "Nein, nein, bleibt wo ihr seid. Ihr seht bezaubernd aus und tretet außergewöhnlich auf. Die malerische Atmosphäre würde durch eine vierte Person zerstört werden. Auf Wiedersehen." Dann rannte sie fröhlich davon und freute sich, während sie umherstreifte, darauf, in einem oder zwei Tagen wieder zu Hause zu sein. Jane war bereits so weit genesen, dass sie beabsichtigte, für ein paar Stunden an diesem Abend ihr Zimmer zu verlassen. Als die Damen sich nach dem Abendessen entfernten, lief Elizabeth zu ihrer Schwester und begleitete sie in das Wohnzimmer, wo sie von ihren beiden Freundinnen mit vielen Freudenbekundungen begrüßt wurde, und Elizabeth hatte sie noch nie so angenehm gesehen wie während der Stunde, in der die Herren noch nicht erschienen waren. Ihre Gesprächsfähigkeiten waren erheblich. Sie konnten eine Veranstaltung genau beschreiben, eine Anekdote humorvoll erzählen und über ihre Bekannten mit Witz lachen. Aber als die Herren eintraten, war Jane nicht länger das Hauptobjekt. Miss Bingleys Augen wandten sich sofort Darcy zu, und sie hatte etwas zu sagen, bevor er viele Schritte gegangen war. Er wandte sich direkt an Miss Bennet und gratulierte ihr höflich. Auch Mr. Hurst machte ihr eine leichte Verbeugung und sagte, er freue sich sehr, aber ausführlicher und herzlicher war Bingleys Begrüßung. Er war voller Freude und Aufmerksamkeit. Die erste halbe Stunde verbrachte er damit, das Feuer anzufachen, damit sie nicht unter der Raumänderung leidet. Und auf ihren Wunsch hin entfernte sie sich zur anderen Seite des Kamins, um weiter von der Tür entfernt zu sein. Dann setzte er sich neben sie und sprach kaum mit jemand anderem. Elizabeth, die in der gegenüberliegenden Ecke arbeitete, sah alles mit großer Freude. Als der Tee vorbei war, erinnerte Mr. Hurst seine Schwägerin an den Kartentisch - jedoch vergeblich. Sie hatte privates Wissen erlangt, dass Mr. Darcy keine Lust auf Karten hatte, und Mr. Hurst fand bald heraus, dass sein offenes Bitten abgelehnt wurde. Sie versicherte ihm, dass niemand spielen wollte, und das Schweigen der gesamten Gesellschaft zu diesem Thema schien diese Behauptung zu rechtfertigen. Mr. Hurst hatte also nichts zu tun, außer sich auf eines der Sofas zu legen und einzuschlafen. Darcy nahm ein Buch zur Hand, Miss Bingley tat es ihm gleich, und Mrs. Hurst, die hauptsächlich damit beschäftigt war, mit ihren Armbändern und Ringen zu spielen, beteiligte sich hin und wieder an der Unterhaltung ihres Bruders mit Miss Bennet. Die Aufmerksamkeit von Miss Bingley war genauso darauf gerichtet, wie Darcy in seinem Buch vorankam, wie darauf, ihr eigenes Buch zu lesen; und sie stellte ihm ständig Fragen oder schaute auf seine Seite. Sie konnte ihn jedoch nicht zu einem Gespräch bewegen; er antwortete nur auf ihre Frage und las weiter. Schließlich, völlig erschöpft vom Versuch, mit ihrem eigenen Buch Unterhaltung zu finden, das sie nur ausgewählt hatte, weil es der zweite Band von seinem war, gähnte sie laut und sagte: "Wie angenehm ist es, einen Abend auf diese Weise zu Miss Eliza Bennet, lassen Sie mich Sie überzeugen, meinem Beispiel zu folgen und sich im Raum zu bewegen. Ich versichere Ihnen, es ist sehr erfrischend, nachdem man so lange in einer Position gesessen hat. Elizabeth war überrascht, stimmte aber sofort zu. Miss Bingley hatte auch Erfolg mit ihrem eigentlichen Ziel ihrer Höflichkeit; Mr. Darcy schaute auf. Er war genauso aufmerksam auf die Ungeheuerlichkeit der Aufmerksamkeit von dieser Seite wie Elizabeth selbst und schloss unbewusst sein Buch. Er wurde direkt eingeladen, sich ihnen anzuschließen, aber er lehnte ab und bemerkte, dass er sich nur zwei Gründe vorstellen könnte, warum sie beschlossen hatten, zusammen im Raum auf und ab zu gehen, und dass sein Hinzukommen mit einem dieser Gründe stören würde. "Was könnte er gemeint haben? Sie war darauf gespannt, was seine Bedeutung sein könnte" und fragte Elizabeth, ob sie überhaupt etwas verstehen konnte. "Ganz und gar nicht", war ihre Antwort, "aber verlassen wir uns darauf, er will uns sicherlich tadeln und unsere sicherste Möglichkeit, ihn zu enttäuschen, besteht darin, nichts darüber zu fragen." Miss Bingley war jedoch nicht in der Lage, Mr. Darcy in irgendetwas zu enttäuschen, und bestand daher darauf, eine Erklärung für seine beiden Motive zu verlangen. "Ich habe keinerlei Einwände dagegen, sie zu erklären", sagte er, sobald sie ihn zu Wort kommen ließ. "Ihr habt entweder diese Methode gewählt, den Abend miteinander zu verbringen, weil ihr einander vertraut und geheime Angelegenheiten zu besprechen habt, oder weil ihr euch bewusst seid, dass eure Figuren beim Gehen am besten zur Geltung kommen - wenn ersteres der Fall ist, würde ich euch völlig im Weg stehen, und wenn zweiteres der Fall ist, kann ich euch viel besser bewundern, während ich am Feuer sitze." "Oh! Schrecklich!" rief Miss Bingley. "Ich habe noch nie etwas so Abscheuliches gehört. Wie sollen wir ihn für eine solche Äußerung bestrafen?" "Nichts leichter als das, wenn ihr es nur wollt", sagte Elizabeth. "Wir können einander alle quälen und bestrafen. Ärgert ihn - lacht über ihn. So nahe wie ihr euch seid, wisst ihr sicherlich, wie das zu tun ist." "Aber bei meiner Ehre, das tue ich nicht. Ich versichere dir, dass mir meine Nähe das noch nicht gelehrt hat. Ruhe zu ärgern und einen klaren Kopf zu bewahren! Nein, nein, ich glaube, da ist er uns überlegen. Und was das Lachen betrifft, so werden wir uns nicht bloßstellen, wenn es euch recht ist, indem wir versuchen, ohne Grund zu lachen. Mr. Darcy kann sich freuen." "Mr. Darcy ist nicht zum Lachen!" rief Elizabeth. "Das ist ein ungewöhnlicher Vorteil, und ungewöhnlich, so hoffe ich, wird es bleiben, denn es wäre ein großer Verlust für mich, viele solche Bekanntschaften zu haben. Ich liebe ein herzliches Lachen sehr." "Miss Bingley", sagte er, "hat mir mehr zugetraut, als der Fall ist. Die klügsten und besten Männer, ja, die klügsten und besten Handlungen können durch eine Person, deren erster Lebenszweck ein Scherz ist, lächerlich gemacht werden." "Gewiss", antwortete Elizabeth, "es gibt solche Menschen, aber ich hoffe, ich gehöre nicht zu ihnen. Ich hoffe, dass ich niemals das, was weise oder gut ist, verspotten werde. Torheiten und Unsinn, seltsame und widersprüchliche Dinge amüsieren mich, das gebe ich zu, und darüber lache ich, wann immer ich kann. Aber diese Dinge, nehme ich an, sind genau das, was euch fehlt." "Vielleicht ist das für niemanden möglich. Aber es war das Ziel meines Lebens, solche Schwächen zu vermeiden, die oft zu lächerlichem Verhalten führen, obwohl man ein starkes Verständnis hat." "Ich meine Eitelkeit und Stolz." "Ja, Eitelkeit ist in der Tat eine Schwäche. Aber Stolz - wo es eine echte geistige Überlegenheit gibt, wird Stolz immer gut geregelt sein." Elizabeth wandte sich ab, um ein Lächeln zu verbergen. "Deine Untersuchung von Mr. Darcy ist also abgeschlossen, nehme ich an", sagte Miss Bingley. "Und bitte, was ist das Ergebnis?" "Ich bin vollkommen davon überzeugt, dass Mr. Darcy keinen Fehler hat. Er gibt es selbst ohne Verkleidung zu." "Nein", sagte Darcy, "ich habe keine solche Behauptung aufgestellt. Ich habe durchaus genug Fehler, aber ich hoffe, sie sind nicht von Verstand. Mein Temperament wage ich nicht zu bürgen. Ich glaube, es ist zu wenig nachgiebig, sicherlich zu wenig für die Bequemlichkeit der Welt. Ich kann die Torheiten und Laster anderer nicht so schnell vergessen, wie ich sollte, noch ihre Beleidigungen gegen mich selbst. Meine Gefühle lassen sich nicht so leicht aufblähen. Mein Temperament könnte vielleicht als nachtragend bezeichnet werden. Mein gutes Urteil, einmal verloren, ist für immer verloren." "Das ist wirklich ein Fehler!" rief Elizabeth. "Unversöhnlicher Groll ist ein Schatten in einem Charakter. Aber du hast deinen Fehler gut gewählt. Ich kann wirklich nicht darüber lachen. Du bist vor mir sicher." "Es gibt, glaube ich, in jeder Veranlagung eine Tendenz zu einem bestimmten Übel, einem natürlichen Defekt, den selbst die beste Bildung nicht überwinden kann." "Und dein Defekt besteht darin, dass du jeden hasst." "Und deiner", antwortete er mit einem Lächeln, "besteht darin, sie absichtlich zu missverstehen." "Lass uns ein wenig Musik haben", rief Miss Bingley, müde von einer Unterhaltung, an der sie keinen Anteil hatte. "Louisa, es macht dir sicherlich nichts aus, wenn ich Mr. Hurst wecke." Ihre Schwester hatte keine Einwände, und das Klavier wurde geöffnet. Nach einigen Augenblicken der Besinnung war Darcy nicht unglücklich darüber. Er begann die Gefahr zu spüren, Elizabeth zu viel Aufmerksamkeit zu schenken. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Jane nähert sich der vollen Genesung in Netherfield und Elizabeth freut sich darauf, nach Hause zurückzukehren. Sie muss sich den täglichen Treffen im Salon mit dem Haushalt unterziehen, aber sie lässt sich davon nicht einschüchtern und betrachtet ihren Dialog mit Darcy als Herausforderung. Da Jane sich nun im Salon zu ihnen gesellt, verbringen Bingley und Jane die meiste Zeit zusammen, während Elizabeth allein bei den Bingley-Schwestern und Darcy bleibt. Schließlich kehren Jane und Elizabeth nach Hause zurück und bei ihrer Ankunft hören sie, dass William Collins zu Besuch kommen soll.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: XXII. The Sea Still Rises Haggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften his modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with the relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame Defarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers. Madame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of Spies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting themselves to the saint's mercies. The lamps across his streets had a portentously elastic swing with them. Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat, contemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several knots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense of power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on the wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: "I know how hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself; but do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to destroy life in you?" Every lean bare arm, that had been without work before, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike. The fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that they could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine; the image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the last finishing blows had told mightily on the expression. Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was to be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her sisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved grocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had already earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance. "Hark!" said The Vengeance. "Listen, then! Who comes?" As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading murmur came rushing along. "It is Defarge," said madame. "Silence, patriots!" Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked around him! "Listen, everywhere!" said madame again. "Listen to him!" Defarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open mouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had sprung to their feet. "Say then, my husband. What is it?" "News from the other world!" "How, then?" cried madame, contemptuously. "The other world?" "Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people that they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?" "Everybody!" from all throats. "The news is of him. He is among us!" "Among us!" from the universal throat again. "And dead?" "Not dead! He feared us so much--and with reason--that he caused himself to be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they have found him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I have seen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have said that he had reason to fear us. Say all! _Had_ he reason?" Wretched old sinner of more than threescore years and ten, if he had never known it yet, he would have known it in his heart of hearts if he could have heard the answering cry. A moment of profound silence followed. Defarge and his wife looked steadfastly at one another. The Vengeance stooped, and the jar of a drum was heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter. "Patriots!" said Defarge, in a determined voice, "are we ready?" Instantly Madame Defarge's knife was in her girdle; the drum was beating in the streets, as if it and a drummer had flown together by magic; and The Vengeance, uttering terrific shrieks, and flinging her arms about her head like all the forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to house, rousing the women. The men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked from windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into the streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From such household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their children, from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground famished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one another, and themselves, to madness with the wildest cries and actions. Villain Foulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant Foulon taken, my daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of these, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, Foulon alive! Foulon who told the starving people they might eat grass! Foulon who told my old father that he might eat grass, when I had no bread to give him! Foulon who told my baby it might suck grass, when these breasts were dry with want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our suffering! Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my knees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon! Husbands, and brothers, and young men, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon, Give us the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend Foulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from him! With these cries, numbers of the women, lashed into blind frenzy, whirled about, striking and tearing at their own friends until they dropped into a passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men belonging to them from being trampled under foot. Nevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This Foulon was at the Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Never, if Saint Antoine knew his own sufferings, insults, and wrongs! Armed men and women flocked out of the Quarter so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with such a force of suction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not a human creature in Saint Antoine's bosom but a few old crones and the wailing children. No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent open space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance, and Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance from him in the Hall. "See!" cried madame, pointing with her knife. "See the old villain bound with ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back. Ha, ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!" Madame put her knife under her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play. The people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the cause of her satisfaction to those behind them, and those again explaining to others, and those to others, the neighbouring streets resounded with the clapping of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl, and the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge's frequent expressions of impatience were taken up, with marvellous quickness, at a distance: the more readily, because certain men who had by some wonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture to look in from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a telegraph between her and the crowd outside the building. At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or protection, directly down upon the old prisoner's head. The favour was too much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had stood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got him! It was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge had but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable wretch in a deadly embrace--Madame Defarge had but followed and turned her hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied--The Vengeance and Jacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows had not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high perches--when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, "Bring him out! Bring him to the lamp!" Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on his knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged, and struck at, and stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his face by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always entreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of action, with a small clear space about him as the people drew one another back that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through a forest of legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one of the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go--as a cat might have done to a mouse--and silently and composedly looked at him while they made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately screeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have him killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope broke, and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope broke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and held him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the mouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the sight of. Nor was this the end of the day's bad work, for Saint Antoine so shouted and danced his angry blood up, that it boiled again, on hearing when the day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the people's enemies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard five hundred strong, in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes on flaring sheets of paper, seized him--would have torn him out of the breast of an army to bear Foulon company--set his head and heart on pikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession through the streets. Not before dark night did the men and women come back to the children, wailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakers' shops were beset by long files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while they waited with stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by embracing one another on the triumphs of the day, and achieving them again in gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged people shortened and frayed away; and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, and slender fires were made in the streets, at which neighbours cooked in common, afterwards supping at their doors. Scanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, as of most other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human fellowship infused some nourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some sparks of cheerfulness out of them. Fathers and mothers who had had their full share in the worst of the day, played gently with their meagre children; and lovers, with such a world around them and before them, loved and hoped. It was almost morning, when Defarge's wine-shop parted with its last knot of customers, and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife, in husky tones, while fastening the door: "At last it is come, my dear!" "Eh well!" returned madame. "Almost." Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even The Vengeance slept with her starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. The drum's was the only voice in Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The Vengeance, as custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had the same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old Foulon was seized; not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint Antoine's bosom. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Eine Woche nach der Erstürmung der Bastille betritt Defarge das Weingeschäft. Er erzählt den anderen, dass Foulon, ein Aristokrat, der seinen eigenen Tod vorgetäuscht hat, um sich zu schützen, noch am Leben ist. Einige Dorfbewohner haben ihn auf dem Land entdeckt und vor Gericht gebracht. Als die Trommeln auf der Straße anfangen zu schlagen, schnappt sich Madame Defarge ihr Messer. Draußen ruft eine wilde Frau namens Die Rache fürchterlich und fuchtelt mit ihren Armen. Sie rennt von Haus zu Haus und versetzt alle Frauen in Raserei, um das Blut von Foulon zu fordern. Als die Menge zum Justizpalast stürmt, sind die Defarges, Die Rache und Jacques Drei ganz vorne mit dabei. Die Menge, die nicht darauf warten kann, dass der Prozess endet, dringt in das Gebäude ein und zieht Foulon heraus. Sie hängen ihn an einem Laternenpfahl vor dem Justizpalast auf und stopfen seinen Mund mit Gras voll, denn er hatte vorgeschlagen, dass dies eine angemessene Nahrung für die Bauern sei. Die Patrioten, wie sich die Revolutionäre jetzt nennen, köpfen ihn dann und stellen Foulons Kopf zur Schau.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: 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. Der enterbte Ritter war voller Erstaunen, nicht nur über die Großzügigkeit von Rebecca, von der er jedoch beschloss, nicht zu profitieren, sondern auch über die der Räuber, bei denen eine solche Eigenschaft völlig fremd schien. Seine Gedanken über diese eigenartigen Umstände wurden jedoch durch die Notwendigkeit der Ruhe unterbrochen, die die Müdigkeit des vergangenen Tages und die Notwendigkeit, sich für die Begegnung am nächsten Tag zu erfrischen, gleichermaßen unerlässlich machten. Der Ritter streckte sich daher zur Ruhe auf einem reichen Sofa aus, das im Zelt bereitstand, und der treue Gurth legte seine robusten Glieder auf einen Bärenfellteppich, der eine Art Teppich für das Pavillon bildete, und legte sich über den Eingang des Zeltes, so dass niemand eintreten konnte, ohne ihn zu wecken. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Der Eröffnungspassage dieses Kapitels ist aus Akt IV von Shakespeares Stück "Die beiden Veroneser". In diesem Dialog trifft die Hauptfigur Valentine auf eine Bande von Gesetzlosen auf der Straße. Vorahnung! Als Gurth sich von Ashby entfernt, beginnt er sich Sorgen wegen Räubern auf dem Land zu machen. Immerhin trägt er viel Bargeld bei sich. Zu Recht macht er sich Sorgen: Die Gesetzlosen halten ihn auf der Straße an und ziehen ihn in den Wald, um ihn seines Geldes zu berauben. Gurth bestätigt, dass er 30 Zechinen für sich selbst hat - der Rest gehört seinem Herrn. Der Hauptmann der Gesetzlosen fragt, wer sein Herr ist. Gurth antwortet, dass er dem Enterbten Ritter dient. Er weigert sich, weitere Informationen über die Identität seines Herrn oder über sich selbst preiszugeben. Die Räuber sind erstaunt, dass Gurth mit mehr Geld von Isaac weggegangen ist, als er hatte, als er ankam. Sie sind auch erstaunt, dass der Enterbte Ritter jedes Lösegeld von Bois-Guilbert abgelehnt hat. Der Hauptmann der Räuber ist von Gurths Geschichte und von der Turnierleistung des Enterbten Ritters so beeindruckt, dass er Gurth ziehen lassen möchte, ohne ihm etwas von seinem Geld wegzunehmen. Doch einer der anderen Räuber ist nicht bereit, Gurth einfach gehen zu lassen, egal wie pro-sächsisch sein Hauptmann auch sein mag. Also schlägt der Hauptmann vor, dass dieser Dieb und Gurth es mit langen Holzstangen ausfechten sollen. Wenn Gurth gewinnt, darf er gehen. Gurth und der Müller kämpfen mit ihren Stangen, bis Gurth den Müller mit einem Schlag auf den Kopf zu Boden schlägt. Die anderen Räuber rufen: "Fair Play und Alte England für immer! Der Sachse hat sowohl seine Börse als auch seine Haut gerettet, und der Müller hat seinen Meister gefunden". Der Hauptmann schickt zwei seiner Gesetzlosen, um Gurth zurück zum Turniergelände zu führen. Am Rand des Waldes warnen Gurths zwei Begleiter ihn davor, niemandem zu erzählen, was er in dieser Nacht im Wald gesehen hat. Trotz dieser Warnung erzählt Gurth dem Enterbten Ritter alles, auch den Teil mit den Gesetzlosen. Während der Enterbte Ritter von Rebeccas Großzügigkeit beeindruckt ist, schwört er, ihr das Geld zurückzuzahlen, das sie ihm gegeben hat.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: "_9 May._ "My dearest Lucy,-- "Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply overwhelmed with work. The life of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes trying. I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air. I have been working very hard lately, because I want to keep up with Jonathan's studies, and I have been practising shorthand very assiduously. When we are married I shall be able to be useful to Jonathan, and if I can stenograph well enough I can take down what he wants to say in this way and write it out for him on the typewriter, at which also I am practising very hard. He and I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is keeping a stenographic journal of his travels abroad. When I am with you I shall keep a diary in the same way. I don't mean one of those two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner diaries, but a sort of journal which I can write in whenever I feel inclined. I do not suppose there will be much of interest to other people; but it is not intended for them. I may show it to Jonathan some day if there is in it anything worth sharing, but it is really an exercise book. I shall try to do what I see lady journalists do: interviewing and writing descriptions and trying to remember conversations. I am told that, with a little practice, one can remember all that goes on or that one hears said during a day. However, we shall see. I will tell you of my little plans when we meet. I have just had a few hurried lines from Jonathan from Transylvania. He is well, and will be returning in about a week. I am longing to hear all his news. It must be so nice to see strange countries. I wonder if we--I mean Jonathan and I--shall ever see them together. There is the ten o'clock bell ringing. Good-bye. "Your loving "MINA. "Tell me all the news when you write. You have not told me anything for a long time. I hear rumours, and especially of a tall, handsome, curly-haired man???" _Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray_. "_17, Chatham Street_, "_Wednesday_. "My dearest Mina,-- "I must say you tax me _very_ unfairly with being a bad correspondent. I wrote to you _twice_ since we parted, and your last letter was only your _second_. Besides, I have nothing to tell you. There is really nothing to interest you. Town is very pleasant just now, and we go a good deal to picture-galleries and for walks and rides in the park. As to the tall, curly-haired man, I suppose it was the one who was with me at the last Pop. Some one has evidently been telling tales. That was Mr. Holmwood. He often comes to see us, and he and mamma get on very well together; they have so many things to talk about in common. We met some time ago a man that would just _do for you_, if you were not already engaged to Jonathan. He is an excellent _parti_, being handsome, well off, and of good birth. He is a doctor and really clever. Just fancy! He is only nine-and-twenty, and he has an immense lunatic asylum all under his own care. Mr. Holmwood introduced him to me, and he called here to see us, and often comes now. I think he is one of the most resolute men I ever saw, and yet the most calm. He seems absolutely imperturbable. I can fancy what a wonderful power he must have over his patients. He has a curious habit of looking one straight in the face, as if trying to read one's thoughts. He tries this on very much with me, but I flatter myself he has got a tough nut to crack. I know that from my glass. Do you ever try to read your own face? _I do_, and I can tell you it is not a bad study, and gives you more trouble than you can well fancy if you have never tried it. He says that I afford him a curious psychological study, and I humbly think I do. I do not, as you know, take sufficient interest in dress to be able to describe the new fashions. Dress is a bore. That is slang again, but never mind; Arthur says that every day. There, it is all out. Mina, we have told all our secrets to each other since we were _children_; we have slept together and eaten together, and laughed and cried together; and now, though I have spoken, I would like to speak more. Oh, Mina, couldn't you guess? I love him. I am blushing as I write, for although I _think_ he loves me, he has not told me so in words. But oh, Mina, I love him; I love him; I love him! There, that does me good. I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire undressing, as we used to sit; and I would try to tell you what I feel. I do not know how I am writing this even to you. I am afraid to stop, or I should tear up the letter, and I don't want to stop, for I _do_ so want to tell you all. Let me hear from you _at once_, and tell me all that you think about it. Mina, I must stop. Good-night. Bless me in your prayers; and, Mina, pray for my happiness. "LUCY. "P.S.--I need not tell you this is a secret. Good-night again. "L." _Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray_. "_24 May_. "My dearest Mina,-- "Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter. It was so nice to be able to tell you and to have your sympathy. "My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs are. Here am I, who shall be twenty in September, and yet I never had a proposal till to-day, not a real proposal, and to-day I have had three. Just fancy! THREE proposals in one day! Isn't it awful! I feel sorry, really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows. Oh, Mina, I am so happy that I don't know what to do with myself. And three proposals! But, for goodness' sake, don't tell any of the girls, or they would be getting all sorts of extravagant ideas and imagining themselves injured and slighted if in their very first day at home they did not get six at least. Some girls are so vain! You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and are going to settle down soon soberly into old married women, can despise vanity. Well, I must tell you about the three, but you must keep it a secret, dear, from _every one_, except, of course, Jonathan. You will tell him, because I would, if I were in your place, certainly tell Arthur. A woman ought to tell her husband everything--don't you think so, dear?--and I must be fair. Men like women, certainly their wives, to be quite as fair as they are; and women, I am afraid, are not always quite as fair as they should be. Well, my dear, number One came just before lunch. I told you of him, Dr. John Seward, the lunatic-asylum man, with the strong jaw and the good forehead. He was very cool outwardly, but was nervous all the same. He had evidently been schooling himself as to all sorts of little things, and remembered them; but he almost managed to sit down on his silk hat, which men don't generally do when they are cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept playing with a lancet in a way that made me nearly scream. He spoke to me, Mina, very straightforwardly. He told me how dear I was to him, though he had known me so little, and what his life would be with me to help and cheer him. He was going to tell me how unhappy he would be if I did not care for him, but when he saw me cry he said that he was a brute and would not add to my present trouble. Then he broke off and asked if I could love him in time; and when I shook my head his hands trembled, and then with some hesitation he asked me if I cared already for any one else. He put it very nicely, saying that he did not want to wring my confidence from me, but only to know, because if a woman's heart was free a man might have hope. And then, Mina, I felt a sort of duty to tell him that there was some one. I only told him that much, and then he stood up, and he looked very strong and very grave as he took both my hands in his and said he hoped I would be happy, and that if I ever wanted a friend I must count him one of my best. Oh, Mina dear, I can't help crying: and you must excuse this letter being all blotted. Being proposed to is all very nice and all that sort of thing, but it isn't at all a happy thing when you have to see a poor fellow, whom you know loves you honestly, going away and looking all broken-hearted, and to know that, no matter what he may say at the moment, you are passing quite out of his life. My dear, I must stop here at present, I feel so miserable, though I am so happy. "_Evening._ "Arthur has just gone, and I feel in better spirits than when I left off, so I can go on telling you about the day. Well, my dear, number Two came after lunch. He is such a nice fellow, an American from Texas, and he looks so young and so fresh that it seems almost impossible that he has been to so many places and has had such adventures. I sympathise with poor Desdemona when she had such a dangerous stream poured in her ear, even by a black man. I suppose that we women are such cowards that we think a man will save us from fears, and we marry him. I know now what I would do if I were a man and wanted to make a girl love me. No, I don't, for there was Mr. Morris telling us his stories, and Arthur never told any, and yet---- My dear, I am somewhat previous. Mr. Quincey P. Morris found me alone. It seems that a man always does find a girl alone. No, he doesn't, for Arthur tried twice to _make_ a chance, and I helping him all I could; I am not ashamed to say it now. I must tell you beforehand that Mr. Morris doesn't always speak slang--that is to say, he never does so to strangers or before them, for he is really well educated and has exquisite manners--but he found out that it amused me to hear him talk American slang, and whenever I was present, and there was no one to be shocked, he said such funny things. I am afraid, my dear, he has to invent it all, for it fits exactly into whatever else he has to say. But this is a way slang has. I do not know myself if I shall ever speak slang; I do not know if Arthur likes it, as I have never heard him use any as yet. Well, Mr. Morris sat down beside me and looked as happy and jolly as he could, but I could see all the same that he was very nervous. He took my hand in his, and said ever so sweetly:-- "'Miss Lucy, I know I ain't good enough to regulate the fixin's of your little shoes, but I guess if you wait till you find a man that is you will go join them seven young women with the lamps when you quit. Won't you just hitch up alongside of me and let us go down the long road together, driving in double harness?' "Well, he did look so good-humoured and so jolly that it didn't seem half so hard to refuse him as it did poor Dr. Seward; so I said, as lightly as I could, that I did not know anything of hitching, and that I wasn't broken to harness at all yet. Then he said that he had spoken in a light manner, and he hoped that if he had made a mistake in doing so on so grave, so momentous, an occasion for him, I would forgive him. He really did look serious when he was saying it, and I couldn't help feeling a bit serious too--I know, Mina, you will think me a horrid flirt--though I couldn't help feeling a sort of exultation that he was number two in one day. And then, my dear, before I could say a word he began pouring out a perfect torrent of love-making, laying his very heart and soul at my feet. He looked so earnest over it that I shall never again think that a man must be playful always, and never earnest, because he is merry at times. I suppose he saw something in my face which checked him, for he suddenly stopped, and said with a sort of manly fervour that I could have loved him for if I had been free:-- "'Lucy, you are an honest-hearted girl, I know. I should not be here speaking to you as I am now if I did not believe you clean grit, right through to the very depths of your soul. Tell me, like one good fellow to another, is there any one else that you care for? And if there is I'll never trouble you a hair's breadth again, but will be, if you will let me, a very faithful friend.' "My dear Mina, why are men so noble when we women are so little worthy of them? Here was I almost making fun of this great-hearted, true gentleman. I burst into tears--I am afraid, my dear, you will think this a very sloppy letter in more ways than one--and I really felt very badly. Why can't they let a girl marry three men, or as many as want her, and save all this trouble? But this is heresy, and I must not say it. I am glad to say that, though I was crying, I was able to look into Mr. Morris's brave eyes, and I told him out straight:-- "'Yes, there is some one I love, though he has not told me yet that he even loves me.' I was right to speak to him so frankly, for quite a light came into his face, and he put out both his hands and took mine--I think I put them into his--and said in a hearty way:-- "'That's my brave girl. It's better worth being late for a chance of winning you than being in time for any other girl in the world. Don't cry, my dear. If it's for me, I'm a hard nut to crack; and I take it standing up. If that other fellow doesn't know his happiness, well, he'd better look for it soon, or he'll have to deal with me. Little girl, your honesty and pluck have made me a friend, and that's rarer than a lover; it's more unselfish anyhow. My dear, I'm going to have a pretty lonely walk between this and Kingdom Come. Won't you give me one kiss? It'll be something to keep off the darkness now and then. You can, you know, if you like, for that other good fellow--he must be a good fellow, my dear, and a fine fellow, or you could not love him--hasn't spoken yet.' That quite won me, Mina, for it _was_ brave and sweet of him, and noble, too, to a rival--wasn't it?--and he so sad; so I leant over and kissed him. He stood up with my two hands in his, and as he looked down into my face--I am afraid I was blushing very much--he said:-- "'Little girl, I hold your hand, and you've kissed me, and if these things don't make us friends nothing ever will. Thank you for your sweet honesty to me, and good-bye.' He wrung my hand, and taking up his hat, went straight out of the room without looking back, without a tear or a quiver or a pause; and I am crying like a baby. Oh, why must a man like that be made unhappy when there are lots of girls about who would worship the very ground he trod on? I know I would if I were free--only I don't want to be free. My dear, this quite upset me, and I feel I cannot write of happiness just at once, after telling you of it; and I don't wish to tell of the number three until it can be all happy. "Ever your loving "LUCY. "P.S.--Oh, about number Three--I needn't tell you of number Three, need I? Besides, it was all so confused; it seemed only a moment from his coming into the room till both his arms were round me, and he was kissing me. I am very, very happy, and I don't know what I have done to deserve it. I must only try in the future to show that I am not ungrateful to God for all His goodness to me in sending to me such a lover, such a husband, and such a friend. "Good-bye." _Dr. Seward's Diary._ (Kept in phonograph) _25 May._--Ebb tide in appetite to-day. Cannot eat, cannot rest, so diary instead. Since my rebuff of yesterday I have a sort of empty feeling; nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth the doing.... As I knew that the only cure for this sort of thing was work, I went down amongst the patients. I picked out one who has afforded me a study of much interest. He is so quaint that I am determined to understand him as well as I can. To-day I seemed to get nearer than ever before to the heart of his mystery. I questioned him more fully than I had ever done, with a view to making myself master of the facts of his hallucination. In my manner of doing it there was, I now see, something of cruelty. I seemed to wish to keep him to the point of his madness--a thing which I avoid with the patients as I would the mouth of hell. (_Mem._, under what circumstances would I _not_ avoid the pit of hell?) _Omnia Romae venalia sunt._ Hell has its price! _verb. sap._ If there be anything behind this instinct it will be valuable to trace it afterwards _accurately_, so I had better commence to do so, therefore-- R. M. Renfield, aetat 59.--Sanguine temperament; great physical strength; morbidly excitable; periods of gloom, ending in some fixed idea which I cannot make out. I presume that the sanguine temperament itself and the disturbing influence end in a mentally-accomplished finish; a possibly dangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish. In selfish men caution is as secure an armour for their foes as for themselves. What I think of on this point is, when self is the fixed point the centripetal force is balanced with the centrifugal; when duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed point, the latter force is paramount, and only accident or a series of accidents can balance it. _Letter, Quincey P. Morris to Hon. Arthur Holmwood._ "_25 May._ "My dear Art,-- "We've told yarns by the camp-fire in the prairies; and dressed one another's wounds after trying a landing at the Marquesas; and drunk healths on the shore of Titicaca. There are more yarns to be told, and other wounds to be healed, and another health to be drunk. Won't you let this be at my camp-fire to-morrow night? I have no hesitation in asking you, as I know a certain lady is engaged to a certain dinner-party, and that you are free. There will only be one other, our old pal at the Korea, Jack Seward. He's coming, too, and we both want to mingle our weeps over the wine-cup, and to drink a health with all our hearts to the happiest man in all the wide world, who has won the noblest heart that God has made and the best worth winning. We promise you a hearty welcome, and a loving greeting, and a health as true as your own right hand. We shall both swear to leave you at home if you drink too deep to a certain pair of eyes. Come! "Yours, as ever and always, "QUINCEY P. MORRIS." _Telegram from Arthur Holmwood to Quincey P. Morris._ "_26 May._ "Count me in every time. I bear messages which will make both your ears tingle. "ART." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Dieses Kapitel besteht aus einer Reihe von Briefen. Der erste ist von Miss Mina Murray an Miss Lucy Westenra, datiert 9. Mai. Sie schreibt, dass es ihr leid tut, dass sie so spät geschrieben hat, da sie als Assistentin in einer Mädchenschule sehr beschäftigt ist. Sie übt Stenografie. Sie schreibt Lucy in Stenografie und umgekehrt. Sie erzählt Lucy, dass Jonathan in Transsilvanien ist und dass es ihm gut geht und er in einer Woche zurückkehrt. Sie endet damit, Lucy wegen Gerüchten über sie und einen großen, gutaussehenden Lockenkopf zu necken. Lucy Westenra antwortet Mina. Sie beschwert sich darüber, dass Minas Briefe verzögert ankamen und spricht dann über ihren Freund Mr. Arthur Holmwood, in den sie verliebt ist. Dann spricht sie über den Arzt, von dem sie glaubt, dass er perfekt für Mina wäre, wenn sie Jonathan nicht zuerst getroffen hätte. Lucy schreibt einen weiteren Brief, datiert 24. Mai, in dem sie von ihren drei Heiratsanträgen an einem Tag von Dr. Seward, Quincey Morris und Arthur Holmwood berichtet und dass sie Arthur heiraten wird. Sie ist sehr aufgeregt deswegen. Dr. Seward, der Arzt einer Irrenanstalt, nimmt in seinem Phonographen Aufzeichnungen über seinen seltsamen Patienten auf. Er ist am Boden zerstört, nachdem Lucy ihn abgelehnt hat. Er vertieft sich in seine Arbeit. Er dokumentiert das Verhalten seines Patienten R. M. Renfield, der potenziell ein sehr seltsamer und gefährlicher Mann ist. In der Zwischenzeit schreibt Quincey Morris an Arthur, dass er zu ihm nach Hause zum Abendessen mit Dr. Deword kommen soll, und Arthur stimmt zu.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The being finished speaking, and fixed his looks upon me in expectation of a reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, and unable to arrange my ideas sufficiently to understand the full extent of his proposition. He continued-- "You must create a female for me, with whom I can live in the interchange of those sympathies necessary for my being. This you alone can do; and I demand it of you as a right which you must not refuse." The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the anger that had died away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cottagers, and, as he said this, I could no longer suppress the rage that burned within me. "I do refuse it," I replied; "and no torture shall ever extort a consent from me. You may render me the most miserable of men, but you shall never make me base in my own eyes. Shall I create another like yourself, whose joint wickedness might desolate the world. Begone! I have answered you; you may torture me, but I will never consent." "You are in the wrong," replied the fiend; "and, instead of threatening, I am content to reason with you. I am malicious because I am miserable; am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator, would tear me to pieces, and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity man more than he pities me? You would not call it murder, if you could precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts, and destroy my frame, the work of your own hands. Shall I respect man, when he contemns me? Let him live with me in the interchange of kindness, and, instead of injury, I would bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his acceptance. But that cannot be; the human senses are insurmountable barriers to our union. Yet mine shall not be the submission of abject slavery. I will revenge my injuries: if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear; and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable hatred. Have a care: I will work at your destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you curse the hour of your birth." A fiendish rage animated him as he said this; his face was wrinkled into contortions too horrible for human eyes to behold; but presently he calmed himself, and proceeded-- "I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me; for you do not reflect that you are the cause of its excess. If any being felt emotions of benevolence towards me, I should return them an hundred and an hundred fold; for that one creature's sake, I would make peace with the whole kind! But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be realized. What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself: the gratification is small, but it is all that I can receive, and it shall content me. It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another. Our lives will not be happy, but they will be harmless, and free from the misery I now feel. Oh! my creator, make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one benefit! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of some existing thing; do not deny me my request!" I was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the possible consequences of my consent; but I felt that there was some justice in his argument. His tale, and the feelings he now expressed, proved him to be a creature of fine sensations; and did I not, as his maker, owe him all the portion of happiness that it was in my power to bestow? He saw my change of feeling, and continued-- "If you consent, neither you nor any other human being shall ever see us again: I will go to the vast wilds of South America. My food is not that of man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid, to glut my appetite; acorns and berries afford me sufficient nourishment. My companion will be of the same nature as myself, and will be content with the same fare. We shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun will shine on us as on man, and will ripen our food. The picture I present to you is peaceful and human, and you must feel that you could deny it only in the wantonness of power and cruelty. Pitiless as you have been towards me, I now see compassion in your eyes: let me seize the favourable moment, and persuade you to promise what I so ardently desire." "You propose," replied I, "to fly from the habitations of man, to dwell in those wilds where the beasts of the field will be your only companions. How can you, who long for the love and sympathy of man, persevere in this exile? You will return, and again seek their kindness, and you will meet with their detestation; your evil passions will be renewed, and you will then have a companion to aid you in the task of destruction. This may not be; cease to argue the point, for I cannot consent." "How inconstant are your feelings! but a moment ago you were moved by my representations, and why do you again harden yourself to my complaints? I swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit, and by you that made me, that, with the companion you bestow, I will quit the neighbourhood of man, and dwell, as it may chance, in the most savage of places. My evil passions will have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy; my life will flow quietly away, and, in my dying moments, I shall not curse my maker." His words had a strange effect upon me. I compassionated him, and sometimes felt a wish to console him; but when I looked upon him, when I saw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my heart sickened, and my feelings were altered to those of horror and hatred. I tried to stifle these sensations; I thought, that as I could not sympathize with him, I had no right to withhold from him the small portion of happiness which was yet in my power to bestow. "You swear," I said, "to be harmless; but have you not already shewn a degree of malice that should reasonably make me distrust you? May not even this be a feint that will increase your triumph by affording a wider scope for your revenge?" "How is this? I thought I had moved your compassion, and yet you still refuse to bestow on me the only benefit that can soften my heart, and render me harmless. If I have no ties and no affections, hatred and vice must be my portion; the love of another will destroy the cause of my crimes, and I shall become a thing, of whose existence every one will be ignorant. My vices are the children of a forced solitude that I abhor; and my virtues will necessarily arise when I live in communion with an equal. I shall feel the affections of a sensitive being, and become linked to the chain of existence and events, from which I am now excluded." I paused some time to reflect on all he had related, and the various arguments which he had employed. I thought of the promise of virtues which he had displayed on the opening of his existence, and the subsequent blight of all kindly feeling by the loathing and scorn which his protectors had manifested towards him. His power and threats were not omitted in my calculations: a creature who could exist in the ice caves of the glaciers, and hide himself from pursuit among the ridges of inaccessible precipices, was a being possessing faculties it would be vain to cope with. After a long pause of reflection, I concluded, that the justice due both to him and my fellow-creatures demanded of me that I should comply with his request. Turning to him, therefore, I said-- "I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe for ever, and every other place in the neighbourhood of man, as soon as I shall deliver into your hands a female who will accompany you in your exile." "I swear," he cried, "by the sun, and by the blue sky of heaven, that if you grant my prayer, while they exist you shall never behold me again. Depart to your home, and commence your labours: I shall watch their progress with unutterable anxiety; and fear not but that when you are ready I shall appear." Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in my sentiments. I saw him descend the mountain with greater speed than the flight of an eagle, and quickly lost him among the undulations of the sea of ice. His tale had occupied the whole day; and the sun was upon the verge of the horizon when he departed. I knew that I ought to hasten my descent towards the valley, as I should soon be encompassed in darkness; but my heart was heavy, and my steps slow. The labour of winding among the little paths of the mountains, and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced, perplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions which the occurrences of the day had produced. Night was far advanced, when I came to the half-way resting-place, and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars shone at intervals, as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines rose before me, and every here and there a broken tree lay on the ground: it was a scene of wonderful solemnity, and stirred strange thoughts within me. I wept bitterly; and, clasping my hands in agony, I exclaimed, "Oh! stars, and clouds, and winds, ye are all about to mock me: if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as nought; but if not, depart, depart and leave me in darkness." These were wild and miserable thoughts; but I cannot describe to you how the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me, and how I listened to every blast of wind, as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its way to consume me. Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix; but my presence, so haggard and strange, hardly calmed the fears of my family, who had waited the whole night in anxious expectation of my return. The following day we returned to Geneva. The intention of my father in coming had been to divert my mind, and to restore me to my lost tranquillity; but the medicine had been fatal. And, unable to account for the excess of misery I appeared to suffer, he hastened to return home, hoping the quiet and monotony of a domestic life would by degrees alleviate my sufferings from whatsoever cause they might spring. For myself, I was passive in all their arrangements; and the gentle affection of my beloved Elizabeth was inadequate to draw me from the depth of my despair. The promise I had made to the daemon weighed upon my mind, like Dante's iron cowl on the heads of the hellish hypocrites. All pleasures of earth and sky passed before me like a dream, and that thought only had to me the reality of life. Can you wonder, that sometimes a kind of insanity possessed me, or that I saw continually about me a multitude of filthy animals inflicting on me incessant torture, that often extorted screams and bitter groans? By degrees, however, these feelings became calmed. I entered again into the every-day scene of life, if not with interest, at least with some degree of tranquillity. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Das Geschöpf beendet seine Erzählung und bringt seinen Vorschlag vor. Victor ist schockiert, dies zu hören, und weigert sich zunächst, dem nachzukommen. Doch als er über das Unheil des Monsters nachdenkt, für das er verantwortlich ist, willigt er ein. Außerdem verspricht das Geschöpf, sich so weit wie möglich von den Menschen fernzuhalten. Es versichert Victor, dass es mit seiner weiblichen Gefährtin in die Felder Südamerikas fliehen würde. Es behauptet, von Beeren und Eicheln zu leben. Das Monster verkündet, dass es zurückkehren wird, sobald das Geschöpf bereit ist. Es warnt auch davor, seinen Schöpfer ständig zu beobachten. Victor kehrt jetzt bei Sonnenuntergang nach Hause zurück und erreicht einen Brunnen, wo er bitter weint. Am Morgen erreicht er Chamounix und kehrt nach Hause zurück. Er weigert sich, Fragen zu seinem abgekämpften Aussehen zu beantworten. Schließlich beschließt er, die Bitte des Monsters zu erfüllen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: When, in the course of our tour of inspection, we came to the library, we succumbed to the temptation of the luxurious leather chairs with which it was furnished, and sat down in one of the book-lined alcoves to rest and chat awhile. "Edith tells me that you have been in the library all the morning," said Mrs. Leete. "Do you know, it seems to me, Mr. West, that you are the most enviable of mortals." "I should like to know just why," I replied. "Because the books of the last hundred years will be new to you," she answered. "You will have so much of the most absorbing literature to read as to leave you scarcely time for meals these five years to come. Ah, what would I give if I had not already read Berrian's novels." "Or Nesmyth's, mamma," added Edith. "Yes, or Oates' poems, or 'Past and Present,' or, 'In the Beginning,' or,--oh, I could name a dozen books, each worth a year of one's life," declared Mrs. Leete, enthusiastically. "I judge, then, that there has been some notable literature produced in this century." "Yes," said Dr. Leete. "It has been an era of unexampled intellectual splendor. Probably humanity never before passed through a moral and material evolution, at once so vast in its scope and brief in its time of accomplishment, as that from the old order to the new in the early part of this century. When men came to realize the greatness of the felicity which had befallen them, and that the change through which they had passed was not merely an improvement in details of their condition, but the rise of the race to a new plane of existence with an illimitable vista of progress, their minds were affected in all their faculties with a stimulus, of which the outburst of the mediaeval renaissance offers a suggestion but faint indeed. There ensued an era of mechanical invention, scientific discovery, art, musical and literary productiveness to which no previous age of the world offers anything comparable." "By the way," said I, "talking of literature, how are books published now? Is that also done by the nation?" "Certainly." "But how do you manage it? Does the government publish everything that is brought it as a matter of course, at the public expense, or does it exercise a censorship and print only what it approves?" "Neither way. The printing department has no censorial powers. It is bound to print all that is offered it, but prints it only on condition that the author defray the first cost out of his credit. He must pay for the privilege of the public ear, and if he has any message worth hearing we consider that he will be glad to do it. Of course, if incomes were unequal, as in the old times, this rule would enable only the rich to be authors, but the resources of citizens being equal, it merely measures the strength of the author's motive. The cost of an edition of an average book can be saved out of a year's credit by the practice of economy and some sacrifices. The book, on being published, is placed on sale by the nation." "The author receiving a royalty on the sales as with us, I suppose," I suggested. "Not as with you, certainly," replied Dr. Leete, "but nevertheless in one way. The price of every book is made up of the cost of its publication with a royalty for the author. The author fixes this royalty at any figure he pleases. Of course if he puts it unreasonably high it is his own loss, for the book will not sell. The amount of this royalty is set to his credit and he is discharged from other service to the nation for so long a period as this credit at the rate of allowance for the support of citizens shall suffice to support him. If his book be moderately successful, he has thus a furlough for several months, a year, two or three years, and if he in the mean time produces other successful work, the remission of service is extended so far as the sale of that may justify. An author of much acceptance succeeds in supporting himself by his pen during the entire period of service, and the degree of any writer's literary ability, as determined by the popular voice, is thus the measure of the opportunity given him to devote his time to literature. In this respect the outcome of our system is not very dissimilar to that of yours, but there are two notable differences. In the first place, the universally high level of education nowadays gives the popular verdict a conclusiveness on the real merit of literary work which in your day it was as far as possible from having. In the second place, there is no such thing now as favoritism of any sort to interfere with the recognition of true merit. Every author has precisely the same facilities for bringing his work before the popular tribunal. To judge from the complaints of the writers of your day, this absolute equality of opportunity would have been greatly prized." "In the recognition of merit in other fields of original genius, such as music, art, invention, design," I said, "I suppose you follow a similar principle." "Yes," he replied, "although the details differ. In art, for example, as in literature, the people are the sole judges. They vote upon the acceptance of statues and paintings for the public buildings, and their favorable verdict carries with it the artist's remission from other tasks to devote himself to his vocation. On copies of his work disposed of, he also derives the same advantage as the author on sales of his books. In all these lines of original genius the plan pursued is the same,--to offer a free field to aspirants, and as soon as exceptional talent is recognized to release it from all trammels and let it have free course. The remission of other service in these cases is not intended as a gift or reward, but as the means of obtaining more and higher service. Of course there are various literary, art, and scientific institutes to which membership comes to the famous and is greatly prized. The highest of all honors in the nation, higher than the presidency, which calls merely for good sense and devotion to duty, is the red ribbon awarded by the vote of the people to the great authors, artists, engineers, physicians, and inventors of the generation. Not over a certain number wear it at any one time, though every bright young fellow in the country loses innumerable nights' sleep dreaming of it. I even did myself." "Just as if mamma and I would have thought any more of you with it," exclaimed Edith; "not that it isn't, of course, a very fine thing to have." "You had no choice, my dear, but to take your father as you found him and make the best of him," Dr. Leete replied; "but as for your mother, there, she would never have had me if I had not assured her that I was bound to get the red ribbon or at least the blue." On this extravagance Mrs. Leete's only comment was a smile. "How about periodicals and newspapers?" I said. "I won't deny that your book publishing system is a considerable improvement on ours, both as to its tendency to encourage a real literary vocation, and, quite as important, to discourage mere scribblers; but I don't see how it can be made to apply to magazines and newspapers. It is very well to make a man pay for publishing a book, because the expense will be only occasional; but no man could afford the expense of publishing a newspaper every day in the year. It took the deep pockets of our private capitalists to do that, and often exhausted even them before the returns came in. If you have newspapers at all, they must, I fancy, be published by the government at the public expense, with government editors, reflecting government opinions. Now, if your system is so perfect that there is never anything to criticise in the conduct of affairs, this arrangement may answer. Otherwise I should think the lack of an independent unofficial medium for the expression of public opinion would have most unfortunate results. Confess, Dr. Leete, that a free newspaper press, with all that it implies, was a redeeming incident of the old system when capital was in private hands, and that you have to set off the loss of that against your gains in other respects." "I am afraid I can't give you even that consolation," replied Dr. Leete, laughing. "In the first place, Mr. West, the newspaper press is by no means the only or, as we look at it, the best vehicle for serious criticism of public affairs. To us, the judgments of your newspapers on such themes seem generally to have been crude and flippant, as well as deeply tinctured with prejudice and bitterness. In so far as they may be taken as expressing public opinion, they give an unfavorable impression of the popular intelligence, while so far as they may have formed public opinion, the nation was not to be felicitated. Nowadays, when a citizen desires to make a serious impression upon the public mind as to any aspect of public affairs, he comes out with a book or pamphlet, published as other books are. But this is not because we lack newspapers and magazines, or that they lack the most absolute freedom. The newspaper press is organized so as to be a more perfect expression of public opinion than it possibly could be in your day, when private capital controlled and managed it primarily as a money-making business, and secondarily only as a mouthpiece for the people." "But," said I, "if the government prints the papers at the public expense, how can it fail to control their policy? Who appoints the editors, if not the government?" "The government does not pay the expense of the papers, nor appoint their editors, nor in any way exert the slightest influence on their policy," replied Dr. Leete. "The people who take the paper pay the expense of its publication, choose its editor, and remove him when unsatisfactory. You will scarcely say, I think, that such a newspaper press is not a free organ of popular opinion." "Decidedly I shall not," I replied, "but how is it practicable?" "Nothing could be simpler. Supposing some of my neighbors or myself think we ought to have a newspaper reflecting our opinions, and devoted especially to our locality, trade, or profession. We go about among the people till we get the names of such a number that their annual subscriptions will meet the cost of the paper, which is little or big according to the largeness of its constituency. The amount of the subscriptions marked off the credits of the citizens guarantees the nation against loss in publishing the paper, its business, you understand, being that of a publisher purely, with no option to refuse the duty required. The subscribers to the paper now elect somebody as editor, who, if he accepts the office, is discharged from other service during his incumbency. Instead of paying a salary to him, as in your day, the subscribers pay the nation an indemnity equal to the cost of his support for taking him away from the general service. He manages the paper just as one of your editors did, except that he has no counting-room to obey, or interests of private capital as against the public good to defend. At the end of the first year, the subscribers for the next either reelect the former editor or choose any one else to his place. An able editor, of course, keeps his place indefinitely. As the subscription list enlarges, the funds of the paper increase, and it is improved by the securing of more and better contributors, just as your papers were." "How is the staff of contributors recompensed, since they cannot be paid in money." "The editor settles with them the price of their wares. The amount is transferred to their individual credit from the guarantee credit of the paper, and a remission of service is granted the contributor for a length of time corresponding to the amount credited him, just as to other authors. As to magazines, the system is the same. Those interested in the prospectus of a new periodical pledge enough subscriptions to run it for a year; select their editor, who recompenses his contributors just as in the other case, the printing bureau furnishing the necessary force and material for publication, as a matter of course. When an editor's services are no longer desired, if he cannot earn the right to his time by other literary work, he simply resumes his place in the industrial army. I should add that, though ordinarily the editor is elected only at the end of the year, and as a rule is continued in office for a term of years, in case of any sudden change he should give to the tone of the paper, provision is made for taking the sense of the subscribers as to his removal at any time." "However earnestly a man may long for leisure for purposes of study or meditation," I remarked, "he cannot get out of the harness, if I understand you rightly, except in these two ways you have mentioned. He must either by literary, artistic, or inventive productiveness indemnify the nation for the loss of his services, or must get a sufficient number of other people to contribute to such an indemnity." "It is most certain," replied Dr. Leete, "that no able-bodied man nowadays can evade his share of work and live on the toil of others, whether he calls himself by the fine name of student or confesses to being simply lazy. At the same time our system is elastic enough to give free play to every instinct of human nature which does not aim at dominating others or living on the fruit of others' labor. There is not only the remission by indemnification but the remission by abnegation. Any man in his thirty-third year, his term of service being then half done, can obtain an honorable discharge from the army, provided he accepts for the rest of his life one half the rate of maintenance other citizens receive. It is quite possible to live on this amount, though one must forego the luxuries and elegancies of life, with some, perhaps, of its comforts." When the ladies retired that evening, Edith brought me a book and said:-- "If you should be wakeful to-night, Mr. West, you might be interested in looking over this story by Berrian. It is considered his masterpiece, and will at least give you an idea what the stories nowadays are like." I sat up in my room that night reading "Penthesilia" till it grew gray in the east, and did not lay it down till I had finished it. And yet let no admirer of the great romancer of the twentieth century resent my saying that at the first reading what most impressed me was not so much what was in the book as what was left out of it. The story-writers of my day would have deemed the making of bricks without straw a light task compared with the construction of a romance from which should be excluded all effects drawn from the contrasts of wealth and poverty, education and ignorance, coarseness and refinement, high and low, all motives drawn from social pride and ambition, the desire of being richer or the fear of being poorer, together with sordid anxieties of any sort for one's self or others; a romance in which there should, indeed, be love galore, but love unfretted by artificial barriers created by differences of station or possessions, owning no other law but that of the heart. The reading of "Penthesilia" was of more value than almost any amount of explanation would have been in giving me something like a general impression of the social aspect of the twentieth century. The information Dr. Leete had imparted was indeed extensive as to facts, but they had affected my mind as so many separate impressions, which I had as yet succeeded but imperfectly in making cohere. Berrian put them together for me in a picture. [Footnote 3: I cannot sufficiently celebrate the glorious liberty that reigns in the public libraries of the twentieth century as compared with the intolerable management of those of the nineteenth century, in which the books were jealously railed away from the people, and obtainable only at an expenditure of time and red tape calculated to discourage any ordinary taste for literature.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Figuren besuchen als nächstes die Bibliothek eines sozialen Clubs. Sie ist sehr komfortabel und die Bücher sind leicht zugänglich. Julian West vergleicht diese Szene mit den Bibliotheken des 19. Jahrhunderts, in denen Bücher streng bewacht wurden und es schwierig war, sie auszuleihen. Mrs. Leete und Edith Leete erzählen Julian West von der Freude, die er beim Lesen der Schriftsteller des 20. Jahrhunderts haben wird. Dabei werden weitere wirtschaftliche Fragen aufgeworfen, diesmal darüber, wie Schriftsteller bezahlt werden. Doctor Leete erklärt, dass jeder, der ein Buch schreibt, die Kosten für den Druck aus seinem eigenen Guthaben zahlen muss. Wenn das Buch dann von der Öffentlichkeit angenommen wird, wird der Schriftsteller entschädigt. Wenn das Buch gut genug gefällt, könnte der Schriftsteller genug Guthaben erhalten, um sich von der industriellen Armee freizunehmen und zu schreiben. Abhängig davon, wie gut seine Bücher verkauft werden, könnte der Schriftsteller möglicherweise viele Jahre lang Vollzeit schreiben. Da alle so gut gebildet sind, ist die Öffentlichkeit qualifiziert, darüber zu urteilen, ob ein Schriftsteller gute Literatur produziert. Und da kein Protektionismus im Spiel ist, hat jeder Schriftsteller die gleiche Chance. Julian West fragt nach den anderen Künsten. Doctor Leete erklärt, dass alle Künste ähnlich funktionieren, außer dass über die Annahme von Statuen und Gemälden für öffentliche Gebäude abgestimmt wird. Es gibt auch literarische, künstlerische und wissenschaftliche Institute, die kreative Denker unterstützen. Diese genießen sogar mehr Prestige als das Präsidentenamt. Als Nächstes erkundigt sich Julian West nach Zeitungen und Zeitschriften. Er nimmt an, dass diese vom Staat veröffentlicht werden und daher Zensur unterliegen. Julian West äußert die gängige Meinung, dass die Zeitungsdruckereien im 19. Jahrhundert frei waren, da sie nicht im Besitz der Regierung waren. Doctor Leete stellt jedoch fest, dass die Zeitungen des 19. Jahrhunderts nicht das beste Mittel zur sozialen Kritik waren, da sie als profitables Geschäft genutzt wurden und nur zweitrangig als Sprachrohr für das Volk dienten. Er fügt hinzu, dass die Journalismuspraktiken der Zeitungen des 19. Jahrhunderts, soweit er sie gesehen hat, nicht besonders beeindruckend waren. Sie trafen in der Regel grobe und flapsige Urteile, die auch stark von Vorurteilen geprägt waren. Wenn sie die öffentliche Meinung der Zeit widerlegten, vermittelten sie ebenfalls einen schlechten Eindruck von der Intelligenz des Volkes im 19. Jahrhundert. Im 20. Jahrhundert wird eine ernsthafte Meinung in einem Buch oder einer Broschüre veröffentlicht. Es gibt jedoch Zeitungen, die durch Abonnements bezahlt werden. Die Leser, die Zeitung abonnieren, bezahlen für deren Veröffentlichung und wählen ihren Herausgeber aus. Nachdem Julian West erfahren hat, wie die Beitragenden der Zeitungen bezahlt werden und wie die Abonnenten Einfluss auf den Herausgeber ausüben, wundert er sich darüber, dass niemand in dieser Gesellschaft offenbar aus der Arbeit aussteigen kann. Doctor Leete stimmt zu, fügt jedoch hinzu, dass ein Mann, der mit 33 Jahren aufhören möchte zu arbeiten, eine Kürzung der Unterstützung in Kauf nehmen kann. An diesem Abend bringt Edith Leete ihm eine Ausgabe ihres Lieblingsschriftstellers Berrian. Julian West liest bis spät in die Nacht. Er findet es faszinierend, nicht nur wegen seines literarischen Werts, sondern auch wegen des Themas. Er vergleicht es mit den Romanen seiner eigenen Zeit. Die Romane vergangener Jahrhunderte drehten sich oft um Konflikte, die fast immer klassenbasiert waren. Zum Beispiel wurden häufig Schwierigkeiten von Liebenden aus unterschiedlichen sozialen Schichten thematisiert. Berrians Roman "Penthesilia" gibt Julian West einen klaren Einblick in die großen Veränderungen in dieser neuen Gesellschaft. Am nächsten Morgen, als Julian West sein Zimmer verlässt, kommt Edith Leete aus dem Esszimmer, um nach ihm zu sehen. Er erkennt, dass sie jeden Morgen sehr früh aufsteht, um sicherzustellen, dass er das Haus nicht verlässt, weil sie befürchtet, er könnte eine weitere Krise haben. Er ist sehr gerührt von ihrer Besorgnis und nennt sie einen Engel. Er fragt sie, ob sie weiß, wer ihre Vorfahren im 19. Jahrhundert waren. Sie sagt, dass sie es weiß, aber dann ist sie zu sehr damit beschäftigt, die Blumen zu arrangieren, um ihm ihre Namen zu nennen. Doctor Leete kommt herein und Julian West stellt die Frage, was er tun soll, um in das System dieser neuen Gesellschaft einzusteigen. Doctor Leete sagt ihm, dass er sehr zufrieden damit ist, ihn für eine lange Zeit als Gast zu haben, da er so interessant ist. Er fügt hinzu, dass Julian West vielleicht Gefallen daran finden könnte, eine Vorlesung über die Geschichte des 19. Jahrhunderts an einer der Universitäten zu halten, wenn es soweit ist. Julian West ist sehr erleichtert über diese Nachricht.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: AKT 4. SZENE 1. Park. Der Palast. Der KÖNIG, GLOUCESTER, WINCHESTER, YORK, SUFFOLK, SOMERSET, WARWICK, TALBOT, EXETER, DER GOUVERNEUR VON PARIS und andere betreten die Bühne. GLOUCESTER. Herr Bischof, setzt ihm die Krone auf den Kopf. WINCHESTER. Gott segne König Heinrich, den Sechsten! GLOUCESTER. Nun, Herr Gouverneur von Paris, legt euren Eid ab [Der GOUVERNEUR kniet nieder] Dass ihr keinen anderen König wählt als ihn, Bezieht nur diejenigen als Freunde, die seine Freunde sind, Und nennt nur Feinde diejenigen, die böswillige Pläne gegen seinen Staat schmieden. Das sollt ihr tun, so helfe euch gerechter Gott! Der GOUVERNEUR und sein Gefolge verlassen die Bühne. SIR JOHN FASTOLFE kommt herein. FASTOLFE. Mein gnädiger Herrscher, als ich von Calais ritt, Um eure Krönung zu beschleunigen, Wurde mir ein Brief übergeben, Geschrieben an Eure Gnaden vom Herzog von Burgund. TALBOT. Schande über den Herzog von Burgund und über dich! Ich habe geschworen, du niederer Ritter, als ich dich das nächste Mal treffen würde, Den Strumpfbandorden von deinem feiges Bein zu reißen, [Zieht ihn ab] Was ich getan habe, weil du unwürdigerweise In dieser hohen Stellung eingesetzt wurdest. Verzeiht mir, fürstlicher Heinrich, und dem Rest: Dieser Feigling ist bei der Schlacht von Patay, Als ich nur sechstausend Mann stark war, Und die Franzosen fast zehn zu eins waren, Bevor wir uns trafen oder ein Schlag erfolgte, Wie ein vertrauter Knappe weggelaufen; Bei diesem Angriff verloren wir zwölfhundert Männer; Ich selbst und verschiedene Herren wurden dort überrascht und gefangen genommen. Richtet nun, hohe Herren, ob ich etwas falsch gemacht habe, Oder ob solche feigen Helden diesen Ritterschmuck tragen sollten - ja oder nein. GLOUCESTER. Um die Wahrheit zu sagen, diese Tat war schändlich Und passte nicht zu einem gewöhnlichen Mann, Noch weniger zu einem Ritter, einem Hauptmann und einem Anführer. TALBOT. Als dieser Orden ursprünglich eingeführt wurde, meine Herren, Waren Ritter des Hosenbandordens von edlem Geburt, Tapfer und tugendhaft, voller stolzem Mut, Solche, die durch die Kriege an Ansehen gewonnen hatten; Todesfurchtlos und ohne vor Not zurückzuweichen, Doch immer entschlossen in schwierigsten Situationen. Daher ist heutzutage jeder, der nicht in dieser Art ausgestattet ist, Nichts anderes als ein Namensdieb, Der diesen höchst ehrenwerten Orden entweiht, Und sollte, wenn ich würdig genug wäre, Richter zu sein, Völlig degradiert werden, wie ein bäurischer Landsmann, Der sich anmaßt, von adligem Blut zu prahlen. KÖNIG HEINRICH. Schande über dich und deine Landsleute, hier ist dein Urteil. Mach dich davon, du, der du einst ein Ritter warst; Von nun an verbannen wir dich unter Todesstrafe. FASTOLFE geht ab. Und nun, mein Herr Protektor, lies den Brief, Der von unserem Onkel, dem Herzog von Burgund, geschickt wurde. GLOUCESTER. [Die Anrede sehend] Was meint seine Gnaden damit, dass er seinen Ton geändert hat? Nichts anderes als schlicht und offen 'An den König'! Hat er vergessen, dass er sein Herrscher ist? Oder deutet diese unhöfliche Anrede Auf eine Änderung der guten Gesinnung hin? Was haben wir hier? [Liest] 'Aus besonderem Grund habe ich Mit Mitleid für das Elend meines Landes, Zusammen mit den jammervollen Klagen Derer, die unter eurer Unterdrückung leiden, Eure gefährliche Partei verlassen, Und mich mit Karl, dem rechtmäßigen König von Frankreich, verbündet.' O monströser Verrat! Kann das wirklich wahr sein, Dass in Allianz, Freundschaft und Eiden Solche falschen und verstellten Täuschungen zu finden sind? KÖNIG HEINRICH. Was! Ist mein Onkel Burgund abtrünnig geworden? GLOUCESTER. Ja, mein Herr, er ist es und ist zu eurem Feind geworden. KÖNIG HEINRICH. Ist das das Schlimmste, was in diesem Brief steht? GLOUCESTER. Das ist das Schlimmste, und alles, was er schreibt, mein Herr. KÖNIG HEINRICH. Dann soll Lord Talbot mit ihm sprechen Und ihm züchtigen für diesen Missbrauch. Was sagt ihr, mein Herr, seid ihr nicht zufrieden? TALBOT. Zufrieden, mein Herr! Ja; aber ich wurde daran gehindert, Ich sollte habe gebeten, eingesetzt zu werden. KÖNIG HEINRICH. Dann sammelt eure Kräfte und marschiert direkt auf ihn zu; Lasst ihn sehen, wie schlecht wir seinen Verrat dulden. Und welch eine Beleidigung es ist, seine Freunde zu verhöhnen. TALBOT. Ich gehe, mein Herr, und wünsche mir von Herzen, Dass ihr das Durcheinander eurer Feinde sehen könntet. TALBOT geht ab. VERNON und BASSET treten auf. VERNON. Gewähre mir den Kampf, gnädiger Herrscher. BASSET. Und mir, mein Herr, gewähre mir auch den Kampf. YORK. Das ist mein Diener: Hört ihn an, edler Prinz. SOMERSET. Und das ist meiner: Süßer Heinrich, begünstige ihn. KÖNIG HEINRICH. Seid geduldig, Lords, und lasst sie sprechen. Sagt, meine Herren, was lässt euch so ausrufen, Und warum verlangt ihr einen Kampf, und mit wem? VERNON. Mit ihm, mein Herr; denn er hat mir Unrecht getan. BASSET. Und ich mit ihm; denn er hat mir Unrecht getan. KÖNIG HEINRICH. Was ist das Unrecht, über das ihr beide klagt? Lasst mich zuerst wissen, und dann werde ich euch antworten. BASSET. Als wir das Meer von England nach Frankreich überquerten, Tadelte dieser Kerl hier mit neidischer Zunge, Mich wegen der Rose, die ich trage, Indem er behauptete, dass die sanguinische Farbe der Blätter Die errötenden Wangen meines Herrn repräsentiere, Als er hartnäckig die Wahrheit leugnete Bei einer bestimmten Frage im Gesetz, Die zwischen dem Herzog von York und ihm verhandelt wurde; Mit anderen ekelhaften und schändlichen Begriffen, Auf die ich mit klaren Worten antwortete, Und in Verteidigung der Würdigkeit meines Herrn Verlange ich das Recht auf einen Kampf nach den Regeln der Bewaffnung. VERNON. Und das ist mein Antrag, edler Herr; Denn obwohl er es mit erfundenem Verstand zu verschleiern scheint, Weißt du, mein Herr, dass ich von ihm provoziert wurde, Und er machte als Erster Einwände gegen dieses Abzeichen, Indem er behauptete, dass die Blässe dieser Blume Die Schwäche des Herzens meines Herrn verraten würde. YORK. Wird dieser Groll, Somerset, nicht beendet werden? SOMERSET. Dein privater Groll, mein Lord von York, wird ans Licht kommen, Auch wenn du ihn noch so geschickt zu verbergen versuchst. KÖNIG HEINRICH. Herrgott, welche Verrücktheit regiert in wahnsinnigen Menschen, Wenn wegen eines so geringfügigen und belanglosen Anlasses Solche parteiischen Eifersüchteleien entstehen! Gute Cousinen von York und Somerset, Beruhigt euch, bitte, und seid friedlich. YORK. Lasst diese Meinungsverschiedenheit zuerst im Kampf entschieden werden, Und dann wird Eure Hoheit Frieden gebieten. SOMERSET. Der Streit betrifft niemanden außer uns; Unter uns wollen wir ihn dann entscheiden. YORK. Hier ist mein Versprechen; nimm es an, Somerset. VERNON. Nein, lass es dort ruhen, wo es zuerst begonnen hat. BASSET. Bestätige es so, mein ehrenwerter Herr. GLOUCESTER. Bestätige es so? Verdorben sei euer Streit; Und möget ihr mit eurem dreisten Geschwätz zugrunde gehen! Anmaßende Vasallen, seid ihr nicht beschämt, Mit diesem unziemlichen lauten Krach Den König und uns zu belästigen und zu stören? Und ihr, meine Herren - ich glaube, ihr tut nicht gut daran, Ihre widersprüchlichen Einwände zu tolerieren, Geschweige denn, die Gelegenheit aus ihren Mündern Zu nutzen, um eine Revolte zwischen euch zu entfachen. Erlaubt mir, euch zu überreden, einen besseren Weg einzuschlagen. EXETER. Es betrübt Seine Hoheit. Meine Herren, seid Freunde. KÖNIG HEINRICH. Kommt her, ihr, die ihr Kämpfer sein wollt: Von nun an befehle ich euch, wie ihr unsere Gunst liebt, Diesen Streit und die Ursache ganz zu vergessen. Und ihr, meine Herren, denkt daran, wo wir sind: In Frankreich, unter einer launischen schwankenden Nation; Wenn sie Uneinigkeit in unseren Blicken wahrnehmen Und dass wir innerlich nicht einer Meinung sind, Wie werden ihre missgünstigen Gemüter provoziert Zur willentlichen Ungehorsamkeit und Rebellion! Dazu kommt, welche Schande wird entstehen, Wenn ausländische Fürsten darüber informiert werden, Dass wegen einer Kleinigkeit, einer unbedeutenden Sache, Die Gefährten und die wichtigsten Adligen König Heinrichs Sich selbst vernichteten und das Reich Frankreich verloren! Ach, denkt an die Eroberung meines Vaters, Meine zarten Jahre; und lasst uns nicht aufgeben Das, was mit Blut erkauft wurde, um einer Kleinigkeit willen! Lasst mich der Schiedsrichter sein in diesem zweifelhaften Streit. Ich sehe keinen Grund, wenn ich diese Rose trage, [Setzt eine rote Rose auf] Weshalb dann jemand Verdacht schöpfen sollte, Dass ich eher zu Somerset als zu York tendiere: Beide sind meine Verwandten, und ich liebe sie beide. Genauso gut könnten sie mich wegen meiner Krone tadeln, Denn, offen gesagt, der König von Schottland ist gekrönt. Aber eure Klugheit kann besser überzeugen Als ich in der Lage bin zu unterrichten oder zu lehren; Und deshalb, so wie wir in Frieden hierher gekommen sind, Lasst uns weiterhin Frieden und Liebe bewahren. Cousin von York, wir ernennen Eure Gnade Zum Regenten in diesen Teilen Frankreichs. Und, guter Lord von Somerset, vereinigt Eure Truppen von Reitern mit seinen Fußsoldaten; Und wie treue Untertanen, Söhne eurer Vorfahren, Geht fröhlich zusammen und fangt Euren zornigen Groll gegen eure Feinde ein. Wir selbst, mein Herr Protektor, und der Rest, Werden nach einer Pause nach Calais zurückkehren; Von dort nach England, wo ich hoffe, bald Durch eure Siege vorgestellt zu werden Mit Charles, Alencon und jener verräterischen Bande. Trompetenstoß. Alle außer YORK, WARWICK, EXETER, VERNON treten ab. WARWICK. Mein Lord von York, ich verspreche Ihnen, der König Hat, dachte ich, den Redner recht anständig gespielt. YORK. Und das hat er; aber dennoch gefällt es mir nicht, Dass er das Abzeichen von Somerset trägt. WARWICK. Tss, das war nur seine Laune; tadeln Sie ihn nicht; Ich wage zu vermuten, süßer Prinz, er meinte keinen Schaden. YORK. Und wenn ich wüsste, dass er es tat - aber lass es ruhen; Andere Angelegenheiten müssen jetzt geregelt werden. Alle ab, außer EXETER EXETER. Gut hast du es getan, Richard, deine Stimme zurückzuhalten; Denn wenn die Leidenschaften deines Herzens ausgebrochen wären, Fürchte ich, wir hätten dort enthüllt gesehen Mehr bitteren Groll, mehr wütende Streitereien, Als man sich vorstellen oder vermuten kann. Aber wie auch immer, kein einfacher Mann, der sieht, Dieses wilden Streiten des Adels, Dieses Anrempeln gegenseitig am Hof, Diese parteiische Schüttelei ihrer Favoriten, Ohne dass er dabei ein schlechtes Omen erkennt. Es ist viel, wenn Szepter in Kinderhänden sind; Aber noch mehr, wenn Neid unfreundliche Spaltungen erzeugt: Da kommt das Verderben, da beginnt die Verwirrung. Ab Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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In Paris betritt Henry zusammen mit seinen Lords Gloucester, Winchester, Exeter, York, Warwick, Suffolk, Somerset, Talbot und dem Gouverneur von Paris. Winchester krönt Henry zum König. Gloucester bittet den Gouverneur von Paris, ihm die Treue zu schwören und keinem anderen. Gerade betritt Sir John Fastolf mit einem Brief von Burgund den Raum. Talbot bemerkt Fastolf und ist wütend wegen seiner Feigheit in vorherigen Schlachten. Fastolf trägt einen Strumpfbandorden am Bein, der ihn als Mitglied des Hosenbandordens auszeichnet; jetzt reißt Talbot ihn ab: Talbot erzählt Henry von Fastolfs Flucht aus der Schlacht, als die Briten in schwerer Unterzahl waren und er und viele andere Soldaten gefangen genommen wurden; er sagt, dass Mitglieder des Hosenbandordens einst adeligen Männern verliehen wurden, die tugendhaft waren und keine Angst vor dem Tod hatten, aber Fastolf ist nicht diese Art von Mann und er befleckt den Titel des Ritters. Henry nennt Fastolf einen Schandfleck für seine Landsleute und verbannt ihn. Gloucester liest dann den Brief von Burgund vor, in dem er seine Absicht ankündigt, sich Charles anzuschließen und Henry im Stich zu lassen. Henry bittet Talbot, nach Burgund zu marschieren und mit ihm zu sprechen, um herauszufinden, was Burgund dazu gebracht hat, seine Freunde zu beleidigen. Talbot verlässt den Raum. Vernon und Basset treten ein, um den König um das Recht auf einen bewaffneten Kampf zu bitten. York bittet den König, seinen Diener anzuhören, und Somerset bittet ihn, ihn anzuhören. Henry erkundigt sich nach der Natur ihrer Beschwerde. Basset sagt, dass Vernon ihn während der Überfahrt über den Ärmelkanal wegen der Farbe seiner Rose verspottet hat, und Vernon sagt dasselbe über Basset. York bittet Somerset, seine Bosheit beiseite zu legen, aber Somerset sagt, dass Yorks privater Groll offenbart werden wird. Henry wundert sich über den Wahnsinn, der diese Männer dazu treibt, solch entscheidende Spaltungen wegen belangloser Ursachen zu entwickeln. Er bittet York und Somerset, ihre Unterschiede zu übersehen und Frieden zu schließen. York sagt, dass der Streit zuerst mit diesem Kampf beigelegt werden sollte; Somerset sagt, dass der Streit nur zwischen ihnen besteht und sie allein darüber entscheiden sollten. Gloucester tadelt die Lords und sagt, sie sollten sich schämen, den König mit diesem lächerlichen Streit zu belästigen. Exeter drängt sie, Freunde zu sein. Henry befiehlt York und Somerset, ihren Streit zu vergessen und sich zu erinnern, wo sie sind. Hier in Frankreich müssen die Lords "unter einer launischen und schwankenden Nation" bemüht sein, keine Uneinigkeit zu zeigen, denn wenn die Franzosen Uneinigkeiten unter den englischen Kräften sehen, werden sie sich wieder zum Aufstand ermutigt fühlen. Welch ein Skandal wäre es, sagt er, wenn Anführer anderer Nationen hören würden, dass Henrys Männer Frankreich verloren und sich über einen belanglosen Streit selbst zerstörten! Er erinnert sie daran, dass sie das Land, das mit so viel Blutvergießen gewonnen wurde, nicht verlieren dürfen. Henry nimmt eine rote Rose von Somerset und sagt: "Wenn ich diese Rose trage, gibt es keinen Grund, dass jemand deswegen misstrauisch ist. Ich neige mehr zu Somerset als zu York. Beide sind meine Verwandten, und ich liebe sie beide." Henry entscheidet, sie zu besserem Verhalten zu überreden, indem er ihnen beiden wichtige Positionen in der französischen Kampagne anbietet. Er macht York zum Anführer der Truppen in diesem Teil von Frankreich und beauftragt Somerset, die Reiter und die Fußsoldaten zu vereinen. Er fordert sie auf, ihre Wut gegen den Feind zu richten, anstatt gegeneinander. Henry und die meisten seiner Adligen verlassen den Raum. York, Warwick, Vernon und Exeter bleiben zurück. Sie sind sich einig, dass der König eloquent gesprochen hat, aber York gefällt es nicht, dass er die rote Rose von Somerset gewählt hat. Warwick sagt, der König habe keine böse Absicht gehabt. Alle gehen, außer Exeter, der bemerkt, dass York es gut gemacht hat, seine Beschwerden für sich zu behalten, solange Henry da war. Exeter sagt, dass noch niemand versteht, dass die Streitigkeiten unter den Lords, "diese störende Zwietracht der Adligen, / Dieses Schultern aneinander in Hofe / Dieses interne Spiel mit ihren Favoriten, / darauf deutet, dass sich Übles anbahnt". England steht vor einer Herausforderung genug, bemerkt Exeter, wenn die Krone auf dem Kopf eines jungen und unerfahrenen Königs ruht, aber es steht vor dem Untergang, wenn Spaltung aus Neid und Bosheit gezüchtet wird. Was in Verwirrung beginnt, wird im Untergang enden, sagt er voraus.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: IX. THE LEECH. Under the appellation of Roger Chillingworth, the reader will remember, was hidden another name, which its former wearer had resolved should never more be spoken. It has been related, how, in the crowd that witnessed Hester Prynne's ignominious exposure, stood a man, elderly, travel-worn, who, just emerging from the perilous wilderness, beheld the woman, in whom he hoped to find embodied the warmth and cheerfulness of home, set up as a type of sin before the people. Her matronly fame was trodden under all men's feet. Infamy was babbling around her in the public market-place. For her kindred, should the tidings ever reach them, and for the companions of her unspotted life, there remained nothing but the contagion of her dishonor; which would not fail to be distributed in strict accordance and proportion with the intimacy and sacredness of their previous relationship. Then why--since the choice was with himself--should the individual, whose connection with the fallen woman had been the most intimate and sacred of them all, come forward to vindicate his claim to an inheritance so little desirable? He resolved not to be pilloried beside her on her pedestal of shame. Unknown to all but Hester Prynne, and possessing the lock and key of her silence, he chose to withdraw his name from the roll of mankind, and, as regarded his former ties and interests, to vanish out of life as completely as if he indeed lay at the bottom of the ocean, whither rumor had long ago consigned him. This purpose once effected, new interests would immediately spring up, and likewise a new purpose; dark, it is true, if not guilty, but of force enough to engage the full strength of his faculties. In pursuance of this resolve, he took up his residence in the Puritan town, as Roger Chillingworth, without other introduction than the learning and intelligence of which he possessed more than a common measure. As his studies, at a previous period of his life, had made him extensively acquainted with the medical science of the day, it was as a physician that he presented himself, and as such was cordially received. Skilful men, of the medical and chirurgical profession, were of rare occurrence in the colony. They seldom, it would appear, partook of the religious zeal that brought other emigrants across the Atlantic. In their researches into the human frame, it may be that the higher and more subtile faculties of such men were materialized, and that they lost the spiritual view of existence amid the intricacies of that wondrous mechanism, which seemed to involve art enough to comprise all of life within itself. At all events, the health of the good town of Boston, so far as medicine had aught to do with it, had hitherto lain in the guardianship of an aged deacon and apothecary, whose piety and godly deportment were stronger testimonials in his favor than any that he could have produced in the shape of a diploma. The only surgeon was one who combined the occasional exercise of that noble art with the daily and habitual flourish of a razor. To such a professional body Roger Chillingworth was a brilliant acquisition. He soon manifested his familiarity with the ponderous and imposing machinery of antique physic; in which every remedy contained a multitude of far-fetched and heterogeneous ingredients, as elaborately compounded as if the proposed result had been the Elixir of Life. In his Indian captivity, moreover, he had gained much knowledge of the properties of native herbs and roots; nor did he conceal from his patients, that these simple medicines, Nature's boon to the untutored savage, had quite as large a share of his own confidence as the European pharmacopoeia, which so many learned doctors had spent centuries in elaborating. This learned stranger was exemplary, as regarded, at least, the outward forms of a religious life, and, early after his arrival, had chosen for his spiritual guide the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. The young divine, whose scholar-like renown still lived in Oxford, was considered by his more fervent admirers as little less than a heaven-ordained apostle, destined, should he live and labor for the ordinary term of life, to do as great deeds for the now feeble New England Church, as the early Fathers had achieved for the infancy of the Christian faith. About this period, however, the health of Mr. Dimmesdale had evidently begun to fail. By those best acquainted with his habits, the paleness of the young minister's cheek was accounted for by his too earnest devotion to study, his scrupulous fulfilment of parochial duty, and, more than all, by the fasts and vigils of which he made a frequent practice, in order to keep the grossness of this earthly state from clogging and obscuring his spiritual lamp. Some declared, that, if Mr. Dimmesdale were really going to die, it was cause enough, that the world was not worthy to be any longer trodden by his feet. He himself, on the other hand, with characteristic humility, avowed his belief, that, if Providence should see fit to remove him, it would be because of his own unworthiness to perform its humblest mission here on earth. With all this difference of opinion as to the cause of his decline, there could be no question of the fact. His form grew emaciated; his voice, though still rich and sweet, had a certain melancholy prophecy of decay in it; he was often observed, on any slight alarm or other sudden accident, to put his hand over his heart, with first a flush and then a paleness, indicative of pain. Such was the young clergyman's condition, and so imminent the prospect that his dawning light would be extinguished, all untimely, when Roger Chillingworth made his advent to the town. His first entry on the scene, few people could tell whence, dropping down, as it were, out of the sky, or starting from the nether earth, had an aspect of mystery, which was easily heightened to the miraculous. He was now known to be a man of skill; it was observed that he gathered herbs, and the blossoms of wild-flowers, and dug up roots, and plucked off twigs from the forest-trees, like one acquainted with hidden virtues in what was valueless to common eyes. He was heard to speak of Sir Kenelm Digby, and other famous men,--whose scientific attainments were esteemed hardly less than supernatural,--as having been his correspondents or associates. Why, with such rank in the learned world, had he come hither? What could he, whose sphere was in great cities, be seeking in the wilderness? In answer to this query, a rumor gained ground,--and, however absurd, was entertained by some very sensible people,--that Heaven had wrought an absolute miracle, by transporting an eminent Doctor of Physic, from a German university, bodily through the air, and setting him down at the door of Mr. Dimmesdale's study! Individuals of wiser faith, indeed, who knew that Heaven promotes its purposes without aiming at the stage-effect of what is called miraculous interposition, were inclined to see a providential hand in Roger Chillingworth's so opportune arrival. This idea was countenanced by the strong interest which the physician ever manifested in the young clergyman; he attached himself to him as a parishioner, and sought to win a friendly regard and confidence from his naturally reserved sensibility. He expressed great alarm at his pastor's state of health, but was anxious to attempt the cure, and, if early undertaken, seemed not despondent of a favorable result. The elders, the deacons, the motherly dames, and the young and fair maidens, of Mr. Dimmesdale's flock, were alike importunate that he should make trial of the physician's frankly offered skill. Mr. Dimmesdale gently repelled their entreaties. "I need no medicine," said he. But how could the young minister say so, when, with every successive Sabbath, his cheek was paler and thinner, and his voice more tremulous than before,--when it had now become a constant habit, rather than a casual gesture, to press his hand over his heart? Was he weary of his labors? Did he wish to die? These questions were solemnly propounded to Mr. Dimmesdale by the elder ministers of Boston and the deacons of his church, who, to use their own phrase, "dealt with him" on the sin of rejecting the aid which Providence so manifestly held out. He listened in silence, and finally promised to confer with the physician. "Were it God's will," said the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, when, in fulfilment of this pledge, he requested old Roger Chillingworth's professional advice, "I could be well content, that my labors, and my sorrows, and my sins, and my pains, should shortly end with me, and what is earthly of them be buried in my grave, and the spiritual go with me to my eternal state, rather than that you should put your skill to the proof in my behalf." "Ah," replied Roger Chillingworth, with that quietness which, whether imposed or natural, marked all his deportment, "it is thus that a young clergyman is apt to speak. Youthful men, not having taken a deep root, give up their hold of life so easily! And saintly men, who walk with God on earth, would fain be away, to walk with him on the golden pavements of the New Jerusalem." "Nay," rejoined the young minister, putting his hand to his heart, with a flush of pain flitting over his brow, "were I worthier to walk there, I could be better content to toil here." "Good men ever interpret themselves too meanly," said the physician. [Illustration: The Minister and Leech] In this manner, the mysterious old Roger Chillingworth became the medical adviser of the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. As not only the disease interested the physician, but he was strongly moved to look into the character and qualities of the patient, these two men, so different in age, came gradually to spend much time together. For the sake of the minister's health, and to enable the leech to gather plants with healing balm in them, they took long walks on the sea-shore, or in the forest; mingling various talk with the plash and murmur of the waves, and the solemn wind-anthem among the tree-tops. Often, likewise, one was the guest of the other, in his place of study and retirement. There was a fascination for the minister in the company of the man of science, in whom he recognized an intellectual cultivation of no moderate depth or scope; together with a range and freedom of ideas, that he would have vainly looked for among the members of his own profession. In truth, he was startled, if not shocked, to find this attribute in the physician. Mr. Dimmesdale was a true priest, a true religionist, with the reverential sentiment largely developed, and an order of mind that impelled itself powerfully along the track of a creed, and wore its passage continually deeper with the lapse of time. In no state of society would he have been what is called a man of liberal views; it would always be essential to his peace to feel the pressure of a faith about him, supporting, while it confined him within its iron framework. Not the less, however, though with a tremulous enjoyment, did he feel the occasional relief of looking at the universe through the medium of another kind of intellect than those with which he habitually held converse. It was as if a window were thrown open, admitting a freer atmosphere into the close and stifled study, where his life was wasting itself away, amid lamplight, or obstructed day-beams, and the musty fragrance, be it sensual or moral, that exhales from books. But the air was too fresh and chill to be long breathed with comfort. So the minister, and the physician with him, withdrew again within the limits of what their church defined as orthodox. Thus Roger Chillingworth scrutinized his patient carefully, both as he saw him in his ordinary life, keeping an accustomed pathway in the range of thoughts familiar to him, and as he appeared when thrown amidst other moral scenery, the novelty of which might call out something new to the surface of his character. He deemed it essential, it would seem, to know the man, before attempting to do him good. Wherever there is a heart and an intellect, the diseases of the physical frame are tinged with the peculiarities of these. In Arthur Dimmesdale, thought and imagination were so active, and sensibility so intense, that the bodily infirmity would be likely to have its groundwork there. So Roger Chillingworth--the man of skill, the kind and friendly physician--strove to go deep into his patient's bosom, delving among his principles, prying into his recollections, and probing everything with a cautious touch, like a treasure-seeker in a dark cavern. Few secrets can escape an investigator, who has opportunity and license to undertake such a quest, and skill to follow it up. A man burdened with a secret should especially avoid the intimacy of his physician. If the latter possess native sagacity, and a nameless something more,--let us call it intuition; if he show no intrusive egotism, nor disagreeably prominent characteristics of his own; if he have the power, which must be born with him, to bring his mind into such affinity with his patient's, that this last shall unawares have spoken what he imagines himself only to have thought; if such revelations be received without tumult, and acknowledged not so often by an uttered sympathy as by silence, an inarticulate breath, and here and there a word, to indicate that all is understood; if to these qualifications of a confidant be joined the advantages afforded by his recognized character as a physician;--then, at some inevitable moment, will the soul of the sufferer be dissolved, and flow forth in a dark, but transparent stream, bringing all its mysteries into the daylight. Roger Chillingworth possessed all, or most, of the attributes above enumerated. Nevertheless, time went on; a kind of intimacy, as we have said, grew up between these two cultivated minds, which had as wide a field as the whole sphere of human thought and study, to meet upon; they discussed every topic of ethics and religion, of public affairs and private character; they talked much, on both sides, of matters that seemed personal to themselves; and yet no secret, such as the physician fancied must exist there, ever stole out of the minister's consciousness into his companion's ear. The latter had his suspicions, indeed, that even the nature of Mr. Dimmesdale's bodily disease had never fairly been revealed to him. It was a strange reserve! After a time, at a hint from Roger Chillingworth, the friends of Mr. Dimmesdale effected an arrangement by which the two were lodged in the same house; so that every ebb and flow of the minister's life-tide might pass under the eye of his anxious and attached physician. There was much joy throughout the town, when this greatly desirable object was attained. It was held to be the best possible measure for the young clergyman's welfare; unless, indeed, as often urged by such as felt authorized to do so, he had selected some one of the many blooming damsels, spiritually devoted to him, to become his devoted wife. This latter step, however, there was no present prospect that Arthur Dimmesdale would be prevailed upon to take; he rejected all suggestions of the kind, as if priestly celibacy were one of his articles of church-discipline. Doomed by his own choice, therefore, as Mr. Dimmesdale so evidently was, to eat his unsavory morsel always at another's board, and endure the life-long chill which must be his lot who seeks to warm himself only at another's fireside, it truly seemed that this sagacious, experienced, benevolent old physician, with his concord of paternal and reverential love for the young pastor, was the very man, of all mankind, to be constantly within reach of his voice. The new abode of the two friends was with a pious widow, of good social rank, who dwelt in a house covering pretty nearly the site on which the venerable structure of King's Chapel has since been built. It had the graveyard, originally Isaac Johnson's home-field, on one side, and so was well adapted to call up serious reflections, suited to their respective employments, in both minister and man of physic. The motherly care of the good widow assigned to Mr. Dimmesdale a front apartment, with a sunny exposure, and heavy window-curtains, to create a noontide shadow, when desirable. The walls were hung round with tapestry, said to be from the Gobelin looms, and, at all events, representing the Scriptural story of David and Bathsheba, and Nathan the Prophet, in colors still unfaded, but which made the fair woman of the scene almost as grimly picturesque as the woe-denouncing seer. Here the pale clergyman piled up his library, rich with parchment-bound folios of the Fathers, and the lore of Rabbis, and monkish erudition, of which the Protestant divines, even while they vilified and decried that class of writers, were yet constrained often to avail themselves. On the other side of the house old Roger Chillingworth arranged his study and laboratory; not such as a modern man of science would reckon even tolerably complete, but provided with a distilling apparatus, and the means of compounding drugs and chemicals, which the practised alchemist knew well how to turn to purpose. With such commodiousness of situation, these two learned persons sat themselves down, each in his own domain, yet familiarly passing from one apartment to the other, and bestowing a mutual and not incurious inspection into one another's business. And the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale's best discerning friends, as we have intimated, very reasonably imagined that the hand of Providence had done all this, for the purpose--besought in so many public, and domestic, and secret prayers--of restoring the young minister to health. But--it must now be said--another portion of the community had latterly begun to take its own view of the relation betwixt Mr. Dimmesdale and the mysterious old physician. When an uninstructed multitude attempts to see with its eyes, it is exceedingly apt to be deceived. When, however, it forms its judgment, as it usually does, on the intuitions of its great and warm heart, the conclusions thus attained are often so profound and so unerring, as to possess the character of truths supernaturally revealed. The people, in the case of which we speak, could justify its prejudice against Roger Chillingworth by no fact or argument worthy of serious refutation. There was an aged handicraftsman, it is true, who had been a citizen of London at the period of Sir Thomas Overbury's murder, now some thirty years agone; he testified to having seen the physician, under some other name, which the narrator of the story had now forgotten, in company with Doctor Forman, the famous old conjurer, who was implicated in the affair of Overbury. Two or three individuals hinted, that the man of skill, during his Indian captivity, had enlarged his medical attainments by joining in the incantations of the savage priests; who were universally acknowledged to be powerful enchanters, often performing seemingly miraculous cures by their skill in the black art. A large number--and many of these were persons of such sober sense and practical observation that their opinions would have been valuable, in other matters--affirmed that Roger Chillingworth's aspect had undergone a remarkable change while he had dwelt in town, and especially since his abode with Mr. Dimmesdale. At first, his expression had been calm, meditative, scholar-like. Now, there was something ugly and evil in his face, which they had not previously noticed, and which grew still the more obvious to sight, the oftener they looked upon him. According to the vulgar idea, the fire in his laboratory had been brought from the lower regions, and was fed with infernal fuel; and so, as might be expected, his visage was getting sooty with the smoke. To sum up the matter, it grew to be a widely diffused opinion, that the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, like many other personages of especial sanctity, in all ages of the Christian world, was haunted either by Satan himself, or Satan's emissary, in the guise of old Roger Chillingworth. This diabolical agent had the Divine permission, for a season, to burrow into the clergyman's intimacy, and plot against his soul. No sensible man, it was confessed, could doubt on which side the victory would turn. The people looked, with an unshaken hope, to see the minister come forth out of the conflict, transfigured with the glory which he would unquestionably win. Meanwhile, nevertheless, it was sad to think of the perchance mortal agony through which he must struggle towards his triumph. Alas! to judge from the gloom and terror in the depths of the poor minister's eyes, the battle was a sore one and the victory anything but secure. [Illustration] [Illustration] X. THE LEECH AND HIS PATIENT. Old Roger Chillingworth, throughout life, had been calm in temperament, kindly, though not of warm affections, but ever, and in all his relations with the world, a pure and upright man. He had begun an investigation, as he imagined, with the severe and equal integrity of a judge, desirous only of truth, even as if the question involved no more than the air-drawn lines and figures of a geometrical problem, instead of human passions, and wrongs inflicted on himself. But, as he proceeded, a terrible fascination, a kind of fierce, though still calm, necessity, seized the old man within its gripe, and never set him free again, until he had done all its bidding. He now dug into the poor clergyman's heart, like a miner searching for gold; or, rather, like a sexton delving into a grave, possibly in quest of a jewel that had been buried on the dead man's bosom, but likely to find nothing save mortality and corruption. Alas for his own soul, if these were what he sought! Sometimes, a light glimmered out of the physician's eyes, burning blue and ominous, like the reflection of a furnace, or, let us say, like one of those gleams of ghastly fire that darted from Bunyan's awful doorway in the hillside, and quivered on the pilgrim's face. The soil where this dark miner was working had perchance shown indications that encouraged him. "This man," said he, at one such moment, to himself, "pure as they deem him,--all spiritual as he seems,--hath inherited a strong animal nature from his father or his mother. Let us dig a little further in the direction of this vein!" Then, after long search into the minister's dim interior, and turning over many precious materials, in the shape of high aspirations for the welfare of his race, warm love of souls, pure sentiments, natural piety, strengthened by thought and study, and illuminated by revelation,--all of which invaluable gold was perhaps no better than rubbish to the seeker,--he would turn back, discouraged, and begin his quest towards another point. He groped along as stealthily, with as cautious a tread, and as wary an outlook, as a thief entering a chamber where a man lies only half asleep,--or, it may be, broad awake,--with purpose to steal the very treasure which this man guards as the apple of his eye. In spite of his premeditated carefulness, the floor would now and then creak; his garments would rustle; the shadow of his presence, in a forbidden proximity, would be thrown across his victim. In other words, Mr. Dimmesdale, whose sensibility of nerve often produced the effect of spiritual intuition, would become vaguely aware that something inimical to his peace had thrust itself into relation with him. But old Roger Chillingworth, too, had perceptions that were almost intuitive; and when the minister threw his startled eyes towards him, there the physician sat; his kind, watchful, sympathizing, but never intrusive friend. Yet Mr. Dimmesdale would perhaps have seen this individual's character more perfectly, if a certain morbidness, to which, sick hearts are liable, had not rendered him suspicious of all mankind. Trusting no man as his friend, he could not recognize his enemy when the latter actually appeared. He therefore still kept up a familiar intercourse with him, daily receiving the old physician in his study; or visiting the laboratory, and, for recreation's sake, watching the processes by which weeds were converted into drugs of potency. One day, leaning his forehead on his hand, and his elbow on the sill of the open window, that looked towards the graveyard, he talked with Roger Chillingworth, while the old man was examining a bundle of unsightly plants. "Where," asked he, with a look askance at them,--for it was the clergyman's peculiarity that he seldom, nowadays, looked straightforth at any object, whether human or inanimate,--"where, my kind doctor, did you gather those herbs, with such a dark, flabby leaf?" "Even in the graveyard here at hand," answered the physician, continuing his employment. "They are new to me. I found them growing on a grave, which bore no tombstone, nor other memorial of the dead man, save these ugly weeds, that have taken upon themselves to keep him in remembrance. They grew out of his heart, and typify, it may be, some hideous secret that was buried with him, and which he had done better to confess during his lifetime." "Perchance," said Mr. Dimmesdale, "he earnestly desired it, but could not." "And wherefore?" rejoined the physician. "Wherefore not; since all the powers of nature call so earnestly for the confession of sin, that these black weeds have sprung up out of a buried heart, to make manifest an unspoken crime?" "That, good Sir, is but a fantasy of yours," replied the minister. "There can be, if I forebode aright, no power, short of the Divine mercy, to disclose, whether by uttered words, or by type or emblem, the secrets that may be buried with a human heart. The heart, making itself guilty of such secrets, must perforce hold them, until the day when all hidden things shall be revealed. Nor have I so read or interpreted Holy Writ, as to understand that the disclosure of human thoughts and deeds, then to be made, is intended as a part of the retribution. That, surely, were a shallow view of it. No; these revelations, unless I greatly err, are meant merely to promote the intellectual satisfaction of all intelligent beings, who will stand waiting, on that day, to see the dark problem of this life made plain. A knowledge of men's hearts will be needful to the completest solution of that problem. And I conceive, moreover, that the hearts holding such miserable secrets as you speak of will yield them up, at that last day, not with reluctance, but with a joy unutterable." "Then why not reveal them here?" asked Roger Chillingworth, glancing quietly aside at the minister. "Why should not the guilty ones sooner avail themselves of this unutterable solace?" "They mostly do," said the clergyman, griping hard at his breast as if afflicted with an importunate throb of pain. "Many, many a poor soul hath given its confidence to me, not only on the death-bed, but while strong in life, and fair in reputation. And ever, after such an outpouring, O, what a relief have I witnessed in those sinful brethren! even as in one who at last draws free air, after long stifling with his own polluted breath. How can it be otherwise? Why should a wretched man, guilty, we will say, of murder, prefer to keep the dead corpse buried in his own heart, rather than fling it forth at once, and let the universe take care of it!" "Yet some men bury their secrets thus," observed the calm physician. "True; there are such men," answered Mr. Dimmesdale. "But, not to suggest more obvious reasons, it may be that they are kept silent by the very constitution of their nature. Or,--can we not suppose it?--guilty as they may be, retaining, nevertheless, a zeal for God's glory and man's welfare, they shrink from displaying themselves black and filthy in the view of men; because, thenceforward, no good can be achieved by them; no evil of the past be redeemed by better service. So, to their own unutterable torment, they go about among their fellow-creatures, looking pure as new-fallen snow while their hearts are all speckled and spotted with iniquity of which they cannot rid themselves." "These men deceive themselves," said Roger Chillingworth, with somewhat more emphasis than usual, and making a slight gesture with his forefinger. "They fear to take up the shame that rightfully belongs to them. Their love for man, their zeal for God's service,--these holy impulses may or may not coexist in their hearts with the evil inmates to which their guilt has unbarred the door, and which must needs propagate a hellish breed within them. But, if they seek to glorify God, let them not lift heavenward their unclean hands! If they would serve their fellow-men, let them do it by making manifest the power and reality of conscience, in constraining them to penitential self-abasement! Wouldst thou have me to believe, O wise and pious friend, that a false show can be better--can be more for God's glory, or man's welfare--than God's own truth? Trust me, such men deceive themselves!" "It may be so," said the young clergyman, indifferently, as waiving a discussion that he considered irrelevant or unseasonable. He had a ready faculty, indeed, of escaping from any topic that agitated his too sensitive and nervous temperament.--"But, now, I would ask of my well-skilled physician, whether, in good sooth, he deems me to have profited by his kindly care of this weak frame of mine?" Before Roger Chillingworth could answer, they heard the clear, wild laughter of a young child's voice, proceeding from the adjacent burial-ground. Looking instinctively from the open window,--for it was summer-time,--the minister beheld Hester Prynne and little Pearl passing along the footpath that traversed the enclosure. Pearl looked as beautiful as the day, but was in one of those moods of perverse merriment which, whenever they occurred, seemed to remove her entirely out of the sphere of sympathy or human contact. She now skipped irreverently from one grave to another; until, coming to the broad, flat, armorial tombstone of a departed worthy,--perhaps of Isaac Johnson himself,--she began to dance upon it. In reply to her mother's command and entreaty that she would behave more decorously, little Pearl paused to gather the prickly burrs from a tall burdock which grew beside the tomb. Taking a handful of these, she arranged them along the lines of the scarlet letter that decorated the maternal bosom, to which the burrs, as their nature was, tenaciously adhered. Hester did not pluck them off. Roger Chillingworth had by this time approached the window, and smiled grimly down. "There is no law, nor reverence for authority, no regard for human ordinances or opinions, right or wrong, mixed up with that child's composition," remarked he, as much to himself as to his companion. "I saw her, the other day, bespatter the Governor himself with water, at the cattle-trough in Spring Lane. What, in Heaven's name, is she? Is the imp altogether evil? Hath she affections? Hath she any discoverable principle of being?" "None, save the freedom of a broken law," answered Mr. Dimmesdale, in a quiet way, as if he had been discussing the point within himself. "Whether capable of good, I know not." The child probably overheard their voices; for, looking up to the window, with a bright, but naughty smile of mirth and intelligence, she threw one of the prickly burrs at the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. The sensitive clergyman shrunk, with nervous dread, from the light missile. Detecting his emotion, Pearl clapped her little hands, in the most extravagant ecstasy. Hester Prynne, likewise, had involuntarily looked up; and all these four persons, old and young, regarded one another in silence, till the child laughed aloud, and shouted,--"Come away, mother! Come away, or yonder old Black Man will catch you! He hath got hold of the minister already. Come away, mother, or he will catch you! But he cannot catch little Pearl!" So she drew her mother away, skipping, dancing, and frisking fantastically, among the hillocks of the dead people, like a creature that had nothing in common with a bygone and buried generation, nor owned herself akin to it. It was as if she had been made afresh, out of new elements, and must perforce be permitted to live her own life, and be a law unto herself, without her eccentricities being reckoned to her for a crime. "There goes a woman," resumed Roger Chillingworth, after a pause, "who, be her demerits what they may, hath none of that mystery of hidden sinfulness which you deem so grievous to be borne. Is Hester Prynne the less miserable, think you, for that scarlet letter on her breast?" "I do verily believe it," answered the clergyman. "Nevertheless, I cannot answer for her. There was a look of pain in her face, which I would gladly have been spared the sight of. But still, methinks, it must needs be better for the sufferer to be free to show his pain, as this poor woman Hester is, than to cover it all up in his heart." There was another pause; and the physician began anew to examine and arrange the plants which he had gathered. "You inquired of me, a little time agone," said he, at length, "my judgment as touching your health." "I did," answered the clergyman, "and would gladly learn it. Speak frankly, I pray you, be it for life or death." "Freely, then, and plainly," said the physician, still busy with his plants, but keeping a wary eye on Mr. Dimmesdale, "the disorder is a strange one; not so much in itself, nor as outwardly manifested,--in so far, at least, as the symptoms have been laid open to my observation. Looking daily at you, my good Sir, and watching the tokens of your aspect, now for months gone by, I should deem you a man sore sick, it may be, yet not so sick but that an instructed and watchful physician might well hope to cure you. But--I know not what to say--the disease is what I seem to know, yet know it not." "You speak in riddles, learned Sir," said the pale minister, glancing aside out of the window. "Then, to speak more plainly," continued the physician, "and I crave pardon, Sir,--should it seem to require pardon,--for this needful plainness of my speech. Let me ask,--as your friend,--as one having charge, under Providence, of your life and physical well-being,--hath all the operation of this disorder been fairly laid open and recounted to me?" "How can you question it?" asked the minister. "Surely, it were child's play, to call in a physician, and then hide the sore!" "You would tell me, then, that I know all?" said Roger Chillingworth, deliberately, and fixing an eye, bright with intense and concentrated intelligence, on the minister's face. "Be it so! But, again! He to whom only the outward and physical evil is laid open, knoweth, oftentimes, but half the evil which he is called upon to cure. A bodily disease, which we look upon as whole and entire within itself, may, after all, be but a symptom of some ailment in the spiritual part. Your pardon, once again, good Sir, if my speech give the shadow of offence. You, Sir, of all men whom I have known, are he whose body is the closest conjoined, and imbued, and identified, so to speak, with the spirit whereof it is the instrument." "Then I need ask no further," said the clergyman, somewhat hastily rising from his chair. "You deal not, I take it, in medicine for the soul!" "Thus, a sickness," continued Roger Chillingworth, going on, in an unaltered tone, without heeding the interruption,--but standing up, and confronting the emaciated and white-cheeked minister, with his low, dark, and misshapen figure,--"a sickness, a sore place, if we may so call it, in your spirit, hath immediately its appropriate manifestation in your bodily frame. Would you, therefore, that your physician heal the bodily evil? How may this be, unless you first lay open to him the wound or trouble in your soul?" "No!--not to thee!--not to an earthly physician!" cried Mr. Dimmesdale, passionately, and turning his eyes, full and bright, and with a kind of fierceness, on old Roger Chillingworth. "Not to thee! But if it be the soul's disease, then do I commit myself to the one Physician of the soul! He, if it stand with his good pleasure, can cure; or he can kill! Let him do with me as, in his justice and wisdom, he shall see good. But who art thou, that meddlest in this matter?--that dares thrust himself between the sufferer and his God?" With a frantic gesture he rushed out of the room. "It is as well to have made this step," said Roger Chillingworth to himself, looking after the minister with a grave smile. "There is nothing lost. We shall be friends again anon. But see, now, how passion takes hold upon this man, and hurrieth him out of himself! As with one passion, so with another! He hath done a wild thing erenow, this pious Master Dimmesdale, in the hot passion of his heart!" [Illustration: The Leech and his Patient] It proved not difficult to re-establish the intimacy of the two companions, on the same footing and in the same degree as heretofore. The young clergyman, after a few hours of privacy, was sensible that the disorder of his nerves had hurried him into an unseemly outbreak of temper, which there had been nothing in the physician's words to excuse or palliate. He marvelled, indeed, at the violence with which he had thrust back the kind old man, when merely proffering the advice which it was his duty to bestow, and which the minister himself had expressly sought. With these remorseful feelings, he lost no time in making the amplest apologies, and besought his friend still to continue the care, which, if not successful in restoring him to health, had, in all probability, been the means of prolonging his feeble existence to that hour. Roger Chillingworth readily assented, and went on with his medical supervision of the minister; doing his best for him, in all good faith, but always quitting the patient's apartment, at the close of a professional interview, with a mysterious and puzzled smile upon his lips. This expression was invisible in Mr. Dimmesdale's presence, but grew strongly evident as the physician crossed the threshold. "A rare case!" he muttered. "I must needs look deeper into it. A strange sympathy betwixt soul and body! Were it only for the art's sake, I must search this matter to the bottom!" It came to pass, not long after the scene above recorded, that the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, at noonday, and entirely unawares, fell into a deep, deep slumber, sitting in his chair, with a large black-letter volume open before him on the table. It must have been a work of vast ability in the somniferous school of literature. The profound depth of the minister's repose was the more remarkable, inasmuch as he was one of those persons whose sleep, ordinarily, is as light, as fitful, and as easily scared away, as a small bird hopping on a twig. To such an unwonted remoteness, however, had his spirit now withdrawn into itself, that he stirred not in his chair, when old Roger Chillingworth, without any extraordinary precaution, came into the room. The physician advanced directly in front of his patient, laid his hand upon his bosom, and thrust aside the vestment, that, hitherto, had always covered it even from the professional eye. Then, indeed, Mr. Dimmesdale shuddered, and slightly stirred. After a brief pause, the physician turned away. But, with what a wild look of wonder, joy, and horror! With what a ghastly rapture, as it were, too mighty to be expressed only by the eye and features, and therefore bursting forth through the whole ugliness of his figure, and making itself even riotously manifest by the extravagant gestures with which he threw up his arms towards the ceiling, and stamped his foot upon the floor! Had a man seen old Roger Chillingworth, at that moment of his ecstasy, he would have had no need to ask how Satan comports himself, when a precious human soul is lost to heaven, and won into his kingdom. But what distinguished the physician's ecstasy from Satan's was the trait of wonder in it! [Illustration] [Illustration] XI. THE INTERIOR OF A HEART. After the incident last described, the intercourse between the clergyman and the physician, though externally the same, was really of another character than it had previously been. The intellect of Roger Chillingworth had now a sufficiently plain path before it. It was not, indeed, precisely that which he had laid out for himself to tread. Calm, gentle, passionless, as he appeared, there was yet, we fear, a quiet depth of malice, hitherto latent, but active now, in this unfortunate old man, which led him to imagine a more intimate revenge than any mortal had ever wreaked upon an enemy. To make himself the one trusted friend, to whom should be confided all the fear, the remorse, the agony, the ineffectual repentance, the backward rush of sinful thoughts, expelled in vain! All that guilty sorrow, hidden from the world, whose great heart would have pitied and forgiven, to be revealed to him, the Pitiless, to him, the Unforgiving! All that dark treasure to be lavished on the very man, to whom nothing else could so adequately pay the debt of vengeance! The clergyman's shy and sensitive reserve had balked this scheme. Roger Chillingworth, however, was inclined to be hardly, if at all, less satisfied with the aspect of affairs, which Providence--using the avenger and his victim for its own purposes, and, perchance, pardoning where it seemed most to punish--had substituted for his black devices. A revelation, he could almost say, had been granted to him. It mattered little, for his object, whether celestial, or from what other region. By its aid, in all the subsequent relations betwixt him and Mr. Dimmesdale, not merely the external presence, but the very inmost soul, of the latter, seemed to be brought out before his eyes, so that he could see and comprehend its every movement. He became, thenceforth, not a spectator only, but a chief actor, in the poor minister's interior world. He could play upon him as he chose. Would he arouse him with a throb of agony? The victim was forever on the rack; it needed only to know the spring that controlled the engine;--and the physician knew it well! Would he startle him with sudden fear? As at the waving of a magician's wand, uprose a grisly phantom,--uprose a thousand phantoms,--in many shapes, of death, or more awful shame, all flocking round about the clergyman, and pointing with their fingers at his breast! All this was accomplished with a subtlety so perfect, that the minister, though he had constantly a dim perception of some evil influence watching over him, could never gain a knowledge of its actual nature. True, he looked doubtfully, fearfully,--even, at times, with horror and the bitterness of hatred,--at the deformed figure of the old physician. His gestures, his gait, his grizzled beard, his slightest and most indifferent acts, the very fashion of his garments, were odious in the clergyman's sight; a token implicitly to be relied on, of a deeper antipathy in the breast of the latter than he was willing to acknowledge to himself. For, as it was impossible to assign a reason for such distrust and abhorrence, so Mr. Dimmesdale, conscious that the poison of one morbid spot was infecting his heart's entire substance, attributed all his presentiments to no other cause. He took himself to task for his bad sympathies in reference to Roger Chillingworth, disregarded the lesson that he should have drawn from them, and did his best to root them out. Unable to accomplish this, he nevertheless, as a matter of principle, continued his habits of social familiarity with the old man, and thus gave him constant opportunities for perfecting the purpose to which--poor, forlorn creature that he was, and more wretched than his victim--the avenger had devoted himself. While thus suffering under bodily disease, and gnawed and tortured by some black trouble of the soul, and given over to the machinations of his deadliest enemy, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale had achieved a brilliant popularity in his sacred office. He won it, indeed, in great part, by his sorrows. His intellectual gifts, his moral perceptions, his power of experiencing and communicating emotion, were kept in a state of preternatural activity by the prick and anguish of his daily life. His fame, though still on its upward slope, already overshadowed the soberer reputations of his fellow-clergymen, eminent as several of them were. There were scholars among them, who had spent more years in acquiring abstruse lore, connected with the divine profession, than Mr. Dimmesdale had lived; and who might well, therefore, be more profoundly versed in such solid and valuable attainments than their youthful brother. There were men, too, of a sturdier texture of mind than his, and endowed with a far greater share of shrewd, hard, iron, or granite understanding; which, duly mingled with a fair proportion of doctrinal ingredient, constitutes a highly respectable, efficacious, and unamiable variety of the clerical species. There were others, again, true saintly fathers, whose faculties had been elaborated by weary toil among their books, and by patient thought, and etherealized, moreover, by spiritual communications with the better world, into which their purity of life had almost introduced these holy personages, with their garments of mortality still clinging to them. All that they lacked was the gift that descended upon the chosen disciples at Pentecost, in tongues of flame; symbolizing, it would seem, not the power of speech in foreign and unknown languages, but that of addressing the whole human brotherhood in the heart's native language. These fathers, otherwise so apostolic, lacked Heaven's last and rarest attestation of their office, the Tongue of Flame. They would have vainly sought--had they ever dreamed of seeking--to express the highest truths through the humblest medium of familiar words and images. Their voices came down, afar and indistinctly, from the upper heights where they habitually dwelt. [Illustration: The Virgins of the Church] Not improbably, it was to this latter class of men that Mr. Dimmesdale, by many of his traits of character, naturally belonged. To the high mountain-peaks of faith and sanctity he would have climbed, had not the tendency been thwarted by the burden, whatever it might be, of crime or anguish, beneath which it was his doom to totter. It kept him down, on a level with the lowest; him, the man of ethereal attributes, whose voice the angels might else have listened to and answered! But this very burden it was, that gave him sympathies so intimate with the sinful brotherhood of mankind; so that his heart vibrated in unison with theirs, and received their pain into itself, and sent its own throb of pain through a thousand other hearts, in gushes of sad, persuasive eloquence. Oftenest persuasive, but sometimes terrible! The people knew not the power that moved them thus. They deemed the young clergyman a miracle of holiness. They fancied him the mouthpiece of Heaven's messages of wisdom, and rebuke, and love. In their eyes, the very ground on which he trod was sanctified. The virgins of his church grew pale around him, victims of a passion so imbued with religious sentiment that they imagined it to be all religion, and brought it openly, in their white bosoms, as their most acceptable sacrifice before the altar. The aged members of his flock, beholding Mr. Dimmesdale's frame so feeble, while they were themselves so rugged in their infirmity, believed that he would go heavenward before them, and enjoined it upon their children, that their old bones should be buried close to their young pastor's holy grave. And, all this time, perchance, when poor Mr. Dimmesdale was thinking of his grave, he questioned with himself whether the grass would ever grow on it, because an accursed thing must there be buried! It is inconceivable, the agony with which this public veneration tortured him! It was his genuine impulse to adore the truth, and to reckon all things shadow-like, and utterly devoid of weight or value, that had not its divine essence as the life within their life. Then, what was he?--a substance?--or the dimmest of all shadows? He longed to speak out, from his own pulpit, at the full height of his voice, and tell the people what he was. "I, whom you behold in these black garments of the priesthood,--I, who ascend the sacred desk, and turn my pale face heavenward, taking upon myself to hold communion, in your behalf, with the Most High Omniscience,--I, in whose daily life you discern the sanctity of Enoch,--I, whose footsteps, as you suppose, leave a gleam along my earthly track, whereby the pilgrims that shall come after me may be guided to the regions of the blest,--I, who have laid the hand of baptism upon your children,--I, who have breathed the parting prayer over your dying friends, to whom the Amen sounded faintly from a world which they had quitted,--I, your pastor, whom you so reverence and trust, am utterly a pollution and a lie!" More than once, Mr. Dimmesdale had gone into the pulpit, with a purpose never to come down its steps, until he should have spoken words like the above. More than once, he had cleared his throat, and drawn in the long, deep, and tremulous breath, which, when sent forth again, would come burdened with the black secret of his soul. More than once--nay, more than a hundred times--he had actually spoken! Spoken! But how? He had told his hearers that he was altogether vile, a viler companion of the vilest, the worst of sinners, an abomination, a thing of unimaginable iniquity; and that the only wonder was, that they did not see his wretched body shrivelled up before their eyes, by the burning wrath of the Almighty! Could there be plainer speech than this? Would not the people start up in their seats, by a simultaneous impulse, and tear him down out of the pulpit which he defiled? Not so, indeed! They heard it all, and did but reverence him the more. They little guessed what deadly purport lurked in those self-condemning words. "The godly youth!" said they among themselves. "The saint on earth! Alas, if he discern such sinfulness in his own white soul, what horrid spectacle would he behold in thine or mine!" The minister well knew--subtle, but remorseful hypocrite that he was!--the light in which his vague confession would be viewed. He had striven to put a cheat upon himself by making the avowal of a guilty conscience, but had gained only one other sin, and a self-acknowledged shame, without the momentary relief of being self-deceived. He had spoken the very truth, and transformed it into the veriest falsehood. And yet, by the constitution of his nature, he loved the truth, and loathed the lie, as few men ever did. Therefore, above all things else, he loathed his miserable self! His inward trouble drove him to practices more in accordance with the old, corrupted faith of Rome, than with the better light of the church in which he had been born and bred. In Mr. Dimmesdale's secret closet, under lock and key, there was a bloody scourge. Oftentimes, this Protestant and Puritan divine had plied it on his own shoulders; laughing bitterly at himself the while, and smiting so much the more pitilessly because of that bitter laugh. It was his custom, too, as it has been that of many other pious Puritans, to fast,--not, however, like them, in order to purify the body and render it the fitter medium of celestial illumination, but rigorously, and until his knees trembled beneath him, as an act of penance. He kept vigils, likewise, night after night, sometimes in utter darkness; sometimes with a glimmering lamp; and sometimes, viewing his own face in a looking-glass, by the most powerful light which he could throw upon it. He thus typified the constant introspection wherewith he tortured, but could not purify, himself. In these lengthened vigils, his brain often reeled, and visions seemed to flit before him; perhaps seen doubtfully, and by a faint light of their own, in the remote dimness of the chamber, or more vividly, and close beside him, within the looking-glass. Now it was a herd of diabolic shapes, that grinned and mocked at the pale minister, and beckoned him away with them; now a group of shining angels, who flew upward heavily, as sorrow-laden, but grew more ethereal as they rose. Now came the dead friends of his youth, and his white-bearded father, with a saint-like frown, and his mother, turning her face away as she passed by. Ghost of a mother,--thinnest fantasy of a mother,--methinks she might yet have thrown a pitying glance towards her son! And now, through the chamber which these spectral thoughts had made so ghastly, glided Hester Prynne, leading along little Pearl, in her scarlet garb, and pointing her forefinger, first at the scarlet letter on her bosom, and then at the clergyman's own breast. None of these visions ever quite deluded him. At any moment, by an effort of his will, he could discern substances through their misty lack of substance, and convince himself that they were not solid in their nature, like yonder table of carved oak, or that big, square, leathern-bound and brazen-clasped volume of divinity. But, for all that, they were, in one sense, the truest and most substantial things which the poor minister now dealt with. It is the unspeakable misery of a life so false as his, that it steals the pith and substance out of whatever realities there are around us, and which were meant by Heaven to be the spirit's joy and nutriment. To the untrue man, the whole universe is false,--it is impalpable,--it shrinks to nothing within his grasp. And he himself, in so far as he shows himself in a false light, becomes a shadow, or, indeed, ceases to exist. The only truth that continued to give Mr. Dimmesdale a real existence on this earth, was the anguish in his inmost soul, and the undissembled expression of it in his aspect. Had he once found power to smile, and wear a face of gayety, there would have been no such man! On one of those ugly nights, which we have faintly hinted at, but forborne to picture forth, the minister started from his chair. A new thought had struck him. There might be a moment's peace in it. Attiring himself with as much care as if it had been for public worship, and precisely in the same manner, he stole softly down the staircase, undid the door, and issued forth. [Illustration] [Illustration] XII. THE MINISTER'S VIGIL. Walking in the shadow of a dream, as it were, and perhaps actually under the influence of a species of somnambulism, Mr. Dimmesdale reached the spot where, now so long since, Hester Prynne had lived through her first hours of public ignominy. The same platform or scaffold, black and weather-stained with the storm or sunshine of seven long years, and foot-worn, too, with the tread of many culprits who had since ascended it, remained standing beneath the balcony of the meeting-house. The minister went up the steps. It was an obscure night of early May. An unvaried pall of cloud muffled the whole expanse of sky from zenith to horizon. If the same multitude which had stood as eye-witnesses while Hester Prynne sustained her punishment could now have been summoned forth, they would have discerned no face above the platform, nor hardly the outline of a human shape, in the dark gray of the midnight. But the town was all asleep. There was no peril of discovery. The minister might stand there, if it so pleased him, until morning should redden in the east, without other risk than that the dank and chill night-air would creep into his frame, and stiffen his joints with rheumatism, and clog his throat with catarrh and cough; thereby defrauding the expectant audience of to-morrow's prayer and sermon. No eye could see him, save that ever-wakeful one which had seen him in his closet, wielding the bloody scourge. Why, then, had he come hither? Was it but the mockery of penitence? A mockery, indeed, but in which his soul trifled with itself! A mockery at which angels blushed and wept, while fiends rejoiced, with jeering laughter! He had been driven hither by the impulse of that Remorse which dogged him everywhere, and whose own sister and closely linked companion was that Cowardice which invariably drew him back, with her tremulous gripe, just when the other impulse had hurried him to the verge of a disclosure. Poor, miserable man! what right had infirmity like his to burden itself with crime? Crime is for the iron-nerved, who have their choice either to endure it, or, if it press too hard, to exert their fierce and savage strength for a good purpose, and fling it off at once! This feeble and most sensitive of spirits could do neither, yet continually did one thing or another, which intertwined, in the same inextricable knot, the agony of heaven-defying guilt and vain repentance. And thus, while standing on the scaffold, in this vain show of expiation, Mr. Dimmesdale was overcome with a great horror of mind, as if the universe were gazing at a scarlet token on his naked breast, right over his heart. On that spot, in very truth, there was, and there had long been, the gnawing and poisonous tooth of bodily pain. Without any effort of his will, or power to restrain himself, he shrieked aloud; an outcry that went pealing through the night, and was beaten back from one house to another, and reverberated from the hills in the background; as if a company of devils, detecting so much misery and terror in it, had made a plaything of the sound, and were bandying it to and fro. "It is done!" muttered the minister, covering his face with his hands. "The whole town will awake, and hurry forth, and find me here!" But it was not so. The shriek had perhaps sounded with a far greater power, to his own startled ears, than it actually possessed. The town did not awake; or, if it did, the drowsy slumberers mistook the cry either for something frightful in a dream, or for the noise of witches; whose voices, at that period, were often heard to pass over the settlements or lonely cottages, as they rode with Satan through the air. The clergyman, therefore, hearing no symptoms of disturbance, uncovered his eyes and looked about him. At one of the chamber-windows of Governor Bellingham's mansion, which stood at some distance, on the line of another street, he beheld the appearance of the old magistrate himself, with a lamp in his hand, a white night-cap on his head, and a long white gown enveloping his figure. He looked like a ghost, evoked unseasonably from the grave. The cry had evidently startled him. At another window of the same house, moreover, appeared old Mistress Hibbins, the Governor's sister, also with a lamp, which, even thus far off, revealed the expression of her sour and discontented face. She thrust forth her head from the lattice, and looked anxiously upward. Beyond the shadow of a doubt, this venerable witch-lady had heard Mr. Dimmesdale's outcry, and interpreted it, with its multitudinous echoes and reverberations, as the clamor of the fiends and night-hags, with whom she was well known to make excursions into the forest. Detecting the gleam of Governor Bellingham's lamp, the old lady quickly extinguished her own, and vanished. Possibly, she went up among the clouds. The minister saw nothing further of her motions. The magistrate, after a wary observation of the darkness,--into which, nevertheless, he could see but little further than he might into a mill-stone,--retired from the window. The minister grew comparatively calm. His eyes, however, were soon greeted by a little, glimmering light, which, at first a long way off, was approaching up the street. It threw a gleam of recognition on here a post, and there a garden-fence, and here a latticed window-pane, and there a pump, with its full trough of water, and here, again, an arched door of oak, with an iron knocker, and a rough log for the doorstep. The Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale noted all these minute particulars, even while firmly convinced that the doom of his existence was stealing onward, in the footsteps which he now heard; and that the gleam of the lantern would fall upon him, in a few moments more, and reveal his long-hidden secret. As the light drew nearer, he beheld, within its illuminated circle, his brother clergyman,--or, to speak more accurately, his professional father, as well as highly valued friend,--the Reverend Mr. Wilson; who, as Mr. Dimmesdale now conjectured, had been praying at the bedside of some dying man. And so he had. The good old minister came freshly from the death-chamber of Governor Winthrop, who had passed from earth to heaven within that very hour. And now, surrounded, like the saint-like personages of olden times, with a radiant halo, that glorified him amid this gloomy night of sin,--as if the departed Governor had left him an inheritance of his glory, or as if he had caught upon himself the distant shine of the celestial city, while looking thitherward to see the triumphant pilgrim pass within its gates,--now, in short, good Father Wilson was moving homeward, aiding his footsteps with a lighted lantern! The glimmer of this luminary suggested the above conceits to Mr. Dimmesdale, who smiled,--nay, almost laughed at them,--and then wondered if he were going mad. As the Reverend Mr. Wilson passed beside the scaffold, closely muffling his Geneva cloak about him with one arm, and holding the lantern before his breast with the other, the minister could hardly restrain himself from speaking. "A good evening to you, venerable Father Wilson! Come up hither, I pray you, and pass a pleasant hour with me!" Good heavens! Had Mr. Dimmesdale actually spoken? For one instant, he believed that these words had passed his lips. But they were uttered only within his imagination. The venerable Father Wilson continued to step slowly onward, looking carefully at the muddy pathway before his feet, and never once turning his head towards the guilty platform. When the light of the glimmering lantern had faded quite away, the minister discovered, by the faintness which came over him, that the last few moments had been a crisis of terrible anxiety; although his mind had made an involuntary effort to relieve itself by a kind of lurid playfulness. Shortly afterwards, the like grisly sense of the humorous again stole in among the solemn phantoms of his thought. He felt his limbs growing stiff with the unaccustomed chilliness of the night, and doubted whether he should be able to descend the steps of the scaffold. Morning would break, and find him there. The neighborhood would begin to rouse itself. The earliest riser, coming forth in the dim twilight, would perceive a vaguely defined figure aloft on the place of shame; and, half crazed betwixt alarm and curiosity, would go, knocking from door to door, summoning all the people to behold the ghost--as he needs must think it--of some defunct transgressor. A dusky tumult would flap its wings from one house to another. Then--the morning light still waxing stronger--old patriarchs would rise up in great haste, each in his flannel gown, and matronly dames, without pausing to put off their night-gear. The whole tribe of decorous personages, who had never heretofore been seen with a single hair of their heads awry, would start into public view, with the disorder of a nightmare in their aspects. Old Governor Bellingham would come grimly forth, with his King James's ruff fastened askew; and Mistress Hibbins, with some twigs of the forest clinging to her skirts, and looking sourer than ever, as having hardly got a wink of sleep after her night ride; and good Father Wilson, too, after spending half the night at a death-bed, and liking ill to be disturbed, thus early, out of his dreams about the glorified saints. Hither, likewise, would come the elders and deacons of Mr. Dimmesdale's church, and the young virgins who so idolized their minister, and had made a shrine for him in their white bosoms; which now, by the by, in their hurry and confusion, they would scantly have given themselves time to cover with their kerchiefs. All people, in a word, would come stumbling over their thresholds, and turning up their amazed and horror-stricken visages around the scaffold. Whom would they discern there, with the red eastern light upon his brow? Whom, but the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, half frozen to death, overwhelmed with shame, and standing where Hester Prynne had stood! Carried away by the grotesque horror of this picture, the minister, unawares, and to his own infinite alarm, burst into a great peal of laughter. It was immediately responded to by a light, airy, childish laugh, in which, with a thrill of the heart,--but he knew not whether of exquisite pain, or pleasure as acute,--he recognized the tones of little Pearl. "Pearl! Little Pearl!" cried he after a moment's pause; then, suppressing his voice,--"Hester! Hester Prynne! Are you there?" "Yes; it is Hester Prynne!" she replied, in a tone of surprise; and the minister heard her footsteps approaching from the sidewalk, along which she had been passing. "It is I, and my little Pearl." "Whence come you, Hester?" asked the minister. "What sent you hither?" "I have been watching at a death-bed," answered Hester Prynne;--"at Governor Winthrop's death-bed, and have taken his measure for a robe, and am now going homeward to my dwelling." "Come up hither, Hester, thou and little Pearl," said the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. "Ye have both been here before, but I was not with you. Come up hither once again, and we will stand all three together!" She silently ascended the steps, and stood on the platform, holding little Pearl by the hand. The minister felt for the child's other hand, and took it. The moment that he did so, there came what seemed a tumultuous rush of new life, other life than his own, pouring like a torrent into his heart, and hurrying through all his veins, as if the mother and the child were communicating their vital warmth to his half-torpid system. The three formed an electric chain. "Minister!" whispered little Pearl. "What wouldst thou say, child?" asked Mr. Dimmesdale. "Wilt thou stand here with mother and me, to-morrow noontide?" inquired Pearl. "Nay; not so, my little Pearl," answered the minister; for, with the new energy of the moment, all the dread of public exposure, that had so long been the anguish of his life, had returned upon him; and he was already trembling at the conjunction in which--with a strange joy, nevertheless--he now found himself. "Not so, my child. I shall, indeed, stand with thy mother and thee one other day, but not to-morrow." Pearl laughed, and attempted to pull away her hand. But the minister held it fast. "A moment longer, my child!" said he. "But wilt thou promise," asked Pearl, "to take my hand, and mother's hand, to-morrow noontide?" "Not then, Pearl," said the minister, "but another time." "And what other time?" persisted the child. "At the great judgment day," whispered the minister,--and, strangely enough, the sense that he was a professional teacher of the truth impelled him to answer the child so. "Then, and there, before the judgment-seat, thy mother, and thou, and I must stand together. But the daylight of this world shall not see our meeting!" Pearl laughed again. [Illustration: "They stood in the noon of that strange splendor"] But, before Mr. Dimmesdale had done speaking, a light gleamed far and wide over all the muffled sky. It was doubtless caused by one of those meteors, which the night-watcher may so often observe burning out to waste, in the vacant regions of the atmosphere. So powerful was its radiance, that it thoroughly illuminated the dense medium of cloud betwixt the sky and earth. The great vault brightened, like the dome of an immense lamp. It showed the familiar scene of the street, with the distinctness of mid-day, but also with the awfulness that is always imparted to familiar objects by an unaccustomed light. The wooden houses, with their jutting stories and quaint gable-peaks; the doorsteps and thresholds, with the early grass springing up about them; the garden-plots, black with freshly turned earth; the wheel-track, little worn, and, even in the market-place, margined with green on either side;--all were visible, but with a singularity of aspect that seemed to give another moral interpretation to the things of this world than they had ever borne before. And there stood the minister, with his hand over his heart; and Hester Prynne, with the embroidered letter glimmering on her bosom; and little Pearl, herself a symbol, and the connecting link between those two. They stood in the noon of that strange and solemn splendor, as if it were the light that is to reveal all secrets, and the daybreak that shall unite all who belong to one another. There was witchcraft in little Pearl's eyes, and her face, as she glanced upward at the minister, wore that naughty smile which made its expression frequently so elvish. She withdrew her hand from Mr. Dimmesdale's, and pointed across the street. But he clasped both his hands over his breast, and cast his eyes towards the zenith. Nothing was more common, in those days, than to interpret all meteoric appearances, and other natural phenomena, that occurred with less regularity than the rise and set of sun and moon, as so many revelations from a supernatural source. Thus, a blazing spear, a sword of flame, a bow, or a sheaf of arrows, seen in the midnight sky, prefigured Indian warfare. Pestilence was known to have been foreboded by a shower of crimson light. We doubt whether any marked event, for good or evil, ever befell New England, from its settlement down to Revolutionary times, of which the inhabitants had not been previously warned by some spectacle of this nature. Not seldom, it had been seen by multitudes. Oftener, however, its credibility rested on the faith of some lonely eye-witness, who beheld the wonder through the colored, magnifying, and distorting medium of his imagination, and shaped it more distinctly in his after-thought. It was, indeed, a majestic idea, that the destiny of nations should be revealed, in these awful hieroglyphics, on the cope of heaven. A scroll so wide might not be deemed too expansive for Providence to write a people's doom upon. The belief was a favorite one with our forefathers, as betokening that their infant commonwealth was under a celestial guardianship of peculiar intimacy and strictness. But what shall we say, when an individual discovers a revelation addressed to himself alone, on the same vast sheet of record! In such a case, it could only be the symptom of a highly disordered mental state, when a man, rendered morbidly self-contemplative by long, intense, and secret pain, had extended his egotism over the whole expanse of nature, until the firmament itself should appear no more than a fitting page for his soul's history and fate! We impute it, therefore, solely to the disease in his own eye and heart, that the minister, looking upward to the zenith, beheld there the appearance of an immense letter,--the letter A,--marked out in lines of dull red light. Not but the meteor may have shown itself at that point, burning duskily through a veil of cloud; but with no such shape as his guilty imagination gave it; or, at least, with so little definiteness, that another's guilt might have seen another symbol in it. There was a singular circumstance that characterized Mr. Dimmesdale's psychological state, at this moment. All the time that he gazed upward to the zenith, he was, nevertheless, perfectly aware that little Pearl was pointing her finger towards old Roger Chillingworth, who stood at no great distance from the scaffold. The minister appeared to see him, with the same glance that discerned the miraculous letter. To his features, as to all other objects, the meteoric light imparted a new expression; or it might well be that the physician was not careful then, as at all other times, to hide the malevolence with which he looked upon his victim. Certainly, if the meteor kindled up the sky, and disclosed the earth, with an awfulness that admonished Hester Prynne and the clergyman of the day of judgment, then might Roger Chillingworth have passed with them for the arch-fiend, standing there with a smile and scowl, to claim his own. So vivid was the expression, or so intense the minister's perception of it, that it seemed still to remain painted on the darkness, after the meteor had vanished, with an effect as if the street and all things else were at once annihilated. "Who is that man, Hester?" gasped Mr. Dimmesdale, overcome with terror. "I shiver at him! Dost thou know the man? I hate him, Hester!" She remembered her oath, and was silent. "I tell thee, my soul shivers at him!" muttered the minister again. "Who is he? Who is he? Canst thou do nothing for me? I have a nameless horror of the man!" "Minister," said little Pearl, "I can tell thee who he is!" "Quickly, then, child!" said the minister, bending his ear close to her lips. "Quickly!--and as low as thou canst whisper." Pearl mumbled something into his ear, that sounded, indeed, like human language, but was only such gibberish as children may be heard amusing themselves with, by the hour together. At all events, if it involved any secret information in regard to old Roger Chillingworth, it was in a tongue unknown to the erudite clergyman, and did but increase the bewilderment of his mind. The elvish child then laughed aloud. "Dost thou mock me now?" said the minister. "Thou wast not bold!--thou wast not true!"--answered the child. "Thou wouldst not promise to take my hand, and mother's hand, to-morrow noontide!" "Worthy Sir," answered the physician, who had now advanced to the foot of the platform. "Pious Master Dimmesdale, can this be you? Well, well, indeed! We men of study, whose heads are in our books, have need to be straitly looked after! We dream in our waking moments, and walk in our sleep. Come, good Sir, and my dear friend, I pray you, let me lead you home!" "How knewest thou that I was here?" asked the minister, fearfully. "Verily, and in good faith," answered Roger Chillingworth, "I knew nothing of the matter. I had spent the better part of the night at the bedside of the worshipful Governor Winthrop, doing what my poor skill might to give him ease. He going home to a better world, I, likewise, was on my way homeward, when this strange light shone out. Come with me, I beseech you, Reverend Sir; else you will be poorly able to do Sabbath duty to-morrow. Aha! see now, how they trouble the brain,--these books!--these books! You should study less, good Sir, and take a little pastime; or these night-whimseys will grow upon you." "I will go home with you," said Mr. Dimmesdale. With a chill despondency, like one awaking, all nerveless, from an ugly dream, he yielded himself to the physician, and was led away. The next day, however, being the Sabbath, he preached a discourse which was held to be the richest and most powerful, and the most replete with heavenly influences, that had ever proceeded from his lips. Souls, it is said more souls than one, were brought to the truth by the efficacy of that sermon, and vowed within themselves to cherish a holy gratitude towards Mr. Dimmesdale throughout the long hereafter. But, as he came down the pulpit steps, the gray-bearded sexton met him, holding up a black glove, which the minister recognized as his own. "It was found," said the sexton, "this morning, on the scaffold where evil-doers are set up to public shame. Satan dropped it there, I take it, intending a scurrilous jest against your reverence. But, indeed, he was blind and foolish, as he ever and always is. A pure hand needs no glove to cover it!" "Thank you, my good friend," said the minister, gravely, but startled at heart; for, so confused was his remembrance, that he had almost brought himself to look at the events of the past night as visionary. "Yes, it seems to be my glove, indeed!" "And since Satan saw fit to steal it, your reverence must needs handle him without gloves, henceforward," remarked the old sexton, grimly smiling. "But did your reverence hear of the portent that was seen last night?--a great red letter in the sky,--the letter A, which we interpret to stand for Angel. For, as our good Governor Winthrop was made an angel this past night, it was doubtless held fit that there should be some notice thereof!" "No," answered the minister, "I had not heard of it." [Illustration] [Illustration] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Der Blutsauger Roger Chillingworth, Hesters wirklicher Ehemann, wird ausführlicher beschrieben. Nach seiner Ankunft in Boston und dem Auffinden seiner Frau in völliger Schande am Pranger beschließt er, in der Stadt zu bleiben und dort zu leben. Seine ungewöhnliche Intelligenz und sein Können als Arzt machen ihn bald sehr beliebt. Dimmesdales schlechter Gesundheitszustand und Chillingworths Interesse an dem jungen Mann veranlassen viele Kirchenbeamte, sie dazu zu bringen, zusammen zu leben. Dimmesdale lehnt zunächst ab und sagt: "Ich brauche keine Medizin." Dimmesdale gewöhnt sich schließlich daran, seine Hand schmerzhaft auf sein Herz zu legen, und er stimmt einem Treffen mit Chillingworth zu. Das Treffen führt sofort dazu, dass die beiden Männer zusammenziehen. Der Erzähler bemerkt, dass "ein Mann, der ein Geheimnis hat, besonders den intimen Kontakt zu seinem Arzt meiden sollte." Die Bewohner der Stadt sind größtenteils begeistert von der Art und Weise, wie sich die Beziehung zwischen den beiden Männern entwickelt. Einige wenige Stadtbewohner haben jedoch eine stärkere Intuition und sind skeptisch gegenüber den wahren Motiven des Arztes. Sie spüren, dass Chillingworth seit seiner Ankunft in Boston eine tiefgreifende Veränderung durchgemacht hat, vom freundlichen alten Mann zum hässlichen und bösen Menschen. So entstand die weit verbreitete Meinung, dass der Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale ... entweder von Satan selbst oder von Satan's Abgesandten in Gestalt von Roger Chillingworth verfolgt wurde." Chillingworth erkennt, dass Dimmesdale ein dunkles Geheimnis verbirgt. Er investiert daher viel Zeit und Energie, um Dimmesdale dazu zu bringen, seine Qualen offen zu legen. Dimmesdale erkennt nicht, dass Chillingworth tatsächlich sein Feind ist. Er hat solche Angst davor, dass jeder in der Stadt sein Geheimnis erfährt, dass er blind für jeden Feind in den eigenen vier Wänden ist. Chillingworth beginnt ein Gespräch mit dem Minister darüber, warum Männer ihre Geheimnisse im Herzen bewahren anstatt sie sofort offen zu legen. Dimmesdale hält seine Brust fest und ringt darum, direkt auf die Fragen zu antworten, die Chillingworth stellt. Die beiden werden durch Pearl und Hester unterbrochen, die durch den Friedhof draußen gehen. Pearl springt von einem Grabstein zum anderen und fängt schließlich an, auf einem großen flachen Stein zu tanzen. Als Hester versucht, sie aufzuhalten, nimmt sie mehrere Stacheln und arrangiert sie auf dem scharlachroten Buchstaben, an dem sie haften bleiben. Chillingworth bemerkt, dass Pearl kein "erkennbares Prinzip des Seins" hat, da sie alle menschlichen Ordnungen und Meinungen missachtet. Dimmesdale bemerkt dann, dass Pearl "die Freiheit eines gebrochenen Gesetzes verkörpert". Als Pearl die beiden Männer sieht, wirft sie einen ihrer Stacheln auf Dimmesdale, der vor Angst zurückschreckt. Pearl ruft dann ihrer Mutter zu, dass sie gehen sollen, da der "Schwarze Mann", der Dimmesdale bereits erwischt hat, sie erwischen wird. Chillingworth sagt Dimmesdale dann, dass er ihn als sein Arzt nicht heilen kann - sein Leiden scheint von seiner spirituellen Seite zu kommen. Chillingworth fordert ihn auf, ihm zu sagen, welches Geheimnis Dimmesdale verbirgt. Der Minister, aufgebracht darüber, ruft leidenschaftlich aus: "Nein! - Nicht dir! - Nicht einem irdischen Arzt!" und verlässt den Raum. Kurz darauf schläft Dimmesdale beim Lesen ein. Chillingworth nutzt die Gelegenheit, um seine Hand auf Dimmesdales Herz zu legen und verlässt dann den Raum, bevor der Minister erwacht. Er ist unglaublich voller Freude und Erstaunen, nachdem er Dimmesdales Herz gefühlt hat. Der Erzähler sagt uns, dass er sich "so verhält wie Satan, wenn eine kostbare menschliche Seele dem Himmel verloren und in sein Königreich gewonnen wird." Chillingworth, der herausgefunden hat, dass Mr. Dimmesdale der wahre Vater von Pearl ist, beginnt eine subtile Kampagne, um den Minister so sehr wie möglich zu verletzen. Rache verzehrt ihn so sehr, dass er sich nur darauf konzentrieren kann, dem anderen Mann Schmerzen zuzufügen. Dimmesdale erkennt nie, dass sein stärkster Feind der Mann ist, den er für seinen einzigen Freund und Arzt hält. Mr. Dimmesdale ist so von Scham und Reue überwältigt, dass er wegen seiner Predigten berühmt geworden ist. Seine Fähigkeit als Redner wird noch verstärkt durch die Tatsache, dass er sich viel sündhafter fühlt als viele in seiner Gemeinde. Er hat sogar versucht, seiner Gemeinde von der Sünde zu erzählen, die er mit Hester Prynne begangen hat, aber immer so, dass sie denken, er sei bescheiden. Das verursacht Dimmesdale noch mehr Schmerzen, denn er glaubt, dass er auch sein Volk anlügt. Dimmesdale ist auch ein Masochist geworden und benutzt Ketten und Peitschen, um sich in seinem Schrank zu schlagen. Außerdem unternimmt er extrem lange Fasten, verweigert Essen und Trinken als Buße. Dieses Fasten verursacht Halluzinationen, in denen er seine Eltern, Freunde und sogar Pearl und Hester sieht. Eines Nachts entscheidet er, dass es einen Weg für ihn geben könnte, seine Qual zu überwinden, und verlässt leise sein Haus. Dimmesdale geht, bis er das Schafott erreicht, auf dem Hester Prynne vor mehreren Jahren ihre öffentliche Demütigung erlitten hat. Er steigt die Treppen hinauf und stellt sich vor, dass er einen scharlachroten Buchstaben auf der Brust trägt, den die ganze Welt sehen kann. In diesem Bewusstseinszustand schreit Dimmesdale laut auf und ist sofort erschrocken, dass die ganze Stadt ihn gehört hat. Stattdessen erscheint nur für kurze Zeit Gouverneur Bellingham auf seinem Balkon, bevor er ins Bett geht. Reverend Mr. Wilson nähert sich dem Schafott mit einer Laterne, aber nur weil er von einer nächtlichen Wache zurückkehrt. Er sieht Dimmesdale nicht, der auf dem Schafott steht. Dimmesdale wartet noch eine Weile und bricht dann in Gelächter aus. Zu seiner Überraschung antwortet ihm die Stimme von Pearl. Hester und Pearl sind auf dem Schafott, weil sie am Sterbebett von Gouverneur Winthrop Maße genommen haben. Dimmesdale lädt sie ein, sich zu ihm auf die Bühne zu gesellen, was sie auch tun. Alle drei halten sich an den Händen, und Pearl fragt ihn: "Wirst du hier mit Mutter und mir stehen, morgen zur Mittagszeit?" Dimmesdale antwortet: "Ich werde in der Tat eines Tages mit deiner Mutter und dir stehen, aber nicht morgen." Pearl bleibt hartnäckig bei ihrer Frage, und Dimmesdale antwortet, dass "das Tageslicht dieser Welt unser Treffen nicht sehen wird." In diesem Moment zieht ein Meteor über den Himmel und beleuchtet alles, auch Dimmesdale mit der Hand über seinem Herzen und dem scharlachroten Buchstaben an Hesters Kleid. Als er nach oben schaut, glaubt Dimmesdale, ein riesiges A am Himmel zu sehen. Als er wieder hinunterschaut, zeigt Pearl auf Roger Chillingworth, der ihn von der anderen Straßenseite beobachtet. Chillingworth bringt Dimmesdale nach Hause. Am nächsten Tag, nach einer Predigt, die der Erzähler als "reichste und mächtigste" beschreibt, wird Dimmesdale vom Kirchendiener begrüßt. Der Kirchendiener reicht ihm seinen Handschuh und sagt ihm, dass er ihn auf dem Schafott gefunden haben muss, wo Satan ihn zurückgelassen haben muss. Der Mann sagt Dimmesdale dann, dass letzte Nacht ein großes A am Himmel zu sehen war, was als "Engel" interpretiert wurde, zu Ehren von Gouverneur Winthrops Tod.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: SZENE 3. Derselbe. Vor dem Schloss. [König ARTHUR betritt die Mauern.] ARTHUR. Die Mauer ist hoch, dennoch werde ich hinunterspringen: - Guter Boden, sei gnädig und verletze mich nicht! - Es gibt wenige oder niemanden, der mich kennt: Wenn sie es täten, hat das Aussehen dieses Schiffsjungen mich völlig verkleidet. Ich habe Angst; und dennoch werde ich es wagen. Wenn ich unten ankomme und mir nicht meine Glieder breche, finde ich tausend Wege, um zu entkommen: Es ist genauso gut zu sterben und zu gehen wie zu sterben und zu bleiben. [Springt hinunter.] Ach, der Geist meines Onkels ist in diesen Steinen: - Himmel, nimm meine Seele auf und England behüte meine Gebeine! [Stirbt.] [KOMM PEMBROKE, SALISBURY und BIGOT.] SALISBURY. Meine Herren, ich werde ihn in St. Edmunds-Bury treffen; Es ist unsere Sicherheit und wir müssen dieses freundliche Angebot in dieser gefährlichen Zeit annehmen. PEMBROKE. Wer hat diesen Brief vom Kardinal gebracht? SALISBURY. Der Graf Melun, ein edler Herr aus Frankreich, dessen Vertraulichkeit zu mir bezüglich der Liebe des Dauphin weitaus allgemeiner ist als diese Zeilen vermuten lassen. BIGOT. Lassen Sie uns ihn morgen früh treffen. SALISBURY. Besser setzen wir uns dann in Bewegung; denn es wird eine zweitägige Reise sein, meine Herren, bevor wir uns treffen. [DER BASTARD tritt auf.] BASTARD. Wieder einmal heute gut getroffen, aufgebrachte Lords! Der König bittet mich um Ihre Anwesenheit. SALISBURY. Der König hat sich selbst von uns entfremdet. Wir werden seinen dünnen, befleckten Mantel nicht mit unseren reinen Ehren besudeln und nicht den Fuß begleiten, der überall Blutspuren hinterlässt, wo er geht. Kehrt um und sagt ihm das: Wir kennen das Schlimmste. BASTARD. Wie auch immer Sie denken, gute Worte, denke ich, wären das Beste. SALISBURY. Unsere Trauer und nicht unsere Manieren sind jetzt vernünftig. BASTARD. Aber in deiner Trauer liegt nur wenig Vernunft; deshalb wäre es vernünftig, wenn du jetzt Manieren hättest. PEMBROKE. Sir, Sir, Ungeduld hat ihre Privilegien. BASTARD. Es ist wahr, - niemand sonst kann seinem Meister Schaden zufügen. SALISBURY. Dies ist das Gefängnis: - Wer liegt hier? [Sieht Arthur.] PEMBROKE. Oh Tod, der stolz ist auf reine und fürstliche Schönheit! Die Erde hatte kein Loch, um diese Tat zu verbergen. SALISBURY. Mord, weil er das hasst, was er selbst getan hat, enthüllt es, um Rache zu fordern. BIGOT. Oder als er diese Schönheit zum Grab verurteilte, fand er es zu kostbar-fürstlich für ein Grab. SALISBURY. Sir Richard, was denken Sie? Haben Sie gesehen, oder haben Sie gelesen oder gehört, oder könnten Sie denken? Oder glaubst du fast, obwohl du siehst, dass du siehst? Könnte der Gedanke ohne dieses Objekt, ein solches anderes formen? Dies ist der absolute Gipfel, die Höhe, das Wappen, oder das Wappen des Wappen, von Mordwaffen: dies ist die blutigste Schande, die wildeste Grausamkeit, der abscheulichste Schlag, Der jemals wutverzerrte Zorn oder Starrsinn den Tränen der sanften Reue präsentiert hat. PEMBROKE. Alle bisherigen Morde werden dadurch entschuldigt; Und dieser, so einzigartig und unvergleichlich, wird eine Heiligkeit, eine Reinheit verleihen, der noch ungeborenen Sünde der Zeit; und beweisen, dass ein tödlicher Blutvergießen nichts weiter als ein Scherz ist, dargestellt durch dieses abscheuliche Schauspiel. BASTARD. Es ist eine verdammte und blutige Tat; Die schändliche Tat einer schweren Hand - wenn es überhaupt das Werk einer Hand ist. SALISBURY. Wenn es überhaupt das Werk einer Hand ist? - Wir hatten eine Art Ahnung, was folgen würde. Es ist das schändliche Werk von Huberts Hand; Die Praxis und der Wille des Königs: Dem ich mein Gehorsam verweigere, Indem ich mich vor diesem Ruin des süßen Lebens hinknie, Und ihm die Weihrauch eines Gelübdes, eines heiligen Gelübdes, einhauche, niemals die Freuden der Welt zu kosten, niemals verseucht zu sein von Vergnügen, oder vertraut mit Bequemlichkeit und Müßiggang zu sein, bevor ich dieser Hand eine Herrlichkeit gebe, indem ich ihr die Verehrung der Rache schenke. PEMBROKE und BIGOT. Was du sagst, bestätigen wir mit Nachdruck. [HUBERT tritt auf.] HUBERT. Meine Herren, ich bin voller Eile auf der Suche nach Ihnen: Arthur lebt; der König hat nach euch geschickt. SALISBURY. Oh, er ist mutig und errötet nicht vor dem Tod - Fort, du verabscheuungswürdiger Schurke, geh weg! HUBERT. Ich bin kein Schurke. SALISBURY. Soll ich das Gesetz missachten? [Zieht sein Schwert.] BASTARD. Dein Schwert ist scharf, Sir; stecke es wieder ein. SALISBURY. Nicht, bis ich es in die Haut eines Mörders stecke. HUBERT. Trete zurück, Lord Salisbury, - trete zurück, sage ich dir; Bei Gott, ich glaube, mein Schwert ist so scharf wie deins: Ich möchte nicht, dass du, Herr, dich selbst vergisst, noch die Gefahr meiner wahren Verteidigung herausforderst; damit ich, indem ich deinen Zorn beobachte, vergesse deinen Wert, deine Größe und Edelmut. BIGOT. Hinaus, Mistkegel! Wage es, einen Edelmann zu brüskieren? HUBERT. Nicht um mein Leben: aber dennoch wage ich es, mein unschuldiges Leben gegen einen Kaiser zu verteidigen. SALISBURY. Du bist ein Mörder. HUBERT. Beweise mir das nicht; doch ich bin keiner: Die Zunge, die Lügen spricht, spricht nicht wahr; wer nicht wahr spricht, lügt. PEMBROKE. Zerhacke ihn! BASTARD. Halte den Frieden, sage ich. SALISBURY. Bleib weg, oder ich werde dich ärgern, Falconbridge. BASTARD. Du würdest den Teufel besser ärgern, Salisbury: Wenn du mich auch nur anstarrst oder deinen Fuß rührst, oder deiner hastigen Bosheit beibringst, mir Schande zu bereiten, werde ich dich töten. Stecke dein Schwert rechtzeitig ein: Sonst werde ich dich und dein Rösteisen so verprügeln, dass du denken wirst, der Teufel sei aus der Hölle gekommen. BIGOT. Was willst du tun, berühmter Falconbridge? Einen Schurken und Mörder unterstützen? HUBERT. Herr Bigot, ich bin keiner. BIGOT. Wer hat diesen Fürsten getötet? HUBERT. Vor einer Stunde habe ich ihn noch wohlauf verlassen: Ich habe ihn geehrt, ich habe ihn geliebt und werde um sein süßes Leben trauern. SALISBURY. Vertraue diesen Listigen Gewässern nicht, Denn Bosheit ist nicht ohne solche Tränen; Und er, der schon lange damit gehandelt hat, lässt es wie Flüsse der Reue und Unschuld erscheinen. Weg mit mir, ihr alle, die eure Seelen verabscheuen den unflätigen Gerüchen eines Schlachthauses; Denn ich ersticke an diesem Geruch der Sünde. BIGOT. Begeben wir uns nach Bury, zum Dauphin dort! PEMBROKE. Dort sagen wir dem König, er könne uns dort aufsuchen. [LORDS gehen ab.] BASTARD. Hier ist eine gute Welt! Wusstest du von dieser schönen Arbeit? Jenseits der unendlichen und grenzenlosen Reichweite der Gnade wärst du verdammt, Hubert, wenn du diese Tat des Todes begangen hast. HUBERT. Hör mich doch Gehe, trage ihn in deinen Armen.-- Ich bin erstaunt, mache mir Sorgen und verliere meinen Weg Zwischen den Dornen und Gefahren dieser Welt.-- Wie leicht nimmst du ganz England auf dich! Aus diesem Stück toter Königlichkeit Ist das Leben, das Recht und die Wahrheit dieses Reiches in den Himmel geflohen; und England ist jetzt verlassen, um zu zerren und zu streiten und mit den Zähnen zu teilen das nicht beanspruchte Interesse des stolz anschwellenden Staates. Jetzt brisst der verdrießliche Krieg seinen zornigen Kamm für den bloßgepickten Knochen der Majestät und knurrt in den sanften Augen des Friedens; Nun treffen Kräfte von zu Hause und Unzufriedenheiten zu Hause sich in einer Linie; und gewaltige Verwirrung wartet, wie ein Rabe auf ein krankes Tier gefallen, auf den bevorstehenden Zerfall erzwungener Pracht. Jetzt ist glücklich, wer seinen Mantel und Gurt diesem Sturm standhalten kann. -- Tragt das Kind weg und folgt mir mit Geschwindigkeit: Ich werde zum König gehen; Tausend Aufgaben sind kurz bevorstehend und der Himmel selbst schaut finster auf das Land. [Abgang.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Diese Szene eröffnet hoch oben auf den Mauern des Schlosses, wo Arthur gefangen gehalten wird. Tatsächlich steht Arthur ganz oben an der Mauer. Hm? Was macht er dort? In einem Monolog erklärt Arthur, dass er die Flucht ergreifen will. Er ist der Meinung, dass er tot ist, wenn er bleibt, wo er ist; obwohl er durch einen Sturz von der Mauer sterben könnte, hält er es für das Risiko wert. Arthur springt - und wird durchgeschüttelt. Er erlangt gerade genug Bewusstsein wieder, um ein kurzes Gebet für seine Seele zu sprechen. Dann stirbt er. Gerade als die Adligen, die nach Arthur gesucht haben, hereinkommen: Pembroke, Salisbury und Lord Bigot. Sie bemerken Arthur nicht. Wir erfahren, dass diese englischen Adligen heimlich mit Louis dem Dauphin gegen König John zusammenarbeiten. Dann taucht der Bastard auf. Er versucht, Gehör bei den Adligen zu finden, aber sie wollen nichts mit ihm zu tun haben. Sie halten König John für einen Mörder und wollen ihm nicht erneut ihre Loyalität schenken. Dann entdeckt Salisbury Arthurs leblosen Körper. Die Adligen inszenieren eine große Show ihres Kummers und ihrer Wut. Schließlich schafft es der Bastard, sich Gehör zu verschaffen. Er sagt, dass es definitiv schlimm ist, dass all dies passiert ist, weist aber darauf hin, dass Arthur auch durch einen Unfall gestorben sein könnte. Salisbury glaubt nicht daran - er ist ziemlich sicher, dass König John Arthur ermordet hat. Salisbury und die anderen Adligen knien vor Arthurs Leiche nieder und schwören ihr die Treue. In diesem Moment kommt Hubert herein, der anscheinend ein Talent hat, zur falschen Zeit am falschen Ort zu sein. Nicht nur das, seine erste Äußerung lautet: "Hey! Ich bin so froh, dass ich dich treffe! Du kannst aufhören, dir Sorgen zu machen, Arthur ist am Leben!" Ja, oops. Wie du dir vorstellen kannst, ist Salisbury ziemlich empört. Tatsächlich zieht er sein Schwert und droht, Hubert in den Bauch zu stechen. Der Bastard versucht, Salisbury zu beruhigen, aber er ist ziemlich aufgebracht. Hubert gibt keinen Zentimeter nach: Er schwört, sich selbst zu verteidigen. Als klar wird, dass weder Hubert noch der Bastard nachgeben, machen sich Pembroke, Salisbury und Lord Bigot auf den Weg, um sich Louis dem Dauphin und seiner Armee anzuschließen. Jetzt, da sie allein sind, sagt der Bastard zu Hubert: "Hey Mann, sag mir die Wahrheit: Hast du es getan? Denn wenn ja, wirst du definitiv - und ich meine definitiv - für alle Ewigkeit in der Hölle leiden." Hubert sagt: "Ich war es nicht, ich schwöre: Ich hatte nichts damit zu tun." Der Bastard akzeptiert Huberts Worte. Er fordert Hubert auf, den Leichnam des Kindes fortzutragen. In der Zwischenzeit plant er, zu König John zu gehen. Dann will der Bastard dem König helfen, sich auf den Kampf mit den aufständischen englischen Adligen und den französischen Eindringlingen vorzubereiten.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: I THOUGH he saw them twice daily, though he knew and amply discussed every detail of their expenditures, yet for weeks together Babbitt was no more conscious of his children than of the buttons on his coat-sleeves. The admiration of Kenneth Escott made him aware of Verona. She had become secretary to Mr. Gruensberg of the Gruensberg Leather Company; she did her work with the thoroughness of a mind which reveres details and never quite understands them; but she was one of the people who give an agitating impression of being on the point of doing something desperate--of leaving a job or a husband--without ever doing it. Babbitt was so hopeful about Escott's hesitant ardors that he became the playful parent. When he returned from the Elks he peered coyly into the living-room and gurgled, "Has our Kenny been here to-night?" He never credited Verona's protest, "Why, Ken and I are just good friends, and we only talk about Ideas. I won't have all this sentimental nonsense, that would spoil everything." It was Ted who most worried Babbitt. With conditions in Latin and English but with a triumphant record in manual training, basket-ball, and the organization of dances, Ted was struggling through his Senior year in the East Side High School. At home he was interested only when he was asked to trace some subtle ill in the ignition system of the car. He repeated to his tut-tutting father that he did not wish to go to college or law-school, and Babbitt was equally disturbed by this "shiftlessness" and by Ted's relations with Eunice Littlefield, next door. Though she was the daughter of Howard Littlefield, that wrought-iron fact-mill, that horse-faced priest of private ownership, Eunice was a midge in the sun. She danced into the house, she flung herself into Babbitt's lap when he was reading, she crumpled his paper, and laughed at him when he adequately explained that he hated a crumpled newspaper as he hated a broken sales-contract. She was seventeen now. Her ambition was to be a cinema actress. She did not merely attend the showing of every "feature film;" she also read the motion-picture magazines, those extraordinary symptoms of the Age of Pep--monthlies and weeklies gorgeously illustrated with portraits of young women who had recently been manicure girls, not very skilful manicure girls, and who, unless their every grimace had been arranged by a director, could not have acted in the Easter cantata of the Central Methodist Church; magazines reporting, quite seriously, in "interviews" plastered with pictures of riding-breeches and California bungalows, the views on sculpture and international politics of blankly beautiful, suspiciously beautiful young men; outlining the plots of films about pure prostitutes and kind-hearted train-robbers; and giving directions for making bootblacks into Celebrated Scenario Authors overnight. These authorities Eunice studied. She could, she frequently did, tell whether it was in November or December, 1905, that Mack Harker? the renowned screen cowpuncher and badman, began his public career as chorus man in "Oh, You Naughty Girlie." On the wall of her room, her father reported, she had pinned up twenty-one photographs of actors. But the signed portrait of the most graceful of the movie heroes she carried in her young bosom. Babbitt was bewildered by this worship of new gods, and he suspected that Eunice smoked cigarettes. He smelled the cloying reek from up-stairs, and heard her giggling with Ted. He never inquired. The agreeable child dismayed him. Her thin and charming face was sharpened by bobbed hair; her skirts were short, her stockings were rolled, and, as she flew after Ted, above the caressing silk were glimpses of soft knees which made Babbitt uneasy, and wretched that she should consider him old. Sometimes, in the veiled life of his dreams, when the fairy child came running to him she took on the semblance of Eunice Littlefield. Ted was motor-mad as Eunice was movie-mad. A thousand sarcastic refusals did not check his teasing for a car of his own. However lax he might be about early rising and the prosody of Vergil, he was tireless in tinkering. With three other boys he bought a rheumatic Ford chassis, built an amazing racer-body out of tin and pine, went skidding round corners in the perilous craft, and sold it at a profit. Babbitt gave him a motor-cycle, and every Saturday afternoon, with seven sandwiches and a bottle of Coca-Cola in his pockets, and Eunice perched eerily on the rumble seat, he went roaring off to distant towns. Usually Eunice and he were merely neighborhood chums, and quarreled with a wholesome and violent lack of delicacy; but now and then, after the color and scent of a dance, they were silent together and a little furtive, and Babbitt was worried. Babbitt was an average father. He was affectionate, bullying, opinionated, ignorant, and rather wistful. Like most parents, he enjoyed the game of waiting till the victim was clearly wrong, then virtuously pouncing. He justified himself by croaking, "Well, Ted's mother spoils him. Got to be somebody who tells him what's what, and me, I'm elected the goat. Because I try to bring him up to be a real, decent, human being and not one of these sapheads and lounge-lizards, of course they all call me a grouch!" Throughout, with the eternal human genius for arriving by the worst possible routes at surprisingly tolerable goals, Babbitt loved his son and warmed to his companionship and would have sacrificed everything for him--if he could have been sure of proper credit. II Ted was planning a party for his set in the Senior Class. Babbitt meant to be helpful and jolly about it. From his memory of high-school pleasures back in Catawba he suggested the nicest games: Going to Boston, and charades with stew-pans for helmets, and word-games in which you were an Adjective or a Quality. When he was most enthusiastic he discovered that they weren't paying attention; they were only tolerating him. As for the party, it was as fixed and standardized as a Union Club Hop. There was to be dancing in the living-room, a noble collation in the dining-room, and in the hall two tables of bridge for what Ted called "the poor old dumb-bells that you can't get to dance hardly more 'n half the time." Every breakfast was monopolized by conferences on the affair. No one listened to Babbitt's bulletins about the February weather or to his throat-clearing comments on the headlines. He said furiously, "If I may be PERMITTED to interrupt your engrossing private CONVERSATION--Juh hear what I SAID?" "Oh, don't be a spoiled baby! Ted and I have just as much right to talk as you have!" flared Mrs. Babbitt. On the night of the party he was permitted to look on, when he was not helping Matilda with the Vecchia ice cream and the petits fours. He was deeply disquieted. Eight years ago, when Verona had given a high-school party, the children had been featureless gabies. Now they were men and women of the world, very supercilious men and women; the boys condescended to Babbitt, they wore evening-clothes, and with hauteur they accepted cigarettes from silver cases. Babbitt had heard stories of what the Athletic Club called "goings on" at young parties; of girls "parking" their corsets in the dressing-room, of "cuddling" and "petting," and a presumable increase in what was known as Immorality. To-night he believed the stories. These children seemed bold to him, and cold. The girls wore misty chiffon, coral velvet, or cloth of gold, and around their dipping bobbed hair were shining wreaths. He had it, upon urgent and secret inquiry, that no corsets were known to be parked upstairs; but certainly these eager bodies were not stiff with steel. Their stockings were of lustrous silk, their slippers costly and unnatural, their lips carmined and their eyebrows penciled. They danced cheek to cheek with the boys, and Babbitt sickened with apprehension and unconscious envy. Worst of them all was Eunice Littlefield, and maddest of all the boys was Ted. Eunice was a flying demon. She slid the length of the room; her tender shoulders swayed; her feet were deft as a weaver's shuttle; she laughed, and enticed Babbitt to dance with her. Then he discovered the annex to the party. The boys and girls disappeared occasionally, and he remembered rumors of their drinking together from hip-pocket flasks. He tiptoed round the house, and in each of the dozen cars waiting in the street he saw the points of light from cigarettes, from each of them heard high giggles. He wanted to denounce them but (standing in the snow, peering round the dark corner) he did not dare. He tried to be tactful. When he had returned to the front hall he coaxed the boys, "Say, if any of you fellows are thirsty, there's some dandy ginger ale." "Oh! Thanks!" they condescended. He sought his wife, in the pantry, and exploded, "I'd like to go in there and throw some of those young pups out of the house! They talk down to me like I was the butler! I'd like to--" "I know," she sighed; "only everybody says, all the mothers tell me, unless you stand for them, if you get angry because they go out to their cars to have a drink, they won't come to your house any more, and we wouldn't want Ted left out of things, would we?" He announced that he would be enchanted to have Ted left out of things, and hurried in to be polite, lest Ted be left out of things. But, he resolved, if he found that the boys were drinking, he would--well, he'd "hand 'em something that would surprise 'em." While he was trying to be agreeable to large-shouldered young bullies he was earnestly sniffing at them. Twice he caught the reek of prohibition-time whisky, but then, it was only twice-- Dr. Howard Littlefield lumbered in. He had come, in a mood of solemn parental patronage, to look on. Ted and Eunice were dancing, moving together like one body. Littlefield gasped. He called Eunice. There was a whispered duologue, and Littlefield explained to Babbitt that Eunice's mother had a headache and needed her. She went off in tears. Babbitt looked after them furiously. "That little devil! Getting Ted into trouble! And Littlefield, the conceited old gas-bag, acting like it was Ted that was the bad influence!" Later he smelled whisky on Ted's breath. After the civil farewell to the guests, the row was terrific, a thorough Family Scene, like an avalanche, devastating and without reticences. Babbitt thundered, Mrs. Babbitt wept, Ted was unconvincingly defiant, and Verona in confusion as to whose side she was taking. For several months there was coolness between the Babbitts and the Littlefields, each family sheltering their lamb from the wolf-cub next door. Babbitt and Littlefield still spoke in pontifical periods about motors and the senate, but they kept bleakly away from mention of their families. Whenever Eunice came to the house she discussed with pleasant intimacy the fact that she had been forbidden to come to the house; and Babbitt tried, with no success whatever, to be fatherly and advisory with her. III "Gosh all fishhooks!" Ted wailed to Eunice, as they wolfed hot chocolate, lumps of nougat, and an assortment of glace nuts, in the mosaic splendor of the Royal Drug Store, "it gets me why Dad doesn't just pass out from being so poky. Every evening he sits there, about half-asleep, and if Rone or I say, 'Oh, come on, let's do something,' he doesn't even take the trouble to think about it. He just yawns and says, 'Naw, this suits me right here.' He doesn't know there's any fun going on anywhere. I suppose he must do some thinking, same as you and I do, but gosh, there's no way of telling it. I don't believe that outside of the office and playing a little bum golf on Saturday he knows there's anything in the world to do except just keep sitting there--sitting there every night--not wanting to go anywhere--not wanting to do anything--thinking us kids are crazy--sitting there--Lord!" IV If he was frightened by Ted's slackness, Babbitt was not sufficiently frightened by Verona. She was too safe. She lived too much in the neat little airless room of her mind. Kenneth Escott and she were always under foot. When they were not at home, conducting their cautiously radical courtship over sheets of statistics, they were trudging off to lectures by authors and Hindu philosophers and Swedish lieutenants. "Gosh," Babbitt wailed to his wife, as they walked home from the Fogartys' bridge-party, "it gets me how Rone and that fellow can be so poky. They sit there night after night, whenever he isn't working, and they don't know there's any fun in the world. All talk and discussion--Lord! Sitting there--sitting there--night after night--not wanting to do anything--thinking I'm crazy because I like to go out and play a fist of cards--sitting there--gosh!" Then round the swimmer, bored by struggling through the perpetual surf of family life, new combers swelled. V Babbitt's father- and mother-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Henry T. Thompson, rented their old house in the Bellevue district and moved to the Hotel Hatton, that glorified boarding-house filled with widows, red-plush furniture, and the sound of ice-water pitchers. They were lonely there, and every other Sunday evening the Babbitts had to dine with them, on fricasseed chicken, discouraged celery, and cornstarch ice cream, and afterward sit, polite and restrained, in the hotel lounge, while a young woman violinist played songs from the German via Broadway. Then Babbitt's own mother came down from Catawba to spend three weeks. She was a kind woman and magnificently uncomprehending. She congratulated the convention-defying Verona on being a "nice, loyal home-body without all these Ideas that so many girls seem to have nowadays;" and when Ted filled the differential with grease, out of pure love of mechanics and filthiness, she rejoiced that he was "so handy around the house--and helping his father and all, and not going out with the girls all the time and trying to pretend he was a society fellow." Babbitt loved his mother, and sometimes he rather liked her, but he was annoyed by her Christian Patience, and he was reduced to pulpiness when she discoursed about a quite mythical hero called "Your Father": "You won't remember it, Georgie, you were such a little fellow at the time--my, I remember just how you looked that day, with your goldy brown curls and your lace collar, you always were such a dainty child, and kind of puny and sickly, and you loved pretty things so much and the red tassels on your little bootees and all--and Your Father was taking us to church and a man stopped us and said 'Major'--so many of the neighbors used to call Your Father 'Major;' of course he was only a private in The War but everybody knew that was because of the jealousy of his captain and he ought to have been a high-ranking officer, he had that natural ability to command that so very, very few men have--and this man came out into the road and held up his hand and stopped the buggy and said, 'Major,' he said, 'there's a lot of the folks around here that have decided to support Colonel Scanell for congress, and we want you to join us. Meeting people the way you do in the store, you could help us a lot.' "Well, Your Father just looked at him and said, 'I certainly shall do nothing of the sort. I don't like his politics,' he said. Well, the man--Captain Smith they used to call him, and heaven only knows why, because he hadn't the shadow or vestige of a right to be called 'Captain' or any other title--this Captain Smith said, 'We'll make it hot for you if you don't stick by your friends, Major.' Well, you know how Your Father was, and this Smith knew it too; he knew what a Real Man he was, and he knew Your Father knew the political situation from A to Z, and he ought to have seen that here was one man he couldn't impose on, but he went on trying to and hinting and trying till Your Father spoke up and said to him, 'Captain Smith,' he said, 'I have a reputation around these parts for being one who is amply qualified to mind his own business and let other folks mind theirs!' and with that he drove on and left the fellow standing there in the road like a bump on a log!" Babbitt was most exasperated when she revealed his boyhood to the children. He had, it seemed, been fond of barley-sugar; had worn the "loveliest little pink bow in his curls" and corrupted his own name to "Goo-goo." He heard (though he did not officially hear) Ted admonishing Tinka, "Come on now, kid; stick the lovely pink bow in your curls and beat it down to breakfast, or Goo-goo will jaw your head off." Babbitt's half-brother, Martin, with his wife and youngest baby, came down from Catawba for two days. Martin bred cattle and ran the dusty general-store. He was proud of being a freeborn independent American of the good old Yankee stock; he was proud of being honest, blunt, ugly, and disagreeable. His favorite remark was "How much did you pay for that?" He regarded Verona's books, Babbitt's silver pencil, and flowers on the table as citified extravagances, and said so. Babbitt would have quarreled with him but for his gawky wife and the baby, whom Babbitt teased and poked fingers at and addressed: "I think this baby's a bum, yes, sir, I think this little baby's a bum, he's a bum, yes, sir, he's a bum, that's what he is, he's a bum, this baby's a bum, he's nothing but an old bum, that's what he is--a bum!" All the while Verona and Kenneth Escott held long inquiries into epistemology; Ted was a disgraced rebel; and Tinka, aged eleven, was demanding that she be allowed to go to the movies thrice a week, "like all the girls." Babbitt raged, "I'm sick of it! Having to carry three generations. Whole damn bunch lean on me. Pay half of mother's income, listen to Henry T., listen to Myra's worrying, be polite to Mart, and get called an old grouch for trying to help the children. All of 'em depending on me and picking on me and not a damn one of 'em grateful! No relief, and no credit, and no help from anybody. And to keep it up for--good Lord, how long?" He enjoyed being sick in February; he was delighted by their consternation that he, the rock, should give way. He had eaten a questionable clam. For two days he was languorous and petted and esteemed. He was allowed to snarl "Oh, let me alone!" without reprisals. He lay on the sleeping-porch and watched the winter sun slide along the taut curtains, turning their ruddy khaki to pale blood red. The shadow of the draw-rope was dense black, in an enticing ripple on the canvas. He found pleasure in the curve of it, sighed as the fading light blurred it. He was conscious of life, and a little sad. With no Vergil Gunches before whom to set his face in resolute optimism, he beheld, and half admitted that he beheld, his way of life as incredibly mechanical. Mechanical business--a brisk selling of badly built houses. Mechanical religion--a dry, hard church, shut off from the real life of the streets, inhumanly respectable as a top-hat. Mechanical golf and dinner-parties and bridge and conversation. Save with Paul Riesling, mechanical friendships--back-slapping and jocular, never daring to essay the test of quietness. He turned uneasily in bed. He saw the years, the brilliant winter days and all the long sweet afternoons which were meant for summery meadows, lost in such brittle pretentiousness. He thought of telephoning about leases, of cajoling men he hated, of making business calls and waiting in dirty anterooms--hat on knee, yawning at fly-specked calendars, being polite to office-boys. "I don't hardly want to go back to work," he prayed. "I'd like to--I don't know." But he was back next day, busy and of doubtful temper. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Mit der Zeit wird Babbitt sich einer wachsenden Beziehung seiner Tochter mit Ken Escott bewusst. Er wird auch darauf aufmerksam, dass sein Sohn Ted viel Zeit mit dem Mädchen von nebenan, Eunice Littlefield, verbringt. Doch das beunruhigendste für Babbitt ist die Erkenntnis, dass er manchmal eine sexuelle Anziehungskraft auf Eunice empfindet, die erst siebzehn Jahre alt ist. Das Feenkind in seinen Träumen nimmt sogar das Bild von Eunice an. Eines Tages beschließt Ted, eine Party für seinen Abschlussjahrgang in der Highschool zu veranstalten. Als die Party stattfindet, wird es ziemlich laut. Babbitt vermutet, dass die Gäste draußen heimlich aus Flaschen trinken, aber er ruft niemanden zur Rede, aus Angst Ted zu blamieren. Schließlich taucht Eunice Littlefields Vater auf und nimmt sie mit nach Hause. Er erklärt, dass seine Frau Kopfschmerzen hat und Eunice braucht. Allerdings weint Eunice. Babbitt fürchtet, dass Littlefield nun denkt, dass Ted einen schlechten Einfluss auf Eunice hat. Später am Abend riecht Babbitt Whiskey auf Teds Atem. Und nachdem die Gäste weg sind, führt das zu einem großen Streit. Ted rebelliert gegen die konservative und langweilige Art seiner Eltern. Das Problem ist jedoch, dass Babbitt sich genauso viele Sorgen um Verona macht, da sie in ihrer Beziehung zu Ken zu sicher ist. Alles, was sie tun, ist über Philosophie zu reden. In den nächsten Tagen besucht Babbitts Mutter sowie sein Halbbruder Martin mit seiner Frau und dem Baby. Babbitt hört sich ihr langweiliges Gespräch an und hört seine Kinder ihm ständig nach mehr Sachen fragen. Es kommt an den Punkt, dass er vor Frustration zu platzen droht. Er denkt erneut darüber nach, wie schön es wäre, nie wieder zur Arbeit zurückzukehren.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: ACT V. SCENE I. Athens. The palace of THESEUS Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE, LORDS, and ATTENDANTS HIPPOLYTA. 'Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of. THESEUS. More strange than true. I never may believe These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, Are of imagination all compact. One sees more devils than vast hell can hold; That is the madman. The lover, all as frantic, Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt. The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name. Such tricks hath strong imagination That, if it would but apprehend some joy, It comprehends some bringer of that joy; Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush suppos'd a bear? HIPPOLYTA. But all the story of the night told over, And all their minds transfigur'd so together, More witnesseth than fancy's images, And grows to something of great constancy, But howsoever strange and admirable. Enter LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS, HERMIA, and HELENA THESEUS. Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth. Joy, gentle friends, joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts! LYSANDER. More than to us Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed! THESEUS. Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have, To wear away this long age of three hours Between our after-supper and bed-time? Where is our usual manager of mirth? What revels are in hand? Is there no play To ease the anguish of a torturing hour? Call Philostrate. PHILOSTRATE. Here, mighty Theseus. THESEUS. Say, what abridgment have you for this evening? What masque? what music? How shall we beguile The lazy time, if not with some delight? PHILOSTRATE. There is a brief how many sports are ripe; Make choice of which your Highness will see first. [Giving a paper] THESEUS. 'The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.' We'll none of that: that have I told my love, In glory of my kinsman Hercules. 'The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals, Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.' That is an old device, and it was play'd When I from Thebes came last a conqueror. 'The thrice three Muses mourning for the death Of Learning, late deceas'd in beggary.' That is some satire, keen and critical, Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony. 'A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus And his love Thisby; very tragical mirth.' Merry and tragical! tedious and brief! That is hot ice and wondrous strange snow. How shall we find the concord of this discord? PHILOSTRATE. A play there is, my lord, some ten words long, Which is as brief as I have known a play; But by ten words, my lord, it is too long, Which makes it tedious; for in all the play There is not one word apt, one player fitted. And tragical, my noble lord, it is; For Pyramus therein doth kill himself. Which when I saw rehears'd, I must confess, Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears The passion of loud laughter never shed. THESEUS. What are they that do play it? PHILOSTRATE. Hard-handed men that work in Athens here, Which never labour'd in their minds till now; And now have toil'd their unbreathed memories With this same play against your nuptial. THESEUS. And we will hear it. PHILOSTRATE. No, my noble lord, It is not for you. I have heard it over, And it is nothing, nothing in the world; Unless you can find sport in their intents, Extremely stretch'd and conn'd with cruel pain, To do you service. THESEUS. I will hear that play; For never anything can be amiss When simpleness and duty tender it. Go, bring them in; and take your places, ladies. Exit PHILOSTRATE HIPPOLYTA. I love not to see wretchedness o'er-charged, And duty in his service perishing. THESEUS. Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing. HIPPOLYTA. He says they can do nothing in this kind. THESEUS. The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing. Our sport shall be to take what they mistake; And what poor duty cannot do, noble respect Takes it in might, not merit. Where I have come, great clerks have purposed To greet me with premeditated welcomes; Where I have seen them shiver and look pale, Make periods in the midst of sentences, Throttle their practis'd accent in their fears, And, in conclusion, dumbly have broke off, Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet, Out of this silence yet I pick'd a welcome; And in the modesty of fearful duty I read as much as from the rattling tongue Of saucy and audacious eloquence. Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity In least speak most to my capacity. Re-enter PHILOSTRATE PHILOSTRATE. So please your Grace, the Prologue is address'd. THESEUS. Let him approach. [Flourish of trumpets] Enter QUINCE as the PROLOGUE PROLOGUE. If we offend, it is with our good will. That you should think, we come not to offend, But with good will. To show our simple skill, That is the true beginning of our end. Consider then, we come but in despite. We do not come, as minding to content you, Our true intent is. All for your delight We are not here. That you should here repent you, The actors are at hand; and, by their show, You shall know all, that you are like to know, THESEUS. This fellow doth not stand upon points. LYSANDER. He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; he knows not the stop. A good moral, my lord: it is not enough to speak, but to speak true. HIPPOLYTA. Indeed he hath play'd on this prologue like a child on a recorder- a sound, but not in government. THESEUS. His speech was like a tangled chain; nothing im paired, but all disordered. Who is next? Enter, with a trumpet before them, as in dumb show, PYRAMUS and THISBY, WALL, MOONSHINE, and LION PROLOGUE. Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show; But wonder on, till truth make all things plain. This man is Pyramus, if you would know; This beauteous lady Thisby is certain. This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present Wall, that vile Wall which did these lovers sunder; And through Wall's chink, poor souls, they are content To whisper. At the which let no man wonder. This man, with lanthorn, dog, and bush of thorn, Presenteth Moonshine; for, if you will know, By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn To meet at Ninus' tomb, there, there to woo. This grisly beast, which Lion hight by name, The trusty Thisby, coming first by night, Did scare away, or rather did affright; And as she fled, her mantle she did fall; Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain. Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall, And finds his trusty Thisby's mantle slain; Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade, He bravely broach'd his boiling bloody breast; And Thisby, tarrying in mulberry shade, His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest, Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain, At large discourse while here they do remain. Exeunt PROLOGUE, PYRAMUS, THISBY, LION, and MOONSHINE THESEUS. I wonder if the lion be to speak. DEMETRIUS. No wonder, my lord: one lion may, when many asses do. WALL. In this same interlude it doth befall That I, one Snout by name, present a wall; And such a wall as I would have you think That had in it a crannied hole or chink, Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby, Did whisper often very secretly. This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone, doth show That I am that same wall; the truth is so; And this the cranny is, right and sinister, Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper. THESEUS. Would you desire lime and hair to speak better? DEMETRIUS. It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord. Enter PYRAMUS THESEUS. Pyramus draws near the wall; silence. PYRAMUS. O grim-look'd night! O night with hue so black! O night, which ever art when day is not! O night, O night, alack, alack, alack, I fear my Thisby's promise is forgot! And thou, O wall, O sweet, O lovely wall, That stand'st between her father's ground and mine; Thou wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall, Show me thy chink, to blink through with mine eyne. [WALL holds up his fingers] Thanks, courteous wall. Jove shield thee well for this! But what see what see I? No Thisby do I see. O wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss, Curs'd be thy stones for thus deceiving me! THESEUS. The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again. PYRAMUS. No, in truth, sir, he should not. Deceiving me is Thisby's cue. She is to enter now, and I am to spy her through the wall. You shall see it will fall pat as I told you; yonder she comes. Enter THISBY THISBY. O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans, For parting my fair Pyramus and me! My cherry lips have often kiss'd thy stones, Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee. PYRAMUS. I see a voice; now will I to the chink, To spy an I can hear my Thisby's face. Thisby! THISBY. My love! thou art my love, I think. PYRAMUS. Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover's grace; And like Limander am I trusty still. THISBY. And I like Helen, till the Fates me kill. PYRAMUS. Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true. THISBY. As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you. PYRAMUS. O, kiss me through the hole of this vile wall. THISBY. I kiss the wall's hole, not your lips at all. PYRAMUS. Wilt thou at Ninny's tomb meet me straightway? THISBY. Tide life, tide death, I come without delay. Exeunt PYRAMUS and THISBY WALL. Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; And, being done, thus Wall away doth go. Exit WALL THESEUS. Now is the moon used between the two neighbours. DEMETRIUS. No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear without warning. HIPPOLYTA. This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard. THESEUS. The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them. HIPPOLYTA. It must be your imagination then, and not theirs. THESEUS. If we imagine no worse of them than they of themselves, they may pass for excellent men. Here come two noble beasts in, a man and a lion. Enter LION and MOONSHINE LION. You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor, May now, perchance, both quake and tremble here, When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar. Then know that I as Snug the joiner am A lion fell, nor else no lion's dam; For, if I should as lion come in strife Into this place, 'twere pity on my life. THESEUS. A very gentle beast, and of a good conscience. DEMETRIUS. The very best at a beast, my lord, that e'er I saw. LYSANDER. This lion is a very fox for his valour. THESEUS. True; and a goose for his discretion. DEMETRIUS. Not so, my lord; for his valour cannot carry his discretion, and the fox carries the goose. THESEUS. His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his valour; for the goose carries not the fox. It is well. Leave it to his discretion, and let us listen to the Moon. MOONSHINE. This lanthorn doth the horned moon present- DEMETRIUS. He should have worn the horns on his head. THESEUS. He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the circumference. MOONSHINE. This lanthorn doth the horned moon present; Myself the Man i' th' Moon do seem to be. THESEUS. This is the greatest error of all the rest; the man should be put into the lantern. How is it else the man i' th' moon? DEMETRIUS. He dares not come there for the candle; for, you see, it is already in snuff. HIPPOLYTA. I am aweary of this moon. Would he would change! THESEUS. It appears, by his small light of discretion, that he is in the wane; but yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time. LYSANDER. Proceed, Moon. MOONSHINE. All that I have to say is to tell you that the lanthorn is the moon; I, the Man i' th' Moon; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog. DEMETRIUS. Why, all these should be in the lantern; for all these are in the moon. But silence; here comes Thisby. Re-enter THISBY THISBY. This is old Ninny's tomb. Where is my love? LION. [Roaring] O- [THISBY runs off] DEMETRIUS. Well roar'd, Lion. THESEUS. Well run, Thisby. HIPPOLYTA. Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines with a good grace. [The LION tears THISBY'S Mantle, and exit] THESEUS. Well mous'd, Lion. Re-enter PYRAMUS DEMETRIUS. And then came Pyramus. LYSANDER. And so the lion vanish'd. PYRAMUS. Sweet Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams; I thank thee, Moon, for shining now so bright; For, by thy gracious golden, glittering gleams, I trust to take of truest Thisby sight. But stay, O spite! But mark, poor knight, What dreadful dole is here! Eyes, do you see? How can it be? O dainty duck! O dear! Thy mantle good, What! stain'd with blood? Approach, ye Furies fell. O Fates! come, come; Cut thread and thrum; Quail, crush, conclude, and quell. THESEUS. This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad. HIPPOLYTA. Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man. PYRAMUS. O wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame? Since lion vile hath here deflower'd my dear; Which is- no, no- which was the fairest dame That liv'd, that lov'd, that lik'd, that look'd with cheer. Come, tears, confound; Out, sword, and wound The pap of Pyramus; Ay, that left pap, Where heart doth hop. [Stabs himself] Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky. Tongue, lose thy light; Moon, take thy flight. [Exit MOONSHINE] Now die, die, die, die, die. [Dies] DEMETRIUS. No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one. LYSANDER. Less than an ace, man; for he is dead; he is nothing. THESEUS. With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover and yet prove an ass. HIPPOLYTA. How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisby comes back and finds her lover? Re-enter THISBY THESEUS. She will find him by starlight. Here she comes; and her passion ends the play. HIPPOLYTA. Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus; I hope she will be brief. DEMETRIUS. A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisby, is the better- he for a man, God warrant us: She for a woman, God bless us! LYSANDER. She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes. DEMETRIUS. And thus she moans, videlicet:- THISBY. Asleep, my love? What, dead, my dove? O Pyramus, arise, Speak, speak. Quite dumb? Dead, dead? A tomb Must cover thy sweet eyes. These lily lips, This cherry nose, These yellow cowslip cheeks, Are gone, are gone; Lovers, make moan; His eyes were green as leeks. O Sisters Three, Come, come to me, With hands as pale as milk; Lay them in gore, Since you have shore With shears his thread of silk. Tongue, not a word. Come, trusty sword; Come, blade, my breast imbrue. [Stabs herself] And farewell, friends; Thus Thisby ends; Adieu, adieu, adieu. [Dies] THESEUS. Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead. DEMETRIUS. Ay, and Wall too. BOTTOM. [Starting up] No, I assure you; the wall is down that parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the Epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance between two of our company? THESEUS. No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no excuse. Never excuse; for when the players are all dead there need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ it had played Pyramus, and hang'd himself in Thisby's garter, it would have been a fine tragedy. And so it is, truly; and very notably discharg'd. But come, your Bergomask; let your epilogue alone. [A dance] The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve. Lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn, As much as we this night have overwatch'd. This palpable-gross play hath well beguil'd The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed. A fortnight hold we this solemnity, In nightly revels and new jollity. Exeunt Enter PUCK with a broom PUCK. Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task fordone. Now the wasted brands do glow, Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the church-way paths to glide. And we fairies, that do run By the triple Hecate's team From the presence of the sun, Following darkness like a dream, Now are frolic. Not a mouse Shall disturb this hallowed house. I am sent with broom before, To sweep the dust behind the door. Enter OBERON and TITANIA, with all their train OBERON. Through the house give glimmering light, By the dead and drowsy fire; Every elf and fairy sprite Hop as light as bird from brier; And this ditty, after me, Sing and dance it trippingly. TITANIA. First, rehearse your song by rote, To each word a warbling note; Hand in hand, with fairy grace, Will we sing, and bless this place. [OBERON leading, the FAIRIES sing and dance] OBERON. Now, until the break of day, Through this house each fairy stray. To the best bride-bed will we, Which by us shall blessed be; And the issue there create Ever shall be fortunate. So shall all the couples three Ever true in loving be; And the blots of Nature's hand Shall not in their issue stand; Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar, Nor mark prodigious, such as are Despised in nativity, Shall upon their children be. With this field-dew consecrate, Every fairy take his gait, And each several chamber bless, Through this palace, with sweet peace; And the owner of it blest Ever shall in safety rest. Trip away; make no stay; Meet me all by break of day. Exeunt all but PUCK PUCK. If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumb'red here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend. If you pardon, we will mend. And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearned luck Now to scape the serpent's tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call. So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends. Exit THE END Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Szene ist im Palast des Theseus angesiedelt, wo sich der Herzog, Hippolyta, Philostrate und die anderen Herren versammelt haben. Hippolyta spricht über die merkwürdige Geschichte der beiden Liebespaare. Theseus weist die Geschichte als Produkt ihrer Vorstellungskraft zurück, denn seiner Meinung nach "sind der Verrückte, der Liebende und der Dichter / Aus reiner Vorstellungskraft gemacht." Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia und Helena treten daraufhin "voller Freude und Fröhlichkeit" ein. Theseus begrüßt sie und sagt, "Freude und frische Tage der Liebe / Begleiten eure Herzen!" Lysander erwidert den Gruß. Theseus fordert Unterhaltung. Philostrate zeigt ihm eine Liste mit den verfügbaren Optionen und bittet ihn, zu wählen. Als Theseus von "einer langweiligen kurzen Szene von dem jungen Pyramus und seiner Geliebten Thisbe: eine sehr tragikomische Geschichte" liest, ist er amüsiert und neugierig. Er ruft aus: "Fröhlich und tragisch! Langweilig und kurz!" Er möchte wissen, wie man Eintracht aus diesem Missklang findet. Als Philostrate ihm mehr über das Stück erzählt, entscheidet Theseus, es sich anzusehen. Philostrate erklärt ihm, dass das Stück wertlos ist, aber Theseus hat sich bereits entschieden. Philostrate führt daher die Handwerker ein, die für ihre Rollen kostümiert sind. In diesem Stück im Stück präsentieren Quince und seine Männer ihre "sehr bedauerliche Komödie." Es beginnt damit, dass Quince das Prolog liest und die Charaktere vorstellt. Das königliche Publikum, das weiß, was es zu erwarten hat, gibt witzige Bkommentare ab. Snout taucht als Wand auf; er hebt seine Finger, um den "Riss" anzuzeigen, durch den Pyramus und Thisbe miteinander flüstern sollen. Bottom tritt als Pyramus auf; als er Thisbe nicht sieht, verflucht er die Wand. Theseus bemerkt: "Die Wand, so scheint mir, sollte, wenn sie wahrnehmen kann, ebenfalls fluchen." Bottom vergisst, dass er in dem Stück spielt, und wendet sich an den Herzog; er erklärt, dass die Wand nicht sprechen soll, denn jetzt ist Thisbe an der Reihe zu sprechen. Das Stück geht in diesem humorvollen Stil weiter und sorgt für viel Heiterkeit beim Publikum. Am Ende bietet Bottom dem Publikum eine Wahl: Ob sie lieber einen Epilog oder einen Bergomaskentanz möchten. Der Herzog sagt: "Kein Epilog, bitte; denn eure Aufführung braucht keine Entschuldigung." Er bittet um den Bergomaskentanz. Der Herzog verkündet, dass es Mitternacht ist, "fast Zeit der Feen." Es ist an der Zeit für ihn und Hippolyta, sich zur Ruhe zu begeben. Er verkündet jedoch, dass die Hochzeitsfeierlichkeiten eine Woche lang "mit nächtlichen Vergnügungen und neuer Fröhlichkeit" fortgesetzt werden. Nachdem Theseus gegangen ist, betritt Puck die Szene, gefolgt von Oberon und Titania. Oberon sagt den Feen, dass sie das Lied nach ihm singen sollen, und Titania fügt hinzu: "Hand in Hand, mit elfengleicher Anmut / Werden wir singen und diesen Ort segnen." Die Feen segnen die Hochzeitsbetten; dann spricht Puck einen Epilog: "Wenn wir Schatten euch beleidigt haben / Denkt nur dies, und alles ist gut gemacht." Er bittet das Publikum, das Stück so zu behandeln, als wäre es ein Traum, und "gebt mir eure Hände, wenn wir Freunde sind / Und Robin wird es wieder gut machen." Mit dieser leichten Note endet das Stück.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. 'Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse,' thought Alice; 'only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind.' The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: 'No room! No room!' they cried out when they saw Alice coming. 'There's PLENTY of room!' said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. 'Have some wine,' the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. 'I don't see any wine,' she remarked. 'There isn't any,' said the March Hare. 'Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,' said Alice angrily. 'It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited,' said the March Hare. 'I didn't know it was YOUR table,' said Alice; 'it's laid for a great many more than three.' 'Your hair wants cutting,' said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. 'You should learn not to make personal remarks,' Alice said with some severity; 'it's very rude.' The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he SAID was, 'Why is a raven like a writing-desk?' 'Come, we shall have some fun now!' thought Alice. 'I'm glad they've begun asking riddles.--I believe I can guess that,' she added aloud. 'Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?' said the March Hare. 'Exactly so,' said Alice. 'Then you should say what you mean,' the March Hare went on. 'I do,' Alice hastily replied; 'at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know.' 'Not the same thing a bit!' said the Hatter. 'You might just as well say that "I see what I eat" is the same thing as "I eat what I see"!' 'You might just as well say,' added the March Hare, 'that "I like what I get" is the same thing as "I get what I like"!' 'You might just as well say,' added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, 'that "I breathe when I sleep" is the same thing as "I sleep when I breathe"!' 'It IS the same thing with you,' said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. 'What day of the month is it?' he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said 'The fourth.' 'Two days wrong!' sighed the Hatter. 'I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!' he added looking angrily at the March Hare. 'It was the BEST butter,' the March Hare meekly replied. 'Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well,' the Hatter grumbled: 'you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife.' The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, 'It was the BEST butter, you know.' Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. 'What a funny watch!' she remarked. 'It tells the day of the month, and doesn't tell what o'clock it is!' 'Why should it?' muttered the Hatter. 'Does YOUR watch tell you what year it is?' 'Of course not,' Alice replied very readily: 'but that's because it stays the same year for such a long time together.' 'Which is just the case with MINE,' said the Hatter. Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. 'I don't quite understand you,' she said, as politely as she could. 'The Dormouse is asleep again,' said the Hatter, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes, 'Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself.' 'Have you guessed the riddle yet?' the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. 'No, I give it up,' Alice replied: 'what's the answer?' 'I haven't the slightest idea,' said the Hatter. 'Nor I,' said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. 'I think you might do something better with the time,' she said, 'than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers.' 'If you knew Time as well as I do,' said the Hatter, 'you wouldn't talk about wasting IT. It's HIM.' 'I don't know what you mean,' said Alice. 'Of course you don't!' the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. 'I dare say you never even spoke to Time!' 'Perhaps not,' Alice cautiously replied: 'but I know I have to beat time when I learn music.' 'Ah! that accounts for it,' said the Hatter. 'He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!' ('I only wish it was,' the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) 'That would be grand, certainly,' said Alice thoughtfully: 'but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know.' 'Not at first, perhaps,' said the Hatter: 'but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked.' 'Is that the way YOU manage?' Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. 'Not I!' he replied. 'We quarrelled last March--just before HE went mad, you know--' (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) '--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing "Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!" You know the song, perhaps?' 'I've heard something like it,' said Alice. 'It goes on, you know,' the Hatter continued, 'in this way:-- "Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--"' Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep 'Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle--' and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. 'Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse,' said the Hatter, 'when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, "He's murdering the time! Off with his head!"' 'How dreadfully savage!' exclaimed Alice. 'And ever since that,' the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, 'he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now.' A bright idea came into Alice's head. 'Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?' she asked. 'Yes, that's it,' said the Hatter with a sigh: 'it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles.' 'Then you keep moving round, I suppose?' said Alice. 'Exactly so,' said the Hatter: 'as the things get used up.' 'But what happens when you come to the beginning again?' Alice ventured to ask. 'Suppose we change the subject,' the March Hare interrupted, yawning. 'I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story.' 'I'm afraid I don't know one,' said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. 'Then the Dormouse shall!' they both cried. 'Wake up, Dormouse!' And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. 'I wasn't asleep,' he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: 'I heard every word you fellows were saying.' "Sag uns eine Geschichte!", sagte der März-Hase. "Ja, bitte!", flehte Alice. "Und beeil dich", fügte der Hutmacher hinzu, "sonst schläfst du schon wieder ein, bevor sie zu Ende ist." "Es waren einmal drei kleine Schwestern", begann das Schlafmäuschen in großer Eile, "und sie hießen Elsie, Lacie und Tillie; und sie lebten am Boden eines Brunnens -" "W Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Alice nähert sich einem großen Tisch, der unter dem Baum vor dem Haus des Märzhasen steht, und trifft auf den verrückten Hutmacher und den Märzhasen, die Tee trinken. Sie legen ihre Ellbogen auf eine schlafende Mäusemütze, die zwischen ihnen sitzt. Sie sagen Alice, dass kein Platz für sie am Tisch ist, aber Alice setzt sich trotzdem. Der Märzhase bietet Alice Wein an, aber es gibt keinen. Alice sagt dem Märzhasen, dass sein Verhalten unhöflich ist, woraufhin er erwidert, dass es unhöflich von ihr gewesen sei, sich hinzusetzen, ohne eingeladen zu werden. Der verrückte Hutmacher beteiligt sich an dem Gespräch und meint, dass Alice's Haare "geschnitten werden müssen". Alice tadelt seine Unhöflichkeit, aber er ignoriert ihren Tadel und antwortet mit einem Rätsel: "Warum gleicht ein Rabe einem Schreibtisch?" Alice versucht, das Rätsel zu beantworten, was zu einer großen Diskussion über Semantik führt. Nach ihrem Streit sitzt die Teeparty schweigend da, bis der verrückte Hutmacher den Märzhasen nach der Uhrzeit fragt. Als er herausfindet, dass die Uhr des Märzhasen, die den Tag des Monats misst, kaputt ist, wird der verrückte Hutmacher wütend. Er gibt dem Märzhasen die Schuld daran, dass er Krümel auf die Uhr bekommen hat, als der Märzhase Butter darauf verteilte. Der Märzhase taucht die Uhr bedrückt in seinen Tee und bemerkt niedergeschlagen, dass "es die beste Butter war". Alice gibt das Rätsel auf und wird wütend auf den verrückten Hutmacher, als sie feststellt, dass er die Antwort auch nicht kennt. Sie sagt ihm, er solle keine Zeit damit verschwenden, Rätsel zu stellen, die keine Antworten haben. Der verrückte Hutmacher erklärt ruhig, dass die Zeit ein "er" ist, kein "es". Er erzählt weiter, wie die Zeit seitdem gestört ist, seitdem die Herzkönigin sagte, der verrückte Hutmacher würde die Zeit "ermorden", während er ein Lied schlecht sang. Seitdem ist die Zeit immer sechs Uhr stehen geblieben, was bedeutet, dass sie sich in ständiger Teatime befinden. Gelangweilt von dieser Gesprächsrichtung sagt der Märzhase, dass er gerne eine Geschichte hören würde, also wecken sie die Mäusemütze auf. Die Mäusemütze erzählt eine Geschichte von drei Schwestern, die in einem Sirupbrunnen leben und Sirup essen und zeichnen. Verwirrt von der Geschichte wirft Alice so viele Fragen ein, dass die Mäusemütze beleidigt wird. Alice stellt weiter Fragen, bis der verrückte Hutmacher sie beleidigt und sie empört davonstürmt. Während sie geht, schaut sie zurück auf den verrückten Hutmacher und den Märzhasen, wie sie versuchen, die Mäusemütze in eine Teekanne zu stopfen. Im Wald trifft Alice auf einen Baum mit einer Tür darin. Sie betritt die Tür und findet sich im großen Saal wieder. Alice geht zurück zum Tisch mit dem Schlüssel und benutzt den Pilz, um auf eine Größe zu wachsen, mit der sie den Schlüssel erreichen kann, dann schrumpft sie wieder auf die Größe, dass sie durch die Tür passen kann. Sie geht durch die Tür und kommt endlich in den Weg zum Garten.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: SZENE 4. London. Der Tempelgarten Die EARLS OF SOMERSET, SUFFOLK und WARWICK betreten die Bühne; RICHARD PLANTAGENET, VERNON und ein weiterer RECHTSANWALT PLANTAGENET. Große Lords und Herren, was bedeutet diese Stille? Wagt es niemand, in einem Fall der Wahrheit zu antworten? SUFFOLK. In der Halle des Tempels waren wir zu laut; Der Garten hier ist besser geeignet. PLANTAGENET. Dann sagt mir sofort, ob ich die Wahrheit verteidige; Oder war der streitlustige Somerset im Irrtum? SUFFOLK. Ehrlich gesagt, ich bin ein Verweigerer des Gesetzes Und konnte mich bisher nicht dazu bringen, meinen Willen danach zu richten; Und daher richte ich das Gesetz entsprechend meinem Willen. SOMERSET. Richtet ihr, mein Herr von Warwick, dann zwischen uns. WARWICK. Zwischen zwei Falken, welcher höher fliegt; Zwischen zwei Hunden, welcher die tiefere Stimme hat; Zwischen zwei Klingen, welche die bessere Schärfe behält; Zwischen zwei Pferden, welches ihn am besten trägt; Zwischen zwei Mädchen, welche das fröhlichste Auge hat Ich habe vielleicht einen flachen Geist des Urteils; Aber in diesen feinen scharfen Fragen des Gesetzes Ehrlich gesagt, bin ich nicht klüger als eine Dohle. PLANTAGENET. Schnell, schnell, hier herrscht eine höfliche Zurückhaltung: Die Wahrheit ist so offen auf meiner Seite Dass jedes kurzsichtige Auge sie erkennen kann. SOMERSET. Und auf meiner Seite ist sie so gut gekleidet, So klar, so strahlend und so offensichtlich, Dass sie auch von einem blinden Mann wahrgenommen wird. PLANTAGENET. Da du sprachlos bist und so ungern sprichst, Verkünde deine Gedanken durch stumme Symbole. Lasst den wahren Gentleman Der auf die Ehre seiner Geburt beharrt, Wenn er denkt, dass ich die Wahrheit vertreten habe, Von diesem Dorn einen weißen Rosenzweig mit mir pflücken. SOMERSET. Lasst den, der kein Feigling und kein Schmeichler ist, Aber es wagt, die Seite der Wahrheit zu unterstützen, Einen roten Rosenzweig mit mir von diesem Dorn pflücken. WARWICK. Ich liebe keine Farben; und ohne jegliche Farbe Basaler Einflüsse der Schmeichelei, Pflücke ich diese weiße Rose mit Plantagenet. SUFFOLK. Ich pflücke diese rote Rose mit dem jungen Somerset, Und sage außerdem, dass ich denke, er hatte Recht. VERNON. Halt, Lords und Gentlemen, und pflückt nicht mehr Bis ihr übereinkommt, dass derjenige, auf dessen Seite Die wenigsten Rosen vom Baum gepflückt werden, Die andere in der richtigen Meinung verkünden muss. SOMERSET. Gut, Meister Vernon, das ist gut vorgetragen; Wenn ich die wenigsten habe, unterwerfe ich mich schweigend. PLANTAGENET. Und ich auch. VERNON. Dann, im Namen der Wahrheit und Klarheit des Falls, Pflücke ich hier diese blasse und zarte Blume, Meinen Ausspruch auf die Seite der weißen Rose legend. SOMERSET. Verletze dir nicht den Finger, wenn du sie abpflückst, Damit du nicht den weißen Rosenzweig rot bemalst, Und falle dann ungern auf meine Seite. VERNON. Wenn ich, mein Herr, für meine Meinung blute, Soll die Meinung mein Chirurg sein Und mich auf der Seite halten, auf der ich mich befinde. SOMERSET. Gut, gut, weiter; wer noch? RECHTSANWALT. [Zu Somerset] Wenn meine Studien und Bücher nicht irreführend sind, War das Argument, das du vorgetragen hast, falsch; Als Zeichen dessen pflücke ich ebenfalls eine weiße Rose. PLANTAGENET. Nun, Somerset, wo ist dein Argument? SOMERSET. Hier in meiner Scheide, indem ich darüber nachdenke, Deine weiße Rose in ein blutiges Rot zu verwandeln. PLANTAGENET. In der Zwischenzeit imitieren deine Wangen unsere Rosen; Denn blass sehen sie vor Angst aus, als wären sie Zeugen Der Wahrheit auf unserer Seite. SOMERSET. Nein, Plantagenet, Es ist nicht aus Angst, sondern aus Wut, dass deine Wangen Rot vor Scham sind, um unsere Rosen zu imitieren, Aber deine Zunge will deinen Fehler nicht eingestehen. PLANTAGENET. Hat deine Rose keinen Krebs, Somerset? SOMERSET. Hat deine Rose keine Dornen, Plantagenet? PLANTAGENET. Ja, scharf und durchdringend, um seine Wahrheit zu verteidigen; Während dein verderbender Krebs seine Falschheit frisst. SOMERSET. Nun, ich werde Freunde finden, die meine blutenden Rosen tragen, Die das, was ich gesagt habe, für wahr halten werden, Wo der falsche Plantagenet nicht gesehen werden will. PLANTAGENET. Nun, bei dieser zarten Blume in meiner Hand, Verachte ich dich und deinen Stil, alberner Junge. SUFFOLK. Wend nicht deinen Spott in meine Richtung, Plantagenet. PLANTAGENET. Stolzer Pole, das werde ich tun und dich und auch dich verachten. SUFFOLK. Ich werde einen Teil davon in deine Kehle umwandeln. SOMERSET. Fort, fort, guter William de la Pole! Indem wir mit ihm sprechen, erhöhen wir den Bauern. WARWICK. Nun, bei Gottes Willen, beleidigst du ihn, Somerset; Sein Großvater war Lionel, Herzog von Clarence, Der dritte Sohn des dritten Eduard, König von England. Kann man bäuerliche Ritter aus einer so tiefen Wurzel hervorbringen? PLANTAGENET. Er beruft sich auf das Privileg des Ortes, Oder sein ängstliches Herz wagte es nicht, dies zu sagen. SOMERSET. Beimjenigen, der mich erschaffen hat, werde ich meine Worte aufrechterhalten Auf jedem beliebigen Platz in der Christenheit. War dein Vater nicht Richard, Graf von Cambridge, Der wegen Verrats in den Tagen unseres verstorbenen Königs hingerichtet wurde? Und bist du nicht durch seinen Verrat verurteilt, Verdorben und befreit vom alten Adel? Seine Übertretung lebt noch in deinem Blut, Und bis du wiederhergestellt wirst, bist du ein Bauer. PLANTAGENET. Mein Vater wurde festgenommen, aber nicht überführt; Verurteilt zum Tode wegen Verrats, aber kein Verräter; Und das werde ich an besseren Männern als Somerset beweisen, Sobald die Zeit reif ist, wie es wachsen sollte. Was deinen Gefährten Pole betrifft und auch dich selbst, Werde ich euch in mein Erinnerungsbuch eintragen Um euch für diese Vorstellung zu geißeln. Achte gut darauf und sage nicht, dass du nicht gewarnt wurdest. SOMERSET. Ja, du wirst uns bereit für dich finden; Und erkenne uns an diesen Farben als deine Feinde; Denn trotz dir werden meine Freunde sie tragen. PLANTAGENET. Und bei meiner Seele, diese blasse und wütende Rose, Als Erkennungszeichen meines bluttrinkenden Hasses, Werde ich für immer, zusammen mit meiner Partei, tragen, Bis sie zusammen mit mir welkt in meinem Grab, Oder bis sie die Höhe meines Adels erreicht. SUFFOLK. Mach weiter und erstick an deinem Ehrgeiz! Und so lebe wohl, bis wir uns das nächste Mal treffen. Abgang SOMERSET. Hab es gut, Pole. Lebe wohl, ehrgeiziger Richard. Abgang PLANTAGENET. Wie ich verspottet werde und es aushalten muss! WARWICK. Dieser Makel, den sie gegen dein Haus vorbringen, Wird im nächsten Parlament bereinigt sein, Aufgerufen für den Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Es läuft nicht gut in dieser Szene. Stell dir eine Feindschaft zwischen High-School-Cliquen vor. Dann stell dir eine Feindschaft zwischen High-School-Cliquen vor, bei der die Mitglieder über große politische Macht verfügen und Schwerter tragen. Diese Szene beginnt mit einem Streit: Richard Plantagenet hat eine Art Auseinandersetzung mit Somerset. Interessanterweise erfahren wir nie, worum der Streit eigentlich ging, aber er eskaliert ziemlich schnell. Sie mussten bereits nach draußen gehen, wie Suffolk sagt. Somerset entscheidet, dass Warwick schlichten soll. Warwick lehnt dies jedoch in einer taktvollen und eloquenten Rede ab, daher sagt Richard, dass er offensichtlich Recht hat, wie jeder sehen kann. Somerset sagt dasselbe. Man kann sie fast schreien hören: "Stimmt nicht!"-"Doch, tut es!" Verschiedene Leute ergreifen Partei, aber die Szene wird wirklich interessant, als alle anfangen, Rosen zu pflücken. Warte mal, Rosen? Sind wir plötzlich bei einer Hallmark-Karte gelandet? Nein. Hier ist die Sache: Richards Familie, bekannt als das Haus York, wird durch eine weiße Rose symbolisiert. Das Haus Lancaster wird durch eine rote Rose symbolisiert. Später wird offiziell ein Krieg zwischen den beiden Häusern um die Krone ausbrechen, und dies wird der Beginn der Rosenkriege sein, einer turbulenten Periode des Bürgerkriegs in der englischen Geschichte. Daher ist diese Szene unheilvoll. Vielleicht wären statt Rosen Unwetterwolken angemessener. Richard bittet seine Anhänger, eine weiße Rose zu pflücken. Somerset bittet seine Anhänger, eine rote Rose zu pflücken. Warwick entscheidet sich nun auf Richards Seite und wählt eine weiße Rose. Suffolk stellt sich auf die Seite von Somerset und wählt eine rote Rose. Vernon hält inne und weist darauf hin, dass sie sich darauf einigen sollten, dass derjenige, der die meisten Rosen bekommt, gewinnt. Somerset und Richard stimmen zu. Endergebnis: Somerset: 1 Rose, Richard: 3 Rosen. Richard reibt es Somerset ein bisschen unter die Nase. Sie streiten weiter, und Somerset beleidigt Richard, indem er ihn einen "Yeoman" nennt, einen viel niedrigeren Rang, als seine Familie tatsächlich hat. Warwick weist darauf hin, dass Richards Großvater ein Herzog war und nicht nur das, sondern auch der dritte Sohn eines Königs. Somerset sagt im Grunde genommen: "Und? Richards Vater wurde wegen Hochverrats hingerichtet. Disqualifiziert das Richard nicht davon, ein Adliger zu sein?" Richard sagt, dass sein Vater vielleicht wegen Hochverrats hingerichtet wurde, aber er war kein Verräter. Er sagt, er wird diese Beleidigungen nicht vergessen. Die Streithähne trennen sich in schlechten Verhältnissen, und Warwick sagt, dass Richard bei der nächsten Parlamentssitzung in den Adelsstand erhoben wird, wo er den Titel Herzog von York erhalten wird. Warwick sagt auch, dass er weiterhin die weiße Rose tragen wird, als Zeichen der Unterstützung für Richard, ein bisschen wie das Tragen eines Wahlkampf-Buttons während einer Wahl. Warwick macht eine unheilvolle Prophezeiung: Der heutige Streit wird viele Tote fordern. Dies ist ein Hinweis auf die Rosenkriege - es ist, als wüsste man, dass ein galaktischer Krieg bevorsteht, während man die ersten drei Star-Wars-Filme ansieht. So solide die Alte Republik auch scheinen mag, du weißt, dass sie untergeht. Richard bedankt sich bei den anderen, die sich auf seine Seite gestellt haben, und sie gehen alle zum Abendessen. Es wird viel zu Abend gegessen in diesem Stück. Vielleicht waren Shakespeare und Co. hungrig, als sie es schrieben.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Nachdem Miss Stackpole die persönliche Note am stärksten angeschlagen hatte, beschloss er, ihre Worte nicht mehr falsch zu interpretieren. Er bedachte, dass Personen in ihrer Sicht einfache und homogene Organismen seien und er selbst zu verdorben sei, um das Recht zu haben, sie in strikter Gegenseitigkeit zu behandeln. Er setzte seinen Entschluss mit viel Takt um, und die junge Dame fand bei erneutem Kontakt mit ihm keine Hindernisse bei der Ausübung ihrer Begabung für unverfrorene Untersuchungen und dem allgemeinen Vertrauen. Ihre Situation in Gardencourt, geschätzt wie sie von Isabel war und selbst voller Wertschätzung für das freie Spiel des Verstandes, das ihrer Meinung nach Isabels Charakter zu einem Geistschwester macht, und für die mühelose Venerabilität von Mr. Touchett, dessen nobler Ton, wie sie sagte, ihre volle Zustimmung fand - ihre Situation in Gardencourt wäre perfekt angenehm für sie gewesen, wenn sie nicht ein unüberwindbares Misstrauen gegenüber der kleinen Dame entwickelt hätte, von der sie zuerst annehmen musste, dass sie als Herrin des Hauses "zugelassen" werden sollte. Sie fand bald heraus, dass diese Verpflichtung leicht war und dass sich Mrs. Touchett nicht wirklich darum kümmerte, wie sich Miss Stackpole benimmt. Mrs. Touchett hatte Isabel beschrieben, dass die Freundin sowohl eine Abenteurerin als auch langweilig sei - Abenteurerinnen geben einem normalerweise eher einen Nervenkitzel. Sie drückte einige Überraschung darüber aus, dass ihre Nichte solch eine Freundin ausgewählt hatte, fügte aber sofort hinzu, dass sie wusste, dass Isabels Freunde ihre eigene Angelegenheit seien und dass sie nie versprochen hätte, sie alle zu mögen oder das Mädchen auf diejenigen zu beschränken, die sie mochte. "Wenn du nur die Leute sehen könntest, die mir gefallen, mein Liebes, hättest du sehr wenig Gesellschaft", gab Mrs. Touchett offen zu. "Und ich glaube nicht, dass ich irgendeinen Mann oder irgendeine Frau genug mag, um sie dir zu empfehlen. Wenn es darum geht, jemanden zu empfehlen, ist das eine ernste Angelegenheit. Ich mag Miss Stackpole nicht - alles an ihr missfällt mir; sie spricht viel zu laut und schaut einen an, als ob man sie ansehen wollte - was man nicht will. Ich bin mir sicher, dass sie ihr ganzes Leben lang in einem Boarding-House gelebt hat, und ich verabscheue den Umgang und die Freiheiten solcher Orte. Wenn du mich fragst, ob ich meine eigenen Manieren bevorzuge, die du zweifellos für schlecht hältst, werde ich dir sagen, dass ich meine enorm bevorzuge. Miss Stackpole weiß, dass ich die Zivilisation in Boarding-Houses verabscheue, und sie verabscheut mich dafür, dass ich sie verabscheue, weil sie sie als die höchste Form der Welt ansieht. Sie würde Gardencourt viel besser gefallen, wenn es ein Boarding-House wäre. Für mich finde ich es fast zu sehr eins! Wir werden also niemals miteinander auskommen, und es hat keinen Zweck, es zu versuchen." Mrs. Touchett hatte recht, als sie vermutete, dass Henrietta sie missbilligte, aber sie hatte den Grund nicht ganz erkannt. Ein oder zwei Tage nach Miss Stackpoles Ankunft hatte sie einige abfällige Bemerkungen über amerikanische Hotels gemacht, was einen Gegenargumentationsansatz seitens der Interviewer-Korrespondentin hervorrief, die sich in ihrer beruflichen Tätigkeit in der westlichen Welt mit jeder Art von Herberge vertraut gemacht hatte. Henrietta äußerte die Meinung, dass amerikanische Hotels die besten der Welt seien, und Mrs. Touchett, frisch von einem erneuten Kampf mit ihnen, zeigte sich überzeugt, dass sie die schlechtesten seien. Ralph schlug, mit seiner experimentellen Herzlichkeit, als Heilung für den Konflikt vor, dass die Wahrheit irgendwo zwischen den beiden Extremen liege und die betreffenden Einrichtungen als mittelmäßig fair beschrieben werden sollten. Diesen Beitrag zur Diskussion lehnte Miss Stackpole jedoch mit Verachtung ab. Mittelmäßig? Wenn sie nicht die besten der Welt seien, seien sie die schlechtesten, aber an einem amerikanischen Hotel sei nichts Mittelmäßiges. "Offensichtlich haben wir unterschiedliche Standpunkte", sagte Mrs. Touchett. "Ich mag es, als Einzelperson behandelt zu werden; du magst es, als Teil einer 'Gruppe' behandelt zu werden." "Ich weiß nicht, was du meinst", erwiderte Henrietta. "Ich mag es, als amerikanische Dame behandelt zu werden." "Arme amerikanische Damen!" rief Mrs. Touchett lachend aus. "Sie sind die Sklaven der Sklaven." "Sie sind die Begleiterinnen von Freien", entgegnete Henrietta. "Sie sind die Begleiterinnen ihrer Bediensteten - der irischen Zimmermädchen und der schwarzen Kellner. Sie teilen ihre Arbeit." "Nennst du die Hausangestellten in einem amerikanischen Haushalt 'Sklaven'?" wollte Miss Stackpole wissen. "Wenn du wünscht, dass sie so behandelt werden, ist es kein Wunder, dass du Amerika nicht magst." "Wenn man keine guten Bediensteten hat, ist man unglücklich", sagte Mrs. Touchett gelassen. "Sie sind in Amerika sehr schlecht, aber ich habe fünf perfekte in Florenz." "Ich frage mich, was du mit fünf von ihnen willst", konnte Henrietta nicht umhin zu bemerken. "Ich glaube nicht, dass ich fünf Personen in so einer untergeordneten Position um mich herum sehen möchte." "Ich mag sie in dieser Position lieber als in einigen anderen", verkündete Mrs. Touchett mit viel Bedeutung. "Würdest du mich lieber mögen, wenn ich dein Butler wäre, Liebes?", fragte ihr Ehemann. "Ich glaube nicht, dass ich dich mögen würde; du hättest nicht die richtige Tenue." "Die Begleiterinnen von Freien - das mag ich, Miss Stackpole", sagte Ralph. "Das ist eine schöne Beschreibung." "Als ich von Freien sprach, meinte ich nicht dich, Sir!" Und das war die einzige Belohnung, die Ralph für sein Kompliment bekam. Miss Stackpole war verwirrt; offensichtlich dachte sie, dass Mrs. Touchetts Wertschätzung für eine Klasse, die sie heimlich als mysteriöses Überbleibsel des Feudalismus ansah, etwas verräterisch war. Vielleicht lag es daran, dass sie von diesem Bild geplagt wurde, dass sie ein paar Tage verstreichen ließ, bevor sie die Gelegenheit ergriff, zu Isabel zu sagen: "Meine liebe Freundin, ich frage mich, ob du untreu wirst." "Untreu? Untreu dir gegenüber, Henrietta?" "Nein, das wäre sehr schmerzhaft; aber darum geht es nicht." "Untreu meinem Land gegenüber?" "Ah, das hoffe ich nie. Als ich dir aus Liverpool schrieb, sagte ich, dass ich dir etwas Besonderes mitzuteilen habe. Du hast mich nie danach gefragt. Ist es, weil du Verdacht geschöpft hast?" "Verdacht worüber? In der Regel glaube ich nicht, dass ich Verdacht schöpfe", sagte Isabel. "Ich erinnere mich jetzt an diese Phrase in deinem Brief, aber ich gestehe, dass ich sie vergessen hatte. Was hast du mir mitzuteilen?" Henrietta sah enttäuscht aus, und ihr fester Blick verriet es. "Du fragst das nicht richtig, als ob du dachtest, dass es wichtig ist. Du hast dich verändert - du denkst an andere Dinge." "Teile mir mit, was du meinst, und ich werde daran denken." "Wirst du wirklich daran denken? Darum möchte ich sicher sein." "Ich habe nicht viel Kontrolle über meine Gedanken, aber ich werde mein Bestes tun", sagte Isabel. Henrietta starrte sie schweigend an, was Isabels Geduld Isabel konnte nicht einmal zurücklächeln und sagte im nächsten Moment: "Hat er dich gebeten, mit mir zu sprechen?" "Nicht mit so vielen Worten. Aber seine Augen haben danach gefragt - und sein Händedruck, als er sich verabschiedete." "Danke, dass du es getan hast." Und Isabel wandte sich ab. "Ja, du hast dich verändert; du hast hier neue Ideen bekommen", fuhr ihre Freundin fort. "Ich hoffe doch", sagte Isabel, "man sollte so viele neue Ideen wie möglich bekommen." "Ja, aber sie sollten die alten Ideen nicht stören, wenn die alten Ideen die richtigen waren." Isabel drehte sich wieder um. "Wenn du damit meinst, dass ich irgendeine Vorstellung von Mr. Goodwood hatte...!" Aber sie stockte vor dem unbarmherzigen Glanz ihrer Freundin. "Mein liebes Kind, du hast ihn definitiv ermutigt." Isabel machte für einen Moment den Anschein, als wollte sie diese Anschuldigung leugnen; stattdessen antwortete sie jedoch kurz darauf: "Es ist wahr. Ich habe ihn ermutigt." Und dann fragte sie, ob ihre Begleiterin von Mr. Goodwood erfahren hatte, was er vorhatte. Es war eine Zugeständnis an ihre Neugierde, denn sie mochte das Thema nicht besprechen und fand Henrietta mangelhaft in ihrer Feinfühligkeit. "Ich habe ihn gefragt und er sagte, er habe nicht vor, etwas zu tun", antwortete Miss Stackpole. "Aber das glaube ich nicht; er ist kein Mann, der nichts tut. Er ist ein Mann von hohem, kühnem Handeln. Was auch immer ihm passiert, er wird immer etwas tun, und was auch immer er tut, wird immer richtig sein." "Das glaube ich auch." Henrietta mochte einfühlsam mangelhaft sein, aber trotzdem berührte es das Mädchen, diese Erklärung zu hören. "Ah, du magst ihn also!" schallte es von ihrer Besucherin. "Was er tut, wird immer richtig sein", wiederholte Isabel. "Wenn ein Mann von dieser unfehlbaren Art ist, was spielt es für ihn für eine Rolle, was man empfindet?" "Es spielt für ihn vielleicht keine Rolle, aber für einen selbst spielt es eine Rolle." "Ah, was es für mich bedeutet - das ist nicht das, worüber wir sprechen", sagte Isabel mit einem kalten Lächeln. Diesmal war ihre Begleiterin ernst. "Nun, mir ist es egal; du hast dich verändert. Du bist nicht mehr das Mädchen, das du vor ein paar Wochen warst, und Mr. Goodwood wird es sehen. Ich erwarte ihn jeden Tag hier." "Ich hoffe, er wird mich dann hassen", sagte Isabel. "Ich glaube, du hoffst es ungefähr so sehr wie ich glaube, dass er dazu fähig ist." Auf diesen Hinweis erwiderte unsere Heldin nichts; sie war mit der Warnung, die Henrietta ihr gegeben hatte, über das Erscheinen von Caspar Goodwood in Gardencourt beschäftigt. Sie gab sich jedoch vor, dass sie das Ereignis für unmöglich hielt, und später teilte sie ihre Zweifel ihrer Freundin mit. In den nächsten achtundvierzig Stunden stand sie jedoch bereit, den Namen des jungen Mannes verkünden zu hören. Das Gefühl drückte auf sie; es machte die Luft schwül, als gäbe es eine Wetteränderung; und das Wetter, im sozialen Sinne, war während Isabels Aufenthalt in Gardencourt so angenehm gewesen, dass jede Veränderung zum Schlechteren sein würde. Ihre Ungewissheit wurde jedoch am zweiten Tag aufgelöst. Sie war mit dem geselligen Bunchie in den Park spaziert und hatte sich nach einiger Zeit, in manierierter Unruhe und Langeweile, auf einer Gartenbank niedergelassen, in Sichtweite des Hauses, unter einer sich ausbreitenden Buche, wo sie in ihrem weißen Kleid mit schwarzen Bändern unter den flackernden Schatten ein anmutiges und harmonisches Bild abgab. Sie unterhielt sich einige Zeit mit dem kleinen Terrier, mit dem sie Eigentum und Anteilungsrechte gerecht geteilt hatte - so gerecht wie Bunchies eigene etwas wechselhafte und unbeständige Sympathien es zuließen. Aber zum ersten Mal wurde sie auf dieser Gelegenheit über die begrenzte Intelligenz von Bunchie informiert; bisher hatte sie vor allem von ihrer Ausdehnung beeindruckt. Ihr schien schließlich, dass es gut wäre, ein Buch mitzunehmen; früher, wenn sie unglücklich war, konnte sie mit Hilfe einiger gut gewählter Werke den Bewusstseinssitz in das Organ der reinen Vernunft übertragen. In letzter Zeit war es nicht zu leugnen gewesen, dass die Literatur ein verblassendes Licht geworden war, und auch nachdem sie sich daran erinnert hatte, dass die Bibliothek ihres Onkels mit einer vollständigen Sammlung dieser Autoren ausgestattet war, die in keiner Gentleman-Sammlung fehlen durften, saß sie regungslos und mit leeren Händen da, ihre Augen auf den kühlen grünen Rasen des Rasens gerichtet. Ihre Gedanken wurden bald von einem Diener unterbrochen, der ihr einen Brief übergab. Der Brief trug den Londoner Poststempel und war in einer Handschrift adressiert, die sie kannte - die in ihre Augen, die bereits so von ihm gefesselt waren, mit der Lebendigkeit der Stimme des Schreibers oder seines Gesichts trat. Dieses Dokument war kurz und kann in voller Länge wiedergegeben werden. MEINE LIEBE MISS ARCHER - Ich weiß nicht, ob du von meiner Ankunft in England gehört hast, aber selbst wenn nicht, wird es dich kaum überraschen. Du wirst dich daran erinnern, dass ich vor drei Monaten in Albany, als du mich abgewiesen hast, meinen Widerspruch nicht akzeptiert habe. Ich habe dagegen protestiert. Du schienst meinen Protest tatsächlich zu akzeptieren und zugeben, dass ich im Recht war. Ich war gekommen, um dich davon zu überzeugen, mich in meiner Überzeugung mitzunehmen; meine Gründe für diese Hoffnung waren die besten. Aber du hast mich enttäuscht; ich habe dich verändert gefunden, und du konntest mir keinen Grund für die Veränderung nennen. Du hast zugegeben, dass du unvernünftig warst, und das war das einzige Zugeständnis, das du gemacht hast; aber es war ein sehr billiges Zugeständnis, weil das nicht dein Charakter ist. Nein, du bist nicht und wirst nie willkürlich oder launisch sein. Deshalb glaube ich, dass du mich wiedersehen lässt. Du hast mir gesagt, dass ich dir nicht unsympathisch bin, und das glaube ich; denn ich sehe keinen Grund dafür. Ich werde immer an dich denken; nie an jemand anderen. Ich bin nach England gekommen, einfach weil du hier bist; ich konnte nicht zu Hause bleiben, nachdem du weg warst: Ich hasste das Land, weil du nicht darin warst. Wenn ich dieses Land derzeit mag, liegt es nur daran, dass es dich enthält. Ich war schon einmal in England, habe es aber nie besonders genossen. Darf ich nicht für eine halbe Stunde zu dir kommen? Das ist der derzeitige sehnlichste Wunsch deiner treuen Caspar Goodwood. Isabel las dieses Schreiben mit so großer Aufmerksamkeit, dass sie nicht bemerkte, wie sich weiche Schritte im Gras näherten. Als sie jedoch aufblickte und den Brief mechanisch faltete, sah sie Lord Warburton vor sich stehen. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Henrietta kommt größtenteils gut mit Gardencourt aus, abgesehen davon, dass sie anfängt, Misstrauen gegenüber Mrs. Touchett zu hegen. Mrs. Touchett hält Henrietta für eine Langweilerin und Abenteurerin. Sie verabscheut ihre Manieren. Mrs. Touchett sagt zu Henrietta: "Offensichtlich urteilen wir aus unterschiedlichen Blickwinkeln. Ich mag es, als Individuum behandelt zu werden; du möchtest als 'Gruppe' behandelt werden." In einem privaten Moment erzählt Henrietta Isabel, dass Caspar Goodwood sie besucht hat, um Neuigkeiten über Isabel zu erfahren. Isabel hält ihn für einfältig, aber nicht hässlich. Henrietta sagt Isabel, dass Caspar Goodwood nach Ermutigung sehnt, stellt jedoch auch fest, dass Isabel von allem beeinflusst wird, nur nicht von Mr. Goodwood. Sie sagt Isabel, dass sie ihre neuen Ideen nicht ihre alten beeinflussen lassen sollte. Im Grunde scheint Henrietta darauf zu hoffen, dass Isabel Mr. Goodwood heiratet, und erinnert Isabel daran, dass sie ihn bereits ermutigt hat, dass er erfolgreich sein wird, wenn er ihr einen Antrag macht. Isabel erkennt, dass Mr. Goodwood ein Mann der Tat ist, der Typ, der "etwas tut". Henrietta erzählt Isabel, dass Mr. Goodwood in ein paar Tagen ankommen wird. Isabel ist beunruhigt über die Nachricht. In den nächsten Tagen fühlt sie eine düstere Vorahnung. Eines Tages erhält sie einen Brief von Mr. Goodwood im Garten. In dem Brief erinnert Caspar Goodwood Isabel daran, dass sie ihn vor drei Monaten "abgelehnt" hat, als sie sich zuletzt sahen, aber er hat dies nicht akzeptiert, weil er glaubt, dass ihr Charakter nicht so willkürlich ist, wie sie ihn darstellt. Er ist nach England gereist, weil sie dort ist. Er bittet sie, ihn in einer halben Stunde zu sehen. Während Isabel den Brief liest, erscheint Lord Warburton.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: It was not that I didn't wait, on this occasion, for more, for I was rooted as deeply as I was shaken. Was there a "secret" at Bly--a mystery of Udolpho or an insane, an unmentionable relative kept in unsuspected confinement? I can't say how long I turned it over, or how long, in a confusion of curiosity and dread, I remained where I had had my collision; I only recall that when I re-entered the house darkness had quite closed in. Agitation, in the interval, certainly had held me and driven me, for I must, in circling about the place, have walked three miles; but I was to be, later on, so much more overwhelmed that this mere dawn of alarm was a comparatively human chill. The most singular part of it, in fact--singular as the rest had been--was the part I became, in the hall, aware of in meeting Mrs. Grose. This picture comes back to me in the general train--the impression, as I received it on my return, of the wide white panelled space, bright in the lamplight and with its portraits and red carpet, and of the good surprised look of my friend, which immediately told me she had missed me. It came to me straightway, under her contact, that, with plain heartiness, mere relieved anxiety at my appearance, she knew nothing whatever that could bear upon the incident I had there ready for her. I had not suspected in advance that her comfortable face would pull me up, and I somehow measured the importance of what I had seen by my thus finding myself hesitate to mention it. Scarce anything in the whole history seems to me so odd as this fact that my real beginning of fear was one, as I may say, with the instinct of sparing my companion. On the spot, accordingly, in the pleasant hall and with her eyes on me, I, for a reason that I couldn't then have phrased, achieved an inward resolution--offered a vague pretext for my lateness and, with the plea of the beauty of the night and of the heavy dew and wet feet, went as soon as possible to my room. Here it was another affair; here, for many days after, it was a queer affair enough. There were hours, from day to day--or at least there were moments, snatched even from clear duties--when I had to shut myself up to think. It was not so much yet that I was more nervous than I could bear to be as that I was remarkably afraid of becoming so; for the truth I had now to turn over was, simply and clearly, the truth that I could arrive at no account whatever of the visitor with whom I had been so inexplicably and yet, as it seemed to me, so intimately concerned. It took little time to see that I could sound without forms of inquiry and without exciting remark any domestic complications. The shock I had suffered must have sharpened all my senses; I felt sure, at the end of three days and as the result of mere closer attention, that I had not been practiced upon by the servants nor made the object of any "game." Of whatever it was that I knew, nothing was known around me. There was but one sane inference: someone had taken a liberty rather gross. That was what, repeatedly, I dipped into my room and locked the door to say to myself. We had been, collectively, subject to an intrusion; some unscrupulous traveler, curious in old houses, had made his way in unobserved, enjoyed the prospect from the best point of view, and then stolen out as he came. If he had given me such a bold hard stare, that was but a part of his indiscretion. The good thing, after all, was that we should surely see no more of him. This was not so good a thing, I admit, as not to leave me to judge that what, essentially, made nothing else much signify was simply my charming work. My charming work was just my life with Miles and Flora, and through nothing could I so like it as through feeling that I could throw myself into it in trouble. The attraction of my small charges was a constant joy, leading me to wonder afresh at the vanity of my original fears, the distaste I had begun by entertaining for the probable gray prose of my office. There was to be no gray prose, it appeared, and no long grind; so how could work not be charming that presented itself as daily beauty? It was all the romance of the nursery and the poetry of the schoolroom. I don't mean by this, of course, that we studied only fiction and verse; I mean I can express no otherwise the sort of interest my companions inspired. How can I describe that except by saying that instead of growing used to them--and it's a marvel for a governess: I call the sisterhood to witness!--I made constant fresh discoveries. There was one direction, assuredly, in which these discoveries stopped: deep obscurity continued to cover the region of the boy's conduct at school. It had been promptly given me, I have noted, to face that mystery without a pang. Perhaps even it would be nearer the truth to say that--without a word--he himself had cleared it up. He had made the whole charge absurd. My conclusion bloomed there with the real rose flush of his innocence: he was only too fine and fair for the little horrid, unclean school world, and he had paid a price for it. I reflected acutely that the sense of such differences, such superiorities of quality, always, on the part of the majority--which could include even stupid, sordid headmasters--turn infallibly to the vindictive. Both the children had a gentleness (it was their only fault, and it never made Miles a muff) that kept them--how shall I express it?--almost impersonal and certainly quite unpunishable. They were like the cherubs of the anecdote, who had--morally, at any rate--nothing to whack! I remember feeling with Miles in especial as if he had had, as it were, no history. We expect of a small child a scant one, but there was in this beautiful little boy something extraordinarily sensitive, yet extraordinarily happy, that, more than in any creature of his age I have seen, struck me as beginning anew each day. He had never for a second suffered. I took this as a direct disproof of his having really been chastised. If he had been wicked he would have "caught" it, and I should have caught it by the rebound--I should have found the trace. I found nothing at all, and he was therefore an angel. He never spoke of his school, never mentioned a comrade or a master; and I, for my part, was quite too much disgusted to allude to them. Of course I was under the spell, and the wonderful part is that, even at the time, I perfectly knew I was. But I gave myself up to it; it was an antidote to any pain, and I had more pains than one. I was in receipt in these days of disturbing letters from home, where things were not going well. But with my children, what things in the world mattered? That was the question I used to put to my scrappy retirements. I was dazzled by their loveliness. There was a Sunday--to get on--when it rained with such force and for so many hours that there could be no procession to church; in consequence of which, as the day declined, I had arranged with Mrs. Grose that, should the evening show improvement, we would attend together the late service. The rain happily stopped, and I prepared for our walk, which, through the park and by the good road to the village, would be a matter of twenty minutes. Coming downstairs to meet my colleague in the hall, I remembered a pair of gloves that had required three stitches and that had received them--with a publicity perhaps not edifying--while I sat with the children at their tea, served on Sundays, by exception, in that cold, clean temple of mahogany and brass, the "grown-up" dining room. The gloves had been dropped there, and I turned in to recover them. The day was gray enough, but the afternoon light still lingered, and it enabled me, on crossing the threshold, not only to recognize, on a chair near the wide window, then closed, the articles I wanted, but to become aware of a person on the other side of the window and looking straight in. One step into the room had sufficed; my vision was instantaneous; it was all there. The person looking straight in was the person who had already appeared to me. He appeared thus again with I won't say greater distinctness, for that was impossible, but with a nearness that represented a forward stride in our intercourse and made me, as I met him, catch my breath and turn cold. He was the same--he was the same, and seen, this time, as he had been seen before, from the waist up, the window, though the dining room was on the ground floor, not going down to the terrace on which he stood. His face was close to the glass, yet the effect of this better view was, strangely, only to show me how intense the former had been. He remained but a few seconds--long enough to convince me he also saw and recognized; but it was as if I had been looking at him for years and had known him always. Something, however, happened this time that had not happened before; his stare into my face, through the glass and across the room, was as deep and hard as then, but it quitted me for a moment during which I could still watch it, see it fix successively several other things. On the spot there came to me the added shock of a certitude that it was not for me he had come there. He had come for someone else. The flash of this knowledge--for it was knowledge in the midst of dread--produced in me the most extraordinary effect, started as I stood there, a sudden vibration of duty and courage. I say courage because I was beyond all doubt already far gone. I bounded straight out of the door again, reached that of the house, got, in an instant, upon the drive, and, passing along the terrace as fast as I could rush, turned a corner and came full in sight. But it was in sight of nothing now--my visitor had vanished. I stopped, I almost dropped, with the real relief of this; but I took in the whole scene--I gave him time to reappear. I call it time, but how long was it? I can't speak to the purpose today of the duration of these things. That kind of measure must have left me: they couldn't have lasted as they actually appeared to me to last. The terrace and the whole place, the lawn and the garden beyond it, all I could see of the park, were empty with a great emptiness. There were shrubberies and big trees, but I remember the clear assurance I felt that none of them concealed him. He was there or was not there: not there if I didn't see him. I got hold of this; then, instinctively, instead of returning as I had come, went to the window. It was confusedly present to me that I ought to place myself where he had stood. I did so; I applied my face to the pane and looked, as he had looked, into the room. As if, at this moment, to show me exactly what his range had been, Mrs. Grose, as I had done for himself just before, came in from the hall. With this I had the full image of a repetition of what had already occurred. She saw me as I had seen my own visitant; she pulled up short as I had done; I gave her something of the shock that I had received. She turned white, and this made me ask myself if I had blanched as much. She stared, in short, and retreated on just MY lines, and I knew she had then passed out and come round to me and that I should presently meet her. I remained where I was, and while I waited I thought of more things than one. But there's only one I take space to mention. I wondered why SHE should be scared. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Die Begegnung der Gouvernante von ferne mit dem unheimlichen Fremden verunsichert sie verständlicherweise. Sie fragt sich, ob es in Bly vielleicht ein schreckliches Geheimnis gibt, wie einen wahnsinnigen Verwandten auf dem Dachboden, à la Jane Eyre. Den Rest des Abends verbringt sie damit, hin und her zu gehen und sich zu fragen, was sie tun soll. Als die Gouvernante ins Haus zurückkehrt und auf Mrs. Grose trifft, beschließt sie sofort, ihre Freundin "zu schonen", indem sie ihr die Mühe erspart, sich um den geheimnisvollen Mann Sorgen zu machen. Sie entschuldigt sich und rennt ohne Erwähnung ihrer seltsamen Begegnung in ihr Zimmer. In den nächsten Tagen beobachtet die Gouvernante ihre Umgebung und kommt zu dem Schluss, dass niemand im Haushalt einen Streich mit ihr spielt. Sie geht davon aus, dass der Fremde, den sie gesehen hat, tatsächlich ein Fremder im Haus war, der sich eingeschlichen hat, das Haus erkundet hat und wieder gegangen ist. Die Ängste der Gouvernante werden von der absoluten Freude über ihren Job vertrieben. Die Kinder scheinen von Tag zu Tag nur noch wunderbarer zu werden, und die Gouvernante ist bis über beide Ohren in sie verliebt, wie es sich für eine Lehrerin gehört. Das Einzige, was die Perfektion dieses Jobs trübt, ist das anhaltende Rätsel um Miles' Vergehen in der Schule. Die Vorstellung, dass Miles schlecht sein könnte, wird für die Gouvernante immer lächerlicher. Er wirkt so, als würde er nur geliebt und nie bestraft, was sie glauben lässt, dass er nie etwas falsch gemacht hat und nie bei etwas erwischt wurde. Sie gibt zu, "unter dem Bann" seines Charmes zu stehen. An einem Sonntag, als die Gouvernante und Mrs. Grose sich darauf vorbereiten, einen Abendgottesdienst zu besuchen, geht die Gouvernante in den Speiseraum, um ein Paar Handschuhe aufzuheben, die sie fallen gelassen hat. Sobald sie den Raum betritt, spürt sie sofort eine weitere Anwesenheit. Und siehe da, draußen am Fenster sieht sie denselben unheimlichen Kerl wie auf dem Turm. Sie ist schockiert und entsetzt. Die beiden blicken sich wieder an, aber diesmal schaut er für einen Moment weg und guckt im Raum herum. Das überzeugt die Gouvernante davon, dass er nicht wegen ihr da ist, sondern um jemand anderen zu finden. Angespornt von diesem Wissen rennt die Gouvernante nach draußen, um den Spanner zur Rede zu stellen. Doch als sie draußen am Fenster ankommt, ist er verschwunden und nirgendwo zu finden. Ratlos beschließt die Gouvernante, den Mann nachzuahmen, um herauszufinden, was er dort wollte. Sie schaut gerade durch das Fenster, genau an der Stelle, an der er war - und in einer seltsamen und faszinierenden Wiederholung von dem, was gerade passiert ist, sieht sie Mrs. Grose von innen. Der Schock und das Entsetzen von Mrs. Grose spiegeln perfekt das der Gouvernante wider, als sie den fremden Mann draußen sah - allerdings versteht sie nicht, wovor die Haushälterin Angst haben muss.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Nach alten Erzählungen hatte die Seele menschliche Gestalt, aber sie war kleiner und subtiler als das fleischliche Selbst. Sie wanderte also umher, wann immer es ihr beliebte. Und sieh da! Neben ihrem cherubenhaften Gesicht schwebte eine bleichlippenartige, ätherische Gestalt, die ihr leise in ihr kleines Ohr flüsterte und sie lenkte. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Der Klatsch darüber, wie Mr. Casaubon's Testament es unmöglich machte, dass Dorothea Will Ladislaw heiratete, ohne ihr Eigentum aufzugeben, erreicht schließlich auch Rosamond. Lydgate warnt sie davor, es Will gegenüber niemals zu erwähnen, aber wie üblich ignoriert sie seinen Rat. Sie erwähnt es flirterisch beim nächsten Mal, wenn sie alleine sind, gegenüber Will. Er ist sofort wütend und verärgert, besonders wegen ihrer sorglosen Verführungskunst. Er schnappt sich seinen Hut und geht. Rosamond fühlt sich vage eifersüchtig. Sie möchte, dass jeder in sie verliebt ist, und mag es nicht, dass sie nicht im Mittelpunkt von Wills Universum steht. Es war nicht das erste Mal an diesem Tag, dass sie gegen den Wunsch ihres Mannes vorgegangen ist - sie war am Morgen zu ihrem Vater gegangen, um um Geld zu bitten, und er hatte abgelehnt. Sie ist auch deprimiert, dass Lydgates wohlhabende Verwandte ihr nicht geschrieben haben.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: XI. THE INTERIOR OF A HEART. After the incident last described, the intercourse between the clergyman and the physician, though externally the same, was really of another character than it had previously been. The intellect of Roger Chillingworth had now a sufficiently plain path before it. It was not, indeed, precisely that which he had laid out for himself to tread. Calm, gentle, passionless, as he appeared, there was yet, we fear, a quiet depth of malice, hitherto latent, but active now, in this unfortunate old man, which led him to imagine a more intimate revenge than any mortal had ever wreaked upon an enemy. To make himself the one trusted friend, to whom should be confided all the fear, the remorse, the agony, the ineffectual repentance, the backward rush of sinful thoughts, expelled in vain! All that guilty sorrow, hidden from the world, whose great heart would have pitied and forgiven, to be revealed to him, the Pitiless, to him, the Unforgiving! All that dark treasure to be lavished on the very man, to whom nothing else could so adequately pay the debt of vengeance! The clergyman's shy and sensitive reserve had balked this scheme. Roger Chillingworth, however, was inclined to be hardly, if at all, less satisfied with the aspect of affairs, which Providence--using the avenger and his victim for its own purposes, and, perchance, pardoning where it seemed most to punish--had substituted for his black devices. A revelation, he could almost say, had been granted to him. It mattered little, for his object, whether celestial, or from what other region. By its aid, in all the subsequent relations betwixt him and Mr. Dimmesdale, not merely the external presence, but the very inmost soul, of the latter, seemed to be brought out before his eyes, so that he could see and comprehend its every movement. He became, thenceforth, not a spectator only, but a chief actor, in the poor minister's interior world. He could play upon him as he chose. Would he arouse him with a throb of agony? The victim was forever on the rack; it needed only to know the spring that controlled the engine;--and the physician knew it well! Would he startle him with sudden fear? As at the waving of a magician's wand, uprose a grisly phantom,--uprose a thousand phantoms,--in many shapes, of death, or more awful shame, all flocking round about the clergyman, and pointing with their fingers at his breast! All this was accomplished with a subtlety so perfect, that the minister, though he had constantly a dim perception of some evil influence watching over him, could never gain a knowledge of its actual nature. True, he looked doubtfully, fearfully,--even, at times, with horror and the bitterness of hatred,--at the deformed figure of the old physician. His gestures, his gait, his grizzled beard, his slightest and most indifferent acts, the very fashion of his garments, were odious in the clergyman's sight; a token implicitly to be relied on, of a deeper antipathy in the breast of the latter than he was willing to acknowledge to himself. For, as it was impossible to assign a reason for such distrust and abhorrence, so Mr. Dimmesdale, conscious that the poison of one morbid spot was infecting his heart's entire substance, attributed all his presentiments to no other cause. He took himself to task for his bad sympathies in reference to Roger Chillingworth, disregarded the lesson that he should have drawn from them, and did his best to root them out. Unable to accomplish this, he nevertheless, as a matter of principle, continued his habits of social familiarity with the old man, and thus gave him constant opportunities for perfecting the purpose to which--poor, forlorn creature that he was, and more wretched than his victim--the avenger had devoted himself. While thus suffering under bodily disease, and gnawed and tortured by some black trouble of the soul, and given over to the machinations of his deadliest enemy, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale had achieved a brilliant popularity in his sacred office. He won it, indeed, in great part, by his sorrows. His intellectual gifts, his moral perceptions, his power of experiencing and communicating emotion, were kept in a state of preternatural activity by the prick and anguish of his daily life. His fame, though still on its upward slope, already overshadowed the soberer reputations of his fellow-clergymen, eminent as several of them were. There were scholars among them, who had spent more years in acquiring abstruse lore, connected with the divine profession, than Mr. Dimmesdale had lived; and who might well, therefore, be more profoundly versed in such solid and valuable attainments than their youthful brother. There were men, too, of a sturdier texture of mind than his, and endowed with a far greater share of shrewd, hard, iron, or granite understanding; which, duly mingled with a fair proportion of doctrinal ingredient, constitutes a highly respectable, efficacious, and unamiable variety of the clerical species. There were others, again, true saintly fathers, whose faculties had been elaborated by weary toil among their books, and by patient thought, and etherealized, moreover, by spiritual communications with the better world, into which their purity of life had almost introduced these holy personages, with their garments of mortality still clinging to them. All that they lacked was the gift that descended upon the chosen disciples at Pentecost, in tongues of flame; symbolizing, it would seem, not the power of speech in foreign and unknown languages, but that of addressing the whole human brotherhood in the heart's native language. These fathers, otherwise so apostolic, lacked Heaven's last and rarest attestation of their office, the Tongue of Flame. They would have vainly sought--had they ever dreamed of seeking--to express the highest truths through the humblest medium of familiar words and images. Their voices came down, afar and indistinctly, from the upper heights where they habitually dwelt. [Illustration: The Virgins of the Church] Not improbably, it was to this latter class of men that Mr. Dimmesdale, by many of his traits of character, naturally belonged. To the high mountain-peaks of faith and sanctity he would have climbed, had not the tendency been thwarted by the burden, whatever it might be, of crime or anguish, beneath which it was his doom to totter. It kept him down, on a level with the lowest; him, the man of ethereal attributes, whose voice the angels might else have listened to and answered! But this very burden it was, that gave him sympathies so intimate with the sinful brotherhood of mankind; so that his heart vibrated in unison with theirs, and received their pain into itself, and sent its own throb of pain through a thousand other hearts, in gushes of sad, persuasive eloquence. Oftenest persuasive, but sometimes terrible! The people knew not the power that moved them thus. They deemed the young clergyman a miracle of holiness. They fancied him the mouthpiece of Heaven's messages of wisdom, and rebuke, and love. In their eyes, the very ground on which he trod was sanctified. The virgins of his church grew pale around him, victims of a passion so imbued with religious sentiment that they imagined it to be all religion, and brought it openly, in their white bosoms, as their most acceptable sacrifice before the altar. The aged members of his flock, beholding Mr. Dimmesdale's frame so feeble, while they were themselves so rugged in their infirmity, believed that he would go heavenward before them, and enjoined it upon their children, that their old bones should be buried close to their young pastor's holy grave. And, all this time, perchance, when poor Mr. Dimmesdale was thinking of his grave, he questioned with himself whether the grass would ever grow on it, because an accursed thing must there be buried! It is inconceivable, the agony with which this public veneration tortured him! It was his genuine impulse to adore the truth, and to reckon all things shadow-like, and utterly devoid of weight or value, that had not its divine essence as the life within their life. Then, what was he?--a substance?--or the dimmest of all shadows? He longed to speak out, from his own pulpit, at the full height of his voice, and tell the people what he was. "I, whom you behold in these black garments of the priesthood,--I, who ascend the sacred desk, and turn my pale face heavenward, taking upon myself to hold communion, in your behalf, with the Most High Omniscience,--I, in whose daily life you discern the sanctity of Enoch,--I, whose footsteps, as you suppose, leave a gleam along my earthly track, whereby the pilgrims that shall come after me may be guided to the regions of the blest,--I, who have laid the hand of baptism upon your children,--I, who have breathed the parting prayer over your dying friends, to whom the Amen sounded faintly from a world which they had quitted,--I, your pastor, whom you so reverence and trust, am utterly a pollution and a lie!" More than once, Mr. Dimmesdale had gone into the pulpit, with a purpose never to come down its steps, until he should have spoken words like the above. More than once, he had cleared his throat, and drawn in the long, deep, and tremulous breath, which, when sent forth again, would come burdened with the black secret of his soul. More than once--nay, more than a hundred times--he had actually spoken! Spoken! But how? He had told his hearers that he was altogether vile, a viler companion of the vilest, the worst of sinners, an abomination, a thing of unimaginable iniquity; and that the only wonder was, that they did not see his wretched body shrivelled up before their eyes, by the burning wrath of the Almighty! Could there be plainer speech than this? Would not the people start up in their seats, by a simultaneous impulse, and tear him down out of the pulpit which he defiled? Not so, indeed! They heard it all, and did but reverence him the more. They little guessed what deadly purport lurked in those self-condemning words. "The godly youth!" said they among themselves. "The saint on earth! Alas, if he discern such sinfulness in his own white soul, what horrid spectacle would he behold in thine or mine!" The minister well knew--subtle, but remorseful hypocrite that he was!--the light in which his vague confession would be viewed. He had striven to put a cheat upon himself by making the avowal of a guilty conscience, but had gained only one other sin, and a self-acknowledged shame, without the momentary relief of being self-deceived. He had spoken the very truth, and transformed it into the veriest falsehood. And yet, by the constitution of his nature, he loved the truth, and loathed the lie, as few men ever did. Therefore, above all things else, he loathed his miserable self! His inward trouble drove him to practices more in accordance with the old, corrupted faith of Rome, than with the better light of the church in which he had been born and bred. In Mr. Dimmesdale's secret closet, under lock and key, there was a bloody scourge. Oftentimes, this Protestant and Puritan divine had plied it on his own shoulders; laughing bitterly at himself the while, and smiting so much the more pitilessly because of that bitter laugh. It was his custom, too, as it has been that of many other pious Puritans, to fast,--not, however, like them, in order to purify the body and render it the fitter medium of celestial illumination, but rigorously, and until his knees trembled beneath him, as an act of penance. He kept vigils, likewise, night after night, sometimes in utter darkness; sometimes with a glimmering lamp; and sometimes, viewing his own face in a looking-glass, by the most powerful light which he could throw upon it. He thus typified the constant introspection wherewith he tortured, but could not purify, himself. In these lengthened vigils, his brain often reeled, and visions seemed to flit before him; perhaps seen doubtfully, and by a faint light of their own, in the remote dimness of the chamber, or more vividly, and close beside him, within the looking-glass. Now it was a herd of diabolic shapes, that grinned and mocked at the pale minister, and beckoned him away with them; now a group of shining angels, who flew upward heavily, as sorrow-laden, but grew more ethereal as they rose. Now came the dead friends of his youth, and his white-bearded father, with a saint-like frown, and his mother, turning her face away as she passed by. Ghost of a mother,--thinnest fantasy of a mother,--methinks she might yet have thrown a pitying glance towards her son! And now, through the chamber which these spectral thoughts had made so ghastly, glided Hester Prynne, leading along little Pearl, in her scarlet garb, and pointing her forefinger, first at the scarlet letter on her bosom, and then at the clergyman's own breast. None of these visions ever quite deluded him. At any moment, by an effort of his will, he could discern substances through their misty lack of substance, and convince himself that they were not solid in their nature, like yonder table of carved oak, or that big, square, leathern-bound and brazen-clasped volume of divinity. But, for all that, they were, in one sense, the truest and most substantial things which the poor minister now dealt with. It is the unspeakable misery of a life so false as his, that it steals the pith and substance out of whatever realities there are around us, and which were meant by Heaven to be the spirit's joy and nutriment. To the untrue man, the whole universe is false,--it is impalpable,--it shrinks to nothing within his grasp. And he himself, in so far as he shows himself in a false light, becomes a shadow, or, indeed, ceases to exist. The only truth that continued to give Mr. Dimmesdale a real existence on this earth, was the anguish in his inmost soul, and the undissembled expression of it in his aspect. Had he once found power to smile, and wear a face of gayety, there would have been no such man! On one of those ugly nights, which we have faintly hinted at, but forborne to picture forth, the minister started from his chair. A new thought had struck him. There might be a moment's peace in it. Attiring himself with as much care as if it had been for public worship, and precisely in the same manner, he stole softly down the staircase, undid the door, and issued forth. [Illustration] [Illustration] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Im Gefühl, im vollen Besitz von Dimmesdales Geheimnis zu sein, beginnt Chillingworth seine gnadenlose Folter des Ministers, indem er ihn subtil mit Kommentaren quält, die darauf abzielen, Angst und Qual auszulösen. Dimmesdale erkennt nicht Chillingworths Motive, fürchtet und verabscheut ihn aber dennoch. Während Dimmesdales Leiden immer schmerzhafter wird und sein Körper schwächer wird, wächst seine Beliebtheit bei der Gemeinde. Diese fehlgeleitete Verehrung aber quält Dimmesdale noch mehr und bringt ihn oft an den Punkt, ein öffentliches Geständnis zu machen, dass er Pearls Vater ist. Die Predigten des Ministers sind eloquent, aber seine vagen Behauptungen über seine sündhafte Natur werden von seinen Gemeindemitgliedern als weiterer Beweis für seine Heiligkeit angesehen. Da Dimmesdale nicht in der Lage ist, zu gestehen, dass er Hesters Liebhaber war und Pearls Vater ist - die eine Handlung, die für seine Erlösung notwendig ist - ersetzt er die Selbstbestrafung. Er schlägt sich mit einer blutigen Peitsche und hält häufig nächtliche Wachen ab, während sein Geist von erschreckenden Visionen geplagt wird. An einem solchen Abend, während er nach Frieden sucht, kleidet sich Dimmesdale sorgfältig in seine geistliche Kleidung und verlässt das Haus.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: What happened when the pilot-boat came in sight of Shanghai will be easily guessed. The signals made by the Tankadere had been seen by the captain of the Yokohama steamer, who, espying the flag at half-mast, had directed his course towards the little craft. Phileas Fogg, after paying the stipulated price of his passage to John Busby, and rewarding that worthy with the additional sum of five hundred and fifty pounds, ascended the steamer with Aouda and Fix; and they started at once for Nagasaki and Yokohama. They reached their destination on the morning of the 14th of November. Phileas Fogg lost no time in going on board the Carnatic, where he learned, to Aouda's great delight--and perhaps to his own, though he betrayed no emotion--that Passepartout, a Frenchman, had really arrived on her the day before. The San Francisco steamer was announced to leave that very evening, and it became necessary to find Passepartout, if possible, without delay. Mr. Fogg applied in vain to the French and English consuls, and, after wandering through the streets a long time, began to despair of finding his missing servant. Chance, or perhaps a kind of presentiment, at last led him into the Honourable Mr. Batulcar's theatre. He certainly would not have recognised Passepartout in the eccentric mountebank's costume; but the latter, lying on his back, perceived his master in the gallery. He could not help starting, which so changed the position of his nose as to bring the "pyramid" pell-mell upon the stage. All this Passepartout learned from Aouda, who recounted to him what had taken place on the voyage from Hong Kong to Shanghai on the Tankadere, in company with one Mr. Fix. Passepartout did not change countenance on hearing this name. He thought that the time had not yet arrived to divulge to his master what had taken place between the detective and himself; and, in the account he gave of his absence, he simply excused himself for having been overtaken by drunkenness, in smoking opium at a tavern in Hong Kong. Mr. Fogg heard this narrative coldly, without a word; and then furnished his man with funds necessary to obtain clothing more in harmony with his position. Within an hour the Frenchman had cut off his nose and parted with his wings, and retained nothing about him which recalled the sectary of the god Tingou. The steamer which was about to depart from Yokohama to San Francisco belonged to the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, and was named the General Grant. She was a large paddle-wheel steamer of two thousand five hundred tons; well equipped and very fast. The massive walking-beam rose and fell above the deck; at one end a piston-rod worked up and down; and at the other was a connecting-rod which, in changing the rectilinear motion to a circular one, was directly connected with the shaft of the paddles. The General Grant was rigged with three masts, giving a large capacity for sails, and thus materially aiding the steam power. By making twelve miles an hour, she would cross the ocean in twenty-one days. Phileas Fogg was therefore justified in hoping that he would reach San Francisco by the 2nd of December, New York by the 11th, and London on the 20th--thus gaining several hours on the fatal date of the 21st of December. There was a full complement of passengers on board, among them English, many Americans, a large number of coolies on their way to California, and several East Indian officers, who were spending their vacation in making the tour of the world. Nothing of moment happened on the voyage; the steamer, sustained on its large paddles, rolled but little, and the Pacific almost justified its name. Mr. Fogg was as calm and taciturn as ever. His young companion felt herself more and more attached to him by other ties than gratitude; his silent but generous nature impressed her more than she thought; and it was almost unconsciously that she yielded to emotions which did not seem to have the least effect upon her protector. Aouda took the keenest interest in his plans, and became impatient at any incident which seemed likely to retard his journey. She often chatted with Passepartout, who did not fail to perceive the state of the lady's heart; and, being the most faithful of domestics, he never exhausted his eulogies of Phileas Fogg's honesty, generosity, and devotion. He took pains to calm Aouda's doubts of a successful termination of the journey, telling her that the most difficult part of it had passed, that now they were beyond the fantastic countries of Japan and China, and were fairly on their way to civilised places again. A railway train from San Francisco to New York, and a transatlantic steamer from New York to Liverpool, would doubtless bring them to the end of this impossible journey round the world within the period agreed upon. On the ninth day after leaving Yokohama, Phileas Fogg had traversed exactly one half of the terrestrial globe. The General Grant passed, on the 23rd of November, the one hundred and eightieth meridian, and was at the very antipodes of London. Mr. Fogg had, it is true, exhausted fifty-two of the eighty days in which he was to complete the tour, and there were only twenty-eight left. But, though he was only half-way by the difference of meridians, he had really gone over two-thirds of the whole journey; for he had been obliged to make long circuits from London to Aden, from Aden to Bombay, from Calcutta to Singapore, and from Singapore to Yokohama. Could he have followed without deviation the fiftieth parallel, which is that of London, the whole distance would only have been about twelve thousand miles; whereas he would be forced, by the irregular methods of locomotion, to traverse twenty-six thousand, of which he had, on the 23rd of November, accomplished seventeen thousand five hundred. And now the course was a straight one, and Fix was no longer there to put obstacles in their way! It happened also, on the 23rd of November, that Passepartout made a joyful discovery. It will be remembered that the obstinate fellow had insisted on keeping his famous family watch at London time, and on regarding that of the countries he had passed through as quite false and unreliable. Now, on this day, though he had not changed the hands, he found that his watch exactly agreed with the ship's chronometers. His triumph was hilarious. He would have liked to know what Fix would say if he were aboard! "The rogue told me a lot of stories," repeated Passepartout, "about the meridians, the sun, and the moon! Moon, indeed! moonshine more likely! If one listened to that sort of people, a pretty sort of time one would keep! I was sure that the sun would some day regulate itself by my watch!" Passepartout was ignorant that, if the face of his watch had been divided into twenty-four hours, like the Italian clocks, he would have no reason for exultation; for the hands of his watch would then, instead of as now indicating nine o'clock in the morning, indicate nine o'clock in the evening, that is, the twenty-first hour after midnight precisely the difference between London time and that of the one hundred and eightieth meridian. But if Fix had been able to explain this purely physical effect, Passepartout would not have admitted, even if he had comprehended it. Moreover, if the detective had been on board at that moment, Passepartout would have joined issue with him on a quite different subject, and in an entirely different manner. Where was Fix at that moment? He was actually on board the General Grant. On reaching Yokohama, the detective, leaving Mr. Fogg, whom he expected to meet again during the day, had repaired at once to the English consulate, where he at last found the warrant of arrest. It had followed him from Bombay, and had come by the Carnatic, on which steamer he himself was supposed to be. Fix's disappointment may be imagined when he reflected that the warrant was now useless. Mr. Fogg had left English ground, and it was now necessary to procure his extradition! "Well," thought Fix, after a moment of anger, "my warrant is not good here, but it will be in England. The rogue evidently intends to return to his own country, thinking he has thrown the police off his track. Good! I will follow him across the Atlantic. As for the money, heaven grant there may be some left! But the fellow has already spent in travelling, rewards, trials, bail, elephants, and all sorts of charges, more than five thousand pounds. Yet, after all, the Bank is rich!" His course decided on, he went on board the General Grant, and was there when Mr. Fogg and Aouda arrived. To his utter amazement, he recognised Passepartout, despite his theatrical disguise. He quickly concealed himself in his cabin, to avoid an awkward explanation, and hoped--thanks to the number of passengers--to remain unperceived by Mr. Fogg's servant. On that very day, however, he met Passepartout face to face on the forward deck. The latter, without a word, made a rush for him, grasped him by the throat, and, much to the amusement of a group of Americans, who immediately began to bet on him, administered to the detective a perfect volley of blows, which proved the great superiority of French over English pugilistic skill. When Passepartout had finished, he found himself relieved and comforted. Fix got up in a somewhat rumpled condition, and, looking at his adversary, coldly said, "Have you done?" "For this time--yes." "Then let me have a word with you." "But I--" "In your master's interests." Passepartout seemed to be vanquished by Fix's coolness, for he quietly followed him, and they sat down aside from the rest of the passengers. "You have given me a thrashing," said Fix. "Good, I expected it. Now, listen to me. Up to this time I have been Mr. Fogg's adversary. I am now in his game." "Aha!" cried Passepartout; "you are convinced he is an honest man?" "No," replied Fix coldly, "I think him a rascal. Sh! don't budge, and let me speak. As long as Mr. Fogg was on English ground, it was for my interest to detain him there until my warrant of arrest arrived. I did everything I could to keep him back. I sent the Bombay priests after him, I got you intoxicated at Hong Kong, I separated you from him, and I made him miss the Yokohama steamer." Passepartout listened, with closed fists. "Now," resumed Fix, "Mr. Fogg seems to be going back to England. Well, I will follow him there. But hereafter I will do as much to keep obstacles out of his way as I have done up to this time to put them in his path. I've changed my game, you see, and simply because it was for my interest to change it. Your interest is the same as mine; for it is only in England that you will ascertain whether you are in the service of a criminal or an honest man." Passepartout listened very attentively to Fix, and was convinced that he spoke with entire good faith. "Are we friends?" asked the detective. "Friends?--no," replied Passepartout; "but allies, perhaps. At the least sign of treason, however, I'll twist your neck for you." "Agreed," said the detective quietly. Eleven days later, on the 3rd of December, the General Grant entered the bay of the Golden Gate, and reached San Francisco. Mr. Fogg had neither gained nor lost a single day. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Aouda, Fix und Fogg können das Schiff, das nach Yokohama fährt, ergreifen und die Tankadere verlassen, jedoch nicht ohne ihren Kapitän um ein wenig reicher zu machen. Phileas erfährt, dass Passepartout mit der Carnatic in Japan angekommen ist, und Aouda freut sich zu hören, dass er sich im Land befindet. Fogg sucht nach Passepartout und findet ihn bei der Schauspieltruppe. Aouda erzählt Passepartout alles, was auf der Tankadere passiert ist, aber Passepartout behält sein Geheimnis über die Betäubung bei. Phileas stattet Passepartout mit Kleidung aus und die drei nehmen erneut Kurs auf See, diesmal an Bord der General Grant, die nach San Francisco unterwegs ist. Fix geht ebenfalls an Bord der General Grant, da der Haftbefehl gegen Phileas Fogg in Japan verloren gegangen ist. Er ist völlig frustriert, denn auf amerikanischem Boden hat britisches Recht keine Autorität mehr - er wird tatsächlich warten müssen, bis Fogg wieder in England ist, um ihn festzunehmen. Eines Tages treffen Fix und Passepartout auf dem Deck aufeinander. Passepartout stürmt auf Fix zu und versucht, ihn vor einer Gruppe von Amerikanern zu erwürgen. Passepartout prügelt Fix nieder und lässt ihn dann los, als er sich zufrieden fühlt. Fix bittet um ein kurzes Gespräch nach dem Faustkampf, und Passepartout stimmt widerwillig zu. Fix sagt ihm, dass er tatsächlich auf der Seite von Phileas steht. Er sagt, er werde Fogg nicht mehr im Weg stehen, aber er werde ihn in England verhaften, und Passepartout könne selbst sehen, ob Fogg unschuldig ist oder nicht.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: XIII. CASTLES IN THE AIR. Laurie lay luxuriously swinging to and fro in his hammock, one warm September afternoon, wondering what his neighbors were about, but too lazy to go and find out. He was in one of his moods; for the day had been both unprofitable and unsatisfactory, and he was wishing he could live it over again. The hot weather made him indolent, and he had shirked his studies, tried Mr. Brooke's patience to the utmost, displeased his grandfather by practising half the afternoon, frightened the maid-servants half out of their wits, by mischievously hinting that one of his dogs was going mad, and, after high words with the stable-man about some fancied neglect of his horse, he had flung himself into his hammock, to fume over the stupidity of the world in general, till the peace of the lovely day quieted him in spite of himself. Staring up into the green gloom of the horse-chestnut trees above him, he dreamed dreams of all sorts, and was just imagining himself tossing on the ocean, in a voyage round the world, when the sound of voices brought him ashore in a flash. Peeping through the meshes of the hammock, he saw the Marches coming out, as if bound on some expedition. "What in the world are those girls about now?" thought Laurie, opening his sleepy eyes to take a good look, for there was something rather peculiar in the appearance of his neighbors. Each wore a large, flapping hat, a brown linen pouch slung over one shoulder, and carried a long staff. Meg had a cushion, Jo a book, Beth a basket, and Amy a portfolio. All walked quietly through the garden, out at the little back gate, and began to climb the hill that lay between the house and river. "Well, that's cool!" said Laurie to himself, "to have a picnic and never ask me. They can't be going in the boat, for they haven't got the key. Perhaps they forgot it; I'll take it to them, and see what's going on." Though possessed of half a dozen hats, it took him some time to find one; then there was a hunt for the key, which was at last discovered in his pocket; so that the girls were quite out of sight when he leaped the fence and ran after them. Taking the shortest way to the boat-house, he waited for them to appear: but no one came, and he went up the hill to take an observation. A grove of pines covered one part of it, and from the heart of this green spot came a clearer sound than the soft sigh of the pines or the drowsy chirp of the crickets. "Here's a landscape!" thought Laurie, peeping through the bushes, and looking wide-awake and good-natured already. It _was_ rather a pretty little picture; for the sisters sat together in the shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over them, the aromatic wind lifting their hair and cooling their hot cheeks, and all the little wood-people going on with their affairs as if these were no strangers, but old friends. Meg sat upon her cushion, sewing daintily with her white hands, and looking as fresh and sweet as a rose, in her pink dress, among the green. Beth was sorting the cones that lay thick under the hemlock near by, for she made pretty things of them. Amy was sketching a group of ferns, and Jo was knitting as she read aloud. A shadow passed over the boy's face as he watched them, feeling that he ought to go away, because uninvited; yet lingering, because home seemed very lonely, and this quiet party in the woods most attractive to his restless spirit. He stood so still that a squirrel, busy with its harvesting, ran down a pine close beside him, saw him suddenly and skipped back, scolding so shrilly that Beth looked up, espied the wistful face behind the birches, and beckoned with a reassuring smile. [Illustration: It was rather a pretty little picture] "May I come in, please? or shall I be a bother?" he asked, advancing slowly. Meg lifted her eyebrows, but Jo scowled at her defiantly, and said, at once, "Of course you may. We should have asked you before, only we thought you wouldn't care for such a girl's game as this." "I always liked your games; but if Meg doesn't want me, I'll go away." "I've no objection, if you do something; it's against the rules to be idle here," replied Meg, gravely but graciously. "Much obliged; I'll do anything if you'll let me stop a bit, for it's as dull as the Desert of Sahara down there. Shall I sew, read, cone, draw, or do all at once? Bring on your bears; I'm ready," and Laurie sat down, with a submissive expression delightful to behold. "Finish this story while I set my heel," said Jo, handing him the book. "Yes'm," was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to prove his gratitude for the favor of an admission into the "Busy Bee Society." The story was not a long one, and, when it was finished, he ventured to ask a few questions as a reward of merit. "Please, ma'am, could I inquire if this highly instructive and charming institution is a new one?" "Would you tell him?" asked Meg of her sisters. "He'll laugh," said Amy warningly. "Who cares?" said Jo. "I guess he'll like it," added Beth. "Of course I shall! I give you my word I won't laugh. Tell away, Jo, and don't be afraid." "The idea of being afraid of you! Well, you see we used to play 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and we have been going on with it in earnest, all winter and summer." "Yes, I know," said Laurie, nodding wisely. "Who told you?" demanded Jo. "Spirits." "No, I did; I wanted to amuse him one night when you were all away, and he was rather dismal. He did like it, so don't scold, Jo," said Beth meekly. "You can't keep a secret. Never mind; it saves trouble now." "Go on, please," said Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her work, looking a trifle displeased. "Oh, didn't she tell you about this new plan of ours? Well, we have tried not to waste our holiday, but each has had a task, and worked at it with a will. The vacation is nearly over, the stints are all done, and we are ever so glad that we didn't dawdle." "Yes, I should think so;" and Laurie thought regretfully of his own idle days. "Mother likes to have us out of doors as much as possible; so we bring our work here, and have nice times. For the fun of it we bring our things in these bags, wear the old hats, use poles to climb the hill, and play pilgrims, as we used to do years ago. We call this hill the 'Delectable Mountain,' for we can look far away and see the country where we hope to live some time." Jo pointed, and Laurie sat up to examine; for through an opening in the wood one could look across the wide, blue river, the meadows on the other side, far over the outskirts of the great city, to the green hills that rose to meet the sky. The sun was low, and the heavens plowed with the splendor of an autumn sunset. Gold and purple clouds lay on the hill-tops; and rising high into the ruddy light were silvery white peaks, that shone like the airy spires of some Celestial City. "How beautiful that is!" said Laurie softly, for he was quick to see and feel beauty of any kind. "It's often so; and we like to watch it, for it is never the same, but always splendid," replied Amy, wishing she could paint it. "Jo talks about the country where we hope to live some time,--the real country, she means, with pigs and chickens, and haymaking. It would be nice, but I wish the beautiful country up there was real, and we could ever go to it," said Beth musingly. "There is a lovelier country even than that, where we _shall_ go, by and by, when we are good enough," answered Meg, with her sweet voice. "It seems so long to wait, so hard to do; I want to fly away at once, as those swallows fly, and go in at that splendid gate." "You'll get there, Beth, sooner or later; no fear of that," said Jo; "I'm the one that will have to fight and work, and climb and wait, and maybe never get in after all." "You'll have me for company, if that's any comfort. I shall have to do a deal of travelling before I come in sight of your Celestial City. If I arrive late, you'll say a good word for me, won't you, Beth?" Something in the boy's face troubled his little friend; but she said cheerfully, with her quiet eyes on the changing clouds, "If people really want to go, and really try all their lives, I think they will get in; for I don't believe there are any locks on that door, or any guards at the gate. I always imagine it is as it is in the picture, where the shining ones stretch out their hands to welcome poor Christian as he comes up from the river." "Wouldn't it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make could come true, and we could live in them?" said Jo, after a little pause. "I've made such quantities it would be hard to choose which I'd have," said Laurie, lying flat, and throwing cones at the squirrel who had betrayed him. "You'd have to take your favorite one. What is it?" asked Meg. "If I tell mine, will you tell yours?" "Yes, if the girls will too." "We will. Now, Laurie." "After I'd seen as much of the world as I want to, I'd like to settle in Germany, and have just as much music as I choose. I'm to be a famous musician myself, and all creation is to rush to hear me; and I'm never to be bothered about money or business, but just enjoy myself, and live for what I like. That's my favorite castle. What's yours, Meg?" Margaret seemed to find it a little hard to tell hers, and waved a brake before her face, as if to disperse imaginary gnats, while she said slowly, "I should like a lovely house, full of all sorts of luxurious things,--nice food, pretty clothes, handsome furniture, pleasant people, and heaps of money. I am to be mistress of it, and manage it as I like, with plenty of servants, so I never need work a bit. How I should enjoy it! for I wouldn't be idle, but do good, and make every one love me dearly." [Illustration: Waved a brake before her face] "Wouldn't you have a master for your castle in the air?" asked Laurie slyly. "I said 'pleasant people,' you know;" and Meg carefully tied up her shoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face. "Why don't you say you'd have a splendid, wise, good husband, and some angelic little children? You know your castle wouldn't be perfect without," said blunt Jo, who had no tender fancies yet, and rather scorned romance, except in books. "You'd have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in yours," answered Meg petulantly. "Wouldn't I, though? I'd have a stable full of Arabian steeds, rooms piled with books, and I'd write out of a magic inkstand, so that my works should be as famous as Laurie's music. I want to do something splendid before I go into my castle,--something heroic or wonderful, that won't be forgotten after I'm dead. I don't know what, but I'm on the watch for it, and mean to astonish you all, some day. I think I shall write books, and get rich and famous: that would suit me, so that is _my_ favorite dream." "Mine is to stay at home safe with father and mother, and help take care of the family," said Beth contentedly. "Don't you wish for anything else?" asked Laurie. "Since I had my little piano, I am perfectly satisfied. I only wish we may all keep well and be together; nothing else." "I have ever so many wishes; but the pet one is to be an artist, and go to Rome, and do fine pictures, and be the best artist in the whole world," was Amy's modest desire. "We're an ambitious set, aren't we? Every one of us, but Beth, wants to be rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect. I do wonder if any of us will ever get our wishes," said Laurie, chewing grass, like a meditative calf. "I've got the key to my castle in the air; but whether I can unlock the door remains to be seen," observed Jo mysteriously. "I've got the key to mine, but I'm not allowed to try it. Hang college!" muttered Laurie, with an impatient sigh. "Here's mine!" and Amy waved her pencil. "I haven't got any," said Meg forlornly. "Yes, you have," said Laurie at once. "Where?" "In your face." "Nonsense; that's of no use." "Wait and see if it doesn't bring you something worth having," replied the boy, laughing at the thought of a charming little secret which he fancied he knew. Meg colored behind the brake, but asked no questions, and looked across the river with the same expectant expression which Mr. Brooke had worn when he told the story of the knight. "If we are all alive ten years hence, let's meet, and see how many of us have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are then than now," said Jo, always ready with a plan. "Bless me! how old I shall be,--twenty-seven!" exclaimed Meg who felt grown up already, having just reached seventeen. "You and I shall be twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and Amy twenty-two. What a venerable party!" said Jo. "I hope I shall have done something to be proud of by that time; but I'm such a lazy dog, I'm afraid I shall 'dawdle,' Jo." "You need a motive, mother says; and when you get it, she is sure you'll work splendidly." "Is she? By Jupiter I will, if I only get the chance!" cried Laurie, sitting up with sudden energy. "I ought to be satisfied to please grandfather, and I do try, but it's working against the grain, you see, and comes hard. He wants me to be an India merchant, as he was, and I'd rather be shot. I hate tea and silk and spices, and every sort of rubbish his old ships bring, and I don't care how soon they go to the bottom when I own them. Going to college ought to satisfy him, for if I give him four years he ought to let me off from the business; but he's set, and I 've got to do just as he did, unless I break away and please myself, as my father did. If there was any one left to stay with the old gentleman, I'd do it to-morrow." Laurie spoke excitedly, and looked ready to carry his threat into execution on the slightest provocation; for he was growing up very fast, and, in spite of his indolent ways, had a young man's hatred of subjection, a young man's restless longing to try the world for himself. "I advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never come home again till you have tried your own way," said Jo, whose imagination was fired by the thought of such a daring exploit, and whose sympathy was excited by what she called "Teddy's wrongs." "That's not right, Jo; you mustn't talk in that way, and Laurie mustn't take your bad advice. You should do just what your grandfather wishes, my dear boy," said Meg, in her most maternal tone. "Do your best at college, and, when he sees that you try to please him, I'm sure he won't be hard or unjust to you. As you say, there is no one else to stay with and love him, and you'd never forgive yourself if you left him without his permission. Don't be dismal or fret, but do your duty; and you'll get your reward, as good Mr. Brooke has, by being respected and loved." "What do you know about him?" asked Laurie, grateful for the good advice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn the conversation from himself, after his unusual outbreak. "Only what your grandpa told us about him,--how he took good care of his own mother till she died, and wouldn't go abroad as tutor to some nice person, because he wouldn't leave her; and how he provides now for an old woman who nursed his mother; and never tells any one, but is just as generous and patient and good as he can be." "So he is, dear old fellow!" said Laurie heartily, as Meg paused, looking flushed and earnest with her story. "It's like grandpa to find out all about him, without letting him know, and to tell all his goodness to others, so that they might like him. Brooke couldn't understand why your mother was so kind to him, asking him over with me, and treating him in her beautiful friendly way. He thought she was just perfect, and talked about it for days and days, and went on about you all in flaming style. If ever I do get my wish, you see what I'll do for Brooke." "Begin to do something now, by not plaguing his life out," said Meg sharply. "How do you know I do, miss?" "I can always tell by his face, when he goes away. If you have been good, he looks satisfied and walks briskly; if you have plagued him, he's sober and walks slowly, as if he wanted to go back and do his work better." "Well, I like that! So you keep an account of my good and bad marks in Brooke's face, do you? I see him bow and smile as he passes your window, but I didn't know you'd got up a telegraph." [Illustration: I see him bow and smile] "We haven't; don't be angry, and oh, don't tell him I said anything! It was only to show that I cared how you get on, and what is said here is said in confidence, you know," cried Meg, much alarmed at the thought of what might follow from her careless speech. "_I_ don't tell tales," replied Laurie, with his "high and mighty" air, as Jo called a certain expression which he occasionally wore. "Only if Brooke is going to be a thermometer, I must mind and have fair weather for him to report." "Please don't be offended. I didn't mean to preach or tell tales or be silly; I only thought Jo was encouraging you in a feeling which you'd be sorry for, by and by. You are so kind to us, we feel as if you were our brother, and say just what we think. Forgive me, I meant it kindly." And Meg offered her hand with a gesture both affectionate and timid. Ashamed of his momentary pique, Laurie squeezed the kind little hand, and said frankly, "I'm the one to be forgiven; I'm cross, and have been out of sorts all day. I like to have you tell me my faults and be sisterly, so don't mind if I am grumpy sometimes; I thank you all the same." Bent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself as agreeable as possible,--wound cotton for Meg, recited poetry to please Jo, shook down cones for Beth, and helped Amy with her ferns, proving himself a fit person to belong to the "Busy Bee Society." In the midst of an animated discussion on the domestic habits of turtles (one of those amiable creatures having strolled up from the river), the faint sound of a bell warned them that Hannah had put the tea "to draw," and they would just have time to get home to supper. "May I come again?" asked Laurie. "Yes, if you are good, and love your book, as the boys in the primer are told to do," said Meg smiling. "I'll try." "Then you may come, and I'll teach you to knit as the Scotchmen do; there's a demand for socks just now," added Jo, waving hers, like a big blue worsted banner, as they parted at the gate. That night, when Beth played to Mr. Laurence in the twilight, Laurie, standing in the shadow of the curtain, listened to the little David, whose simple music always quieted his moody spirit, and watched the old man, who sat with his gray head on his hand, thinking tender thoughts of the dead child he had loved so much. Remembering the conversation of the afternoon, the boy said to himself, with the resolve to make the sacrifice cheerfully, "I'll let my castle go, and stay with the dear old gentleman while he needs me, for I am all he has." [Illustration: Tail-piece] [Illustration: Jo was very busy] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Nach einem frustrierenden Tag entdeckt Laurie die March-Mädchen dabei, wie sie auf ein Picknick gehen, und entscheidet sich, ihnen zu folgen. Er findet sie in einer Lichtung und erhält die Erlaubnis, sich ihnen anzuschließen, solange er nicht untätig ist. Die Mädchen erklären, dass sie als Teil ihres Spiels "Pilgrim's Progress" an ihren Zielen während des Urlaubs gearbeitet haben. Um draußen zu sein, kommen sie in diese Lichtung, die sie Delectable Mountain nennen, und tragen Stangen und Taschen mit sich, während sie ihre Arbeit fortsetzen und dabei die Landschaft betrachten. Sie sprechen über den Himmel und beschreiben dann jeder ihr Lieblingsschloss in der Luft oder ihren Traum für die Zukunft. Laurie wünscht sich, ein berühmter Musiker in Deutschland zu sein. Meg wünscht sich ein schönes Zuhause voller luxuriöser Dinge und liebevoller Menschen. Jo wünscht sich, Bücher zu schreiben, berühmt zu werden und einen Stall mit arabischen Pferden zu haben. Amy wünscht sich, nach Rom zu gehen und dort die berühmteste Künstlerin der Welt zu werden, und Beth wünscht sich einfach nur, zu Hause bei ihrer Familie zu bleiben. Laurie befürchtet, dass sein Großvater ihn dazu zwingen wird, ins Geschäft zu gehen, trotz Lauries Wünschen, und sagt, er würde weglaufen, wenn es jemand anderen gäbe, bei dem der Großvater bleiben könnte. Jo ermutigt ihn kurzzeitig, aber Meg erinnert ihn daran, seinem Großvater gegenüber pflichtbewusst zu sein und darauf zu vertrauen, dass er gerecht und freundlich sein wird, so wie er es bei Mr. Brooke war. Meg beschreibt dann, was sie von Mr. Laurence über Mr. Brooke gehört hat, dass er bessere bezahlte Jobs aufgegeben hat, um sich um seine Mutter zu kümmern und sich nun um eine andere ältere Frau kümmert. An diesem Abend, während er Beth für Mr. Laurence spielen hört, beschließt Laurie, bei seinem Großvater zu bleiben und seine 'Burg' als Musiker aufzugeben.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: SCENE 2. Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house [Enter PORTIA and NERISSA.] PORTIA. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world. NERISSA. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are; and yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean: superfluity come sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer. PORTIA. Good sentences, and well pronounced. NERISSA. They would be better, if well followed. PORTIA. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions; I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done than to be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree; such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. O me, the word 'choose'! I may neither choose who I would nor refuse who I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curb'd by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none? NERISSA. Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death have good inspirations; therefore the lott'ry that he hath devised in these three chests, of gold, silver, and lead, whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you, will no doubt never be chosen by any rightly but one who you shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come? PORTIA. I pray thee over-name them; and as thou namest them, I will describe them; and according to my description, level at my affection. NERISSA. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. PORTIA. Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of his horse; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts that he can shoe him himself; I am much afeard my lady his mother play'd false with a smith. NERISSA. Then is there the County Palatine. PORTIA. He doth nothing but frown, as who should say 'An you will not have me, choose.' He hears merry tales and smiles not: I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to a death's-head with a bone in his mouth than to either of these. God defend me from these two! NERISSA. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon? PORTIA. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker, but he! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan's, a better bad habit of frowning than the Count Palatine; he is every man in no man. If a throstle sing he falls straight a-capering; he will fence with his own shadow; if I should marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me, I would forgive him; for if he love me to madness, I shall never requite him. NERISSA. What say you, then, to Falconbridge, the young baron of England? PORTIA. You know I say nothing to him, for he understands not me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian, and you will come into the court and swear that I have a poor pennyworth in the English. He is a proper man's picture; but alas, who can converse with a dumb-show? How oddly he is suited! I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere. NERISSA. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour? PORTIA. That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore he would pay him again when he was able; I think the Frenchman became his surety, and sealed under for another. NERISSA. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew? PORTIA. Very vilely in the morning when he is sober, and most vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk: when he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast. An the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him. NERISSA. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform your father's will, if you should refuse to accept him. PORTIA. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket; for if the devil be within and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a sponge. NERISSA. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords; they have acquainted me with their determinations, which is indeed to return to their home, and to trouble you with no more suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than your father's imposition, depending on the caskets. PORTIA. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's will. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable; for there is not one among them but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant them a fair departure. NERISSA. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat? PORTIA. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, so was he called. NERISSA. True, madam; he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. PORTIA. I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise. [Enter a SERVANT.] How now! what news? SERVANT. The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their leave; and there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings word the Prince his master will be here to-night. PORTIA. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach; if he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than wive me. Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before. Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, another knocks at the door. [Exeunt] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

In Belmont beschwert sich Portia bei ihrer Zofe Nerissa, dass sie müde von der Welt ist, weil sie gemäß dem Testament ihres verstorbenen Vaters nicht selbst entscheiden darf, ob sie einen Ehemann nimmt. Stattdessen müssen Portias verschiedene Verehrer zwischen drei Truhen wählen: eine goldene, eine silberne und eine bleierne, in der Hoffnung, diejenige auszuwählen, die ihr Porträt enthält. Der Mann, der richtig ratet, wird Portias Hand in der Ehe gewinnen, aber diejenigen, die falsch raten, müssen schwören, niemals jemanden zu heiraten. Nerissa nennt die Verehrer, die gekommen sind, um zu raten - einen neapolitanischen Prinzen, einen pfälzischen Grafen, einen französischen Adligen, einen englischen Baron, einen schottischen Lord und den Neffen des Herzogs von Sachsen - und Portia kritisiert ihre vielen amüsanten Fehler. Zum Beispiel beschreibt sie den neapolitanischen Prinzen als zu verliebt in sein Pferd, den pfälzischen Grafen als zu ernst, den Engländer als ohne jegliche Kenntnis von Italienisch oder einer der anderen Sprachen, die Portia spricht, und den deutschen Verehrer als betrunken. Jeder dieser Verehrer ist ohne den Versuch einer Vermutung gegangen, aus Angst vor der Strafe bei falschem Raten. Diese Tatsache erleichtert Portia, und sowohl sie als auch Nerissa erinnern sich an Bassanio, der bereits einmal zu Besuch war, als den Verehrer, der am meisten verdient und lobenswert ist. Ein Diener tritt ein, um Portia mitzuteilen, dass der Prinz von Marokko bald eintreffen wird, eine Nachricht, über die Portia überhaupt nicht glücklich ist.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Am nächsten Nachmittag beugte sich Anne über ihre Patchwork-Arbeit am Küchenfenster und sah zufällig nach draußen. Dort erblickte sie Diana, die mysteriös am Dryad's Bubble winkte. Anne war sofort aus dem Haus und flog hinunter in die Mulde, während Verwunderung und Hoffnung in ihren ausdrucksstarken Augen kämpften. Aber die Hoffnung schwand, als sie das niedergeschlagene Gesicht von Diana sah. "Deine Mutter hat es nicht rückgängig gemacht?", keuchte sie. Diana schüttelte traurig den Kopf. "Nein; und oh, Anne, sie sagt, ich darf nie wieder mit dir spielen. Ich habe geweint und geweint, und ich habe ihr gesagt, dass es nicht deine Schuld ist, aber es hat nichts genutzt. Ich hatte alle Mühe, sie zu überreden, dass ich herunterkommen und mich von dir verabschieden durfte. Sie sagt, ich darf nur zehn Minuten bleiben und sie beobachtet mich mit der Uhr." "Zehn Minuten sind nicht sehr lange für einen ewigen Abschied", sagte Anne weinend. "Oh, Diana, versprich mir fest, dass du mich, die Freundin deiner Jugend, niemals vergessen wirst, egal welche anderen lieberen Freunde dich umarmen." "Das verspreche ich", schluchzte Diana, "und ich werde niemals eine andere Busenfreundin haben - das will ich auch nicht. Ich könnte niemanden lieben wie ich dich liebe." "Oh, Diana", rief Anne, ihre Hände faltend, "liebst du _mich_?" "Natürlich tue ich das. Wusstest du das nicht?" "Nein." Anne holte tief Luft. "Ich dachte, du _magst_ mich natürlich, aber ich hätte nie gehofft, dass du mich _liebst_. Warum, Diana, ich habe nicht gedacht, dass mich jemand lieben könnte. Niemand hat mich je geliebt, soweit ich mich erinnern kann. Oh, das ist wunderbar! Es ist ein Lichtstrahl, der für immer in der Dunkelheit eines von dir getrennten Pfades scheinen wird, Diana. Sag es einfach noch einmal." "Ich liebe dich bedingungslos, Anne", sagte Diana entschlossen, "und das werde ich immer tun, da kannst du sicher sein." "Und ich werde dich immer lieben, Diana", sagte Anne feierlich und streckte ihre Hand aus. "In den kommenden Jahren wird deine Erinnerung wie ein Stern über meinem einsamen Leben leuchten, so wie es in der letzten Geschichte steht, die wir zusammen gelesen haben. Diana, wirst du mir eine Locke deiner tiefschwarzen Strähnen als Abschied mitgeben, damit ich sie für immer aufbewahren kann?" "Hast du etwas, um sie abzuschneiden?", fragte Diana und wischte sich die Tränen ab, die durch Annes berührende Worte erneut flossen und zur sachlichen Ebene zurückkehrten. "Ja. Zum Glück habe ich meine Patchwork-Schere in meiner Schürzentasche", sagte Anne feierlich und schnitt eine von Dianas Locken ab. "Leb wohl, meine geliebte Freundin. Von nun an müssen wir Fremde sein, obwohl wir Seite an Seite leben. Aber mein Herz wird dir immer treu bleiben." Anne stand da und beobachtete Diana, wie sie außer Sichtweite ging, und winkte ihr traurig zu, immer wenn sie sich umdrehte, um zurückzublicken. Dann kehrte sie ins Haus zurück und war für den Moment durch diese romantische Trennung nicht wenig getröstet. "Es ist vorbei", sagte sie zu Marilla. "Ich werde nie wieder eine Freundin haben. Ich bin wirklich schlechter dran als je zuvor, denn ich habe weder Katie Maurice noch Violetta. Und selbst wenn ich sie hätte, wäre es nicht dasselbe. Auf irgendeine Weise sind kleine Traummädchen nicht befriedigend nach einer echten Freundin. Diana und ich hatten einen so anrührenden Abschied am Quell. Es wird für immer heilig in meiner Erinnerung sein. Ich habe die rührendsten Worte verwendet, die ich mir vorstellen konnte, und habe 'du' und 'dich' gesagt. 'Du' und 'dich' klingen so viel romantischer als 'Sie'. Diana hat mir eine Haarlocke gegeben, und ich werde sie in einen kleinen Beutel nähen und mein Leben lang um den Hals tragen. Bitte sorge dafür, dass sie mit mir begraben wird, denn ich glaube nicht, dass ich noch lange lebe. Vielleicht wird Mrs. Barry Reue empfinden, wenn sie mich kalt und tot vor sich sieht, und sie lässt Diana zu meiner Beerdigung kommen." "Ich glaube nicht, dass du vor Kummer sterben wirst, solange du reden kannst, Anne", sagte Marilla unsympathisch. Am nächsten Montag überraschte Anne Marilla, als sie mit ihrem Korb voller Bücher und den Lippen zu einer entschlossenen Miene verpresst aus ihrem Zimmer kam. "Ich gehe wieder zur Schule", verkündete sie. "Das ist alles, was für mich im Leben übrig bleibt, nachdem man mir rücksichtslos meine Freundin genommen hat. In der Schule kann ich sie sehen und über vergangene Tage nachdenken." "Überlege lieber deine Lektionen und Aufgaben", sagte Marilla und verbarg ihre Freude über diese Entwicklung der Situation. "Wenn du wieder zur Schule gehst, hoffe ich, dass wir nichts mehr von zerbrochenen Schiefertafeln über den Köpfen anderer Leute und solchem Unsinn hören werden. Benimm dich und mach einfach, was dir dein Lehrer sagt." "Ich werde versuchen, eine vorbildliche Schülerin zu sein", stimmte Anne bedrückt zu. "Es wird wahrscheinlich nicht besonders spaßig sein. Mr. Phillips hat gesagt, dass Minnie Andrews ein vorbildliches Mädchen ist, und in ihr steckt kein Funke Vorstellungskraft oder Leben. Sie ist einfach langweilig und unbeholfen und scheint niemals Spaß zu haben. Aber ich fühle mich so niedergeschlagen, dass es jetzt vielleicht leicht für mich sein wird. Ich gehe den Weg über die Straße. Ich könnte nicht ertragen, alleine den Birch-Pfad entlangzugehen. Ich würde bittere Tränen weinen, wenn ich es täte." Anne wurde an der Schule mit offenen Armen empfangen. Ihre Vorstellungskraft hatte in Spielen sehr gefehlt, ihre Stimme beim Singen und ihre schauspielerischen Fähigkeiten beim Vorlesen von Büchern zur Mittagszeit. Ruby Gillis schmuggelte ihr während der Lesestunde drei blaue Pflaumen herüber; Ella May MacPherson schenkte ihr eine riesige gelbe Stiefmütterchen, aus den Umschlägen eines Blumenkatalogs ausgeschnitten - eine Art Schreibtischdekoration, die in der Avonlea Schule sehr geschätzt wurde. Sophia Sloane bot an, ihr ein besonders elegantes Muster für Spitzenstricken beizubringen, perfekt geeignet zum Verzieren von Schürzen. Katie Boulter gab ihr eine Parfümflasche, um Tafelwasser aufzubewahren, und Julia Bell kopierte sorgfältig auf einem rosa Papier, dessen Ränder ausgeschnitten waren, die folgende Dichtung: Wenn die Dämmerung ihren Vorhang senkt, Und ihn mit einem Stern befestigt, Denke daran, dass du eine Freundin hast, Auch wenn sie weit umherirrt. "Es ist so schön, geschätzt zu werden", seufzte Anne verzückt zu Marilla an diesem Abend. Die Mädchen waren nicht die einzigen Schüler, die sie "schätzten". Als Anne nach der Mittagsstunde zu ihrem Platz ging - sie war von Mr. Phillips angewiesen worden, sich neben dem Musterschüler Minnie Andrews zu setzen - fand sie einen großen, köstlichen "Erdbeerapfel" auf ihrem Schreibtisch. Anne packte ihn bereit, um hineinzubeißen, als sie sich daran erinnerte, dass der einzige Ort in Avonlea, wo Erdbeeräpfel wachsen, der alte Blythe-Obstgarten auf der anderen Seite des Lake of Shining Waters war. Anne ließ den Apfel fallen, als wäre er eine glühende Kohle und wischte auffällig ihre Finger mit ihrem Taschentuch ab. Der Apfel blieb unber Natürlich bin ich nicht böse auf dich, weil du deiner Mutter gehorchen musst. Unsere Seelen können sich austauschen. Ich werde dein wundervolles Geschenk für immer behalten. Minnie Andrews ist ein sehr nettes kleines Mädchen - obwohl sie keine Vorstellungskraft hat - aber nachdem ich Diana's Busenfreundin war, kann ich nicht Minnie's Freundin sein. Bitte entschuldige Fehler, da meine Rechtschreibung noch nicht sehr gut ist, obwohl sie sich stark verbessert hat. Deine bis der Tod uns scheidet, Anne oder Cordelia Shirley. P.S. Ich werde heute Nacht mit deinem Brief unter meinem Kissen schlafen. A. _oder_ C.S. Marilla erwartete pessimistisch weitere Probleme, seitdem Anne wieder zur Schule gegangen war. Aber es gab keine. Vielleicht übernahm Anne etwas von dem "Vorbild"-Geist von Minnie Andrews; zumindest kam sie von da an gut mit Herrn Phillips zurecht. Sie stürzte sich mit ganzem Herzen und Seele in ihr Studium und war fest entschlossen, von Gilbert Blythe in keiner Klasse übertroffen zu werden. Die Rivalität zwischen ihnen war bald offensichtlich; sie war völlig freundschaftlich von Gilbert's Seite, aber es ist zu befürchten, dass dasselbe nicht von Anne gesagt werden kann, die zweifellos eine kritikwürdige Hartnäckigkeit hatte, Groll zu hegen. Sie war genauso intensiv in ihrem Hass wie in ihren Lieben. Sie würde sich nicht herablassen zuzugeben, dass sie Gilbert im Schulunterricht nachahmen wollte, denn das würde seine Existenz anerkennen, die Anne beharrlich ignorierte; aber die Rivalität war da und die Ehren schwankten zwischen ihnen. Jetzt war Gilbert der Kopf der Rechtschreibklasse; jetzt schaffte Anne es mit einem Schwung ihrer langen roten Zöpfe, ihn zu besiegen. Eines Morgens waren sie gleichauf und ihre Namen wurden zusammen aufgeschrieben. Es war fast so schlimm wie eine Anmerkung, und Annes Beschämung war genauso offensichtlich wie Gilberts Zufriedenheit. Bei den schriftlichen Prüfungen am Ende jedes Monats war die Spannung schrecklich. Im ersten Monat hatte Gilbert drei Punkte mehr. Im zweiten Monat schlug Anne ihn um fünf Punkte. Aber ihr Triumph wurde dadurch getrübt, dass Gilbert ihr vor der ganzen Schule herzlich gratulierte. Es wäre für sie so viel süßer gewesen, wenn er den Stachel seiner Niederlage gespürt hätte. Mr. Phillips mochte kein sehr guter Lehrer sein; aber eine Schülerin, die so unbeirrbar darauf bedacht war, zu lernen wie Anne, konnte unter jeder Art von Lehrer kaum Fortschritte machen. Am Ende des Semesters wurden Anne und Gilbert beide in die fünfte Klasse versetzt und durften mit dem Studium der Grundlagen in "den Fächern" beginnen - damit waren Latein, Geometrie, Französisch und Algebra gemeint. In der Geometrie traf Anne auf ihre Nemesis. "Es ist einfach furchtbare Sachen, Marilla", stöhnte sie. "Ich bin sicher, dass ich niemals einen Kopf oder Schwanz daraus machen kann. Es ist überhaupt keine Möglichkeit für Vorstellungskraft. Herr Phillips sagt, ich bin die dümmste Nuss, die er je gesehen hat. Und Gil - ich meine manche der Anderen sind so gut darin. Es ist extrem demütigend, Marilla. "Sogar Diana kommt besser zurecht als ich. Aber es macht mir nichts aus, von Diana geschlagen zu werden. Auch wenn wir uns jetzt als Fremde begegnen, liebe ich sie immer noch mit einer unvergänglichen Liebe. Manchmal macht es mich sehr traurig, an sie zu denken. Aber wirklich, Marilla, man kann in einer so interessanten Welt nicht lange traurig sein, nicht wahr?" Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Am nächsten Tag kommt Diana zu Green Gables, um sich von Anne zu verabschieden. Sie bekunden einander ihre Liebe und Anne nimmt eine Locke von Dianas Haar als Erinnerung mit. Sie versprechen, dass sie trotzdem, obwohl sie sich wie Fremde verhalten müssen, für immer Freundinnen sein werden. Am Tag danach kommt Anne morgens mit ihren Schulbüchern runter und erzählt Marilla, dass sie wieder zur Schule geht, damit sie Diana jeden Tag sehen kann. Marilla ist erfreut, versucht es aber zu verbergen. In der Schule wird Anne von den anderen Schülern freudig wieder aufgenommen. Viele Mädchen schenken ihr kleine Geschenke wie Pflaumen und ein Parfümfläschchen. Auch Gilbert und Charlie schenken Anne Geschenke, aber Anne nimmt Gilberts nicht an. Anne ist enttäuscht, dass Diana sie an ihrem ersten Schultag nach ihrer Rückkehr überhaupt nicht anschaut, aber an ihrem zweiten Schultag findet sie einen Zettel von Diana, in dem sie sagt, dass sie sie vermisst. Anne hat keine weiteren Verhaltensprobleme in der Schule und konzentriert sich intensiv auf ihr Studium, weil sie besser sein will als Gilbert. Anne und Gilbert sind immer an der Spitze der Klasse, weit vor anderen Schülern ihrer Stufe. Anne muss sehr hart an Mathe und Rechtschreibung arbeiten, um besser zu sein als er. Am Ende des Trimesters werden sowohl Anne als auch Gilbert in eine höhere Klasse versetzt und beginnen mit dem Studium schwierigerer Fächer, darunter auch Geometrie, die Anne besonders schwerfällt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: I HE sat smoking with the piano-salesman, clinging to the warm refuge of gossip, afraid to venture into thoughts of Paul. He was the more affable on the surface as secretly he became more apprehensive, felt more hollow. He was certain that Paul was in Chicago without Zilla's knowledge, and that he was doing things not at all moral and secure. When the salesman yawned that he had to write up his orders, Babbitt left him, left the hotel, in leisurely calm. But savagely he said "Campbell Inn!" to the taxi-driver. He sat agitated on the slippery leather seat, in that chill dimness which smelled of dust and perfume and Turkish cigarettes. He did not heed the snowy lake-front, the dark spaces and sudden bright corners in the unknown land south of the Loop. The office of the Campbell Inn was hard, bright, new; the night clerk harder and brighter. "Yep?" he said to Babbitt. "Mr. Paul Riesling registered here?" "Yep." "Is he in now?" "Nope." "Then if you'll give me his key, I'll wait for him." "Can't do that, brother. Wait down here if you wanna." Babbitt had spoken with the deference which all the Clan of Good Fellows give to hotel clerks. Now he said with snarling abruptness: "I may have to wait some time. I'm Riesling's brother-in-law. I'll go up to his room. D' I look like a sneak-thief?" His voice was low and not pleasant. With considerable haste the clerk took down the key, protesting, "I never said you looked like a sneak-thief. Just rules of the hotel. But if you want to--" On his way up in the elevator Babbitt wondered why he was here. Why shouldn't Paul be dining with a respectable married woman? Why had he lied to the clerk about being Paul's brother-in-law? He had acted like a child. He must be careful not to say foolish dramatic things to Paul. As he settled down he tried to look pompous and placid. Then the thought--Suicide. He'd been dreading that, without knowing it. Paul would be just the person to do something like that. He must be out of his head or he wouldn't be confiding in that--that dried-up hag. Zilla (oh, damn Zilla! how gladly he'd throttle that nagging fiend of a woman!)--she'd probably succeeded at last, and driven Paul crazy. Suicide. Out there in the lake, way out, beyond the piled ice along the shore. It would be ghastly cold to drop into the water to-night. Or--throat cut--in the bathroom-- Babbitt flung into Paul's bathroom. It was empty. He smiled, feebly. He pulled at his choking collar, looked at his watch, opened the window to stare down at the street, looked at his watch, tried to read the evening paper lying on the glass-topped bureau, looked again at his watch. Three minutes had gone by since he had first looked at it. And he waited for three hours. He was sitting fixed, chilled, when the doorknob turned. Paul came in glowering. "Hello," Paul said. "Been waiting?" "Yuh, little while." "Well?" "Well what? Just thought I'd drop in to see how you made out in Akron." "I did all right. What difference does it make?" "Why, gosh, Paul, what are you sore about?" "What are you butting into my affairs for?" "Why, Paul, that's no way to talk! I'm not butting into nothing. I was so glad to see your ugly old phiz that I just dropped in to say howdy." "Well, I'm not going to have anybody following me around and trying to boss me. I've had all of that I'm going to stand!" "Well, gosh, I'm not--" "I didn't like the way you looked at May Arnold, or the snooty way you talked." "Well, all right then! If you think I'm a buttinsky, then I'll just butt in! I don't know who your May Arnold is, but I know doggone good and well that you and her weren't talking about tar-roofing, no, nor about playing the violin, neither! If you haven't got any moral consideration for yourself, you ought to have some for your position in the community. The idea of your going around places gawping into a female's eyes like a love-sick pup! I can understand a fellow slipping once, but I don't propose to see a fellow that's been as chummy with me as you have getting started on the downward path and sneaking off from his wife, even as cranky a one as Zilla, to go woman-chasing--" "Oh, you're a perfectly moral little husband!" "I am, by God! I've never looked at any woman except Myra since I've been married--practically--and I never will! I tell you there's nothing to immorality. It don't pay. Can't you see, old man, it just makes Zilla still crankier?" Slight of resolution as he was of body, Paul threw his snow-beaded overcoat on the floor and crouched on a flimsy cane chair. "Oh, you're an old blowhard, and you know less about morality than Tinka, but you're all right, Georgie. But you can't understand that--I'm through. I can't go Zilla's hammering any longer. She's made up her mind that I'm a devil, and--Reg'lar Inquisition. Torture. She enjoys it. It's a game to see how sore she can make me. And me, either it's find a little comfort, any comfort, anywhere, or else do something a lot worse. Now this Mrs. Arnold, she's not so young, but she's a fine woman and she understands a fellow, and she's had her own troubles." "Yea! I suppose she's one of these hens whose husband 'doesn't understand her'!" "I don't know. Maybe. He was killed in the war." Babbitt lumbered up, stood beside Paul patting his shoulder, making soft apologetic noises. "Honest, George, she's a fine woman, and she's had one hell of a time. We manage to jolly each other up a lot. We tell each other we're the dandiest pair on earth. Maybe we don't believe it, but it helps a lot to have somebody with whom you can be perfectly simple, and not all this discussing--explaining--" "And that's as far as you go?" "It is not! Go on! Say it!" "Well, I don't--I can't say I like it, but--" With a burst which left him feeling large and shining with generosity, "it's none of my darn business! I'll do anything I can for you, if there's anything I can do." "There might be. I judge from Zilla's letters that 've been forwarded from Akron that she's getting suspicious about my staying away so long. She'd be perfectly capable of having me shadowed, and of coming to Chicago and busting into a hotel dining-room and bawling me out before everybody." "I'll take care of Zilla. I'll hand her a good fairy-story when I get back to Zenith." "I don't know--I don't think you better try it. You're a good fellow, but I don't know that diplomacy is your strong point." Babbitt looked hurt, then irritated. "I mean with women! With women, I mean. Course they got to go some to beat you in business diplomacy, but I just mean with women. Zilla may do a lot of rough talking, but she's pretty shrewd. She'd have the story out of you in no time." "Well, all right, but--" Babbitt was still pathetic at not being allowed to play Secret Agent. Paul soothed: "Course maybe you might tell her you'd been in Akron and seen me there." "Why, sure, you bet! Don't I have to go look at that candy-store property in Akron? Don't I? Ain't it a shame I have to stop off there when I'm so anxious to get home? Ain't it a regular shame? I'll say it is! I'll say it's a doggone shame!" "Fine. But for glory hallelujah's sake don't go putting any fancy fixings on the story. When men lie they always try to make it too artistic, and that's why women get suspicious. And--Let's have a drink, Georgie. I've got some gin and a little vermouth." The Paul who normally refused a second cocktail took a second now, and a third. He became red-eyed and thick-tongued. He was embarrassingly jocular and salacious. In the taxicab Babbitt incredulously found tears crowding into his eyes. II He had not told Paul of his plan but he did stop at Akron, between trains, for the one purpose of sending to Zilla a postcard with "Had to come here for the day, ran into Paul." In Zenith he called on her. If for public appearances Zilla was over-coiffed, over-painted, and resolutely corseted, for private misery she wore a filthy blue dressing-gown and torn stockings thrust into streaky pink satin mules. Her face was sunken. She seemed to have but half as much hair as Babbitt remembered, and that half was stringy. She sat in a rocker amid a debris of candy-boxes and cheap magazines, and she sounded dolorous when she did not sound derisive. But Babbitt was exceedingly breezy: "Well, well, Zil, old dear, having a good loaf while hubby's away? That's the ideal I'll bet a hat Myra never got up till ten, while I was in Chicago. Say, could I borrow your thermos--just dropped in to see if I could borrow your thermos bottle. We're going to have a toboggan party--want to take some coffee mit. Oh, did you get my card from Akron, saying I'd run into Paul?" "Yes. What was he doing?" "How do you mean?" He unbuttoned his overcoat, sat tentatively on the arm of a chair. "You know how I mean!" She slapped the pages of a magazine with an irritable clatter. "I suppose he was trying to make love to some hotel waitress or manicure girl or somebody." "Hang it, you're always letting on that Paul goes round chasing skirts. He doesn't, in the first place, and if he did, it would prob'ly be because you keep hinting at him and dinging at him so much. I hadn't meant to, Zilla, but since Paul is away, in Akron--" "He really is in Akron? I know he has some horrible woman that he writes to in Chicago." "Didn't I tell you I saw him in Akron? What 're you trying to do? Make me out a liar?" "No, but I just--I get so worried." "Now, there you are! That's what gets me! Here you love Paul, and yet you plague him and cuss him out as if you hated him. I simply can't understand why it is that the more some folks love people, the harder they try to make 'em miserable." "You love Ted and Rone--I suppose--and yet you nag them." "Oh. Well. That. That's different. Besides, I don't nag 'em. Not what you'd call nagging. But zize saying: Now, here's Paul, the nicest, most sensitive critter on God's green earth. You ought to be ashamed of yourself the way you pan him. Why, you talk to him like a washerwoman. I'm surprised you can act so doggone common, Zilla!" She brooded over her linked fingers. "Oh, I know. I do go and get mean sometimes, and I'm sorry afterwards. But, oh, Georgie, Paul is so aggravating! Honestly, I've tried awfully hard, these last few years, to be nice to him, but just because I used to be spiteful--or I seemed so; I wasn't, really, but I used to speak up and say anything that came into my head--and so he made up his mind that everything was my fault. Everything can't always be my fault, can it? And now if I get to fussing, he just turns silent, oh, so dreadfully silent, and he won't look at me--he just ignores me. He simply isn't human! And he deliberately keeps it up till I bust out and say a lot of things I don't mean. So silent--Oh, you righteous men! How wicked you are! How rotten wicked!" They thrashed things over and over for half an hour. At the end, weeping drably, Zilla promised to restrain herself. Paul returned four days later, and the Babbitts and Rieslings went festively to the movies and had chop suey at a Chinese restaurant. As they walked to the restaurant through a street of tailor shops and barber shops, the two wives in front, chattering about cooks, Babbitt murmured to Paul, "Zil seems a lot nicer now." "Yes, she has been, except once or twice. But it's too late now. I just--I'm not going to discuss it, but I'm afraid of her. There's nothing left. I don't ever want to see her. Some day I'm going to break away from her. Somehow." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Im Hotel von Paul erzählt Babbitt dem Angestellten, dass er der Schwager von Paul ist, um erlaubt zu werden, in Pauls Zimmer auf dessen Rückkehr zu warten. Nach drei Stunden kommt Paul an und ist verärgert darüber, dass sich Babbitt in seine Angelegenheiten einmischt. Als Babbitt ihn dafür tadelt, ein unmoralischer Ehemann zu sein, bricht Paul zusammen und erklärt, dass er "Zillas Beleidigungen nicht mehr ertragen kann" und dass er zu müde von ihrer Folter ist, um moralisch zu sein. Mit May Arnold sind die Dinge angenehm und einfach. Babbitt entschuldigt sich und sagt zu, Paul zu helfen, indem er Zilla erzählt, dass sie sich in Akron getroffen haben, wo Paul sein soll. Nachdem er ihr eine Postkarte aus Akron auf dem Heimweg geschickt hat, besucht Babbitt Zilla in Zenith, um beiläufig zu erwähnen, dass er Paul in Akron getroffen hat. Zilla gesteht, dass sie extrem besorgt ist, dass Paul eine Affäre hat, aber Babbitt bestreitet es und überzeugt sie, dass sie netter zu Paul sein sollte, da sie ihn letztendlich doch in die Arme einer anderen Frau treiben würde. Als Paul zurückkehrt, ist Zilla viel freundlicher, aber Paul sagt zu Babbitt, dass es jetzt "zu spät" ist; er hat sich entschlossen, "sich von ihr zu lösen".

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my ears. Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a crushing weight of responsibility seemed in an instant to be lifted from my soul. That cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong to but one man in all the world. "Holmes!" I cried--"Holmes!" "Come out," said he, "and please be careful with the revolver." I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat upon a stone outside, his gray eyes dancing with amusement as they fell upon my astonished features. He was thin and worn, but clear and alert, his keen face bronzed by the sun and roughened by the wind. In his tweed suit and cloth cap he looked like any other tourist upon the moor, and he had contrived, with that catlike love of personal cleanliness which was one of his characteristics, that his chin should be as smooth and his linen as perfect as if he were in Baker Street. "I never was more glad to see anyone in my life," said I as I wrung him by the hand. "Or more astonished, eh?" "Well, I must confess to it." "The surprise was not all on one side, I assure you. I had no idea that you had found my occasional retreat, still less that you were inside it, until I was within twenty paces of the door." "My footprint, I presume?" "No, Watson, I fear that I could not undertake to recognize your footprint amid all the footprints of the world. If you seriously desire to deceive me you must change your tobacconist; for when I see the stub of a cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know that my friend Watson is in the neighbourhood. You will see it there beside the path. You threw it down, no doubt, at that supreme moment when you charged into the empty hut." "Exactly." "I thought as much--and knowing your admirable tenacity I was convinced that you were sitting in ambush, a weapon within reach, waiting for the tenant to return. So you actually thought that I was the criminal?" "I did not know who you were, but I was determined to find out." "Excellent, Watson! And how did you localize me? You saw me, perhaps, on the night of the convict hunt, when I was so imprudent as to allow the moon to rise behind me?" "Yes, I saw you then." "And have no doubt searched all the huts until you came to this one?" "No, your boy had been observed, and that gave me a guide where to look." "The old gentleman with the telescope, no doubt. I could not make it out when first I saw the light flashing upon the lens." He rose and peeped into the hut. "Ha, I see that Cartwright has brought up some supplies. What's this paper? So you have been to Coombe Tracey, have you?" "Yes." "To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?" "Exactly." "Well done! Our researches have evidently been running on parallel lines, and when we unite our results I expect we shall have a fairly full knowledge of the case." "Well, I am glad from my heart that you are here, for indeed the responsibility and the mystery were both becoming too much for my nerves. But how in the name of wonder did you come here, and what have you been doing? I thought that you were in Baker Street working out that case of blackmailing." "That was what I wished you to think." "Then you use me, and yet do not trust me!" I cried with some bitterness. "I think that I have deserved better at your hands, Holmes." "My dear fellow, you have been invaluable to me in this as in many other cases, and I beg that you will forgive me if I have seemed to play a trick upon you. In truth, it was partly for your own sake that I did it, and it was my appreciation of the danger which you ran which led me to come down and examine the matter for myself. Had I been with Sir Henry and you it is confident that my point of view would have been the same as yours, and my presence would have warned our very formidable opponents to be on their guard. As it is, I have been able to get about as I could not possibly have done had I been living in the Hall, and I remain an unknown factor in the business, ready to throw in all my weight at a critical moment." "But why keep me in the dark?" "For you to know could not have helped us and might possibly have led to my discovery. You would have wished to tell me something, or in your kindness you would have brought me out some comfort or other, and so an unnecessary risk would be run. I brought Cartwright down with me--you remember the little chap at the express office--and he has seen after my simple wants: a loaf of bread and a clean collar. What does man want more? He has given me an extra pair of eyes upon a very active pair of feet, and both have been invaluable." "Then my reports have all been wasted!"--My voice trembled as I recalled the pains and the pride with which I had composed them. Holmes took a bundle of papers from his pocket. "Here are your reports, my dear fellow, and very well thumbed, I assure you. I made excellent arrangements, and they are only delayed one day upon their way. I must compliment you exceedingly upon the zeal and the intelligence which you have shown over an extraordinarily difficult case." I was still rather raw over the deception which had been practised upon me, but the warmth of Holmes's praise drove my anger from my mind. I felt also in my heart that he was right in what he said and that it was really best for our purpose that I should not have known that he was upon the moor. "That's better," said he, seeing the shadow rise from my face. "And now tell me the result of your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons--it was not difficult for me to guess that it was to see her that you had gone, for I am already aware that she is the one person in Coombe Tracey who might be of service to us in the matter. In fact, if you had not gone today it is exceedingly probable that I should have gone tomorrow." The sun had set and dusk was settling over the moor. The air had turned chill and we withdrew into the hut for warmth. There, sitting together in the twilight, I told Holmes of my conversation with the lady. So interested was he that I had to repeat some of it twice before he was satisfied. "This is most important," said he when I had concluded. "It fills up a gap which I had been unable to bridge in this most complex affair. You are aware, perhaps, that a close intimacy exists between this lady and the man Stapleton?" "I did not know of a close intimacy." "There can be no doubt about the matter. They meet, they write, there is a complete understanding between them. Now, this puts a very powerful weapon into our hands. If I could only use it to detach his wife--" "His wife?" "I am giving you some information now, in return for all that you have given me. The lady who has passed here as Miss Stapleton is in reality his wife." "Good heavens, Holmes! Are you sure of what you say? How could he have permitted Sir Henry to fall in love with her?" "Sir Henry's falling in love could do no harm to anyone except Sir Henry. He took particular care that Sir Henry did not make love to her, as you have yourself observed. I repeat that the lady is his wife and not his sister." "But why this elaborate deception?" "Because he foresaw that she would be very much more useful to him in the character of a free woman." All my unspoken instincts, my vague suspicions, suddenly took shape and centred upon the naturalist. In that impassive colourless man, with his straw hat and his butterfly-net, I seemed to see something terrible--a creature of infinite patience and craft, with a smiling face and a murderous heart. "It is he, then, who is our enemy--it is he who dogged us in London?" "So I read the riddle." "And the warning--it must have come from her!" "Exactly." The shape of some monstrous villainy, half seen, half guessed, loomed through the darkness which had girt me so long. "But are you sure of this, Holmes? How do you know that the woman is his wife?" Weitere Hilfe brauche ich nicht. "We must send for help, Holmes! We cannot carry him all the way to the Hall. Good heavens, are you mad?" He had uttered a cry and bent over the body. Now he was dancing and laughing and wringing my hand. Could this be my stern, self-contained friend? These were hidden fires, indeed! "A beard! A beard! The man has a beard!" "A beard?" "It is not the baronet--it is--why, it is my neighbour, the convict!" With feverish haste we had turned the body over, and that dripping beard was pointing up to the cold, clear moon. There could be no doubt about the beetling forehead, the sunken animal eyes. It was indeed the same face which had glared upon me in the light of the candle from over the rock--the face of Selden, the criminal. Then in an instant it was all clear to me. I remembered how the baronet had told me that he had handed his old wardrobe to Barrymore. Barrymore had passed it on in order to help Selden in his escape. Boots, shirt, cap--it was all Sir Henry's. The tragedy was still black enough, but this man had at least deserved death by the laws of his country. I told Holmes how the matter stood, my heart bubbling over with thankfulness and joy. "Then the clothes have been the poor devil's death," said he. "It is clear enough that the hound has been laid on from some article of Sir Henry's--the boot which was abstracted in the hotel, in all probability--and so ran this man down. There is one very singular thing, however: How came Selden, in the darkness, to know that the hound was on his trail?" "He heard him." "To hear a hound upon the moor would not work a hard man like this convict into such a paroxysm of terror that he would risk recapture by screaming wildly for help. By his cries he must have run a long way after he knew the animal was on his track. How did he know?" "A greater mystery to me is why this hound, presuming that all our conjectures are correct--" "I presume nothing." "Well, then, why this hound should be loose tonight. I suppose that it does not always run loose upon the moor. Stapleton would not let it go unless he had reason to think that Sir Henry would be there." "My difficulty is the more formidable of the two, for I think that we shall very shortly get an explanation of yours, while mine may remain forever a mystery. The question now is, what shall we do with this poor wretch's body? We cannot leave it here to the foxes and the ravens." "I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we can communicate with the police." "Exactly. I have no doubt that you and I could carry it so far. Halloa, Watson, what's this? It's the man himself, by all that's wonderful and audacious! Not a word to show your suspicions--not a word, or my plans crumble to the ground." A figure was approaching us over the moor, and I saw the dull red glow of a cigar. The moon shone upon him, and I could distinguish the dapper shape and jaunty walk of the naturalist. He stopped when he saw us, and then came on again. "Why, Dr. Watson, that's not you, is it? You are the last man that I should have expected to see out on the moor at this time of night. But, dear me, what's this? Somebody hurt? Not--don't tell me that it is our friend Sir Henry!" He hurried past me and stooped over the dead man. I heard a sharp intake of his breath and the cigar fell from his fingers. "Who--who's this?" he stammered. "It is Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown." Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon us, but by a supreme effort he had overcome his amazement and his disappointment. He looked sharply from Holmes to me. "Dear me! What a very shocking affair! How did he die?" "He appears to have broken his neck by falling over these rocks. My friend and I were strolling on the moor when we heard a cry." "I heard a cry also. That was what brought me out. I was uneasy about Sir Henry." "Why about Sir Henry in particular?" I could not help asking. "Because I had suggested that he should come over. When he did not come I was surprised, and I naturally became alarmed for his safety when I heard cries upon the moor. By the way"--his eyes darted again from my face to Holmes's--"did you hear anything else besides a cry?" "No," said Holmes; "did you?" "No." "What do you mean, then?" "Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a phantom hound, and so on. It is said to be heard at night upon the moor. I was wondering if there were any evidence of such a sound tonight." "We heard nothing of the kind," said I. "And what is your theory of this poor fellow's death?" "I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him off his head. He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state and eventually fallen over here and broken his neck." "That seems the most reasonable theory," said Stapleton, and he gave a sigh which I took to indicate his relief. "What do you think about it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" My friend bowed his compliments. "You are quick at identification," said he. "We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson came down. You are in time to see a tragedy." "Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend's explanation will cover the facts. I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to London with me tomorrow." "Oh, you return tomorrow?" "That is my intention." "I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences which have puzzled us?" Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. An investigator needs facts and not legends or rumours. It has not been a satisfactory case." My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned manner. Stapleton still looked hard at him. Then he turned to me. "I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it would give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified in doing it. I think that if we put something over his face he will be safe until morning." And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton's offer of hospitality, Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving the naturalist to return alone. Looking back we saw the figure moving slowly away over the broad moor, and behind him that one black smudge on the silvered slope which showed where the man was lying who had come so horribly to his end. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Überraschung! Der geheimnisvolle Mann auf dem Hügel ist niemand anderer als Holmes. Watson ist verärgert, als er bemerkt, dass Holmes ihn bewusst im Dunkeln gelassen hat. Und was ist mit all den Berichten, die er so sorgfältig verfasst und nach London geschickt hat? Holmes versucht es wieder gut zu machen. Er sagt, dass er Watson vollkommen vertraut. Aber er macht sich auch Sorgen, dass Watson nicht widerstehen konnte, Kontakt mit Holmes auf den Mooren aufzunehmen. Und Holmes hat die Berichte erhalten - er hat arrangiert, dass sie von London zu ihm auf die Moore geliefert werden. Holmes ist fasziniert von Watsons Schilderung seines Gesprächs mit Laura Lyons. Holmes weiß, dass Stapleton und Laura Lyons eine Affäre haben. Holmes lässt eine weitere Überraschung platzen: Beryl ist tatsächlich Mrs. Stapleton. Sie ist seine Frau und nicht seine Schwester! Stapleton ist derjenige, der Sir Henry in London verfolgt hat, und Beryl ist diejenige, die diese Warnung an Sir Henry in seinem Hotel geschickt hat. Holmes weiß, dass Stapletons Vorstellung, ein unverheirateter Mann zu sein, ihm geholfen hat, Laura in seine Pläne einzubeziehen. Und Laura ist jetzt verzweifelt auf der Suche nach Scheidungsgeld, weil sie glaubt, dass sie ihn heiraten kann. Holmes ist fast bereit, Stapleton des Mordes anzuklagen. Aber er benötigt Watson, der für mindestens einen oder zwei weitere Tage auf Baskerville Hall mit Sir Henry warten soll. Gerade als Holmes das sagt, hören sie einen schrecklichen Schrei über die Moore, gefolgt von dem Knurren eines Hundes. Holmes befürchtet, dass sie zu spät dran sein könnten. An der Seite einer Klippe finden sie eine Leiche mit einer zertrümmerten Schädeldecke. Es ist Sir Henry Baskerville. Neben dem Schuldgefühl, dass sie auf den Mooren waren und trotzdem nicht geschafft haben, Sir Henry zu retten, ist Holmes zutiefst frustriert. Obwohl Holmes und Watson sich sicher sind, dass Stapleton etwas mit den Hundemorden zu tun hat, gibt es keinen konkreten Beweis, der ihn mit den Todesfällen der Baskervilles in Verbindung bringt. Holmes geht zu der Leiche, um sie ins Haus zu tragen. Aber plötzlich fängt er an herumzutanzen und Watson die Hand zu schütteln. Es ist überhaupt nicht Sir Henry! Die Leiche hat einen Bart! Tatsächlich gehört die Leiche zu Selden. Watson erinnert sich, dass Sir Henry einige seiner alten Kleider an Barrymore gegeben hat; Barrymore hat sie wahrscheinlich an Selden weitergegeben. Stapletons Hund wurde offensichtlich darauf trainiert, auf den Geruch von Sir Henry zu reagieren und Selden in Sir Henrys Kleidung anzugreifen. Sie sehen jemanden rauchen und auf sie zukommen: es ist Stapleton. Stapleton wird blass, als er die Leiche sieht, da er realisiert, dass es nicht Sir Henry ist. Stapleton behauptet, er habe Sir Henry eingeladen, zu Merripit House zu kommen, und wurde besorgt, als er nie auftauchte. Stapleton fragt misstrauisch, ob jemand die Geräusche eines Hundes gehört habe, da die Mooren angeblich von Geistern heimgesucht werden. Weder Holmes noch Watson geben irgendein Zeichen, dass sie wissen könnten, warum Stapleton so an diesem mysteriösen Hund interessiert ist. Watson behauptet, dass Selden an Wahnsinn und Stress gestorben sei, der ihn über die Klippe getrieben habe. Holmes gibt auch vor, dass er am nächsten Tag nach London zurückkehren wolle, da dieser Fall "nicht zufriedenstellend" war.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains, and the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn. All that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life's amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe. "Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little." "M'm." "They might amuse you." Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in. "I suggested we should hinder them," said Mr. Beebe. "They are worth it." Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. "Hullo!" he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible. A grave voice replied, "Hullo!" "I've brought someone to see you." "I'll be down in a minute." The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books. "Are these people great readers?" Freddy whispered. "Are they that sort?" "I fancy they know how to read--a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German. Um--um--Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch." "Mr. Beebe, look at that," said Freddy in awestruck tones. On the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: "Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes." "I know. Isn't it jolly? I like that. I'm certain that's the old man's doing." "How very odd of him!" "Surely you agree?" But Freddy was his mother's son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture. "Pictures!" the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room. "Giotto--they got that at Florence, I'll be bound." "The same as Lucy's got." "Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?" "She came back yesterday." "I suppose she had a good time?" "Yes, very," said Freddy, taking up a book. "She and Cecil are thicker than ever." "That's good hearing." "I wish I wasn't such a fool, Mr. Beebe." Mr. Beebe ignored the remark. "Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it'll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books." "So will you." "Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards. Cecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful. There are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says--" "What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson--we think we'll come another time." George ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking. "Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour." Then Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George's face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, "How d'ye do? Come and have a bathe." "Oh, all right," said George, impassive. Mr. Beebe was highly entertained. "'How d'ye do? how d'ye do? Come and have a bathe,'" he chuckled. "That's the best conversational opening I've ever heard. But I'm afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with 'How do you do? Come and have a bathe'? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal." "I tell you that they shall be," said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. "Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same." "We are to raise ladies to our level?" the clergyman inquired. "The Garden of Eden," pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, "which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies." Mr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere. "In this--not in other things--we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden." "I say, what about this bathe?" murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him. "I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage." "Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence." "How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry. Marriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr. Vyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!" "Not a bit!" mumbled Freddy. "I must--that is to say, I have to--have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope." "CALL, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country." Mr. Beebe came to the rescue. "Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days' interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon." "Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can't believe he's well." George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture. "Do you really want this bathe?" Freddy asked him. "It is only a pond, don't you know. I dare say you are used to something better." "Yes--I have said 'Yes' already." Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads. "And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?" "I did not. Miss Lavish told me." "When I was a young man, I always meant to write a 'History of Coincidence.'" No enthusiasm. "Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn't purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect." To his relief, George began to talk. "It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate--flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us--we settle nothing--" "You have not reflected at all," rapped the clergyman. "Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don't say, 'I didn't do this,' for you did it, ten to one. Now I'll cross-question you. Where did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?" "Italy." "And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?" "National Gallery." "Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it." "It is Fate that I am here," persisted George. "But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy." Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George. "And so for this and for other reasons my 'History of Coincidence' is still to write." Silence. Wishing to round off the episode, he added; "We are all so glad that you have come." Silence. "Here we are!" called Freddy. "Oh, good!" exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow. "In there's the pond. I wish it was bigger," he added apologetically. They climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond, set in its little alp of green--only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool. "It's distinctly successful, as ponds go," said Mr. Beebe. "No apologies are necessary for the pond." George sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots. "Aren't those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What's the name of this aromatic plant?" No one knew, or seemed to care. "These abrupt changes of vegetation--this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle--heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming." "Mr. Beebe, aren't you bathing?" called Freddy, as he stripped himself. Mr. Beebe thought he was not. "Water's wonderful!" cried Freddy, prancing in. "Water's water," murmured George. Wetting his hair first--a sure sign of apathy--he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads. "Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo," went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud. "Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin. The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly. "Hee-poof--I've swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water's wonderful, water's simply ripping." "Water's not so bad," said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun. "Water's wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do." "Apooshoo, kouf." Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, looked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind--these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man? "I may as well wash too"; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water. It was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in Gotterdammerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of the gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit--for some reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out. He smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool. "Race you round it, then," cried Freddy, and they raced in the sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run--a memorable sight. They ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the sward, proclaiming: "No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin. To us shall all flesh turn in the end." "A try! A try!" yelled Freddy, snatching up George's bundle and placing it beside an imaginary goal-post. "Socker rules," George retorted, scattering Freddy's bundle with a kick. "Goal!" "Goal!" "Pass!" "Take care my watch!" cried Mr. Beebe. Clothes flew in all directions. "Take care my hat! No, that's enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I say!" But the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake hat on his dripping hair. "That'll do!" shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural Dean. "Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!" Yells, and widening circles over the dappled earth. "Hi! hi! LADIES!" Neither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not hear Mr. Beebe's last warning or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch, Cecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on old Mrs. Butterworth. Freddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down the path to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe's hat. "Gracious alive!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch. "Whoever were those unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too! Whatever has happened?" "Come this way immediately," commanded Cecil, who always felt that he must lead women, though he knew not whither, and protect them, though he knew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddy sat concealed. "Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil, Mr. Beebe's waistcoat--" "No business of ours," said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol and evidently 'minded.' "I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond." "This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way." They followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions. "Well, I can't help it," said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared a freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. "I can't be trodden on, can I?" "Good gracious me, dear; so it's you! What miserable management! Why not have a comfortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?" "Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a fellow's got to dry, and if another fellow--" "Dear, no doubt you're right as usual, but you are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy." They turned. "Oh, look--don't look! Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! How unfortunate again--" For Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish. "And me, I've swallowed one," answered he of the bracken. "I've swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die--Emerson you beast, you've got on my bags." "Hush, dears," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. "And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly." "Mother, do come away," said Lucy. "Oh for goodness' sake, do come." "Hullo!" cried George, so that again the ladies stopped. He regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called: "Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!" "Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow." Miss Honeychurch bowed. That evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Im Kapitel 12 besuchen Freddy und Herr Beebe die Emersons. Herr Beebe bemerkt und kommentiert die Bücher, die sie mitgebracht haben, darunter Gedichte von Byron, A. E. Housmans Gedichtband A Shropshire Lad, Samuel Butlers Roman The Way of All Flesh, Bücher über römische Geschichte von Edward Gibbon sowie Philosophiebücher von Schopenhauer und Nietzsche. Auf dem Kleiderschrank sehen sie die Inschrift "Misstraue allen Unternehmungen, die neue Kleider erfordern", ein Zitat von Henry David Thoreau. Die Bücher und das Zitat zeigen, dass die Emersons sehr gebildete und frei denkende Männer sind. Beim Treffen mit George platzt Freddy heraus und lädt ihn zum Schwimmen ein. Mr. Emerson ist damit einverstanden und bemerkt, dass eines Tages auch Frauen einander auf diese Weise begrüßen werden, wenn die Geschlechter gleichgestellt sind und die Menschen ihren Körper nicht mehr verachten. Herr Beebe geht mit zum Schwimmen. Er versucht, George zum Reden zu bringen, und bemerkt, wie zufällig es war, dass sie sich alle wiedergetroffen haben. George sagt, er glaube, es sei Schicksal. Am Teich ist George zunächst zurückhaltend, aber bald sind alle drei Männer nackt und rennen um den Teich herum, tollen herum und jagen sich gegenseitig. Plötzlich kommen Mrs. Honeychurch, Lucy und Cecil auf dem Weg, um eine Nachbarin, Mrs. Butterworth, zu besuchen, und sehen alle Männer nackt. George, nackt bis auf Herrn Beebes Hut, jubelt ihnen ins Gesicht und rennt weg. Er kehrt mit Freddys Hose zurück und ruft Lucy zu.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: 19 PLAN OF CAMPAIGN D'Artagnan went straight to M. de Treville's. He had reflected that in a few minutes the cardinal would be warned by this cursed stranger, who appeared to be his agent, and he judged, with reason, he had not a moment to lose. The heart of the young man overflowed with joy. An opportunity presented itself to him in which there would be at the same time glory to be acquired, and money to be gained; and as a far higher encouragement, it brought him into close intimacy with a woman he adored. This chance did, then, for him at once more than he would have dared to ask of Providence. M de Treville was in his saloon with his habitual court of gentlemen. D'Artagnan, who was known as a familiar of the house, went straight to his office, and sent word that he wished to see him on something of importance. D'Artagnan had been there scarcely five minutes when M. de Treville entered. At the first glance, and by the joy which was painted on his countenance, the worthy captain plainly perceived that something new was on foot. All the way along d'Artagnan had been consulting with himself whether he should place confidence in M. de Treville, or whether he should only ask him to give him CARTE BLANCHE for some secret affair. But M. de Treville had always been so thoroughly his friend, had always been so devoted to the king and queen, and hated the cardinal so cordially, that the young man resolved to tell him everything. "Did you ask for me, my good friend?" said M. de Treville. "Yes, monsieur," said d'Artagnan, lowering his voice, "and you will pardon me, I hope, for having disturbed you when you know the importance of my business." "Speak, then, I am all attention." "It concerns nothing less," said d'Artagnan, "than the honor, perhaps the life of the queen." "What did you say?" asked M. de Treville, glancing round to see if they were surely alone, and then fixing his questioning look upon d'Artagnan. "I say, monsieur, that chance has rendered me master of a secret--" "Which you will guard, I hope, young man, as your life." "But which I must impart to you, monsieur, for you alone can assist me in the mission I have just received from her Majesty." "Is this secret your own?" "No, monsieur; it is her Majesty's." "Are you authorized by her Majesty to communicate it to me?" "No, monsieur, for, on the contrary, I am desired to preserve the profoundest mystery." "Why, then, are you about to betray it to me?" "Because, as I said, without you I can do nothing; and I am afraid you will refuse me the favor I come to ask if you do not know to what end I ask it." "Keep your secret, young man, and tell me what you wish." "I wish you to obtain for me, from Monsieur Dessessart, leave of absence for fifteen days." "When?" "This very night." "You leave Paris?" "I am going on a mission." "May you tell me whither?" "To London." "Has anyone an interest in preventing your arrival there?" "The cardinal, I believe, would give the world to prevent my success." "And you are going alone?" "I am going alone." "In that case you will not get beyond Bondy. I tell you so, by the faith of de Treville." "How so?" "You will be assassinated." "And I shall die in the performance of my duty." "But your mission will not be accomplished." "That is true," replied d'Artagnan. "Believe me," continued Treville, "in enterprises of this kind, in order that one may arrive, four must set out." "Ah, you are right, monsieur," said d'Artagnan; "but you know Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and you know if I can dispose of them." "Without confiding to them the secret which I am not willing to know?" "We are sworn, once for all, to implicit confidence and devotedness against all proof. Besides, you can tell them that you have full confidence in me, and they will not be more incredulous than you." "I can send to each of them leave of absence for fifteen days, that is all--to Athos, whose wound still makes him suffer, to go to the waters of Forges; to Porthos and Aramis to accompany their friend, whom they are not willing to abandon in such a painful condition. Sending their leave of absence will be proof enough that I authorize their journey." "Thanks, monsieur. You are a hundred times too good." "Begone, then, find them instantly, and let all be done tonight! Ha! But first write your request to Dessessart. Perhaps you had a spy at your heels; and your visit, if it should ever be known to the cardinal, will thus seem legitimate." D'Artagnan drew up his request, and M. de Treville, on receiving it, assured him that by two o'clock in the morning the four leaves of absence should be at the respective domiciles of the travelers. "Have the goodness to send mine to Athos's residence. I should dread some disagreeable encounter if I were to go home." "Be easy. Adieu, and a prosperous voyage. A PROPOS," said M. de Treville, calling him back. D'Artagnan returned. "Have you any money?" D'Artagnan tapped the bag he had in his pocket. "Enough?" asked M. de Treville. "Three hundred pistoles." "Oh, plenty! That would carry you to the end of the world. Begone, then!" D'Artagnan saluted M. de Treville, who held out his hand to him; d'Artagnan pressed it with a respect mixed with gratitude. Since his first arrival at Paris, he had had constant occasion to honor this excellent man, whom he had always found worthy, loyal, and great. His first visit was to Aramis, at whose residence he had not been since the famous evening on which he had followed Mme. Bonacieux. Still further, he had seldom seen the young Musketeer; but every time he had seen him, he had remarked a deep sadness imprinted on his countenance. This evening, especially, Aramis was melancholy and thoughtful. D'Artagnan asked some questions about this prolonged melancholy. Aramis pleaded as his excuse a commentary upon the eighteenth chapter of St. Augustine, which he was forced to write in Latin for the following week, and which preoccupied him a good deal. After the two friends had been chatting a few moments, a servant from M. de Treville entered, bringing a sealed packet. "What is that?" asked Aramis. "The leave of absence Monsieur has asked for," replied the lackey. "For me! I have asked for no leave of absence." "Hold your tongue and take it!" said d'Artagnan. "And you, my friend, there is a demipistole for your trouble; you will tell Monsieur de Treville that Monsieur Aramis is very much obliged to him. Go." The lackey bowed to the ground and departed. "What does all this mean?" asked Aramis. "Pack up all you want for a journey of a fortnight, and follow me." "But I cannot leave Paris just now without knowing--" Aramis stopped. "What is become of her? I suppose you mean--" continued d'Artagnan. "Become of whom?" replied Aramis. "The woman who was here--the woman with the embroidered handkerchief." "Who told you there was a woman here?" replied Aramis, becoming as pale as death. "I saw her." "And you know who she is?" "I believe I can guess, at least." "Listen!" said Aramis. "Since you appear to know so many things, can you tell me what is become of that woman?" "I presume that she has returned to Tours." "To Tours? Yes, that may be. You evidently know her. But why did she return to Tours without telling me anything?" "Because she was in fear of being arrested." "Why has she not written to me, then?" "Because she was afraid of compromising you." "d'Artagnan, you restore me to life!" cried Aramis. "I fancied myself despised, betrayed. I was so delighted to see her again! I could not have believed she would risk her liberty for me, and yet for what other cause could she have returned to Paris?" "For the cause which today takes us to England." "And what is this cause?" demanded Aramis. "Aye, I agree as well," said Porthos. "Let us travel together and defend ourselves if necessary. Whoever survives shall carry the letter." "Auch ich bin damit einverstanden", sagte Porthos, "wenn d'Artagnan zustimmt. Da d'Artagnan der Bote des Briefes ist, ist er natürlich der Anführer des Unternehmens; lasst ihn entscheiden, und wir werden ausführen." "Gut", sagte d'Artagnan, "ich entscheide, dass wir Athos' Plan übernehmen und in einer halben Stunde losfahren." "Einverstanden!", riefen die drei Musketiere im Chor. Jeder von ihnen streckte seine Hand nach dem Beutel aus, nahm seine fünfundsiebzig Pistolen und bereitete sich darauf vor, zur vereinbarten Zeit loszufahren. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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D'Artagnan taucht aufgeregt bei Trevilles Haus auf. Er ist dabei, sich auf eine Mission für Ruhm, Geld und Liebe zu begeben. Was könnte man sich mehr wünschen? Sobald Treville D'Artagnan sieht, merkt er, dass etwas nicht stimmt. D'Artagnan ist bereit, Treville alles zu erzählen, da er ein so guter Freund ist, aber sobald D'Artagnan Treville sagt, dass es um die Ehre und das Leben der Königin geht, sagt Treville ihm, er solle kein Wort sagen, und fragt dann, ob er etwas für D'Artagnan tun kann. D'Artagnan bittet um eine 15-tägige Urlaubsgenehmigung, die sofort umgesetzt werden soll. Treville sagt D'Artagnan, dass er, wenn er alleine geht, ermordet wird. Porthos, Aramis und Athos werden D'Artagnan begleiten. Treville unterschreibt die Befehle unter dem Vorwand, dass die drei Musketiere an die Wasser von Forges gehen, damit Athos seine Wunde heilen kann. Treville sagt D'Artagnan, dass die Urlaubsgenehmigungen bis zwei Uhr morgens fertiggestellt und unterschrieben sein werden. D'Artagnan macht sich auf den Weg zu Aramis' Haus. Aramis wirkte in letzter Zeit düster, besonders heute Abend, aber er sagt, er habe ein wichtiges religiöses Stück geschrieben. Nachdem die beiden ein paar Minuten geplaudert haben, erscheint ein Diener mit einer Urlaubsgenehmigung für Aramis, der angemessen schockiert ist, da er sich nicht daran erinnert, eine zu beantragen. D'Artagnan erkennt, dass Aramis immer noch nach der Frau mit dem bestickten Taschentuch sehnt, die dem Herzog von Buckingham geholfen hat, sich mit der Königin zu treffen. Es stellt sich heraus, dass Aramis sich abgewiesen gefühlt hat, aber D'Artagnan sagt ihm, dass a) die Frau nach Tours zurückgekehrt ist, weil sie nicht verhaftet werden wollte, und b) sie Aramis nicht geschrieben hat, weil sie nicht wollte, dass er verhaftet wird. Froh, dass das alles geklärt ist, ist Aramis glücklich, nach England zu gehen. Zusammen mit Aramis' Diener Bazin machen sie sich auf den Weg zu Athos' Haus. Unterwegs versichert D'Artagnan Aramis, dass niemand anderer von der Dame weiß. Als sie bei Athos' Haus ankommen, finden sie ihn mit seiner Urlaubsgenehmigung in den Händen und verwirrt. D'Artagnan erklärt, dass Athos ihm in Diensten des Königs und der Königin folgen soll. Porthos erscheint ebenfalls verwirrt über seine Urlaubsgenehmigung. D'Artagnan erklärt, dass die ganze Gang nach London gehen wird. Und dann holt er die dreihundert Pistolen heraus und sagt, dass jeder siebenundzwanzig bekommt. Er weist auch darauf hin, dass nicht alle von ihnen es schaffen werden, was vage bedrohlich klingt. Athos, Porthos und Aramis sagen, dass sie immer noch nicht wissen, wofür sie sterben sollen, genau. D'Artagnan fragt, ob der König jemals eine Begründung abgeben muss. Und dann sagen sie, guter Punkt! Die vier Männer rufen ihre Diener herbei und bitten sie, sich auf die Reise vorzubereiten. Sie besprechen, wie sie vorgehen sollen, und entscheiden sich dafür, gemeinsam zu reisen. Wenn D'Artagnan getötet wird, wird jemand anderes den Brief tragen. Wenn auch diese Person getötet wird, wird jemand anderes den Brief tragen, und so weiter, bis alle tot sind oder der Brief Buckingham erreicht hat. Alle stimmen dem Plan zu und machen sich auf den Weg.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Mr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time proposed drew near, Mrs. Weston's fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of excuse. For the present, he could not be spared, to his "very great mortification and regret; but still he looked forward with the hope of coming to Randalls at no distant period." Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed--much more disappointed, in fact, than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man had been so much more sober: but a sanguine temper, though for ever expecting more good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by any proportionate depression. It soon flies over the present failure, and begins to hope again. For half an hour Mr. Weston was surprized and sorry; but then he began to perceive that Frank's coming two or three months later would be a much better plan; better time of year; better weather; and that he would be able, without any doubt, to stay considerably longer with them than if he had come sooner. These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of a more apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition of excuses and delays; and after all her concern for what her husband was to suffer, suffered a great deal more herself. Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about Mr. Frank Churchill's not coming, except as a disappointment at Randalls. The acquaintance at present had no charm for her. She wanted, rather, to be quiet, and out of temptation; but still, as it was desirable that she should appear, in general, like her usual self, she took care to express as much interest in the circumstance, and enter as warmly into Mr. and Mrs. Weston's disappointment, as might naturally belong to their friendship. She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed quite as much as was necessary, (or, being acting a part, perhaps rather more,) at the conduct of the Churchills, in keeping him away. She then proceeded to say a good deal more than she felt, of the advantage of such an addition to their confined society in Surry; the pleasure of looking at somebody new; the gala-day to Highbury entire, which the sight of him would have made; and ending with reflections on the Churchills again, found herself directly involved in a disagreement with Mr. Knightley; and, to her great amusement, perceived that she was taking the other side of the question from her real opinion, and making use of Mrs. Weston's arguments against herself. "The Churchills are very likely in fault," said Mr. Knightley, coolly; "but I dare say he might come if he would." "I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceedingly to come; but his uncle and aunt will not spare him." "I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he made a point of it. It is too unlikely, for me to believe it without proof." "How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill done, to make you suppose him such an unnatural creature?" "I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in suspecting that he may have learnt to be above his connexions, and to care very little for any thing but his own pleasure, from living with those who have always set him the example of it. It is a great deal more natural than one could wish, that a young man, brought up by those who are proud, luxurious, and selfish, should be proud, luxurious, and selfish too. If Frank Churchill had wanted to see his father, he would have contrived it between September and January. A man at his age--what is he?--three or four-and-twenty--cannot be without the means of doing as much as that. It is impossible." "That's easily said, and easily felt by you, who have always been your own master. You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Knightley, of the difficulties of dependence. You do not know what it is to have tempers to manage." "It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four-and-twenty should not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount. He cannot want money--he cannot want leisure. We know, on the contrary, that he has so much of both, that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts in the kingdom. We hear of him for ever at some watering-place or other. A little while ago, he was at Weymouth. This proves that he can leave the Churchills." "Yes, sometimes he can." "And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while; whenever there is any temptation of pleasure." "It is very unfair to judge of any body's conduct, without an intimate knowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has not been in the interior of a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that family may be. We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs. Churchill's temper, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew can do. He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than he can at others." "There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chuses, and that is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour and resolution. It is Frank Churchill's duty to pay this attention to his father. He knows it to be so, by his promises and messages; but if he wished to do it, it might be done. A man who felt rightly would say at once, simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill--'Every sacrifice of mere pleasure you will always find me ready to make to your convenience; but I must go and see my father immediately. I know he would be hurt by my failing in such a mark of respect to him on the present occasion. I shall, therefore, set off to-morrow.'--If he would say so to her at once, in the tone of decision becoming a man, there would be no opposition made to his going." "No," said Emma, laughing; "but perhaps there might be some made to his coming back again. Such language for a young man entirely dependent, to use!--Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible. But you have not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite to your own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech as that to the uncle and aunt, who have brought him up, and are to provide for him!--Standing up in the middle of the room, I suppose, and speaking as loud as he could!--How can you imagine such conduct practicable?" "Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no difficulty in it. He would feel himself in the right; and the declaration--made, of course, as a man of sense would make it, in a proper manner--would do him more good, raise him higher, fix his interest stronger with the people he depended on, than all that a line of shifts and expedients can ever do. Respect would be added to affection. They would feel that they could trust him; that the nephew who had done rightly by his father, would do rightly by them; for they know, as well as he does, as well as all the world must know, that he ought to pay this visit to his father; and while meanly exerting their power to delay it, are in their hearts not thinking the better of him for submitting to their whims. Respect for right conduct is felt by every body. If he would act in this sort of manner, on principle, consistently, regularly, their little minds would bend to his." "I rather doubt that. You are very fond of bending little minds; but where little minds belong to rich people in authority, I think they have a knack of swelling out, till they are quite as unmanageable as great ones. I can imagine, that if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were to be transported and placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill's situation, you would be able to say and do just what you have been recommending for him; and it might have a very good effect. The Churchills might not have a word to say in return; but then, you would have no habits of early obedience and long observance to break through. To him who has, it might not be so easy to burst forth at once into perfect independence, and set all their claims on his gratitude and regard at nought. He may have as strong a sense of what would be right, as you can have, without being so equal, under particular circumstances, to act up to it." "Then it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to produce equal exertion, it could not be an equal conviction." "Oh, the difference of situation and habit! I wish you would try to understand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in directly opposing those, whom as child and boy he has been looking up to all his life." "Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if this be the first occasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against the will of others. It ought to have been a habit with him by this time, of following his duty, instead of consulting expediency. I can allow for the fears of the child, but not of the man. As he became rational, he ought to have roused himself and shaken off all that was unworthy in their authority. He ought to have opposed the first attempt on their side to make him slight his father. Had he begun as he ought, there would have been no difficulty now." "We shall never agree about him," cried Emma; "but that is nothing extraordinary. I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man: I feel sure that he is not. Mr. Weston would not be blind to folly, though in his own son; but he is very likely to have a more yielding, complying, mild disposition than would suit your notions of man's perfection. I dare say he has; and though it may cut him off from some advantages, it will secure him many others." "Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move, and of leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancying himself extremely expert in finding excuses for it. He can sit down and write a fine flourishing letter, full of professions and falsehoods, and persuade himself that he has hit upon the very best method in the world of preserving peace at home and preventing his father's having any right to complain. His letters disgust me." "Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy every body else." "I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They hardly can satisfy a woman of her good sense and quick feelings: standing in a mother's place, but without a mother's affection to blind her. It is on her account that attention to Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly feel the omission. Had she been a person of consequence herself, he would have come I dare say; and it would not have signified whether he did or no. Can you think your friend behindhand in these sort of considerations? Do you suppose she does not often say all this to herself? No, Emma, your amiable young man can be amiable only in French, not in English. He may be very 'amiable,' have very good manners, and be very agreeable; but he can have no English delicacy towards the feelings of other people: nothing really amiable about him." "You seem determined to think ill of him." "Me!--not at all," replied Mr. Knightley, rather displeased; "I do not want to think ill of him. I should be as ready to acknowledge his merits as any other man; but I hear of none, except what are merely personal; that he is well-grown and good-looking, with smooth, plausible manners." "Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he will be a treasure at Highbury. We do not often look upon fine young men, well-bred and agreeable. We must not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the bargain. Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a _sensation_ his coming will produce? There will be but one subject throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest--one object of curiosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill; we shall think and speak of nobody else." "You will excuse my being so much over-powered. If I find him conversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only a chattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts." "My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of every body, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally agreeable. To you, he will talk of farming; to me, of drawing or music; and so on to every body, having that general information on all subjects which will enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead, just as propriety may require, and to speak extremely well on each; that is my idea of him." "And mine," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "is, that if he turn out any thing like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing! What! at three-and-twenty to be the king of his company--the great man--the practised politician, who is to read every body's character, and make every body's talents conduce to the display of his own superiority; to be dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make all appear like fools compared with himself! My dear Emma, your own good sense could not endure such a puppy when it came to the point." "I will say no more about him," cried Emma, "you turn every thing to evil. We are both prejudiced; you against, I for him; and we have no chance of agreeing till he is really here." "Prejudiced! I am not prejudiced." "But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it. My love for Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour." "He is a person I never think of from one month's end to another," said Mr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation, which made Emma immediately talk of something else, though she could not comprehend why he should be angry. To take a dislike to a young man, only because he appeared to be of a different disposition from himself, was unworthy the real liberality of mind which she was always used to acknowledge in him; for with all the high opinion of himself, which she had often laid to his charge, she had never before for a moment supposed it could make him unjust to the merit of another. VOLUME II Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Frank Churchill kommt nicht wie erwartet zu Besuch, zur Enttäuschung von Mrs. Weston. Emma, die mit ihren anderen Sorgen beschäftigt ist, ist das egal, aber sie fühlt, dass sie Enttäuschung zeigen muss, um wie gewohnt zu wirken. Ihre Herzlichkeit bei diesem Ausdruck führt zu einem Streit mit Mr. Knightley über den jungen Mann. Knightley äußert denselben Gedanken wie Emma: Wie kann ein vierundzwanzigjähriger Mann von seiner Tante daran gehindert werden, seine Pflicht zu erfüllen? Emma entgegnet darauf, dass Knightley keine Ahnung von "den Schwierigkeiten der Abhängigkeit" habe. Sie drückt ihr Mitgefühl für Franks Situation aus und ist überzeugt, dass er kommen würde, wenn er könnte, aber Knightley hält dagegen, dass kein vernünftiger, ehrbarer Mann daran gehindert würde, seine Pflicht zu erfüllen. Emma prophezeit, dass Frank, wenn er in Highbury ankommt, absolut bezaubernd sein wird. Knightley glaubt, dass Frank oberflächlich und unerträglich sein wird, und Knightleys Vorurteil gegenüber dem Fremden überrascht Emma.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Actus Quintus. Enter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana, with two Attendants. Hel. But this exceeding posting day and night, Must wear your spirits low, we cannot helpe it: But since you haue made the daies and nights as one, To weare your gentle limbes in my affayres, Be bold you do so grow in my requitall, As nothing can vnroote you. In happie time, Enter a gentle Astringer. This man may helpe me to his Maiesties eare, If he would spend his power. God saue you sir Gent. And you Hel. Sir, I haue seene you in the Court of France Gent. I haue beene sometimes there Hel. I do presume sir, that you are not falne From the report that goes vpon your goodnesse, And therefore goaded with most sharpe occasions, Which lay nice manners by, I put you to The vse of your owne vertues, for the which I shall continue thankefull Gent. What's your will? Hel. That it will please you To giue this poore petition to the King, And ayde me with that store of power you haue To come into his presence Gen. The Kings not heere Hel. Not heere sir? Gen. Not indeed, He hence remou'd last night, and with more hast Then is his vse Wid. Lord how we loose our paines Hel. All's well that ends well yet, Though time seeme so aduerse, and meanes vnfit: I do beseech you, whither is he gone? Gent. Marrie as I take it to Rossillion, Whither I am going Hel. I do beseech you sir, Since you are like to see the King before me, Commend the paper to his gracious hand, Which I presume shall render you no blame, But rather make you thanke your paines for it, I will come after you with what good speede Our meanes will make vs meanes Gent. This Ile do for you Hel. And you shall finde your selfe to be well thankt what e're falles more. We must to horse againe, Go, go, prouide. Enter Clowne and Parrolles. Par. Good Mr Lauatch giue my Lord Lafew this letter, I haue ere now sir beene better knowne to you, when I haue held familiaritie with fresher cloathes: but I am now sir muddied in fortunes mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure Clo. Truely, Fortunes displeasure is but sluttish if it smell so strongly as thou speak'st of: I will hencefoorth eate no Fish of Fortunes butt'ring. Prethee alow the winde Par. Nay you neede not to stop your nose sir: I spake but by a Metaphor Clo. Indeed sir, if your Metaphor stinke, I will stop my nose, or against any mans Metaphor. Prethe get thee further Par. Pray you sir deliuer me this paper Clo. Foh, prethee stand away: a paper from fortunes close-stoole, to giue to a Nobleman. Looke heere he comes himselfe. Enter Lafew. Clo. Heere is a purre of Fortunes sir, or of Fortunes Cat, but not a Muscat, that ha's falne into the vncleane fish-pond of her displeasure, and as he sayes is muddied withall. Pray you sir, vse the Carpe as you may, for he lookes like a poore decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally knaue. I doe pittie his distresse in my smiles of comfort, and leaue him to your Lordship Par. My Lord I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly scratch'd Laf. And what would you haue me to doe? 'Tis too late to paire her nailes now. Wherein haue you played the knaue with fortune that she should scratch you, who of her selfe is a good Lady, and would not haue knaues thriue long vnder? There's a Cardecue for you: Let the Iustices make you and fortune friends; I am for other businesse Par. I beseech your honour to heare mee one single word, Laf. you begge a single peny more: Come you shall ha't, saue your word Par. My name my good Lord is Parrolles Laf. You begge more then word then. Cox my passion, giue me your hand: How does your drumme? Par. O my good Lord, you were the first that found mee Laf. Was I insooth? And I was the first that lost thee Par. It lies in you my Lord to bring me in some grace for you did bring me out Laf. Out vpon thee knaue, doest thou put vpon mee at once both the office of God and the diuel: one brings thee in grace, and the other brings thee out. The Kings comming I know by his Trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me, I had talke of you last night, though you are a foole and a knaue, you shall eate, go too, follow Par. I praise God for you. Flourish. Enter King, old Lady, Lafew, the two French Lords, with attendants. Kin. We lost a Iewell of her, and our esteeme Was made much poorer by it: but your sonne, As mad in folly, lack'd the sence to know Her estimation home Old La. 'Tis past my Liege, And I beseech your Maiestie to make it Naturall rebellion, done i'th blade of youth, When oyle and fire, too strong for reasons force, Ore-beares it, and burnes on Kin. My honour'd Lady, I haue forgiuen and forgotten all, Though my reuenges were high bent vpon him, And watch'd the time to shoote Laf. This I must say, But first I begge my pardon: the yong Lord Did to his Maiesty, his Mother, and his Ladie, Offence of mighty note; but to himselfe The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife, Whose beauty did astonish the suruey Of richest eies: whose words all eares tooke captiue, Whose deere perfection, hearts that scorn'd to serue, Humbly call'd Mistris Kin. Praising what is lost, Makes the remembrance deere. Well, call him hither, We are reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill All repetition: Let him not aske our pardon, The nature of his great offence is dead, And deeper then obliuion, we do burie Th' incensing reliques of it. Let him approach A stranger, no offender; and informe him So 'tis our will he should Gent. I shall my Liege Kin. What sayes he to your daughter, Haue you spoke? Laf. All that he is, hath reference to your Highnes Kin. Then shall we haue a match. I haue letters sent me, that sets him high in fame. Enter Count Bertram. Laf. He lookes well on't Kin. I am not a day of season, For thou maist see a sun-shine, and a haile In me at once: But to the brightest beames Distracted clouds giue way, so stand thou forth, The time is faire againe Ber. My high repented blames Deere Soueraigne pardon to me Kin. All is whole, Not one word more of the consumed time, Let's take the instant by the forward top: For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees Th' inaudible, and noiselesse foot of time Steales, ere we can effect them. You remember The daughter of this Lord? Ber. Admiringly my Liege, at first I stucke my choice vpon her, ere my heart Durst make too bold a herauld of my tongue: Where the impression of mine eye enfixing, Contempt his scornfull Perspectiue did lend me, Which warpt the line, of euerie other fauour, Scorn'd a faire colour, or exprest it stolne, Extended or contracted all proportions To a most hideous obiect. Thence it came, That she whom all men prais'd, and whom my selfe, Since I haue lost, haue lou'd; was in mine eye The dust that did offend it Kin. Well excus'd: That thou didst loue her, strikes some scores away From the great compt: but loue that comes too late, Like a remorsefull pardon slowly carried To the great sender, turnes a sowre offence, Crying, that's good that's gone: Our rash faults, Make triuiall price of serious things we haue, Not knowing them, vntill we know their graue. Oft our displeasures to our selues vniust, Destroy our friends, and after weepe their dust: Our owne loue waking, cries to see what's done, While shamefull hate sleepes out the afternoone. Be this sweet Helens knell, and now forget her. Send forth your amorous token for faire Maudlin, The maine consents are had, and heere wee'l stay To see our widdowers second marriage day: Which better then the first, O deere heauen blesse, Or, ere they meete in me, O Nature cesse Laf. Come on my sonne, in whom my houses name Must be digested: giue a fauour from you To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter, That she may quickly come. By my old beard, And eu'rie haire that's on't, Helen that's dead Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this, The last that ere I tooke her leaue at Court, I saw vpon her finger Ber. Hers it was not King. Now pray you let me see it. For mine eye, While I was speaking, oft was fasten'd too't: This Ring was mine, and when I gaue it Hellen, I bad her if her fortunes euer stoode Necessitied to helpe, that by this token I would releeue her. Had you that craft to reaue her Of what should stead her most? Ber. My gracious Soueraigne, How ere it pleases you to take it so, The ring was neuer hers Old La. Sonne, on my life I haue seene her weare it, and she reckon'd it At her liues rate Laf. I am sure I saw her weare it Ber. You are deceiu'd my Lord, she neuer saw it: In Florence was it from a casement throwne mee, Wrap'd in a paper, which contain'd the name Of her that threw it: Noble she was, and thought I stood ingag'd, but when I had subscrib'd To mine owne fortune, and inform'd her fully, I could not answer in that course of Honour As she had made the ouerture, she ceast In heauie satisfaction, and would neuer Receiue the Ring againe Kin. Platus himselfe, That knowes the tinct and multiplying med'cine, Hath not in natures mysterie more science, Then I haue in this Ring. 'Twas mine, 'twas Helens, Who euer gaue it you: then if you know That you are well acquainted with your selfe, Confesse 'twas hers, and by what rough enforcement You got it from her. She call'd the Saints to suretie, That she would neuer put it from her finger, Vnlesse she gaue it to your selfe in bed, Where you haue neuer come: or sent it vs Vpon her great disaster Ber. She neuer saw it Kin. Thou speak'st it falsely: as I loue mine Honor, And mak'st connecturall feares to come into me, Which I would faine shut out, if it should proue That thou art so inhumane, 'twill not proue so: And yet I know not, thou didst hate her deadly, And she is dead, which nothing but to close Her eyes my selfe, could win me to beleeue, More then to see this Ring. Take him away, My fore-past proofes, how ere the matter fall Shall taze my feares of little vanitie, Hauing vainly fear'd too little. Away with him, Wee'l sift this matter further Ber. If you shall proue This Ring was euer hers, you shall as easie Proue that I husbanded her bed in Florence, Where yet she neuer was. Enter a Gentleman. King. I am wrap'd in dismall thinkings Gen. Gracious Soueraigne. Whether I haue beene too blame or no, I know not, Here's a petition from a Florentine, Who hath for foure or fiue remoues come short, To tender it her selfe. I vndertooke it, Vanquish'd thereto by the faire grace and speech Of the poore suppliant, who by this I know Is heere attending: her businesse lookes in her With an importing visage, and she told me In a sweet verball breefe, it did concerne Your Highnesse with her selfe. A Letter. Vpon his many protestations to marrie mee when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he wonne me. Now is the Count Rossillion a Widdower, his vowes are forfeited to mee, and my honors payed to him. Hee stole from Florence, taking no leaue, and I follow him to his Countrey for Iustice: Grant it me, O King, in you it best lies, otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poore Maid is vndone. Diana Capilet Laf. I will buy me a sonne in Law in a faire, and toule for this. Ile none of him Kin. The heauens haue thought well on thee Lafew, To bring forth this discou'rie, seeke these sutors: Go speedily, and bring againe the Count. Enter Bertram. I am a-feard the life of Hellen (Ladie) Was fowly snatcht Old La. Now iustice on the doers King. I wonder sir, sir, wiues are monsters to you, And that you flye them as you sweare them Lordship, Yet you desire to marry. What woman's that? Enter Widdow, Diana, and Parrolles. Dia. I am my Lord a wretched Florentine, Deriued from the ancient Capilet, My suite as I do vnderstand you know, And therefore know how farre I may be pittied Wid. I am her Mother sir, whose age and honour Both suffer vnder this complaint we bring, And both shall cease, without your remedie King. Come hether Count, do you know these Women? Ber. My Lord, I neither can nor will denie, But that I know them, do they charge me further? Dia. Why do you looke so strange vpon your wife? Ber. She's none of mine my Lord Dia. If you shall marrie You giue away this hand, and that is mine, You giue away heauens vowes, and those are mine: You giue away my selfe, which is knowne mine: For I by vow am so embodied yours, That she which marries you, must marrie me, Either both or none Laf. Your reputation comes too short for my daughter, you are no husband for her Ber. My Lord, this is a fond and desp'rate creature, Whom sometime I haue laugh'd with: Let your highnes Lay a more noble thought vpon mine honour, Then for to thinke that I would sinke it heere Kin. Sir for my thoughts, you haue them il to friend, Till your deeds gaine them fairer: proue your honor, Then in my thought it lies Dian. Good my Lord, Aske him vpon his oath, if hee do's thinke He had not my virginity Kin. What saist thou to her? Ber. She's impudent my Lord, And was a common gamester to the Campe Dia. He do's me wrong my Lord: If I were so, He might haue bought me at a common price. Do not beleeue him. O behold this Ring, Whose high respect and rich validitie Did lacke a Paralell: yet for all that He gaue it to a Commoner a'th Campe If I be one Coun. He blushes, and 'tis hit: Of sixe preceding Ancestors that Iemme Confer'd by testament to'th sequent issue Hath it beene owed and worne. This is his wife, That Ring's a thousand proofes King. Me thought you saide You saw one heere in Court could witnesse it Dia. I did my Lord, but loath am to produce So bad an instrument, his names Parrolles Laf. I saw the man to day, if man he bee Kin. Finde him, and bring him hether Ros. What of him: He's quoted for a most perfidious slaue With all the spots a'th world, taxt and debosh'd, Whose nature sickens: but to speake a truth, Am I, or that or this for what he'l vtter, That will speake any thing Kin. She hath that Ring of yours Ros. I thinke she has; certaine it is I lyk'd her, And boorded her i'th wanton way of youth: She knew her distance, and did angle for mee, Madding my eagernesse with her restraint, As all impediments in fancies course Are motiues of more fancie, and in fine, Her insuite comming with her moderne grace, Subdu'd me to her rate, she got the Ring, And I had that which any inferiour might At Market price haue bought Dia. I must be patient: You that haue turn'd off a first so noble wife, May iustly dyet me. I pray you yet, (Since you lacke vertue, I will loose a husband) Send for your Ring, I will returne it home, And giue me mine againe Ros. I haue it not Kin. What Ring was yours I pray you? Dian. Sir much like the same vpon your finger Kin. Know you this Ring, this Ring was his of late Dia. And this was it I gaue him being a bed Kin. The story then goes false, you threw it him Out of a Casement Dia. I haue spoke the truth. Enter Parolles. Ros. My Lord, I do confesse the ring was hers Kin. You boggle shrewdly, euery feather starts you: Is this the man you speake of? Dia. I, my Lord Kin. Tell me sirrah, but tell me true I charge you, Not fearing the displeasure of your master: Which on your iust proceeding, Ile keepe off, By him and by this woman heere, what know you? Par. So please your Maiesty, my master hath bin an honourable Gentleman. Trickes hee hath had in him, which Gentlemen haue Kin. Come, come, to'th' purpose: Did hee loue this woman? Par. Faith sir he did loue her, but how Kin. How I pray you? Par. He did loue her sir, as a Gent. loues a Woman Kin. How is that? Par. He lou'd her sir, and lou'd her not Kin. As thou art a knaue and no knaue, what an equiuocall Companion is this? Par. I am a poore man, and at your Maiesties command Laf. Hee's a good drumme my Lord, but a naughtie Orator Dian. Do you know he promist me marriage? Par. Faith I know more then Ile speake Kin. But wilt thou not speake all thou know'st? Par. Yes so please your Maiesty: I did goe betweene them as I said, but more then that he loued her, for indeede he was madde for her, and talkt of Sathan, and of Limbo, and of Furies, and I know not what: yet I was in that credit with them at that time, that I knewe of their going to bed, and of other motions, as promising her marriage, and things which would deriue mee ill will to speake of, therefore I will not speake what I know Kin. Thou hast spoken all alreadie, vnlesse thou canst say they are maried, but thou art too fine in thy euidence, therefore stand aside. This Ring you say was yours Dia. I my good Lord Kin. Where did you buy it? Or who gaue it you? Dia. It was not giuen me, nor I did not buy it Kin. Who lent it you? Dia. It was not lent me neither Kin. Where did you finde it then? Dia. I found it not Kin. If it were yours by none of all these wayes, How could you giue it him? Dia. I neuer gaue it him Laf. This womans an easie gloue my Lord, she goes off and on at pleasure Kin. This Ring was mine, I gaue it his first wife Dia. It might be yours or hers for ought I know Kin. Take her away, I do not like her now, To prison with her: and away with him, Vnlesse thou telst me where thou hadst this Ring, Thou diest within this houre Dia. Ile neuer tell you Kin. Take her away Dia. Ile put in baile my liedge Kin. I thinke thee now some common Customer Dia. By Ioue if euer I knew man 'twas you King. Wherefore hast thou accusde him al this while Dia. Because he's guiltie, and he is not guilty: He knowes I am no Maid, and hee'l sweare too't: Ile sweare I am a Maid, and he knowes not. Great King I am no strumpet, by my life, I am either Maid, or else this old mans wife Kin. She does abuse our eares, to prison with her Dia. Good mother fetch my bayle. Stay Royall sir, The Ieweller that owes the Ring is sent for, And he shall surety me. But for this Lord, Who hath abus'd me as he knowes himselfe, Though yet he neuer harm'd me, heere I quit him. He knowes himselfe my bed he hath defil'd, And at that time he got his wife with childe: Dead though she be, she feeles her yong one kicke: So there's my riddle, one that's dead is quicke, And now behold the meaning. Enter Hellen and Widdow. Kin. Is there no exorcist Beguiles the truer Office of mine eyes? Is't reall that I see? Hel. No my good Lord, 'Tis but the shadow of a wife you see, The name, and not the thing Ros. Both, both, O pardon Hel. Oh my good Lord, when I was like this Maid, I found you wondrous kinde, there is your Ring, And looke you, heeres your letter: this it sayes, When from my finger you can get this Ring, And is by me with childe, &c. This is done, Will you be mine now you are doubly wonne? Ros. If she my Liege can make me know this clearly, Ile loue her dearely, euer, euer dearly Hel. If it appeare not plaine, and proue vntrue, Deadly diuorce step betweene me and you. O my deere mother do I see you liuing? Laf. Mine eyes smell Onions, I shall weepe anon: Good Tom Drumme lend me a handkercher. So I thanke thee, waite on me home, Ile make sport with thee: Let thy curtsies alone, they are scuruy ones King. Let vs from point to point this storie know, To make the euen truth in pleasure flow: If thou beest yet a fresh vncropped flower, Choose thou thy husband, and Ile pay thy dower. For I can guesse, that by thy honest ayde, Thou keptst a wife her selfe, thy selfe a Maide. Of that and all the progresse more and lesse, Resoluedly more leasure shall expresse: All yet seemes well, and if it end so meete, The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. Flourish. The Kings a Begger, now the Play is done, All is well ended, if this suite be wonne, That you expresse Content: which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day: Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts, Your gentle hands lend vs, and take our hearts. Exeunt. omn. FINIS. ALL'S Well, that Ends Well. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Helena, die Witwe, und Diana sind auf der Jagd nach dem König, von dem sie wissen, dass er nach Marseille gereist ist. Dort erfahren sie von einem Gentleman, dass der König in großer Eile nach Rousillon aufgebrochen ist. Helena bittet ihn, mit einer Nachricht zum König zu eilen. In Rousillon bettelt Parolles den Clown an, einen Brief von ihm an Lafeu zu überbringen, als dieser Herr auftaucht. Nachdem er Parolles über seinen gefallenen Status verspottet hat, zeigt Lafeu Mitleid und bittet Parolles, ihm zum Palast des Grafen zu folgen und sagt: "Obwohl du ein Narr und ein Schurke bist, wirst du essen."

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: There were moments of waiting. The youth thought of the village street at home before the arrival of the circus parade on a day in the spring. He remembered how he had stood, a small, thrillful boy, prepared to follow the dingy lady upon the white horse, or the band in its faded chariot. He saw the yellow road, the lines of expectant people, and the sober houses. He particularly remembered an old fellow who used to sit upon a cracker box in front of the store and feign to despise such exhibitions. A thousand details of color and form surged in his mind. The old fellow upon the cracker box appeared in middle prominence. Some one cried, "Here they come!" There was rustling and muttering among the men. They displayed a feverish desire to have every possible cartridge ready to their hands. The boxes were pulled around into various positions, and adjusted with great care. It was as if seven hundred new bonnets were being tried on. The tall soldier, having prepared his rifle, produced a red handkerchief of some kind. He was engaged in knitting it about his throat with exquisite attention to its position, when the cry was repeated up and down the line in a muffled roar of sound. "Here they come! Here they come!" Gun locks clicked. Across the smoke-infested fields came a brown swarm of running men who were giving shrill yells. They came on, stooping and swinging their rifles at all angles. A flag, tilted forward, sped near the front. As he caught sight of them the youth was momentarily startled by a thought that perhaps his gun was not loaded. He stood trying to rally his faltering intellect so that he might recollect the moment when he had loaded, but he could not. A hatless general pulled his dripping horse to a stand near the colonel of the 304th. He shook his fist in the other's face. "You 've got to hold 'em back!" he shouted, savagely; "you 've got to hold 'em back!" In his agitation the colonel began to stammer. "A-all r-right, General, all right, by Gawd! We--we'll do our--we-we'll d-d-do--do our best, General." The general made a passionate gesture and galloped away. The colonel, perchance to relieve his feelings, began to scold like a wet parrot. The youth, turning swiftly to make sure that the rear was unmolested, saw the commander regarding his men in a highly regretful manner, as if he regretted above everything his association with them. The man at the youth's elbow was mumbling, as if to himself: "Oh, we 're in for it now! oh, we 're in for it now!" The captain of the company had been pacing excitedly to and fro in the rear. He coaxed in schoolmistress fashion, as to a congregation of boys with primers. His talk was an endless repetition. "Reserve your fire, boys--don't shoot till I tell you--save your fire--wait till they get close up--don't be damned fools--" Perspiration streamed down the youth's face, which was soiled like that of a weeping urchin. He frequently, with a nervous movement, wiped his eyes with his coat sleeve. His mouth was still a little ways open. He got the one glance at the foe-swarming field in front of him, and instantly ceased to debate the question of his piece being loaded. Before he was ready to begin--before he had announced to himself that he was about to fight--he threw the obedient, well-balanced rifle into position and fired a first wild shot. Directly he was working at his weapon like an automatic affair. He suddenly lost concern for himself, and forgot to look at a menacing fate. He became not a man but a member. He felt that something of which he was a part--a regiment, an army, a cause, or a country--was in a crisis. He was welded into a common personality which was dominated by a single desire. For some moments he could not flee no more than a little finger can commit a revolution from a hand. If he had thought the regiment was about to be annihilated perhaps he could have amputated himself from it. But its noise gave him assurance. The regiment was like a firework that, once ignited, proceeds superior to circumstances until its blazing vitality fades. It wheezed and banged with a mighty power. He pictured the ground before it as strewn with the discomfited. There was a consciousness always of the presence of his comrades about him. He felt the subtle battle brotherhood more potent even than the cause for which they were fighting. It was a mysterious fraternity born of the smoke and danger of death. He was at a task. He was like a carpenter who has made many boxes, making still another box, only there was furious haste in his movements. He, in his thought, was careering off in other places, even as the carpenter who as he works whistles and thinks of his friend or his enemy, his home or a saloon. And these jolted dreams were never perfect to him afterward, but remained a mass of blurred shapes. Presently he began to feel the effects of the war atmosphere--a blistering sweat, a sensation that his eyeballs were about to crack like hot stones. A burning roar filled his ears. Following this came a red rage. He developed the acute exasperation of a pestered animal, a well-meaning cow worried by dogs. He had a mad feeling against his rifle, which could only be used against one life at a time. He wished to rush forward and strangle with his fingers. He craved a power that would enable him to make a world-sweeping gesture and brush all back. His impotency appeared to him, and made his rage into that of a driven beast. Buried in the smoke of many rifles his anger was directed not so much against the men whom he knew were rushing toward him as against the swirling battle phantoms which were choking him, stuffing their smoke robes down his parched throat. He fought frantically for respite for his senses, for air, as a babe being smothered attacks the deadly blankets. There was a blare of heated rage mingled with a certain expression of intentness on all faces. Many of the men were making low-toned noises with their mouths, and these subdued cheers, snarls, imprecations, prayers, made a wild, barbaric song that went as an undercurrent of sound, strange and chantlike with the resounding chords of the war march. The man at the youth's elbow was babbling. In it there was something soft and tender like the monologue of a babe. The tall soldier was swearing in a loud voice. From his lips came a black procession of curious oaths. Of a sudden another broke out in a querulous way like a man who has mislaid his hat. "Well, why don't they support us? Why don't they send supports? Do they think--" The youth in his battle sleep heard this as one who dozes hears. There was a singular absence of heroic poses. The men bending and surging in their haste and rage were in every impossible attitude. The steel ramrods clanked and clanged with incessant din as the men pounded them furiously into the hot rifle barrels. The flaps of the cartridge boxes were all unfastened, and bobbed idiotically with each movement. The rifles, once loaded, were jerked to the shoulder and fired without apparent aim into the smoke or at one of the blurred and shifting forms which upon the field before the regiment had been growing larger and larger like puppets under a magician's hand. The officers, at their intervals, rearward, neglected to stand in picturesque attitudes. They were bobbing to and fro roaring directions and encouragements. The dimensions of their howls were extraordinary. They expended their lungs with prodigal wills. And often they nearly stood upon their heads in their anxiety to observe the enemy on the other side of the tumbling smoke. The lieutenant of the youth's company had encountered a soldier who had fled screaming at the first volley of his comrades. Behind the lines these two were acting a little isolated scene. The man was blubbering and staring with sheeplike eyes at the lieutenant, who had seized him by the collar and was pommeling him. He drove him back into the ranks with many blows. The soldier went mechanically, dully, with his animal-like eyes upon the officer. Perhaps there was to him a divinity expressed in the voice of the other--stern, hard, with no reflection of fear in it. He tried to reload his gun, but his shaking hands prevented. The lieutenant was obliged to assist him. The men dropped here and there like bundles. The captain of the youth's company had been killed in an early part of the action. His body lay stretched out in the position of a tired man resting, but upon his face there was an astonished and sorrowful look, as if he thought some friend had done him an ill turn. The babbling man was grazed by a shot that made the blood stream widely down his face. He clapped both hands to his head. "Oh!" he said, and ran. Another grunted suddenly as if he had been struck by a club in the stomach. He sat down and gazed ruefully. In his eyes there was mute, indefinite reproach. Farther up the line a man, standing behind a tree, had had his knee joint splintered by a ball. Immediately he had dropped his rifle and gripped the tree with both arms. And there he remained, clinging desperately and crying for assistance that he might withdraw his hold upon the tree. At last an exultant yell went along the quivering line. The firing dwindled from an uproar to a last vindictive popping. As the smoke slowly eddied away, the youth saw that the charge had been repulsed. The enemy were scattered into reluctant groups. He saw a man climb to the top of the fence, straddle the rail, and fire a parting shot. The waves had receded, leaving bits of dark debris upon the ground. Some in the regiment began to whoop frenziedly. Many were silent. Apparently they were trying to contemplate themselves. After the fever had left his veins, the youth thought that at last he was going to suffocate. He became aware of the foul atmosphere in which he had been struggling. He was grimy and dripping like a laborer in a foundry. He grasped his canteen and took a long swallow of the warmed water. A sentence with variations went up and down the line. "Well, we 've helt 'em back. We 've helt 'em back; derned if we haven't." The men said it blissfully, leering at each other with dirty smiles. The youth turned to look behind him and off to the right and off to the left. He experienced the joy of a man who at last finds leisure in which to look about him. Under foot there were a few ghastly forms motionless. They lay twisted in fantastic contortions. Arms were bent and heads were turned in incredible ways. It seemed that the dead men must have fallen from some great height to get into such positions. They looked to be dumped out upon the ground from the sky. From a position in the rear of the grove a battery was throwing shells over it. The flash of the guns startled the youth at first. He thought they were aimed directly at him. Through the trees he watched the black figures of the gunners as they worked swiftly and intently. Their labor seemed a complicated thing. He wondered how they could remember its formula in the midst of confusion. The guns squatted in a row like savage chiefs. They argued with abrupt violence. It was a grim pow-wow. Their busy servants ran hither and thither. A small procession of wounded men were going drearily toward the rear. It was a flow of blood from the torn body of the brigade. To the right and to the left were the dark lines of other troops. Far in front he thought he could see lighter masses protruding in points from the forest. They were suggestive of unnumbered thousands. Once he saw a tiny battery go dashing along the line of the horizon. The tiny riders were beating the tiny horses. From a sloping hill came the sound of cheerings and clashes. Smoke welled slowly through the leaves. Batteries were speaking with thunderous oratorical effort. Here and there were flags, the red in the stripes dominating. They splashed bits of warm color upon the dark lines of troops. The youth felt the old thrill at the sight of the emblem. They were like beautiful birds strangely undaunted in a storm. As he listened to the din from the hillside, to a deep pulsating thunder that came from afar to the left, and to the lesser clamors which came from many directions, it occurred to him that they were fighting, too, over there, and over there, and over there. Heretofore he had supposed that all the battle was directly under his nose. As he gazed around him the youth felt a flash of astonishment at the blue, pure sky and the sun gleamings on the trees and fields. It was surprising that Nature had gone tranquilly on with her golden process in the midst of so much devilment. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Plötzlich verlor er das Interesse an sich selbst. Er wurde in eine gemeinsame Persönlichkeit verschweißt, die von einem einzigen Verlangen beherrscht wurde. Nach einer angespannten Wartezeit greifen die feindlichen Soldaten an und Henrys Regiment eröffnet das Feuer auf sie. Der Hauptmann steht hinter Henrys Regiment und ruft Anweisungen. Als er der Bedrohung der vorrückenden Truppen gegenübersteht, verliert Henry sein Gefühl, ein einsamer, elender Ausgestoßener zu sein, und fängt an, sich selbst als ein einzelnes Zahnrad in einer Maschine zu begreifen. Die Schlacht überdeckt seine Individualität, indem sie ihn eins mit seinen Kameraden macht, genau wie der Kampfinstinkt seine zaghaften, intellektuellen Gedanken überwindet. Die Schlacht wütet und Henry feuert und lädt nach, feuert und lädt nach, in einem fortlaufenden, automatischen Rhythmus. Eine "roter Zorn" erfasst die Männer, die ein "wildes, barbarisches Lied" singen, während sie kämpfen. Der Leutnant schlägt einen Soldaten, der versucht, sich von der Frontlinie zurückzuziehen. Der Hauptmann wird erschossen und bricht zusammen. Schließlich beginnen die feindlichen Soldaten sich zurückzuziehen. Henrys Regiment bricht in Jubel aus und die Überlebenden beglückwünschen einander herzlich. Henry schaut sich um; als er die Sonne auf den Baumwipfeln und den hellblauen Himmel sieht, ist er überrascht, dass die Natur weitermacht, ohne Rücksicht auf das blutige Geschehen auf dem Schlachtfeld. Auf seinem Gesicht liegt ein erstaunter und betrübter Ausdruck, als ob er dachte, dass ihm ein Freund Unrecht getan hätte.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Die Scheune, bei der Hurstwood sich bewarb, hatte äußerst wenig Personal und wurde praktisch von drei Männern als Direktoren betrieben. Es gab viele unerfahrene Leute - eigenartig aussehende, hungernde Männer, die so aussahen, als ob die Not sie in die Verzweiflung getrieben hätte. Sie versuchten, fröhlich und bereitwillig zu sein, aber es lag eine Luft von devoter Zögerlichkeit über dem Ort. Hurstwood ging durch die Scheunen zurück und hinaus in einen großen, abgeschlossenen Bereich, in dem sich eine Reihe von Gleisen und Schleifen befanden. Dort waren ein halbes Dutzend Wagen mit Ausbildern, von jedem mit einem Schüler am Hebel. Weitere Schüler warteten an einer der rückwärtigen Türen der Scheune. Schweigend betrachtete Hurstwood diese Szene und wartete. Seine Begleiter fesselten eine Weile seine Aufmerksamkeit, obwohl sie ihn nicht viel mehr interessierten als die Wagen. Es war jedoch eine unbehaglich aussehende Bande. Ein oder zwei waren sehr dünn und mager. Einige waren ziemlich beleibt. Mehrere andere waren hager und blass, als ob sie von allerlei rauem Wetter gepeinigt worden wären. "Hast du gelesen, dass die Miliz ausgerufen wird?", hörte Hurstwood einen von ihnen sagen. "Oh, das werden sie", erwiderte der andere. "Das machen sie immer." "Denkst du, es wird viel Ärger geben?", sagte ein anderer, den Hurstwood nicht sah. "Nicht sehr viel." "Der Schotte, der im letzten Wagen ausstieg", meldete sich eine Stimme zu Wort, "hat mir erzählt, dass sie ihm ein Zunderstück ins Ohr geworfen haben." Ein kleines, nervöses Lachen begleitete dies. "Einer der Kerle in der Fifth Avenue Linie muss eine Höllenzeit gehabt haben, gemäß den Zeitungen", sagte ein anderer. "Sie haben seine Autofenster eingeschlagen und ihn auf die Straße gezogen, bevor die Polizei sie aufhalten konnte." "Ja, aber heute sind mehr Polizisten im Einsatz", wurde von einem weiteren hinzugefügt. Hurstwood hörte zu, ohne viel Gedankenkommentar. Diese Schwätzer schienen ihm ängstlich. Ihr Geschwätz war fiebrig - Dinge, die sie sagten, um ihren eigenen Geist zu beruhigen. Er schaute in den Hof hinaus und wartete. Zwei der Männer kamen ziemlich nahe an ihn heran, aber hinter seinem Rücken. Sie waren ziemlich gesellig, und er hörte, was sie sagten. "Bist du ein Eisenbahner?", fragte einer. "Ich? Nein. Ich habe immer in einer Papierfabrik gearbeitet." "Ich hatte einen Job in Newark bis letzten Oktober", erwiderte der andere mit gegenseitigem Verständnis. Einige Worte wurden zu leise ausgesprochen, um gehört zu werden. Dann wurde das Gespräch wieder stark. "Ich mache diesen Kerle keinen Vorwurf dafür, dass sie streiken", sagte einer. "Sie haben verdammt Recht, aber ich musste etwas zu tun finden." "Mir geht's genauso", sagte der andere. "Wenn ich einen Job in Newark hätte, wäre ich nicht hier rübergekommen und würde solche Risiken eingehen." "Es ist die Hölle in diesen Tagen, oder?", sagte der Mann. "Ein armer Mann ist nirgendwo. Du könntest verhungern, verdammt noch mal, mitten auf der Straße, und da gibt es kaum jemanden, der dir hilft." "Da hast du recht", sagte der andere. "Den Job, den ich hatte, habe ich verloren, weil sie schlossen. Sie haben den ganzen Sommer über gearbeitet und einen großen Vorrat aufgebaut, und dann geschlossen." Hurstwood schenkte dem wenig Beachtung. Irgendwie fühlte er sich diesen beiden überlegen - etwas besser dran. Für ihn waren das ignorante und gewöhnliche, arme Schafe in einer treiberischen Hand. "Arme Teufel", dachte er und sprach aus den Gedanken und Gefühlen einer vergangenen erfolgreichen Zeit heraus. "Als Nächstes", sagte einer der Ausbilder. "Du bist dran", sagte ein Nachbar und berührte ihn. Er ging hinaus und kletterte auf die Plattform. Der Ausbilder nahm an, dass keine Vorbereitungen nötig waren. "Siehst du diesen Hebel hier", sagte er und griff nach einem elektrischen Schalter, der an der Decke befestigt war. "Damit schaltest du den Strom ein oder aus. Wenn du den Wagen rückwärts fahren möchtest, drehst du ihn hier. Wenn du ihn vorwärts schicken möchtest, setzt du ihn hier hin. Wenn du die Stromzufuhr abschalten möchtest, hältst du ihn in der Mitte." Hurstwood lächelte über die einfache Information. "Nun, dieser Hebel hier regelt deine Geschwindigkeit. Bis hierhin", sagte er und zeigte mit dem Finger, "gibt dir etwa vier Meilen pro Stunde. Das hier sind acht. Wenn er voll aufgedreht ist, machst du etwa vierzehn Meilen pro Stunde." Hurstwood beobachtete ihn ruhig. Er hatte schon früher Straßenbahnschaffner arbeiten sehen. Er wusste ziemlich genau, wie sie es machten, und war sicher, dass er mit ein wenig Übung genauso gut sein könnte. Der Ausbilder erklärte noch ein paar weitere Details und sagte dann: "Nun, wir fahren jetzt rückwärts." Hurstwood stand ruhig da, während der Wagen zurück in den Hof rollte. "Etwas, worauf du achten musst, ist, dass du langsam Anfang gibst. Gib einem Grad Zeit, bevor du den nächsten gibst. Der häufigste Fehler bei den meisten Männern ist, dass sie immer gleich Vollgas geben wollen. Das ist schlecht, und gefährlich dazu. Es verschleißt den Motor. Das solltest du nicht tun." "Ich verstehe", sagte Hurstwood. Er wartete und wartete, während der Mann weiter sprach. "Nun, jetzt bist du dran", sagte er schließlich. Der Ex-Manager griff nach dem Hebel und drückte ihn vorsichtig, wie er dachte. Es funktionierte viel einfacher als gedacht, mit dem Ergebnis, dass der Wagen schnell nach vorne ruckte und ihn gegen die Tür warf. Etwas verlegen richtete er sich auf, während der Ausbilder den Wagen mit der Bremse anhielt. "Da musst du aufpassen", sagte er nur. Hurstwood stellte jedoch fest, dass das Bedienen der Bremse und die Regulierung der Geschwindigkeit nicht so sofort beherrscht wurden, wie er es sich vorgestellt hatte. Ein- oder zweimal wäre er beinahe durch den hinteren Zaun gepflügt, wenn es nicht die Hand und die Worte seines Begleiters gegeben hätte. Letzterer war ziemlich geduldig mit ihm, aber er lächelte nie. "Du musst das Geschick haben, mit beiden Armen gleichzeitig zu arbeiten", sagte er. "Es braucht ein wenig Übung." Während er noch im Wagen übte, wurde es eins und er bekam Hunger. Es begann zu schneien, und er fror. Er wurde müde, immer hin und her auf der kurzen Strecke zu laufen. Sie fuhren bis zum Ende des Weges, und beide stiegen aus. Hurstwood ging in die Scheune und suchte sich einen Stufenplatz und holte sein in Papier eingewickeltes Mittagessen aus der Tasche. Es gab kein Wasser und das Brot war trocken, aber er genoss es. Es gab keine Zeremonie beim Essen. Er schluckte und schaute sich um und betrachtete die langweilige, häusliche Arbeit der Sache. Es war unangenehm - elendig unangenehm - in allen Facetten. Nicht, weil es bitter war, sondern weil es hart war. Es wäre hart für jeden, dachte er. Nach dem Essen stand er wie zuvor da und wartete, bis er an der Reihe war. Die Absicht war, ihm einen Nachmittag zum Üben zu geben, aber der größte Teil der Zeit wurde mit Herum "Gibt es hier keine Unterkunft, wo ich heute Nacht bleiben kann?", fragte er. "Wenn ich zurück nach New York müsste, fürchte ich, dass ich es nicht schaffen werde." "Es gibt ein paar Feldbetten oben", unterbrach ihn der Mann, "wenn du eine davon haben möchtest." "Das ist in Ordnung", stimmte er zu. Er hatte vor, nach einem Mahlzeit-Ticket zu fragen, aber der augenscheinlich geeignete Moment kam nie, und er beschloss, diese Nacht selbst zu bezahlen. "Ich frage ihn morgen früh." Er aß in einem billigen Restaurant in der Nähe und ging dann direkt los, um den besagten Dachboden zu suchen. Nach Einbruch der Dunkelheit versuchte das Unternehmen nicht mehr, Autos zu betreiben. Die Polizei hatte es ihnen untersagt. Der Raum schien ein Aufenthaltsort für Nachtschichtarbeiter gewesen zu sein. Es gab dort neun Feldbetten, zwei oder drei hölzerne Stühle, eine Seifenkiste und einen kleinen runden Ofen, in dem ein Feuer brannte. Obwohl er früh dran war, war bereits ein anderer Mann da. Dieser saß neben dem Ofen und wärmte sich die Hände. Hurstwood ging auf ihn zu und streckte seine eigenen Hände zum Feuer aus. Er hatte genug von der Kargheit und dem Mangel an allem im Zusammenhang mit seinem Unterfangen, aber er stählte sich, um durchzuhalten. Er bildete sich ein, dass er es eine Weile schaffen könnte. "Kalt, nicht wahr?", sagte der frühe Gast. "Ziemlich." Eine lange Stille. "Kein besonders guter Ort zum Schlafen, oder?", sagte der Mann. "Besser als nichts", antwortete Hurstwood. Eine weitere Stille. "Ich glaube, ich gehe jetzt ins Bett", sagte der Mann. Er erhob sich, ging zu einem der Betten und streckte sich aus, wobei er nur seine Schuhe auszog und eine Decke sowie einen schmutzigen alten Steppanzug über sich zog, alles zu einer Art Bündel. Der Anblick ekelte Hurstwood an, aber er ging nicht weiter darauf ein, sondern entschied sich, in den Ofen zu starren und an etwas anderes zu denken. Schließlich beschloss er, sich ebenfalls hinzulegen, und suchte sich ebenfalls ein Feldbett aus, während er auch seine Schuhe auszog. In dem Moment betrat der Jugendliche, der ihm geraten hatte, hierher zu kommen, den Raum und versuchte freundlich zu sein. "Besser als nichts", stellte er fest und sah sich um. Hurstwood nahm das nicht persönlich. Er hielt es für eine Äußerung individueller Zufriedenheit und antwortete daher nicht. Der Jugendliche nahm an, dass er schlecht gelaunt war und fing leise an zu pfeifen. Als er sah, dass ein anderer Mann schlief, hörte er damit auf und schwieg. Hurstwood machte das Beste aus der schlechten Situation, indem er seine Kleidung anbehielt und die schmutzige Decke von seinem Kopf wegschob, aber schließlich schlief er vor lauter Erschöpfung ein. Die Decke wurde immer bequemer, ihre Beschaffenheit geriet in Vergessenheit, und er zog sie um seinen Hals und schlief ein. Am Morgen wurde er aus einem angenehmen Traum geweckt, als mehrere Männer sich in dem kalten, trostlosen Raum bewegten. Er hatte sich in Gedanken wieder in Chicago befunden, in seinem eigenen gemütlichen Zuhause. Jessica hatte geplant, irgendwohin zu gehen, und er hatte mit ihr darüber gesprochen. Das war so lebhaft in seinem Kopf, dass ihn der Kontrast zu diesem Raum erschreckte. Er richtete seinen Kopf auf, und die kalte, bittere Realität rüttelte ihn wach. "Ich denke, ich sollte aufstehen", sagte er. Es gab kein Wasser in dieser Etage. Er zog in der Kälte seine Schuhe an und stand auf, wobei er sich in seiner Steifheit schüttelte. Seine Kleidung fühlte sich unangenehm an, sein Haar war schlecht. "Verdammt!" murmelte er, als er seinen Hut aufsetzte. Unten in der Halle regte es sich wieder. Er fand einen Wasserkran mit einem Trog, der früher für Pferde benutzt wurde, aber hier gab es kein Handtuch, und sein Taschentuch war vom Vortag schmutzig. Er begnügte sich damit, seine Augen mit dem eiskalten Wasser zu waschen. Dann suchte er den Vorarbeiter, der bereits vor Ort war. "Hast du schon gefrühstückt?", erkundigte sich der würdige Herr. "Nein", sagte Hurstwood. "Dann hol dir was, dein Auto ist noch nicht bereit." Hurstwood zögerte. "Könntest du mir einen Essensgutschein geben?", fragte er mit Anstrengung. "Hier hast du", sagte der Mann und reichte ihm einen. Er frühstückte genauso schlecht wie am Abend zuvor, mit etwas frittiertem Steak und schlechtem Kaffee. Dann ging er zurück. "Hier", sagte der Vorarbeiter und winkte ihn heran, als er hereinkam. "Du bringst dieses Auto in ein paar Minuten raus." Hurstwood stieg auf die Plattform in der düsteren Scheune und wartete auf ein Zeichen. Er war nervös, aber gleichzeitig war es eine Erleichterung. Alles war besser als in der Scheune zu sein. An diesem vierten Tag des Streiks hatte sich die Situation zum Schlechteren gewendet. Die Streikenden hatten nach dem Rat ihrer Anführer und der Zeitungen zwar friedlich gekämpft. Es hatte keine große Gewaltanwendung gegeben. Es wurden zwar Autos gestoppt und mit den Männern debattiert. Einige Mannschaften wurden gewonnen und weggeführt, einige Fenster wurden eingeschlagen, einige Hohnrufe und Schreie wurden abgegeben, aber nur in fünf oder sechs Fällen waren Männer ernsthaft verletzt worden. Diese durch Menschenmengen verursacht, deren Taten die Anführer ablehnten. Die Untätigkeit und der Anblick des Unternehmens, unterstützt von der Polizei, die triumphierte, ärgerte die Männer. Sie sahen, dass jeden Tag mehr Autos unterwegs waren, dass jeden Tag von den Firmenvertretern verkündet wurde, dass der wirksame Widerstand der Streikenden gebrochen sei. Dies brachte verzweifelte Gedanken in die Köpfe der Männer. Friedliche Methoden bedeuteten, so sahen sie, dass die Unternehmen bald alle ihre Autos fahren würden und diejenigen, die sich beschwert hatten, vergessen wären. Es gab nichts, was den Unternehmen so hilfreich war wie friedliche Methoden. Plötzlich entflammten sie und eine ganze Woche herrschten Sturm und Drang. Autos wurden angegriffen, Männer attackiert, Polizisten rangen, Gleise wurden aufgerissen und Schüsse abgegeben, bis schließlich Straßenkämpfe und Tumulte häufig wurden und die Stadt mit Soldaten besetzt wurde. Hurstwood wusste nichts von der Stimmungsänderung. "Bringe dein Auto raus", rief der Vorarbeiter, winkte ihm eine energische Hand zu. Ein grüner Schaffner sprang hinten auf und läutete zweimal die Glocke als Startsignal. Hurstwood betätigte den Hebel und fuhr das Auto durch die Tür auf die Straße vor der Scheune. Hier stiegen ihm zwei kräftige Polizisten auf die Plattform - einer rechts, einer links. Bei einem Gong nahe der Scheunentür ertönten zwei Glocken durch den Schaffner und Hurstwood betätigte seinen Hebel. Die beiden Polizisten schauten gelassen um sich. "Es ist ganz schön kalt heute Morgen", sagte derjenige links mit starkem Akzent. "Ich hatte gestern genug davon", sagte der andere. "Ich würde keinen ständigen Job davon wollen." "Ich auch nicht." Keiner beachtete Hurstwood im Geringsten, der dem eisigen Wind gegenüberstand, der ihn vollständig durchfror, und an seine Anweisungen dachte. "Halt ein gleichmäßiges Tempo", hatte der Vorarbeiter gesagt. "Hal Etwa ein halbes Dutzend Männer standen an der Ecke und warfen taunts und Gelächter nach dem schnell fahrenden Auto. Hurstwood zuckte leicht zusammen. Die Realität war etwas schlimmer als erwartet. Jetzt kam in Sichtweite, drei oder vier Blocks weiter, ein Haufen etwas auf den Schienen. "Hier haben sie definitiv gearbeitet", sagte einer der Polizisten. "Wir werden vielleicht eine Auseinandersetzung haben", sagte der andere. Hurstwood fuhr das Auto nah heran und stoppte. Allerdings hatte er das nicht ganz getan, bevor sich eine Menschenmenge versammelte. Sie bestand zum Teil aus ehemaligen Straßenbahnführern und Schaffnern, mit ein paar Freunden und Sympathisanten. "Komm aus dem Auto, Kumpel", sagte einer der Männer mit einer versöhnlichen Stimme. "Du willst doch keinem anderen das Brot aus dem Mund nehmen, oder?" Hurstwood hielt sich an seine Bremse und seinen Hebel fest, blass und sehr unsicher, was er tun sollte. "Zurücktreten", rief einer der Polizisten und lehnte sich über das Plattformgeländer. "Verschwindet jetzt alle. Gebt dem Mann eine Chance, seine Arbeit zu tun." "Hör mal, Kumpel", sagte der Anführer und ignorierte den Polizisten und wandte sich an Hurstwood. "Wir sind alle Arbeiter wie du. Wenn du ein regulärer Straßenbahnführer wärest und so behandelt worden wärst wie wir, würdest du nicht wollen, dass jemand kommt und deinen Platz einnimmt, oder? Du würdest nicht wollen, dass dir jemand die Chance nimmt, deine Rechte zu erkämpfen, oder?" "Schließ sie ab! Schließ sie ab!" drängte der andere Polizist grob. "Verschwindet von hier", und er sprang über das Geländer und landete vor der Menge und begann zu schieben. Sofort war der andere Offizier neben ihm. "Weicht zurück", schrien sie. "Verzieht euch. Was zum Teufel soll das? Raus jetzt!" Es war wie ein kleiner Schwarm von Bienen. "Schubst mich nicht", sagte einer der Streikenden entschlossen. "Ich mache nichts." "Verschwindet von hier!" rief der Beamte und schwang seinen Schlagstock. "Ich werde dir damit über den Schädel schlagen. Zurück, jetzt." "Was zum Teufel!" rief ein anderer der Streikenden und drückte in die andere Richtung und fügte gleichzeitig einige kräftige Flüche hinzu. Ein Schlagstock des Beamten traf seinen Kopf. Er blinzelte mehrere Male blind, wankte auf seinen Beinen, hob die Hände hoch und taumelte zurück. Im Gegenzug landete eine schnelle Faust auf dem Nacken des Beamten. In Wut versetzt, schlug der letztere links und rechts um sich und ließ seinen Schlagstock wild herumfliegen. Er wurde von seinem Polizeibruder geschickt unterstützt, der wuchtige Flüche auf die aufgewühlten Gewässer ausschüttete. Es wurde kein schwerer Schaden verursacht, dank der Geschicklichkeit der Streikenden, die sich außer Reichweite hielten. Sie standen jetzt auf dem Gehweg herum und verspotteten. "Wo ist der Schaffner?" rief einer der Beamten, als er dieses Individuum ins Auge fasste, das nervös vorgegangen war, um bei Hurstwood zu stehen. Letzterer hatte auf die Szene mit mehr Verwunderung als Angst geblickt. "Warum kommst du hier nicht runter und räumst diese Steine von den Schienen?", fragte der Offizier. "Warum stehst du da? Willst du den ganzen Tag hier bleiben? Steig ab." Hurstwood atmete aufgeregt und sprang mit dem nervösen Schaffner herunter, als wäre er gerufen worden. "Beeil dich jetzt", sagte der andere Polizist. Auch wenn es kalt war, waren diese Beamten heiß und wütend. Hurstwood arbeitete mit dem Schaffner zusammen, hob Stein um Stein und wärmte sich dabei an der Arbeit auf. "Ah, du Streikbrecher", rief die Menge. "Du Feigling! Nimmst du einem Mann seinen Job weg, was? Raubst du den Armen, was? Wir kriegen dich noch, warte nur." Nicht alle diese Worte stammten von einem Mann. Sie kamen von hier und da, zusammen mit viel mehr ähnlichem und Flüchen. "Arbeitet, ihr Schurken", schrie eine Stimme. "Macht die dreckige Arbeit. Ihr seid die Dummköpfe, die die Armen unterdrücken!" "Möge Gott euch verhungern lassen", rief eine alte irische Frau, die jetzt ein nahes Fenster öffnete und den Kopf herausstreckte. "Ja, und dich", fügte sie hinzu und fing den Blick eines der Polizisten auf. "Du verdammter, mordender Dieb! Schlage meinen Sohn über den Kopf, willst du, du herzloser, mordender Teufel? Ah, du----" Aber der Beamte hörte taub zu. "Geh doch zum Teufel, du alte Hexe", murmelte er halb, als er sich um die verstreute Gruppe herumsah. Jetzt waren die Steine weg, und Hurstwood nahm wieder seinen Platz ein, begleitet von einem anhaltenden Chor von Beschimpfungen. Beide Offiziere stiegen neben ihm auf, und der Schaffner läutete die Glocke, als, Peng! Peng! Durch Fenster und Tür kamen Steine und Kiesel. Einer strich knapp an Hurstwoods Kopf vorbei. Ein anderer zerstörte das Fenster dahinter. "Lass den Hebel los", rief einer der Beamten und griff selbst danach. Hurstwood tat, wie ihm geheißen, und der Wagen raste davon, gefolgt von einem Klappern von Steinen und einem Regen von Flüchen. "Dieses Arschloch hat mich in den Hals getroffen", sagte einer der Beamten. "Ich habe ihn aber ordentlich erwischt dafür." "Ich glaube, ich habe Flecken auf einigen von ihnen hinterlassen", sagte der andere. "Ich kenne den großen Typen, der uns ------- genannt hat", sagte der erste. "Ich werde ihn dafür noch kriegen." "Ich dachte, wir wären diesmal sicher", sagte der zweite. Hurstwood, erhitzt und aufgeregt, starrte unverwandt nach vorn. Es war eine erstaunliche Erfahrung für ihn. Er hatte davon gelesen, aber die Realität schien etwas völlig Neues zu sein. Er war kein Feigling im Geist. Die Tatsache, dass er jetzt so viel gelitten hatte, führte eher zu einer stoliden Entschlossenheit, es auszuhalten. Er dachte nicht an New York oder die Wohnung zurück. Diese eine Fahrt schien eine alles verbrauchende Sache zu sein. Sie fuhren ungestört ins Geschäftszentrum von Brooklyn. Die Leute schauten auf die kaputten Fenster des Wagens und auf Hurstwood in seinen schlichten Kleidern. Stimmen riefen hin und wieder "Streikbrecher" und andere Beschimpfungen, aber keine Menge griff den Wagen an. Am unteren Ende der Strecke ging einer der Beamten, um seine Dienststelle anzurufen und von den Schwierigkeiten zu berichten. "Da draußen ist eine Gang", sagte er, "die noch auf uns wartet. Es wäre besser, jemanden dorthin zu schicken und sie auszuräumen." Der Wagen fuhr leiser zurück - beschimpft, beobachtet, beworfen, aber nicht angegriffen. Hurstwood atmete auf, als er die Scheunen sah. "Nun", sagte er zu sich selbst, "ich bin da heil herausgekommen." Der Wagen wurde umgedreht, und ihm wurde erlaubt, eine Weile herumzuliegen, aber später wurde er wieder gerufen. Diesmal war ein neues Team von Beamten an Bord. Etwas zuversichtlicher ließ er den Wagen durch die gewöhnlichen Straßen rasen und fühlte sich etwas weniger ängstlich. Auf einer Seite jedoch litt er stark. Der Tag war kalt, mit Schneeflecken und einem böigen Wind, der durch die Geschwindigkeit des Wagens umso unerträglicher wurde. Seine Kleidung war nicht für diese Art von Arbeit gedacht. Er fror, stampfte mit den Füßen und schlug mit den Den ganzen Morgen ging das so und lang in den Nachmittag hinein. Er machte drei solcher Fahrten. Das Abendessen, das er hatte, war kein Aufenthalt für solche Arbeit und die Kälte machte sich bemerkbar. An jedem Ende der Linie hielt er an, um sich aufzuwärmen, aber er hätte vor dem Leiden daran aufstöhnen können. Einer der Stallknechte lieh ihm aus Mitleid eine schwere Mütze und ein Paar Handschuhe aus Schafsfell, und diesmal war er äußerst dankbar. Bei der zweiten Fahrt am Nachmittag stieß er auf eine Menschenmenge ungefähr auf halber Strecke, die mit einem alten Telegraphenpfosten den Fortschritt des Autos blockiert hatte. "Holt das Ding von der Strecke runter", schrieen die beiden Polizisten. "Jaa, jaa, jaa!", schrie die Menge. "Holt es selbst runter." Die beiden Polizisten stiegen aus und Hurstwood begann ihnen zu folgen. "Du bleibst da", rief einer. "Jemand wird mit deinem Auto weglaufen." Mitten im Stimmengewirr hörte Hurstwood jemanden neben sich. "Komm runter, Kumpel, und sei ein Mann. Kämpfe nicht gegen die Armen. Lass das den Konzernen überlassen." Er sah den gleichen Kerl, der ihn schon von der Ecke aus angesprochen hatte. Nun tat er wieder so, als hätte er ihn nicht gehört. "Komm runter", wiederholte der Mann sanft. "Du willst doch nicht gegen arme Leute kämpfen. Kämpfe überhaupt nicht." Es war ein äußerst philosophischer und jesuitischer Fahrer. Ein dritter Polizist gesellte sich zu den anderen beiden, und jemand rannte los, um weitere Beamte zu rufen. Hurstwood sah sich um, entschlossen, aber ängstlich. Ein Mann packte ihn am Mantel. "Komm da runter", rief er aus und zog an ihm und versuchte, ihn über das Geländer zu ziehen. "Lass mich los", sagte Hurstwood wütend. "Ich werde dir zeigen - du Streikbrecher!", rief ein junger Ire aus und sprang auf das Auto und versuchte, Hurstwood zu schlagen. Letzterer wich aus und bekam den Schlag auf die Schulter anstatt ins Gesicht. "Verschwinde von hier", rief ein Beamter und eilte zur Rettung hinzu und fügte natürlich die üblichen Flüche hinzu. Hurstwood fing sich wieder, bleich und zitternd. Es wurde nun ernst für ihn. Die Leute schauten ihn an und verspotteten ihn. Ein Mädchen zog Grimassen. Er begann, in seiner Entschlossenheit zu schwanken, als ein Mannschaftswagen auftauchte und weitere Beamte ausstiegen. Nun wurde die Strecke schnell freigegeben und die Befreiung erreicht. "Lass sie jetzt fahren, schnell", sagte der Beamte, und schon war er wieder unterwegs. Das Ende kam mit einer wahren Menge, die das Auto auf seiner Rückfahrt einen oder zwei Meilen von den Scheunen entfernt erwartete. Es war eine äußerst arme Gegend. Er wollte schnell hindurchfahren, aber schon wieder war die Strecke blockiert. Er sah Männer etwas herantragen, als er noch einige Blocks entfernt war. "Da sind sie wieder!", rief ein Polizist aus. "Ich werde ihnen dieses Mal etwas geben", sagte der zweite Beamte, dessen Geduld zu Ende ging. Hurstwood litt körperlich, als das Auto heranrollte. Wie zuvor begann die Menge zu pfeifen, doch nun warfen sie lieber Sachen. Ein oder zwei Fenster gingen kaputt und Hurstwood wich einem Stein aus. Beide Polizisten rannten auf die Menschenmenge zu, aber diese antwortete, indem sie auf das Auto zustürmte. Eine Frau - ein einfaches Mädchen - war unter ihnen und trug einen groben Stock. Sie war äußerst wütend und schlug nach Hurstwood, der auswich. Daraufhin sprangen ihre Begleiter mit gehöriger Ermutigung auf das Auto und zogen Hurstwood herunter. Er hatte kaum Zeit zu sprechen oder zu rufen, bevor er fiel. "Lass mich los", sagte er und fiel auf die Seite. "Ach, du Armer", hörte er jemanden sagen. Tritte und Schläge prasselten auf ihn ein. Es schien, als würde er erstickt. Dann schienen zwei Männer ihn wegzuziehen und er rang nach Freiheit. "Lass ihn los", sagte eine Stimme, "dir geht's gut. Steh auf." Man ließ ihn los, und er erholte sich. Jetzt erkannte er zwei Beamte. Ihm war, als würde er vor Erschöpfung in Ohnmacht fallen. Etwas war auf seinem Kinn nass. Er berührte es mit der Hand und spürte nach, dann schaute er nach. Es war rot. "Sie haben mich geschnitten", sagte er töricht und suchte nach seinem Taschentuch. "Nun, nun", sagte einer der Beamten. "Es ist nur ein Kratzer." Seine Sinne klärten sich jetzt und er schaute sich um. Er stand in einem kleinen Laden, wo sie ihn für einen Moment zurückgelassen hatten. Draußen konnte er sehen, während er sich das Kinn abwischte, das Auto und die aufgeregte Menschenmenge. Ein Mannschaftswagen war da, und noch einer. Er ging hinüber und schaute hinaus. Es war ein Krankenwagen, der rückwärts hereinfuhr. Er sah, wie die Polizei energisch vorging und Verhaftungen vornahm. "Komm schon, wenn du dein Auto noch mitnehmen willst", sagte ein Beamter, öffnete die Tür und schaute hinein. Er stieg aus, unsicher, was er tun sollte. Ihm war sehr kalt und er hatte Angst. "Wo ist der Schaffner?", fragte er. "Oh, der ist jetzt nicht hier", sagte der Polizist. Hurstwood ging zum Auto und stieg nervös ein. Während er dies tat, fiel ein Schuss. Etwas stach in seiner Schulter. "Wer hat das abgefeuert?", hörte er einen Beamten ausrufen. "Verdammt, wer war das?" Beide ließen ihn stehen und liefen auf ein bestimmtes Gebäude zu. Er hielt einen Moment inne und stieg dann aus. "George!" rief Hurstwood schwach, "das ist zu viel für mich." Mit nervösen Schritten ging er zur Ecke und eilte eine Seitenstraße hinunter. "Puh!", sagte er und atmete tief ein. Eine halbe Häuserreihe entfernt, starrte ein kleines Mädchen ihn an. "Du solltest schleichen", rief sie. Er ging in einem blendenden Schneesturm nach Hause und erreichte bei Einbruch der Dunkelheit die Fähre. Die Kabinen waren mit gemütlichen Seelen gefüllt, die ihn neugierig betrachteten. Sein Kopf war immer noch so wirbelnd, dass er verwirrt war. Der ganze Zauber der funkelnden Lichter des Flusses in einem weißen Sturm war ihm nichts wert. Er stapfte stur weiter, bis er die Wohnung erreichte. Dort trat er ein und fand das Zimmer warm vor. Carrie war weg. Ein paar Abendzeitungen lagen auf dem Tisch, wo sie sie liegen gelassen hatte. Er zündete das Gaslicht an und setzte sich. Dann stand er auf und zog sich aus, um seine Schulter zu untersuchen. Es war nur ein Kratzer. Er wusch sich die Hände und das Gesicht, immer noch in Gedanken versunken, und kämmte sein Haar. Dann suchte er etwas zu essen und setzte sich schließlich in seinen bequemen Schaukelstuhl. Es war eine wunderbare Erleichterung. Er legte seine Hand an sein Kinn und vergaß für einen Moment die Zeitungen. "Nun", sagte er nach einer Weile, als sich seine Natur wieder erholte, "das ist ein ganz schönes hartes Spiel da drüben." Dann drehte er sich um und sah die Zeitungen. Mit halbem Seufzer nahm er die "World" in die Hand. "Streik breitet sich in Brooklyn aus", las er. "Meuterei bricht in allen Teilen der Stadt aus." Er richtete seine Zeitung sehr bequem aus und las weiter. Es war das Einzige, was ihn mit brennendem Interesse las. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Hurstwood wird zusammen mit einer Gruppe anderer Männer in eine Scheune geschickt, um das Fahren von Autos zu lernen. Die Scheune ist kein glücklicher Ort und die Männer dort sehen noch trauriger und verzweifelter aus als Hurstwood. Hurstwood hört ihnen zu, wie sie über die Gewalt des Streiks sprechen, trotz der Anwesenheit der Polizei. Die meisten Männer haben Mitgefühl mit den streikenden Arbeitern, aber sie sind so von der Wirtschaft niedergeschlagen, dass sie keine andere Wahl haben, als die miese Arbeit anzunehmen. Jetzt ist Hurstwoods an der Reihe, das Auto zu fahren, und ohne Erfahrung ist er so ziemlich wie ein Sechzehnjähriger, der seine erste Fahrstunde nimmt. Das Fahren erweist sich als viel schwieriger, als er gedacht hatte. Nach einem schnellen und trüben Mittagessen geht das Training weiter und am Ende des Tages beschließt Hurstwood, dass es einfacher wäre, in der Nähe zu übernachten, anstatt nach Hause zu gehen. Er erfährt von einem anderen Mann, dass die Firma einige Pritschen für die Streikbrecher aufgestellt hat, auf denen sie schlafen können. Also isst Hurstwood schnell in einem billigen Restaurant in der Nähe und macht sich auf den Weg zu seiner Pritsche. Der Ort ist eiskalt und ziemlich trostlos. Er schläft ein und träumt davon, dass er zurück in Chicago in seinem alten schicken Haus ist. Er wacht sich ziemlich elend auf und spritzt sich Wasser aus einer Pferdetränke ins Gesicht. Er ergattert einen Essensgutschein für das Frühstück vom Vorarbeiter und beginnt dann wieder mit dem Training. Es ist der vierte Tag des Streiks und die Streikenden werden immer wütender und gewalttätiger, besonders wegen all der Streikbrecher, die es der Firma ermöglichen, weiterhin zu funktionieren. Hurstwood weiß jedoch nicht, dass sich die Situation verschlimmert hat, da er damit beschäftigt war, in der Scheune zu trainieren. Aber jetzt ist es an der Zeit, dass er auf die Straße geht. Er fährt mit seinem Straßenbahnwagen auf die Straße, begleitet von zwei Polizisten, wie versprochen. Hurstwood muss nicht nur darauf achten, das Auto zu bedienen, er muss sich auch mit Streikenden herumschlagen, die ihn anbrüllen und um das Auto drängen. Es wird so schlimm, dass der Polizist Hurstwood anweist, das Auto anzuhalten. Die Beamten nehmen es mit den Streikenden auf, drängen sie weg und drohen ihnen mit ihren Knüppeln. Die Streikenden weichen nicht zurück, also schlägt ein Polizist einen von ihnen mit seinem Knüppel, und dann schlägt jemand anderes diesen Polizisten, und er und sein Partner fangen an, jeden in Sichtweite mit ihren Knüppeln zu verprügeln. Zum Glück wird niemand ernsthaft verletzt. Die Streikenden haben Steine auf die Straßenbahnschienen gelegt, um sie daran zu hindern, sich zu bewegen, und der Polizist befiehlt Hurstwood und dem Schaffner, sie zu entfernen. Während sie dies tun, verspotten die Streikenden Hurstwood, weil er ein Streikbrecher ist. Sie räumen die Schienen erfolgreich frei, und Hurstwood und die Beamten steigen wieder in die Straßenbahn ein, aber nun wirft die Menschenmenge Steine durch das Fenster. Er schafft es wegzufahren und zu entkommen. Puh, das war knapp. Hurstwood gibt sich selbst eine Anerkennung dafür, dass er die schwierige Situation gemeistert hat, und kehrt zum Bahnhof zurück, um sich zu erholen, bevor er erneut losfährt. Dieses Mal ist er etwas selbstbewusster und gerät nicht so sehr in Schwierigkeiten, aber es ist ziemlich kalt. Er kommt zu dem Schluss, dass "das ein Hundeleben" ist, und als würde das nicht reichen, wirft ihm ein Kind einen Klumpen Dreck gegen den Arm. Aua. Bei einer anderen Fahrt später an diesem Tag blockiert eine Menschenmenge die Gleise mit einem Telegraphenmast. Die Polizisten steigen aus, um die Menschenmenge zu konfrontieren, und sagen Hurstwood, er solle im Wagen bleiben. Während er dort sitzt, dringen einige Männer in den Wagen ein und greifen ihn an. Die Polizisten steigen wieder in den Wagen ein und Hurstwood macht sich davon. Aber das Unglück ist noch nicht vorbei - sie stoßen auf eine weitere Menschenmenge und eine Gruppe von Frauen zieht Hurstwood aus der Menschenmenge und schlägt ihn. Zwei Männer retten ihn und bringen ihn in ein Geschäft, wo er feststellt, dass er blutet. Er beobachtet, was draußen passiert: Ein Streifenwagen und ein Krankenwagen sind gerade angekommen; die Polizei verhaftet Leute. Ein Polizist kommt in das Geschäft und sagt ihm, er solle rausgehen und das Auto zurückholen, also geht Hurstwood zum Auto. Knall - ein Schuss wird abgefeuert und eine Kugel streift Hurstwoods Schulter. Er ist völlig aufgebracht. Okay, das ist es - er hat endlich seine Grenze erreicht und flieht eine Seitenstraße hinunter. Ach, wenn es regnet, dann... schneit es. Ein schrecklicher Schneesturm bricht aus, als Hurstwood auf dem Weg zur Fähre ist. Als er schließlich in die Wohnung zurückkehrt, war er noch nie so glücklich, in seinen Schaukelstuhl zu steigen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. "Was für ein wundervoller Tag!", sagte Anne und atmete tief ein. "Es ist schön, an einem Tag wie diesem am Leben zu sein, nicht wahr? Ich habe Mitleid mit den Menschen, die noch nicht geboren sind und das verpassen. Sie könnten natürlich auch gute Tage haben, aber diesen hier werden sie niemals haben. Und es ist noch großartiger, so einen schönen Schulweg zu haben, oder?" "Es ist viel schöner als auf der Straße entlang zu gehen; die ist so staubig und heiß", sagte Diana praktisch, während sie in ihren Lunchkorb schaute und mental berechnete, ob die drei saftigen, köstlichen Himbeerkuchen, die dort lagen, auf zehn Mädchen aufgeteilt würden, wie viele Bissen jedes Mädchen bekommen würde. Die kleinen Mädchen der Avonlea Schule legten immer ihr Essen zusammen, und drei Himbeerkuchen alleine zu essen oder sie nur mit der besten Freundin zu teilen, hätte das Mädchen, das es getan hätte, für immer als "gemein" gebrandmarkt. Und doch, wenn die Kuchen unter zehn Mädchen aufgeteilt wurden, bekam man gerade genug, um einen zu necken. Der Weg, den Anne und Diana zur Schule nahmen, war wirklich schön. Anne dachte, dass diese Spaziergänge zur Schule und zurück mit Diana selbst mit Vorstellungskraft nicht verbessert werden könnten. Auf der Hauptstraße zu gehen wäre so unromantisch gewesen; aber durch Lover's Lane, Willowmere, Violet Vale und den Birch Path zu gehen, war romantisch, wenn überhaupt etwas romantisch war. Lover's Lane öffnete sich unterhalb des Obstgartens bei Green Gables und erstreckte sich weit in den Wald bis zum Ende der Cuthbert Farm. Hier wurden die Kühe zur Hinterweide gebracht und das Holz im Winter nach Hause geholt. Anne hatte ihm den Namen Lover's Lane gegeben, bevor sie einen Monat bei Green Gables war. "Natürlich gehen Liebhaber niemals wirklich dort spazieren", erklärte sie Marilla, "aber Diana und ich lesen gerade ein absolut großartiges Buch und darin gibt es einen Lover's Lane. Also wollen wir auch einen haben. Und das ist ein sehr hübscher Name, findest du nicht? So romantisch! Du kannst dir aber keine Liebhaber hinein denken, weißt du. Ich mag diesen Weg, weil man dort laut denken kann, ohne dass einen die Leute für verrückt halten." Anne ging alleine am Morgen bis zum Bach den Lover's Lane hinunter. Hier traf sie auf Diana, und die beiden kleinen Mädchen gingen den Weg entlang unter dem blätterreichen Bogen der Ahornbäume - "Ahornbäume sind so gesellige Bäume", sagte Anne, "sie rascheln und flüstern immerzu zu einem" -, bis sie zu einer rustikalen Brücke kamen. Dann verließen sie den Weg und gingen durch Mr. Barrys hinteres Feld und an Willowmere vorbei. Hinter Willowmere lag Violet Vale - eine kleine grüne Vertiefung im Schatten von Mr. Andrew Bells großem Wald. "Natürlich gibt es dort jetzt keine Veilchen", erzählte Anne Marilla, "aber Diana sagt, dass sie im Frühling dort Millionen gibt. Oh, Marilla, kannst du dir nicht vorstellen, dass du sie siehst? Es raubt einem tatsächlich den Atem. Ich habe es Violet Vale genannt. Diana sagt, sie hat noch niemanden getroffen, der so gute Namen für Orte finden kann wie ich. Es ist schön, in etwas gut zu sein, nicht wahr? Aber den Birkenpfad hat Diana benannt. Sie wollte das unbedingt, also habe ich es ihr erlaubt. Aber ich bin sicher, ich hätte etwas poetischeres als einfach nur Birkenpfad finden können. Jeder kann sich einen Namen wie diesen ausdenken. Aber der Birkenpfad ist einer der schönsten Orte auf der Welt, Marilla." Das war er. Auch andere Leute fanden das, als sie darauf stießen. Es war ein schmaler, kurviger Weg, der über einen langen Hügel hinunter durch Mr. Bells Wald führte, wo das Licht durch so viele smaragdene Bildschirme fiel, dass es so makellos war wie das Herz eines Diamanten. An beiden Seiten des Weges wuchsen schlanke junge Birken mit weißen Stämmen und geschmeidigen Zweigen; Farne und Sternblumen und Maiglöckchen wuchsen dicht entlang des Weges; und immer lag eine herrlich würzige Luft in der Luft, begleitet von Vogelgezwitscher und dem Murmeln und Lachen des Waldes in den Bäumen. Hin und wieder konnte man einen Hasen über die Straße hüpfen sehen, wenn man leise war – was bei Anne und Diana etwa alle Jubeljahre der Fall war. Im Tal führte der Weg zur Hauptstraße, und dann ging es nur noch den Fichtenhügel hoch zur Schule. Die Avonlea Schule war ein weiß gestrichenes Gebäude mit niedrigem Dach und großen Fenstern, innen mit bequemen, soliden, altmodischen Schulbänken ausgestattet, die sich öffneten und schlossen und auf deren Deckeln die Initialen und Hieroglyphen von drei Generationen von Schülern eingezeichnet waren. Das Schulhaus war zurückversetzt von der Straße und dahinter lag ein dunkler Tannenwald und ein Bach, in den alle Kinder morgens ihre Milchflaschen stellten, damit sie bis zur Mittagszeit kühl und frisch blieben. Marilla hatte Anne am ersten Tag im September mit vielen geheimen Befürchtungen zur Schule gehen sehen. Anne war so ein eigenartiges Mädchen. Wie würde sie mit den anderen Kindern klarkommen? Und wie um alles in der Welt sollte sie es jemals schaffen, während des Unterrichts den Mund zu halten? Die Dinge liefen jedoch besser als Marilla befürchtet hatte. Anne kam an diesem Abend hocherfreut nach Hause. "Ich glaube, ich werde die Schule hier mögen", verkündete sie. "Ich halte nicht viel vom Lehrer. Er kräuselt die ganze Zeit seinen Schnurrbart und stiert Prissy Andrews an. Prissy ist schon erwachsen, weißt du. Sie ist sechzehn und lernt für die Aufnahmeprüfung für die Queen's Academy in Charlottetown nächstes Jahr. Tillie Boulter sagt, der Lehrer würde total auf sie abfahren. Sie hat einen wunderschönen Teint und lockiges braunes Haar und sie trägt es so elegant. Sie sitzt auf der langen Bank hinten und er sitzt dort die meiste Zeit - um ihr die Lektionen zu erklären, sagt er. Aber Ruby Gillis sagt, sie hätte ihn etwas auf ihr Schiefertafel schreiben sehen, und als Prissy es las, wurde sie rot wie eine Rübe und kicherte; und Ruby Gillis sagt, sie glaube nicht, dass es etwas mit der Lektion zu tun hatte." "Anne Shirley, lass mich nicht noch einmal hören, dass du so über deinen Lehrer redest", sagte Marilla schroff. "Du gehst zur Schule, um den Lehrer zu kritisieren. Ich denke, er kann dir etwas beibringen, und es ist deine Aufgabe zu lernen. Und versteh gleich zu Anfang, dass du nicht nach Hause kommst und über ihn petzt. Das ist etwas, das ich nicht unterstütze. Ich hoffe, du warst ein braves Mädchen." "Ja, das war ich", sagte Anne bequem. "Es war gar nicht so schwer, wie du dir vorstellen magst. Ich sitze mit Diana zusammen. Unser Platz ist direkt am Fenster und wir können zum Shining Waters See hinunterblicken. In der Schule gibt es viele nette Mädchen und wir hatten eine herrlich lustige Zeit beim Spielen in der Mittagspause. Es ist so schön, viele kleine Mädchen zum Spielen zu haben. Aber natürlich mag ich Diana am liebsten und werde sie immer mögen. Ich liebe Diana. Ich bin schrecklich hinter den anderen zurück. Sie sind alle im fünften Buch und ich bin erst im vierten. Ich finde, das ist eine Art Schande. Aber keiner von ihnen hat so eine Vorstellungskraft wie ich und das habe ich bald herausgefunden. Heute hatten wir Lesen, Geograph Dianas Stimme deutete darauf hin, dass sie es lieber mochte, ihr Leben gequält zu haben als nicht. "Gilbert Blythe?" sagte Anne. "Ist das nicht sein Name, der auf der Veranda mit Julia Bells und einem großen 'Take Notice' über ihnen steht?" "Ja", sagte Diana und warf den Kopf hoch. "Aber ich bin sicher, er mag Julia Bell nicht so sehr. Ich habe ihn sagen hören, dass er das Einmaleins anhand ihrer Sommersprossen studiert hat." "Oh, sprich mir nicht von Sommersprossen", flehte Anne. "Das ist nicht fein, wenn ich so viele habe. Aber ich denke, dass es das Dümmste überhaupt ist, 'Achtung'-Vermerke über Jungen und Mädchen an die Wand zu schreiben. Ich würde wirklich gerne sehen, wenn jemand es wagen würde, meinen Namen mit dem eines Jungen zu schreiben. Natürlich", fügte sie hastig hinzu, "würde das niemand tun." Anne seufzte. Sie wollte nicht, dass ihr Name geschrieben wurde. Aber es war ein wenig demütigend zu wissen, dass es keine Gefahr gab. "Unsinn", sagte Diana, deren schwarze Augen und glänzende Haare das Herz der Avonlea-Schüler verrückt gemacht hatten und deren Name auf der Veranda in halb Dutzend 'Achtung'-Vermerken erschien. "Es ist nur als Witz gemeint. Und sei dir nicht zu sicher, dass dein Name niemals geschrieben wird. Charlie Sloane hat es total auf dich abgesehen. Er hat seiner Mutter - seiner Mutter, versteht sich - erzählt, dass du das klügste Mädchen in der Schule bist. Das ist besser als gut auszusehen." "Nein, ist es nicht", sagte Anne, weiblich bis ins Mark. "Ich wäre lieber hübsch als clever. Und ich hasse Charlie Sloane, ich kann keinen Jungen mit Glubschaugen ausstehen. Wenn jemand meinen Namen mit seinem schreiben würde, würde ich es nie überwinden, Diana Barry. Aber es ist schön, Klassenbeste zu sein." "Ab jetzt wirst du Gilbert in deiner Klasse haben", sagte Diana, "und er ist es gewohnt, Klassenbester zu sein, das kann ich dir sagen. Obwohl er fast vierzehn ist, ist er erst im vierten Schulbuch. Vor vier Jahren war sein Vater krank und musste zur Gesundung nach Alberta gehen, und Gilbert ist mit ihm gegangen. Sie waren drei Jahre dort, und Gil ging fast gar nicht zur Schule, bis sie zurückkamen. Es wird dir nach diesem nicht mehr so leicht fallen, Klassenbeste zu bleiben, Anne." "Ich freue mich", sagte Anne schnell. "Ich könnte wirklich nicht stolz darauf sein, Klassenbeste von kleinen Jungen und Mädchen von nur neun oder zehn Jahren zu sein. Gestern bin ich aufgestanden, um 'Ebullition' zu buchstabieren. Josie Pye war die Beste und - merke dir - sie hat in ihr Buch gespickt. Mr. Phillips hat es nicht gesehen, er hat Prissy Andrews angeschaut, aber ich habe es. Ich habe ihr nur einen Blick eisiger Verachtung zugeworfen und sie wurde knallrot wie eine Rübe und hat es trotzdem falsch geschrieben." "Diese Pye-Mädchen betrügen einfach überall", sagte Diana empört, als sie über den Zaun der Hauptstraße kletterten. "Gertie Pye hat gestern tatsächlich ihre Milchflasche anstelle meiner in den Bach gelegt. Kannst du so etwas glauben? Ich rede jetzt nicht mehr mit ihr." Als Mr. Phillips hinten im Raum Prissy Andrews' Lateinunterricht gab, flüsterte Diana Anne zu: "Das ist Gilbert Blythe, der direkt gegenüber von dir sitzt, Anne. Sieh ihn dir nur an und überlege, ob du nicht findest, dass er hübsch ist." Anne sah entsprechend hin. Sie hatte eine gute Gelegenheit dazu, denn der besagte Gilbert Blythe war damit beschäftigt, heimlich den langen gelben Zopf von Ruby Gillis zu stecken, die vor ihm saß, an die Rückseite ihres Stuhls. Er war ein großer Junge mit lockigem braunem Haar, schelmischen haselnussbraunen Augen und einem Mund, der zu einem neckenden Lächeln verzogen war. Plötzlich sprang Ruby Gillis auf, um eine Aufgabe zum Lehrer zu bringen; sie fiel wieder in ihren Stuhl zurück und stieß einen kleinen Schrei aus, weil sie glaubte, dass ihr die Haare an den Wurzeln herausgerissen wurden. Jeder schaute sie an und Mr. Phillips starrte so streng, dass Ruby anfing zu weinen. Gilbert hatte die Stecknadel blitzschnell verschwinden lassen und studierte mit dem ernstesten Gesicht der Welt seine Geschichte. Doch als der Tumult abebbte, schaute er Anne an und zwinkerte ausdrucksvoll. "Ich finde, dein Gilbert Blythe ist hübsch", vertraute Anne Diana an. "Aber ich finde, dass er sehr frech ist. Es ist unhöflich, einem fremden Mädchen zuzuzwinkern." Aber erst am Nachmittag ging es richtig los. Mr. Phillips befand sich in der Ecke, erklärte Prissy Andrews eine Algebra-Aufgabe, und der Rest der Schüler machte ziemlich, was sie wollten, aßen grüne Äpfel, flüsterten, malten Bilder auf ihre Schiefertafeln und fuhren Grillen an Schnüren auf und ab den Mittelgang. Gilbert Blythe versuchte, dass Anne Shirley ihn ansah, und scheiterte vollkommen, weil Anne in diesem Moment völlig unbewusst war, nicht nur von der Existenz von Gilbert Blythe, sondern von jedem anderen Schüler in der Avonlea-Schule selbst. Mit dem Kinn auf den Händen gestützt und den Blick auf den blauen Blick auf den See der Leuchtenden Wasser gerichtet, den das westliche Fenster bot, war sie weit weg in einem prächtigen Traumland und hörte und sah nur ihre eigenen wunderbaren Visionen. Gilbert Blythe war es nicht gewohnt, sich anzustrengen, um ein Mädchen anzusehen, und dabei zu scheitern. Sie sollte ihn anschauen, dieses rothaarige Mädchen Shirley mit dem kleinen spitz zulaufenden Kinn und den großen Augen, die nicht wie die Augen eines anderen Mädchens in der Avonlea-Schule waren. Gilbert griff über den Gang und nahm das Ende von Annes langem, rotem Zopf, hielt es in Armelänge und flüsterte durchdringend: "Karotten! Karotten!" Dann schaute Anne ihn mit Wut an! Sie tat mehr als nur schauen. Sie sprang auf, ihre hellen Fantasien waren in heillosen Ruinen zerstört. Sie schleuderte Gilbert einen empörten Blick zu, aus Augen, deren wütender Glanz ebenso schnell erlosch wie ihre wütenden Tränen. "Du gemeiner, fieser Junge!" rief sie leidenschaftlich aus. "Wie kannst du es wagen!" Und dann - klack! Anne ließ ihre Schiefertafel auf Gilberts Kopf niedersausen und zerschmetterte sie - die Schiefertafel, nicht den Kopf - in zwei Hälften. Die Avonlea-Schule genoss immer eine Szene. Das war eine besonders amüsante. Jeder sagte "Oh" in entzücktem Entsetzen. Diana keuchte. Ruby Gillis, die dazu neigte, hysterisch zu werden, fing an zu weinen. Tommy Sloane ließ sein Team aus Grillen ganz entkommen, während er mit offenem Mund das Bild betrachtete. Mr. Phillips stapfte den Mittelgang hinunter und legte seine Hand schwer auf Annes Schulter. "Anne Shirley, was soll das bedeuten?" sagte er wütend. Anne gab keine Antwort. Es war zu viel verlangt, von Fleisch und Blut zu erwarten, dass sie der ganzen Schule erzählte, dass man sie "Karotten" genannt hatte. Gilbert meldete sich tapfer zu Wort. "Es war meine Schuld, Mr. Phillips. Ich habe sie aufgezogen." Mr. Phillips schenkte Gilbert keine Beachtung. "Ich bin Diana hatte nicht die geringste Ahnung, was Anne meinte, aber sie verstand, dass es etwas Schreckliches war. "Du darfst dich nicht daran stören, dass Gilbert sich über deine Haare lustig macht", sagte sie beruhigend. "Er macht sich über alle Mädchen lustig. Er lacht über meine, weil sie so schwarz sind. Er hat mich schon ein Dutzend Mal Krähe genannt. Und ich habe ihn vorher noch nie um Entschuldigung bitten hören." "Es ist ein großer Unterschied, ob man als Krähe oder als Karotte bezeichnet wird", sagte Anne würdevoll. "Gilbert Blythe hat meine Gefühle _unermesslich_ verletzt, Diana." Es wäre möglich gewesen, dass die Angelegenheit ohne weitere Qualen vorübergegangen wäre, wenn nichts weiter passiert wäre. Aber wenn Dinge passieren, neigen sie dazu, weiterzugehen. Die Avonlea-Schüler verbrachten oft die Mittagsstunde damit, Kaugummi in dem Tannenwäldchen von Mr. Bell zu sammeln, auf dem Hügel und über das große Weidefeld. Von dort aus konnten sie das Haus von Eben Wright sehen, wo der Lehrer wohnte. Wenn sie Mr. Phillips dort herauskommen sahen, rannten sie zur Schule; aber da die Entfernung etwa drei Mal länger war als Mr. Wrights Weg, kamen sie sehr oft atemlos und keuchend etwa drei Minuten zu spät an. Am nächsten Tag wurde Mr. Phillips von einem seiner krampfhaften Reformanfälle ergriffen und kündigte vor dem Mittagessen an, dass er erwarte, alle Schüler in ihren Plätzen vorzufinden, wenn er zurückkehre. Jeder, der zu spät käme, würde bestraft werden. Alle Jungen und einige Mädchen gingen wie gewöhnlich in das Tannenwäldchen von Mr. Bell, mit der Absicht, nur so lange zu bleiben, um "Kaugummi zu sammeln". Aber Tannenwälder sind verführerisch und gelbe Nüsse des Kaugummis verlockend; sie sammelten und vertrödelten und verliefen sich; und wie immer das erste, was sie zur Flucht vor der Zeit ermahnte, war Jimmy Glover, der von der Spitze einer patriarchalischen alten Tanne rief: "Der Lehrer kommt." Die Mädchen, die auf dem Boden waren, liefen zuerst und schafften es rechtzeitig zur Schule, aber gerade so. Die Jungen, die sich eilig aus den Bäumen herabschlängeln mussten, waren später dran; und Anne, die gar keinen Kaugummi gesammelt hatte, sondern fröhlich an der fernen Seite des Wäldchens herumstreifte, bis zur Taille im Farn versunken, leise vor sich hin singend, mit einem Kranz aus Reisblumen im Haar, als wäre sie eine wilde Göttin der Schattenorte, kam als letztes an. Anne konnte wie eine Hirschkuh rennen; rennen tat sie, mit dem teuflischen Ergebnis, dass sie die Jungen beim Eingang überholte und mit ihnen in die Schule geschleift wurde, gerade als Mr. Phillips dabei war, seinen Hut aufzuhängen. Die kurze Reformenergie von Mr. Phillips war vorbei; er hatte keine Lust, zwölf Schüler zu bestrafen; aber es war notwendig, etwas zu tun, um sein Wort zu retten, also suchte er einen Sündenbock und fand ihn in Anne, die mit einem vergessenen Lilienkranz, schief über einem Ohr, keuchend auf ihrem Platz saß und ihr ein besonders unordentliches Erscheinungsbild verlieh. "Anne Shirley, da du so gerne in Begleitung der Jungen bist, sollen wir deinem Wunsch heute Nachmittag nachgeben", sagte er sarkastisch. "Nimm diese Blumen aus deinem Haar und setz dich zu Gilbert Blythe." Die anderen Jungen kicherten. Diana wurde vor Mitgefühl bleich, plückte den Kranz aus Annes Haar und drückte ihre Hand. Anne starrte den Lehrer an, als wäre sie zu Stein erstarrt. "Hast du gehört, was ich gesagt habe, Anne?", fragte Mr. Phillips streng. "Ja, Sir", sagte Anne langsam, "aber ich habe nicht gedacht, dass Sie es wirklich so meinten." "Ich versichere Ihnen, das habe ich", immer noch mit der sarkastischen Betonung, die alle Kinder, und Anne besonders, hassten. Es traf einen wunden Punkt. "Folgen Sie meiner Anweisung sofort." Für einen Moment sah es so aus, als würde Anne ungehorsam sein wollen. Doch als ihr klar wurde, dass es nichts dagegen auszusetzen gab, stand sie stolz auf, ging über den Gang und setzte sich neben Gilbert Blythe, das Gesicht in den Armen auf dem Pult vergraben. Ruby Gillis, die einen Blick darauf erhaschte, als es herunterfiel, erzählte den anderen auf dem Nachhauseweg von der Schule, dass sie "noch nie etwas Vergleichbares gesehen habe - es war so weiß, mit winzigen roten Flecken." Für Anne war dies das Ende aller Dinge. Es war schon schlimm genug, aus einer Gruppe von zwölf gleichermaßen Schuldigen ausgewählt zu werden; es war noch schlimmer, zu einem Jungen geschickt zu werden, aber dass dieser Junge Gilbert Blythe sein sollte, war eine Beleidigung, die das Maß des Erträglichen überstieg. Anne fühlte, dass sie es nicht ertragen konnte und es keinen Sinn hatte, es zu versuchen. Ihr ganzer Körper bebte vor Scham, Wut und Erniedrigung. Anfangs schauten, flüsterten, kicherten und stießen sich die anderen Schüler an. Aber da Anne den Kopf nie hob und Gilbert Brüche rechnete, als wäre seine ganze Seele von ihnen und nur von ihnen erfüllt, kehrten sie bald zu ihren eigenen Aufgaben zurück und Anne wurde vergessen. Als Mr. Phillips die Geschichtsklasse aufrief, hätte Anne gehen sollen, aber Anne rührte sich nicht, und Mr. Phillips, der vor dem Aufrufen der Klasse noch ein paar Verse "An Priscilla" geschrieben hatte, dachte immer noch über einen störrischen Reim nach und vermisste sie nicht. Einmal, als niemand hinsah, nahm Gilbert heimlich eine kleine rosa Herzkonfektion mit einem goldenen Motto darauf, "Du bist süß", aus seinem Pult und steckte sie unter den Bogen von Annes Arm. Daraufhin erhob sich Anne, nahm das rosa Herz vorsichtig zwischen die Fingerspitzen, ließ es auf den Boden fallen, zermalmte es mit ihrem Absatz zu Pulver und nahm ihre Position wieder ein, ohne auch nur einen Blick auf Gilbert zu werfen. Als die Schule aus war, ging Anne zurück zu ihrem Schreibtisch, nahm demonstrativ alles heraus, Bücher und Schreibtafel, Feder und Tinte, Testament und Rechenbuch, und stapelte sie ordentlich auf ihre zerbrochene Schiefertafel. "Wozu nimmst du all diese Sachen mit nach Hause, Anne?" wollte Diana wissen, sobald sie auf dem Weg sind. Sie hatte sich nicht getraut, die Frage vorher zu stellen. "Ich gehe nie mehr zurück in die Schule", sagte Anne. Diana keuchte und starrte Anne an, um zu sehen, ob sie es ernst meinte. "Wird Marilla dich zu Hause lassen?", fragte sie. "Sie muss", sagte Anne. "Ich gehe _niemals_ wieder zu diesem Mann in die Schule." "Oh, Anne!" Diana sah aus, als würde sie gleich weinen. "Ich denke wirklich, du bist gemein. Was soll ich machen? Mr. Phillips wird mich zu dieser widerlichen Gertie Pye setzen - ich weiß es, weil sie alleine sitzt. Komm bitte zurück, Anne." "Ich würde für dich fast alles auf der Welt tun, Diana", sagte Anne traurig. "Ich würde mich zerreißen lassen, Körperteil für Körperteil, wenn es dir helfen würde. Aber das kann ich nicht tun, bitte frag mich nicht danach. Es quält meine Seele." "Denk nur an all den Spaß Marilla fand Mrs. Lynde wie gewohnt fleißig und fröhlich, wie sie Quilts strickte. "Ich nehme an, du weißt, weshalb ich gekommen bin", sagte sie etwas beschämt. Mrs. Rachel nickte. "Wegen Annes Aufregung in der Schule, nehme ich an", sagte sie. "Tillie Boulter hat mir auf dem Heimweg von der Schule davon erzählt." "Ich weiß nicht, was ich mit ihr machen soll", sagte Marilla. "Sie behauptet, sie wird nicht mehr zur Schule gehen. Ich habe noch nie ein so aufgewühltes Kind gesehen. Ich habe Ärger erwartet seitdem sie zur Schule gegangen ist. Ich wusste, dass es zu reibungslos lief. Sie ist so empfindlich. Was würdest du raten, Rachel?" "Nun, da du um meinen Rat bittest, Marilla", sagte Mrs. Lynde freundlich - sie liebte es, um Rat gefragt zu werden - "ich würde sie zuerst ein wenig verwöhnen. Ich glaube, Mr. Phillips war im Unrecht. Natürlich darf man das den Kindern nicht sagen, weißt du. Und natürlich war es richtig, sie gestern für ihren Wutausbruch zu bestrafen. Aber heute war es anders. Die anderen, die zu spät kamen, hätten genauso bestraft werden sollen wie Anne. Und ich denke nicht, dass es angemessen ist, dass die Mädchen gemeinsam mit den Jungen bestraft werden müssen. Das ist nicht anständig. Tillie Boulter war richtig empört. Sie stand Anne die ganze Zeit bei und sagte, dass alle Schülerinnen dasselbe taten. Anne scheint irgendwie sehr beliebt bei ihnen zu sein. Ich hätte nie gedacht, dass sie so gut mit ihnen auskommt." "Dann denkst du wirklich, ich sollte sie zu Hause lassen?", sagte Marilla erstaunt. "Ja. Das heißt, ich würde das Wort Schule erst wieder erwähnen, wenn sie es selbst sagt. Verlass dich darauf, Marilla, sie wird sich in einer Woche oder so beruhigen und dann von selbst bereit sein, wieder dorthin zu gehen. Wenn du sie sofort wieder zur Schule schicken würdest, wer weiß, was für eine Laune oder Wutausbruch sie als nächstes bekommen würde und noch mehr Ärger machen würde als je zuvor. Je weniger Aufhebens gemacht wird, desto besser, meiner Meinung nach. Was den Unterricht angeht, wird sie nicht viel verpassen. Mr. Phillips ist als Lehrer überhaupt nicht gut. Sein Verhalten ist skandalös, das ist es, was er vernachlässigt die Jüngeren und widmet seine ganze Zeit den älteren Schülern, die er auf die Königin vorbereitet. Er hätte die Stelle als Lehrer nicht noch ein weiteres Jahr bekommen, wenn sein Onkel kein Verwalter gewesen wäre - Der Verwalter selbst, denn er führt die anderen beiden mit der Nase herum, das ist es, was er macht. Ich sage dir, ich weiß nicht, wozu die Bildung auf dieser Insel wird." Mrs. Rachel schüttelte den Kopf, als wollte sie sagen, dass die Bildung im Bezirk viel besser organisiert wäre, wenn sie selbst die Leitung hätte. Marilla folgte Mrs. Rachels Rat und kein weiteres Wort wurde an Anne über ihre Rückkehr zur Schule verloren. Sie lernte ihre Lektionen zu Hause, erledigte ihre Arbeiten und spielte mit Diana in den kühlen, violetten Herbstabenden. Aber wenn sie Gilbert Blythe auf der Straße traf oder ihm in der Sonntagsschule begegnete, ging sie mit eisiger Verachtung an ihm vorbei, die durch sein offensichtliches Bemühen, sie zu besänftigen, nicht im Geringsten aufgetaut wurde. Selbst Dianas Bemühungen als Friedensstifter waren vergeblich. Anne hatte sich offenbar dazu entschlossen, Gilbert Blythe bis ans Ende ihres Lebens zu hassen. So sehr sie Gilbert auch hasste, so liebte sie doch Diana mit all der Liebe ihres leidenschaftlichen kleinen Herzens, die ebenso intensiv in ihren Vorlieben und Abneigungen war. Eines Abends fand Marilla Anne, die im Dämmerlicht am östlichen Fenster saß und bitterlich weinte, als sie mit einem Korb Äpfel aus dem Obstgarten hereinkam. "Was ist denn jetzt los, Anne?", fragte sie. "Es geht um Diana", schluchzte Anne genussvoll. "Ich liebe Diana so sehr, Marilla. Ich kann niemals ohne sie leben. Aber ich weiß ganz genau, dass Diana, wenn wir erwachsen sind, heiraten und weggehen und mich alleine lassen wird. Und oh, was soll ich tun? Ich hasse ihren Ehemann - ich hasse ihn einfach furchtbar. Ich habe mir alles ausgemalt - die Hochzeit und alles - Diana in schneeweißen Kleidern, mit einem Schleier, und sie sieht aus wie eine wunderschöne, königliche Königin; und ich als Brautjungfer, mit einem hübschen Kleid und aufgebauschten Ärmeln, aber mit einem gebrochenen Herzen, das sich hinter meinem lächelnden Gesicht verbirgt. Und dann Diana Lebwohl sagen..." Hier brach Anne völlig zusammen und weinte immer bitterlicher. Marilla drehte sich schnell weg, um ihr zuckendes Gesicht zu verbergen, aber es half nichts, sie brach auf einem nahegelegenen Stuhl zusammen und lachte in einem so herzlichen und ungewöhnlichen Lachen, dass Matthew, der draußen den Hof überquerte, erstaunt innehielt. Wann hatte er Marilla zuvor so lachen gehört? "Nun, Anne Shirley", sagte Marilla, sobald sie sprechen konnte, "wenn du dir schon Sorgen machen musst, dann mach sie doch bitte in deinem eigenen Haus. Ich dachte, du hättest genug Vorstellungskraft." Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Beachte bitte, dass dieser Kapiteltitel etwas weniger klar ist als der Rest. Es ist eine Anspielung auf die Redensart "ein Sturm im Wasserglas", was bedeutet, dass man sich über etwas Kleines große Gedanken macht. Annes erster Schultag läuft gut. Danach erzählt sie Marilla auf ihre ausführliche Art davon – wie sie erst im vierten Lesebuch ist, während der Rest ihrer Altersgruppe schon im fünften ist, und wie alle sagen, dass der Lehrer Mr. Phillips in eine ältere Schülerin namens Prissy Andrews verliebt ist. Drei Wochen nach Schulbeginn erzählt Diana Anne, dass ein Junge namens Gilbert Blythe aus dem Urlaub zurück sein wird, dass er im gleichen Lesebuch wie Anne ist und dass er alle Mädchen ärgert. Anne sieht Gilbert an diesem Tag, wie er den geflochtenen Zöpfen eines anderen Mädchens an ihren Stuhl bindet. An diesem Nachmittag versucht Gilbert, die träumende Anne dazu zu bringen, ihn zu bemerken, indem er an ihrer Flechte zieht und "Karotten" zu ihr flüstert. Oh, Menschen von Avonlea. Ihr solltet längst wissen, dass man über Annes rote Haare nicht spricht. Anne nennt Gilbert einen "gemeinen, gehässigen Jungen" und schlägt ihm ihre Schiefertafel über den Kopf. Gilbert versucht die Schuld auf sich zu nehmen, aber Mr. Phillips lässt Anne vor der Klasse stehen mit einem Zettel über ihrem Kopf: "Ann Shirley hat einen sehr schlechten Charakter. Ann Shirley muss lernen, ihren Charakter zu beherrschen". Richtig – er hat das "e" vergessen. Gilbert versucht sich zu entschuldigen, aber Anne kann es nicht einfach so vergessen. Am nächsten Tag bekommt Anne Ärger, weil sie nach dem Mittagessen zu spät zurückkommt, obwohl auch eine Menge anderer Kinder zu spät gekommen sind. Mr. Phillips lässt sie auf der Jungen-Seite des Klassenzimmers neben Gilbert Blythe sitzen. Während ihres Nachmittags als Tischnachbarn versucht Gilbert, Anne ein Bonbon-Herz zu geben, auf dem steht "du bist süß", und Anne tritt es mit ihrem Schuh kaputt. Schlechtes Timing, Gil. Anne erzählt Marilla, sie werde nie wieder zur Schule gehen. Marilla will keinen weiteren Konflikt, also geht sie zu Rachel Lynde um Rat. Rachel schlägt vor, Anne zu Hause zu lassen und abzuwarten, bis sich die Situation beruhigt, anstatt diesen Kampf auszutragen. Sie meint, dass Mr. Phillips ein schlechter Lehrer ist und Anne sowieso nicht viel verpassen wird. Also bleibt Anne zu Hause und verbringt nach der Schule Zeit mit Diana. Eines Tages weint sie sogar, weil sie sich vorstellt, dass Diana stirbt, was Marilla, zum ersten Mal in diesem Buch, wirklich zum Lachen bringt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Every body in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Elton, was disposed to pay him attention on his marriage. Dinner-parties and evening-parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed in so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were never to have a disengaged day. "I see how it is," said she. "I see what a life I am to lead among you. Upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated. We really seem quite the fashion. If this is living in the country, it is nothing very formidable. From Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a disengaged day!--A woman with fewer resources than I have, need not have been at a loss." No invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made evening-parties perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste for dinners. She was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at the poor attempt at rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury card-parties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a good deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon shew them how every thing ought to be arranged. In the course of the spring she must return their civilities by one very superior party--in which her card-tables should be set out with their separate candles and unbroken packs in the true style--and more waiters engaged for the evening than their own establishment could furnish, to carry round the refreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order. Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner at Hartfield for the Eltons. They must not do less than others, or she should be exposed to odious suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful resentment. A dinner there must be. After Emma had talked about it for ten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself, with the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for him. The persons to be invited, required little thought. Besides the Eltons, it must be the Westons and Mr. Knightley; so far it was all of course--and it was hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet must be asked to make the eighth:--but this invitation was not given with equal satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was particularly pleased by Harriet's begging to be allowed to decline it. "She would rather not be in his company more than she could help. She was not yet quite able to see him and his charming happy wife together, without feeling uncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would not be displeased, she would rather stay at home." It was precisely what Emma would have wished, had she deemed it possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with the fortitude of her little friend--for fortitude she knew it was in her to give up being in company and stay at home; and she could now invite the very person whom she really wanted to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax.-- Since her last conversation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley, she was more conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had often been.--Mr. Knightley's words dwelt with her. He had said that Jane Fairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which nobody else paid her. "This is very true," said she, "at least as far as relates to me, which was all that was meant--and it is very shameful.--Of the same age--and always knowing her--I ought to have been more her friend.--She will never like me now. I have neglected her too long. But I will shew her greater attention than I have done." Every invitation was successful. They were all disengaged and all happy.--The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet over. A circumstance rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little Knightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of some weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them, and staying one whole day at Hartfield--which one day would be the very day of this party.--His professional engagements did not allow of his being put off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its happening so. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as the utmost that his nerves could bear--and here would be a ninth--and Emma apprehended that it would be a ninth very much out of humour at not being able to come even to Hartfield for forty-eight hours without falling in with a dinner-party. She comforted her father better than she could comfort herself, by representing that though he certainly would make them nine, yet he always said so little, that the increase of noise would be very immaterial. She thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself, to have him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her instead of his brother. The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma. John Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town and must be absent on the very day. He might be able to join them in the evening, but certainly not to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease; and the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys and the philosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate, removed the chief of even Emma's vexation. The day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John Knightley seemed early to devote himself to the business of being agreeable. Instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they waited for dinner, he was talking to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton, as elegant as lace and pearls could make her, he looked at in silence--wanting only to observe enough for Isabella's information--but Miss Fairfax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could talk to her. He had met her before breakfast as he was returning from a walk with his little boys, when it had been just beginning to rain. It was natural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he said, "I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I am sure you must have been wet.--We scarcely got home in time. I hope you turned directly." "I went only to the post-office," said she, "and reached home before the rain was much. It is my daily errand. I always fetch the letters when I am here. It saves trouble, and is a something to get me out. A walk before breakfast does me good." "Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine." "No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out." Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied, "That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six yards from your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you; and Henry and John had seen more drops than they could count long before. The post-office has a great charm at one period of our lives. When you have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth going through the rain for." There was a little blush, and then this answer, "I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of every dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that simply growing older should make me indifferent about letters." "Indifferent! Oh! no--I never conceived you could become indifferent. Letters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very positive curse." "You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters of friendship." "I have often thought them the worst of the two," replied he coolly. "Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does." "Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knightley too well--I am very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body. I can easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than to me, but it is not your being ten years older than myself which makes the difference, it is not age, but situation. You have every body dearest to you always at hand, I, probably, never shall again; and therefore till I have outlived all my affections, a post-office, I think, must always have power to draw me out, in worse weather than to-day." "When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress of years," said John Knightley, "I meant to imply the change of situation which time usually brings. I consider one as including the other. Time will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the daily circle--but that is not the change I had in view for you. As an old friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years hence you may have as many concentrated objects as I have." It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleasant "thank you" seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip, a tear in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh. Her attention was now claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on such occasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying his particular compliments to the ladies, was ending with her--and with all his mildest urbanity, said, "I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morning in the rain. Young ladies should take care of themselves.--Young ladies are delicate plants. They should take care of their health and their complexion. My dear, did you change your stockings?" "Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by your kind solicitude about me." "My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared for.--I hope your good grand-mama and aunt are well. They are some of my very old friends. I wish my health allowed me to be a better neighbour. You do us a great deal of honour to-day, I am sure. My daughter and I are both highly sensible of your goodness, and have the greatest satisfaction in seeing you at Hartfield." The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel that he had done his duty, and made every fair lady welcome and easy. By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton, and her remonstrances now opened upon Jane. "My dear Jane, what is this I hear?--Going to the post-office in the rain!--This must not be, I assure you.--You sad girl, how could you do such a thing?--It is a sign I was not there to take care of you." Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold. "Oh! do not tell _me_. You really are a very sad girl, and do not know how to take care of yourself.--To the post-office indeed! Mrs. Weston, did you ever hear the like? You and I must positively exert our authority." "My advice," said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively, "I certainly do feel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks.--Liable as you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought to be particularly careful, especially at this time of year. The spring I always think requires more than common care. Better wait an hour or two, or even half a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your cough again. Now do not you feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you are much too reasonable. You look as if you would not do such a thing again." "Oh! she _shall_ _not_ do such a thing again," eagerly rejoined Mrs. Elton. "We will not allow her to do such a thing again:"--and nodding significantly--"there must be some arrangement made, there must indeed. I shall speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning (one of our men, I forget his name) shall inquire for yours too and bring them to you. That will obviate all difficulties you know; and from _us_ I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to accept such an accommodation." "You are extremely kind," said Jane; "but I cannot give up my early walk. I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can, I must walk somewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon my word, I have scarcely ever had a bad morning before." "My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is determined, that is (laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to determine any thing without the concurrence of my lord and master. You know, Mrs. Weston, you and I must be cautious how we express ourselves. But I do flatter myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out. If I meet with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that point as settled." "Excuse me," said Jane earnestly, "I cannot by any means consent to such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant. If the errand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is when I am not here, by my grandmama's." "Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!--And it is a kindness to employ our men." Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but instead of answering, she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley. "The post-office is a wonderful establishment!" said she.--"The regularity and despatch of it! If one thinks of all that it has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!" "It is certainly very well regulated." "So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So seldom that a letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the kingdom, is even carried wrong--and not one in a million, I suppose, actually lost! And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad hands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder." "The clerks grow expert from habit.--They must begin with some quickness of sight and hand, and exercise improves them. If you want any farther explanation," continued he, smiling, "they are paid for it. That is the key to a great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be served well." The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual observations made. "I have heard it asserted," said John Knightley, "that the same sort of handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master teaches, it is natural enough. But for that reason, I should imagine the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very little teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand they can get. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I have not always known their writing apart." "Yes," said his brother hesitatingly, "there is a likeness. I know what you mean--but Emma's hand is the strongest." "Isabella and Emma both write beautifully," said Mr. Woodhouse; "and always did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston"--with half a sigh and half a smile at her. "I never saw any gentleman's handwriting"--Emma began, looking also at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending to some one else--and the pause gave her time to reflect, "Now, how am I going to introduce him?--Am I unequal to speaking his name at once before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout phrase?--Your Yorkshire friend--your correspondent in Yorkshire;--that would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.--No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and better.--Now for it." Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again--"Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman's hands I ever saw." "I do not admire it," said Mr. Knightley. "It is too small--wants strength. It is like a woman's writing." This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against the base aspersion. "No, it by no means wanted strength--it was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce?" No, she had heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away. "If we were in the other room," said Emma, "if I had my writing-desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.--Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?" "He chose to say he was employed"-- "Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince Mr. Knightley." "Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill," said Mr. Knightley dryly, "writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his best." Dinner was on table.--Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying-- "Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way." Jane's solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma. She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it _had_; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual--a glow both of complexion and spirits. Sie hätte Anfragen stellen können, betreffend der Expedition und der Kosten für die irischen Briefe. Es lag ihr auf der Zunge, aber sie unterließ es. Sie war fest entschlossen, kein Wort zu sagen, das Jane Fairfax' Gefühle verletzen könnte. Gemeinsam verließen sie den Raum, Arm in Arm, mit einer Haltung der Freundlichkeit, die sowohl der Schönheit als auch der Anmut jeder einzelnen Dame gut zu Gesicht stand. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Nach einigen weiteren Treffen ist Emma völlig überzeugt, dass Mrs. Elton wichtig, anmaßend, igno­rant und unhöflich ist. Sie ist nicht schön und kann Menschen oder Situationen kaum beurteilen. Mr. Elton hingegen ist sehr stolz auf seine Frau. Mrs. Elton ist un­zufrieden damit, dass Emma kei­ne Anstalten macht, eine Vielzahl ihrer Vorschläge zur Verbesserung von Highbury zu beachten, und fällt über Harriet her, sodass sie ihr zu missfallen beginnt. Gleichzeitig beginnt Augusta, Jane Fairfax zu protegieren. Emma ist überrascht, dass Jane Augustas Zuwendung annimmt, und ist sich sicher, dass es nicht von Dauer sein wird. Emma findet, dass Jane verwirrend ist. Sie fragt sich, warum Jane Augusta Eltons Protektion der großzügigen Zuneigung der Campbells vorzieht. Sie fragt sich auch, warum Jane die Einladung von Mrs. Dixon, sich ihr in Irland anzuschließen, abgelehnt hat, und nimmt an, dass es einen zwingenden Grund für die Absage geben muss. Weil sie so neugierig auf Janes seltsames Verhalten ist, kann Emma nicht umhin, Jane mit Mrs. Weston und Mr. Knightley zu besprechen. Ihrer Meinung nach versucht Jane wahrscheinlich, der ständigen Gesellschaft von Miss Bates durch die Annahme von Mr

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: ACT SECOND. The room at the TESMANS' as in the first Act, except that the piano has been removed, and an elegant little writing-table with the book-shelves put in its place. A smaller table stands near the sofa on the left. Most of the bouquets have been taken away. MRS. ELVSTED'S bouquet is upon the large table in front.--It is afternoon. HEDDA, dressed to receive callers, is alone in the room. She stands by the open glass door, loading a revolver. The fellow to it lies in an open pistol-case on the writing- table. HEDDA. [Looks down the garden, and calls:] So you are here again, Judge! BRACK. [Is heard calling from a distance.] As you see, Mrs. Tesman! HEDDA. [Raises the pistol and points.] Now I'll shoot you, Judge Brack! BRACK. [Calling unseen.] No, no, no! Don't stand aiming at me! HEDDA. This is what comes of sneaking in by the back way.(7) [She fires. BRACK. [Nearer.] Are you out of your senses--! HEDDA. Dear me--did I happen to hit you? BRACK. [Still outside.] I wish you would let these pranks alone! HEDDA. Come in then, Judge. JUDGE BRACK, dressed as though for a men's party, enters by the glass door. He carries a light overcoat over his arm. BRACK. What the deuce--haven't you tired of that sport, yet? What are you shooting at? HEDDA. Oh, I am only firing in the air. BRACK. [Gently takes the pistol out of her hand.] Allow me, madam! [Looks at it.] Ah--I know this pistol well! [Looks around.] Where is the case? Ah, here it is. [Lays the pistol in it, and shuts it.] Now we won't play at that game any more to-day. HEDDA. Then what in heaven's name would you have me do with myself? BRACK. Have you had no visitors? HEDDA. [Closing the glass door.] Not one. I suppose all our set are still out of town. BRACK. And is Tesman not at home either? HEDDA. [At the writing-table, putting the pistol-case in a drawer which she shuts.] No. He rushed off to his aunt's directly after lunch; he didn't expect you so early. BRACK. H'm--how stupid of me not to have thought of that! HEDDA. [Turning her head to look at him.] Why stupid? BRACK. Because if I had thought of it I should have come a little--earlier. HEDDA. [Crossing the room.] Then you would have found no one to receive you; for I have been in my room changing my dress ever since lunch. BRACK. And is there no sort of little chink that we could hold a parley through? HEDDA. You have forgotten to arrange one. BRACK. That was another piece of stupidity. HEDDA. Well, we must just settle down here--and wait. Tesman is not likely to be back for some time yet. BRACK. Never mind; I shall not be impatient. HEDDA seats herself in the corner of the sofa. BRACK lays his overcoat over the back of the nearest chair, and sits down, but keeps his hat in his hand. A short silence. They look at each other. HEDDA. Well? BRACK. [In the same tone.] Well? HEDDA. I spoke first. BRACK. [Bending a little forward.] Come, let us have a cosy little chat, Mrs. Hedda.(8) HEDDA. [Leaning further back in the sofa.] Does it not seem like a whole eternity since our last talk? Of course I don't count those few words yesterday evening and this morning. BRACK. You mean since out last confidential talk? Our last _tete-a-tete_? HEDDA. Well yes--since you put it so. BRACK. Not a day passed but I have wished that you were home again. HEDDA. And I have done nothing but wish the same thing. BRACK. You? Really, Mrs. Hedda? And I thought you had been enjoying your tour so much! HEDDA. Oh yes, you may be sure of that! BRACK. But Tesman's letters spoke of nothing but happiness. HEDDA. Oh, Tesman! You see, he thinks nothing is so delightful as grubbing in libraries and making copies of old parchments, or whatever you call them. BRACK. [With a smile of malice.] Well, that is his vocation in life--or part of it at any rate. HEDDA. Yes, of course; and no doubt when it's your vocation--. But _I_! Oh, my dear Mr. Brack, how mortally bored I have been. BRACK. [Sympathetically.] Do you really say so? In downright earnest? HEDDA. Yes, you can surely understand it--! To go for six whole months without meeting a soul that knew anything of our circle, or could talk about things we were interested in. BRACK. Yes, yes--I too should feel that a deprivation. HEDDA. And then, what I found most intolerable of all-- BRACK. Well? HEDDA. --was being everlastingly in the company of--one and the same person-- BRACK. [With a nod of assent.] Morning, noon, and night, yes--at all possible times and seasons. HEDDA. I said "everlastingly." BRACK. Just so. But I should have thought, with our excellent Tesman, one could-- HEDDA. Tesman is--a specialist, my dear Judge. BRACK. Undeniable. HEDDA. And specialists are not at all amusing to travel with. Not in the long run at any rate. BRACK. Not even--the specialist one happens to love? HEDDA. Faugh--don't use that sickening word! BRACK. [Taken aback.] What do you say, Mrs. Hedda? HEDDA. [Half laughing, half irritated.] You should just try it! To hear of nothing but the history of civilisation, morning, noon, and night-- BRACK. Everlastingly. HEDDA. Yes yes yes! And then all this about the domestic industry of the middle ages--! That's the most disgusting part of it! BRACK. [Looks searchingly at her.] But tell me--in that case, how am I to understand your--? H'm-- HEDDA. My accepting George Tesman, you mean? BRACK. Well, let us put it so. HEDDA. Good heavens, do you see anything so wonderful in that? BRACK. Yes and no--Mrs. Hedda. HEDDA. I had positively danced myself tired, my dear Judge. My day was done-- [With a slight shudder.] Oh no--I won't say that; nor think it either! BRACK. You have assuredly no reason to. HEDDA. Oh, reasons-- [Watching him closely.] And George Tesman--after all, you must admit that he is correctness itself. BRACK. His correctness and respectability are beyond all question. HEDDA. And I don't see anything absolutely ridiculous about him.--Do you? BRACK. Ridiculous? N--no--I shouldn't exactly say so-- HEDDA. Well--and his powers of research, at all events, are untiring.--I see no reason why he should not one day come to the front, after all. BRACK. [Looks at her hesitatingly.] I thought that you, like every one else, expected him to attain the highest distinction. HEDDA. [With an expression of fatigue.] Yes, so I did.--And then, since he was bent, at all hazards, on being allowed to provide for me--I really don't know why I should not have accepted his offer? BRACK. No--if you look at it in that light-- HEDDA. It was more than my other adorers were prepared to do for me, my dear Judge. BRACK. [Laughing.] Well, I can't answer for all the rest; but as for myself, you know quite well that I have always entertained a--a certain respect for the marriage tie--for marriage as an institution, Mrs. Hedda. HEDDA. [Jestingly.] Oh, I assure you I have never cherished any hopes with respect to you. BRACK. All I require is a pleasant and intimate interior, where I can make myself useful in every way, and am free to come and go as--as a trusted friend-- HEDDA. Of the master of the house, do you mean? BRACK. [Bowing.] Frankly--of the mistress first of all; but of course of the master too, in the second place. Such a triangular friendship--if I may call it so--is really a great convenience for all the parties, let me tell you. HEDDA. Yes, I have many a time longed for some one to make a third on our travels. Oh--those railway-carriage _tete-a-tetes_--! BRACK. Fortunately your wedding journey is over now. HEDDA. [Shaking her head.] Not by a long--long way. I have only arrived at a station on the line. BRACK. Well, then the passengers jump out and move about a little, Mrs. Hedda. HEDDA. I never jump out. BRACK. Really? HEDDA. No--because there is always some one standing by to-- BRACK. [Laughing.] To look at your ankles, do you mean? HEDDA. Precisely. BRACK. Well but, dear me-- HEDDA. [With a gesture of repulsion.] I won't have it. I would rather keep my seat where I happen to be--and continue the _tete-a-tete_. BRACK. But suppose a third person were to jump in and join the couple. HEDDA. Ah--that is quite another matter! BRACK. A trusted, sympathetic friend-- HEDDA. --with a fund of conversation on all sorts of lively topics-- BRACK. --and not the least bit of a specialist! HEDDA. [With an audible sigh.] Yes, that would be a relief indeed. BRACK. [Hears the front door open, and glances in that direction.] The triangle is completed. HEDDA. [Half aloud.] And on goes the train. GEORGE TESMAN, in a grey walking-suit, with a soft felt hat, enters from the hall. He has a number of unbound books under his arm and in his pockets. TESMAN. [Goes up to the table beside the corner settee.] Ouf--what a load for a warm day--all these books. [Lays them on the table.] I'm positively perspiring, Hedda. Hallo--are you there already, my dear Judge? Eh? Berta didn't tell me. BRACK. [Rising.] I came in through the garden. HEDDA. What books have you got there? TESMAN. [Stands looking them through.] Some new books on my special subjects --quite indispensable to me. HEDDA. Your special subjects? BRACK. Yes, books on his special subjects, Mrs. Tesman. [BRACK and HEDDA exchange a confidential smile. HEDDA. Do you need still more books on your special subjects? TESMAN. Yes, my dear Hedda, one can never have too many of them. Of course one must keep up with all that is written and published. HEDDA. Yes, I suppose one must. TESMAN. [Searching among his books.] And look here--I have got hold of Eilert Lovborg's new book too. [Offering it to her.] Perhaps you would like to glance through it, Hedda? Eh? HEDDA. No, thank you. Or rather--afterwards perhaps. TESMAN. I looked into it a little on the way home. BRACK. Well, what do you think of it--as a specialist? TESMAN. I think it shows quite remarkable soundness of judgment. He never wrote like that before. [Putting the books together.] Now I shall take all these into my study. I'm longing to cut the leaves--! And then I must change my clothes. [To BRACK.] I suppose we needn't start just yet? Eh? BRACK. Oh, dear no--there is not the slightest hurry. TESMAN. Well then, I will take my time. [Is going with his books, but stops in the doorway and turns.] By-the-bye, Hedda--Aunt Julia is not coming this evening. HEDDA. Not coming? Is it that affair of the bonnet that keeps her away? TESMAN. Oh, not at all. How could you think such a thing of Aunt Julia? Just fancy--! The fact is, Aunt Rina is very ill. HEDDA. She always is. TESMAN. Yes, but to-day she is much worse than usual, poor dear. HEDDA. Oh, then it's only natural that her sister should remain with her. I must bear my disappointment. TESMAN. And you can't imagine, dear, how delighted Aunt Julia seemed to be-- because you had come home looking so flourishing! HEDDA. [Half aloud, rising.] Oh, those everlasting Aunts! TESMAN. What? HEDDA. [Going to the glass door.] Nothing. TESMAN. Oh, all right. [He goes through the inner room, out to the right. BRACK. What bonnet were you talking about? HEDDA. Oh, it was a little episode with Miss Tesman this morning. She had laid down her bonnet on the chair there--[Looks at him and smiles.]--and I pretended to think it was the servant's. BRACK. [Shaking his head.] Now my dear Mrs. Hedda, how could you do such a thing? To the excellent old lady, too! HEDDA. [Nervously crossing the room.] Well, you see--these impulses come over me all of a sudden; and I cannot resist them. [Throws herself down in the easy-chair by the stove.] Oh, I don't know how to explain it. BRACK. [Behind the easy-chair.] You are not really happy--that is at the bottom of it. HEDDA. [Looking straight before her.] I know of no reason why I should be-- happy. Perhaps you can give me one? BRACK. Well-amongst other things, because you have got exactly the home you had set your heart on. HEDDA. [Looks up at him and laughs.] Do you too believe in that legend? BRACK. Is there nothing in it, then? HEDDA. Oh yes, there is something in it. BRACK. Well? HEDDA. There is this in it, that I made use of Tesman to see me home from evening parties last summer-- BRACK. I, unfortunately, had to go quite a different way. HEDDA. That's true. I know you were going a different way last summer. BRACK. [Laughing.] Oh fie, Mrs. Hedda! Well, then--you and Tesman--? HEDDA. Well, we happened to pass here one evening; Tesman, poor fellow, was writhing in the agony of having to find conversation; so I took pity on the learned man-- BRACK. [Smiles doubtfully.] You took pity? H'm-- HEDDA. Yes, I really did. And so--to help him out of his torment--I happened to say, in pure thoughtlessness, that I should like to live in this villa. BRACK. No more than that? HEDDA. Not that evening. BRACK. But afterwards? HEDDA. Yes, my thoughtlessness had consequences, my dear Judge. BRACK. Unfortunately that too often happens, Mrs. Hedda. HEDDA. Thanks! So you see it was this enthusiasm for Secretary Falk's villa that first constituted a bond of sympathy between George Tesman and me. From that came our engagement and our marriage, and our wedding journey, and all the rest of it. Well, well, my dear Judge--as you make your bed so you must lie, I could almost say. BRACK. This is exquisite! And you really cared not a rap about it all the time? HEDDA. No, heaven knows I didn't. BRACK. But now? Now that we have made it so homelike for you? HEDDA. Uh--the rooms all seem to smell of lavender and dried rose-leaves.--But perhaps it's Aunt Julia that has brought that scent with her. BRACK. [Laughing.] No, I think it must be a legacy from the late Mrs. Secretary Falk. HEDDA. Yes, there is an odour of mortality about it. It reminds me of a bouquet--the day after the ball. [Clasps her hands behind her head, leans back in her chair and looks at him.] Oh, my dear Judge--you cannot imagine how horribly I shall bore myself here. BRACK. Why should not you, too, find some sort of vocation in life, Mrs. Hedda? HEDDA. A vocation--that should attract me? BRACK. If possible, of course. HEDDA. Heaven knows what sort of a vocation that could be. I often wonder whether-- [Breaking off.] But that would never do either. BRACK. Who can tell? Let me hear what it is. HEDDA. Whether I might not get Tesman to go into politics, I mean. BRACK. [Laughing.] Tesman? No really now, political life is not the thing for him--not at all in his line. HEDDA. No, I daresay not.--But if I could get him into it all the same? BRACK. Why--what satisfaction could you find in that? If he is not fitted for that sort of thing, why should you want to drive him into it? HEDDA. Because I am bored, I tell you! [After a pause.] So you think it quite out of the question that Tesman should ever get into the ministry? BRACK. H'm--you see, my dear Mrs. Hedda--to get into the ministry, he would have to be a tolerably rich man. HEDDA. [Rising impatiently.] Yes, there we have it! It is this genteel poverty I have managed to drop into--! [Crosses the room.] That is what makes life so pitiable! So utterly ludicrous!--For that's what it is. BRACK. Now _I_ should say the fault lay elsewhere. HEDDA. Where, then? BRACK. You have never gone through any really stimulating experience. HEDDA. Anything serious, you mean? BRACK. Yes, you may call it so. But now you may perhaps have one in store. HEDDA. [Tossing her head.] Oh, you're thinking of the annoyances about this wretched professorship! But that must be Tesman's own affair. I assure you I shall not waste a thought upon it. BRACK. No, no, I daresay not. But suppose now that what people call--in elegant language--a solemn responsibility were to come upon you? [Smiling.] A new responsibility, Mrs. Hedda? HEDDA. [Angrily.] Be quiet! Nothing of that sort will ever happen! BRACK. [Warily.] We will speak of this again a year hence--at the very outside. HEDDA. [Curtly.] I have no turn for anything of the sort, Judge Brack. No responsibilities for me! BRACK. Are you so unlike the generality of women as to have no turn for duties which--? HEDDA. [Beside the glass door.] Oh, be quiet, I tell you!--I often think there is only one thing in the world I have any turn for. BRACK. [Drawing near to her.] And what is that, if I may ask? HEDDA. [Stands looking out.] Boring myself to death. Now you know it. [Turns, looks towards the inner room, and laughs.] Yes, as I thought! Here comes the Professor. BRACK. [Softly, in a tone of warning.] Come, come, come, Mrs. Hedda! GEORGE TESMAN, dressed for the party, with his gloves and hat in his hand, enters from the right through the inner room. TESMAN. Hedda, has no message come from Eilert Lovborg? Eh? HEDDA. No. TESMAN. Then you'll see he'll be here presently. BRACK. Do you really think he will come? TESMAN. Yes, I am almost sure of it. For what you were telling us this morning must have been a mere floating rumour. BRACK. You think so? TESMAN. At any rate, Aunt Julia said she did not believe for a moment that he would ever stand in my way again. Fancy that! BRACK. Well then, that's all right. TESMAN. [Placing his hat and gloves on a chair on the right.] Yes, but you must really let me wait for him as long as possible. BRACK. We have plenty of time yet. None of my guests will arrive before seven or half-past. TESMAN. Then meanwhile we can keep Hedda company, and see what happens. Eh? HEDDA. [Placing BRACK'S hat and overcoat upon the corner settee.] And at the worst Mr. Lovborg can remain here with me. BRACK. [Offering to take his things.] Oh, allow me, Mrs. Tesman!--What do you mean by "At the worst"? HEDDA. If he won't go with you and Tesman. TESMAN. [Looks dubiously at her.] But, Hedda dear--do you think it would quite do for him to remain here with you? Eh? Remember, Aunt Julia can't come. HEDDA. No, but Mrs. Elvsted is coming. We three can have a cup of tea together. TESMAN. Oh yes, that will be all right. BRACK. [Smiling.] And that would perhaps be the safest plan for him. HEDDA. Why so? BRACK. Well, you know, Mrs. Tesman, how you used to gird at my little bachelor parties. You declared they were adapted only for men of the strictest principles. HEDDA. But no doubt Mr. Lovborg's principles are strict enough now. A converted sinner-- [BERTA appears at the hall door. BERTA. There's a gentleman asking if you are at home, ma'am-- HEDDA. Well, show him in. TESMAN. [Softly.] I'm sure it is he! Fancy that! EILERT LOVBORG enters from the hall. He is slim and lean; of the same age as TESMAN, but looks older and somewhat worn-out. His hair and beard are of a blackish brown, his face long and pale, but with patches of colour on the cheeks. He is dressed in a well-cut black visiting suit, quite new. He has dark gloves and a silk hat. He stops near the door, and makes a rapid bow, seeming somewhat embarrassed. TESMAN. [Goes up to him and shakes him warmly by the hand.] Well, my dear Eilert--so at last we meet again! EILERT LOVBORG. [Speaks in a subdued voice.] Thanks for your letter, Tesman. [Approaching HEDDA.] Will you too shake hands with me, Mrs. Tesman? HEDDA. [Taking his hand.] I am glad to see you, Mr. Lovborg. [With a motion of her hand.] I don't know whether you two gentlemen--? LOVBORG. [Bowing slightly.] Judge Brack, I think. BRACK. [Doing likewise.] Oh yes,--in the old days-- TESMAN. [To LOVBORG, with his hands on his shoulders.] And now you must make yourself entirely at home, Eilert! Mustn't he, Hedda?--For I hear you are going to settle in town again? Eh? LOVBORG. Yes, I am. TESMAN. Quite right, quite right. Let me tell you, I have got hold of your new book; but I haven't had time to read it yet. LOVBORG. You may spare yourself the trouble. TESMAN. Why so? LOVBORG. Because there is very little in it. TESMAN. Just fancy--how can you say so? BRACK. But it has been very much praised, I hear. LOVBORG. That was what I wanted; so I put nothing into the book but what every one would agree with. BRACK. Very wise of you. TESMAN. Well but, my dear Eilert--! LOVBORG. For now I mean to win myself a position again--to make a fresh start. TESMAN. [A little embarrassed.] Ah, that is what you wish to do? Eh? LOVBORG. [Smiling, lays down his hat, and draws a packet wrapped in paper, from his coat pocket.] But when this one appears, George Tesman, you will have to read it. For this is the real book--the book I have put my true self into. TESMAN. Indeed? And what is it? LOVBORG. It is the continuation. TESMAN. The continuation? Of what? LOVBORG. Of the book. TESMAN. Of the new book? LOVBORG. Of course. TESMAN. Why, my dear Eilert--does it not come down to our own days? LOVBORG. Yes, it does; and this one deals with the future. TESMAN. With the future! But, good heavens, we know nothing of the future! LOVBORG. No; but there is a thing or two to be said about it all the same. [Opens the packet.] Look here-- TESMAN. Why, that's not your handwriting. LOVBORG. I dictated it. [Turning over the pages.] It falls into two sections. The first deals with the civilising forces of the future. And here is the second--[running through the pages towards the end]--forecasting the probable line of development. TESMAN. How odd now! I should never have thought of writing anything of that sort. HEDDA. [At the glass door, drumming on the pane.] H'm--. I daresay not. LOVBORG. [Replacing the manuscript in its paper and laying the packet on the table.] I brought it, thinking I might read you a little of it this evening. TESMAN. That was very good of you, Eilert. But this evening--? [Looking back at BRACK.] I don't see how we can manage it-- LOVBORG. Well then, some other time. There is no hurry. BRACK. I must tell you, Mr. Lovborg--there is a little gathering at my house this evening--mainly in honour of Tesman, you know-- LOVBORG. [Looking for his hat.] Oh--then I won't detain you-- BRACK. No, but listen--will you not do me the favour of joining us? LOVBORG. [Curtly and decidedly.] No, I can't--thank you very much. BRACK. Oh, nonsense--do! We shall be quite a select little circle. And I assure you we shall have a "lively time," as Mrs. Hed--as Mrs. Tesman says. LOVBORG. I have no doubt of it. But nevertheless-- BRACK. And then you might bring your manuscript with you, and read it to Tesman at my house. I could give you a room to yourselves. TESMAN. Yes, think of that, Eilert,--why shouldn't you? Eh? HEDDA. [Interposing.] But, Tesman, if Mr. Lovborg would really rather not! I am sure Mr. Lovborg is much more inclined to remain here and have supper with me. LOVBORG. [Looking at her.] With you, Mrs. Tesman? HEDDA. And with Mrs. Elvsted. LOVBORG. Ah-- [Lightly.] I saw her for a moment this morning. HEDDA. Did you? Well, she is coming this evening. So you see you are almost bound to remain, Mr. Lovborg, or she will have no one to see her home. LOVBORG. That's true. Many thanks, Mrs. Tesman--in that case I will remain. HEDDA. Then I have one or two orders to give the servant-- [She goes to the hall door and rings. BERTA enters. HEDDA talks to her in a whisper, and points towards the inner room. BERTA nods and goes out again. TESMAN. [At the same time, to LOVBORG.] Tell me, Eilert--is it this new subject--the future--that you are going to lecture about? LOVBORG. Yes. TESMAN. They told me at the bookseller's that you are going to deliver a course of lectures this autumn. LOVBORG. That is my intention. I hope you won't take it ill, Tesman. TESMAN. Oh no, not in the least! But--? LOVBORG. I can quite understand that it must be very disagreeable to you. TESMAN. [Cast down.] Oh, I can't expect you, out of consideration for me, to-- LOVBORG. But I shall wait till you have received your appointment. TESMAN. Will you wait? Yes but--yes but--are you not going to compete with me? Eh? LOVBORG. No; it is only the moral victory I care for. TESMAN. Why, bless me--then Aunt Julia was right after all! Oh yes--I knew it! Hedda! Just fancy--Eilert Lovborg is not going to stand in our way! HEDDA. [Curtly.] Our way? Pray leave me out of the question. [She goes up towards the inner room, where BERTA is placing a tray with decanters and glasses on the table. HEDDA nods approval, and comes forward again. BERTA goes out. TESMAN. [At the same time.] And you, Judge Brack--what do you say to this? Eh? BRACK. Well, I say that a moral victory--h'm--may be all very fine-- TESMAN. Yes, certainly. But all the same-- HEDDA. [Looking at TESMAN with a cold smile.] You stand there looking as if you were thunderstruck-- TESMAN. Yes--so I am--I almost think-- BRACK. Don't you see, Mrs. Tesman, a thunderstorm has just passed over? HEDDA. [Pointing towards the room.] Will you not take a glass of cold punch, gentlemen? BRACK. [Looking at his watch.] A stirrup-cup? Yes, it wouldn't come amiss. TESMAN. A capital idea, Hedda! Just the thing! Now that the weight has been taken off my mind-- HEDDA. Will you not join them, Mr. Lovborg? LOVBORG. [With a gesture of refusal.] No, thank you. Nothing for me. BRACK. Why bless me--cold punch is surely not poison. LOVBORG. Perhaps not for everyone. HEDDA. I will keep Mr. Lovborg company in the meantime. TESMAN. Yes, yes, Hedda dear, do. [He and BRACK go into the inner room, seat themselves, drink punch, smoke cigarettes, and carry on a lively conversation during what follows. EILERT LOVBORG remains standing beside the stove. HEDDA goes to the writing-table. HEDDA. [Raising he voice a little.] Do you care to look at some photographs, Mr. Lovborg? You know Tesman and I made a tour in the Tyrol on our way home? [She takes up an album, and places it on the table beside the sofa, in the further corner of which she seats herself. EILERT LOVBORG approaches, stops, and looks at her. Then he takes a chair and seats himself to her left. HEDDA. [Opening the album.] Do you see this range of mountains, Mr. Lovborg? It's the Ortler group. Tesman has written the name underneath. Here it is: "The Ortler group near Meran." LOVBORG. [Who has never taken his eyes off her, says softly and slowly:] Hedda--Gabler! HEDDA. [Glancing hastily at him.] Ah! Hush! LOVBORG. [Repeats softly.] Hedda Gabler! HEDDA. [Looking at the album.] That was my name in the old days--when we two knew each other. LOVBORG. And I must teach myself never to say Hedda Gabler again--never, as long as I live. HEDDA. [Still turning over the pages.] Yes, you must. And I think you ought to practise in time. The sooner the better, I should say. LOVBORG. [In a tone of indignation.] Hedda Gabler married? And married to-- George Tesman! HEDDA. Yes--so the world goes. LOVBORG. Oh, Hedda, Hedda--how could you(9) throw yourself away! HEDDA. [Looks sharply at him.] What? I can't allow this! LOVBORG. What do you mean? [TESMAN comes into the room and goes towards the sofa. HEDDA. [Hears him coming and says in an indifferent tone.] And this is a view from the Val d'Ampezzo, Mr. Lovborg. Just look at these peaks! [Looks affectionately up at TESMAN.] What's the name of these curious peaks, dear? TESMAN. Let me see. Oh, those are the Dolomites. HEDDA. Yes, that's it!--Those are the Dolomites, Mr. Lovborg. TESMAN. Hedda, dear,--I only wanted to ask whether I shouldn't bring you a little punch after all? For yourself at any rate--eh? HEDDA. Yes, do, please; and perhaps a few biscuits. TESMAN. No cigarettes? HEDDA. No. TESMAN. Very well. [He goes into the inner room and out to the right. BRACK sits in the inner room, and keeps an eye from time to time on HEDDA and LOVBORG. LOVBORG. [Softly, as before.] Answer me, Hedda--how could you go and do this? HEDDA. [Apparently absorbed in the album.] If you continue to say _du_ to me I won't talk to you. LOVBORG. May I not say _du_ even when we are alone? HEDDA. No. You may think it; but you mustn't say it. LOVBORG. Ah, I understand. It is an offence against George Tesman, whom you(10)--love. HEDDA. [Glances at him and smiles.] Love? What an idea! LOVBORG. You don't love him then! HEDDA. But I won't hear of any sort of unfaithfulness! Remember that. LOVBORG. Hedda--answer me one thing-- HEDDA. Hush! [TESMAN enters with a small tray from the inner room. TESMAN. Here you are! Isn't this tempting? [He puts the tray on the table. HEDDA. Why do you bring it yourself? TESMAN. [Filling the glasses.] Because I think it's such fun to wait upon you, Hedda. HEDDA. But you have poured out two glasses. Mr. Lovborg said he wouldn't have any-- TESMAN. No, but Mrs. Elvsted will soon be here, won't she? HEDDA. Yes, by-the-bye--Mrs. Elvsted-- TESMAN. Had you forgotten her? Eh? HEDDA. We were so absorbed in these photographs. [Shows him a picture.] Do you remember this little village? TESMAN. Oh, it's that one just below the Brenner Pass. It was there we passed the night-- HEDDA. --and met that lively party of tourists. TESMAN. Yes, that was the place. Fancy--if we could only have had you with us, Eilert! Eh? [He returns to the inner room and sits beside BRACK. LOVBORG. Answer me one thing, Hedda-- HEDDA. Well? LOVBORG. Was there no love in your friendship for me either? Not a spark--not a tinge of love in it? HEDDA. I wonder if there was? To me it seems as though we were two good comrades--two thoroughly intimate friends. [Smilingly.] You especially were frankness itself. LOVBORG. It was you that made me so. HEDDA. As I look back upon it all, I think there was really something beautiful, something fascinating--something daring--in--in that secret intimacy--that comradeship which no living creature so much as dreamed of. LOVBORG. Yes, yes, Hedda! Was there not?--When I used to come to your father's in the afternoon--and the General sat over at the window reading his papers--with his back towards us-- HEDDA. And we two on the corner sofa-- LOVBORG. Always with the same illustrated paper before us-- HEDDA. For want of an album, yes. LOVBORG. Yes, Hedda, and when I made my confessions to you--told you about myself, things that at that time no one else knew! There I would sit and tell you of my escapades--my days and nights of devilment. Oh, Hedda--what was the power in you that forced me to confess these things? HEDDA. Do you think it was any power in me? LOVBORG. How else can I explain it? And all those--those roundabout questions you used to put to me-- HEDDA. Which you understood so particularly well-- LOVBORG. How could you sit and question me like that? Question me quite frankly-- HEDDA. In roundabout terms, please observe. LOVBORG. Yes, but frankly nevertheless. Cross-question me about--all that sort of thing? HEDDA. And how could you answer, Mr. Lovborg? LOVBORG. Yes, that is just what I can't understand--in looking back upon it. But tell me now, Hedda--was there not love at the bottom of our friendship? On your side, did you not feel as though you might purge my stains away--if I made you my confessor? Was it not so? HEDDA. No, not quite. LOVBORG. What was you motive, then? HEDDA. Do think it quite incomprehensible that a young girl--when it can be done--without any one knowing-- LOVBORG. Well? HEDDA. --should be glad to have a peep, now and then, into a world which--? LOVBORG. Which--? HEDDA. --which she is forbidden to know anything about? LOVBORG. So that was it? HEDDA. Partly. Partly--I almost think. LOVBORG. Comradeship in the thirst for life. But why should not that, at any rate, have continued? HEDDA. The fault was yours. LOVBORG. It was you that broke with me. HEDDA. Yes, when our friendship threatened to develop into something more serious. Shame upon you, Eilert Lovborg! How could you think of wronging your--your frank comrade. LOVBORG. [Clenches his hands.] Oh, why did you not carry out your threat? Why did you not shoot me down? HEDDA. Because I have such a dread of scandal. LOVBORG. Yes, Hedda, you are a coward at heart. HEDDA. A terrible coward. [Changing her tone.] But it was a lucky thing for you. And now you have found ample consolation at the Elvsteds'. LOVBORG. I know what Thea has confided to you. HEDDA. And perhaps you have confided to her something about us? LOVBORG. Not a word. She is too stupid to understand anything of that sort. HEDDA. Stupid? LOVBORG. She is stupid about matters of that sort. HEDDA. And I am cowardly. [Bends over towards him, without looking him in the face, and says more softly:] But now I will confide something to you. LOVBORG. [Eagerly.] Well? HEDDA. The fact that I dared not shoot you down-- LOVBORG. Yes! HEDDA. --that was not my arrant cowardice--that evening. LOVBORG. [Looks at her a moment, understands, and whispers passionately.] Oh, Hedda! Hedda Gabler! Now I begin to see a hidden reason beneath our comradeship! You(11) and I--! After all, then, it was your craving for life-- HEDDA. [Softly, with a sharp glance.] Take care! Believe nothing of the sort! [Twilight has begun to fall. The hall door is opened from without by BERTA. HEDDA. [Closes the album with a bang and calls smilingly:] Ah, at last! My darling Thea,--come along! MRS. ELVSTED enters from the hall. She is in evening dress. The door is closed behind her. HEDDA. [On the sofa, stretches out her arms towards her.] My sweet Thea--you can't think how I have been longing for you! [Ignoring HEDDA's interruption and filling the glass.] To hell with him! [He empties the glass and throws it forcibly on the floor. [Calmly, putting down the glass.] It was stupid of me all this. Thea--to take it in this way, I mean. Don't be angry with me, my dear, dear comrade. You shall see--both you and the others--that if I was fallen once--now I have risen again! Thanks to you, Thea. MRS. ELVSTED. [Radiant with joy.] Oh, heaven be praised--! [BRACK has in the meantime looked at his watch. He and TESMAN rise and come into the drawing-room. BRACK. [Takes his hat and overcoat.] Well, Mrs. Tesman, our time has come. HEDDA. I suppose it has. LOVBORG. [Rising.] Mine too, Judge Brack. MRS. ELVSTED. [Softly and imploringly.] Oh, Lovborg, don't do it! HEDDA. [Pinching her arm.] They can hear you! MRS. ELVSTED. [With a suppressed shriek.] Ow! LOVBORG. [To BRACK.] You were good enough to invite me. JUDGE BRACK. Well, are you coming after all? LOVBORG. Yes, many thanks. BRACK. I'm delighted-- LOVBORG. [To TESMAN, putting the parcel of MS. in his pocket.] I should like to show you one or two things before I send it to the printers. TESMAN. Fancy--that will be delightful. But, Hedda dear, how is Mrs. Elvsted to get home? Eh? HEDDA. Oh, that can be managed somehow. LOVBORG. [Looking towards the ladies.] Mrs. Elvsted? Of course, I'll come again and fetch her. [Approaching.] At ten or thereabouts, Mrs. Tesman? Will that do? HEDDA. Certainly. That will do capitally. TESMAN. Well, then, that's all right. But you must not expect me so early, Hedda. HEDDA. Oh, you may stop as long--as long as ever you please. MRS. ELVSTED. [Trying to conceal her anxiety.] Well then, Mr. Lovborg--I shall remain here until you come. LOVBORG. [With his hat in his hand.] Pray do, Mrs. Elvsted. BRACK. And now off goes the excursion train, gentlemen! I hope we shall have a lively time, as a certain fair lady puts it. HEDDA. Ah, if only the fair lady could be present unseen--! BRACK. Why unseen? HEDDA. In order to hear a little of your liveliness at first hand, Judge Brack. BRACK. [Laughing.] I should not advise the fair lady to try it. TESMAN. [Also laughing.] Come, you're a nice one Hedda! Fancy that! BRACK. Well, good-bye, good-bye, ladies. LOVBORG. [Bowing.] About ten o'clock, then, [BRACK, LOVBORG, and TESMAN go out by the hall door. At the same time, BERTA enters from the inner room with a lighted lamp, which she places on the drawing-room table; she goes out by the way she came. MRS. ELVSTED. [Who has risen and is wandering restlessly about the room.] Hedda-- Hedda--what will come of all this? HEDDA. At ten o'clock--he will be here. I can see him already--with vine-leaves in his hair--flushed and fearless-- MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, I hope he may. HEDDA. And then, you see--then he will have regained control over himself. Then he will be a free man for all his days. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh God!--if he would only come as you see him now! HEDDA. He will come as I see him--so, and not otherwise! [Rises and approaches THEA.] You may doubt him as long as you please; _I_ believe in him. And now we will try-- MRS. ELVSTED. You have some hidden motive in this, Hedda! HEDDA. Yes, I have. I want for once in my life to have power to mould a human destiny. MRS. ELVSTED. Have you not the power? HEDDA. I have not--and have never had it. MRS. ELVSTED. Not your husband's? HEDDA. Do you think that is worth the trouble? Oh, if you could only understand how poor I am. And fate has made you so rich! [Clasps her passionately in her arms.] I think I must burn your hair off after all. MRS. ELVSTED. Let me go! Let me go! I am afraid of you, Hedda! BERTA. [In the middle doorway.] Tea is laid in the dining-room, ma'am. HEDDA. Very well. We are coming MRS. ELVSTED. No, no, no! I would rather go home alone! At once! HEDDA. Nonsense! First you shall have a cup of tea, you little stupid. And then--at ten o'clock--Eilert Lovborg will be here--with vine-leaves in his hair. [She drags MRS. ELVSTED almost by force to the middle doorway. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Akt II spielt im gleichen möblierten Zimmer im Haus der Tesmans. Das Klavier ist weg und an seiner Stelle steht ein kleiner Schreibtisch. Viele der Blumen aus Akt I sind verschwunden. Hedda ist allein am offenen Glastor und lädt eine Pistole. Sie schaut vom Balkon hinunter und ruft Richter Brack hallo. Dann schießt sie mit ihrer Pistole auf ihn. Er nennt sie verrückt und sie fragt scherzhaft, ob sie ihn getroffen hat. Als er im Wohnzimmer mit Hedda ist, nimmt der Richter ihr die Pistole ab und sagt ihr, sie solle nicht mit dem Feuer spielen. "Was zum Teufel willst du, dass ich mit mir selbst tue?" kontert sie. Als Hedda erklärt, dass Tesman nicht zu Hause ist, bemerkt der Richter, dass er viel früher vorbeigekommen wäre, wenn er das gewusst hätte. Hedda antwortet, dass er sich selbst hätte unterhalten müssen, wenn sie allein in ihrem Schlafzimmer gewesen wäre, um sich anzukleiden. Der Richter fragt, ob es keine Ritze in ihrer Schlafzimmertür gibt. Und das Flirten geht weiter, hauptsächlich von Seiten des Richters, der offensichtlich Hedda will. Sie spricht ein wenig über ihre Flitterwochen mit George und wie langweilig es war, dass er die ganze Zeit Forschung betrieb. Sie hasst es, jeden Tag um die gleiche Person herumzusein. Sie schaudert auch, wenn Brack das Wort "Liebe" benutzt. Also fragt der Richter, was uns alle interessiert: Warum zum Teufel hat sie George geheiratet? Ganz einfach, ihre Zeit war abgelaufen, sagt sie. Sie musste heiraten und George war eine akzeptable Wahl. Der Richter bekommt mehr von der Geschichte: Sie dachte, wie die meisten, dass George eines Tages berühmt sein würde. Außerdem, fügt sie hinzu, flehte er sie an, sich um sie zu kümmern und ihr alles zu kaufen, was sie jemals wollte. Das ist irgendwie schwer abzulehnen. Jetzt gehen wir in ein etwas zweifelhaftes Gebiet über. Der Richter spricht von einem "Dreiecks"-Arrangement, das er mit Hedda und George haben möchte, wo er als "Freund" kommen und gehen kann... Klar, sagt Hedda, sie hätte nichts dagegen, einen Kumpel zum Plaudern zu haben. Bevor es zu anzüglich wird, betritt George den Raum und trägt einen Stapel Bücher. Hedda und der Richter verspotten ihn heimlich und geben einander ein wissendes Lächeln. Tesman zieht Eilerts neues Buch aus dem Stapel. Er hat es bereits überflogen, sagt er, und es ist phänomenal, besser als alles, was Eilert je zuvor geschrieben hat. Auf dem Weg nach draußen bemerkt George, dass Tante Julie heute Abend nicht vorbeikommen wird. Hedda bemerkt, dass es wahrscheinlich wegen des Hutvorfalls ist, aber George erklärt, dass Tante Rina schlechter geworden ist. Tesman geht und lässt Hedda allein mit dem Richter, der wissen will, was sie mit einem "Hut"-Vorfall gemeint hat. Hedda erklärt - mit einem Grinsen - dass sie vorgegeben hat, dass Tante Julies neuer Hut der Magd gehört. Sie kann einfach nicht anders, erklärt sie - die Impulse überkommen sie plötzlich. Brack erklärt, dass es daran liegt, dass sie nicht glücklich ist. Warum sollte sie das sein, fragt sie? Weil sie das Zuhause hat, das sie sich immer gewünscht hat, antwortet er. Dann sagt Hedda die Wahrheit. Als sie eines Abends von einem Date mit George nach Hause kam, fiel ihr kein Gesprächsthema ein. Also machte sie einen unbedachten Kommentar darüber, dass sie dort wohnen wollte, als sie an diesem Haus vorbeikamen. Das Haus war ihr völlig egal. Sie findet es nicht einmal besonders schön. Und es riecht nach Blumen, was sie morbide findet. Brack meint, sie solle ein Hobby finden, ein Ziel verfolgen, das sie unterhalten würde. Hedda erwähnt, George dazu zu bringen, in die Politik zu gehen, aber es ist offensichtlich sowohl für sie als auch für den Richter, dass er niemals die Fähigkeiten für einen solchen Beruf haben würde. Das Problem, so der Richter weiter, ist, dass Hedda noch nie ernsthaft von etwas "berührt" wurde. Aber es könnte bald eine neue, große Verantwortung auf sie zukommen... Hedda versteht es zuerst nicht. Als sie es versteht, stellt sie klar, dass sie kein Interesse daran hat, Mutter zu werden. Dann schmollt sie eine Weile. Tesman kommt herein und sie sitzen alle und warten auf Eilert. Hedda sagt, wenn er nicht bald ankommt, können George und der Richter zur Party gehen und sie wird auf Eilert warten. Tesman erinnert sie daran, dass es für eine verheiratete Frau und einen Single-Mann nicht ganz angemessen ist, allein in einem Haus unchaperoniert zusammenzusitzen. Aber Hedda versichert ihm, dass Frau Elvsted vorbeikommen wird, sodass sie nicht allein mit dem Mann sein wird. Und hier kommt Eilert. Er ist "mager" und "verfallen", im gleichen Alter wie Tesman, aber älter und "abgekämpft" wirkend. Er trägt einen neuen schwarzen Anzug und hält einen Zylinder in der Hand. Jeder sagt hallo und das Gespräch springt zu Eilerts neuem Buch, das sehr erfolgreich war. Eilert sagt, dass er es absichtlich so geschrieben hat - um kommerziell erfolgreich zu sein, um Kontroversen zu vermeiden. Sein NÄCHSTES Buch wird alle umhauen. Anstatt einer Geschichte der Zivilisation macht es Vorhersagen über die Zukunft. Er holt ein Manuskript heraus, erklärt, dass er es diktiert hat, und sagt, dass es seine einzige Kopie ist. Richter Brack versucht, Eilert davon zu überzeugen, mit ihm zu seiner Männerparty zu kommen. Eilert zögert und Hedda schlägt vor, dass Eilert bei ihr bleibt. Sie fügt schnell hinzu, dass Frau Elvsted auch kommen wird, was den Deal besiegelt. Bevor Tesman und der Richter gehen, sprechen sie über die Professur im Herbst. Eilert sagt, dass er zwar eine Vortragsreihe halten wird, aber NICHT für die Position konkurrieren wird, die Tesman haben will. "Ich will nur in den Augen der Welt gewinnen", sagt er. Tesman versucht, seine Freude über diese Nachricht mit Hedda zu teilen; sie sagt ihm, sie solle sie da heraushalten. Hedda schlägt vor, dass die Männer vor ihrer Abreise einen Glas "Punsch" trinken. Eilert lehnt ab - mittlerweile verstehen wir, dass er früher ein Alkoholiker war und sich seitdem erholt hat. Also gehen Brack und George in den hinteren Raum auf der Bühne, um ihren Punsch zu trinken, und Hedda bleibt allein mit Eilert zurück. Als Bildschirm für vertrauliche Gespräche zeigt Hedda Eilert ein Album mit Bildern von ihrer Flitterwochen mit George. Eilert betrachtet die Fotos nicht so sehr, sondern starrt Hedda an. Er sagt leise, dass er sich nie daran gewöhnen kann, sie "Hedda Tesman" statt "Hedda Gabler" zu nennen, wie er es früher getan hat. Dann fragt er sie, wie eine Frau wie sie sich dazu bringen konnte, sich von einem Kerl wie George Tesman heiraten zu lassen. Bevor Hedda antworten kann, kommt Tesman wieder ins Vorderzimmer; sie kehrt lautstark zum Vorlesen des Fotoalbums zurück. George fragt, ob seine Frau einen Punsch möchte; sie möchte, und er zieht sich wieder in den inneren Raum zurück, um ihn zu holen. Eilert nennt Hedda weiterhin bei ihrem Vornamen, was sie angibt. Er macht einen beiläufigen Kommentar über ihre Liebe zu George, woraufhin sie zugibt, dass sie ihren Mann nicht liebt. Trotzdem plant sie nicht, ihn zu betrügen. Tesman kommt mit Heddas Getränk und einem zweiten für Frau Elvsted zurück, wenn sie kommt. Er geht wieder in den Hintergrund und spricht davon, wie viel Spaß es macht, seiner Frau zu dienen. Wieder allein mit Hedda will Eilert wissen, ob sie ihn jemals geliebt hat. Hedda antwortet, ohne direkt zu antworten - sie dachte, sie seien "Gefährten". Schließlich sagt Hedda, dass sie ihm die Beziehung abgebrochen hat, als Eilert zu ernsthaft wurde. Eilert, seine Fäuste vor Wut ballend, fragt, warum sie ihn nicht erschossen hat, wie versprochen. Weil sie eine Feigling ist, sagt Hedda. Sie fragt, ob Eilert es Frau Elvsted erzählt hat; nein, sagt er, weil sie "zu dumm ist, um so etwas zu verstehen". Hedda beugt sich vor und "gesteht" etwas: Eilert nicht zu erschießen war nicht das einzige feige, was sie in dieser Nacht getan hat... Eilert versteht es, oder denkt er es zumindest. Er erklärt aufgeregt, dass Hedda und er eine "Hunger nach Leben" teilen, aber sie weicht zurück und sagt ihm, er solle ruhig sein. Dann kommt Frau Elvsted an. Hedda erklärt, dass die Männer zu einer Trinkparty gehen, und Frau Elvsted fragt sofort, ob Eilert auch geht. Tut er nicht, sagt Hedda. Eilert fängt an, mit Hedda über ihre "Gefährten"-schaft zu sprechen. "Wir vertrauen einander vollkommen", sagt er; er reibt das praktisch Hedda ins Gesicht. Frau Elvsted steuert ihren eigenen Beitrag bei - sie ist Eilerts Muse, sagt sie. Eilert fügt hinzu, dass Thea eine sehr tapfere Frau ist. Dann bietet Hedda ihnen beiden einen Drink an. Als Eilert ablehnt, fängt sie an, ihn zu verspotten. Sie möchte wissen, ob sie genug Macht über ihn hat, um ihn zum Trinken zu bringen. Außerdem ist er ein Feigling, weil er nicht trinkt, sagt sie. Ein richtiger Mann wie der Richter wäre ganz von dem Getränk begeistert. Als Eilert erneut einen Drink ablehnt, wendet sich Hedda an Frau Elvsted und sagt ihr, dass sie sich umsonst aufgeregt hat. Das macht Eilert ziemlich wütend; er beschuldigt Frau Elvsted, ihm nicht zu vertrauen. Dann trinkt er die beiden Gläser Punsch auf dem Tisch aus und fragt Thea unverblümt, ob ihr Mann sie geschickt hat, um ihn auszuspionieren und zurückzuholen. Als Tesman und George zurückkommen, erklärt Eilert, dass er doch mit zur Party gehen wird. Sie vereinbaren, dass er um 22 Uhr zurückkommt, um Frau Elvsted nach Hause zu begleiten. Frau Elvsted macht sich offensichtlich Sorgen um ihren alkoholkranken Pseudo-Freund, der auf eine Trinkparty geht. Sie versucht, ihre Gefühle zu verbergen. Hedda wünscht, sie könnte mit ihnen auf die Party gehen. Schade, dass sie eine Frau ist und es die 1890er Jahre sind. Nachdem die Männer gegangen sind, wendet sich Hedda an Frau Elvsted. Sie erwartet, dass Eilert "als freier Mann" zurückkommt, ganz "feurig" mit "Weinlaub im Haar". Frau Elvsted vermutet, dass Hedda etwas geplant hat. Ja, gibt Hedda zu. Sie will Kontrolle über einen Menschen haben, weil sie das noch nie hatte. Dann droht sie an, all das Haar von Frau Elvsted abzubrennen, und sie gehen beide zum Abendessen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Dies an Jonathan Harker. Du sollst bei deiner lieben Madam Mina bleiben. Wir werden gehen, um unsere Suche durchzuführen - wenn ich es so nennen kann, denn es handelt sich nicht um eine Suche, sondern um Wissen und wir suchen nur Bestätigung. Aber du bleibst hier und sorgst heute für sie. Das ist deine beste und heiligste Aufgabe. An diesem Tag kann ihn hier nichts finden. Lass mich dir das sagen, damit du weißt, was wir vier bereits wissen, denn ich habe es ihnen erzählt. Er, unser Feind, ist weggegangen; er ist zurück zu seinem Schloss in Transsilvanien gegangen. Ich weiß es so gut, als hätte eine große Feuerhand es an die Wand geschrieben. Er hat sich in irgendeiner Weise darauf vorbereitet, und diese letzte Erdkiste war bereit, irgendwohin verschifft zu werden. Dafür hat er das Geld genommen; dafür hat er sich am Ende beeilt, damit wir ihn nicht vor Sonnenuntergang erwischen. Es war seine letzte Hoffnung, außer dass er sich in der Grabstätte verstecken könnte, die er für die arme Miss Lucy offen hielt, da er dachte, sie sei ihm ähnlich. Aber es gab keine Zeit. Als das scheiterte, hat er sich auf direktem Weg zu seiner letzten Ressource - seinem letzten Erdwerk, könnte ich sagen, wenn ich eine zweideutige Aussage machen möchte - begeben. Er ist schlau, oh, so schlau! Er wusste, dass sein Spiel hier zu Ende war; und so beschloss er, nach Hause zurückzukehren. Er fand ein Schiff, das auf dem Weg kam, den er benutzte, und er stieg ein. Wir gehen jetzt weg, um herauszufinden, welches Schiff es ist und wohin es fährt. Wenn wir das herausgefunden haben, kommen wir zurück und erzählen euch alles. Dann werden wir euch und der armen lieben Madam Mina neuen Hoffnung bringen. Denn wenn du es dir überlegst, wird es Hoffnung sein: dass noch nicht alles verloren ist. Dieses Wesen, das wir verfolgen, hat mehrere Hundert Jahre gebraucht, um so weit wie London zu kommen; und doch vertreiben wir ihn an einem Tag, wenn wir wissen, wo wir ihn hinbringen müssen. Er ist endlich, obwohl er mächtig ist und viel Schaden anrichten kann und nicht leidet wie wir. Aber wir sind stark, jeder in unserem Ziel; und zusammen sind wir noch stärker. Fasse neuen Mut, lieber Ehemann von Madam Mina. Dieser Kampf hat gerade erst begonnen und am Ende werden wir gewinnen - genauso sicher, wie Gott oben thront und über seine Kinder wacht. Seid also bis zu unserer Rückkehr sehr getröstet. VAN HELSING. _Jonathan Harkers Tagebuch._ 4. Oktober. - Als ich Minas Mina Van Helsings Botschaft im Phonographen vorlas, hellte sich das arme Mädchen deutlich auf. Die Gewissheit, dass der Graf außer Landes ist, hat ihr bereits Trost gegeben; und Trost ist für sie Stärke. Für mich persönlich, jetzt da seine schreckliche Gefahr uns nicht mehr direkt gegenübersteht, scheint es fast unmöglich daran zu glauben. Sogar meine eigenen schrecklichen Erfahrungen im Schloss Dracula scheinen wie ein längst vergessener Traum. Hier in der klaren Herbstluft im hellen Sonnenlicht---- Ach! Wie kann ich daran zweifeln! Mitten in meinen Gedanken fiel mein Blick auf die rote Narbe auf Minas weißer Stirn. Solange sie besteht, kann es keinen Zweifel geben. Und danach wird selbst die Erinnerung daran den Glauben klar halten. Mina und ich fürchten, untätig zu sein, also haben wir alle Tagebücher immer wieder durchgegangen. Irgendwie, obwohl die Realität jedes Mal größer zu sein scheint, scheinen der Schmerz und die Angst weniger zu sein. Es ist etwas von einem leitenden Zweck, der sich manifestiert, was tröstend ist. Mina sagt, dass wir vielleicht die Instrumente des ultimativen Guten sind. Es könnte sein! Ich werde versuchen, so zu denken wie sie. Wir haben noch nicht über die Zukunft gesprochen. Es ist besser, zu warten, bis wir den Professor und die anderen nach ihren Untersuchungen sehen. Der Tag vergeht schneller, als ich je gedacht hätte, dass ein Tag für mich wieder vergehen könnte. Es ist jetzt drei Uhr. _Mina Harkers Tagebuch._ 5. Oktober, 17 Uhr. - Unser Treffen zur Besprechung. Anwesend: Professor Van Helsing, Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, Mr. Quincey Morris, Jonathan Harker, Mina Harker. Dr. Van Helsing beschrieb, welche Schritte während des Tages unternommen wurden, um herauszufinden, mit welchem Schiff und wohin sich Graf Dracula abgesetzt hat:-- "Da ich wusste, dass er nach Transsilvanien zurückkehren wollte, war ich mir sicher, dass er über die Donaumündung gehen musste oder irgendwo im Schwarzen Meer, da er auf diese Weise gekommen war. Vor uns lag eine trostlose Leere. _Omne ignotum pro magnifico_; und so machten wir uns schweren Herzens auf die Suche nach Schiffen, die letzte Nacht in das Schwarze Meer aufbrachen. Er war auf einem Segelschiff, da Madam Mina von gesetzten Segeln erzählte. Es war nicht so wichtig, dass es in Ihrer Liste der Schiffe in der _Times_ auftauchte, und so gingen wir auf Anregung von Lord Godalming zu Ihrer Lloyd's, wo alle Schiffe erfasst sind, die segeln, egal wie klein sie sind. Dort erfuhren wir, dass nur ein Schiff richtung Schwarzes Meer mit der Flut ablegte. Es handelte sich um die _Czarina Catherine_, und sie segelte von Doolittles Wharf nach Varna und von dort aus weiter in andere Gebiete und die Donau hinauf. 'Soh!' sagte ich, 'das ist das Schiff, auf dem sich der Graf befindet.' Also machten wir uns auf den Weg zum Doolittles Wharf, und dort fanden wir einen Mann in einem Holzbüro, das so klein war, dass der Mann größer aussah als das Büro. Wir erkundigten uns bei ihm nach den Abfahrten der _Czarina Catherine_. Er fluchte viel und hatte ein rotes Gesicht und eine laute Stimme, aber er war trotzdem ein guter Kerl; als Quincey ihm etwas aus seiner Tasche gab, das knisterte, als er es zusammenrollte, und es in einer so kleinen Tasche verstaute, die er tief in seiner Kleidung versteckt hatte, war er noch besserer Kerl und Diener für uns. Er kam mit uns und fragte viele Männer, die grob und hitzig waren; auch sie waren bessere Kerle, wenn sie nicht mehr durstig waren. Sie sprachen viel von "Blut und Blüte" und von anderen Dingen, die ich zwar nicht verstand, von denen ich aber erraten konnte, was sie meinten; trotzdem erzählten sie uns alles, was wir wissen wollten. Sie sagten uns unter anderem, dass gestern Nachmittag gegen fünf Uhr ein Mann in Eile kam. Ein großer, dürrer und blasser Mann mit einer hohen Nase, weißen Zähnen und brennenden Augen. Dass er ganz in Schwarz gekleidet war, außer dass er einen Strohhut hatte, der nicht zu ihm oder zur Jahreszeit passte. Dass er sein Geld verstreute, als er schnell nachfragte, auf welchem Schiff er zum Schwarzen Meer fahren könne und wohin. Einige brachten ihn ins Büro und dann zum Schiff, wo er nicht an Bord ging, sondern am Uferende der Planke stehen blieb und den Kapitän um sich herum bat. Der Kapitän kam, als er gesagt bekam, dass er gut bezahlt würde; und obwohl er anfangs viel fluchte, stimmte er zu. Dann ging der dünne Mann weg und jemand sagte ihm, wo ein Pferd und ein Wagen gemietet werden könnten. Er ging dorthin und kam bald darauf wieder, er selbst fuhr den Wagen, auf dem es eine große Kiste gab; diese hob er selbst herunter, obwohl es mehrere brauchte, um sie auf den Lastwagen für das Schiff zu stellen. Er sprach viel mit dem Kapitän darüber, wie und wo seine Kiste platziert werden sollte; aber der Kapitän mochte es nicht und fluchte ihn in vielen Sprachen und sagte ihm, dass er kommen könne und sehen könne, wo sie sein sollte. Aber er sagte 'nein', dass er noch nicht kommen werde, weil er noch viel zu tun habe. Daraufhin sagte der Kapitän ihm, dass er sich besser beeilen sollte - mit Blut - damit sein Schiff den Ort - des Blutes - vor der Wende der Flut verlassen wird - mit Blut. Dann lä Niemand wusste, wohin er ging oder 'wirklich gut darum kümmerte', wie sie sagten, denn sie hatten etwas anderes im Sinn - jetzt wieder Blut; denn es wurde allen bald klar, dass die Czarina Catherine nicht wie erwartet segeln würde. Ein dünner Nebel begann sich vom Fluss aus zu verbreiten, und er wurde immer dichter und dichter; bis bald ein dichter Nebel das Schiff und alles um ihn herum umhüllte. Der Kapitän fluchte mehrsprachig - sehr mehrsprachig - mehrsprachig mit Blüte und Blut; aber er konnte nichts tun. Das Wasser stieg und stieg; und er begann zu fürchten, dass er die Flut ganz verpassen würde. Er war nicht in freundlicher Stimmung, als der schlanke Mann gerade bei Flut wieder die Planke hochkam und darum bat, zu sehen, wo seine Kiste verstaut worden war. Dann antwortete der Kapitän, dass er wünschte, er und seine Kiste - alt und mit viel Blüte und Blut - in der Hölle wären. Aber der schlanke Mann war nicht beleidigt und ging mit dem Matrosen hinunter und sah, wo es war, und kam wieder hoch und stand eine Weile auf dem Deck im Nebel. Er musste allein gekommen sein, denn niemand bemerkte ihn. In der Tat dachten sie nicht an ihn; denn bald begann der Nebel zu schwinden, und alles war wieder klar. Meine Freunde mit Durst und der Sprache, die von Blüte und Blut erzählte, lachten, als sie erzählten, wie die Flüche des Kapitäns selbst sein übliches Polyglot übertrafen und mehr als je zuvor malerisch waren, als er andere Seeleute befragte, die sich zu jener Stunde auf und ab den Fluss bewegten, und feststellte, dass nur wenige von ihnen überhaupt Nebel gesehen hatten, außer dort, wo er um das Dock lag. Die Schiff fuhr jedoch mit der Ebbtide hinaus; und war zweifellos bis zum Morgen weit den Fluss hinunter. Sie war zu diesem Zeitpunkt, als man uns sagte, bereits weit draußen auf See. "Und so, meine liebe Frau Mina, müssen wir uns eine Weile ausruhen, denn unser Feind ist auf dem Meer, mit dem Nebel unter seinem Befehl, auf dem Weg zur Mündung der Donau. Ein Schiff zu segeln dauert seine Zeit, egal wie schnell es ist; und wenn wir losfahren, gehen wir an Land schneller voran und treffen ihn dort. Unsere beste Hoffnung ist, ihn zu erwischen, wenn er zwischen Sonnenaufgang und Sonnenuntergang in der Kiste gefangen ist; denn dann kann er keinen Kampf führen, und wir können mit ihm umgehen, wie wir wollen. Es gibt Tage, an denen wir unseren Plan vorbereiten können. Wir wissen genau, wo er hingeht; denn wir haben den Besitzer des Schiffes getroffen, der uns Rechnungen und alle Unterlagen gezeigt hat, die es gibt. Die Kiste, nach der wir suchen, soll in Varna anlanden und an einen Agenten, einen gewissen Ristics, übergeben werden, der dort seine Referenzen vorlegen wird; und so hat unser Händlerfreund seinen Teil erfüllt. Wenn er nachfragt, ob etwas nicht stimmt, damit er dann telegrafieren und eine Untersuchung in Varna veranlassen kann, sagen wir "nein"; denn das, was zu tun ist, liegt nicht in der Zuständigkeit der Polizei oder des Zolls. Es muss von uns allein und auf unsere Weise erledigt werden." Als Dr. Van Helsing geendet hatte zu sprechen, fragte ich ihn, ob er sicher sei, dass der Graf noch an Bord des Schiffes war. Er antwortete: "Wir haben den besten Beweis dafür: Ihre eigene Aussage, als Sie heute Morgen im hypnotischen Trance waren." Ich fragte ihn erneut, ob es wirklich notwendig sei, dass sie dem Grafen folgen sollten, denn oh! Ich fürchte, dass Jonathan mich verlässt, und ich weiß, dass er sicher gehen würde, wenn die anderen gehen. Er antwortete anfangs ruhig, aber mit wachsender Leidenschaft. Als er weiter sprach, wurde er immer wütender und bestimmter, bis wir am Ende nicht anders konnten, als zu erkennen, worin zumindest ein Teil dieser persönlichen Dominanz bestand, durch die er so lange ein Meister unter den Menschen war: "Ja, es ist notwendig - notwendig - notwendig! Zuallererst für dich und dann für die Menschheit. Dieses Monster hat bereits viel Schaden angerichtet, in dem begrenzten Umfang, in dem er sich befindet, und in der kurzen Zeit, als er noch nur wie ein Körper war, der sich mit seinem so kleinen Maß im Dunkeln herumtastet und nichts weiß. All das habe ich den anderen gesagt; du, meine liebe Frau Mina, wirst es in der Phonographenstimme meines Freundes John hören oder in der deines Mannes. Ich habe ihnen erzählt, wie das Verlassen seines eigenen kargen Landes - karg an Menschen - und das Kommen in ein neues Land, in dem das Leben der Menschen so reich vorhanden ist, dass sie wie eine Vielzahl von Kornhalmen sind, das Werk von Jahrhunderten war. Würde ein anderer Untoter, wie er, versuchen, das zu tun, was er getan hat, könnten ihm vielleicht nicht alle Jahrhunderte der Vergangenheit oder der Zukunft helfen. Mit diesem hier müssen alle okkulten, tiefen und starken Naturkräfte irgendwie zusammen gearbeitet haben. Der Ort selbst, an dem er all diese Jahrhunderte hindurch lebendig war, untot für all diese Jahrhunderte, ist voller Geheimnisse der geologischen und chemischen Welt. Es gibt tiefe Höhlen und Spalten, die niemand wohin führen. Es hat Vulkane gegeben, von denen einige immer noch Wasser mit seltsamen Eigenschaften und Gase, die töten oder beleben, aussenden. Zweifellos gibt es in einigen dieser Kombinationen okkulter Kräfte, die auf seltsame Weise für das physische Leben wirken, etwas Magnetisches oder Elektrisches; und in ihm gab es von Anfang an einige großartige Eigenschaften. In einer harten und kriegerischen Zeit war er berühmt dafür, dass er mehr Eisennerven, ein subtileres Gehirn und ein tapfereres Herz hatte als jeder andere Mann. In ihm haben sich einige vitale Prinzipien auf seltsame Weise in ihrem Höchstmaß entwickelt; und während sein Körper stark bleibt und wächst und gedeiht, wächst auch sein Gehirn. All dies ohne diabolische Hilfe, die ihm gewiss zu Teil werden musste; denn sie hat den Kräften weichen müssen, die von und symbolisch für das Gute kommen. Und das ist jetzt das, was er für uns ist. Er hat dich infiziert - oh, vergib mir, meine Liebe, dass ich so etwas sagen muss; aber es ist für dein Wohl, dass ich spreche. Er hat dich in einer Weise infiziert, dass du, selbst wenn er nichts weiter tut, nur weiterleben musst - weiterleben auf die alte, süße Art; und so wirst du ihm im Laufe der Zeit ähnlicher, dem Tod, der aller Menschen Los und mit Gottes Segen ist. Das darf nicht sein! Wir haben zusammen geschworen, dass es nicht sein darf. So sind wir Diener von Gottes eigenem Wunsch: dass die Welt und die Menschen, für die sein Sohn gestorben ist, nicht Monstern überlassen werden, deren bloße Existenz ihn verunehren würde. Er hat uns bereits erlaubt, eine Seele zu erlösen, und wir gehen heraus wie die alten Ritter des Kreuzes, um noch mehr zu erlösen. Wie sie werden wir uns nach Osten bewegen, und wie sie, wenn wir Fallenden, fallen wir für eine gerechte Sache." Er machte eine Pause und ich sagte: "Aber wird der Graf seine Abfuhr vernünftig nehmen? Da er aus England vertrieben wurde, wird er sie dann nicht meiden, so wie ein Tiger das Dorf meidet, aus dem er gejagt wurde?" "Aha!", sagte er, "dein Vergleich mit dem Tiger ist gut für mich, und ich werde ihn übernehmen. Euer Menschenfresser, wie sie in Indien den Tiger nennen, der einmal das Blut von Menschen gekostet hat, interessiert sich nicht mehr für andere Beute, sondern streift unermüdlich umher, bis er seine Beute bekommt. Dieses Tier, das wir aus unserem Dorf jagen, ist auch ein Tiger, ein Menschenfresser, und er hört nie auf, zu streifen. Nein, er ist nicht der Typ, der sich zurückzieht und sich fernhält. In seinem Leben, seinem lebendigen Leben, überquert er die türkische Grenze und greift seinen Feind auf dessen eigenem Terrain an; er wird zurückgeschlagen, aber bleibt er stehen? Nein! Er kommt immer wieder, immer und immer wieder. Schaut euch seine Beharrlichkeit und Ausdauer an. Mit dem kindlichen Verstand, den er hatte, hat er schon lange die Idee gehabt, in eine große Stadt zu kommen. Was tut er? Er findet den vielversprechendsten Ort für sich auf der ganzen Welt heraus. Dann setzt er sich bewusst hin, um sich auf die Aufgabe vorzubereiten. Er findet geduldig heraus, wie stark er ist und welche Kräfte er hat. Er studiert neue Sprachen. Er lernt ein neues gesellschaftliches Leben; eine neue Umgebung alter Wege, Politik, Recht, Finanzen, Wissenschaft, die Gewohnheiten eines neuen Landes und eines neuen Volkes, das seit seiner Zeit gekommen ist. Der Einblick, den er bisher gehabt hat, hat seinen Appetit nur noch angefacht und sein Verlangen noch verstärkt. Nein, es hilft ihm dabei, in seinem Gehirn zu wachsen; denn es beweist ihm alles, wie richtig er von Anfang an mit seinen Vermutungen lag. Das hat er allein gemacht; ganz allein! In einem Grab in einem vergessenen Land. Was mag er nicht alles tun, wenn ihm die größere Gedankenwelt offensteht? Dieser Mann kann über den Tod lächeln, das wissen wir; er kann mitten in Krankheiten gedeihen, die ganze Völker auslöschen. Oh, wenn jemand Gutes von Gott kommen würde, und nicht vom Teufel, was für eine Kraft für das Gute könnte er nicht sein in dieser alten Welt von uns. Aber wir haben uns verpflichtet, die Welt zu befreien. Unsere Mühe muss in Stille sein, und unsere Bemühungen alle geheim; denn in diesem erleuchteten Zeitalter, wenn die Menschen noch nicht einmal glauben, was sie sehen, ist das Zweifeln von Weisen seine größte Stärke. Es wäre sofort seine Scheide und seine Rüstung und seine Waffen, um uns, seine Feinde, zu vernichten, die bereit sind, selbst unsere Seelen für die Sicherheit eines geliebten Menschen, für das Wohl der Menschheit und für die Ehre und Herrlichkeit Gottes zu gefährden." Nach einer allgemeinen Diskussion wurde beschlossen, dass heute Abend noch nichts endgültig entschieden wird; dass wir alle die Nacht darüber schlafen und versuchen sollten, zu den richtigen Schlüssen zu kommen. Morgen früh werden wir uns wieder zum Frühstück treffen und nachdem wir einander unsere Schlüsse mitgeteilt haben, werden wir uns auf eine konkrete Vorgehensweise einigen. Ich fühle heute Nacht eine wunderbare Ruhe und Erholung. Es ist, als ob eine belastende Präsenz von mir genommen worden wäre. Vielleicht... Meine Vermutung wurde nicht abgeschlossen, konnte nicht abgeschlossen werden; denn ich erblickte im Spiegel den roten Fleck auf meiner Stirn; und ich wusste, dass ich immer noch unrein bin. _Dr. Sewards Tagebuch._ _5. Oktober._ - Wir sind alle früh aufgestanden, und ich denke, der Schlaf hat uns allen viel gebracht. Als wir uns zum Frühstück trafen, herrschte eine allgemeine Fröhlichkeit, die keiner von uns jemals erwartet hatte, wieder zu erleben. Es ist wirklich erstaunlich, wie viel Widerstandskraft es in der menschlichen Natur gibt. Lassen Sie jede hindernde Ursache, egal welche, in irgendeiner Weise entfernt werden - sogar durch den Tod - und wir kehren zu den Grundsätzen von Hoffnung und Freude zurück. Mehr als einmal, während wir am Tisch saßen, öffneten sich meine Augen vor Staunen, ob nicht die ganzen vergangenen Tage nur ein Traum gewesen seien. Es war erst, als ich den roten Fleck auf Mrs. Harkers Stirn sah, dass ich in die Realität zurückgeführt wurde. Selbst jetzt, wo ich ernsthaft über die Angelegenheit nachdenke, ist es fast unmöglich zu realisieren, dass die Ursache all unserer Probleme immer noch existiert. Selbst Mrs. Harker scheint ihre Probleme manchmal ganz aus den Augen zu verlieren. Es ist nur ab und zu, wenn etwas sie daran erinnert, dass sie an ihre schreckliche Narbe denkt. Wir werden uns hier in meinem Arbeitszimmer in einer halben Stunde treffen und über unsere Vorgehensweise entscheiden. Ich sehe nur ein unmittelbares Problem, ich weiß es instinktiv und nicht aus Vernunft: Wir alle müssen offen sprechen; und doch fürchte ich, dass auf mysteriöse Weise die Zunge von Mrs. Harker gebunden ist. Ich _weiß_, dass sie ihre eigenen Schlüsse zieht, und aus allem, was bisher geschehen ist, kann ich erraten, wie brillant und wie wahr sie sein müssen; aber sie will oder kann sie nicht aussprechen. Ich habe dies Van Helsing erwähnt, und er und ich werden es besprechen, wenn wir allein sind. Es ist wohl etwas von diesem abscheulichen Gift, das in ihre Adern gelangt ist und anfängt zu wirken. Der Graf hatte seine eigenen Zwecke, als er ihr gab, was Van Helsing "die Taufe des Vampirs mit Blut" nannte. Nun, es mag ein Gift geben, das sich aus guten Dingen destilliert; in einem Zeitalter, wenn die Existenz von Giftstoffen ein Mysterium ist, sollten wir uns über nichts wundern! Eins weiß ich: Wenn meine Instinkte bezüglich der Stille von Mrs. Harker wahr sind, dann besteht eine schreckliche Schwierigkeit - eine unbekannte Gefahr - in unserer Arbeit. Die gleiche Kraft, die sie zum Schweigen bringt, kann sie zum Sprechen bringen. Ich wage es nicht, weiter daran zu denken; denn so würde ich in meinen Gedanken eine edle Frau entehren! Van Helsing kommt etwas vor den anderen in mein Arbeitszimmer. Ich werde versuchen, das Thema mit ihm anzuschneiden. _Weiter._ - Als der Professor hereinkam, sprachen wir über den Stand der Dinge. Ich konnte erkennen, dass er etwas im Kopf hatte, über das er sprechen wollte, aber er zögerte, das Thema anzusprechen. Nachdem er etwas herumgeschwafelt hatte, sagte er plötzlich: "Freund John, es gibt etwas, über das du und ich allein sprechen müssen, zumindest zuerst. Später müssen wir vielleicht die anderen in unsere Gewissheit einweihen"; dann hielt er inne, also wartete ich; er fuhr fort: "Madam Mina, unsere arme, liebe Madam Mina, verändert sich." Ein kalter Schauer durchlief mich, als sich meine schlimmsten Befürchtungen auf diese Weise bestätigten. Van Helsing fuhr fort: "Mit der traurigen Erfahrung von Fräulein Lucy müssen wir diesmal gewarnt sein, bevor die Dinge zu weit gehen. Unsere Aufgabe ist jetzt in der Realität schwieriger denn je, und dieses neue Problem macht jede Stunde von größter Bedeutung. Ich kann die Anzeichen des Vampirs in ihrem Gesicht erkennen. Es ist jetzt nur sehr, sehr gering; aber man kann es sehen, wenn man Augen hat, ohne Vorurteile zu urteilen. Ihre Zähne sind etwas schärfer, und manchmal sind ihre Augen härter. Aber das sind nicht die einzigen Veränderungen, jetzt gibt es oft Stille; genauso wie bei Fräulein Lucy. Sie spricht nicht, auch wenn sie das schreibt, was sie später bekannt geben will. Meine Angst ist nun folgende. Wenn sie durch unseren hypnotischen Zustand dem Grafen berichten kann, was er sieht und hört, ist es dann nicht wahrer, dass er, der sie zuerst hypnotisiert und von ihrem eigenen Blut trinkt und sie von seinem trinken lässt, ihren Geist dazu zwingen kann, ihm das mitzuteilen "Später." - Gleich zu Beginn unseres Treffens empfanden sowohl Van Helsing als auch ich eine große persönliche Erleichterung. Frau Harker hatte eine Nachricht durch ihren Mann geschickt, dass sie sich vorerst nicht zu uns gesellen würde, da sie dachte, es sei besser, dass wir unsere Pläne besprechen können, ohne ihre Anwesenheit uns zu behindern. Der Professor und ich sahen uns für einen Moment an und irgendwie schienen wir beide erleichtert. Ich persönlich dachte, dass, wenn Frau Harker selbst die Gefahr erkannt hatte, sowohl viel Schmerz als auch viel Gefahr vermieden werden konnte. Unter diesen Umständen waren wir uns einig, durch einen fragenden Blick und eine Antwort mit dem Finger vor den Lippen, unser Misstrauen vorerst für uns zu behalten, bis wir wieder alleine sprechen würden. Wir begannen sofort mit unserem Plan. Van Helsing stellte uns grob die Fakten vor: "Die _Czarina Catherine_ hat gestern Morgen die Themse verlassen. Es wird mindestens drei Wochen dauern, bis sie Varna erreicht, selbst bei der schnellstmöglichen Geschwindigkeit. Aber wir können auf dem Landweg in drei Tagen zum gleichen Ort gelangen. Wenn wir nun zwei Tage weniger für die Schiffsreise einrechnen, aufgrund von Wettereinflüssen, die der Graf ausüben kann, und wenn wir einen ganzen Tag und eine ganze Nacht für mögliche Verzögerungen einplanen, haben wir einen Puffer von fast zwei Wochen. Um also sicher zu gehen, müssen wir hier spätestens am 17. abreisen. Dann sind wir zumindest einen Tag vor Ankunft des Schiffs in Varna und können die notwendigen Vorbereitungen treffen. Natürlich werden wir alle bewaffnet sein - bewaffnet gegen böse Dinge, sowohl geistig als auch physisch." Hier fügte Quincey Morris hinzu: "Ich habe gehört, der Graf kommt aus einer Gegend, in der Wölfe leben, und es könnte sein, dass er uns zuvorkommt. Ich schlage vor, dass wir Winchester-Gewehre zu unserer Ausrüstung hinzufügen. Ich glaube, an eine Winchester, wenn es um solche Probleme geht. Erinnerst du dich, Art, als wir in Tobolsk von den Wölfen verfolgt wurden? Was hätten wir dann nicht für ein Gewehr gegeben!" "Gut!" sagte Van Helsing, "Winchester-Gewehre sollen es sein. Quincey ist immer besonnen, aber besonders wenn es darum geht zu jagen. Metaphern würden der Wissenschaft mehr Schande bringen als Wölfe dem Menschen Gefahr. In der Zwischenzeit können wir hier nichts tun, und da Varna für keinen von uns vertraut ist, warum nicht früher dorthin gehen? Es ist genauso lange zu warten hier wie dort. Heute Abend und morgen können wir uns vorbereiten und dann, wenn alles gut geht, können wir zu viert unsere Reise antreten." "Wir zu viert?" fragte Harker fragend und sah uns nacheinander an. "Natürlich!" antwortete der Professor schnell, "du musst hier bleiben und deine süße Frau beschützen!" Harker schwieg eine Weile und sagte dann mit hohler Stimme: "Lassen Sie uns morgen darüber sprechen. Ich möchte mit Mina darüber beraten." Ich dachte, dass jetzt die Zeit für Van Helsing gekommen war, ihn zu warnen, unsere Pläne nicht gegenüber ihr preiszugeben, aber er beachtete es nicht. Ich sah ihn bedeutungsvoll an und hustete. Als Antwort legte er den Finger auf die Lippen und wandte sich ab. _Jonathan Harkers Tagebuch._ _5. Oktober, Nachmittag._ - Eine Weile nach unserem heutigen Treffen konnte ich nicht denken. Die neuen Entwicklungen haben meinen Geist in einem staunenden Zustand hinterlassen, der keinen Platz für aktives Denken zulässt. Minas Entschlossenheit, nicht an der Diskussion teilzunehmen, brachte mich zum Nachdenken; und da ich die Angelegenheit nicht mit ihr diskutieren konnte, konnte ich nur vermuten. Ich bin jetzt so weit wie zuvor von einer Lösung entfernt. Das Verhalten der anderen verwirrte mich auch; das letzte Mal, als wir über das Thema sprachen, waren wir uns einig, dass es keine weiteren Geheimnisse unter uns geben sollte. Mina schläft jetzt ruhig und glücklich wie ein kleines Kind. Ihre Lippen sind geschwungen und ihr Gesicht strahlt vor Glück. Gott sei Dank gibt es noch solche Momente für sie. * * * * * _Später._ - Wie seltsam das alles ist. Ich saß da und beobachtete Minas glücklichen Schlaf und wurde fast selbst glücklich. Als der Abend näher rückte und die Erde ihre Schatten von der sinkenden Sonne empfing, wurde die Stille im Raum immer feierlicher für mich. Plötzlich öffnete Mina ihre Augen und sah mich liebevoll an und sagte: "Jonathan, ich möchte, dass du mir etwas versprichst, auf dein Ehrenwort. Ein Versprechen, das du mir gibst, aber in Gottes Ohren heilig ist und nicht gebrochen werden darf, auch wenn ich auf Knien flehe und bittere Tränen vergieße. Schnell, du musst es mir sofort versprechen." "Mina", sagte ich, "ein Versprechen wie dieses kann ich nicht sofort geben. Vielleicht habe ich nicht das Recht dazu." "Aber, mein Lieber", sagte sie mit solch spiritueller Intensität, dass ihre Augen wie Polarsterne waren, "ich wünsche es mir; und es ist nicht für mich. Du kannst Dr. Van Helsing fragen, ob ich Recht habe; wenn er anderer Meinung ist, kannst du tun, was du willst. Noch mehr, wenn ihr alle später zustimmt, bist du von dem Versprechen entbunden." "Ich verspreche es!" sagte ich, und für einen Moment sah sie unglaublich glücklich aus; obwohl für mich jegliches Glück für sie durch die rote Narbe auf ihrer Stirn verwehrt war. Sie sagte: "Versprich mir, dass du mir nichts von den für die Kampagne gegen den Grafen geplanten Plänen erzählen wirst. Weder mit Worten, Andeutungen noch Implikationen; zu keiner Zeit, solange mir das bleibt!" und sie zeigte feierlich auf die Narbe. Ich sah, dass sie es ernst meinte, und sagte feierlich: "Ich verspreche es!" und als ich es sagte, fühlte ich, dass sich ab diesem Moment eine Tür zwischen uns geschlossen hatte. * * * * * _Später, Mitternacht._ - Mina war den ganzen Abend über hell und fröhlich. So sehr, dass auch die anderen Mut zu schöpfen schienen, als wären sie etwas von ihrer Fröhlichkeit angesteckt worden; als Folge davon fühlte ich mich sogar, als wäre der Schleier der Schwermut, der auf uns lastet, etwas gelüftet worden. Wir gingen alle früh ins Bett. Mina schläft jetzt wie ein kleines Kind; es ist ein wunderbares Ding, dass sie trotz all ihrer schrecklichen Probleme noch immer die Fähigkeit zum Schlafen hat. Gott sei Dank dafür, denn dann kann sie wenigstens ihre Sorgen vergessen. Vielleicht beeinflusst ihr Beispiel mich genauso wie ihre Fröhlichkeit heute Abend. Ich werde es versuchen. Oh, für einen traumlosen Schlaf. * * * * * _6. Oktober, Morgen._ - Noch eine Überraschung. Mina weckte mich früh, ungefähr zur gleichen Zeit wie gestern, und bat mich, Dr. Van Helsing zu holen. Ich dachte, es sei wieder eine Gelegenheit für Hypnose, und ohne zu fragen, ging ich zum Professor. Offensichtlich hatte er einen solchen Anruf erwartet, denn ich fand ihn in seinem Zimmer angezogen. Seine Tür stand einen Spalt offen, so dass er das Öffnen der Tür zu unserem Zimmer hören konnte. Er kam sofort; als er in den Raum trat, fragte er Mina, ob die anderen ebenfalls kommen dürften. "Nein", sagte sie ganz einfach, "das wird nicht notwendig sein. Du kannst es ihnen genauso gut sagen. Madam Mina, du bist, wie immer, äußerst weise. Du sollst mit uns kommen; und zusammen werden wir das tun, wozu wir aufbrechen. Als er gesprochen hatte, ließ mich Minas lange Stille zu ihr schauen. Sie war auf ihr Kissen zurückgefallen und schlief; sie wachte nicht einmal auf, als ich den Vorhang hochzog und den Raum mit Sonnenlicht flutete. Van Helsing gab mir ein Zeichen, leise mit ihm mitzukommen. Wir gingen in sein Zimmer und innerhalb einer Minute waren auch Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward und Mr. Morris bei uns. Er erzählte ihnen, was Mina gesagt hatte, und fuhr fort: "Am Morgen werden wir nach Varna aufbrechen. Wir haben es nun mit einem neuen Faktor zu tun: Madam Mina. Oh, aber ihre Seele ist rein. Es ist für sie eine Qual, uns so viel zu erzählen, wie sie es getan hat; aber es ist das Richtige, und wir werden rechtzeitig gewarnt. Es darf keine Chance vertan werden, und in Varna müssen wir bereit sein, sofort zu handeln, wenn dieses Schiff ankommt." "Was genau sollen wir tun?" fragte Mr. Morris lakonisch. Der Professor machte eine Pause, bevor er antwortete: "Wir werden als erstes dieses Schiff betreten; dann, wenn wir die Kiste identifiziert haben, werden wir eine Rose auf sie legen. Das werden wir befestigen, denn wenn sie dort ist, kann niemand mehr herauskommen; so sagt es zumindest der Aberglaube. Und dem Aberglauben müssen wir zunächst vertrauen; er war der Glaube der Menschen zu Anfang, und er hat noch immer seine Wurzeln im Glauben. Dann, wenn wir die Gelegenheit haben, die wir suchen, wenn niemand in der Nähe ist, um es zu sehen, werden wir die Kiste öffnen, und dann... wird alles gut sein." "Ich werde nicht auf eine Gelegenheit warten", sagte Morris. "Wenn ich die Kiste sehe, werde ich sie öffnen und das Monster zerstören, selbst wenn tausend Männer zusehen, und wenn ich dafür im nächsten Moment ausgelöscht werde!" Ich griff instinktiv nach seiner Hand und fand sie so fest wie Stahl. Ich denke, er hat meinen Blick verstanden; ich hoffe es zumindest. "Guter Junge", sagte Dr. Van Helsing. "Tapferer Junge. Quincey ist ein richtiger Mann. Gott segne ihn dafür. Mein Kind, glaube mir, keiner von uns wird zurückbleiben oder vor Furcht innehalten. Ich sage nur, was wir tun könnten – was wir tun müssen. Aber, in der Tat, wir können nicht sagen, was wir tun werden. Es gibt so viele Dinge, die geschehen könnten, und ihre Wege und ihr Ende sind so vielfältig, dass wir es bis zum entscheidenden Moment nicht sagen können. Wir werden alle in jeder Hinsicht bewaffnet sein, und wenn die Zeit des Endes gekommen ist, wird uns kein Bemühen fehlen. Jetzt lasst uns alle unsere Angelegenheiten in Ordnung bringen. Lasst alles, was unsere Lieben betrifft und von uns abhängt, vollständig sein; denn keiner von uns kann sagen, was, wann oder wie das Ende sein wird. Was mich betrifft, meine eigenen Angelegenheiten sind geregelt; und da ich nichts anderes zu tun habe, werde ich die Reisevorbereitungen treffen. Ich werde alle Tickets und so weiter für unsere Reise haben." Es gab nichts weiter zu sagen, und wir trennten uns. Nun werde ich alle meine irdischen Angelegenheiten regeln und bereit sein für das, was auch immer kommen mag... Später. Es ist alles erledigt; mein Testament ist gemacht und vollständig. Mina wird meine alleinige Erbin sein, wenn sie überlebt. Sollte es nicht so sein, dann sollen die anderen, die so gut zu uns waren, den Rest haben. Die Sonne neigt sich dem Untergang zu, Minas Unruhe lenkt meine Aufmerksamkeit darauf. Ich bin sicher, dass sie etwas auf dem Herzen hat, das sich zum genauen Sonnenuntergang offenbaren wird. Diese Momente werden für uns alle immer quälender, denn jeder Sonnenauf- und -untergang birgt eine neue Gefahr – einen neuen Schmerz, der jedoch nach Gottes Willen ein Mittel zum guten Ende sein könnte. Ich schreibe all diese Dinge in mein Tagebuch, da meine Liebste sie jetzt nicht hören darf; aber wenn es sein könnte, dass sie sie noch einmal sehen kann, sollen sie bereit sein. Sie ruft nach mir. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Enthält eine Nachricht, die Van Helsing für Jonathan Harker auf dem Phonographen von Dr. Seward hinterlassen hat; den Tagebucheintrag von Jonathan Harker vom 4. Oktober; den Tagebucheintrag von Mina Harker vom 5. Oktober; die Tagebucheinträge von Dr. Sewards vom 5. Oktober; sowie den Tagebucheintrag von Jonathan Harker vom 5. und 6. Oktober. Die Gruppe erfährt, dass der Graf und sein Sarg auf dem Weg nach Varna sind, dem Hafen am Schwarzen Meer, von dem er Osteuropa verlassen hat. Van Helsing, ermutigt und entschlossen, Dracula zu jagen, plant, auf dem Landweg zu reisen und den Sarg am Hafen abzufangen. Quincey Morris schlägt vor, Winchester-Gewehre mitzunehmen, um mit den Wölfen umzugehen, und Van Helsing stimmt zu. Der alte Professor glaubt, dass der Rückzug des Vampirs nicht dauerhaft ist. Jetzt, da der Graf London gekostet hat, mit seiner großen Bevölkerung potenzieller Beute, wird er zurückkehren wollen. Der Vampir kann sich Zeit lassen, aber die Gruppe kann das nicht. Sie müssen gen Osten ziehen, wie "die alten Ritter des Kreuzes", und das Monster jagen. Van Helsing gesteht Seward, dass die Zeit knapp wird. Mina verwandelt sich bereits; ihre Zähne werden immer schärfer und manchmal liegt in ihren Augen eine Härte, die zuvor nicht da war. Die Narbe, die das heilige Oblatenblatt hinterlassen hat, ist immer noch da, eine ständige Erinnerung für die Männer an das, was auf dem Spiel steht. Van Helsing sorgt sich auch, dass Minas spirituelle Verbindung zu Dracula gegen sie arbeiten wird; so wie Van Helsing Hypnose einsetzen konnte, um Draculas Pläne zu sehen, kann Dracula vielleicht Mina nutzen, um alles zu erfahren, was sie weiß. Van Helsing schlägt vor, dass sie sie von nun an nicht mehr über ihre Pläne informieren. Unabhängig davon entschuldigt sich Mina bei den Treffen mit der Gruppe und bittet Jonathan, sie über die Pläne der Männer im Unklaren zu lassen. Aber später bittet sie auch darum, dass sie den Männern folgen darf. Sie argumentiert, dass sie nützlich sein kann, da Van Helsing sie hypnotisieren kann. Noch wichtiger ist, dass sie gehen muss, denn wenn sie alleine ohne Bewachung zurückgelassen wird, muss sie dem Grafen folgen, wenn er sie ruft.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: SCENE VII. A camp at a short distance from Rome Enter AUFIDIUS with his LIEUTENANT AUFIDIUS. Do they still fly to th' Roman? LIEUTENANT. I do not know what witchcraft's in him, but Your soldiers use him as the grace fore meat, Their talk at table, and their thanks at end; And you are dark'ned in this action, sir, Even by your own. AUFIDIUS. I cannot help it now, Unless by using means I lame the foot Of our design. He bears himself more proudlier, Even to my person, than I thought he would When first I did embrace him; yet his nature In that's no changeling, and I must excuse What cannot be amended. LIEUTENANT. Yet I wish, sir- I mean, for your particular- you had not Join'd in commission with him, but either Had borne the action of yourself, or else To him had left it solely. AUFIDIUS. I understand thee well; and be thou sure, When he shall come to his account, he knows not What I can urge against him. Although it seems, And so he thinks, and is no less apparent To th' vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state, Fights dragon-like, and does achieve as soon As draw his sword; yet he hath left undone That which shall break his neck or hazard mine Whene'er we come to our account. LIEUTENANT. Sir, I beseech you, think you he'll carry Rome? AUFIDIUS. All places yield to him ere he sits down, And the nobility of Rome are his; The senators and patricians love him too. The tribunes are no soldiers, and their people Will be as rash in the repeal as hasty To expel him thence. I think he'll be to Rome As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it By sovereignty of nature. First he was A noble servant to them, but he could not Carry his honours even. Whether 'twas pride, Which out of daily fortune ever taints The happy man; whether defect of judgment, To fail in the disposing of those chances Which he was lord of; or whether nature, Not to be other than one thing, not moving From th' casque to th' cushion, but commanding peace Even with the same austerity and garb As he controll'd the war; but one of these- As he hath spices of them all- not all, For I dare so far free him- made him fear'd, So hated, and so banish'd. But he has a merit To choke it in the utt'rance. So our virtues Lie in th' interpretation of the time; And power, unto itself most commendable, Hath not a tomb so evident as a cheer T' extol what it hath done. One fire drives out one fire; one nail, one nail; Rights by rights falter, strengths by strengths do fail. Come, let's away. When, Caius, Rome is thine, Thou art poor'st of all; then shortly art thou mine. Exeunt Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Aufidius wird unzufrieden über Coriolanus unglaublichen Stolz und seine wachsende Popularität unter den Volsciern. Er gesteht seine Eifersucht seinem Leutnant in einem Lager in geringer Entfernung von Rom. Der Leutnant antwortet, dass Coriolanus ihre Soldaten fast verzaubert zu haben scheint und wünscht, Aufidius hätte sich niemals mit dem verbannten römischen Krieger verbündet. Aufidius bemerkt, dass die Zeit kommen wird, wenn er seine alten Rechnungen mit Coriolanus begleichen wird. In der Zwischenzeit kämpft Coriolanus wie ein Drache für die Volscier. Der Leutnant fragt Aufidius, ob Coriolanus Rom erobern wird, und Aufidius ist sich sicher. Aufidius reflektiert, dass Coriolanus zuerst ein patriotischer Soldat für Rom war, aber aufgrund seines Stolzes, mangelhafter Urteilsfähigkeit und Unnachgiebigkeit als Politiker von den Gemeinen gehasst und letztendlich verbannt wurde. Er sagt, dass Coriolanus seinen Verdienst durch seine Wut und Unnachgiebigkeit zunichte macht. Aufidius schließt damit, dass letztendlich er selbst triumphieren wird. Sobald Coriolanus Rom erobert hat, wird Aufidius ihn besiegen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Während der ersten Jahre meines Dienstes in Dr. Flints Familie gewöhnte ich mich daran, gewisse Freiheiten mit den Kindern meiner Herrin zu teilen. Obwohl dies für mich nur gerecht schien, war ich dankbar dafür und bemühte mich, die Freundlichkeit durch die treue Erfüllung meiner Pflichten zu verdienen. Doch nun trat ich in mein 15. Lebensjahr ein - eine traurige Zeit im Leben eines Sklavenmädchens. Mein Herr begann, mir schmutzige Worte ins Ohr zu flüstern. So jung ich auch war, konnte ich ihre Bedeutung nicht ignorieren. Ich versuchte, ihnen gegenüber gleichgültig oder verächtlich zu sein. Das Alter des Herrn, meine extreme Jugend und die Angst davor, dass sein Verhalten meiner Großmutter gemeldet werden würde, führten dazu, dass er diese Behandlung viele Monate ertrug. Er war ein hinterlistiger Mann und griff zu vielen Mitteln, um seine Absichten zu erreichen. Manchmal hatte er stürmische, furchterregende Wege, die seine Opfer erzittern ließen; manchmal nahm er eine Sanftheit an, von der er dachte, sie würde mich sicherlich zähmen. Von beiden bevorzugte ich seine stürmischen Stimmungen, obwohl sie mich zittern ließen. Er versuchte sein Äußerstes, um die reinen Prinzipien, die meine Großmutter mir eingeprägt hatte, zu pervertieren. Er füllte meinen jungen Geist mit unkeuschen Bildern, die nur ein schändliches Monster erdenken könnte. Ich wandte mich mit Ekel und Hass von ihm ab. Doch er war mein Herr. Ich war gezwungen, unter demselben Dach mit ihm zu leben - wo ich einen Mann sah, der vierzig Jahre älter war als ich und täglich die heiligsten Gebote der Natur verletzte. Er sagte mir, dass ich sein Eigentum sei, dass ich seinem Willen in allem unterworfen sein müsse. Meine Seele rebellierte gegen diese gemeine Tyrannei. Aber wo sollte ich Schutz suchen? Es spielt keine Rolle, ob das Sklavenmädchen so schwarz wie Ebenholz oder so hell wie seine Herrin ist. In beiden Fällen gibt es keinen Hauch von Gesetz, das sie vor Beleidigung, Gewalt oder sogar dem Tod schützt; all dies wird von Geschöpfen in Menschengestalt verübt. Die Herrin, die das wehrlose Opfer schützen sollte, empfindet für sie nur Eifersucht und Wut. Die Degradation, die Unrechte, die Lastern, die aus der Sklaverei entstehen, sind mehr, als ich beschreiben kann. Sie sind größer, als Sie bereitwillig glauben würden. Sicherlich, wenn Sie nur die Hälfte der Wahrheiten, die Ihnen über die hilflosen Millionen erzählt werden, die in dieser grausamen Knechtschaft leiden, glauben würden, würden Sie im Norden nicht helfen, den Joch zu festschnallen. Sie würden sicherlich ablehnen, auf eigenem Boden für den Meister die gemeine und grausame Arbeit zu verrichten, die dressierte Bluthunde und die niedrigste Klasse der Weißen im Süden für ihn erledigen. Überall bringen die Jahre allen genug Sünde und Leid; aber in der Sklaverei wird der Anbruch des Lebens von diesen Schatten verdunkelt. Selbst das kleine Kind, das daran gewöhnt ist, seiner Herrin und ihren Kindern zu dienen, erfährt vor seinem zwölften Lebensjahr, warum seine Herrin diesen oder jenen von den Sklaven hasst. Vielleicht gehört die eigene Mutter des Kindes zu jenen Gehassten. Es hört gewaltsame Ausbrüche eifersüchtiger Leidenschaften und kann nicht umhin zu verstehen, was die Ursache ist. Es wird vorzeitig über das Böse Bescheid wissen. Bald wird es zittern, wenn es den Schritt seines Herrn hört. Es wird gezwungen sein zu erkennen, dass es nicht mehr ein Kind ist. Wenn Gott ihr Schönheit geschenkt hat, wird es sich als ihr größter Fluch erweisen. Was in der weißen Frau Bewunderung hervorruft, beschleunigt nur die Degradation der weiblichen Sklavin. Ich weiß, dass einige durch die Sklaverei zu sehr brutalisiert sind, um die Demütigung ihrer Position zu spüren; aber viele Sklaven fühlen sie am schmerzlichsten und schrumpfen vor den Erinnerungen daran zurück. Ich kann nicht sagen, wie sehr ich in Anwesenheit dieser Unrechte gelitten habe, noch wie sehr ich heute noch von der Rückschau darauf gequält werde. Mein Herr begegnete mir an jeder Ecke und erinnerte mich daran, dass ich ihm gehörte, und schwor bei Himmel und Erde, dass er mich zwingen werde, mich ihm zu unterwerfen. Wenn ich nach einem Tag unermüdlicher Arbeit nach draußen ging, um frische Luft zu schnappen, hielten mich seine Schritte im Auge. Wenn ich an dem Grab meiner Mutter kniete, fiel sein dunkler Schatten sogar dort auf mich. Das fröhliche Herz, das die Natur mir gegeben hatte, wurde schwer von traurigen Vorahnungen. Die anderen Sklaven im Haus meines Herrn bemerkten die Veränderung. Viele von ihnen bedauerten mich; aber niemand wagte es, nach dem Grund zu fragen. Sie hatten keine Notwendigkeit, danach zu fragen. Sie kannten die Schuldpraktiken unter diesem Dach nur allzu gut; und sie wussten, dass es eine Straftat war, davon zu sprechen, die niemals ungesühnt blieb. Ich sehnte mich nach jemandem, dem ich mich anvertrauen konnte. Ich hätte die Welt dafür gegeben, meinen Kopf auf den getreuen Busen meiner Großmutter zu legen und ihr all meine Probleme zu erzählen. Aber Dr. Flint schwor, er würde mich töten, wenn ich nicht so still wie das Grab sei. Dann, obwohl meine Großmutter alles für mich war, fürchtete ich sie auch. Ich war daran gewöhnt, zu ihr mit einer Achtung aufzuschauen, die an Ehrfurcht grenzte. Ich war noch sehr jung und schämte mich, ihr solch unreine Dinge zu erzählen, zumal ich wusste, dass sie in solchen Angelegenheiten sehr streng war. Außerdem war sie eine Frau von stolzem Gemüt. Gewöhnlich war sie sehr ruhig, aber wenn ihr Zorn erst einmal entfacht war, konnte man ihn nicht so leicht besänftigen. Man hatte mir erzählt, dass sie einmal einen weißen Herrn mit geladener Pistole verfolgte, weil er eine ihrer Töchter beleidigt hatte. Ich fürchtete die Konsequenzen eines gewalttätigen Ausbruchs; und Stolz und Furcht hielten mich davon ab zu sprechen. Aber obwohl ich mich nicht meiner Großmutter anvertraute und auch ihrer wachsamen Wachsamkeit und ihren Nachfragen auswich, war ihre Anwesenheit in der Nachbarschaft eine gewisse Schutzschild für mich. Obwohl sie eine Sklavin gewesen war, fürchtete Dr. Flint sie. Er fürchtete ihre sengenden Vorwürfe. Außerdem war sie vielen Menschen bekannt und ihnen zugeneigt; und er wollte nicht, dass seine Schandtaten öffentlich bekannt wurden. Es war für mich Glück, dass ich nicht auf einer entfernten Plantage lebte, sondern in einer Stadt, die nicht so groß war, dass die Bewohner nichts über die Angelegenheiten der anderen wussten. So schlecht die Gesetze und Bräuche in einer sklavenhaltenden Gemeinschaft auch sein mögen, hielt der Arzt es als Fachmann für klug, zumindest einige äußere Anstand zu wahren. Oh, welche Tage und Nächte voller Angst und Kummer hat mir dieser Mann bereitet! Leser, ich erzähle Ihnen die Wahrheit darüber, was ich in der Sklaverei erlitten habe, nicht um Mitleid für mich zu erwecken. Ich tue es, um in Ihren Herzen eine Flamme des Mitgefühls für meine Schwestern zu entzünden, die noch in Gefangenschaft sind und leiden, wie ich einst gelitten habe. Einmal sah ich zwei wunderschöne Kinder, die miteinander spielten. Das eine war ein helles weißes Kind, das andere war ihr Sklave und auch ihre Schwester. Als ich sie einander umarmen sah und ihr fröhliches Lachen hör Frau Flint kannte den Charakter ihres Mannes, noch bevor ich geboren wurde. Sie hätte dieses Wissen nutzen können, um die jungen und unschuldigen Sklaven zu beraten und zu schützen, aber für sie hatte sie keine Sympathie. Sie waren Gegenstand ihres ständigen Misstrauens und ihrer Boshaftigkeit. Sie beobachtete ihren Mann unermüdlich, aber er war gut darin, Mittel und Wege zu finden, ihr zu entkommen. Was er nicht in Worte fassen konnte, drückte er durch Zeichen aus. Er erfand mehr als je in einer Taubstummenanstalt vorgestellt wurden. Ich ließ sie geschehen, als ob ich nicht verstehen würde, was er meinte, und viele Flüche und Drohungen wurden mir für meine Dummheit zuteil. Eines Tages erwischte er mich dabei, wie ich versuchte, mir selbst das Schreiben beizubringen. Er runzelte die Stirn, als ob er nicht besonders erfreut wäre, aber ich nehme an, er kam zu dem Schluss, dass eine solche Fähigkeit dazu beitragen könnte, sein bevorzugtes Vorhaben voranzutreiben. Bald darauf wurden mir häufig Notizen heimlich in die Hand geschoben. Ich gab sie zurück und sagte: "Ich kann sie nicht lesen, Herr." "Kannst du nicht?" antwortete er, "dann muss ich sie dir vorlesen." Er beendete das Lesen immer mit der Frage: "Verstehst du?" Manchmal beschwerte er sich über die Hitze im Teeraum und ließ sein Abendessen auf einen kleinen Tisch auf der Veranda stellen. Er setzte sich dort hin, mit einem zufriedenen Lächeln, und befahl mir, da zu stehen und die Fliegen zu vertreiben. Er aß sehr langsam und machte Pausen zwischen den Bissen. Diese Unterbrechungen nutzte er, um von dem Glück zu erzählen, das ich so töricht verschwendete, und mich mit der Strafe zu bedrohen, die meiner hartnäckigen Ungehorsamkeit schließlich bevorstand. Er rühmte sich oft der Geduld, die er mir gegenüber gezeigt hatte, und erinnerte mich daran, dass seine Geduld Grenzen hatte. Wenn es mir gelang, Gelegenheiten zu vermeiden, mit ihm zu Hause zu reden, wurde ich angewiesen, zu seinem Büro zu kommen, um eine Botengänge zu erledigen. Dort angekommen, musste ich stehen bleiben und seinem Gerede lauschen. Manchmal drückte ich meine Verachtung für ihn so offen aus, dass er wutentbrannt war und ich mich wunderte, warum er mich nicht schlug. In seiner Position dachte er wahrscheinlich, dass es klügere Politik war, nachsichtig zu sein. Aber die Situation wurde täglich schlimmer. In meiner Verzweiflung erzählte ich ihm, dass ich mich an meine Großmutter wenden müsse, um Schutz zu suchen. Er drohte mir mit dem Tod und Schlimmerem, wenn ich mich über ihn beschwerte. Seltsamerweise verlor ich nicht den Mut. Ich hatte von Natur aus eine heitere Disposition und immer die Hoffnung, auf irgendeine Weise seinen Klauen zu entkommen. Wie viele arme, einfache Sklaven vor mir vertraute ich darauf, dass einige Freudenfäden in mein dunkles Schicksal eingewoben würden. Ich war gerade sechzehn Jahre alt geworden, und jeden Tag wurde es offensichtlicher, dass meine Anwesenheit für Frau Flint unerträglich war. Wütende Worte fielen oft zwischen ihr und ihrem Mann. Er hatte mich nie selbst bestraft und erlaubte auch niemand anderem, mich zu bestrafen. In dieser Hinsicht war sie nie zufrieden; aber in ihren wütenden Stimmungen waren ihr keine Schimpfworte zu schlimm für mich. Doch ich, die sie so bitter verabscheute, hatte weit mehr Mitleid mit ihr als er, dessen Pflicht es war, ihr Leben glücklich zu gestalten. Ich hatte ihr nie Unrecht getan oder ihr Unrecht tun wollen, und ein Wort der Güte von ihr hätte mich zu ihren Füßen gebracht. Nach wiederholten Streitigkeiten zwischen dem Doktor und seiner Frau kündigte er an, seine jüngste Tochter, damals vier Jahre alt, mit in sein Zimmer zum Schlafen zu nehmen. Es war notwendig, dass eine Dienstmagd im selben Raum schlief, um zur Stelle zu sein, falls das Kind sich rührte. Ich wurde für diese Aufgabe ausgewählt und über den Zweck dieser Anordnung informiert. Indem ich mich tagsüber so weit wie möglich in Sichtweite von Menschen aufhielt, war ich bisher erfolgreich darin gewesen, meinem Herrn auszuweichen, obwohl oft ein Rasiermesser an meine Kehle gehalten wurde, um mich zu zwingen, diese Strategie zu ändern. Nachts schlief ich an der Seite meiner Großtante, wo ich mich sicher fühlte. Er war zu klug, um in ihr Zimmer zu kommen. Sie war eine alte Frau und schon viele Jahre in der Familie. Außerdem hielt er es als verheirateter und berufstätiger Mann für notwendig, in gewisser Hinsicht den Schein zu wahren. Aber er beschloss, das Hindernis auf seinem Weg aus dem Weg zu räumen, und er dachte, er hätte es so geplant, dass er keinen Verdacht erregen würde. Er war sich gut bewusst, wie viel mir meine Zuflucht an der Seite meiner alten Tante bedeutete, und er beschloss, mich meiner zu berauben. In der ersten Nacht hatte der Doktor das kleine Kind allein in seinem Zimmer. Am nächsten Morgen wurde ich angewiesen, meine Position als Kindermädchen in der folgenden Nacht einzunehmen. Ein gnädiger Vorsehung trat zu meinem Gunsten ein. Tagsüber erfuhr Frau Flint von dieser neuen Anordnung, und ein Sturm brach los. Ich freute mich, ihn wüten zu hören. Nach einer Weile ließ meine Herrin mich zu sich in ihr Zimmer kommen. Ihre erste Frage war: "Wussten Sie, dass Sie im Zimmer des Doktors schlafen sollten?" "Ja, Frau." "Wer hat Ihnen das gesagt?" "Mein Herr." "Werden Sie auf alle Fragen, die ich Ihnen stellen werde, die Wahrheit antworten?" "Ja, Frau." "Dann sagen Sie mir, wenn Sie hoffen, Vergebung zu erhalten, sind Sie unschuldig an dem, wessen ich Sie beschuldigt habe?" "Ja, Frau." Sie reichte mir eine Bibel und sagte: "Lege deine Hand auf dein Herz, küsse dieses heilige Buch und schwöre vor Gott, dass du mir die Wahrheit sagst." Ich erfüllte den geforderten Eid und tat dies mit reinem Gewissen. "Du hast Gottes heiliges Wort in Anspruch genommen, um deine Unschuld zu bezeugen", sagte sie. "Wenn du mich getäuscht hast, sei gewarnt! Setze dich jetzt auf diesen Schemel, schau mich direkt an und erzähle mir alles, was zwischen deinem Herrn und dir geschehen ist." Ich tat, wie sie befahl. Während ich meinen Bericht fortsetzte, änderte sich ihre Gesichtsfarbe oft, sie weinte und manchmal stöhnte sie. Sie sprach in so traurigen Tönen, dass mich ihr Kummer berührte. Die Tränen stiegen mir in die Augen, aber ich war bald davon überzeugt, dass ihre Emotionen aus Wut und gekränktem Stolz herrührten. Sie fühlte, dass ihre Ehegelübde entweiht, ihre Würde beleidigt wurden; aber sie hatte kein Mitgefühl für das arme Opfer der Treulosigkeit ihres Mannes. Sie hatte Mitleid mit sich selbst als Märtyrerin, aber sie war unfähig, Mitgefühl für den Zustand der Scham und des Elends zu empfinden, in dem ihre bedauernswerte, hilflose Sklavin sich befand. Doch vielleicht hatte sie eine gewisse Spur von Mitgefühl für mich; denn als die Konferenz beendet war, sprach sie freundlich und versprach, mich zu beschützen. Ich wäre durch diese Zusicherung sehr getröstet worden, wenn ich ihr hätte vertrauen können; aber meine Erfahrungen in der Sklaverei hatten mich misstrauisch gemacht. Sie war keine besonders raffinierte Frau und hatte nicht viel Kontrolle über ihre Leidenschaften. Sie war Gegenstand ihres Neids und daher auch ihres Hasses; und ich wusste, dass ich unter den gegebenen Umständen weder Freundlichkeit noch Vertrauen von ihr erwarten konnte. Ich konnte ihr das nicht zum Vorwurf machen. Die Ehefrauen von Sklavenhaltern fühlen wie andere Frauen in ähnlichen Umständen. Das Feuer ihres Temperaments entflammte aus kleinen Funken und flammte nun Meine Geliebte wurde ihrer Wachsamkeit überdrüssig; sie erwies sich nicht als zufriedenstellend. Sie änderte ihre Taktik. Sie versuchte nun den Trick, meinen Herrn in meiner Anwesenheit eines Verbrechens zu beschuldigen und nannte mich als Urheberin der Anschuldigung. Zu meiner völligen Verblüffung erwiderte er: "Ich glaube es nicht; aber wenn sie es zugegeben hat, dann hast du sie dazu gebracht, mich bloßzustellen." Gezwungen, ihn bloßzustellen! Wahrhaftig, Satan hatte keine Schwierigkeiten, die Farbe seiner Seele zu erkennen! Ich verstand sein Interesse an dieser falschen Darstellung. Es ging darum, mir zu zeigen, dass ich nichts gewinne, indem ich den Schutz meiner Geliebten suche; dass die Macht noch immer ganz in seinen Händen war. Ich hatte Mitleid mit Mrs. Flint. Sie war die zweite Ehefrau, viele Jahre jünger als ihr Ehemann; und dieser ehrwürdige Schurke war genug, um die Geduld einer weiseren und besseren Frau auf die Probe zu stellen. Sie war völlig vereitelt und wusste nicht, wie sie vorgehen sollte. Sie hätte mich gerne für meinen vermeintlichen Meineid auspeitschen lassen; aber, wie ich bereits erwähnt habe, erlaubte der Doktor niemandem, mich zu schlagen. Der alte Sünder war strategisch klug. Das Anwenden von Schlägen hätte zu Bemerkungen führen können, die ihn in den Augen seiner Kinder und Enkelkinder bloßgestellt hätten. Wie oft freute ich mich, dass ich in einer Stadt lebte, in der alle Bewohner einander kannten! Wenn ich auf einer abgelegenen Plantage oder in der Masse einer überfüllten Stadt verloren gewesen wäre, wäre ich heute keine lebende Frau. Die Geheimnisse der Sklaverei sind ebenso verborgen wie die der Inquisition. Mein Herr war, soweit ich weiß, der Vater von elf Sklaven. Aber wagten es die Mütter, zu erzählen, wer der Vater ihrer Kinder war? Wagten die anderen Sklaven, darauf anzuspielen, außer in Flüstereien unter sich? Nein, natürlich nicht! Sie kannten die schrecklichen Konsequenzen nur zu gut. Meine Großmutter konnte es nicht vermeiden, verdächtige Dinge zu sehen. Sie war besorgt um mich und versuchte auf verschiedene Weisen, mich zu kaufen; aber die immer gleichbleibende Antwort wurde immer wiederholt: "Linda gehört _mir_ nicht. Sie ist das Eigentum meiner Tochter und ich habe kein gesetzliches Recht, sie zu verkaufen." Der gewissenhafte Mann! Er war zu gewissenhaft, um mich zu _verkaufen_; aber er hatte keinerlei Skrupel, ein viel größeres Unrecht gegen das hilflose junge Mädchen zu begehen, das unter seiner Vormundschaft als Eigentum seiner Tochter stand. Manchmal würde mich mein Verfolger fragen, ob ich gerne verkauft werden würde. Ich sagte ihm, ich würde mich lieber an jeden verkaufen lassen, als so ein Leben zu führen, wie ich es tat. In solchen Momenten würde er die Haltung eines sehr gekränkten Individuums annehmen und mich wegen meiner Undankbarkeit tadeln. "Habe ich dich nicht ins Haus genommen und dich zur Gefährtin meiner eigenen Kinder gemacht?" würde er sagen. "Habe _ich_ dich jemals wie eine Negerin behandelt? Ich habe dich nie bestrafen lassen, nicht einmal, um deiner Geliebten zu gefallen. Und das ist der Dank, den ich bekomme, du undankbares Mädchen!" Ich antwortete, dass er seine eigenen Gründe hatte, mich vor Bestrafung zu schützen, und dass das Vorgehen, das er verfolgte, meine Geliebte dazu brachte, mich zu hassen und zu verfolgen. Wenn ich weinte, würde er sagen: "Armes Kind! Weine nicht! Weine nicht! Ich werde für dich Frieden mit deiner Geliebten schließen. Lass mich nur alles in meinem eigenen Sinne regeln. Armes, törichtes Mädchen! Du weißt nicht, was für dich gut ist. Ich würde dich unterstützen. Ich würde eine Dame aus dir machen. Jetzt geh und denke an alles, was ich dir versprochen habe." Das habe ich getan. Leser, ich male keine Vorstellungsbilder von südlichen Heimen. Ich erzähle Ihnen die schlichte Wahrheit. Doch wenn Opfer dem wilden Tier der Sklaverei entkommen, sind die Nordstaatler bereit, die Rolle von Bluthunden zu übernehmen und den armen Flüchtling zurück in seine Höhle zu jagen, "voll von Totengebeinen und Unreinheit." Aber nicht nur das, sie sind nicht nur bereit, sondern auch stolz, ihre Töchter mit Sklavenhaltern zu verheiraten. Die armen Mädchen haben romantische Vorstellungen von einem sonnigen Klima und von blühenden Reben, die das ganze Jahr über ein glückliches Zuhause beschatten. Welchen Enttäuschungen sind sie bestimmt! Die junge Ehefrau lernt bald, dass der Ehemann, dem sie ihr Glück anvertraut hat, keine Rücksicht auf seine Eheversprechen nimmt. Kinder in jeder Hautfarbe spielen mit ihren eigenen blonden Babys, und sie weiß nur zu gut, dass sie ihm von seinen eigenen Haushältern geboren sind. Eifersucht und Hass erobern das blühende Heim und rauben ihm seine Schönheit. Südländische Frauen heiraten oft einen Mann, von dem sie wissen, dass er der Vater vieler kleiner Sklaven ist. Sie machen sich keine Gedanken darüber. Sie betrachten solche Kinder als Eigentum, so handelbar wie die Schweine auf der Plantage; und es kommt selten vor, dass sie sie nicht baldmöglichst in die Hände des Sklavenhändlers übergeben und sie somit aus ihrem Blickfeld entfernen. Ich bin froh sagen zu können, dass es ehrenhafte Ausnahmen gibt. Ich habe selbst zwei südliche Ehefrauen gekannt, die ihre Männer drängten, jene Sklaven zu befreien, zu denen sie in einer "elternlichen Beziehung" standen; und ihrem Wunsch wurde stattgegeben. Diese Männer erröteten vor der überlegenen Adelhaftigkeit der Natur ihrer Frauen. Obwohl sie ihnen nur geraten hatten, das zu tun, was ihre Pflicht war, gebot es ihnen dennoch Respekt und machte ihr Verhalten vorbildlicher. Die Geheimhaltung war vorbei und anstelle von Misstrauen trat Vertrauen. Obwohl diese böse Institution den moralischen Sinn sogar bei weißen Frauen in gefährlichem Maße abstumpft, ist er nicht völlig ausgelöscht. Ich habe südliche Damen sagen hören: "Herr So-und-So denkt nicht nur, dass es keine Schande ist, der Vater dieser kleinen Neger zu sein, sondern er ist nicht einmal stolz darauf, sich ihr Herr zu nennen. Ich erkläre, solche Dinge sollten in keiner anständigen Gesellschaft toleriert werden!" Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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In den Kapiteln 5 und 6 beschreibt die 15-jährige Linda die täglichen Qualen, die sie im Haushalt der Familie Flint ertragen muss. Verfolgt von dem lüsternen Dr. Flint, der 55 Jahre alt ist, ruft sie den eifersüchtigen Zorn von Frau Flint hervor, die anstatt Linda zu schützen, sie für verantwortlich hält, dass sie die Lust ihres Ehemanns weckt. Um zu veranschaulichen, dass ihr Schicksal nicht anders ist als das unzähliger anderer schwarzer Frauen, erzählt Linda die Geschichte von zwei Schwestern, die zusammen aufwachsen, obwohl eine die Sklavin der anderen ist. Aber obwohl das weiße Mädchen heranwächst und heiratet, bleibt ihre dunkelhäutige Schwester zurück und erträgt die Schande und Erniedrigung sexueller Ausbeutung durch ihren Herrn. Als Dr. Flint erkennt, dass er Linda nicht mit Gewaltandrohungen oder Versprechungen günstiger Behandlung dazu bringen kann, sich seinen Annäherungsversuchen zu beugen, denkt er sich einen neuen Plan aus: Er beschließt, seine vierjährige Tochter in seine Wohnung zu bringen und bestimmt Linda zur Dienerschaft des Kindes, was bedeutet, dass sie nachts im Zimmer des kleinen Mädchens schlafen muss. Dann bringt er seine Tochter in sein eigenes Schlafzimmer, was bedeutet, dass Linda in seinem Zimmer schlafen muss. Als Frau Flint von dieser Anordnung erfährt, ist sie wütend und verlangt von Linda, auf der Bibel zu schwören, dass sie nicht mit ihrem Ehemann geschlafen hat. Linda tut dies bereitwillig, und Frau Flint, vorübergehend zufriedengestellt, verspricht, Linda vor ihrem Ehemann zu schützen. Dementsprechend verlangt sie, dass Linda in einem Zimmer neben ihrem eigenen schläft, wo sie eine ständige Überwachung über sie hat, eine Anordnung, die Linda letztendlich noch mehr nervenaufreibender findet als von Dr. Flint verfolgt zu werden. Als diese neue Anordnung sie nicht länger zufriedenstellt, beginnt sie ihren Ehemann vor Linda öffentlich des unangemessenen Verhaltens zu beschuldigen. Als Linda erkennt, dass die unreife, emotionale Frau Flint völlig der Manipulation ihres Ehemanns ausgeliefert ist, weiß sie, dass sie nicht auf sie zum Schutz zählen kann. Misstrauisch gegenüber den Vorgängen im Haushalt der Flints bietet Lindas Großmutter an, Lindas Freiheit zu kaufen, aber Dr. Flint lehnt ab und besteht darauf, dass er Linda nicht verkaufen darf, da sie das "Eigentum" seiner Tochter ist. In der Zwischenzeit setzt Dr. Flint seine Verfolgung von Linda fort und wechselt zwischen Gewaltandrohungen, Versprechungen günstiger Behandlung und Appellen an Lindas "Undankbarkeit", seine "Freundlichkeit" nicht zu schätzen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down because it was crammed so full of goodies. Then she remembered her mother's promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that beautiful old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it was a true guidebook for any pilgrim going on a long journey. She woke Meg with a "Merry Christmas," and bade her see what was under her pillow. A green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside, and a few words written by their mother, which made their one present very precious in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke to rummage and find their little books also, one dove-colored, the other blue, and all sat looking at and talking about them, while the east grew rosy with the coming day. In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature, which unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who loved her very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently given. "Girls," said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, "Mother wants us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We used to be faithful about it, but since Father went away and all this war trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things. You can do as you please, but I shall keep my book on the table here and read a little every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good and help me through the day." Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round her and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression so seldom seen on her restless face. "How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let's do as they do. I'll help you with the hard words, and they'll explain things if we don't understand," whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her sisters' example. "I'm glad mine is blue," said Amy. and then the rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting. "Where is Mother?" asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for their gifts, half an hour later. "Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter came a-beggin', and your ma went straight off to see what was needed. There never was such a woman for givin' away vittles and drink, clothes and firin'," replied Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by them all more as a friend than a servant. "She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything ready," said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper time. "Why, where is Amy's bottle of cologne?" she added, as the little flask did not appear. "She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on it, or some such notion," replied Jo, dancing about the room to take the first stiffness off the new army slippers. "How nice my handkerchiefs look, don't they? Hannah washed and ironed them for me, and I marked them all myself," said Beth, looking proudly at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor. "Bless the child! She's gone and put 'Mother' on them instead of 'M. March'. How funny!" cried Jo, taking one up. "Isn't that right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg's initials are M.M., and I don't want anyone to use these but Marmee," said Beth, looking troubled. "It's all right, dear, and a very pretty idea, quite sensible too, for no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know," said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth. "There's Mother. Hide the basket, quick!" cried Jo, as a door slammed and steps sounded in the hall. Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters all waiting for her. "Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?" asked Meg, surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so early. "Don't laugh at me, Jo! I didn't mean anyone should know till the time came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I gave all my money to get it, and I'm truly trying not to be selfish any more." As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap one, and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her 'a trump', while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to ornament the stately bottle. "You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the minute I was up, and I'm so glad, for mine is the handsomest now." Another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the girls to the table, eager for breakfast. "Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books. We read some, and mean to every day," they all cried in chorus. "Merry Christmas, little daughters! I'm glad you began at once, and hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down. Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn baby. Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they have no fire. There is nothing to eat over there, and the oldest boy came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you give them your breakfast as a Christmas present?" They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a minute no one spoke, only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously, "I'm so glad you came before we began!" "May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?" asked Beth eagerly. "I shall take the cream and the muffings," added Amy, heroically giving up the article she most liked. Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one big plate. "I thought you'd do it," said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. "You shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinnertime." They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and no one laughed at the queer party. A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire, ragged bedclothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale, hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm. How the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went in. "Ach, mein Gott! It is good angels come to us!" said the poor woman, crying for joy. "Funny angels in hoods and mittens," said Jo, and set them to laughing. In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work there. Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the broken panes with old hats and her own cloak. Mrs. March gave the mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, while she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own. The girls meantime spread the table, set the children round the fire, and fed them like so many hungry birds, laughing, talking, and trying to understand the funny broken English. "Das ist gut!" "Die Engel-kinder!" cried the poor things as they ate and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze. The girls had never been called angel children before, and thought it very agreeable, especially Jo, who had been considered a 'Sancho' ever since she was born. That was a very happy breakfast, though they didn't get any of it. And when they went away, leaving comfort behind, I think there were not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry little girls who gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves with bread and milk on Christmas morning. "That's loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like it," said Meg, as they set out their presents while their mother was upstairs collecting clothes for the poor Hummels. Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in the few little bundles, and the tall vase of red roses, white chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave quite an elegant air to the table. "She's coming! Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for Marmee!" cried Jo, prancing about while Meg went to conduct Mother to the seat of honor. Beth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted escort with great dignity. Mrs. March was both surprised and touched, and smiled with her eyes full as she examined her presents and read the little notes which accompanied them. The slippers went on at once, a new handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scented with Amy's cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were pronounced a perfect fit. There was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining, in the simple, loving fashion which makes these home festivals so pleasant at the time, so sweet to remember long afterward, and then all fell to work. The morning charities and ceremonies took so much time that the rest of the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities. Being still too young to go often to the theater, and not rich enough to afford any great outlay for private performances, the girls put their wits to work, and necessity being the mother of invention, made whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their productions, pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned butter boats covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering with tin spangles from a pickle factory, and armor covered with the same useful diamond shaped bits left in sheets when the lids of preserve pots were cut out. The big chamber was the scene of many innocent revels. No gentleman were admitted, so Jo played male parts to her heart's content and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet leather boots given her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor. These boots, an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some picture, were Jo's chief treasures and appeared on all occasions. The smallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors to take several parts apiece, and they certainly deserved some credit for the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts, whisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage besides. It was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless amusement, and employed many hours which otherwise would have been idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable society. On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto the bed which was the dress circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke, and an occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew apart, and the _operatic tragedy_ began. "A gloomy wood," according to the one playbill, was represented by a few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the distance. This cave was made with a clothes horse for a roof, bureaus for walls, and in it was a small furnace in full blast, with a black pot on it and an old witch bending over it. The stage was dark and the glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real steam issued from the kettle when the witch took off the cover. A moment was allowed for the first thrill to subside, then Hugo, the villain, stalked in with a clanking sword at his side, a slouching hat, black beard, mysterious cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and fro in much agitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain, singing of his hatred for Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing resolution to kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo's voice, with an occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were very impressive, and the audience applauded the moment he paused for breath. Bowing with the air of one accustomed to public praise, he stole to the cavern and ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding, "What ho, minion! I need thee!" Out came Meg, with gray horsehair hanging about her face, a red and black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon her cloak. Hugo demanded a potion to make Zara adore him, and one to destroy Roderigo. Hagar, in a fine dramatic melody, promised both, and proceeded to call up the spirit who would bring the love philter. Hither, hither, from thy home, Airy sprite, I bid thee come! Born of roses, fed on dew, Charms and potions canst thou brew? Bring me here, with elfin speed, The fragrant philter which I need. Make it sweet and swift and strong, Spirit, answer now my song! A soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the cave appeared a little figure in cloudy white, with glittering wings, golden hair, and a garland of roses on its head. Waving a wand, it sang... Hither I come, From my airy home, Afar in the silver moon. Take the magic spell, And use it well, Or its power will vanish soon! And dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch's feet, the spirit vanished. Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition, not a lovely one, for with a bang an ugly black imp appeared and, having croaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at Hugo and disappeared with a mocking laugh. Having warbled his thanks and put the potions in his boots, Hugo departed, and Hagar informed the audience that as he had killed a few of her friends in times past, she had cursed him, and intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him. Then the curtain fell, and the audience reposed and ate candy while discussing the merits of the play. A good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again, but when it became evident what a masterpiece of stage carpentery had been got up, no one murmured at the delay. It was truly superb. A tower rose to the ceiling, halfway up appeared a window with a lamp burning in it, and behind the white curtain appeared Zara in a lovely blue and silver dress, waiting for Roderigo. He came in gorgeous array, with plumed cap, red cloak, chestnut lovelocks, a guitar, and the boots, of course. Kneeling at the foot of the tower, he sang a serenade in melting tones. Zara replied and, after a musical dialogue, consented to fly. Then came the grand effect of the play. Roderigo produced a rope ladder, with five steps to it, threw up one end, and invited Zara to descend. Timidly she crept from her lattice, put her hand on Roderigo's shoulder, and was about to leap gracefully down when "Alas! Alas for Zara!" she forgot her train. It caught in the window, the tower tottered, leaned forward, fell with a crash, and buried the unhappy lovers in the ruins. A universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the wreck and a golden head emerged, exclaiming, "I told you so! I told you so!" With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire, rushed in, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside... "Don't laugh! Act as if it was all right!" and, ordering Roderigo up, banished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn. Though decidedly shaken by the fall from the tower upon him, Roderigo defied the old gentleman and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired Zara. She also defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons of the castle. A stout little retainer came in with chains and led them away, looking very much frightened and evidently forgetting the speech he ought to have made. Act third was the castle hall, and here Hagar appeared, having come to free the lovers and finish Hugo. She hears him coming and hides, sees him put the potions into two cups of wine and bid the timid little servant, "Bear them to the captives in their cells, and tell them I shall come anon." The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something, and Hagar changes the cups for two others which are harmless. Ferdinando, the 'minion', carries them away, and Hagar puts back the cup which holds the poison meant for Roderigo. Hugo, getting thirsty after a long warble, drinks it, loses his wits, and after a good deal of clutching and stamping, falls flat and dies, while Hagar informs him what she has done in a song of exquisite power and melody. This was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might have thought that the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long red hair rather marred the effect of the villain's death. He was called before the curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading Hagar, whose singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the performance put together. Act fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point of stabbing himself because he has been told that Zara has deserted him. Just as the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under his window, informing him that Zara is true but in danger, and he can save her if he will. A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door, and in a spasm of rapture he tears off his chains and rushes away to find and rescue his lady love. Act fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He wishes her to go into a convent, but she won't hear of it, and after a touching appeal, is about to faint when Roderigo dashes in and demands her hand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich. They shout and gesticulate tremendously but cannot agree, and Rodrigo is about to bear away the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a letter and a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The latter informs the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair and an awful doom to Don Pedro, if he doesn't make them happy. The bag is opened, and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage till it is quite glorified with the glitter. This entirely softens the stern sire. He consents without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus, and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro's blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace. Tumultuous applause followed but received an unexpected check, for the cot bed, on which the dress circle was built, suddenly shut up and extinguished the enthusiastic audience. Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many were speechless with laughter. The excitement had hardly subsided when Hannah appeared, with "Mrs. March's compliments, and would the ladies walk down to supper." This was a surprise even to the actors, and when they saw the table, they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. It was like Marmee to get up a little treat for them, but anything so fine as this was unheard of since the departed days of plenty. There was ice cream, actually two dishes of it, pink and white, and cake and fruit and distracting French bonbons and, in the middle of the table, four great bouquets of hot house flowers. It quite took their breath away, and they stared first at the table and then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely. "Is it fairies?" asked Amy. "Santa Claus," said Beth. "Mother did it." And Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray beard and white eyebrows. "Aunt March had a good fit and sent the supper," cried Jo, with a sudden inspiration. "All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it," replied Mrs. March. "The Laurence boy's grandfather! What in the world put such a thing into his head? We don't know him!" exclaimed Meg. "Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an odd old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father years ago, and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending them a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not refuse, and so you have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk breakfast." "That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He's a capital fellow, and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he'd like to know us but he's bashful, and Meg is so prim she won't let me speak to him when we pass," said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to melt out of sight, with ohs and ahs of satisfaction. "You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don't you?" asked one of the girls. "My mother knows old Mr. Laurence, but says he's very proud and doesn't like to mix with his neighbors. He keeps his grandson shut up, when he isn't riding or walking with his tutor, and makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but he didn't come. Mother says he's very nice, though he never speaks to us girls." "Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the fence, and were getting on capitally, all about cricket, and so on, when he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some day, for he needs fun, I'm sure he does," said Jo decidedly. "I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman, so I've no objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He brought the flowers himself, and I should have asked him in, if I had been sure what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went away, hearing the frolic and evidently having none of his own." "It's a mercy you didn't, Mother!" laughed Jo, looking at her boots. "But we'll have another play sometime that he can see. Perhaps he'll help act. Wouldn't that be jolly?" "I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!" And Meg examined her flowers with great interest. "They are lovely. But Beth's roses are sweeter to me," said Mrs. March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt. Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, "I wish I could send my bunch to Father. I'm afraid he isn't having such a merry Christmas as we are." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Mädchen wachen an Weihnachtsmorgen auf und finden keine Strümpfe, die am Kamin hängen, sondern stattdessen ein kleines Bibel unter jedem Mädchekopfkissen. Nach Megs Beispiel schwören sie, jeden Tag ein bisschen zu lesen. Ihre Mutter ist bereits woanders hingegangen; Amy verschwindet eine Weile und kehrt mit einer größeren, hübscheren Flasche Parfüm als Geschenk für Marmee zurück. Sie sagt, sie habe sich schuldig gefühlt, den kleinen Artikel zu kaufen, um ein bisschen Geld für sich selbst zu sparen, und jetzt werde sie Marmee das beste Geschenk überhaupt machen. Frau March kehrt zurück, um den Mädchen von einer Familie zu erzählen, die ein neugeborenes Baby und sechs andere Kinder in einem Bett hat, die versuchen, ohne Heizung oder Essen warm zu bleiben. Sie fragt, ob die Mädchen bereit wären, ihr Frühstück aufzugeben, worauf sie fast sofort zustimmen. Nachdem sie die Familie so gemütlich wie möglich gemacht haben, kehren sie nach Hause zurück zu einem Frühstück aus Brot und Milch und fahren dann mit ihren Weihnachtsplänen fort, indem sie ein Theaterstück für ein Dutzend Freunde aufführen. Das Weihnachtsessen ist der großzügige Lohn für ihren morgendlichen Verzicht. Herr Laurence, ihr Nachbar, schickt Kuchen und Eis sowie Blumen zur Dekoration vorbei. Es steht in dem Brief, er habe von ihrer Großzügigkeit gehört und wollte ein paar "Kleinigkeiten" als Dankeschön schicken. Die Mädchen beschließen, dass sie Herrn Laurence und seinen Enkel Laurie gerne besser kennenlernen möchten.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Eines Morgens, ungefähr eine Woche nachdem Bingleys Verlobung mit Jane geschlossen worden war, saßen er und die Frauen der Familie zusammen im Speisezimmer, als ihre Aufmerksamkeit plötzlich durch das Geräusch eines Wagens auf das Fenster gelenkt wurde und sie eine Kutsche mit vier Pferden über den Rasen fahren sahen. Es war zu früh am Morgen für Besucher und außerdem entsprach die Ausstattung nicht der ihrer Nachbarn. Die Pferde waren Postpferde und weder das Gefährt noch die Livree des Dieners, der ihnen vorausging, waren ihnen vertraut. Da jedoch sicher war, dass jemand kam, überredete Bingley sofort Miss Bennet, der Belästigung einer solchen Störung auszuweichen, und ging mit ihr in die Gartenanlage. Beide machten sich auf den Weg und die Vermutungen der verbleibenden drei Personen gingen weiter, wenn auch mit geringer Zufriedenheit, bis die Tür geöffnet und ihr Besucher eintrat. Es war Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Natürlich hatten alle vor, überrascht zu sein, aber ihre Verwunderung übertraf ihre Erwartungen und auf Seiten von Mrs. Bennet und Kitty, obwohl sie ihr völlig unbekannt war, noch mehr als das, was Elizabeth empfand. Sie betrat den Raum mit einer noch unhöflicheren Haltung als üblich, erwiderte Elizabeths Begrüßung nur mit einer leichten Verneigung des Kopfes und setzte sich ohne ein Wort zu sagen hin. Elizabeth hatte ihre Mutter bei Lady Catherines Eintritt ihren Namen genannt, obwohl kein Einführungswunsch geäußert worden war. Mrs. Bennet, völlig verwundert, obwohl sie geschmeichelt war, eine so wichtige Gastgeberin zu haben, empfing sie äußerst höflich. Nach einem kurzen Moment des Schweigens sagte sie sehr förmlich zu Elizabeth: "Ich hoffe, es geht Ihnen gut, Miss Bennet. Diese Dame ist vermutlich Ihre Mutter." Elizabeth antwortete sehr knapp, dass das der Fall war. "Und _das_ ist vermutlich eine Ihrer Schwestern." "Ja, gnädige Frau", sagte Mrs. Bennet erfreut, mit einer Lady Catherine zu sprechen. "Das ist meine eine aber jüngste Tochter. Meine jüngste von allen ist vor kurzem verheiratet, und meine älteste ist irgendwo auf dem Grundstück spazieren und ist mit einem jungen Mann zusammen, der meiner Meinung nach bald ein Teil der Familie sein wird." "Sie haben hier einen sehr kleinen Park", entgegnete Lady Catherine nach einer kurzen Pause. "Er ist natürlich im Vergleich zu Rosings nichts, meine Dame, da bin ich sicher, aber ich versichere Ihnen, dass er viel größer ist als der von Sir William Lucas." "Dieses Zimmer ist im Sommer sicherlich sehr unbequem für den Abend. Die Fenster liegen voll im Westen." Mrs. Bennet versicherte ihr, dass sie dort nach dem Abendessen niemals säßen, und fügte dann hinzu: "Darf ich die Freiheit haben, Ihre Ladyship zu fragen, ob es Mr. und Mrs. Collins gut geht?" "Ja, sehr gut. Ich habe sie vorgestern Abend gesehen." Elizabeth erwartete jetzt, dass sie ihr einen Brief von Charlotte präsentieren würde, da dies der einzige wahrscheinliche Grund für ihren Besuch zu sein schien. Aber kein Brief erschien und sie war völlig verwirrt. Mrs. Bennet bat mit großer Höflichkeit ihre Ladyship, sich zu stärken, aber Lady Catherine lehnte entschieden und nicht sehr höflich ab, etwas zu essen, stand dann auf und sagte zu Elizabeth: "Miss Bennet, auf der einen Seite Ihres Rasens scheint es eine recht nette Art von kleinem Wildnisgebiet zu geben. Ich würde gerne eine Runde darin drehen, wenn Sie mir die Ehre erweisen wollen, mich zu begleiten." "Geh, mein Liebes", rief ihre Mutter, "und zeige Ladyship die verschiedenen Wege. Ich denke, sie wird das Eremitage-Häuschen mögen." Elizabeth gehorchte und lief in ihr Zimmer, um ihren Sonnenschirm zu holen, und begleitete ihre noble Gästin die Treppe hinunter. Als sie durch den Flur gingen, öffnete Lady Catherine die Türen zum Esszimmer und Salon und erklärte, nach einer kurzen Inspektion, dass es sich um anständig aussehende Räume handele, und ging weiter. Ihr Wagen blieb vor der Tür stehen und Elizabeth sah, dass ihre Zimmerfrau darin wartete. Sie gingen schweigend den Kiesweg entlang, der zum Dickicht führte; Elizabeth hatte beschlossen, keinen Versuch einer Unterhaltung mit einer Frau zu machen, die jetzt noch unverschämter und unangenehmer war als sonst. "Wie konnte ich nur denken, dass sie ihrem Neffen ähnlich sieht?", sagte sie, als sie ihr ins Gesicht blickte. Sobald sie das Dickicht betraten, begann Lady Catherine auf folgende Weise: "Sie können, Miss Bennet, nicht im Geringsten im Unklaren darüber sein, warum ich hierher gereist bin. Ihr eigenes Herz, Ihr eigenes Gewissen müssen Ihnen sagen, warum ich komme." Elizabeth schaute mit unverfälschter Verwunderung. "Tatsächlich irren Sie sich, Madam. Ich war überhaupt nicht in der Lage, mich für die Ehre zu erklären, Sie hier zu sehen." "Miss Bennet", erwiderte ihre Ladyship mit ärgerlichem Ton, "Sie sollten wissen, dass ich nicht im Geringsten zu spaßen bin. Aber ganz gleich, wie unaufrichtig _Sie_ sein mögen, Sie werden _mich_ so nicht finden. Mein Charakter ist immer für Ehrlichkeit und Offenheit gefeiert worden, und in einer Sache von solcher Bedeutung werde ich mich sicherlich nicht davon abbringen lassen. Vor zwei Tagen erreichte mich ein Bericht von äußerst alarmierender Natur. Mir wurde gesagt, dass nicht nur Ihre Schwester kurz davor stand, einen äußerst vorteilhaften Ehemann zu bekommen, sondern dass _Sie_, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, höchstwahrscheinlich bald darauf meinen Neffen, meinen eigenen Neffen, Mr. Darcy, heiraten würden. Obwohl ich weiß, dass es eine skandalöse Lüge sein muss, obwohl ich ihm nicht so viel schaden möchte, anzunehmen, dass es überhaupt möglich ist, habe ich mich sofort auf den Weg zu diesem Ort gemacht, um Ihnen meine Meinung mitzuteilen." "Wenn Sie es für unmöglich hielten, dass es wahr ist", sagte Elizabeth mit Erstaunen und Verachtung rot werdend, "frage ich mich, warum Sie sich die Mühe gemacht haben, so weit zu kommen. Was wollte Ihre Ladyship damit bezwecken?" "Auf einmal zu bestehen, dass ein solcher Bericht allgemein widerrufen wird." "Ihre Reise nach Longbourn, um mich und meine Familie zu sehen", sagte Elizabeth gelassen, "wird eher eine Bestätigung dafür sein, wenn ein solcher Bericht überhaupt existiert." "Wenn! Geben Sie also vor, nichts davon zu wissen? Wurde es nicht fleißig von Ihnen selbst verbreitet? Wissen Sie nicht, dass ein solcher Bericht die Runde macht?" "Ich habe nie gehört, dass es so war." "Und können Sie auch erklären, dass es keine _Grundlage_ dafür gibt?" "Ich behaupte nicht, die gleiche Offenheit wie Ihre Ladyship zu besitzen. Sie können Fragen stellen, auf die _ich_ keine Antwort geben werde." "Das ist nicht zu ertragen. Miss Bennet, ich bestehe darauf, zufriedengestellt zu werden. Hat er, hat mein Neffe, Ihnen einen Heiratsantrag gemacht?" "Ihre Ladyship hat erklärt, dass dies unmöglich ist." "So sollte es sein, es muss so sein, solange er bei Verstand ist. Aber _Ihre_ Künste und Verführungen könnten ihn in einem Moment der Verblendung dazu gebracht haben, zu vergessen, was er sich selbst und seiner ganzen Familie schuldet. Sie könnten ihn verführt haben." "Wenn dem so ist, werde ich die letzte Person sein, die es beken "Denn Ehre, Anstand, Klugheit, ja, sogar Eigeninteresse verbieten es. Ja, Miss Bennet, Eigeninteresse; denn erwarten Sie nicht, von seiner Familie oder seinen Freunden beachtet zu werden, wenn Sie absichtlich gegen den Willen aller handeln. Sie werden kritisiert, vernachlässigt und von jedem, der mit ihm verbunden ist, verachtet. Ihre Verbindung wird eine Schande sein; Ihr Name wird nicht einmal von einem von uns erwähnt werden." "Das sind schwere Unglücke", antwortete Elizabeth. "Aber die Frau von Mr. Darcy muss solch außergewöhnliche Quellen des Glücks an ihrer Situation haben, dass sie im Großen und Ganzen keinen Grund zum Klagen haben kann." "Eigenwilliges, eigensinniges Mädchen! Ich schäme mich für dich! Ist das deine Dankbarkeit für meine Aufmerksamkeit im letzten Frühling? Bin ich aufgrund dieser Umstände nichts mehr wert?" "Lass uns setzen. Sie sollen verstehen, Miss Bennet, dass ich hierher gekommen bin, um meinen Willen durchzusetzen, und davon lasse ich mich nicht abbringen. Ich bin es nicht gewohnt, mich den Wünschen anderer Menschen zu beugen. Ich bin es nicht gewohnt, Enttäuschungen hinzunehmen." "Das macht Ihre Situation gegenwärtig bedauerlicher, aber es wird keine Auswirkungen auf mich haben." "Ich werde nicht unterbrochen werden. Hören Sie mich schweigend an. Meine Tochter und mein Neffe sind füreinander bestimmt. Sie stammen mütterlicherseits aus derselben adligen Linie und väterlicherseits aus respektablen, ehrenhaften und alten, wenn auch nicht adligen Familien. Ihr Vermögen auf beiden Seiten ist prächtig. Sie sind laut der Meinung jedes Mitglieds ihrer jeweiligen Familien füreinander bestimmt; und was soll sie trennen? Die aufstrebenden Ansprüche einer jungen Frau ohne Familie, Verbindungen oder Vermögen. Soll das ertragen werden! Aber es darf nicht sein, wird nicht sein. Wenn Sie vernünftig wären, würden Sie nicht aus der Sphäre austreten wollen, in der Sie aufgewachsen sind." "Wenn ich Ihren Neffen heiraten würde, würde ich mich nicht fühlen, als würde ich diese Sphäre verlassen. Er ist ein Gentleman; ich bin die Tochter eines Gentleman; so sind wir gleichwertig." "Wahr. Sie sind die Tochter eines Gentleman. Aber wer war Ihre Mutter? Wer sind Ihre Onkel und Tanten? Glauben Sie nicht, dass ich ihre Situation nicht kenne." "Was auch immer meine Verbindungen sein mögen", sagte Elizabeth, "wenn Ihr Neffe nichts dagegen einzuwenden hat, sind sie für _Sie_ nichts." "Sagen Sie mir endgültig, sind Sie mit ihm verlobt?" Obwohl Elizabeth aus reinem Gehorsam gegenüber Lady Catherine diese Frage nicht beantwortet hätte, musste sie nach kurzem Nachdenken antworten: "Ich bin es nicht." Lady Catherine schien erfreut. "Und versprechen Sie mir, niemals eine solche Verlobung einzugehen?" "Ein solches Versprechen kann ich nicht geben." "Miss Bennet, ich bin schockiert und erstaunt. Ich hatte erwartet, eine vernünftigere junge Frau vorzufinden. Aber täuschen Sie sich nicht in dem Glauben, dass ich jemals nachgeben werde. Ich werde nicht gehen, bis Sie mir die Zusicherung gegeben haben, die ich verlange." "Und das werde ich ganz sicher _nicht_ tun. Ich lasse mich in nichts so völlig Unvernünftiges einschüchtern. Ihre Gnaden möchten, dass Mr. Darcy Ihre Tochter heiratet; aber würde es die Wahrscheinlichkeit _ihrer_ Ehe erhöhen, wenn ich Ihnen das gewünschte Versprechen gebe? Angenommen, er wäre an mich gebunden, würde _meine_ Ablehnung, seine Hand anzunehmen, ihn dazu bringen, sie seiner Cousine anzubieten? Erlauben Sie mir zu sagen, Lady Catherine, dass die Argumente, mit denen Sie diese außergewöhnliche Bitte unterstützen, ebenso oberflächlich waren wie die Bitte selbst töricht war. Sie haben meinen Charakter weitestgehend missverstanden, wenn Sie denken, dass ich mich von solchen Überredungsversuchen beeinflussen lassen kann. Wie weit Ihr Neffe Ihre Einmischung in _seine_ Angelegenheiten billigen könnte, kann ich nicht sagen, aber sicherlich haben Sie kein Recht, sich in meine zu mischen. Ich muss Sie also bitten, mich nicht weiter mit diesem Thema zu belästigen." "Nicht so hastig, wenn es Ihnen beliebt. Ich bin noch nicht fertig. Zu allen Einwänden, die ich bereits vorgebracht habe, kommt noch einer hinzu. Ich bin kein Unbekannter mit den Einzelheiten der skandalösen Flucht Ihrer jüngsten Schwester. Ich weiß alles; dass die Heirat des jungen Mannes mit ihr ein improvisiertes Geschäft auf Kosten Ihres Vaters und Ihrer Onkel war. Und soll _solch_ ein Mädchen die Schwester meines Neffen sein? Soll _ihr_ Ehemann, der Sohn des Verwalters seines verstorbenen Vaters, sein Bruder sein? Himmel und Erde! Wovon denken Sie? Soll Pemberley in solch einer Weise entehrt werden?" "Ihnen fällt _jetzt_ sicher nichts mehr ein", antwortete sie verärgert. "Sie haben mich auf jede erdenkliche Weise beleidigt. Ich bitte darum, ins Haus zurückkehren zu dürfen." Und sie stand auf, während sie sprach. Lady Catherine stand ebenfalls auf und sie kehrten um. Ihre Gnaden war sehr verärgert. "Ihnen liegt es also nicht am Ansehen und der Ehre meines Neffen! Hartherziges, egoistisches Mädchen! Bedenken Sie nicht, dass eine Verbindung mit Ihnen ihn in den Augen aller herabwürdigen würde?" "Lady Catherine, ich habe nichts mehr zu sagen. Sie kennen meine Ansichten." "Sie sind also entschlossen, ihn zu bekommen?" "Das habe ich nicht gesagt. Ich bin nur entschlossen, mich auf eine Art und Weise zu verhalten, die meiner eigenen Meinung nach mein Glück ausmacht, ohne Bezug auf _Sie_ oder irgendeine Person, die so völlig unpersönlich mit mir verbunden ist." "Gut. Sie weigern sich also, mich zu begünstigen. Sie weigern sich, den Ansprüchen der Pflicht, Ehre und Dankbarkeit nachzukommen. Sie sind entschlossen, ihn in den Augen aller seiner Freunde zu ruinieren und ihn zum Verachtungswert der Welt zu machen." "Weder die Pflicht noch die Ehre noch die Dankbarkeit", antwortete Elizabeth, "haben in diesem Fall Anspruch auf mich. Kein Prinzip würde durch meine Heirat mit Mr. Darcy verletzt. Und was die Empörung seiner Familie oder den Zorn der Welt betrifft, wenn er durch meine Heirat mit ihm verursacht würde, würde es mich keinen Moment kümmern - und die Welt im Allgemeinen wäre zu klug, um sich dem Spott anzuschließen." "Und das ist also Ihre eigentliche Meinung! Das ist Ihr endgültiger Entschluss! Sehr gut. Jetzt weiß ich, wie ich handeln werde. Glauben Sie nicht, Miss Bennet, dass Ihre Ambition jemals erfüllt wird. Ich kam, um Sie zu prüfen. Ich hoffte, Sie vernünftig zu finden; aber verlassen Sie sich darauf, ich werde meinen Willen durchsetzen." Lady Catherine sprach auf diese Weise weiter, bis sie an der Tür des Wagens waren, als sie sich hastig umdrehte und hinzufügte: "Ich nehme keinen Abschied von Ihnen, Miss Bennet. Grüßen Sie Ihre Mutter nicht von mir. Sie verdienen keine solche Aufmerksamkeit. Ich bin äußerst verärgert." Elizabeth antwortete nicht und versuchte nicht, ihre Gnaden davon zu überzeugen, wieder ins Haus zurückzukehren, sondern ging selbst ruhig hinein. Als sie die Treppe hinaufging, hörte sie das Wagenfahren. Ihre Mutter traf sie ungeduldig an der Tür des Ankleidezimmers, um zu fragen, warum Lady Catherine nicht wieder hereinkommen und sich ausruhen wollte. "Sie hat es nicht gewollt", sagte ihre Tochter, "sie wollte gehen." "Sie ist eine sehr gutaussehende Frau! Und ihr Besuch hier war äußerst höflich! Denn sie kam nur, um uns mitzuteilen, dass es den Collinses gut geht. Sie ist wahrscheinlich auf dem Weg irgendwohin und dachte, sie könnte gleich bei dir vorbeischauen. Ich nehme an, sie hatte nichts Besonderes mit dir zu besprechen, Lizzy?" Elizabeth war gezwungen, hier eine kleine Lüge einzugehen, denn es war unmöglich, den Inhalt ihres Gesprächs zuzugeben. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Lady Catherine kommt mit einer besonders missmutigen Atmosphäre nach Longbourn gestürmt. Wie immer ist sie kalt und hochmütig; sie behandelt die Familie Bennet mit offener Verachtung, lehnt alle Angebote zur Erfrischung ab und bemerkt die geringe Größe ihres Anwesens. Lady Catherine bittet Elizabeth, mit ihr auf dem Rasen spazieren zu gehen. Dort erzählt sie Elizabeth, dass sie ein skandalöses Gerücht gehört hat, nachdem Darcy sich mit ihr verlobt hat. Sie zwingt Elizabeth, das Gerücht zu verneinen, und will die Zusicherung, dass Elizabeth niemals zustimmen würde, wenn Darcy um ihre Hand anhalten sollte. Sie erklärt, dass ihre Tochter und Darcy seit ihrer Kindheit füreinander bestimmt waren. Sie verspottet bitter die niedrige Klasse der Bennets und spricht über Lydias Entführung. Die selbstbewusste Elizabeth argumentiert unerschrocken, dass es keinen Grund gibt, warum Darcy oder sie nicht ihre eigene Wahl in Bezug auf die Ehe treffen sollten. Lady Catherine ist empört und nennt Elizabeth ein egoistisches Wesen, das die Atmosphäre von Pemberley durch ihre minderwertige Anwesenheit verunreinigen wird.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: It had been a miserable party, each of the three believing themselves most miserable. Mrs. Norris, however, as most attached to Maria, was really the greatest sufferer. Maria was her first favourite, the dearest of all; the match had been her own contriving, as she had been wont with such pride of heart to feel and say, and this conclusion of it almost overpowered her. She was an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent to everything that passed. The being left with her sister and nephew, and all the house under her care, had been an advantage entirely thrown away; she had been unable to direct or dictate, or even fancy herself useful. When really touched by affliction, her active powers had been all benumbed; and neither Lady Bertram nor Tom had received from her the smallest support or attempt at support. She had done no more for them than they had done for each other. They had been all solitary, helpless, and forlorn alike; and now the arrival of the others only established her superiority in wretchedness. Her companions were relieved, but there was no good for _her_. Edmund was almost as welcome to his brother as Fanny to her aunt; but Mrs. Norris, instead of having comfort from either, was but the more irritated by the sight of the person whom, in the blindness of her anger, she could have charged as the daemon of the piece. Had Fanny accepted Mr. Crawford this could not have happened. Susan too was a grievance. She had not spirits to notice her in more than a few repulsive looks, but she felt her as a spy, and an intruder, and an indigent niece, and everything most odious. By her other aunt, Susan was received with quiet kindness. Lady Bertram could not give her much time, or many words, but she felt her, as Fanny's sister, to have a claim at Mansfield, and was ready to kiss and like her; and Susan was more than satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that nothing but ill-humour was to be expected from aunt Norris; and was so provided with happiness, so strong in that best of blessings, an escape from many certain evils, that she could have stood against a great deal more indifference than she met with from the others. She was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquainted with the house and grounds as she could, and spent her days very happily in so doing, while those who might otherwise have attended to her were shut up, or wholly occupied each with the person quite dependent on them, at this time, for everything like comfort; Edmund trying to bury his own feelings in exertions for the relief of his brother's, and Fanny devoted to her aunt Bertram, returning to every former office with more than former zeal, and thinking she could never do enough for one who seemed so much to want her. To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament, was all Lady Bertram's consolation. To be listened to and borne with, and hear the voice of kindness and sympathy in return, was everything that could be done for her. To be otherwise comforted was out of the question. The case admitted of no comfort. Lady Bertram did not think deeply, but, guided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all important points; and she saw, therefore, in all its enormity, what had happened, and neither endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think little of guilt and infamy. Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious. After a time, Fanny found it not impossible to direct her thoughts to other subjects, and revive some interest in the usual occupations; but whenever Lady Bertram _was_ fixed on the event, she could see it only in one light, as comprehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace never to be wiped off. Fanny learnt from her all the particulars which had yet transpired. Her aunt was no very methodical narrator, but with the help of some letters to and from Sir Thomas, and what she already knew herself, and could reasonably combine, she was soon able to understand quite as much as she wished of the circumstances attending the story. Mrs. Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holidays, to Twickenham, with a family whom she had just grown intimate with: a family of lively, agreeable manners, and probably of morals and discretion to suit, for to _their_ house Mr. Crawford had constant access at all times. His having been in the same neighbourhood Fanny already knew. Mr. Rushworth had been gone at this time to Bath, to pass a few days with his mother, and bring her back to town, and Maria was with these friends without any restraint, without even Julia; for Julia had removed from Wimpole Street two or three weeks before, on a visit to some relations of Sir Thomas; a removal which her father and mother were now disposed to attribute to some view of convenience on Mr. Yates's account. Very soon after the Rushworths' return to Wimpole Street, Sir Thomas had received a letter from an old and most particular friend in London, who hearing and witnessing a good deal to alarm him in that quarter, wrote to recommend Sir Thomas's coming to London himself, and using his influence with his daughter to put an end to the intimacy which was already exposing her to unpleasant remarks, and evidently making Mr. Rushworth uneasy. Sir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, without communicating its contents to any creature at Mansfield, when it was followed by another, sent express from the same friend, to break to him the almost desperate situation in which affairs then stood with the young people. Mrs. Rushworth had left her husband's house: Mr. Rushworth had been in great anger and distress to _him_ (Mr. Harding) for his advice; Mr. Harding feared there had been _at_ _least_ very flagrant indiscretion. The maidservant of Mrs. Rushworth, senior, threatened alarmingly. He was doing all in his power to quiet everything, with the hope of Mrs. Rushworth's return, but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street by the influence of Mr. Rushworth's mother, that the worst consequences might be apprehended. This dreadful communication could not be kept from the rest of the family. Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go with him, and the others had been left in a state of wretchedness, inferior only to what followed the receipt of the next letters from London. Everything was by that time public beyond a hope. The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the mother, had exposure in her power, and supported by her mistress, was not to be silenced. The two ladies, even in the short time they had been together, had disagreed; and the bitterness of the elder against her daughter-in-law might perhaps arise almost as much from the personal disrespect with which she had herself been treated as from sensibility for her son. However that might be, she was unmanageable. But had she been less obstinate, or of less weight with her son, who was always guided by the last speaker, by the person who could get hold of and shut him up, the case would still have been hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth did not appear again, and there was every reason to conclude her to be concealed somewhere with Mr. Crawford, who had quitted his uncle's house, as for a journey, on the very day of her absenting herself. Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town, in the hope of discovering and snatching her from farther vice, though all was lost on the side of character. _His_ present state Fanny could hardly bear to think of. There was but one of his children who was not at this time a source of misery to him. Tom's complaints had been greatly heightened by the shock of his sister's conduct, and his recovery so much thrown back by it, that even Lady Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all her alarms were regularly sent off to her husband; and Julia's elopement, the additional blow which had met him on his arrival in London, though its force had been deadened at the moment, must, she knew, be sorely felt. She saw that it was. His letters expressed how much he deplored it. Under any circumstances it would have been an unwelcome alliance; but to have it so clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for its completion, placed Julia's feelings in a most unfavourable light, and severely aggravated the folly of her choice. He called it a bad thing, done in the worst manner, and at the worst time; and though Julia was yet as more pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could not but regard the step she had taken as opening the worst probabilities of a conclusion hereafter like her sister's. Such was his opinion of the set into which she had thrown herself. Fanny felt for him most acutely. He could have no comfort but in Edmund. Every other child must be racking his heart. His displeasure against herself she trusted, reasoning differently from Mrs. Norris, would now be done away. _She_ should be justified. Mr. Crawford would have fully acquitted her conduct in refusing him; but this, though most material to herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her uncle's displeasure was terrible to her; but what could her justification or her gratitude and attachment do for him? His stay must be on Edmund alone. She was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave his father no present pain. It was of a much less poignant nature than what the others excited; but Sir Thomas was considering his happiness as very deeply involved in the offence of his sister and friend; cut off by it, as he must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted attachment and strong probability of success; and who, in everything but this despicable brother, would have been so eligible a connexion. He was aware of what Edmund must be suffering on his own behalf, in addition to all the rest, when they were in town: he had seen or conjectured his feelings; and, having reason to think that one interview with Miss Crawford had taken place, from which Edmund derived only increased distress, had been as anxious on that account as on others to get him out of town, and had engaged him in taking Fanny home to her aunt, with a view to his relief and benefit, no less than theirs. Fanny was not in the secret of her uncle's feelings, Sir Thomas not in the secret of Miss Crawford's character. Had he been privy to her conversation with his son, he would not have wished her to belong to him, though her twenty thousand pounds had been forty. That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford did not admit of a doubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knew that he felt the same, her own conviction was insufficient. She thought he did, but she wanted to be assured of it. If he would now speak to her with the unreserve which had sometimes been too much for her before, it would be most consoling; but _that_ she found was not to be. She seldom saw him: never alone. He probably avoided being alone with her. What was to be inferred? That his judgment submitted to all his own peculiar and bitter share of this family affliction, but that it was too keenly felt to be a subject of the slightest communication. This must be his state. He yielded, but it was with agonies which did not admit of speech. Long, long would it be ere Miss Crawford's name passed his lips again, or she could hope for a renewal of such confidential intercourse as had been. It _was_ long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it was not till Sunday evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the subject. Sitting with her on Sunday evening--a wet Sunday evening--the very time of all others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must be opened, and everything told; no one else in the room, except his mother, who, after hearing an affecting sermon, had cried herself to sleep, it was impossible not to speak; and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to be traced as to what came first, and the usual declaration that if she would listen to him for a few minutes, he should be very brief, and certainly never tax her kindness in the same way again; she need not fear a repetition; it would be a subject prohibited entirely: he entered upon the luxury of relating circumstances and sensations of the first interest to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy he was quite convinced. How Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern, what pain and what delight, how the agitation of his voice was watched, and how carefully her own eyes were fixed on any object but himself, may be imagined. The opening was alarming. He had seen Miss Crawford. He had been invited to see her. He had received a note from Lady Stornaway to beg him to call; and regarding it as what was meant to be the last, last interview of friendship, and investing her with all the feelings of shame and wretchedness which Crawford's sister ought to have known, he had gone to her in such a state of mind, so softened, so devoted, as made it for a few moments impossible to Fanny's fears that it should be the last. But as he proceeded in his story, these fears were over. She had met him, he said, with a serious--certainly a serious--even an agitated air; but before he had been able to speak one intelligible sentence, she had introduced the subject in a manner which he owned had shocked him. "'I heard you were in town,' said she; 'I wanted to see you. Let us talk over this sad business. What can equal the folly of our two relations?' I could not answer, but I believe my looks spoke. She felt reproved. Sometimes how quick to feel! With a graver look and voice she then added, 'I do not mean to defend Henry at your sister's expense.' So she began, but how she went on, Fanny, is not fit, is hardly fit to be repeated to you. I cannot recall all her words. I would not dwell upon them if I could. Their substance was great anger at the _folly_ of each. She reprobated her brother's folly in being drawn on by a woman whom he had never cared for, to do what must lose him the woman he adored; but still more the folly of poor Maria, in sacrificing such a situation, plunging into such difficulties, under the idea of being really loved by a man who had long ago made his indifference clear. Guess what I must have felt. To hear the woman whom--no harsher name than folly given! So voluntarily, so freely, so coolly to canvass it! No reluctance, no horror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest loathings? This is what the world does. For where, Fanny, shall we find a woman whom nature had so richly endowed? Spoilt, spoilt!" After a little reflection, he went on with a sort of desperate calmness. "I will tell you everything, and then have done for ever. She saw it only as folly, and that folly stamped only by exposure. The want of common discretion, of caution: his going down to Richmond for the whole time of her being at Twickenham; her putting herself in the power of a servant; it was the detection, in short--oh, Fanny! it was the detection, not the offence, which she reprobated. It was the imprudence which had brought things to extremity, and obliged her brother to give up every dearer plan in order to fly with her." He stopt. "And what," said Fanny (believing herself required to speak), "what could you say?" "Nothing, nothing to be understood. I was like a man stunned. She went on, began to talk of you; yes, then she began to talk of you, regretting, as well she might, the loss of such a--. There she spoke very rationally. But she has always done justice to you. 'He has thrown away,' said she, 'such a woman as he will never see again. She would have fixed him; she would have made him happy for ever.' My dearest Fanny, I am giving you, I hope, more pleasure than pain by this retrospect of what might have been--but what never can be now. You do not wish me to be silent? If you do, give me but a look, a word, and I have done." No look or word was given. "Thank God," said he. "We were all disposed to wonder, but it seems to have been the merciful appointment of Providence that the heart which knew no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you with high praise and warm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy, a dash of evil; for in the midst of it she could exclaim, 'Why would not she have him? It is all her fault. Simple girl! I shall never forgive her. Had she accepted him as she ought, they might now have been on the point of marriage, and Henry would have been too happy and too busy to want any other object. He would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again. It would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation, in yearly meetings at Sotherton and Everingham.' Could you have believed it possible? But the charm is broken. My eyes are opened." "Cruel!" said Fanny, "quite cruel. At such a moment to give way to gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you! Absolute cruelty." "Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there. No, hers is not a cruel nature. I do not consider her as meaning to wound my feelings. The evil lies yet deeper: in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there being such feelings; in a perversion of mind which made it natural to her to treat the subject as she did. She was speaking only as she had been used to hear others speak, as she imagined everybody else would speak. Hers are not faults of temper. She would not voluntarily give unnecessary pain to any one, and though I may deceive myself, I cannot but think that for me, for my feelings, she would--Hers are faults of principle, Fanny; of blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind. Perhaps it is best for me, since it leaves me so little to regret. Not so, however. Gladly would I submit to all the increased pain of losing her, rather than have to think of her as I do. I told her so." "Did you?" "Yes; when I left her I told her so." "How long were you together?" "Five-and-twenty minutes. Well, she went on to say that what remained now to be done was to bring about a marriage between them. She spoke of it, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I can." He was obliged to pause more than once as he continued. "'We must persuade Henry to marry her,' said she; 'and what with honour, and the certainty of having shut himself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despair of it. Fanny he must give up. I do not think that even _he_ could now hope to succeed with one of her stamp, and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable difficulty. My influence, which is not small shall all go that way; and when once married, and properly supported by her own family, people of respectability as they are, she may recover her footing in society to a certain degree. In some circles, we know, she would never be admitted, but with good dinners, and large parties, there will always be those who will be glad of her acquaintance; and there is, undoubtedly, more liberality and candour on those points than formerly. What I advise is, that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his own cause by interference. Persuade him to let things take their course. If by any officious exertions of his, she is induced to leave Henry's protection, there will be much less chance of his marrying her than if she remain with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust to his honour and compassion, and it may all end well; but if he get his daughter away, it will be destroying the chief hold.'" After repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that Fanny, watching him with silent, but most tender concern, was almost sorry that the subject had been entered on at all. It was long before he could speak again. At last, "Now, Fanny," said he, "I shall soon have done. I have told you the substance of all that she said. As soon as I could speak, I replied that I had not supposed it possible, coming in such a state of mind into that house as I had done, that anything could occur to make me suffer more, but that she had been inflicting deeper wounds in almost every sentence. That though I had, in the course of our acquaintance, been often sensible of some difference in our opinions, on points, too, of some moment, it had not entered my imagination to conceive the difference could be such as she had now proved it. That the manner in which she treated the dreadful crime committed by her brother and my sister (with whom lay the greater seduction I pretended not to say), but the manner in which she spoke of the crime itself, giving it every reproach but the right; considering its ill consequences only as they were to be braved or overborne by a defiance of decency and impudence in wrong; and last of all, and above all, recommending to us a compliance, a compromise, an acquiescence in the continuance of the sin, on the chance of a marriage which, thinking as I now thought of her brother, should rather be prevented than sought; all this together most grievously convinced me that I had never understood her before, and that, as far as related to mind, it had been the creature of my own imagination, not Miss Crawford, that I had been too apt to dwell on for many months past. That, perhaps, it was best for me; I had less to regret in sacrificing a friendship, feelings, hopes which must, at any rate, have been torn from me now. And yet, that I must and would confess that, could I have restored her to what she had appeared to me before, I would infinitely prefer any increase of the pain of parting, for the sake of carrying with me the right of tenderness and esteem. This is what I said, the purport of it; but, as you may imagine, not spoken so collectedly or methodically as I have repeated it to you. She was astonished, exceedingly astonished--more than astonished. I saw her change countenance. She turned extremely red. I imagined I saw a mixture of many feelings: a great, though short struggle; half a wish of yielding to truths, half a sense of shame, but habit, habit carried it. She would have laughed if she could. It was a sort of laugh, as she answered, 'A pretty good lecture, upon my word. Was it part of your last sermon? At this rate you will soon reform everybody at Mansfield and Thornton Lacey; and when I hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated preacher in some great society of Methodists, or as a missionary into foreign parts.' She tried to speak carelessly, but she was not so careless as she wanted to appear. I only said in reply, that from my heart I wished her well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn to think more justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty, to the lessons of affliction, and immediately left the room. I had gone a few steps, Fanny, when I heard the door open behind me. 'Mr. Bertram,' said she. I looked back. 'Mr. Bertram,' said she, with a smile; but it was a smile ill-suited to the conversation that had passed, a saucy playful smile, seeming to invite in order to subdue me; at least it appeared so to me. I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment to resist, and still walked on. I have since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that I did not go back, but I know I was right, and such has been the end of our acquaintance. And what an acquaintance has it been! How have I been deceived! Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank you for your patience, Fanny. This has been the greatest relief, and now we will have done." And such was Fanny's dependence on his words, that for five minutes she thought they _had_ done. Then, however, it all came on again, or something very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram's rousing thoroughly up could really close such a conversation. Till that happened, they continued to talk of Miss Crawford alone, and how she had attached him, and how delightful nature had made her, and how excellent she would have been, had she fallen into good hands earlier. Fanny, now at liberty to speak openly, felt more than justified in adding to his knowledge of her real character, by some hint of what share his brother's state of health might be supposed to have in her wish for a complete reconciliation. This was not an agreeable intimation. Nature resisted it for a while. It would have been a vast deal pleasanter to have had her more disinterested in her attachment; but his vanity was not of a strength to fight long against reason. He submitted to believe that Tom's illness had influenced her, only reserving for himself this consoling thought, that considering the many counteractions of opposing habits, she had certainly been _more_ attached to him than could have been expected, and for his sake been more near doing right. Fanny thought exactly the same; and they were also quite agreed in their opinion of the lasting effect, the indelible impression, which such a disappointment must make on his mind. Time would undoubtedly abate somewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a sort of thing which he never could get entirely the better of; and as to his ever meeting with any other woman who could--it was too impossible to be named but with indignation. Fanny's friendship was all that he had to cling to. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Mrs. Norris hat sich völlig verändert - sie ist am Boden zerstört über das, was mit Maria passiert ist, die immer ihre Lieblingsschwester war. Mrs. Norris ist jetzt deutlich ruhiger, mit allem, was geschehen ist. Jeder in Mansfield Park hat für sich allein gelitten. Allerdings ist Mrs. Norris wütend auf Fanny - sie gibt ihrer Nichte die Schuld an allem. Wenn Fanny Henry geheiratet hätte, als er sie das erste Mal gefragt hat, wäre all das nicht passiert! Auch dass Susan da ist, macht Mrs. Norris nicht glücklich, obwohl der Rest scheinbar keine starke Meinung dazu hat. Zum Glück erkundet Susan ganz alleine und ist viel selbstbewusster und unabhängiger als Fanny. Fanny erfährt, dass Maria Henry im Landhaus, das sie über Ostern besucht hat, getroffen hat. Die beiden sind von dort aus abgehauen. Sir Thomas hat versucht, das Ganze geheim zu halten, aber Mrs. Rushworth Senior war so wütend auf Maria, dass sie und ihr Diener alles ausgeplaudert und Marias Ruf ruiniert haben. Marias Ruf war so oder so ruiniert, da sie nicht vorhatte, zu ihrem Ehemann zurückzukehren, und nun hofft, Henry zu heiraten. Die beiden sind noch immer zusammen unterwegs. Sir Thomas ist am Boden zerstört und fühlt sich als Vater gescheitert. Aber er gibt auch Mrs. Norris die Schuld daran, wie seine Töchter geworden sind, und gibt zu, dass etwas an den Charakteren seiner Töchter gefehlt hat. Tage später klärt Edmund Fanny endlich über das Geschehene mit Mary auf. Er ist untröstlich. Im Grunde genommen haben Edmund und Mary über den Skandal gesprochen, hatten aber völlig unterschiedliche Meinungen dazu. Mary war verärgert, weil Henry und Maria sich wie Idioten benommen und eine Affäre gehabt haben, die aufgeflogen ist. Sie meinte, dass sie die beiden vielleicht dazu überreden könnten, zu heiraten und so ihr Gesicht zu wahren. Maria würde mit Henry letztendlich wieder in die Gesellschaft aufgenommen werden, da sie dann Geld haben würde. Edmund war angewidert davon und sagte, dass Mary keine Moral habe. Er fand, dass sie darüber besorgt sein sollte, dass Maria und Henry überhaupt das getan haben, nicht nur dass sie erwischt wurden. Also hat Edmund Mary die Meinung über Moral gegeigt und Mary war ziemlich gebrochen von seiner Haltung. Edmund bedauert, dass Mary nicht eine bessere Erziehung und bessere Grundsätze hatte.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: A train of armed men, some noble dame Escorting, (so their scatter'd words discover'd, As unperceived I hung upon their rear,) Are close at hand, and mean to pass the night Within the castle. --Orra, a Tragedy The travellers had now reached the verge of the wooded country, and were about to plunge into its recesses, held dangerous at that time from the number of outlaws whom oppression and poverty had driven to despair, and who occupied the forests in such large bands as could easily bid defiance to the feeble police of the period. From these rovers, however, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour Cedric and Athelstane accounted themselves secure, as they had in attendance ten servants, besides Wamba and Gurth, whose aid could not be counted upon, the one being a jester and the other a captive. It may be added, that in travelling thus late through the forest, Cedric and Athelstane relied on their descent and character, as well as their courage. The outlaws, whom the severity of the forest laws had reduced to this roving and desperate mode of life, were chiefly peasants and yeomen of Saxon descent, and were generally supposed to respect the persons and property of their countrymen. As the travellers journeyed on their way, they were alarmed by repeated cries for assistance; and when they rode up to the place from whence they came, they were surprised to find a horse-litter placed upon the ground, beside which sat a young woman, richly dressed in the Jewish fashion, while an old man, whose yellow cap proclaimed him to belong to the same nation, walked up and down with gestures expressive of the deepest despair, and wrung his hands, as if affected by some strange disaster. To the enquiries of Athelstane and Cedric, the old Jew could for some time only answer by invoking the protection of all the patriarchs of the Old Testament successively against the sons of Ishmael, who were coming to smite them, hip and thigh, with the edge of the sword. When he began to come to himself out of this agony of terror, Isaac of York (for it was our old friend) was at length able to explain, that he had hired a body-guard of six men at Ashby, together with mules for carrying the litter of a sick friend. This party had undertaken to escort him as far as Doncaster. They had come thus far in safety; but having received information from a wood-cutter that there was a strong band of outlaws lying in wait in the woods before them, Isaac's mercenaries had not only taken flight, but had carried off with them the horses which bore the litter and left the Jew and his daughter without the means either of defence or of retreat, to be plundered, and probably murdered, by the banditti, who they expected every moment would bring down upon them. "Would it but please your valours," added Isaac, in a tone of deep humiliation, "to permit the poor Jews to travel under your safeguard, I swear by the tables of our law, that never has favour been conferred upon a child of Israel since the days of our captivity, which shall be more gratefully acknowledged." "Dog of a Jew!" said Athelstane, whose memory was of that petty kind which stores up trifles of all kinds, but particularly trifling offences, "dost not remember how thou didst beard us in the gallery at the tilt-yard? Fight or flee, or compound with the outlaws as thou dost list, ask neither aid nor company from us; and if they rob only such as thee, who rob all the world, I, for mine own share, shall hold them right honest folk." Cedric did not assent to the severe proposal of his companion. "We shall do better," said he, "to leave them two of our attendants and two horses to convey them back to the next village. It will diminish our strength but little; and with your good sword, noble Athelstane, and the aid of those who remain, it will be light work for us to face twenty of those runagates." Rowena, somewhat alarmed by the mention of outlaws in force, and so near them, strongly seconded the proposal of her guardian. But Rebecca suddenly quitting her dejected posture, and making her way through the attendants to the palfrey of the Saxon lady, knelt down, and, after the Oriental fashion in addressing superiors, kissed the hem of Rowena's garment. Then rising, and throwing back her veil, she implored her in the great name of the God whom they both worshipped, and by that revelation of the Law upon Mount Sinai, in which they both believed, that she would have compassion upon them, and suffer them to go forward under their safeguard. "It is not for myself that I pray this favour," said Rebecca; "nor is it even for that poor old man. I know that to wrong and to spoil our nation is a light fault, if not a merit, with the Christians; and what is it to us whether it be done in the city, in the desert, or in the field? But it is in the name of one dear to many, and dear even to you, that I beseech you to let this sick person be transported with care and tenderness under your protection. For, if evil chance him, the last moment of your life would be embittered with regret for denying that which I ask of you." The noble and solemn air with which Rebecca made this appeal, gave it double weight with the fair Saxon. "The man is old and feeble," she said to her guardian, "the maiden young and beautiful, their friend sick and in peril of his life--Jews though they be, we cannot as Christians leave them in this extremity. Let them unload two of the sumpter-mules, and put the baggage behind two of the serfs. The mules may transport the litter, and we have led horses for the old man and his daughter." Cedric readily assented to what she proposed, and Athelstane only added the condition, "that they should travel in the rear of the whole party, where Wamba," he said, "might attend them with his shield of boar's brawn." "I have left my shield in the tilt-yard," answered the Jester, "as has been the fate of many a better knight than myself." Athelstane coloured deeply, for such had been his own fate on the last day of the tournament; while Rowena, who was pleased in the same proportion, as if to make amends for the brutal jest of her unfeeling suitor, requested Rebecca to ride by her side. "It were not fit I should do so," answered Rebecca, with proud humility, "where my society might be held a disgrace to my protectress." By this time the change of baggage was hastily achieved; for the single word "outlaws" rendered every one sufficiently alert, and the approach of twilight made the sound yet more impressive. Amid the bustle, Gurth was taken from horseback, in the course of which removal he prevailed upon the Jester to slack the cord with which his arms were bound. It was so negligently refastened, perhaps intentionally, on the part of Wamba, that Gurth found no difficulty in freeing his arms altogether from bondage, and then, gliding into the thicket, he made his escape from the party. The bustle had been considerable, and it was some time before Gurth was missed; for, as he was to be placed for the rest of the journey behind a servant, every one supposed that some other of his companions had him under his custody, and when it began to be whispered among them that Gurth had actually disappeared, they were under such immediate expectation of an attack from the outlaws, that it was not held convenient to pay much attention to the circumstance. The path upon which the party travelled was now so narrow, as not to admit, with any sort of convenience, above two riders abreast, and began to descend into a dingle, traversed by a brook whose banks were broken, swampy, and overgrown with dwarf willows. Cedric and Athelstane, who were at the head of their retinue, saw the risk of being attacked at this pass; but neither of them having had much practice in war, no better mode of preventing the danger occurred to them than that they should hasten through the defile as fast as possible. Advancing, therefore, without much order, they had just crossed the brook with a part of their followers, when they were assailed in front, flank, and rear at once, with an impetuosity to which, in their confused and ill-prepared condition, it was impossible to offer effectual resistance. The shout of "A white dragon!--a white dragon!--Saint George for merry England!" war-cries adopted by the assailants, as belonging to their assumed character of Saxon outlaws, was heard on every side, and on every side enemies appeared with a rapidity of advance and attack which seemed to multiply their numbers. Both the Saxon chiefs were made prisoners at the same moment, and each under circumstances expressive of his character. Cedric, the instant that an enemy appeared, launched at him his remaining javelin, which, taking better effect than that which he had hurled at Fangs, nailed the man against an oak-tree that happened to be close behind him. Thus far successful, Cedric spurred his horse against a second, drawing his sword at the same time, and striking with such inconsiderate fury, that his weapon encountered a thick branch which hung over him, and he was disarmed by the violence of his own blow. He was instantly made prisoner, and pulled from his horse by two or three of the banditti who crowded around him. Athelstane shared his captivity, his bridle having been seized, and he himself forcibly dismounted, long before he could draw his weapon, or assume any posture of effectual defence. The attendants, embarrassed with baggage, surprised and terrified at the fate of their masters, fell an easy prey to the assailants; while the Lady Rowena, in the centre of the cavalcade, and the Jew and his daughter in the rear, experienced the same misfortune. Of all the train none escaped except Wamba, who showed upon the occasion much more courage than those who pretended to greater sense. He possessed himself of a sword belonging to one of the domestics, who was just drawing it with a tardy and irresolute hand, laid it about him like a lion, drove back several who approached him, and made a brave though ineffectual attempt to succour his master. Finding himself overpowered, the Jester at length threw himself from his horse, plunged into the thicket, and, favoured by the general confusion, escaped from the scene of action. Yet the valiant Jester, as soon as he found himself safe, hesitated more than once whether he should not turn back and share the captivity of a master to whom he was sincerely attached. "I have heard men talk of the blessings of freedom," he said to himself, "but I wish any wise man would teach me what use to make of it now that I have it." As he pronounced these words aloud, a voice very near him called out in a low and cautious tone, "Wamba!" and, at the same time, a dog, which he recognised to be Fangs, jumped up and fawned upon him. "Gurth!" answered Wamba, with the same caution, and the swineherd immediately stood before him. "What is the matter?" said he eagerly; "what mean these cries, and that clashing of swords?" "Only a trick of the times," said Wamba; "they are all prisoners." "Who are prisoners?" exclaimed Gurth, impatiently. "My lord, and my lady, and Athelstane, and Hundibert, and Oswald." "In the name of God!" said Gurth, "how came they prisoners?--and to whom?" "Our master was too ready to fight," said the Jester; "and Athelstane was not ready enough, and no other person was ready at all. And they are prisoners to green cassocks, and black visors. And they lie all tumbled about on the green, like the crab-apples that you shake down to your swine. And I would laugh at it," said the honest Jester, "if I could for weeping." And he shed tears of unfeigned sorrow. Gurth's countenance kindled--"Wamba," he said, "thou hast a weapon, and thy heart was ever stronger than thy brain,--we are only two--but a sudden attack from men of resolution will do much--follow me!" "Whither?--and for what purpose?" said the Jester. "To rescue Cedric." "But you have renounced his service but now," said Wamba. "That," said Gurth, "was but while he was fortunate--follow me!" As the Jester was about to obey, a third person suddenly made his appearance, and commanded them both to halt. From his dress and arms, Wamba would have conjectured him to be one of those outlaws who had just assailed his master; but, besides that he wore no mask, the glittering baldric across his shoulder, with the rich bugle-horn which it supported, as well as the calm and commanding expression of his voice and manner, made him, notwithstanding the twilight, recognise Locksley the yeoman, who had been victorious, under such disadvantageous circumstances, in the contest for the prize of archery. "What is the meaning of all this," said he, "or who is it that rifle, and ransom, and make prisoners, in these forests?" "You may look at their cassocks close by," said Wamba, "and see whether they be thy children's coats or no--for they are as like thine own, as one green pea-cod is to another." "I will learn that presently," answered Locksley; "and I charge ye, on peril of your lives, not to stir from the place where ye stand, until I have returned. Obey me, and it shall be the better for you and your masters.--Yet stay, I must render myself as like these men as possible." So saying he unbuckled his baldric with the bugle, took a feather from his cap, and gave them to Wamba; then drew a vizard from his pouch, and, repeating his charges to them to stand fast, went to execute his purposes of reconnoitring. "Shall we stand fast, Gurth?" said Wamba; "or shall we e'en give him leg-bail? In my foolish mind, he had all the equipage of a thief too much in readiness, to be himself a true man." "Let him be the devil," said Gurth, "an he will. We can be no worse of waiting his return. If he belong to that party, he must already have given them the alarm, and it will avail nothing either to fight or fly. Besides, I have late experience, that errant thieves are not the worst men in the world to have to deal with." The yeoman returned in the course of a few minutes. "Friend Gurth," he said, "I have mingled among yon men, and have learnt to whom they belong, and whither they are bound. There is, I think, no chance that they will proceed to any actual violence against their prisoners. For three men to attempt them at this moment, were little else than madness; for they are good men of war, and have, as such, placed sentinels to give the alarm when any one approaches. But I trust soon to gather such a force, as may act in defiance of all their precautions; you are both servants, and, as I think, faithful servants, of Cedric the Saxon, the friend of the rights of Englishmen. He shall not want English hands to help him in this extremity. Come then with me, until I gather more aid." So saying, he walked through the wood at a great pace, followed by the jester and the swineherd. It was not consistent with Wamba's humour to travel long in silence. "I think," said he, looking at the baldric and bugle which he still carried, "that I saw the arrow shot which won this gay prize, and that not so long since as Christmas." "And I," said Gurth, "could take it on my halidome, that I have heard the voice of the good yeoman who won it, by night as well as by day, and that the moon is not three days older since I did so." "Meine ehrlichen Freunde", antwortete der Jäger, "wer oder was ich bin, ist für den aktuellen Zweck unerheblich; soll ich euren Herrn befreien, werdet ihr Grund haben, mich für den besten Freund zu halten, den ihr je hattet. Und ob ich unter einem Namen bekannt bin oder einem anderen - ob ich einen Bogen so gut oder besser als ein Kuhhirte spannen kann, oder ob es mir beliebt, im Sonnenschein oder im Mondlicht spazieren zu gehen, sind Angelegenheiten, die euch nichts angehen und mit denen ihr euch nicht beschäftigen müsst." "Unsere Köpfe stecken im Löwenmaul", flüsterte Wamba Gurth zu, "wie wir sie da rausbekommen, ist uns egal." "Sei still", sagte Gurth, "beleidige ihn nicht mit deiner Torheit, und ich hoffe aufrichtig, dass alles gut gehen wird." Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Als die Abenddämmerung hereinbricht, betritt Cedric mit seiner Gruppe den Wald auf dem Heimweg, in der Hoffnung, vor Gesetzlosen sicher zu sein. Sie treffen auf Isaac und Rebecca sowie einen kranken Mann, der auf einer Pferdetrage transportiert wird. Sie sind gestrandet. Es stellt sich heraus, dass die sechs Leibwächter, die Isaac angeheuert hatte, um sie zu begleiten, sie im Stich gelassen haben. Isaac fragt, ob er mit Cedric und seiner Gruppe reisen kann. Cedric ist dagegen, aber Rowena überredet ihn. Während dieser Pause flieht Gurth mit Hilfe von Wamba. Innerhalb weniger Minuten werden die Reisenden von De Bois-Guilbert und seinen Männern, verkleidet als Gesetzlose, überfallen. Die Sachsen werden alle gefangen genommen, außer Wamba, der entkommt. Er trifft auf Gurth und sie sind gerade dabei, zurückzugehen, um Cedric zu helfen, als sie von Locksley festgenommen werden, der ihnen sagt, dass er eine Streitmacht mobilisieren wird, um die sächsischen Gefangenen zu befreien.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Die Gräfin Gemini war oft extrem gelangweilt - gelangweilt, wie sie selbst sagte, bis zur Auslöschung. Sie war jedoch nicht gelöscht worden und kämpfte tapfer genug mit ihrem Schicksal, einen wenig zugänglichen Florentiner zu heiraten, der darauf bestand, in seiner Heimatstadt zu leben, wo er die ihm zustehende Beachtung genoss, die einem Herrn zukommt, dessen Talent im Kartenspiel nicht mit einer gefälligen Art einhergeht. Der Graf Gemini wurde selbst von denjenigen nicht gemocht, die von ihm gewonnen hatten; und er trug einen Namen, der in Florenz einen messbaren Wert hatte, jedoch wie die lokale Währung der alten italienischen Staaten in anderen Teilen der Halbinsel ohne Gültigkeit war. In Rom war er einfach ein sehr langweiliger Florentiner, und es ist nicht bemerkenswert, dass er keine häufigen Besuche in einem Ort machen wollte, wo seine Langeweile mehr Erklärung erforderte, als angenehm war. Die Gräfin lebte mit ihren Blicken auf Rom gerichtet, und es war die ständige Beschwerde ihres Lebens, dass sie dort keine Wohnung hatte. Sie schämte sich, wie selten sie diese Stadt besuchen durfte; es verbesserte die Sache kaum, dass es andere Mitglieder des Florentiner Adels gab, die überhaupt nie dort gewesen waren. Sie fuhr immer dorthin, wenn es ihr möglich war; das war alles, was sie sagen konnte. Oder besser gesagt, alles, was sie sagte, dass sie sagen konnte. Tatsächlich hatte sie viel mehr dazu zu sagen und hatte oft die Gründe dargelegt, warum sie Florenz hasste und ihre Tage im Schatten von St. Peter verbringen wollte. Es sind jedoch Gründe, die uns nicht besonders betreffen, und die normalerweise in der Feststellung zusammengefasst wurden, dass Rom, kurz gesagt, die ewige Stadt sei und Florenz einfach ein hübsches kleines Städtchen wie jedes andere. Die Gräfin musste offenbar die Idee der Ewigkeit mit ihren Vergnügungen verbinden. Sie war überzeugt, dass die Gesellschaft in Rom unendlich interessanter war, wo man den ganzen Winter über bei Abendgesellschaften auf Berühmtheiten traf. In Florenz gab es keine Berühmtheiten; zumindest keine, von denen man gehört hatte. Seit der Hochzeit ihres Bruders hatte ihre Ungeduld stark zugenommen; sie war sich so sicher, dass seine Frau ein aufregenderes Leben hatte als sie selbst. Sie war nicht so intellektuell wie Isabel, aber sie war intellektuell genug, um Rom gerecht zu werden - nicht den Ruinen und Katakomben, nicht einmal den Monumenten und Museen, den Kirchenzeremonien und der Landschaft; aber sicherlich allem anderen. Sie hörte viel über ihre Schwägerin und wusste genau, dass Isabel eine schöne Zeit hatte. Sie hatte es tatsächlich selbst an dem einzigen Anlass gesehen, an dem sie die Gastfreundschaft des Palazzo Roccanera genossen hatte. Sie hatte dort eine Woche lang im ersten Winter nach der Hochzeit ihres Bruders verbracht, aber sie war nicht ermutigt worden, diese Zufriedenheit zu wiederholen. Osmond wollte sie nicht - das war ihr vollkommen bewusst; aber sie wäre trotzdem gegangen, denn schließlich lagen ihr keine zwei Strohhalme an Osmond. Es war ihr Ehemann, der es ihr nicht erlaubte, und die Geldfrage war immer eine Schwierigkeit. Isabel war sehr nett gewesen; die Gräfin, die ihre Schwägerin von Anfang an mochte, hatte Isabels persönliche Vorzüge nicht aus Neid übersehen. Sie hatte immer beobachtet, dass sie besser mit klugen Frauen zurechtkam als mit dummen wie sich selbst; die Dummen konnten ihre Weisheit nie verstehen, während die Klugen - die wirklich Klugen - immer ihre Dummheit verstanden. Ihr schien es, dass Isabel und sie trotz ihres unterschiedlichen Aussehens und allgemeinen Stils irgendwo einen gemeinsamen Nenner hatten, den sie schließlich betreten würden. Er war nicht sehr groß, aber er war fest, und sie würden ihn beide erkennen, sobald sie ihn wirklich berührt hätten. Und dann lebte sie bei Mrs. Osmond unter dem Einfluss einer angenehmen Überraschung; sie erwartete ständig, dass Isabel auf sie herabblicken würde, und sie sah diese Operation ebenso konstant aufgeschoben. Sie fragte sich, wann es beginnen würde, wie Feuerwerk oder die Fastenzeit oder die Opernsaison; nicht dass es ihr viel ausmachte, aber sie wunderte sich, was es aufhielt. Ihre Schwägerin betrachtete sie mit gleichmütigen Blicken und empfand für die arme Gräfin weder Verachtung noch Bewunderung. Tatsächlich hätte Isabel eher an Verachtung gedacht als ein moralisches Urteil über eine Grille abzugeben. Ihre Schwägerin war ihr jedoch nicht gleichgültig; sie hatte eher ein wenig Angst vor ihr. Sie wunderte sich über sie; sie hielt sie für sehr außergewöhnlich. Die Gräfin schien ihr keine Seele zu haben; sie war wie eine helle seltene Muschel mit polierter Oberfläche und auffallend rotem Mund, in dem etwas rasselte, wenn man sie schüttelte. Dieses Rasseln schien das geistige Prinzip der Gräfin zu sein, eine kleine lose Mutter, die in ihr herumrollte. Sie war zu eigenartig, um Verachtung zu sein, und zu anormal für Vergleiche. Isabel hätte sie wieder eingeladen (es war keine Frage, den Grafen einzuladen); aber Osmond hatte nach seiner Hochzeit nicht gezögert, offen zu sagen, dass Amy eine Närrin der übelsten Art sei - eine Närrin, deren Torheit eine Unaufhaltsamkeit des Genies hatte. Er sagte zu einem anderen Zeitpunkt, dass sie kein Herz habe; und er fügte in einem Moment hinzu, dass sie es in kleinen Stücken wie eine mit Zuckerguss überzogene Hochzeitstorte weggegeben habe. Die Tatsache, nicht eingeladen worden zu sein, war natürlich ein weiteres Hindernis für die erneute Reise der Gräfin nach Rom; aber in dem Zeitraum, mit dem diese Geschichte nun zu tun hat, erhielt sie eine Einladung, mehrere Wochen im Palazzo Roccanera zu verbringen. Der Vorschlag kam von Osmond selbst, der seiner Schwester schrieb, dass sie darauf vorbereitet sein müsse, sehr ruhig zu sein. Ob sie in diesem Satz die ganze Bedeutung gefunden hatte, die er hineingelegt hatte, kann ich nicht sagen; aber sie akzeptierte die Einladung unter allen Bedingungen. Sie war auch neugierig; denn einer der Eindrücke ihres früheren Besuchs war, dass ihr Bruder sein Gegenstück gefunden hatte. Vor der Hochzeit hatte sie Isabel leid getan, so leid, dass sie ernsthafte Gedanken - wenn überhaupt eines ihrer Gedanken ernsthaft war - hatte, sie zu warnen. Aber sie hatte das gelassen, und nach einer Weile war sie beruhigt gewesen. Osmond war so erhaben wie immer, aber seine Frau wäre kein leichtes Opfer. Die Gräfin war nicht sehr genau in ihren Messungen, aber es schien ihr, dass Isabel, wenn sie ihre Haltung ähnelt, der größere Geist von beiden wäre. Was sie jetzt lernen wollte, war, ob Isabel ihre Haltung geändert hatte; es würde ihr immense Freude bereiten, Osmond überflügelt zu sehen. Einige Tage bevor sie nach Rom abreisen sollte, brachte ihr ein Diener die Visitenkarte eines Besuchers - eine Karte mit der schlichten Aufschrift "Henrietta C. Stackpole". Die Gräfin drückte ihre Fingerkuppen an die Stirn; sie erinnerte sich nicht, jemals eine solche Henrietta gekannt zu haben. Der Diener bemerkte dann, dass die Dame ihn gebeten hatte zu sagen, dass die Gräfin sie erkennen würde, wenn sie ihren Namen nicht erkenne. Als sie vor ihrer Besucherin erschien, erinnerte sie sich tatsächlich daran, dass es einmal eine literarische Dame bei Mrs. Touchett gab; die einzige Schriftstellerin, der sie je begegnet war - die einzige moderne, da sie die Tochter einer verstorbenen Dichterin war. Sie erkannte Miss Stackpole sofort, umso mehr, als Miss Stackpole sich scheinbar überhaupt nicht verändert hatte; und die Gräfin, die durchaus gutmütig war, fand es recht beeindruckend, von einer Person dieser Art aufgesucht zu werden. Sie fragte sich, ob Miss Stackpole wegen ihrer Mutter gekommen war - ob sie von der amerikanischen Corinne gehört hatte. Ihre Mutter war Isabels Freundin überhaupt nicht ähnlich; die Gräfin konnte auf den ersten Blick erkennen, dass diese Dame viel zeitgenössischer war; und sie bekam einen Eindruck von den Veränderungen, die stattfanden - hauptsächlich in fernen Ländern - im Charakter (dem beruflichen Charakter) von literarischen Damen. Ihre Mutter hatte gewohnt, einen römischen Schal über einem Paar schüchtern entblößter Schultern aus engem schwarzem Samt zu tragen (oh, die alten Kleider!) und einen goldenen Lorbeerkranz auf einer Vielzahl glänzender Locken zu tragen. Sie sprach leise und vage, mit dem Akzent ihrer "creolischen" Vorfahren, wie sie immer zugab; sie seufzte viel und war überhaupt nicht unternehmungslustig. Aber Henrietta, konnte die Gräfin sehen, war immer eng zugeknöpft und kompakt geflochten; ihr Erscheinen hatte etwas rühriges und geschäftsmäßiges; ihre Art war fast gewissenhaft vertraut. Es war genauso unmöglich, sich vorzustellen, dass sie jemals vage seufzen würde, wie einen Brief ohne Adresse abzuschicken. Die Gräfin konnte nicht anders als feststellen, dass die Korrespondentin des Interviewer viel mehr in Bewegung war als die amerikanische Corinne. Sie erklärte, dass sie bei der Gräfin vorbeigeschaut hatte, weil sie die einzige Person war, die sie in Florenz kannte, und dass sie, wenn sie eine fremde Stadt besuchte, etwas mehr als oberflächliche Reisende sehen wollte. Sie kannte Mrs. Touchett, aber Mrs. Touchett war in Amerika, und selbst wenn sie in Florenz gewesen wäre, hätte Henrietta sich nicht für sie interessiert, da Mrs. Touchett nicht zu ihren Bewunderern zählte. "Meinst du damit, dass ich das bin?", fragte die Gräfin gnädig. "Nun, ich mag dich lieber als sie", sagte Miss Stackpole. "Ich erinnere mich daran, dass du, als ich dich das letzte Mal gesehen habe, sehr interessant warst. Ich weiß nicht, ob es ein Zufall war oder ob es dein üblicher Stil ist. Jedenfalls war ich sehr beeindruckt von dem, was du gesagt hast. Ich habe es später in einem Artikel verwendet." "Ach du meine Güte!", rief die Gräfin und starrte halb erschrocken; "ich hatte keine Ahnung, dass ich jemals etwas Bemerkenswertes gesagt habe! Ich wünschte, ich hätte es damals gewusst." "Es ging um die Stellung der Frau in dieser Stadt", bemerkte Miss Stackpole. "Du hast viel Licht darauf geworfen." "Die Stellung der Frau ist sehr unbequem. Meinst du das? Und du hast es aufgeschrieben und veröffentlicht?", fuhr die Gräfin fort. "Ah, lass mich es sehen!" "Ich werde ihnen schreiben und ihnen den Artikel schicken, wenn du möchtest", sagte Henrietta. "Ich habe deinen Namen nicht genannt; ich habe nur von einer Dame von hohem Rang gesprochen. Und dann habe ich deine Ansichten zitiert." Die Gräfin warf sich eilig zurück und warf ihre verschränkten Hände in die Höhe. "Weißt du, ich bin eher traurig, dass du meinen Namen nicht genannt hast? Ich hätte meinen Namen lieber in der Zeitung gesehen. Ich erinnere mich nicht mehr an meine Ansichten; ich habe so viele! Aber ich schäme mich nicht dafür. Ich bin ganz anders als mein Bruder - du kennst meinen Bruder, nehme ich an? Er hält es für eine Art Skandal, in die Zeitungen zu kommen; wenn du ihn zitieren würdest, würde er dir nie verzeihen." "Davor braucht er keine Angst zu haben; ich werde mich nie auf ihn beziehen", sagte Miss Stackpole trocken. "Das ist noch ein Grund", fügte sie hinzu, "warum ich dich besuchen wollte. Du weißt, Mr. Osmond hat meine beste Freundin geheiratet." "Ah ja; du warst eine Freundin von Isabel. Ich versuchte herauszufinden, was ich über dich wusste." "Ich bin damit durchaus zufrieden", erklärte Henrietta. "Aber das ist nicht das, wonach dein Bruder mich kennenlernen möchte. Er hat versucht, meine Beziehung zu Isabel zu zerstören." "Erlaube es nicht", sagte die Gräfin. "Darüber möchte ich sprechen. Ich gehe nach Rom." "Ich auch!" rief die Gräfin. "Wir werden zusammen gehen." "Sehr gern. Und wenn ich über meine Reise schreibe, werde ich dich namentlich als meine Begleiterin erwähnen." Die Gräfin sprang von ihrem Stuhl auf und setzte sich auf das Sofa neben ihre Besucherin. "Ach, du musst mir den Artikel schicken! Mein Mann wird es nicht mögen, aber er muss ihn nie zu sehen bekommen. Außerdem kann er gar nicht lesen." Henriettas große Augen wurden riesig. "Kann er nicht lesen? Darf ich das in meinen Brief aufnehmen?" "In deinem Brief?" "In der Interviewer. Das ist meine Zeitung." "Oh ja, wenn du magst; mit seinem Namen. Bleibst du bei Isabel?" Henrietta hob den Kopf und starrte etwas schweigend auf ihre Gastgeberin. "Sie hat mich nicht gefragt. Ich habe ihr geschrieben, dass ich komme, und sie antwortete, dass sie mir ein Zimmer in einer Pension reservieren würde. Sie gab keinen Grund an." Die Gräfin hörte mit äußerstem Interesse zu. "Der Grund ist Osmond", bemerkte sie bedeutungsvoll. "Isabel sollte sich zur Wehr setzen", sagte Miss Stackpole. "Ich fürchte, sie hat sich sehr verändert. Ich habe ihr gesagt, dass sie es tun würde." "Es tut mir leid, das zu hören; ich hatte gehofft, sie würde ihren eigenen Weg gehen. Warum mag mein Bruder dich nicht?", fügte die Gräfin arglos hinzu. "Ich weiß es nicht und es ist mir auch egal. Er ist herzlich eingeladen, mich nicht zu mögen; ich möchte nicht, dass jeder mich mag; ich würde weniger von mir halten, wenn manche Leute das täten. Ein Journalist kann nicht viel Gutes tun, wenn er nicht viel gehasst wird; so weiß er, wie seine Arbeit vorankommt. Und das gilt genauso für eine Dame. Aber das hätte ich nicht von Isabel erwartet." "Meinst du, dass sie dich hasst?", fragte die Gräfin. "Ich weiß es nicht; ich möchte es sehen. Dafür gehe ich nach Rom." "Ach du meine Güte, was für ein mühsames Vorhaben!", rief die Gräfin aus. "Sie schreibt nicht auf die gleiche Weise wie früher; man kann deutlich sehen, dass sich etwas geändert hat. Wenn du etwas weißt", fuhr Miss Stackpole fort, "würde ich es gern vorher hören, um mich auf die Linie festzulegen, die ich einschlagen werde." Die Gräfin schob die Unterlippe vor und zuckte langsam Liebe ich, es tut mir leid, aber ich lasse mir gerade einige Kleider machen. Man hat mir gesagt, Isabel empfängt sehr gut. Aber ich werde dich dort sehen; ich werde dich in deinem Pensionat besuchen." Henrietta saß still da - sie war in Gedanken versunken; und plötzlich rief die Gräfin: "Aber wenn du nicht mitkommst, kannst du unsere Reise nicht beschreiben!" Frau Stackpole schien von dieser Überlegung unbeeindruckt zu sein; sie dachte an etwas anderes und drückte es bald aus. "Ich bin mir nicht sicher, ob ich dich richtig verstehe, wenn es um Lord Warburton geht." "Verstehst du mich? Ich meine, er ist sehr nett, das ist alles." "Findest du es nett, verheiratete Frauen anzumachen?" fragte Henrietta mit beispielloser Deutlichkeit. Die Gräfin starrte sie an und lachte dann mit einem kleinen, gewaltsamen Lachen: "Es ist sicher, dass alle netten Männer das tun. Heirate und du wirst es sehen!" fügte sie hinzu. "Diese Idee wäre genug, um mich davon abzuhalten", sagte Frau Stackpole. "Ich hätte meinen eigenen Ehemann haben wollen; ich hätte keinen anderen gewollt. Meinst du, dass Isabel schuldig ist - schuldig -?" Und sie machte eine kleine Pause und wählte ihre Ausdrucksweise sorgfältig aus. "Meine ich, dass sie schuldig ist? Oh, nein, noch nicht, hoffe ich. Ich meine nur, dass Osmond sehr langweilig ist und dass Lord Warburton, wie ich höre, viel im Haus ist. Ich fürchte, du bist geschockt." "Nein, ich mache mir nur Sorgen", sagte Henrietta. "Ah, du bist nicht sehr zuversichtlich, was Isabel betrifft! Du solltest mehr Vertrauen haben. Ich werde dir sagen", fügte die Gräfin schnell hinzu: "Wenn es dir ein Trost ist, verspreche ich dir, dass ich ihn ablenken werde." Frau Stackpole antwortete zunächst nur mit der tiefen Feierlichkeit ihres Blickes. "Du verstehst mich nicht", sagte sie nach einer Weile. "Ich habe nicht die Vorstellung, die du zu haben scheinst. Ich habe keine Angst um Isabel - auf diese Weise. Ich habe nur Angst, dass sie unglücklich ist - das ist es, was ich herausfinden möchte." Die Gräfin drehte sich ein Dutzend Mal um den Kopf; sie sah ungeduldig und sarkastisch aus. "Das kann gut sein; was mich betrifft, ich würde gerne wissen, ob es Osmond ist." Frau Stackpole hatte angefangen, ihr ein wenig zu langweilen. "Dafür interessiere ich mich nicht", sagte Henrietta. "Ich schon sehr! Wenn Isabel unglücklich ist, tut es mir sehr leid für sie, aber ich kann nichts dagegen tun. Ich könnte ihr etwas sagen, das sie noch unglücklicher machen würde, aber ich könnte ihr nichts sagen, das sie trösten würde. Warum hat sie ihn geheiratet? Wenn sie auf mich gehört hätte, hätte sie ihn losgeworden. Ich werde ihr jedoch verzeihen, wenn ich herausfinde, dass sie es ihm schwer gemacht hat! Wenn sie ihm einfach erlaubt hat, auf ihr herumzutrampeln, weiß ich nicht, ob ich sie auch nur bemitleiden soll. Aber das halte ich nicht für sehr wahrscheinlich. Ich rechne damit, dass, wenn sie unglücklich ist, sie zumindest IHN unglücklich gemacht hat." Henrietta stand auf. Diese Erwartungen schienen ihr natürlich sehr schrecklich. Sie glaubte ehrlich, dass sie kein Verlangen hatte, Mr. Osmond unglücklich zu sehen; und in der Tat konnte er für sie nicht Gegenstand einer Flucht der Fantasie sein. Sie war insgesamt eher enttäuscht von der Gräfin, deren Geist sich in einem engeren Kreis bewegte, als sie sich vorstellte, obwohl er selbst dort eine Fähigkeit zur Derbheit hatte. "Es wäre besser, wenn sie sich lieben würden", sagte sie zum Zwecke der Belehrung. "Das können sie nicht. Er kann niemanden lieben." Das war wohl anzunehmen. Aber es verstärkte nur meine Angst um Isabel. Ich werde sicherlich morgen abreisen." "Isabel hat sicherlich Verehrer", sagte die Gräfin und lächelte sehr lebhaft. "Ich schwöre, ich bemitleide sie nicht." "Vielleicht kann ich ihr helfen", fuhr Frau Stackpole fort, als ob es gut sei, keine Illusionen zu haben. "Du wolltest es auf jeden Fall. Das ist schon etwas. Ich glaube, deshalb bist du aus Amerika gekommen", fügte die Gräfin plötzlich hinzu. "Ja, ich wollte mich um sie kümmern", sagte Henrietta gelassen. Ihre Gastgeberin stand da und lächelte sie mit kleinen hellen Augen und einer gespannt wirkenden Nase an; in deren Wangen war ein errötender Schimmer. "Ah, das ist sehr schön - c'est bien gentil! Ist das nicht das, was sie Freundschaft nennen?" "Ich weiß nicht, wie sie es nennen. Ich dachte, ich sollte lieber kommen." "Sie ist sehr glücklich - sie ist sehr glücklich", fuhr die Gräfin fort. "Sie hat auch andere." Und dann brach sie leidenschaftlich aus. "Sie ist glücklicher als ich! Ich bin genauso unglücklich wie sie - ich habe einen sehr schlechten Ehemann; er ist viel schlimmer als Osmond. Und ich habe keine Freunde. Ich dachte, ich hätte welche, aber sie sind gegangen. Niemand, Mann oder Frau, würde für mich tun, was du für sie getan hast." Henrietta war gerührt; in dieser bitteren Strömung war etwas Natürliches. Sie starrte einen Moment lang auf ihre Begleiterin und sagte dann: "Hör mal, Gräfin, ich werde alles für dich tun, was du möchtest. Ich werde länger bleiben und mit dir reisen." "Schon gut", antwortete die Gräfin mit einem schnellen Tonwechsel. "Beschreibe mich nur in der Zeitung!" Henrietta musste ihr jedoch vor ihrer Abreise klar machen, dass sie keine fiktive Darstellung ihrer Reise nach Rom geben konnte. Miss Stackpole war eine streng wahrheitsgemäße Reporterin. Nachdem sie sie verlassen hatte, machte sie sich auf den Weg zur Lung' Arno, zur sonnigen Uferpromenade neben dem gelben Fluss, wo die den Touristen vertrauten, hellgesichtigen Gasthäuser in einer Reihe stehen. Sie kannte sich bereits durch die Straßen von Florenz aus (sie war in solchen Angelegenheiten sehr schnell), so dass sie sich mit großer Entschlossenheit vom kleinen Platz, der den Zugang zur Brücke der Heiligen Dreifaltigkeit bildet, abwandte. Sie ging nach links, in Richtung Ponte Vecchio, und blieb vor einem der Hotels stehen, die auf diese wunderbare Struktur blicken. Hier zog sie ein kleines Notizbuch heraus, nahm eine Karte und einen Bleistift heraus und schrieb nach einer kurzen Überlegung ein paar Worte. Es ist uns ein Privileg, über ihre Schulter zu schauen, und wenn wir es ausüben, können wir die kurze Anfrage lesen: "Könnte ich Sie heute Abend für einige Minuten in einer sehr wichtigen Angelegenheit sehen?" Henrietta fügte hinzu, dass sie am nächsten Tag nach Rom aufbrechen würde. Mit diesem kleinen Dokument näherte sie sich dem Portier, der nun im Eingang stand, und fragte, ob Mr. Goodwood zu Hause sei. Der Portier antwortete, wie es Portiers immer tun, dass er vor etwa zwanzig Minuten ausgegangen sei; woraufhin Henrietta ihre Karte vorlegte und bat, sie ihm bei seiner Rückkehr zu übergeben. Sie verließ das Hotel und folgte ihrem Weg entlang der Uferpromenade bis zum strengen Portikus des Uffizien, durch den sie bald in den Eingang der berühmten Gemäldegalerie gelangte. Auf ihrem Weg nach Rom war sie derzeit nur drei Tage in Florenz und erinnerte sich daran, dass sie nicht ohne einen weiteren Besuch ihres Lie "Du unterhältst dich nicht gerne mit mir", sagte Henrietta. "Aber das ist mir egal; ich unterhalte mich nicht zur Belustigung von dir. Ich habe ein Wort geschrieben, um dich zu bitten, mich zu besuchen; aber da ich dich hier getroffen habe, wird das auch genügen." "Ich war gerade dabei zu gehen", sagte Goodwood. "Aber natürlich werde ich bleiben." Er war höflich, aber nicht enthusiastisch. Henrietta erwartete jedoch nie große Versprechungen, und sie war so ernsthaft, dass sie dankbar war, dass er ihr überhaupt zuhören würde. Dennoch fragte sie ihn zunächst, ob er alle Bilder gesehen habe. "Alles, was ich sehen wollte. Ich war hier eine Stunde." "Ich frage mich, ob du meinen Correggio gesehen hast", sagte Henrietta. "Ich bin extra hergekommen, um es mir anzusehen." Sie ging in die Tribune und er begleitete sie langsam. "Ich glaube, ich habe es gesehen, aber ich wusste nicht, dass es deins war. Ich erinnere mich nicht an Bilder - vor allem nicht an solche." Sie hatte ihr Lieblingswerk gezeigt und er fragte sie, ob es um Correggio gehe, worüber sie mit ihm sprechen wollte. "Nein", sagte Henrietta, "es geht um etwas weniger Harmonisches!" Sie hatten den kleinen, hellen Raum, eine prächtige Schatzkammer, für sich allein; es war nur ein Aufseher um die Medicean Venus herum. "Ich möchte dich um einen Gefallen bitten", fuhr Miss Stackpole fort. Caspar Goodwood runzelte ein wenig die Stirn, aber er zeigte keine Verlegenheit wegen des Gefühls, nicht begeistert auszusehen. Sein Gesicht war das eines viel älteren Mannes als unser früherer Freund. "Ich bin mir sicher, dass es etwas sein wird, das ich nicht mag", sagte er ziemlich laut. "Nein, ich glaube nicht, dass du es mögen wirst. Wenn du es mögen würdest, wäre es kein Gefallen." "Nun gut, lass uns hören", fuhr er fort in einem Ton, der verriet, dass er sich seiner Geduld bewusst war. "Du könntest sagen, dass es keinen besonderen Grund gibt, warum du mir einen Gefallen tun solltest. Tatsächlich kenne ich nur einen: die Tatsache, dass ich, wenn du es zulässt, dir gerne einen Gefallen tun würde." Ihr weicher, sachlicher Ton, in dem es keinen Versuch gab, eine Wirkung zu erzielen, hatte eine große Aufrichtigkeit; und ihr Begleiter, obwohl er eine eher harte Oberfläche zeigte, konnte nicht anders, als davon berührt zu sein. Wenn er berührt war, zeigte er es jedoch selten durch die üblichen Zeichen; er errötete weder, noch schaute er weg, noch wirkte er bewusst. Er konzentrierte nur seine Aufmerksamkeit stärker; es schien, als würde er mit noch mehr Entschlossenheit darüber nachdenken. Deshalb fuhr Henrietta uneigennützig fort, ohne das Gefühl eines Vorteils. "Ich kann jetzt sagen - es scheint eine gute Zeit dafür zu sein -, dass wenn ich dich jemals gestört habe (und ich glaube manchmal schon), dann nur, weil ich wusste, dass ich bereit bin, mich für dich zu ärgern. Ich habe dich zweifellos beunruhigt. Aber ich würde mich um dich bemühen." Goodwood zögerte. "Du bemühst dich jetzt schon." "Ja, ein wenig. Ich möchte, dass du darüber nachdenkst, ob es insgesamt besser ist, dass du nach Rom gehst." "Ich dachte, du würdest das sagen!" antwortete er ziemlich arglos. "Hast du es also schon bedacht?" "Natürlich, sehr gründlich. Ich habe alle Aspekte betrachtet. Sonst wäre ich nicht so weit gekommen. Dafür bin ich zwei Monate in Paris geblieben. Ich habe darüber nachgedacht." "Ich fürchte, du hast nach Lust entschieden. Du hast entschieden, es ist am besten, weil du so sehr davon angezogen bist." "Am besten für wen, meinst du?" fragte Goodwood. "Nun, zuerst für dich selbst. Dann für Mrs. Osmond." "Oh, es wird IHR nicht guttun! Ich bilde mir da nichts ein." "Wird es ihr schaden? - das ist die Frage." "Ich sehe nicht, was es für sie bedeutet. Ich bin nichts für Mrs. Osmond. Aber wenn du es wissen willst, ich möchte sie selbst sehen." "Ja, und deshalb gehst du." "Natürlich. Gibt es einen besseren Grund?" "Wie wird es dir helfen? - das möchte ich wissen", sagte Miss Stackpole. Das kann ich dir gerade nicht sagen. Das ist genau das, worüber ich in Paris nachgedacht habe." "Es wird dich noch unzufriedener machen." "Warum sagst du 'noch' so?" fragte Goodwood ziemlich streng. "Wie weißt du, dass ich unzufrieden bin?" "Nun ja", sagte Henrietta, etwas zögernd, "es scheint, als hättest du dich nie für eine andere Person interessiert." "Wie weißt du, was mir wichtig ist?", rief er mit einer großen Röte. "Jetzt gerade interessiert es mich nach Rom zu gehen." Henrietta sah ihn schweigend an, mit einem traurigen, aber leuchtenden Ausdruck. "Nun", bemerkte sie schließlich, "ich wollte dir nur sagen, was ich denke; es beschäftigte mich. Natürlich denkst du, dass es mich nichts angeht. Aber nach diesem Prinzip geht niemanden etwas an." "Das ist sehr freundlich von dir; ich danke dir sehr für dein Interesse", sagte Caspar Goodwood. "Ich werde nach Rom gehen und ich werde Mrs. Osmond nicht schaden." "Wirst du ihr helfen? - das ist die eigentliche Frage." "Braucht sie Hilfe?" fragte er langsam, mit einem durchdringenden Blick. "Die meisten Frauen brauchen immer Hilfe", sagte Henrietta mit gewissenhafter Ausflucht und verallgemeinerte weniger hoffnungsvoll als üblich. "Wenn du nach Rom gehst", fügte sie hinzu, "hoffe ich, dass du ein echter Freund sein wirst - kein egoistischer!" Und sie entfernte sich und begann, sich die Bilder anzusehen. Caspar Goodwood ließ sie gehen und beobachtete sie, während sie im Raum umherwanderte; aber nach einem Moment schloss er sich ihr wieder an. "Du hast hier etwas über sie gehört", setzte er dann fort. "Ich möchte gerne wissen, was du gehört hast." Henrietta hatte noch nie in ihrem Leben um den heißen Brei herumgeredet, und obwohl es in diesem Fall angebracht gewesen sein könnte, beschloss sie nach einigen Minuten des Nachdenkens, keine oberflächliche Ausnahme zu machen. "Ja, ich habe etwas gehört", antwortete sie; "aber da ich nicht möchte, dass du nach Rom gehst, werde ich es dir nicht sagen." "Wie du meinst. Ich werde es selbst herausfinden", sagte er. Dann, für ihn inkonsequent: "Du hast gehört, dass sie unglücklich ist!", fügte er hinzu. "Oh, das wirst du nicht sehen!" rief Henrietta aus. "Das hoffe ich. Wann fährst du?" "Morgen, mit dem Abendzug. Und du?" Goodwood zögerte zurück; er hatte kein Verlangen, seine Reise nach Rom in Begleitung von Miss Stackpole anzutreten. Seine Gleichgültigkeit gegenüber diesem Vorteil war nicht von der gleichen Art wie die von Gilbert Osmond, aber sie hatte in diesem Moment die gleiche Deutlichkeit. Es war eher eine Hommage an Miss Stackpoles Tugenden als eine Bezugnahme auf ihre Fehler. Er fand sie sehr bemerkenswert, sehr brillant, und theoretisch hatte er nichts gegen die Klasse, zu der sie gehörte. Weibliche Korrespondentinnen erschienen ihm als Teil des natürlichen Schemas in einem progressiven Land, und obwohl er ihre Briefe nie las, vermutete er, dass sie auf irgendeine Weise zum gesellschaftlichen Wohlstand beitrugen. Aber gerade diese herausragende Position machte ihn unbehaglich und er wünschte sich, Miss Stackpole würde nicht so viel als selbstverständlich annehmen. Sie nahm als selbstverständlich hin, dass er immer für eine Anspielung auf Mrs. Osmond bereit war; sie hatte das getan, als sie sich in Paris trafen, sechs Wochen nach seiner Ankunft in Europa, und sie hatte diese Annahme bei jeder Gelegenheit wiederholt. Er hatte absolut kein Bedürfnis, auf Mrs. Osmond anzuspielen; er dachte NICHT immer an sie; da war er sich vollkommen sicher. Er war der verschlossenste, der am wenigsten gesprächige Mann und diese neugierige Autorin blendete ständig mit ihrer Laterne in die stille Dunkelheit seiner Seele. Er wünschte, sie würde sich nicht so viel darum kümmern; er wünschte sogar, obwohl es ihm eher brutal vorkommen mochte, dass sie ihn in Ruhe lassen würde. Trotzdem machte er sich gerade jetzt andere Gedanken - was zeigt, wie sehr sich seine schlechte Laune von der von Gilbert Osmond unterschied. Er wollte sofort nach Rom fahren; er wäre gerne alleine mit dem Nachtzug gefahren. Er hasste die europäischen Eisenbahnwaggons, in denen man stundenlang wie in einer Schraubzwinge saß, Knie an Knie und Nase an Nase mit einem Fremden, gegen den man sich bald mit all der zusätzlichen Heftigkeit wehrte, um das Fenster offen zu haben. Und wenn sie nachts noch schlimmer waren als am Tag, konnte man zumindest nachts schlafen und von einem amerikanischen Salonwagen träumen. Aber er konnte keinen Nachtzug nehmen, wenn Miss Stackpole am Morgen startete; das kam ihm vor wie eine Beleidigung gegenüber einer schutzlosen Frau. Und er konnte auch nicht warten, bis sie gegangen war, es sei denn, er hätte mehr Geduld als er aufbringen konnte. Es wäre nicht angebracht, am nächsten Tag zu starten. Sie machte ihn nervös; sie bedrückte ihn; die Vorstellung, den Tag in einem europäischen Eisenbahnwaggon mit ihr zu verbringen, bot eine Vielzahl von Ärgernissen. Dennoch war sie eine alleinreisende Dame; es war seine Pflicht, sich um sie zu kümmern. Daran konnte es keinen Zweifel geben; es war eine völlig klare Notwendigkeit. Er sah einige Augenblicke sehr ernst aus und sagte dann, völlig ohne Umschweife der Galanterie, aber mit äußerster Klarheit: "Natürlich, wenn Sie morgen gehen, werde ich auch gehen, um Ihnen behilflich zu sein." "Nun, Mr. Goodwood, das hoffe ich doch!" erwiderte Henrietta unerschütterlich. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Countess Gemini wurde eingeladen, für ein paar Wochen bei den Osmonds zu bleiben. Die Gräfin mag Isabel, obwohl sie und ihr Bruder sich gegenseitig nicht ausstehen können. Sie hofft, dass Osmond seine ebenbürtige Partnerin in Isabel findet. Henrietta besucht die Gräfin Gemini und fragt, ob sie von Isabels Situation Bescheid weiß. Die ausgefallene Gräfin ist von der Zeitungsfrau sehr angetan und hofft, dass sie zusammen nach Rom reisen können - sie möchte unbedingt in den Zeitungen erwähnt werden. Henrietta hat jedoch keine Zeit auf den Abreise der Gräfin Gemini zu warten und will ihre Freundin so schnell wie möglich treffen. Sie plant am nächsten Tag abzureisen. Henrietta schickt eine Nachricht an Caspar Goodwood in Florenz und geht dann ins Uffizien Museum, um ihr Lieblingsgemälde anzuschauen. Henrietta trifft Caspar im Uffizien und sie beschließen, am nächsten Tag zusammen nach Rom zu fahren. Caspar ist etwas unsicher, weil er gemischte Gefühle für Henrietta hat, aber er stimmt zu, mit ihr zu reisen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: 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." "Eine Dramatik, in der sich der Freund Arthur auf einen hübschen Part freut", sagte Mr. Irwine lächelnd. Aber als er sah, wie Arthur in Verlegenheit geriet, fuhr er gnädig fort: "Du weißt, mein Part besteht immer darin, der alte Spießer zu sein, der nichts Bewundernswertes an den jungen Leuten sieht. Ich mag es nicht zugeben, dass ich stolz auf meinen Schüler bin, wenn er anmutige Dinge tut. Aber einmal muss ich den freundlichen alten Herrn spielen und deinem Toast zu Ehren von Adam zustimmen. Hat dein Großvater auch in der anderen Angelegenheit nachgegeben und zugestimmt, einen anständigen Mann als Verwalter zu haben?" "Oh nein", sagte Arthur, stand ungeduldig von seinem Stuhl auf und ging mit den Händen in den Taschen durch den Raum. "Er hat irgendein Projekt bezüglich der Verpachtung der Chase Farm und dem Handeln für eine Versorgung mit Milch und Butter für das Haus. Aber ich stelle keine Fragen dazu - es macht mich zu wütend. Ich glaube, er plant, das ganze Geschäft selbst zu erledigen und keinen Verwalter zu haben. Es ist erstaunlich, wie viel Energie er hat." "Nun, dann gehen wir jetzt zu den Damen", sagte Mr. Irwine und stand ebenfalls auf. "Ich möchte meiner Mutter erzählen, was für einen herrlichen Thron du unter dem Festzelt für sie vorbereitet hast." "Ja, und wir müssen auch zum Mittagessen gehen", sagte Arthur. "Es muss zwei Uhr sein, denn die Gong beginnt für das Mittagessen der Pächter zu läuten." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Es ist ein neues Kapitel und ganz Hayslope bereitet sich auf das offizielle Arthur Donnithorne Geburtstagspezial vor. Die örtliche Vorhersage lautet: "Perfektes Wetter für ein Juli-Outdoor-Fest". Der örtliche Verkehrsfunk berichtet: "Es war eine Zeit der Freizeit auf dem Bauernhof - diese Pause zwischen der Heu- und Korn-Ernte." Jeder entspannt sich wie ein Bösewicht oder ein Dorfbewohner oder ein böser Dorfbewohner. Das ändert sich jedoch, sobald die Feierlichkeiten beginnen. Während alle es ruhig angehen lassen, ist Hetty in ihrem Zimmer. Sie ist schicker als sonst angezogen und hat außergewöhnliche Ohrringe aus "Gold, Perlen und Granat". Die Ohrringe sind natürlich ein Geschenk von Arthur. Aber Hetty wird sie nicht an Arthurs Geburtstag tragen. Dadurch könnten Verdachtsmomente entstehen! Sie setzt sich mit dem Rest der Poysers in einen Wagen und sie brechen auf. Eines Tages wird Hetty diese Ohrringe so oft tragen können, wie sie möchte. Aber jetzt muss sie sich Mrs. Poyser beim Klagen über die örtlichen Landstreicher anhören, während der alte Martin Poyser von vergangenen Zeiten erzählt. In der Zwischenzeit besuchen Arthur und Mr. Irwine das Anwesen Donnithorne und geben den letzten Schliff an den Geburtstagsplänen. Arthur kann nicht umhin, sich im alten Haus umzusehen und noch mehr Verbesserungen zu planen. Was haben all diese Verbesserungen zu bedeuten? War der alte Squire Donnithorne wirklich so schlecht? Nicht wirklich. Tatsächlich hat der alte Squire "sich letztendlich gefangen" und wird Adam einstellen, um sich um den Donnithorne-Wald zu kümmern. Arthur ist stolz darauf, dass er Adam auf diese Weise helfen konnte, und Irwine ist stolz auf Arthur, weil Arthur stolz ist. Aber unterschätze Squire Donnithorne nicht. Er hat bei Adam und dem Wald nachgegeben, aber er hat immer noch "niemanden in Form eines Verwalters", der seine Angelegenheiten regelt. Aber das ist ein Thema für einen anderen Zeitpunkt. Arthurs Geburtstag wartet.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug and picked up the stick which our visitor had left behind him the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known as a "Penang lawyer." Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly an inch across. "To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.," was engraved upon it, with the date "1884." It was just such a stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to carry--dignified, solid, and reassuring. "Well, Watson, what do you make of it?" Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign of my occupation. "How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back of your head." "I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in front of me," said he. "But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of our visitor's stick? Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss him and have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir becomes of importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an examination of it." "I think," said I, following as far as I could the methods of my companion, "that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical man, well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark of their appreciation." "Good!" said Holmes. "Excellent!" "I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on foot." "Why so?" "Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has been so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner carrying it. The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so it is evident that he has done a great amount of walking with it." "Perfectly sound!" said Holmes. "And then again, there is the 'friends of the C.C.H.' I should guess that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has possibly given some surgical assistance, and which has made him a small presentation in return." "Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said Holmes, pushing back his chair and lighting a cigarette. "I am bound to say that in all the accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own small achievements you have habitually underrated your own abilities. It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it. I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in your debt." He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which I had made to give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, to think that I had so far mastered his system as to apply it in a way which earned his approval. He now took the stick from my hands and examined it for a few minutes with his naked eyes. Then with an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette, and carrying the cane to the window, he looked over it again with a convex lens. "Interesting, though elementary," said he as he returned to his favourite corner of the settee. "There are certainly one or two indications upon the stick. It gives us the basis for several deductions." "Has anything escaped me?" I asked with some self-importance. "I trust that there is nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?" "I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank, that in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided towards the truth. Not that you are entirely wrong in this instance. The man is certainly a country practitioner. And he walks a good deal." "Then I was right." "To that extent." "But that was all." "No, no, my dear Watson, not all--by no means all. I would suggest, for example, that a presentation to a doctor is more likely to come from a hospital than from a hunt, and that when the initials 'C.C.' are placed before that hospital the words 'Charing Cross' very naturally suggest themselves." "You may be right." "The probability lies in that direction. And if we take this as a working hypothesis we have a fresh basis from which to start our construction of this unknown visitor." "Well, then, supposing that 'C.C.H.' does stand for 'Charing Cross Hospital,' what further inferences may we draw?" "Do none suggest themselves? You know my methods. Apply them!" "I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has practised in town before going to the country." "I think that we might venture a little farther than this. Look at it in this light. On what occasion would it be most probable that such a presentation would be made? When would his friends unite to give him a pledge of their good will? Obviously at the moment when Dr. Mortimer withdrew from the service of the hospital in order to start a practice for himself. We know there has been a presentation. We believe there has been a change from a town hospital to a country practice. Is it, then, stretching our inference too far to say that the presentation was on the occasion of the change?" "It certainly seems probable." "Now, you will observe that he could not have been on the staff of the hospital, since only a man well-established in a London practice could hold such a position, and such a one would not drift into the country. What was he, then? If he was in the hospital and yet not on the staff he could only have been a house-surgeon or a house-physician--little more than a senior student. And he left five years ago--the date is on the stick. So your grave, middle-aged family practitioner vanishes into thin air, my dear Watson, and there emerges a young fellow under thirty, amiable, unambitious, absent-minded, and the possessor of a favourite dog, which I should describe roughly as being larger than a terrier and smaller than a mastiff." I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his settee and blew little wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling. "As to the latter part, I have no means of checking you," said I, "but at least it is not difficult to find out a few particulars about the man's age and professional career." From my small medical shelf I took down the Medical Directory and turned up the name. There were several Mortimers, but only one who could be our visitor. I read his record aloud. "Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon. House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital. Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology, with essay entitled 'Is Disease a Reversion?' Corresponding member of the Swedish Pathological Society. Author of 'Some Freaks of Atavism' (Lancet 1882). 'Do We Progress?' (Journal of Psychology, March, 1883). Medical Officer for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow." "No mention of that local hunt, Watson," said Holmes with a mischievous smile, "but a country doctor, as you very astutely observed. I think that I am fairly justified in my inferences. As to the adjectives, I said, if I remember right, amiable, unambitious, and absent-minded. It is my experience that it is only an amiable man in this world who receives testimonials, only an unambitious one who abandons a London career for the country, and only an absent-minded one who leaves his stick and not his visiting-card after waiting an hour in your room." "And the dog?" "Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master. Being a heavy stick the dog has held it tightly by the middle, and the marks of his teeth are very plainly visible. The dog's jaw, as shown in the space between these marks, is too broad in my opinion for a terrier and not broad enough for a mastiff. It may have been--yes, by Jove, it is a curly-haired spaniel." He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted in the recess of the window. There was such a ring of conviction in his voice that I glanced up in surprise. "My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?" "For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our very door-step, and there is the ring of its owner. Don't move, I beg you, Watson. He is a professional brother of yours, and your presence may be of assistance to me. Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill. What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of science, ask of Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in!" The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had expected a typical country practitioner. He was a very tall, thin man, with a long nose like a beak, which jutted out between two keen, gray eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly from behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a professional but rather slovenly fashion, for his frock-coat was dingy and his trousers frayed. Though young, his long back was already bowed, and he walked with a forward thrust of his head and a general air of peering benevolence. As he entered his eyes fell upon the stick in Holmes's hand, and he ran towards it with an exclamation of joy. "I am so very glad," said he. "I was not sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping Office. I would not lose that stick for the world." "A presentation, I see," said Holmes. "Yes, sir." "From Charing Cross Hospital?" "From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage." "Dear, dear, that's bad!" said Holmes, shaking his head. Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment. "Why was it bad?" "Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. Your marriage, you say?" "Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all hopes of a consulting practice. It was necessary to make a home of my own." "Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all," said Holmes. "And now, Dr. James Mortimer--" "Mister, sir, Mister--a humble M.R.C.S." "And a man of precise mind, evidently." "A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the shores of the great unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing and not--" "No, this is my friend Dr. Watson." "Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in connection with that of your friend. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or such well-marked supra-orbital development. Would you have any objection to my running my finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of your skull, sir, until the original is available, would be an ornament to any anthropological museum. It is not my intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your skull." Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. "You are an enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in mine," said he. "I observe from your forefinger that you make your own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one." The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the other with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers as agile and restless as the antennae of an insect. Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the interest which he took in our curious companion. "I presume, sir," said he at last, "that it was not merely for the purpose of examining my skull that you have done me the honour to call here last night and again today?" "No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of doing that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I am myself an unpractical man and because I am suddenly confronted with a most serious and extraordinary problem. Recognizing, as I do, that you are the second highest expert in Europe--" "Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the first?" asked Holmes with some asperity. "To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Monsieur Bertillon must always appeal strongly." "Then had you not better consult him?" "I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical man of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir, that I have not inadvertently--" "Just a little," said Holmes. "I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would do wisely if without more ado you would kindly tell me plainly what the exact nature of the problem is in which you demand my assistance." "I have in my pocket a manuscript," said Dr. James Mortimer. "I observed it as you entered the room," said Holmes. "It is an old manuscript." "Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery." "How can you say that, sir?" "You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the time that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert who could not give the date of a document within a decade or so. You may possibly have read my little monograph upon the subject. I put that at 1730." "The exact date is 1742." Dr. Mortimer drew it from his breast-pocket. "This family paper was committed to my care by Sir Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death some three months ago created so much excitement in Devonshire. I may say that I was his personal friend as well as his medical attendant. He was a strong-minded man, sir, shrewd, practical, and as unimaginative as I am myself. Yet he took this document very seriously, and his mind was prepared for just such an end as did eventually overtake him." Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it upon his knee. "You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the long s and the short. It is one of several indications which enabled me to fix the date." I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script. At the head was written: "Baskerville Hall," and below in large, scrawling figures: "1742." "It appears to be a statement of some sort." "Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the Baskerville family." "But I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon which you wish to consult me?" "Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be decided within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and is intimately connected with the affair. With your permission I will read it to you." Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together, and closed his eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the manuscript to the light and read in a high, cracking voice the following curious, old-world narrative: "Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from my father, who also had it from his, I have set it down with all belief that it occurred even as is here set forth. And I would have you believe, my sons, that the same Justice which punishes sin may also most graciously forgive it, and that no ban is so heavy but that by prayer and repentance it may be removed. Learn then from this story not to fear the fruits of the past, but rather to be circumspect in the future, that those foul passions whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not again be loosed to our undoing. "Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless man. This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned, seeing that saints have never flourished in those parts, but there was in him a certain wanton and cruel humour which made his name a by-word through the West. It chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark a passion may be known under so bright a name) the daughter of a yeoman who held lands near the Baskerville estate. But the young maiden, being discreet and of good repute, would ever avoid him, for she feared his evil name. So it came to pass that one Michaelmas this Hugo, with five or six of his idle and wicked companions, stole down upon the farm and carried off the maiden, her father and brothers being from home, as he well knew. When they had brought her to the Hall the maiden was placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat down to a long carouse, as was their nightly custom. Now, the poor lass upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the singing and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to her from below, for they say that the words used by Hugo Baskerville, when he was in wine, were such as might blast the man who said them. At last in the stress of her fear she did that which might have daunted the bravest or most active man, for by the aid of the growth of ivy which covered (and still covers) the south wall she came down from under the eaves, and so homeward across the moor, there being three leagues betwixt the Hall and her father's farm. "It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his guests to carry food and drink--with other worse things, perchance--to his captive, and so found the cage empty and the bird escaped. Then, as it would seem, he became as one that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table, flagons and trenchers flying before him, and he cried aloud before all the company that he would that very night render his body and soul to the Powers of Evil if he might but overtake the wench. And while the revellers stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more wicked or, it may be, more drunken than the rest, cried out that they should put the hounds upon her. Whereat Hugo ran from the house, crying to his grooms that they should saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and giving the hounds a kerchief of the maid's, he swung them to the line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor. "Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable to understand all that had been done in such haste. But anon their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed which was like to be done upon the moorlands. Everything was now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols, some for their horses, and some for another flask of wine. But at length some sense came back to their crazed minds, and the whole of them, thirteen in number, took horse and started in pursuit. The moon shone clear above them, and they rode swiftly abreast, taking that course which the maid must needs have taken if she were to reach her own home. "They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to him to know if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. 'But I have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.' So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for there came a galloping across the moor, and the black mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing bridle and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close together, for a great fear was on them, but they still followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone, would have been right glad to have turned his horse's head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last upon the hounds. These, though known for their valour and their breed, were whimpering in a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them. "The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you may guess, than when they started. The most of them would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest, or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal. Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of those great stones, still to be seen there, which were set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo Baskerville lying near her, which raised the hair upon the heads of these three dare-devil roysterers, but it was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were but broken men for the rest of their days. "Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever since. If I have set it down it is because that which is clearly known hath less terror than that which is but hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be denied that many of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which have been sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we shelter ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence, which would not forever punish the innocent beyond that third or fourth generation which is threatened in Holy Writ. To that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend you, and I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from crossing the moor in those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted. "[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John, with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their sister Elizabeth.]" When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire. "Well?" said he. "Do you not find it interesting?" "To a collector of fairy tales." Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket. "Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more recent. This is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a short account of the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few days before that date." My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent. Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began: "The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose name has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate for Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over the county. Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville Hall for a comparatively short period his amiability of character and extreme generosity had won the affection and respect of all who had been brought into contact with him. In these days of nouveaux riches it is refreshing to find a case where the scion of an old county family which has fallen upon evil days is able to make his own fortune and to bring it back with him to restore the fallen grandeur of his line. Sir Charles, as is well known, made large sums of money in South African speculation. More wise than those who go on until the wheel turns against them, he realized his gains and returned to England with them. It is only two years since he took up his residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how large were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement which have been interrupted by his death. Being himself childless, it was his openly expressed desire that the whole countryside should, within his own lifetime, profit by his good fortune, and many will have personal reasons for bewailing his untimely end. His generous donations to local and county charities have been frequently chronicled in these columns. "The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of those rumours to which local superstition has given rise. There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to imagine that death could be from any but natural causes. Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to have been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind. In spite of his considerable wealth he was simple in his personal tastes, and his indoor servants at Baskerville Hall consisted of a married couple named Barrymore, the husband acting as butler and the wife as housekeeper. Their evidence, corroborated by that of several friends, tends to show that Sir Charles's health has for some time been impaired, and points especially to some affection of the heart, manifesting itself in changes of colour, breathlessness, and acute attacks of nervous depression. Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant of the deceased, has given evidence to the same effect. "The facts of the case are simple. Sir Charles Baskerville was in the habit every night before going to bed of walking down the famous yew alley of Baskerville Hall. The evidence of the Barrymores shows that this had been his custom. On the fourth of May Sir Charles had declared his intention of starting next day for London, and had ordered Barrymore to prepare his luggage. That night he went out as usual for his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he was in the habit of smoking a cigar. He never returned. At twelve o'clock Barrymore, finding the hall door still open, became alarmed, and, lighting a lantern, went in search of his master. The day had been wet, and Sir Charles's footmarks were easily traced down the alley. Halfway down this walk there is a gate which leads out on to the moor. There were indications that Sir Charles had stood for some little time here. He then proceeded down the alley, and it was at the far end of it that his body was discovered. One fact which has not been explained is the statement of Barrymore that his master's footprints altered their character from the time that he passed the moor-gate, and that he appeared from thence onward to have been walking upon his toes. One Murphy, a gipsy horse-dealer, was on the moor at no great distance at the time, but he appears by his own confession to have been the worse for drink. He declares that he heard cries but is unable to state from what direction they came. No signs of violence were to be discovered upon Sir Charles's person, and though the doctor's evidence pointed to an almost incredible facial distortion--so great that Dr. Mortimer refused at first to believe that it was indeed his friend and patient who lay before him--it was explained that that is a symptom which is not unusual in cases of dyspnoea and death from cardiac exhaustion. This explanation was borne out by the post-mortem examination, which showed long-standing organic disease, and the coroner's jury returned a verdict in accordance with the medical evidence. It is well that this is so, for it is obviously of the utmost importance that Sir Charles's heir should settle at the Hall and continue the good work which has been so sadly interrupted. Had the prosaic finding of the coroner not finally put an end to the romantic stories which have been whispered in connection with the affair, it might have been difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville Hall. It is understood that the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville, if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles Baskerville's younger brother. The young man when last heard of was in America, and inquiries are being instituted with a view to informing him of his good fortune." Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket. "Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the death of Sir Charles Baskerville." "I must thank you," said Sherlock Holmes, "for calling my attention to a case which certainly presents some features of interest. I had observed some newspaper comment at the time, but I was exceedingly preoccupied by that little affair of the Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost touch with several interesting English cases. This article, you say, contains all the public facts?" "It does." "Then let me have the private ones." He leaned back, put his finger-tips together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial expression. "In doing so," said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of some strong emotion, "I am telling that which I have not confided to anyone. My motive for withholding it from the coroner's inquiry is that a man of science shrinks from placing himself in the public position of seeming to indorse a popular superstition. I had the further motive that Baskerville Hall, as the paper says, would certainly remain untenanted if anything were done to increase its already rather grim reputation. For both these reasons I thought that I was justified in telling rather less than I knew, since no practical good could result from it, but with you there is no reason why I should not be perfectly frank. "The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near each other are thrown very much together. For this reason I saw a good deal of Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist, there are no other men of education within many miles. Sir Charles was a retiring man, but the chance of his illness brought us together, and a community of interests in science kept us so. He had brought back much scientific information from South Africa, and many a charming evening we have spent together discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the Hottentot. "Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me that Sir Charles's nervous system was strained to the breaking point. He had taken this legend which I have read you exceedingly to heart--so much so that, although he would walk in his own grounds, nothing would induce him to go out upon the moor at night. Incredible as it may appear to you, Mr. Holmes, he was honestly convinced that a dreadful fate overhung his family, and certainly the records which he was able to give of his ancestors were not encouraging. The idea of some ghastly presence constantly haunted him, and on more than one occasion he has asked me whether I had on my medical journeys at night ever seen any strange creature or heard the baying of a hound. The latter question he put to me several times, and always with a voice which vibrated with excitement. "I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some three weeks before the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall door. I had descended from my gig and was standing in front of him, when I saw his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder and stare past me with an expression of the most dreadful horror. I whisked round and had just time to catch a glimpse of something which I took to be a large black calf passing at the head of the drive. So excited and alarmed was he that I was compelled to go down to the spot where the animal had been and look around for it. It was gone, however, and the incident appeared to make the worst impression upon his mind. I stayed with him all the evening, and it was on that occasion, to explain the emotion which he had shown, that he confided to my keeping that narrative which I read to you when first I came. I mention this small episode because it assumes some importance in view of the tragedy which followed, but I was convinced at the time that the matter was entirely trivial and that his excitement had no justification. "It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London. His heart was, I knew, affected, and the constant anxiety in which he lived, however chimerical the cause of it might be, was evidently having a serious effect upon his health. I thought that a few months among the distractions of town would send him back a new man. Mr. Stapleton, a mutual friend who was much concerned at his state of health, was of the same opinion. At the last instant came this terrible catastrophe. "On the night of Sir Charles's death Barrymore the butler, who made the discovery, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to me, and as I was sitting up late I was able to reach Baskerville Hall within an hour of the event. I checked and corroborated all the facts which were mentioned at the inquest. I followed the footsteps down the yew alley, I saw the spot at the moor-gate where he seemed to have waited, I remarked the change in the shape of the prints after that point, I noted that there were no other footsteps save those of Barrymore on the soft gravel, and finally I carefully examined the body, which had not been touched until my arrival. Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his fingers dug into the ground, and his features convulsed with some strong emotion to such an extent that I could hardly have sworn to his identity. There was certainly no physical injury of any kind. But one false statement was made by Barrymore at the inquest. He said that there were no traces upon the ground round the body. He did not observe any. But I did--some little distance off, but fresh and clear." "Footprints?" "Footprints." "A man's or a woman's?" Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank almost to a whisper as he answered. "Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!" Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Herr Sherlock Holmes betritt das Frühstückszimmer, wo Sherlock Holmes gerade frühstückt. Watson untersucht einen Gehstock, den ein Besucher namens James Mortimer am Vorabend zurückgelassen hat, nachdem er niemanden antraf, der ihn empfing. Mortimers Name ist in den Stock graviert. Obwohl Holmes mit dem Rücken zu Watson steht, sieht er seinen Freund durch die Reflexion in seinem Kaffeekrug. Er überrascht Watson, indem er ihn anspricht, und bittet ihn dann, den Charakter von James Mortimer anhand seines Gehstocks zu deduzieren. Basierend auf dem Stock glaubt Watson, dass Dr. Mortimer ein älterer, angesehener Arzt ist, der auf dem Land lebt. Er schlussfolgert weiterhin, dass Mortimer diesen Stock als Geschenk von einem Jagdclub erhalten hat. Holmes lobt zunächst Watsons detektivische Fähigkeiten, klärt jedoch anschließend, dass er nur die Art und Weise lobt, wie Watson seinen eigenen Gedankenprozess angeregt hat. Holmes untersucht den Stock selbst und kommt zu dem Schluss, dass Mortimer den Stock als Geschenk von einem Krankenhaus erhalten hat, nicht von einem Jagdclub. Er deduziert, dass Mortimer ein Student an diesem Krankenhaus war, kein Arzt, und dass er daher jung und nicht alt sein muss. Darüber hinaus glaubt er, dass Mortimer das städtische Krankenhaus verlassen hat, um seine eigene Praxis auf dem Land zu beginnen. Er fügt hinzu, dass Mortimer wohl unkonzentriert, liebenswürdig, wenig ehrgeizig und Hundebesitzer ist. Erstaunt schaut Watson in seinem medizinischen Wörterbuch nach öffentlich zugänglichen Informationen über Mortimer. Das Buch bestätigt, dass Mortimer ein junger Mann ist, der am Charing Cross Hospital studiert hat. Holmes erklärt nun, wie er deduziert hat, dass Mortimer einen Hund besitzt, sieht jedoch einen Hund aus seinem Fenster und erkennt, dass Dr. Mortimer nun zu Besuch gekommen ist. Dr. Mortimer betritt den Raum, und Watson beschreibt ihn als groß, dünn und mit schlechter Haltung, und er ist unordentlich gekleidet. Erleichtert, dass er den Stock dort gelassen und nicht verloren hat, enthüllt Dr. Mortimer, dass er ihn nicht zum Abschied von Charing Cross erhalten hat, sondern zu seiner Hochzeit. Zunächst erwähnt Dr. Mortimer, dass er von Holmes durch dessen Ruf, schwierige Probleme zu lösen, gehört hat. Seltsamerweise lobt Dr. Mortimer dann die Form von Holmes' Schädel und sagt ihm, dass er eine "Zierde für jedes anthropologische Museum" wäre. Er erklärt, dass er Schädelformen studiert. Holmes fragt, warum Dr. Mortimer ihn aufgesucht hat, und Mortimer teilt ihm mit, dass er ein äußerst ernstes und außergewöhnliches Problem hat. Kapitel II: Der Hund von Baskerville Dr. Mortimer erklärt, dass er ein Manuskript mitgebracht hat, aber Holmes hat es bereits in seiner Tasche bemerkt und vermutet, dass es aus dem frühen 18. Jahrhundert stammt. Nach dieser Beobachtung erklärt Dr. Mortimer, dass das Manuskript ihm von Sir Charles Baskerville gegeben wurde, einem engen Freund, der drei Monate zuvor gestorben war. Dr. Mortimer lebt in Devonshire, was sich auf der Moorlandschaft Englands befindet und in der Nähe des Baskervilleschen Anwesens liegt. Um seinen Zweck am besten zu erklären, liest Dr. Mortimer zuerst das Dokument vor, das eine Legende über die Baskerville-Familie detailliert. Der Verfasser der Geschichte identifiziert sich selbst als ein Baskerville und erklärt, dass diese Legende in seiner Familie über mehrere Generationen weitergegeben wurde. Während der Großen Rebellion war das Baskerville-Anwesen im Besitz von Hugo Baskerville, einem "wild, schlimm und gottlosen Mann". Als eine junge Frau seine Annäherungsversuche ablehnte, sperrte er sie in einer oberen Kammer seines Hauses ein. Sie entkam eines Nachts, während Hugo seine Freunde bewirtete, und Hugo erklärte, dass er seinen Körper und seine Seele den "Mächten des Bösen" geben würde, wenn er sie finden könnte. Ein Mann schlug vor, die Hunde auf sie hetzen, und Hugo folgte diesem Rat und jagte sie auf seiner schwarzen Stute in das Moor hinaus. Dreizehn Männer folgten Hugo, der ihnen voraus war. Sie trafen auf einen Hirten, der vor Angst "verrückt" war - er hatte die Jungfrau gesehen, aber auch einen "Hund der Hölle" in rasender Verfolgung von Hugo. Schließlich trafen die Männer auf Hugos Stute, allein und schäumend am Mund. Verängstigt gingen sie weiter, bis sie eine Grube erreichten, neben der die Hunde wimmerten. In der Grube fanden drei der Männer die verstorbene Jungfrau "aus Angst und Müdigkeit" und Hugo, verkleinert neben einem "großen, schwarzen Tier, das wie ein Hund geformt war". Der riesige Hund riss Baskervilles Kehle heraus, woraufhin die Männer flohen. Einer der Männer starb in dieser Nacht, während die anderen beiden für den Rest ihres Lebens "gebrochene Männer" blieben. Der Verfasser schließt seine Geschichte, indem er behauptet, dass der Hund die Baskerville-Familie seitdem geplagt habe, und warnt seine Söhne davor, das Moor nachts zu betreten. Nach dem Lesen des Briefes ist Dr. Mortimer überrascht, als er sieht, wie Holmes gähnt; er denkt, dass die Geschichte nur für einen "Märchensammler" interessant ist. Dr. Mortimer gibt Holmes dann einen Zeitungsausschnitt, der Sir Charles Baskervilles kürzlichen Tod beschreibt. Die Zeitungsgeschichte beschreibt zuerst Sir Charles Baskerville. Zur damaligen Zeit ein möglicher Kandidat für die bevorstehende Wahl, hatte Baskerville sein Vermögen mit südafrikanischen Spekulationen verdient und kinderlos auf dem Land gelebt, wo er viel wohltätig tätig war. Die Geschichte erklärt dann die Umstände seines Todes. Als Sir Charles nicht von seinem üblichen nächtlichen Spaziergang entlang einer Baumallee hinter Baskerville Hall zurückkehrte, untersuchte sein Diener Barrymore die Lage und fand seine Leiche. Das Rätsel wurde größer, da es keine Anzeichen von Gewalt an seinem Körper gab und seine Fußabdrücke darauf hindeuteten, dass er auf den Zehenspitzen gegangen war. Ein Zeuge, ein Pferdehändler namens Murphy, hatte Schreie gehört, gab jedoch zu, betrunken gewesen zu sein. Die Behörden kamen zu dem Schluss, dass Sir Charles an kardialer Erschöpfung gestorben war und mystische Geschichten ausschloss. Schließlich wird sein nächster Angehöriger als sein Neffe, Mr. Henry Baskerville, bezeichnet, der sich angeblich in Amerika aufhält. Nun interessiert, fragt Holmes Dr. Mortimer nach Details, die nicht in dem Artikel enthalten sind. Obwohl er sich selbst für einen Mann der Wissenschaft hält, gibt Dr. Mortimer zu, einige merkwürdige Verdächtigungen zu haben. Er betrachtete Sir Charles als einen engen Freund, da sie beide zu den wenigen Intellektuellen gehörten, die auf dem Moor lebten. Die einzigen anderen bemerkenswerten Männer sind Stapleton und Mr. Frankland. In den Tagen vor dem Tod des Mannes bemerkte Dr. Mortimer, dass Sir Charles sich über die Legenden des Hundes zunehmend sorgte. Eines Nachts, nachdem sie eine schwarze Gestalt ihren Weg kreuzen sahen, gestand Sir Charles seine Ängste, und Dr. Mortimer überredete ihn, nach London zu fliehen. Er starb in der Nacht, bevor er abreisen wollte. Schließlich fügt Dr. Mortimer hinzu, dass er bei der Untersuchung des Tatorts von Sir Charles' Tod die Fußabdrücke eines gigantischen Hundes gefunden hat. Diese Informationen hat er der Presse nicht mitgeteilt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: SCENE III. Rome. The Forum Enter SICINIUS and BRUTUS BRUTUS. In this point charge him home, that he affects Tyrannical power. If he evade us there, Enforce him with his envy to the people, And that the spoil got on the Antiates Was ne'er distributed. Enter an AEDILE What, will he come? AEDILE. He's coming. BRUTUS. How accompanied? AEDILE. With old Menenius, and those senators That always favour'd him. SICINIUS. Have you a catalogue Of all the voices that we have procur'd, Set down by th' poll? AEDILE. I have; 'tis ready. SICINIUS. Have you collected them by tribes? AEDILE. I have. SICINIUS. Assemble presently the people hither; And when they hear me say 'It shall be so I' th' right and strength o' th' commons' be it either For death, for fine, or banishment, then let them, If I say fine, cry 'Fine!'- if death, cry 'Death!' Insisting on the old prerogative And power i' th' truth o' th' cause. AEDILE. I shall inform them. BRUTUS. And when such time they have begun to cry, Let them not cease, but with a din confus'd Enforce the present execution Of what we chance to sentence. AEDILE. Very well. SICINIUS. Make them be strong, and ready for this hint, When we shall hap to give't them. BRUTUS. Go about it. Exit AEDILE Put him to choler straight. He hath been us'd Ever to conquer, and to have his worth Of contradiction; being once chaf'd, he cannot Be rein'd again to temperance; then he speaks What's in his heart, and that is there which looks With us to break his neck. Enter CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS and COMINIUS, with others SICINIUS. Well, here he comes. MENENIUS. Calmly, I do beseech you. CORIOLANUS. Ay, as an ostler, that for th' poorest piece Will bear the knave by th' volume. Th' honour'd gods Keep Rome in safety, and the chairs of justice Supplied with worthy men! plant love among's! Throng our large temples with the shows of peace, And not our streets with war! FIRST SENATOR. Amen, amen! MENENIUS. A noble wish. Re-enter the AEDILE,with the plebeians SICINIUS. Draw near, ye people. AEDILE. List to your tribunes. Audience! peace, I say! CORIOLANUS. First, hear me speak. BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, say. Peace, ho! CORIOLANUS. Shall I be charg'd no further than this present? Must all determine here? SICINIUS. I do demand, If you submit you to the people's voices, Allow their officers, and are content To suffer lawful censure for such faults As shall be prov'd upon you. CORIOLANUS. I am content. MENENIUS. Lo, citizens, he says he is content. The warlike service he has done, consider; think Upon the wounds his body bears, which show Like graves i' th' holy churchyard. CORIOLANUS. Scratches with briers, Scars to move laughter only. MENENIUS. Consider further, That when he speaks not like a citizen, You find him like a soldier; do not take His rougher accents for malicious sounds, But, as I say, such as become a soldier Rather than envy you. COMINIUS. Well, well! No more. CORIOLANUS. What is the matter, That being pass'd for consul with full voice, I am so dishonour'd that the very hour You take it off again? SICINIUS. Answer to us. CORIOLANUS. Say then; 'tis true, I ought so. SICINIUS. We charge you that you have contriv'd to take From Rome all season'd office, and to wind Yourself into a power tyrannical; For which you are a traitor to the people. CORIOLANUS. How- traitor? MENENIUS. Nay, temperately! Your promise. CORIOLANUS. The fires i' th' lowest hell fold in the people! Call me their traitor! Thou injurious tribune! Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths, In thy hands clutch'd as many millions, in Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say 'Thou liest' unto thee with a voice as free As I do pray the gods. SICINIUS. Mark you this, people? PLEBEIANS. To th' rock, to th' rock, with him! SICINIUS. Peace! We need not put new matter to his charge. What you have seen him do and heard him speak, Beating your officers, cursing yourselves, Opposing laws with strokes, and here defying Those whose great power must try him- even this, So criminal and in such capital kind, Deserves th' extremest death. BRUTUS. But since he hath Serv'd well for Rome- CORIOLANUS. What do you prate of service? BRUTUS. I talk of that that know it. CORIOLANUS. You! MENENIUS. Is this the promise that you made your mother? COMINIUS. Know, I pray you- CORIOLANUS. I'll know no further. Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death, Vagabond exile, flaying, pent to linger But with a grain a day, I would not buy Their mercy at the price of one fair word, Nor check my courage for what they can give, To have't with saying 'Good morrow.' SICINIUS. For that he has- As much as in him lies- from time to time Envied against the people, seeking means To pluck away their power; as now at last Given hostile strokes, and that not in the presence Of dreaded justice, but on the ministers That do distribute it- in the name o' th' people, And in the power of us the tribunes, we, Ev'n from this instant, banish him our city, In peril of precipitation From off the rock Tarpeian, never more To enter our Rome gates. I' th' people's name, I say it shall be so. PLEBEIANS. It shall be so, it shall be so! Let him away! He's banish'd, and it shall be so. COMINIUS. Hear me, my masters and my common friends- SICINIUS. He's sentenc'd; no more hearing. COMINIUS. Let me speak. I have been consul, and can show for Rome Her enemies' marks upon me. I do love My country's good with a respect more tender, More holy and profound, than mine own life, My dear wife's estimate, her womb's increase And treasure of my loins. Then if I would Speak that- SICINIUS. We know your drift. Speak what? BRUTUS. There's no more to be said, but he is banish'd, As enemy to the people and his country. It shall be so. PLEBEIANS. It shall be so, it shall be so. CORIOLANUS. You common cry of curs, whose breath I hate As reek o' th' rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air- I banish you. And here remain with your uncertainty! Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts; Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes, Fan you into despair! Have the power still To banish your defenders, till at length Your ignorance- which finds not till it feels, Making but reservation of yourselves Still your own foes- deliver you As most abated captives to some nation That won you without blows! Despising For you the city, thus I turn my back; There is a world elsewhere. Exeunt CORIOLANUS, COMINIUS, MENENIUS, with the other PATRICIANS AEDILE. The people's enemy is gone, is gone! [They all shout and throw up their caps] PLEBEIANS. Our enemy is banish'd, he is gone! Hoo-oo! SICINIUS. Go see him out at gates, and follow him, As he hath follow'd you, with all despite; Give him deserv'd vexation. Let a guard Attend us through the city. PLEBEIANS. Come, come, let's see him out at gates; come! The gods preserve our noble tribunes! Come. Exeunt Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Sicinius und Brutus planen Coriolanus' Untergang. Sie haben ein Abstimmungssystem arrangiert, das die Ansichten der armen Mehrheit statt des üblichen Systems begünstigt, das den Patriziern zugutekommt. Sie instruieren einen Aedilen, auf das Volk einzuwirken und alles zu wiederholen, was sie beschließen. Brutus sagt Sicinius, er solle Coriolanus wütend machen, da er seine Rede nicht kontrollieren könne und etwas sagen werde, das zu seinem Verderben führen wird. Coriolanus betritt begleitet von Senatoren die Szene. Er stimmt zu, sich dem Urteil des Volkes zu beugen. Menenius verteidigt Coriolanus und weist darauf hin, dass er wertvolle Dienste für Rom geleistet hat, jedoch als Soldat rau im Ton ist. Sicinius beschuldigt Coriolanus, eine Verschwörung zur Erringung tyrannischer Macht geschmiedet zu haben und des Verrats am Volk. Coriolanus geht auf den Köder ein und beschuldigt ihn wütend, ein Lügner zu sein. Mit Sicinius' Ermutigung rufen die Plebejer nach Coriolanus' Sturz vom Tarpeianischen Felsen. Die Senatoren erinnern ihn daran, höflich zu sein, aber Coriolanus besteht darauf, kein höfliches Wort zu ihnen zu sagen, selbst wenn es seinen Tod bedeutet. Sicinius und Brutus verurteilen Coriolanus: Er soll für immer aus Rom verbannt werden. Die Plebejer stimmen dem Urteil zu. Coriolanus antwortet verächtlich, dass er es ist, der sie verbannen wird. Er verlässt die Szene zusammen mit den Patriziern.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: DURING the week before Christmas, Jake was the most important person of our household, for he was to go to town and do all our Christmas shopping. But on the 21st of December, the snow began to fall. The flakes came down so thickly that from the sitting-room windows I could not see beyond the windmill--its frame looked dim and gray, unsubstantial like a shadow. The snow did not stop falling all day, or during the night that followed. The cold was not severe, but the storm was quiet and resistless. The men could not go farther than the barns and corral. They sat about the house most of the day as if it were Sunday; greasing their boots, mending their suspenders, plaiting whiplashes. On the morning of the 22d, grandfather announced at breakfast that it would be impossible to go to Black Hawk for Christmas purchases. Jake was sure he could get through on horseback, and bring home our things in saddle-bags; but grandfather told him the roads would be obliterated, and a newcomer in the country would be lost ten times over. Anyway, he would never allow one of his horses to be put to such a strain. We decided to have a country Christmas, without any help from town. I had wanted to get some picture-books for Yulka and Antonia; even Yulka was able to read a little now. Grandmother took me into the ice-cold storeroom, where she had some bolts of gingham and sheeting. She cut squares of cotton cloth and we sewed them together into a book. We bound it between pasteboards, which I covered with brilliant calico, representing scenes from a circus. For two days I sat at the dining-room table, pasting this book full of pictures for Yulka. We had files of those good old family magazines which used to publish colored lithographs of popular paintings, and I was allowed to use some of these. I took "Napoleon Announcing the Divorce to Josephine" for my frontispiece. On the white pages I grouped Sunday-School cards and advertising cards which I had brought from my "old country." Fuchs got out the old candle-moulds and made tallow candles. Grandmother hunted up her fancy cake-cutters and baked gingerbread men and roosters, which we decorated with burnt sugar and red cinnamon drops. On the day before Christmas, Jake packed the things we were sending to the Shimerdas in his saddle-bags and set off on grandfather's gray gelding. When he mounted his horse at the door, I saw that he had a hatchet slung to his belt, and he gave grandmother a meaning look which told me he was planning a surprise for me. That afternoon I watched long and eagerly from the sitting-room window. At last I saw a dark spot moving on the west hill, beside the half-buried cornfield, where the sky was taking on a coppery flush from the sun that did not quite break through. I put on my cap and ran out to meet Jake. When I got to the pond I could see that he was bringing in a little cedar tree across his pommel. He used to help my father cut Christmas trees for me in Virginia, and he had not forgotten how much I liked them. By the time we had placed the cold, fresh-smelling little tree in a corner of the sitting-room, it was already Christmas Eve. After supper we all gathered there, and even grandfather, reading his paper by the table, looked up with friendly interest now and then. The cedar was about five feet high and very shapely. We hung it with the gingerbread animals, strings of popcorn, and bits of candle which Fuchs had fitted into pasteboard sockets. Its real splendors, however, came from the most unlikely place in the world--from Otto's cowboy trunk. I had never seen anything in that trunk but old boots and spurs and pistols, and a fascinating mixture of yellow leather thongs, cartridges, and shoemaker's wax. From under the lining he now produced a collection of brilliantly colored paper figures, several inches high and stiff enough to stand alone. They had been sent to him year after year, by his old mother in Austria. There was a bleeding heart, in tufts of paper lace; there were the three kings, gorgeously appareled, and the ox and the ass and the shepherds; there was the Baby in the manger, and a group of angels, singing; there were camels and leopards, held by the black slaves of the three kings. Our tree became the talking tree of the fairy tale; legends and stories nestled like birds in its branches. Grandmother said it reminded her of the Tree of Knowledge. We put sheets of cotton wool under it for a snow-field, and Jake's pocket-mirror for a frozen lake. I can see them now, exactly as they looked, working about the table in the lamplight: Jake with his heavy features, so rudely moulded that his face seemed, somehow, unfinished; Otto with his half-ear and the savage scar that made his upper lip curl so ferociously under his twisted mustache. As I remember them, what unprotected faces they were; their very roughness and violence made them defenseless. These boys had no practiced manner behind which they could retreat and hold people at a distance. They had only their hard fists to batter at the world with. Otto was already one of those drifting, case-hardened laborers who never marry or have children of their own. Yet he was so fond of children! Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Jake soll nach Black Hawk fahren, um die Weihnachtseinkäufe für die Familie zu erledigen, aber es schneit so stark, dass beschlossen wird, dass er nicht fahren sollte. Die Familie feiert stattdessen ein ländliches Weihnachten und fertigt die Geschenke für alle selbst an. Mit Hilfe der Großmutter erstellt Jim Bilderbücher für Yulka und Antonia. Am Tag vor Weihnachten bringt Jake die Weihnachtsgeschenke für die Shimerdas und kehrt mit einem Weihnachtsbaum zurück. Die Familie schmückt den Baum mit Lebkuchen, Popcorn und Kerzen. Außerdem nimmt Otto aus einer Kiste, die all sein Cowboy-Eigentum enthält, Weihnachtspapierfiguren mit, die ihm jedes Jahr seine Mutter in Österreich schickt. Jim berichtet, dass er immer noch deutlich vor Augen hat, wie Otto und Jake damals aussahen, obwohl sie von außen bedrohlich wirkten, wusste er, dass sie tatsächlich sehr verletzlich waren. Das Kämpfen war das Einzige, was sie konnten, und obwohl Otto Kinder liebte, war er dazu bestimmt, ein abgehärteter, kinderloser Arbeiter zu werden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Maggy sat at her work in her great white cap with its quantity of opaque frilling hiding what profile she had (she had none to spare), and her serviceable eye brought to bear upon her occupation, on the window side of the room. What with her flapping cap, and what with her unserviceable eye, she was quite partitioned off from her Little Mother, whose seat was opposite the window. The tread and shuffle of feet on the pavement of the yard had much diminished since the taking of the Chair, the tide of Collegians having set strongly in the direction of Harmony. Some few who had no music in their souls, or no money in their pockets, dawdled about; and the old spectacle of the visitor-wife and the depressed unseasoned prisoner still lingered in corners, as broken cobwebs and such unsightly discomforts draggle in corners of other places. It was the quietest time the College knew, saving the night hours when the Collegians took the benefit of the act of sleep. The occasional rattle of applause upon the tables of the Snuggery, denoted the successful termination of a morsel of Harmony; or the responsive acceptance, by the united children, of some toast or sentiment offered to them by their Father. Occasionally, a vocal strain more sonorous than the generality informed the listener that some boastful bass was in blue water, or in the hunting field, or with the reindeer, or on the mountain, or among the heather; but the Marshal of the Marshalsea knew better, and had got him hard and fast. As Arthur Clennam moved to sit down by the side of Little Dorrit, she trembled so that she had much ado to hold her needle. Clennam gently put his hand upon her work, and said, 'Dear Little Dorrit, let me lay it down.' She yielded it to him, and he put it aside. Her hands were then nervously clasping together, but he took one of them. 'How seldom I have seen you lately, Little Dorrit!' 'I have been busy, sir.' 'But I heard only to-day,' said Clennam, 'by mere accident, of your having been with those good people close by me. Why not come to me, then?' 'I--I don't know. Or rather, I thought you might be busy too. You generally are now, are you not?' He saw her trembling little form and her downcast face, and the eyes that drooped the moment they were raised to his--he saw them almost with as much concern as tenderness. 'My child, your manner is so changed!' The trembling was now quite beyond her control. Softly withdrawing her hand, and laying it in her other hand, she sat before him with her head bent and her whole form trembling. 'My own Little Dorrit,' said Clennam, compassionately. She burst into tears. Maggy looked round of a sudden, and stared for at least a minute; but did not interpose. Clennam waited some little while before he spoke again. 'I cannot bear,' he said then, 'to see you weep; but I hope this is a relief to an overcharged heart.' 'Yes it is, sir. Nothing but that.' 'Well, well! I feared you would think too much of what passed here just now. It is of no moment; not the least. I am only unfortunate to have come in the way. Let it go by with these tears. It is not worth one of them. One of them? Such an idle thing should be repeated, with my glad consent, fifty times a day, to save you a moment's heart-ache, Little Dorrit.' She had taken courage now, and answered, far more in her usual manner, 'You are so good! But even if there was nothing else in it to be sorry for and ashamed of, it is such a bad return to you--' 'Hush!' said Clennam, smiling and touching her lips with his hand. 'Forgetfulness in you who remember so many and so much, would be new indeed. Shall I remind you that I am not, and that I never was, anything but the friend whom you agreed to trust? No. You remember it, don't you?' 'I try to do so, or I should have broken the promise just now, when my mistaken brother was here. You will consider his bringing-up in this place, and will not judge him hardly, poor fellow, I know!' In raising her eyes with these words, she observed his face more nearly than she had done yet, and said, with a quick change of tone, 'You have not been ill, Mr Clennam?' 'No.' 'Nor tried? Nor hurt?' she asked him, anxiously. It fell to Clennam now, to be not quite certain how to answer. He said in reply: 'To speak the truth, I have been a little troubled, but it is over. Do I show it so plainly? I ought to have more fortitude and self-command than that. I thought I had. I must learn them of you. Who could teach me better!' He never thought that she saw in him what no one else could see. He never thought that in the whole world there were no other eyes that looked upon him with the same light and strength as hers. 'But it brings me to something that I wish to say,' he continued, 'and therefore I will not quarrel even with my own face for telling tales and being unfaithful to me. Besides, it is a privilege and pleasure to confide in my Little Dorrit. Let me confess then, that, forgetting how grave I was, and how old I was, and how the time for such things had gone by me with the many years of sameness and little happiness that made up my long life far away, without marking it--that, forgetting all this, I fancied I loved some one.' 'Do I know her, sir?' asked Little Dorrit. 'No, my child.' 'Not the lady who has been kind to me for your sake?' 'Flora. No, no. Do you think--' 'I never quite thought so,' said Little Dorrit, more to herself than him. 'I did wonder at it a little.' 'Well!' said Clennam, abiding by the feeling that had fallen on him in the avenue on the night of the roses, the feeling that he was an older man, who had done with that tender part of life, 'I found out my mistake, and I thought about it a little--in short, a good deal--and got wiser. Being wiser, I counted up my years and considered what I am, and looked back, and looked forward, and found that I should soon be grey. I found that I had climbed the hill, and passed the level ground upon the top, and was descending quickly.' If he had known the sharpness of the pain he caused the patient heart, in speaking thus! While doing it, too, with the purpose of easing and serving her. 'I found that the day when any such thing would have been graceful in me, or good in me, or hopeful or happy for me or any one in connection with me, was gone, and would never shine again.' O! If he had known, if he had known! If he could have seen the dagger in his hand, and the cruel wounds it struck in the faithful bleeding breast of his Little Dorrit! 'All that is over, and I have turned my face from it. Why do I speak of this to Little Dorrit? Why do I show you, my child, the space of years that there is between us, and recall to you that I have passed, by the amount of your whole life, the time that is present to you?' 'Because you trust me, I hope. Because you know that nothing can touch you without touching me; that nothing can make you happy or unhappy, but it must make me, who am so grateful to you, the same.' He heard the thrill in her voice, he saw her earnest face, he saw her clear true eyes, he saw the quickened bosom that would have joyfully thrown itself before him to receive a mortal wound directed at his breast, with the dying cry, 'I love him!' and the remotest suspicion of the truth never dawned upon his mind. No. He saw the devoted little creature with her worn shoes, in her common dress, in her jail-home; a slender child in body, a strong heroine in soul; and the light of her domestic story made all else dark to him. 'For those reasons assuredly, Little Dorrit, but for another too. So far removed, so different, and so much older, I am the better fitted for your friend and adviser. I mean, I am the more easily to be trusted; and any little constraint that you might feel with another, may vanish before me. Why have you kept so retired from me? Tell me.' 'I am better here. My place and use are here. I am much better here,' said Little Dorrit, faintly. 'So you said that day upon the bridge. I thought of it much afterwards. Have you no secret you could entrust to me, with hope and comfort, if you would!' 'Secret? No, I have no secret,' said Little Dorrit in some trouble. They had been speaking in low voices; more because it was natural to what they said to adopt that tone, than with any care to reserve it from Maggy at her work. All of a sudden Maggy stared again, and this time spoke: 'I say! Little Mother!' 'Yes, Maggy.' 'If you an't got no secret of your own to tell him, tell him that about the Princess. _She_ had a secret, you know.' 'The Princess had a secret?' said Clennam, in some surprise. 'What Princess was that, Maggy?' 'Lor! How you do go and bother a gal of ten,' said Maggy, 'catching the poor thing up in that way. Whoever said the Princess had a secret? _I_ never said so.' 'I beg your pardon. I thought you did.' 'No, I didn't. How could I, when it was her as wanted to find it out? It was the little woman as had the secret, and she was always a spinning at her wheel. And so she says to her, why do you keep it there? And so the t'other one says to her, no I don't; and so the t'other one says to her, yes you do; and then they both goes to the cupboard, and there it is. And she wouldn't go into the Hospital, and so she died. _You_ know, Little Mother; tell him that. For it was a reg'lar good secret, that was!' cried Maggy, hugging herself. Arthur looked at Little Dorrit for help to comprehend this, and was struck by seeing her so timid and red. But, when she told him that it was only a Fairy Tale she had one day made up for Maggy, and that there was nothing in it which she wouldn't be ashamed to tell again to anybody else, even if she could remember it, he left the subject where it was. However, he returned to his own subject by first entreating her to see him oftener, and to remember that it was impossible to have a stronger interest in her welfare than he had, or to be more set upon promoting it than he was. When she answered fervently, she well knew that, she never forgot it, he touched upon his second and more delicate point--the suspicion he had formed. 'Little Dorrit,' he said, taking her hand again, and speaking lower than he had spoken yet, so that even Maggy in the small room could not hear him, 'another word. I have wanted very much to say this to you; I have tried for opportunities. Don't mind me, who, for the matter of years, might be your father or your uncle. Always think of me as quite an old man. I know that all your devotion centres in this room, and that nothing to the last will ever tempt you away from the duties you discharge here. If I were not sure of it, I should, before now, have implored you, and implored your father, to let me make some provision for you in a more suitable place. But you may have an interest--I will not say, now, though even that might be--may have, at another time, an interest in some one else; an interest not incompatible with your affection here.' She was very, very pale, and silently shook her head. 'It may be, dear Little Dorrit.' 'No. No. No.' She shook her head, after each slow repetition of the word, with an air of quiet desolation that he remembered long afterwards. The time came when he remembered it well, long afterwards, within those prison walls; within that very room. 'But, if it ever should be, tell me so, my dear child. Entrust the truth to me, point out the object of such an interest to me, and I will try with all the zeal, and honour, and friendship and respect that I feel for you, good Little Dorrit of my heart, to do you a lasting service.' 'O thank you, thank you! But, O no, O no, O no!' She said this, looking at him with her work-worn hands folded together, and in the same resigned accents as before. 'I press for no confidence now. I only ask you to repose unhesitating trust in me.' 'Can I do less than that, when you are so good!' 'Then you will trust me fully? Will have no secret unhappiness, or anxiety, concealed from me?' 'Almost none.' 'And you have none now?' She shook her head. But she was very pale. 'When I lie down to-night, and my thoughts come back--as they will, for they do every night, even when I have not seen you--to this sad place, I may believe that there is no grief beyond this room, now, and its usual occupants, which preys on Little Dorrit's mind?' She seemed to catch at these words--that he remembered, too, long afterwards--and said, more brightly, 'Yes, Mr Clennam; yes, you may!' The crazy staircase, usually not slow to give notice when any one was coming up or down, here creaked under a quick tread, and a further sound was heard upon it, as if a little steam-engine with more steam than it knew what to do with, were working towards the room. As it approached, which it did very rapidly, it laboured with increased energy; and, after knocking at the door, it sounded as if it were stooping down and snorting in at the keyhole. Before Maggy could open the door, Mr Pancks, opening it from without, stood without a hat and with his bare head in the wildest condition, looking at Clennam and Little Dorrit, over her shoulder. He had a lighted cigar in his hand, and brought with him airs of ale and tobacco smoke. 'Pancks the gipsy,' he observed out of breath, 'fortune-telling.' He stood dingily smiling, and breathing hard at them, with a most curious air; as if, instead of being his proprietor's grubber, he were the triumphant proprietor of the Marshalsea, the Marshal, all the turnkeys, and all the Collegians. In his great self-satisfaction he put his cigar to his lips (being evidently no smoker), and took such a pull at it, with his right eye shut up tight for the purpose, that he underwent a convulsion of shuddering and choking. But even in the midst of that paroxysm, he still essayed to repeat his favourite introduction of himself, 'Pa-ancks the gi-ipsy, fortune-telling.' 'I am spending the evening with the rest of 'em,' said Pancks. 'I've been singing. I've been taking a part in White sand and grey sand. _I_ don't know anything about it. Never mind. I'll take any part in anything. It's all the same, if you're loud enough.' At first Clennam supposed him to be intoxicated. But he soon perceived that though he might be a little the worse (or better) for ale, the staple of his excitement was not brewed from malt, or distilled from any grain or berry. 'How d'ye do, Miss Dorrit?' said Pancks. 'I thought you wouldn't mind my running round, and looking in for a moment. Mr Clennam I heard was here, from Mr Dorrit. How are you, Sir?' Clennam thanked him, and said he was glad to see him so gay. 'Gay!' said Pancks. 'I'm in wonderful feather, sir. I can't stop a minute, or I shall be missed, and I don't want 'em to miss me.--Eh, Miss Dorrit?' He seemed to have an insatiate delight in appealing to her and looking at her; excitedly sticking his hair up at the same moment, like a dark species of cockatoo. 'I haven't been here half an hour. I knew Mr Dorrit was in the chair, and I said, "I'll go and support him!" I ought to be down in Bleeding Heart Yard by rights; but I can worry them to-morrow.--Eh, Miss Dorrit?' His little black eyes sparkled electrically. His very hair seemed to sparkle as he roughened it. He was in that highly-charged state that one might have expected to draw sparks and snaps from him by presenting a knuckle to any part of his figure. 'Capital company here,' said Pancks.--'Eh, Miss Dorrit?' She was half afraid of him, and irresolute what to say. He laughed, with a nod towards Clennam. 'Don't mind him, Miss Dorrit. He's one of us. We agreed that you shouldn't take on to mind me before people, but we didn't mean Mr Clennam. He's one of us. He's in it. An't you, Mr Clennam?--Eh, Miss Dorrit?' The excitement of this strange creature was fast communicating itself to Clennam. Little Dorrit with amazement, saw this, and observed that they exchanged quick looks. 'I was making a remark,' said Pancks, 'but I declare I forget what it was. Oh, I know! Capital company here. I've been treating 'em all round.--Eh, Miss Dorrit?' 'Very generous of you,' she returned, noticing another of the quick looks between the two. 'Not at all,' said Pancks. 'Don't mention it. I'm coming into my property, that's the fact. I can afford to be liberal. I think I'll give 'em a treat here. Tables laid in the yard. Bread in stacks. Pipes in faggots. Tobacco in hayloads. Roast beef and plum-pudding for every one. Quart of double stout a head. Pint of wine too, if they like it, and the authorities give permission.--Eh, Miss Dorrit?' She was thrown into such a confusion by his manner, or rather by Clennam's growing understanding of his manner (for she looked to him after every fresh appeal and cockatoo demonstration on the part of Mr Pancks), that she only moved her lips in answer, without forming any word. 'And oh, by-the-bye!' said Pancks, 'you were to live to know what was behind us on that little hand of yours. And so you shall, you shall, my darling.--Eh, Miss Dorrit?' He had suddenly checked himself. Where he got all the additional black prongs from, that now flew up all over his head like the myriads of points that break out in the large change of a great firework, was a wonderful mystery. 'But I shall be missed;' he came back to that; 'and I don't want 'em to miss me. Mr Clennam, you and I made a bargain. I said you should find me stick to it. You shall find me stick to it now, sir, if you'll step out of the room a moment. Miss Dorrit, I wish you good night. Miss Dorrit, I wish you good fortune.' He rapidly shook her by both hands, and puffed down stairs. Arthur followed him with such a hurried step, that he had very nearly tumbled over him on the last landing, and rolled him down into the yard. 'What is it, for Heaven's sake!' Arthur demanded, when they burst out there both together. 'Stop a moment, sir. Mr Rugg. Let me introduce him.' With those words he presented another man without a hat, and also with a cigar, and also surrounded with a halo of ale and tobacco smoke, which man, though not so excited as himself, was in a state which would have been akin to lunacy but for its fading into sober method when compared with the rampancy of Mr Pancks. 'Mr Clennam, Mr Rugg,' said Pancks. 'Stop a moment. Come to the pump.' They adjourned to the pump. Mr Pancks, instantly putting his head under the spout, requested Mr Rugg to take a good strong turn at the handle. Mr Rugg complying to the letter, Mr Pancks came forth snorting and blowing to some purpose, and dried himself on his handkerchief. 'I am the clearer for that,' he gasped to Clennam standing astonished. 'But upon my soul, to hear her father making speeches in that chair, knowing what we know, and to see her up in that room in that dress, knowing what we know, is enough to--give me a back, Mr Rugg--a little higher, sir,--that'll do!' Then and there, on that Marshalsea pavement, in the shades of evening, did Mr Pancks, of all mankind, fly over the head and shoulders of Mr Rugg of Pentonville, General Agent, Accountant, and Recoverer of Debts. Alighting on his feet, he took Clennam by the button-hole, led him behind the pump, and pantingly produced from his pocket a bundle of papers. Mr Rugg, also, pantingly produced from his pocket a bundle of papers. 'Stay!' said Clennam in a whisper.'You have made a discovery.' Mr Pancks answered, with an unction which there is no language to convey, 'We rather think so.' 'Does it implicate any one?' 'How implicate, sir?' 'In any suppression or wrong dealing of any kind?' 'Not a bit of it.' 'Thank God!' said Clennam to himself. 'Now show me.' 'You are to understand'--snorted Pancks, feverishly unfolding papers, and speaking in short high-pressure blasts of sentences, 'Where's the Pedigree? Where's Schedule number four, Mr Rugg? Oh! all right! Here we are.--You are to understand that we are this very day virtually complete. We shan't be legally for a day or two. Call it at the outside a week. We've been at it night and day for I don't know how long. Mr Rugg, you know how long? Never mind. Don't say. You'll only confuse me. You shall tell her, Mr Clennam. Not till we give you leave. Where's that rough total, Mr Rugg? Oh! Here we are! There sir! That's what you'll have to break to her. That man's your Father of the Marshalsea!' Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Oh, dieses Kapitel ist wirklich hart. Es ist, als wäre das ganze emotionale Melodrama der Highschool in ein zehnminütiges Gespräch gepackt. Mach dich bereit, ein bisschen punchy zu werden - alles, was Shmoop tun möchte, ist, Arthur und Little Dorrit ein bisschen zu schlagen. Also ja, endlich allein. Arthur ist so: Hey, warum bist du in letzter Zeit so abwesend? Little Dorrit fängt an zu weinen. Dann sagt sie, dass sie einfach nur beschäftigt war. Und sowieso, was ist mit Arthur los? War er krank oder so etwas? Arthur ist schockiert, dass sie das sehen kann, und gesteht, dass er irgendwie in jemanden verliebt war, aber es hat nicht geklappt. Autsch. Little Dorrit fragt, ob es jemand ist, den sie kennt. Flora, vielleicht? Arthur ist wie: Ew, nein! Dann erzählt er ihr, dass er jetzt erkennt, dass er zu alt für romantische Liebe ist. Nochmal Autsch! Völlig ahnungslos macht er weiter: Little Dorrit sollte ihn als Freund betrachten und ihm alle ihre Geheimnisse erzählen. Er weiß, dass sie immer an die ganze Sache mit den Dorrits gebunden sein wird. Körperslam! Little Dorrit ist intensiv von diesem Schmerz betroffen, als plötzlich... Maggie sagt, dass Little Dorrit Arthur von der Prinzessin und der alten Frau und dem Schatten erzählen sollte. Little Dorrit wird rot, wird verlegen, aber dann tut sie so, als wäre es nur ein Unsinn aus dem Märchen, das sie Maggie erzählt hat und sich nicht mehr erinnert. Arthur glaubt das. Er ist wirklich furchtbar darin, Menschen zu lesen. Er fragt weiter: Liebt Little Dorrit jemanden? Will sie es nicht mit Arthur teilen? Er möchte ihr Freund und Vertrauter sein. Während sie "nein, nein" sagt, öffnet sich die Tür und herein kommt... Pancks. Pancks ist total komisch und macht sein "Hellseher"-Ding. Er wechselt ständig bedeutungsvolle Blicke mit Arthur aus. Pancks und Arthur gehen in den Flur. Pancks hat anscheinend etwas Super-Tolles über die Dorrits entdeckt. Er überlässt es Arthur, die Nachricht zu überbringen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: I was ever of opinion, that the honest man who married and brought up a large family, did more service than he who continued single, and only talked of population. From this motive, I had scarce taken orders a year before I began to think seriously of matrimony, and chose my wife as she did her wedding gown, not for a fine glossy surfaces but such qualities as would wear well. To do her justice, she was a good-natured notable woman; and as for breeding, there were few country ladies who could shew more. She could read any English book without much spelling, but for pickling, preserving, and cookery, none could excel her. She prided herself also upon being an excellent contriver in house-keeping; tho' I could never find that we grew richer with all her contrivances. However, we loved each other tenderly, and our fondness encreased as we grew old. There was in fact nothing that could make us angry with the world or each other. We had an elegant house, situated in a fine country, and a good neighbourhood. The year was spent in moral or rural amusements; in visiting our rich neighbours, and relieving such as were poor. We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo; all our adventures were by the fire-side, and all our migrations from the blue bed to the brown. As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or stranger visit us to taste our gooseberry wine, for which we had great reputation; and I profess with the veracity of an historian, that I never knew one of them find fault with it. Our cousins too, even to the fortieth remove, all remembered their affinity, without any help from the Herald's office, and came very frequently to see us. Some of them did us no great honour by these claims of kindred; as we had the blind, the maimed, and the halt amongst the number. However, my wife always insisted that as they were the same flesh and blood, they should sit with us at the same table. So that if we had not, very rich, we generally had very happy friends about us; for this remark will hold good thro' life, that the poorer the guest, the better pleased he ever is with being treated: and as some men gaze with admiration at the colours of a tulip, or the wing of a butterfly, so I was by nature an admirer of happy human faces. However, when any one of our relations was found to be a person of very bad character, a troublesome guest, or one we desired to get rid of, upon his leaving my house, I ever took care to lend him a riding coat, or a pair of boots, or sometimes an horse of small value, and I always had the satisfaction of finding he never came back to return them. By this the house was cleared of such as we did not like; but never was the family of Wakefield known to turn the traveller or the poor dependent out of doors. Thus we lived several years in a state of much happiness, not but that we sometimes had those little rubs which Providence sends to enhance the value of its favours. My orchard was often robbed by school-boys, and my wife's custards plundered by the cats or the children. The 'Squire would sometimes fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or his lady return my wife's civilities at church with a mutilated curtesy. But we soon got over the uneasiness caused by such accidents, and usually in three or four days began to wonder how they vext us. My children, the offspring of temperance, as they were educated without softness, so they were at once well formed and healthy; my sons hardy and active, my daughters beautiful and blooming. When I stood in the midst of the little circle, which promised to be the supports of my declining age, I could not avoid repeating the famous story of Count Abensberg, who, in Henry II's progress through Germany, while other courtiers came with their treasures, brought his thirty-two children, and presented them to his sovereign as the most valuable offering he had to bestow. In this manner, though I had but six, I considered them as a very valuable present made to my country, and consequently looked upon it as my debtor. Our eldest son was named George, after his uncle, who left us ten thousand pounds. Our second child, a girl, I intended to call after her aunt Grissel; but my wife, who during her pregnancy had been reading romances, insisted upon her being called Olivia. In less than another year we had another daughter, and now I was determined that Grissel should be her name; but a rich relation taking a fancy to stand godmother, the girl was, by her directions, called Sophia; so that we had two romantic names in the family; but I solemnly protest I had no hand in it. Moses was our next, and after an interval of twelve years, we had two sons more. It would be fruitless to deny my exultation when I saw my little ones about me; but the vanity and the satisfaction of my wife were even greater than mine. When our visitors would say, 'Well, upon my word, Mrs Primrose, you have the finest children in the whole country.'--'Ay, neighbour,' she would answer, 'they are as heaven made them, handsome enough, if they be good enough; for handsome is that handsome does.' And then she would bid the girls hold up their heads; who, to conceal nothing, were certainly very handsome. Mere outside is so very trifling a circumstance with me, that I should scarce have remembered to mention it, had it not been a general topic of conversation in the country. Olivia, now about eighteen, had that luxuriancy of beauty with which painters generally draw Hebe; open, sprightly, and commanding. Sophia's features were not so striking at first; but often did more certain execution; for they were soft, modest, and alluring. The one vanquished by a single blow, the other by efforts successfully repeated. The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn of her features, at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia wished for many lovers, Sophia to secure one. Olivia was often affected from too great a desire to please. Sophia even represt excellence from her fears to offend. The one entertained me with her vivacity when I was gay, the other with her sense when I was serious. But these qualities were never carried to excess in either, and I have often seen them exchange characters for a whole day together. A suit of mourning has transformed my coquet into a prude, and a new set of ribbands has given her younger sister more than natural vivacity. My eldest son George was bred at Oxford, as I intended him for one of the learned professions. My second boy Moses, whom I designed for business, received a sort of a miscellaneous education at home. But it is needless to attempt describing the particular characters of young people that had seen but very little of the world. In short, a family likeness prevailed through all, and properly speaking, they had but one character, that of being all equally generous, credulous, simple, and inoffensive. The temporal concerns of our family were chiefly committed to my wife's management, as to the spiritual I took them entirely under my own direction. The profits of my living, which amounted to but thirty-five pounds a year, I made over to the orphans and widows of the clergy of our diocese; for having a sufficient fortune of my own, I was careless of temporalities, and felt a secret pleasure in doing my duty without reward. I also set a resolution of keeping no curate, and of being acquainted with every man in the parish, exhorting the married men to temperance and the bachelors to matrimony; so that in a few years it was a common saying, that there were three strange wants at Wakefield, a parson wanting pride, young men wanting wives, and ale-houses wanting customers. Matrimony was always one of my favourite topics, and I wrote several sermons to prove its happiness: but there was a peculiar tenet which I made a point of supporting; for I maintained with Whiston, that it was unlawful for a priest of the church of England, after the death of his first wife, to take a second, or to express it in one word, I valued myself upon being a strict monogamist. I was early innitiated into this important dispute, on which so many laborious volumes have been written. I published some tracts upon the subject myself, which, as they never sold, I have the consolation of thinking are read only by the happy Few. Some of my friends called this my weak side; but alas! they had not like me made it the subject of long contemplation. The more I reflected upon it, the more important it appeared. I even went a step beyond Whiston in displaying my principles: as he had engraven upon his wife's tomb that she was the only wife of William Whiston; so I wrote a similar epitaph for my wife, though still living, in which I extolled her prudence, oeconomy, and obedience till death; and having got it copied fair, with an elegant frame, it was placed over the chimney-piece, where it answered several very useful purposes. It admonished my wife of her duty to me, and my fidelity to her; it inspired her with a passion for fame, and constantly put her in mind of her end. It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often recommended, that my eldest son, just upon leaving college, fixed his affections upon the daughter of a neighbouring clergyman, who was a dignitary in the church, and in circumstances to give her a large fortune: but fortune was her smallest accomplishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all, except my two daughters, to be completely pretty. Her youth, health, and innocence, were still heightened by a complexion so transparent, and such an happy sensibility of look, as even age could not gaze on with indifference. As Mr Wilmot knew that I could make a very handsome settlement on my son, he was not averse to the match; so both families lived together in all that harmony which generally precedes an expected alliance. Being convinced by experience that the days of courtship are the most happy of our lives, I was willing enough to lengthen the period; and the various amusements which the young couple every day shared in each other's company, seemed to encrease their passion. We were generally awaked in the morning by music, and on fine days rode a hunting. The hours between breakfast and dinner the ladies devoted to dress and study: they usually read a page, and then gazed at themselves in the glass, which even philosophers might own often presented the page of greatest beauty. At dinner my wife took the lead; for as she always insisted upon carving every thing herself, it being her mother's way, she gave us upon these occasions the history of every dish. When we had dined, to prevent the ladies leaving us, I generally ordered the table to be removed; and sometimes, with the music master's assistance, the girls would give us a very agreeable concert. Walking out, drinking tea, country dances, and forfeits, shortened the rest of the day, without the assistance of cards, as I hated all manner of gaming, except backgammon, at which my old friend and I sometimes took a two-penny hit. Nor can I here pass over an ominous circumstance that happened the last time we played together: I only wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I threw deuce ace five times running. Some months were elapsed in this manner, till at last it was thought convenient to fix a day for the nuptials of the young couple, who seemed earnestly to desire it. During the preparations for the wedding, I need not describe the busy importance of my wife, nor the sly looks of my daughters: in fact, my attention was fixed on another object, the completing a tract which I intended shortly to publish in defence of my favourite principle. As I looked upon this as a master-piece both for argument and style, I could not in the pride of my heart avoid shewing it to my old friend Mr Wilmot, as I made no doubt of receiving his approbation; but not till too late I discovered that he was most violently attached to the contrary opinion, and with good reason; for he was at that time actually courting a fourth wife. This, as may be expected, produced a dispute attended with some acrimony, which threatened to interrupt our intended alliance: but on the day before that appointed for the ceremony, we agreed to discuss the subject at large. It was managed with proper spirit on both sides: he asserted that I was heterodox, I retorted the charge: he replied, and I rejoined. In the mean time, while the controversy was hottest, I was called out by one of my relations, who, with a face of concern, advised me to give up the dispute, at least till my son's wedding was over. 'How,' cried I, 'relinquish the cause of truth, and let him be an husband, already driven to the very verge of absurdity. You might as well advise me to give up my fortune as my argument.' 'Your fortune,' returned my friend, 'I am now sorry to inform you, is almost nothing. The merchant in town, in whose hands your money was lodged, has gone off, to avoid a statute of bankruptcy, and is thought not to have left a shilling in the pound. I was unwilling to shock you or the family with the account till after the wedding: but now it may serve to moderate your warmth in the argument; for, I suppose, your own prudence will enforce the necessity of dissembling at least till your son has the young lady's fortune secure.'--'Well,' returned I, 'if what you tell me be true, and if I am to be a beggar, it shall never make me a rascal, or induce me to disavow my principles. I'll go this moment and inform the company of my circumstances; and as for the argument, I even here retract my former concessions in the old gentleman's favour, nor will I allow him now to be an husband in any sense of the expression.' It would be endless to describe the different sensations of both families when I divulged the news of our misfortune; but what others felt was slight to what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr Wilmot, who seemed before sufficiently inclined to break off the match, was by this blow soon determined: one virtue he had in perfection, which was prudence, too often the only one that is left us at seventy-two. The only hope of our family now was, that the report of our misfortunes might be malicious or premature: but a letter from my agent in town soon came with a confirmation of every particular. The loss of fortune to myself alone would have been trifling; the only uneasiness I felt was for my family, who were to be humble without an education to render them callous to contempt. Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to restrain their affliction; for premature consolation is but the remembrancer of sorrow. During this interval, my thoughts were employed on some future means of supporting them; and at last a small Cure of fifteen pounds a year was offered me in a distant neighbourhood, where I could still enjoy my principles without molestation. With this proposal I joyfully closed, having determined to encrease my salary by managing a little farm. Having taken this resolution, my next care was to get together the wrecks of my fortune; and all debts collected and paid, out of fourteen thousand pounds we had but four hundred remaining. My chief attention therefore was now to bring down the pride of my family to their circumstances; for I well knew that aspiring beggary is wretchedness itself. 'You cannot be ignorant, my children,' cried I, 'that no prudence of ours could have prevented our late misfortune; but prudence may do much in disappointing its effects. We are now poor, my fondlings, and wisdom bids us conform to our humble situation. Let us then, without repining, give up those splendours with which numbers are wretched, and seek in humbler circumstances that peace with which all may be happy. The poor live pleasantly without our help, why then should not we learn to live without theirs. No, my children, let us from this moment give up all pretensions to gentility; we have still enough left for happiness if we are wise, and let us draw upon content for the deficiencies of fortune.' As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined to send him to town, where his abilities might contribute to our support and his own. The separation of friends and families is, perhaps, one of the most distressful circumstances attendant on penury. The day soon arrived on which we were to disperse for the first time. My son, after taking leave of his mother and the rest, who mingled their tears with their kisses, came to ask a blessing from me. This I gave him from my heart, and which, added to five guineas, was all the patrimony I had now to bestow. 'You are going, my boy,' cried I, 'to London on foot, in the manner Hooker, your great ancestor, travelled there before you. Take from me the same horse that was given him by the good bishop Jewel, this staff, and take this book too, it will be your comfort on the way: these two lines in it are worth a million, I have been young, and now am old; yet never saw I the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging their bread. Let this be your consolation as you travel on. Go, my boy, whatever be thy fortune let me see thee once a year; still keep a good heart, and farewell.' As he was possest of integrity and honour, I was under no apprehensions from throwing him naked into the amphitheatre of life; for I knew he would act a good part whether vanquished or victorious. His departure only prepared the way for our own, which arrived a few days afterwards. The leaving a neighbourhood in which we had enjoyed so many hours of tranquility, was not without a tear, which scarce fortitude itself could suppress. Besides, a journey of seventy miles to a family that had hitherto never been above ten from home, filled us with apprehension, and the cries of the poor, who followed us for some miles, contributed to encrease it. The first day's journey brought us in safety within thirty miles of our future retreat, and we put up for the night at an obscure inn in a village by the way. When we were shewn a room, I desired the landlord, in my usual way, to let us have his company, with which he complied, as what he drank would encrease the bill next morning. He knew, however, the whole neighbourhood to which I was removing, particularly 'Squire Thornhill, who was to be my landlord, and who lived within a few miles of the place. This gentleman he described as one who desired to know little more of the world than its pleasures, being particularly remarkable for his attachment to the fair sex. He observed that no virtue was able to resist his arts and assiduity, and that scarce a farmer's daughter within ten miles round but what had found him successful and faithless. Though this account gave me some pain, it had a very different effect upon my daughters, whose features seemed to brighten with the expectation of an approaching triumph, nor was my wife less pleased and confident of their allurements and virtue. While our thoughts were thus employed, the hostess entered the room to inform her husband, that the strange gentleman, who had been two days in the house, wanted money, and could not satisfy them for his reckoning. 'Want money!' replied the host, 'that must be impossible; for it was no later than yesterday he paid three guineas to our beadle to spare an old broken soldier that was to be whipped through the town for dog-stealing.' The hostess, however, still persisting in her first assertion, he was preparing to leave the room, swearing that he would be satisfied one way or another, when I begged the landlord would introduce me to a stranger of so much charity as he described. With this he complied, shewing in a gentleman who seemed to be about thirty, drest in cloaths that once were laced. His person was well formed, and his face marked with the lines of thinking. He had something short and dry in his address, and seemed not to understand ceremony, or to despise it. Upon the landlord's leaving the room, I could not avoid expressing my concern to the stranger at seeing a gentleman in such circumstances, and offered him my purse to satisfy the present demand. 'I take it with all my heart, Sir,' replied he, 'and am glad that a late oversight in giving what money I had about me, has shewn me that there are still some men like you. I must, however, previously entreat being informed of the name and residence of my benefactor, in order to repay him as soon as possible.' In this I satisfied him fully, not only mentioning my name and late misfortunes, but the place to which I was going to remove. 'This,' cried he, 'happens still more luckily than I hoped for, as I am going the same way myself, having been detained here two days by the floods, which, I hope, by to-morrow will be found passable.' I testified the pleasure I should have in his company, and my wife and daughters joining in entreaty, he was prevailed upon to stay supper. The stranger's conversation, which was at once pleasing and instructive, induced me to wish for a continuance of it; but it was now high time to retire and take refreshment against the fatigues of the following day. The next morning we all set forward together: my family on horseback, while Mr Burchell, our new companion, walked along the foot-path by the road-side, observing, with a smile, that as we were ill mounted, he would be too generous to attempt leaving us behind. As the floods were not yet subsided, we were obliged to hire a guide, who trotted on before, Mr Burchell and I bringing up the rear. We lightened the fatigues of the road with philosophical disputes, which he seemed to understand perfectly. But what surprised me most was, that though he was a money-borrower, he defended his opinions with as much obstinacy as if he had been my patron. He now and then also informed me to whom the different seats belonged that lay in our view as we travelled the road. 'That,' cried he, pointing to a very magnificent house which stood at some distance, 'belongs to Mr Thornhill, a young gentleman who enjoys a large fortune, though entirely dependent on the will of his uncle, Sir William Thornhill, a gentleman, who content with a little himself, permits his nephew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in town.' 'What!' cried I, 'is my young landlord then the nephew of a man whose virtues, generosity, and singularities are so universally known? I have heard Sir William Thornhill represented as one of the most generous, yet whimsical, men in the kingdom; a man of consumate benevolence'--'Something, perhaps, too much so,' replied Mr Burchell, 'at least he carried benevolence to an excess when young; for his passions were then strong, and as they all were upon the side of virtue, they led it up to a romantic extreme. He early began to aim at the qualifications of the soldier and scholar; was soon distinguished in the army and had some reputation among men of learning. Adulation ever follows the ambitious; for such alone receive most pleasure from flattery. He was surrounded with crowds, who shewed him only one side of their character; so that he began to lose a regard for private interest in universal sympathy. He loved all mankind; for fortune prevented him from knowing that there were rascals. Physicians tell us of a disorder in which the whole body is so exquisitely sensible, that the slightest touch gives pain: what some have thus suffered in their persons, this gentleman felt in his mind. The slightest distress, whether real or fictitious, touched him to the quick, and his soul laboured under a sickly sensibility of the miseries of others. Thus disposed to relieve, it will be easily conjectured, he found numbers disposed to solicit: his profusions began to impair his fortune, but not his good-nature; that, indeed, was seen to encrease as the other seemed to decay: he grew improvident as he grew poor; and though he talked like a man of sense, his actions were those of a fool. Still, however, being surrounded with importunity, and no longer able to satisfy every request that was made him, instead of money he gave promises. They were all he had to bestow, and he had not resolution enough to give any man pain by a denial. By this he drew round him crowds of dependants, whom he was sure to disappoint; yet wished to relieve. These hung upon him for a time, and left him with merited reproaches and contempt. But in proportion as he became contemptable to others, he became despicable to himself. His mind had leaned upon their adulation, and that support taken away, he could find no pleasure in the applause of his heart, which he had never learnt to reverence. The world now began to wear a different aspect; the flattery of his friends began to dwindle into simple approbation. Approbation soon took the more friendly form of advice, and advice when rejected produced their reproaches. He now, therefore found that such friends as benefits had gathered round him, were little estimable: he now found that a man's own heart must be ever given to gain that of another. I now found, that--that--I forget what I was going to observe: in short, sir, he resolved to respect himself, and laid down a plan of restoring his falling fortune. For this purpose, in his own whimsical manner he travelled through Europe on foot, and now, though he has scarce attained the age of thirty, his circumstances are more affluent than ever. At present, his bounties are more rational and moderate than before; but still he preserves the character of an humourist, and finds most pleasure in eccentric virtues.' My attention was so much taken up by Mr Burchell's account, that I scarce looked forward as we went along, til we were alarmed by the cries of my family, when turning, I perceived my youngest daughter in the midst of a rapid stream, thrown from her horse, and struggling with the torrent. She had sunk twice, nor was it in my power to disengage myself in time to bring her relief. My sensations were even too violent to permit my attempting her rescue: she must have certainly perished had not my companion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to her relief, and with some difficulty, brought her in safety to the opposite shore. By taking the current a little farther up, the rest of the family got safely over; where we had an opportunity of joining our acknowledgments to her's. Her gratitude may be more readily imagined than described: she thanked her deliverer more with looks than words, and continued to lean upon his arm, as if still willing to receive assistance. My wife also hoped one day to have the pleasure of returning his kindness at her own house. Thus, after we were refreshed at the next inn, and had dined together, as Mr Burchell was going to a different part of the country, he took leave; and we pursued our journey. My wife observing as we went, that she liked him extremely, and protesting, that if he had birth and fortune to entitle him to match into such a family as our's, she knew no man she would sooner fix upon. I could not but smile to hear her talk in this lofty strain: but I was never much displeased with those harmless delusions that tend to make us more happy. The place of our retreat was in a little neighbourhood, consisting of farmers, who tilled their own grounds, and were equal strangers to opulence and poverty. As they had almost all the conveniencies of life within themselves, they seldom visited towns or cities in search of superfluity. Remote from the polite, they still retained the primaeval simplicity of manners, and frugal by habit, they scarce knew that temperance was a virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days of labour; but observed festivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure. They kept up the Christmas carol, sent true love-knots on Valentine morning, eat pancakes on Shrove-tide, shewed their wit on the first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. Being apprized of our approach, the whole neighbourhood came out to meet their minister, drest in their finest cloaths, and preceded by a pipe and tabor: A feast also was provided for our reception, at which we sat cheerfully down; and what the conversation wanted in wit, was made up in laughter. Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a pratling river before; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted of about twenty acres of excellent land, having given an hundred pound for my predecessor's good-will. Nothing could exceed the neatness of my little enclosures: the elms and hedge rows appearing with inexpressible beauty. My house consisted of but one story, and was covered with thatch, which gave it an air of great snugness; the walls on the inside were nicely white-washed, and my daughters undertook to adorn them with pictures of their own designing. Though the same room served us for parlour and kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it was kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppers, being well scoured, and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably relieved, and did not want richer furniture. There were three other apartments, one for my wife and me, another for our two daughters, within our own, and the third, with two beds, for the rest of the children. The little republic to which I gave laws, was regulated in the following manner: by sun-rise we all assembled in our common appartment; the fire being previously kindled by the servant. After we had saluted each other with proper ceremony, for I always thought fit to keep up some mechanical forms of good breeding, without which freedom ever destroys friendship, we all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us another day. This duty being performed, my son and I went to pursue our usual industry abroad, while my wife and daughters employed themselves in providing breakfast, which was always ready at a certain time. I allowed half an hour for this meal, and an hour for dinner; which time was taken up in innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, and in philosophical arguments between my son and me. As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labours after it was gone down, but returned home to the expecting family; where smiling looks, a treat hearth, and pleasant fire, were prepared for our reception. Nor were we without guests: sometimes farmer Flamborough, our talkative neighbour, and often the blind piper, would pay us a visit, and taste our gooseberry wine; for the making of which we had lost neither the receipt nor the reputation. These harmless people had several ways of being good company, while one played, the other would sing some soothing ballad, Johnny Armstrong's last good night, or the cruelty of Barbara Allen. The night was concluded in the manner we began the morning, my youngest boys being appointed to read the lessons of the day, and he that read loudest, distinctest, and best, was to have an half-penny on Sunday to put in the poor's box. When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, which all my sumptuary edicts could not restrain. How well so ever I fancied my lectures against pride had conquered the vanity of my daughters; yet I still found them secretly attached to all their former finery: they still loved laces, ribbands, bugles and catgut; my wife herself retained a passion for her crimson paduasoy, because I formerly happened to say it became her. The first Sunday in particular their behaviour served to mortify me: I had desired my girls the preceding night to be drest early the next day; for I always loved to be at church a good while before the rest of the congregation. They punctually obeyed my directions; but when we were to assemble in the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daughters, drest out in all their former splendour: their hair plaistered up with pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled up into an heap behind, and rustling at every motion. I could not help smiling at their vanity, particularly that of my wife, from whom I expected more discretion. In this exigence, therefore, my only resource was to order my son, with an important air, to call our coach. The girls were amazed at the command; but I repeated it with more solemnity than before.--'Surely, my dear, you jest,' cried my wife, 'we can walk it perfectly well: we want no coach to carry us now.' 'You mistake, child,' returned I, 'we do want a coach; for if we walk to church in this trim, the very children in the parish will hoot after us.'--'Indeed,' replied my wife, 'I always imagined that my Charles was fond of seeing his children neat and handsome about him.'--'You may be as neat as you please,' interrupted I, 'and I shall love you the better for it, but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These rufflings, and pinkings, and patchings, will only make us hated by all the wives of all our neighbours. No, my children,' continued I, more gravely, 'those gowns may be altered into something of a plainer cut; for finery is very unbecoming in us, who want the means of decency. I do not know whether such flouncing and shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the indigent world may be cloathed from the trimmings of the vain.' This remonstrance had the proper effect; they went with great composure, that very instant, to change their dress; and the next day I had the satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own request employed in cutting up their trains into Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the two little ones, and what was still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed improved by this curtailing. At a small distance from the house my predecessor had made a seat, overshaded by an hedge of hawthorn and honeysuckle. Here, when the weather was fine, and our labour soon finished, we usually sate together, to enjoy an extensive landscape, in the calm of the evening. Here too we drank tea, which now was become an occasional banquet; and as we had it but seldom, it diffused a new joy, the preparations for it being made with no small share of bustle and ceremony. On these occasions, our two little ones always read for us, and they were regularly served after we had done. Sometimes, to give a variety to our amusements, the girls sung to the guitar; and while they thus formed a little concert, my wife and I would stroll down the sloping field, that was embellished with blue bells and centaury, talk of our children with rapture, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both health and harmony. In this manner we began to find that every situation in life might bring its own peculiar pleasures: every morning waked us to a repetition of toil; but the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity. It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holiday, for I kept such as intervals of relaxation from labour, that I had drawn out my family to our usual place of amusement, and our young musicians began their usual concert. As we were thus engaged, we saw a stag bound nimbly by, within about twenty paces of where we were sitting, and by its panting, it seemed prest by the hunters. We had not much time to reflect upon the poor animal's distress, when we perceived the dogs and horsemen come sweeping along at some distance behind, and making the very path it had taken. I was instantly for returning in with my family; but either curiosity or surprize, or some more hidden motive, held my wife and daughters to their seats. The huntsman, who rode foremost, past us with great swiftness, followed by four or five persons more, who seemed in equal haste. At last, a young gentleman of a more genteel appearance than the rest, came forward, and for a while regarding us, instead of pursuing the chace, stopt short, and giving his horse to a servant who attended, approached us with a careless superior air. He seemed to want no introduction, but was going to salute my daughters as one certain of a kind reception; but they had early learnt the lesson of looking presumption out of countenance. Upon which he let us know that his name was Thornhill, and that he was owner of the estate that lay for some extent round us. He again, therefore, offered to salute the female part of the family, and such was the power of fortune and fine cloaths, that he found no second repulse. As his address, though confident, was easy, we soon became more familiar; and perceiving musical instruments lying near, he begged to be favoured with a song. As I did not approve of such disproportioned acquaintances, I winked upon my daughters in order to prevent their compliance; but my hint was counteracted by one from their mother; so that with a chearful air they gave us, a favourite song of Dryden's. Mr Thornhill seemed highly delighted with their performance and choice, and then took up the guitar himself. He played but very indifferently; however, my eldest daughter repaid his former applause with interest, and assured him that his tones were louder than even those of her master. At this compliment he bowed, which she returned with a curtesy. He praised her taste, and she commended his understanding: an age could not have made them better acquainted. While the fond mother too, equally happy, insisted upon her landlord's stepping in, and tasting a glass of her gooseberry. The whole family seemed earnest to please him: my girls attempted to entertain him with topics they thought most modern, while Moses, on the contrary, gave him a question or two from the ancients, for which he had the satisfaction of being laughed at: my little ones were no less busy, and fondly stuck close to the stranger. All my endeavours could scarce keep their dirty fingers from handling and tarnishing the lace on his cloaths, and lifting up the flaps of his pocket holes, to see what was there. At the approach of evening he took leave; but not till he had requested permission to renew his visit, which, as he was our landlord, we most readily agreed to. As soon as he was gone, my wife called a council on the conduct of the day. She was of opinion, that it was a most fortunate hit; for that she had known even stranger things at last brought to bear. She hoped again to see the day in which we might hold up our heads with the best of them; and concluded, she protested she could see no reason why the two Miss Wrinklers should marry great fortunes, and her children get none. As this last argument was directed to me, I protested I could see no reason for it neither, nor why Mr Simpkins got the ten thousand pound prize in the lottery, and we sate down with a blank. 'I protest, Charles,' cried my wife, 'this is the way you always damp my girls and me when we are in Spirits. Tell me, Sophy, my dear, what do you think of our new visitor? Don't you think he seemed to be good-natured?'--'Immensely so, indeed, Mamma,' replied she. 'I think he has a great deal to say upon every thing, and is never at a loss; and the more trifling the subject, the more he has to say.'--'Yes,' cried Olivia, 'he is well enough for a man; but for my part, I don't much like him, he is so extremely impudent and familiar; but on the guitar he is shocking.' These two last speeches I interpreted by contraries. I found by this, that Sophia internally despised, as much as Olivia secretly admired him.--'Whatever may be your opinions of him, my children,' cried I, 'to confess a truth, he has not prepossest me in his favour. Disproportioned friendships ever terminate in disgust; and I thought, notwithstanding all his ease, that he seemed perfectly sensible of the distance between us. Let us keep to companions of our own rank. There is no character more contemptible than a man that is a fortune-hunter, and I can see no reason why fortune-hunting women should not be contemptible too. Thus, at best, we shall be contemptible if his views be honourable; but if they be otherwise! I should shudder but to think of that! It is true I have no apprehensions from the conduct of my children, but I think there are some from his character.'--I would have proceeded, but for the interruption of a servant from the 'Squire, who, with his compliments, sent us a side of venison, and a promise to dine with us some days after. This well-timed present pleaded more powerfully in his favour, than any thing I had to say could obviate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied with just having pointed out danger, and leaving it to their own discretion to avoid it. That virtue which requires to be ever guarded, is scarce worth the centinel. As we carried on the former dispute with some degree of warmth, in order to accommodate matters, it was universally agreed, that we should have a part of the venison for supper, and the girls undertook the task with alacrity. 'I am sorry,' cried I, 'that we have no neighbour or stranger to take a part in this good cheer: feasts of this kind acquire a double relish from hospitality.'--'Bless me,' cried my wife, 'here comes our good friend Mr Burchell, that saved our Sophia, and that run you down fairly in the argument'--'Confute me in argument, child!' cried I. 'You mistake there, my dear. I believe there are but few that can do that: I never dispute your abilities at making a goose-pye, and I beg you'll leave argument to me.'--As I spoke, poor Mr Burchell entered the house, and was welcomed by the family, who shook him heartily by the hand, while little Dick officiously reached him a chair. I was pleased with the poor man's friendship for two reasons; because I knew that he wanted mine, and I knew him to be friendly as far as he was able. He was known in our neighbourhood by the character of the poor Gentleman that would do no good when he was young, though he was not yet thirty. He would at intervals talk with great good sense; but in general he was fondest of the company of children, whom he used to call harmless little men. He was famous, I found, for singing them ballads, and telling them stories; and seldom went out without something in his pockets for them, a piece of gingerbread, or an halfpenny whistle. He generally came for a few days into our neighbourhood once a year, and lived upon the neighbours hospitality. He sate down to supper among us, and my wife was not sparing of her gooseberry wine. The tale went round; he sung us old songs, and gave the children the story of the Buck of Beverland, with the history of Patient Grissel, the adventures of Catskin, and then Fair Rosamond's bower. Our cock, which always crew at eleven, now told us it was time for repose; but an unforeseen difficulty started about lodging the stranger: all our beds were already taken up, and it was too late to send him to the next alehouse. In this dilemma, little Dick offered him his part of the bed, if his brother Moses would let him lie with him; 'And I,' cried Bill, 'will give Mr Burchell my part, if my sisters will take me to theirs.'--'Well done, my good children,' cried I, 'hospitality is one of the first Christian duties. The beast retires to its shelter, and the bird flies to its nest; but helpless man can only find refuge from his fellow creature. The greatest stranger in this world, was he that came to save it. He never had an house, as if willing to see what hospitality was left remaining amongst us. Deborah, my dear,' cried I, to my wife, 'give those boys a lump of sugar each, and let Dick's be the largest, because he spoke first.' In the morning early I called out my whole family to help at saving an after-growth of hay, and, our guest offering his assistance, he was accepted among the number. Our labours went on lightly, we turned the swath to the wind, I went foremost, and the rest followed in due succession. I could not avoid, however, observing the assiduity of Mr Burchell in assisting my daughter Sophia in her part of the task. When he had finished his own, he would join in her's, and enter into a close conversation: but I had too good an opinion of Sophia's understanding, and was too well convinced of her ambition, to be under any uneasiness from a man of broken fortune. When we were finished for the day, Mr Burchell was invited as on the night before; but he refused, as he was to lie that night at a neighbour's, to whose child he was carrying a whistle. When gone, our conversation at supper turned upon our late unfortunate guest. 'What a strong instance,' said I, 'is that poor man of the miseries attending a youth of levity and extravagance. He by no means wants sense, which only serves to aggravate his former folly. Poor forlorn creature, where are now the revellers, the flatterers, that he could once inspire and command! Gone, perhaps, to attend the bagnio pander, grown rich by his extravagance. They once praised him, and now they applaud the pander: their former raptures at his wit, are now converted into sarcasms at his folly: he is poor, and perhaps deserves poverty; for he has neither the ambition to be independent, nor the skill to be useful.' Prompted, perhaps, by some secret reasons, I delivered this observation with too much acrimony, which my Sophia gently reproved. 'Whatsoever his former conduct may be, pappa, his circumstances should exempt him from censure now. His present indigence is a sufficient punishment for former folly; and I have heard my pappa himself say, that we should never strike our unnecessary blow at a victim over whom providence holds the scourge of its resentment.'--'You are right, Sophy,' cried my son Moses, 'and one of the ancients finely represents so malicious a conduct, by the attempts of a rustic to flay Marsyas, whose skin, the fable tells us, had been wholly stript off by another.' Besides, I don't know if this poor man's situation be so bad as my father would represent it. We are not to judge of the feelings of others by what we might feel if in their place. However dark the habitation of the mole to our eyes, yet the animal itself finds the apartment sufficiently lightsome. And to confess a truth, this man's mind seems fitted to his station; for I never heard any one more sprightly than he was to-day, when he conversed with you.'--This was said without the least design, however it excited a blush, which she strove to cover by an affected laugh, assuring him, that she scarce took any notice of what he said to her; but that she believed he might once have been a very fine gentleman. The readiness with which she undertook to vindicate herself, and her blushing, were symptoms I did not internally approve; but I represt my suspicions. As we expected our landlord the next day, my wife went to make the venison pasty; Moses sate reading, while I taught the little ones: my daughters seemed equally busy with the rest; and I observed them for a good while cooking something over the fire. I at first supposed they were assisting their mother; but little Dick informed me in a whisper, that they were making a wash for the face. Washes of all kinds I had a natural antipathy to; for I knew that instead of mending the complexion they spoiled it. I therefore approached my chair by sly degrees to the fire, and grasping the poker, as if it wanted mending, seemingly by accident, overturned the whole composition, and it was too late to begin another. When the morning arrived on which we were to entertain our young landlord, it may be easily supposed what provisions were exhausted to make an appearance. It may also be conjectured that my wife and daughters expanded their gayest plumage upon this occasion. Mr Thornhill came with a couple of friends, his chaplain, and feeder. The servants, who were numerous, he politely ordered to the next ale-house: but my wife, in the triumph of her heart, insisted on entertaining them all; for which, by the bye, our family was pinched for three weeks after. As Mr Burchell had hinted to us the day before, that he was making some proposals of marriage, to Miss Wilmot, my son George's former mistress, this a good deal damped the heartiness of his reception: but accident, in some measure, relieved our embarrasment; for one of the company happening to mention her name, Mr Thornhill observed with an oath, that he never knew any thing more absurd than calling such a fright a beauty: 'For strike me ugly,' continued he, 'if I should not find as much pleasure in choosing my mistress by the information of a lamp under the clock at St Dunstan's.' At this he laughed, and so did we:--the jests of the rich are ever successful. Olivia too could not avoid whispering, loud enough to be heard, that he had an infinite fund of humour. After dinner, I began with my usual toast, the Church; for this I was thanked by the chaplain, as he said the church was the only mistress of his affections.--'Come tell us honestly, Frank,' said the 'Squire, with his usual archness, 'suppose the church, your present mistress, drest in lawnsleeves, on one hand, and Miss Sophia, with no lawn about her, on the other, which would you be for?' 'For both, to be sure,' cried the chaplain.--'Right Frank,' cried the 'Squire; 'for may this glass suffocate me but a fine girl is worth all the priestcraft in the creation. For what are tythes and tricks but an imposition, all a confounded imposture, and I can prove it.'--'I wish you would,' cried my son Moses, 'and I think,' continued he, 'that I should be able to answer you.'--'Very well, Sir,' cried the 'Squire, who immediately smoaked him,' and winking on the rest of the company, to prepare us for the sport, if you are for a cool argument upon that subject, I am ready to accept the challenge. And first, whether are you for managing it analogically, or dialogically?' 'I am for managing it rationally,' cried Moses, quite happy at being permitted to dispute. 'Good again,' cried the 'Squire, 'and firstly, of the first. I hope you'll not deny that whatever is is. If you don't grant me that, I can go no further.'--'Why,' returned Moses, 'I think I may grant that, and make the best of it.'--'I hope too,' returned the other, 'you'll grant that a part is less than the whole.' 'I grant that too,' cried Moses, 'it is but just and reasonable.'--'I hope,' cried the 'Squire, 'you will not deny, that the two angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones.'--'Nothing can be plainer,' returned t'other, and looked round with his usual importance.--'Very well,' cried the 'Squire, speaking very quick, 'the premises being thus settled, I proceed to observe, that the concatenation of self existences, proceeding in a reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally produce a problematical dialogism, which in some measure proves that the essence of spirituality may be referred to the second predicable'--'Hold, hold,' cried the other, 'I deny that: Do you think I can thus tamely submit to such heterodox doctrines?'--'What,' replied the 'Squire, as if in a passion, 'not submit! Answer me one plain question: Do you think Aristotle right when he says, that relatives are related?' 'Undoubtedly,' replied the other.--'If so then,' cried the 'Squire, 'answer me directly to what I propose: Whether do you judge the analytical investigation of the first part of my enthymem deficient secundum quoad, or quoad minus, and give me your reasons: give me your reasons, I say, directly.'--'I protest,' cried Moses, 'I don't rightly comprehend the force of your reasoning; but if it be reduced to one simple proposition, I fancy it may then have an answer.'--'O sir,' cried the 'Squire, 'I am your most humble servant, I find you want me to furnish you with argument and intellects too. No, sir, there I protest you are too hard for me.' This effectually raised the laugh against poor Moses, who sate the only dismal figure in a groupe of merry faces: nor, did he offer a single syllable more during the whole entertainment. But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had a very different effect upon Olivia, who mistook it for humour, though but a mere act of the memory. She thought him therefore a very fine gentleman; and such as consider what powerful ingredients a good figure, fine cloaths, and fortune, are in that character, will easily forgive her. Mr Thornhill, notwithstanding his real ignorance, talked with ease, and could expatiate upon the common topics of conversation with fluency. It is not surprising then that such talents should win the affections of a girl, who by education was taught to value an appearance in herself, and consequently to set a value upon it in another. Upon his departure, we again entered into a debate upon the merits of our young landlord. As he directed his looks and conversation to Olivia, it was no longer doubted but that she was the object that induced him to be our visitor. Nor did she seem to be much displeased at the innocent raillery of her brother and sister upon this occasion. Even Deborah herself seemed to share the glory of the day, and exulted in her daughter's victory as if it were her own. 'And now, my dear,' cried she to me, 'I'll fairly own, that it was I that instructed my girls to encourage our landlord's addresses. I had always some ambition, and you now see that I was right; for who knows how this may end?' 'Ay, who knows that indeed,' answered I, with a groan: 'for my part I don't much like it; and I could have been better pleased with one that was poor and honest, than this fine gentleman with his fortune and infidelity; for depend on't, if he be what I suspect him, no free-thinker shall ever have a child of mine.' 'Sure, father,' cried Moses, 'you are too severe in this; for heaven will never arraign him for what he thinks, but for what he does. Every man has a thousand vicious thoughts, which arise without his power to suppress. Thinking freely of religion, may be involuntary with this gentleman: so that allowing his sentiments to be wrong, yet as he is purely passive in his assent, he is no more to be blamed for his errors than the governor of a city without walls for the shelter he is obliged to afford an invading enemy.' 'True, my son,' cried I; 'but if the governor invites the enemy, there he is justly culpable. And such is always the case with those who embrace error. The vice does not lie in assenting to the proofs they see; but in being blind to many of the proofs that offer. So that, though our erroneous opinions be involuntary when formed, yet as we have been wilfully corrupt, or very negligent in forming them, we deserve punishment for our vice, or contempt for our folly.' My wife now kept up the conversation, though not the argument: she observed, that several very prudent men of our acquaintance were free-thinkers, and made very good husbands; and she knew some sensible girls that had skill enough to make converts of their spouses: 'And who knows, my dear,' continued she, 'what Olivia may be able to do. The girl has a great deal to say upon every subject, and to my knowledge is very well skilled in controversy.' 'Why, my dear, what controversy can she have read?' cried I. 'It does not occur to me that I ever put such books into her hands: you certainly over-rate her merit.' 'Indeed, pappa,' replied Olivia, 'she does not: I have read a great deal of controversy. I have read the disputes between Thwackum and Square; the controversy between Robinson Crusoe and Friday the savage, and I am now employed in reading the controversy in Religious courtship'--'Very well,' cried I, 'that's a good girl, I find you are perfectly qualified for making converts, and so go help your mother to make the gooseberry-pye.' The next morning we were again visited by Mr Burchell, though I began, for certain reasons, to be displeased with the frequency of his return; but I could not refuse him my company and fire-side. It is true his labour more than requited his entertainment; for he wrought among us with vigour, and either in the meadow or at the hay-rick put himself foremost. Besides, he had always something amusing to say that lessened our toil, and was at once so out of the way, and yet so sensible, that I loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dislike arose from an attachment he discovered to my daughter: he would, in a jesting manner, call her his little mistress, and when he bought each of the girls a set of ribbands, hers was the finest. I knew not how, but he every day seemed to become more amiable, his wit to improve, and his simplicity to assume the superior airs of wisdom. Our family dined in the field, and we sate, or rather reclined, round a temperate repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, while Mr Burchell gave cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our satisfaction two blackbirds answered each other from opposite hedges, the familiar redbreast came and pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every sound seemed but the echo of tranquillity. 'I never sit thus,' says Sophia, 'but I think of the two lovers, so sweetly described by Mr Gay, who were struck dead in each other's arms. There is something so pathetic in the description, that I have read it an hundred times with new rapture.'--'In my opinion,' cried my son, 'the finest strokes in that description are much below those in the Acis and Galatea of Ovid. The Roman poet understands the use of contrast better, and upon that figure artfully managed all strength in the pathetic depends.'--'It is remarkable,' cried Mr Burchell, 'that both the poets you mention have equally contributed to introduce a false taste into their respective countries, by loading all their lines with epithet. Men of little genius found them most easily imitated in their defects, and English poetry, like that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant images, without plot or connexion; a string of epithets that improve the sound, without carrying on the sense. But perhaps, madam, while I thus reprehend others, you'll think it just that I should give them an opportunity to retaliate, and indeed I have made this remark only to have an opportunity of introducing to the company a ballad, which, whatever be its other defects, is I think at least free from those I have mentioned.' A BALLAD. 'Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale, With hospitable ray. 'For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go.' 'Forbear, my son,' the hermit cries, 'To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. 'Here to the houseless child of want, My door is open still; And tho' my portion is but scant, I give it with good will. 'Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows; My rushy couch, and frugal fare, My blessing and repose. 'No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn: Taught by that power that pities me, I learn to pity them. 'But from the mountain's grassy side, A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'd, And water from the spring. 'Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.' Soft as the dew from heav'n descends, His gentle accents fell: The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay; A refuge to the neighbouring poor, And strangers led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatch Requir'd a master's care; The wicket opening with a latch, Receiv'd the harmless pair. And now when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, The hermit trimm'd his little fire, And cheer'd his pensive guest: And spread his vegetable store, And gayly prest, and smil'd; And skill'd in legendary lore, The lingering hours beguil'd. Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries, The cricket chirrups in the hearth; The crackling faggot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To sooth the stranger's woe; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the hermit spy'd, With answering care opprest: 'And whence, unhappy youth,' he cry'd, 'The sorrows of thy breast? 'From better habitations spurn'd, Reluctant dost thou rove; Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, Or unregarded love? 'Alas! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling and decay; And those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they. 'And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep; A shade that follows wealth or fame, But leaves the wretch to weep? 'And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair one's jest: On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's nest. 'For shame fond youth thy sorrows hush And spurn the sex,' he said: But while he spoke a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray'd. Surpriz'd he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view; Like colours o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms: The lovely stranger stands confest A maid in all her charms. 'And, ah,'forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn,' she cry'd; 'Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude Where heaven and you reside. 'But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. 'My father liv'd beside the Tyne, A wealthy Lord was he; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, He had but only me. 'To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber'd suitors came; Who prais'd me for imputed charms, And felt or feign'd a flame. 'Each hour a mercenary crowd, With richest proffers strove: Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love. 'In humble simplest habit clad, No wealth nor power had he; Wisdom and worth were all he had, But these were all to me. 'The blossom opening to the day, The dews of heaven refin'd, Could nought of purity display, To emulate his mind. 'The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but woe to me, Their constancy was mine. 'For still I try'd each fickle art, Importunate and vain; And while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain. 'Till quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret where he died. 'But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay; I'll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay. 'And there forlorn despairing hid, I'll lay me down and die: 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I.' 'Forbid it heaven!' the hermit cry'd, And clasp'd her to his breast: The wondering fair one turn'd to chide, 'Twas Edwin's self that prest. 'Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see, Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Restor'd to love and thee. 'Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And ev'ry care resign: And shall we never, never part, My life,--my all that's mine. 'No, never, from this hour to part, We'll live and love so true; The sigh that tends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin's too.' While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to mix an air of tenderness with her approbation. But our tranquillity was soon disturbed by the report of a gun just by us, and immediately after a man was seen bursting through the hedge, to take up the game he had killed. This sportsman was the 'Squire's chaplain, who had shot one of the blackbirds that so agreeably entertained us. So loud a report, and so near, startled my daughters; and I could perceive that Sophia in the fright had thrown herself into Mr Burchell's arms for protection. The gentleman came up, and asked pardon for having disturbed us, affirming that he was ignorant of our being so near. He therefore sate down by my youngest daughter, and, sportsman like, offered her what he had killed that morning. She was going to refuse, but a private look from her mother soon induced her to correct the mistake, and accept his present, though with some reluctance. My wife, as usual, discovered her pride in a whisper, observing, that Sophy had made a conquest of the chaplain, as well as her sister had of the 'Squire. I suspected, however, with more probability, that her affections were placed upon a different object. The chaplain's errand was to inform us, that Mr Thornhill had provided music and refreshments, and intended that night giving the young ladies a ball by moon-light, on the grass-plot before our door. 'Nor can I deny,' continued he, 'but I have an interest in being first to deliver this message, as I expect for my reward to be honoured with miss Sophy's hand as a partner.' To this my girl replied, that she should have no objection, if she could do it with honour: 'But here,' continued she, 'is a gentleman,' looking at Mr Burchell, 'who has been my companion in the task for the day, and it is fit he should share in its amusements.' Mr Burchell returned her a compliment for her intentions; but resigned her up to the chaplain, adding that he was to go that night five miles, being invited to an harvest supper. His refusal appeared to me a little extraordinary, nor could I conceive how so sensible a girl as my youngest, could thus prefer a man of broken fortunes to one whose expectations were much greater. But as men are most capable of distinguishing merit in women, so the ladies often form the truest judgments of us. The two sexes seem placed as spies upon each other, and are furnished with different abilities, adapted for mutual inspection. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Der Pfarrer, Dr. Primrose, erzählt den Roman. In Kapitel 1 erzählt er seine Hintergrundgeschichte. Kurz nachdem er sein Gelöbnis abgelegt hatte, beschloss der Pfarrer zu heiraten. Er wählte eine gutherzige Engländerin - Deborah - und sie liebten sich sehr. Sie leben in einem eleganten Haus in einer angenehmen Nachbarschaft, obwohl er manchmal über die wilden Schuljungen und die nervigen Verwandten klagt, die in ihrer Nähe leben. Der Pfarrer und Deborah haben sechs Kinder: in absteigender Reihenfolge sind dies George, Olivia, Sophia, Moses, Dick und Bill. Er beschreibt die Mädchen als fähig, je nach Laune lebhaft und ernst zu sein. Der Pfarrer hängt an seinen Kindern und erklärt stolz, wie sein Sohn George in Oxford studiert hat und einen gelehrt Beruf ergreifen möchte. Insgesamt findet er seine Familie "alle gleich großzügig, leichtgläubig, einfach und harmlos". Kapitel II Der Pfarrer erwähnt, dass er ein eigenes Vermögen hat und daher sein kleines Gehalt als Geistlicher Waisen und Witwen spendet. Da er keinen Hilfspfarrer hat, kennt er persönlich jeden in der Gemeinde. Eines seiner Lieblingsthemen ist das der Ehe. Tatsächlich hat er leidenschaftliche Abhandlungen geschrieben und veröffentlicht, in denen argumentiert wird, dass ein Ehemann oder eine Ehefrau niemals wieder heiraten sollte, wenn sein oder ihr Partner stirbt. Er glaubt, dass eine Person in der Erinnerung an den Geliebten keusch bleiben sollte. George, der älteste Sohn, verlobt sich mit Miss Arabella Wilmot. Beide Familien sind überglücklich und feiern monatelang, obwohl das Paar noch keinen Termin festgelegt hat. Zusammen essen die Familien, die Damen tanzen und studieren, die Männer jagen und alle haben eine schöne Zeit. Eines Tages zeigt der Pfarrer leider Mr. Wilmot sein Studium über die Ehe. Mr. Wilmot ist heftig anderer Meinung als der Pfarrer und hat tatsächlich mehrmals geheiratet. Die Ehevereinbarung wird durch den intensiven Streit bedroht. Allerdings kommt inmitten des Streits die schlimmste Nachricht: Das Vermögen des Pfarrers ist weg, von dem Händler unterschlagen, der dafür verantwortlich war, es zu bewachen. Angesichts dieser neuen Entdeckung weigert sich Mr. Wilmot endgültig, Arabellas Hand an George zu geben. Kapitel III Da die Familie arm ist, hat der Pfarrer wenig Möglichkeiten. Daher wird er von dem Angebot einer Pfarrstelle in einer entfernten Nachbarschaft ermutigt, die fünfzehn Pfund im Jahr zahlen würde und der Familie etwas Landwirtschaft ermöglichen würde. Die Familie ist entmutigt von der Aussicht, umzuziehen, aber er erinnert sie daran, dass sie jetzt arm sind und sich an weniger Luxus gewöhnen müssen. Bevor sie umziehen, schickt er George in die Stadt, in der Hoffnung, dass der junge Gelehrte durch Arbeit unterstützen kann. Trotz ihrer Zurückhaltung macht sich die Familie auf den Weg in ihr neues Zuhause. Unterwegs übernachten sie in einer Gaststätte. Dort erzählt der Pfarrer dem Gastwirt von ihrer Situation, und dieser erzählt ihnen von ihrem neuen Vermieter, Squire Thornhill, der den Ruf hat, Freuden des Lebens und Frauen zu genießen. In der Gaststätte trifft der Pfarrer und seine Familie auf Mr. Burchell, einen jungen und intelligenten Mann, der ebenfalls arm ist. Sie führen angenehme Gespräche zusammen, und der junge Mann reitet mit ihnen in ihre neue Nachbarschaft, wohin er auch unterwegs war. Auf dem Weg unterhalten sich der Pfarrer und Mr. Burchell über Philosophie. Mr. Burchell zeigt an einer Stelle auf Sir Thornhills Haus und erklärt, wie der Squire von der Großzügigkeit seines zurückgezogenen Onkels, Sir William Thornhill, abhängig ist. Der Pfarrer hat von Sir William gehört und kennt seinen ausgezeichneten Ruf von "vollkommener Wohltätigkeit". Mr. Burchell bestätigt diesen Eindruck und erklärt, dass Sir Williame früher liederlich und töricht war, aber seitdem er erwachsen geworden ist, ist er für diese jugendlichen Torheiten anständiger geworden. An einem Punkt der Reise fällt Sophia von ihrem Pferd in einen Strom. Ohne zu zögern, springt Mr. Burchell heldenhaft hinterher und rettet ihr das Leben. Kapitel IV Der Pfarrer beschreibt seine neue Nachbarschaft. Es besteht größtenteils aus Mittelklassebauern, die höflich, aber ohne Anstand und gute Manieren sind. Die Einheimischen sind jedoch froh, einen neuen Pfarrer zu haben, und begrüßen die Familie. Das neue Haus der Familie liegt am Fuße eines sanften Hügels, vor zwanzig Acres ausgezeichneten Landes, für das sie verantwortlich sind. Bald darauf findet die Familie in ihrem neuen Leben und ihrer neuen Routine Einzug, wobei die Damen trotz der veränderten Umstände an den Überresten guter Zucht festhalten. Zum Beispiel bestehen die Damen darauf, neue Freunde zu bewirten und sich schick anzuziehen. An ihrem ersten Sonntag in der Stadt tadelt der Pfarrer sie dafür, dass sie schicke Kleider tragen, und besteht darauf, dass sie Hohn von ihren ärmeren und weniger vornehmen Nachbarn ernten werden. Sie stimmen ihm zu und zerschneiden ihre feinen Kleider, um Sonntagswesten für Dick und Bill daraus zu machen. Kapitel V Die Familie verbringt oft Zeit im Freien, in einer schönen Gegend, in der Geißblatt und Weißdorn wachsen, und unterhält sich mit Lesen und Gesang. Eines Tages läuft ein junger Mann hinter einem Hirsch her. Er hält an, um sich als Squire Thornhill vorzustellen und bittet die jungen Damen um ein Lied. Obwohl es dem Pfarrer missfällt, ermutigt Deborah die Mädchen, ihm nachzukommen. Der Pfarrer stellt fest, dass die ganze Familie von dem Squire eingenommen zu sein scheint und sich bemüht, ihm zu gefallen. Nachdem der Squire gegangen ist, beschreibt Deborah den Tag als "einen sehr glücklichen Treffer". Der Pfarrer erkennt, dass Sophia nicht viel für den Squire übrig hat, Olivia ihn aber mögen könnte. Er warnt die Familie davor, eine Freundschaft mit jemandem außerhalb ihrer sozialen Klasse zu suchen, und besteht darauf, dass "unverhältnismäßige Freundschaften immer in Ekel enden". Trotzdem freut sich die Familie später in der Nacht, als der Squire ein Geschenk von Wildbret schickt. Der Pfarrer bleibt stumm, da er glaubt, dass er seinen Standpunkt bereits klargemacht hat. Kapitel VI Während die Mädchen das Wildbret vorbereiten, kommt Herr Burchell erneut zu Besuch. Der Pfarrer freut sich, ihn zu sehen, da er Herrn Burchell respektiert und seinen Ruf in der Nachbarschaft als den armen Gentleman kennt, der häufig zwischen Freunden umzieht und sich auf deren Gastfreundschaft verlässt, bevor er zum Haus eines anderen Freundes reist. Der Pfarrer ist jedoch beunruhigt, Mr. Burchells Aufmerksamkeiten gegenüber Sophia zu beobachten. Später kritisiert er den Mann vor seiner Familie, wird aber von Sophia und Moses für seine Härte getadelt. Kapitel VII Die Familie veranstaltet eine Party für ihren Vermieter und seine Freunde, den Kaplan und den Fütterer. Es ist ein großer Erfolg. Beim Abendessen trinkt der Pfarrer auf die Kirche, und der Kaplan lobt ihn dafür. Moses und Squire Thornhill versuchen, über Religion zu diskutieren, aber die Argumente des Squire sind für Moses zu kompliziert und albern, um sie zu verstehen. Im Laufe des Abends bemerkt der Pfarrer immer wieder, wie Olivia vom Squire eingenommen ist. Nachdem der Squire und seine Freunde gegangen sind, diskutiert die Familie über ihn. Deborah ist stolz darauf, dass er Olivia Aufmerksamkeiten schenkt, und "freut sich über den Sieg ihrer Tochter, als wäre es ihr eigener". Der Pfarrer äußert seine Missbilligung gegenüber dem Mann und unterstellt, dass der Squire unmoralisch ist, und besteht darauf, dass kein "Freidenker" jemals die Hand seiner Tochter bekommen wird. Moses hält dagegen, dass nicht die Meinungen des Squires, sondern seine Handlungen, von Bedeutung sein sollten. Deborah wiederum sagt, dass sie mehrere junge Frauen kennt, die glückliche Ehen mit "Freidenkern" haben, und dass Olivia sich gut genug mit modernen Themen auskennt, um Kontroversen zu bewältigen. Olivia verteidigt sich und besteht darauf, dass sie viel zu dem Thema gelesen habe. Kapitel VIII Herr Burchell besucht das Haus erneut, aber der Pfarrer ist weniger erfreut über den Mann als zuvor, aufgrund Burchells offensichtlicher Zuneigung zu Sophia. Interessanterweise stellen der Pfarrer und seine Familie fest, dass Burchells Witz und Weisheit mit jedem Besuch zu verbessern scheinen. Eines Tages beginnen die Familie und Burchell während des Essens draußen über Poesie zu diskutieren. Herr Burchell glaubt, dass die zeitgenössische englische Poesie nur eine Kombination von "üppigen Bildern" auf Kosten der Handlung ist. Sie ist, fährt er fort, voll von "Epitheta, die den Klang verbessern, ohne den Sinn voranzutreiben". Dann rezitiert er eine lange Ballade, in der ein Eremit einen verlorenen Reisenden einlädt, den Abend in seiner Zelle zu verbringen. Während sie am Feuer des Eremiten ausruhen, erzählt der Eremit dem Reisenden, wie er mit seiner Umgebung im Einklang ist, aber bemerkt, dass der Reisende unglücklich zu sein scheint. Als er versucht, den Reisenden davon zu überzeugen, seine irdische Liebe zu vergessen, erkennt der Eremit, dass der Reisende tatsächlich eine Frau ist. Die Frau erzählt dann ihre Geschichte, wie ihr Vater versuchte, sie mit allen würdigen Freiern in der Gegend zu verheiraten, während sie nur einen armen, aber weisen Mann namens Edwin liebte. Schließlich verließ ein niedergeschlagener Edwin sie, um in Einsamkeit zu sterben, und sie sucht nun einen Ort, um zu sterben, wie er es tat. Da offenbart der Eremit freudig, dass er genau dieser Edwin ist, und die Liebenden vereinigen sich. Der Pfarrer bemerkt, dass Sophia von der Ballade angetan ist. Plötzlich hören sie einen Schuss in der Nähe, und Sophia springt Mr. Burchell in die Arme, um Schutz zu suchen. Einen Moment später erscheint der Kaplan und hat eine Amsel geschossen. Nachdem er um Vergebung gebeten hat, setzt er sich zu ihnen und flirtet mit Sophia. Deborah flüstert dem Pfarrer ihre Zustimmung zu, dass Sophia eine "Eroberung" gemacht hat, so wie es Olivia mit dem Squire hatte. Der Kaplan erzählt ihnen, dass der Squire den Mädchen am nächsten Abend einen Ball geben will, und fragt dann Sophia, ob sie ihm ihren ersten Tanz gewähren wird. Sie lehnt jedoch ab und sagt, dass sie ihren ersten Tanz Herrn Burchell gewähren sollte. Zu Pfarrers Überraschung lehnt der junge Mann höflich ab, zu kommen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: THE SECOND NIGHT The roosters crowed and the hens clucked; the farmer's wife began to get breakfast, and the four children slept on. Dinner time came and went, and still they slept, for it must be remembered that they had been awake and walking during the whole night. In fact, it was nearly seven o'clock in the evening when they awoke. Luckily, all the others awoke before Benny. "Can you hear me, Jess?" said Henry, speaking very low through the wall of hay. "Yes," answered Jess softly. "Let's make one big room of our nests." No sooner said than done. The boy and girl worked quickly and quietly until they could see each other. They pressed the hay back firmly until they had made their way into Violet's little room. And then she in turn groped until she found Benny. "Hello, little Cinnamon!" whispered Violet playfully. And Benny at once made up his mind to laugh instead of cry. But laughing out loud was almost as bad, so Henry took his little brother on the hay beside him and talked to him seriously. "You're old enough now, Benny, to understand what I say to you. Now, listen! When I tell you to _keep still_ after this, that means you're to stop crying if you're crying, or stop laughing if you're laughing, and be just as still as you possibly can. If you don't mind, you will be in danger. Do you understand?" "Don't I have to mind Jess and Violet too?" asked Benny. "Absolutely!" said Henry. "You have to mind us all, every one of us!" Benny thought a minute. "Can't I ask for what I want any more?" he said. "Indeed you can!" cried Jess and Henry together. "What is it you want?" "I'm _awful_ hungry," said Benny anxiously. Henry's brow cleared. "Good old Benny," he said. "We're just going to have supper--or is it breakfast?" Jess drew out the fragrant loaf of bread. She cut it with Henry's jackknife into four quarters, and she and Henry took the two crusty ends themselves. "That's because we have to be the strongest, and crusts make you strong," explained Jess. Violet looked at her older sister. She thought she knew why Jess took the crust, but she did not speak. "We will stay here till dark, and then we'll go on with our journey," said Henry cheerfully. "I want a drink," announced Benny. "A drink you shall have," Henry promised, "but you'll have to wait till it's really dark. If we should creep out to the brook now, and any one saw us--" He did not finish his sentence, but Benny realized that he must wait. He was much refreshed from his long sleep, and felt very lively. Violet had all she could do to keep him amused, even with Cinnamon Bear and his five brothers. At last Henry peeped out. It was after nine o'clock. There were lights in the farmhouse still, but they were all upstairs. "We can at least get a drink now," he said. And the children crept quietly to the noisy little brook not far from the haystack. "Cup," said Benny. "No, you'll have to lie down and drink with your mouth," Jess explained. And so they did. Never did water taste so cool and delicious as it did that night to the thirsty children. When they had finished drinking they jumped the brook, ran quickly over the fields to the wall, and once more found themselves on the road. "If we meet any one," said Jess, "we must all crouch behind bushes until he has gone by." They walked along in the darkness with light hearts. They were no longer tired or hungry. Their one thought was to get away from their grandfather, if possible. "If we can find a big town," said Violet, "won't it be better to stay in than a little town?" "Why?" asked Henry, puffing up the hill. "Well, you see, there are so many people in a big town, nobody will notice us--" "And in a little village everyone would be talking about us," finished Henry admiringly. "You've got brains, Violet!" He had hardly said this, when a wagon was heard behind them in the distance. It was coming from Middlesex. Without a word, the four children sank down behind the bushes like frightened rabbits. They could plainly hear their hearts beat. The horse trotted nearer, and then began to walk up the hill. "If we hear nothing in Townsend," they heard a man say, "we have plainly done our duty." It was the baker's voice! "More than our duty," said the baker's wife, "tiring out a horse with going a full day, from morning until night!" There was silence as the horse pulled the creaky wagon. "At least we will go on to Townsend tonight," continued the baker, "and tell them to watch out. We need not go to Intervale, for they never could walk so far." "We are well rid of them, I should say," replied his wife. "They may not have come this way. The milkman did not see them, did he?" The baker's reply was lost, for the horse had reached the hilltop, where he broke into a canter. It was some minutes before the children dared to creep out of the bushes again. "One thing is sure," said Henry, when he got his breath. "We will not go to Townsend." "And we _will_ go to Intervale," said Jess. With a definite goal in mind at last, the children set out again with a better spirit. They walked until two o'clock in the morning, stopping often this time to rest and to drink from the horses' watering troughs. And then they came upon a fork in the road with a white signpost shining in the moonlight. "Townsend, four miles; Intervale, six miles," read Henry aloud. "Any one feel able to walk six more miles?" He grinned. No one had the least idea how far they had already walked. "We'll go that _way_ at least," said Jess finally. "That we will," agreed Henry, picking up his brother for a change, and carrying him "pig-back." Violet went ahead. The new road was a pleasant woody one, with grass growing in the middle. The children could not see the grass, but they could feel it as they walked. "Not many people pass this way, I guess," remarked Violet. Just then she caught her toe in something and almost fell, but Jess caught her. The two girls stooped down to examine the obstruction. "Hay!" said Jess. "Hay!" repeated Violet. "Hey!" cried Henry, coming up. "What did you say?" "It must have fallen off somebody's load," said Jess. "We'll take it with us," Henry decided wisely. "Load on all you can carry, Jess." "For Benny," thought Violet to herself. So the odd little party trudged on for nearly three hours, laden with hay, until they found that the road ended in a cart path through the woods. "Oh, dear!" exclaimed Jess, almost ready to cry with disappointment. "What's the matter?" demanded Henry in astonishment. "Isn't the woods a good place to sleep? We can't sleep in the road, you know." "It does seem nice and far away from people," admitted Jess, "and it's almost morning." As they stood still at the entrance to the woods, they heard the rumble of a train. It roared down the valley at a great rate and passed them on the other side of the woods, thundering along toward the city. "Never mind the train, either," remarked Henry. "It isn't so _awfully_ near; and even if it were, it couldn't see us." He set his brother down and peered into the woods. It was very warm. "Lizzen!" said Benny. "Listen!" echoed Violet. "More water!" Benny cried, catching his big brother by the hand. "It is only another brook," said Henry with a thankful heart. "He wants a drink." The trickle of water sounded very pleasant to all the children as they lay down once more to drink. Benny was too sleepy to eat. Jess quickly found a dry spot thick with moss between two stones. Upon this moss the three older children spread the hay in the shape of an oval bed. Benny tumbled into it with a great sigh of satisfaction, while his sisters tucked the hay around him. "Pine needles up here, Jess," called Henry from the slope. Each of them quickly scraped together a fragrant pile for a pillow and once more lay down to sleep, with hardly a thought of fear. "I only hope we won't have a thunderstorm," said Jess to herself, as she shut her tired eyes. And she did not open them for a long time, although the dark gray clouds piled higher and more thickly over the sleeping children. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Die Kinder verlassen die Stadt des Bäckers und gelangen an eine Straße, indem sie im Licht des Mondes gehen. Henry sagt, dass er Benny eine lange Strecke tragen kann, aber Violet denkt, dass sie ihn wecken sollten - sie werden mit Benny an den Beinen schneller vorankommen. Benny ist diesem Plan nicht genau zugetan, aber als Violet es in ein Spiel verwandelt, bei dem Benny so tut, als wäre er ein kleiner Bär, ist er ganz begeistert. Die Kinder gehen an dunklen Bauernhäusern vorbei, und nach einer langen Zeit beginnt die Sonne aufzugehen. Sie beschließen, dass sie irgendwo schlafen müssen. Benny schläft bereits wieder in Henrys Armen. Violet findet einen Heuhaufen, und Henry erklärt, dass es ein großartiger Schlafplatz ist. Sicher, Henry. Klingt großartig. Die Kinder machen Schlafnester im Heuhaufen und schlafen sofort ein. Sie sind ziemlich müde. Als sie aufwachen, haben alle Hunger. Rate mal, was auf der Speisekarte steht? Brot. Das ist es. Benny ist durstig, aber Henry denkt, dass sie bis zur Dunkelheit auf Wasser warten müssen. Bei Eintritt der Dunkelheit machen sie sich auf den Weg zu einer Wasserbetankungsstelle und trinken sich satt. Als sie dann wieder auf die Straße fahren, sagt Jessie, dass sie sich im Gebüsch verstecken sollten, wenn sie jemanden hören - und dann hören sie sofort jemanden. Gutes Timing, Jessie. Die Kinder verstecken sich im Gebüsch, wie geplant. Ein Pferd und ein Wagen kommen näher, und würde man doch glatt meinen, es sind der Bäcker und seine Frau. Sie suchen nach den Kindern. Sie sagen, sie planen in Greenfield zu suchen und dann aufzugeben, was nützliche Informationen für die Kinder sind. Nachdem der Bäcker und seine Frau aus dem Blickfeld sind, kommen die Kinder aus dem Gebüsch und gehen weiter die Straße entlang. Gegen 2 Uhr morgens kommen sie zu einer Kreuzung. Eine Straße führt nach Greenfield, während die andere nach Silver City führt. In Kenntnis der Pläne des Bäckers und seiner Frau entscheiden sie sich für Silver City. Schließlich kommen sie zu einem Wasserspringbrunnen. Er hat drei Ebenen: eine für Menschen, eine für Pferde und eine für Hunde. Wasserspringbrunnen waren wohl früher viel cooler. Jeder trinkt etwas Wasser und dann fängt Benny an, sich über Müdigkeit zu beschweren. Typisch Benny. Henry entscheidet, dass sie im Wald schlafen werden. Jessie findet, dass das ein großartiger Plan klingt, da der Wald verlassen zu sein scheint. Offensichtlich haben diese Kinder noch nie einen Horrorfilm gesehen. Die Kinder machen Betten aus Kiefernnadeln und machen sich bereit zum Schlafen. Als sie einschlafen, bemerkt Jessie, dass es so aussieht, als ob es regnen könnte.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: ACT II (THE SAME SCENE--_The Christmas Tree is in the corner by the piano, stripped of its ornaments and with burnt-down candle-ends on its dishevelled branches._ NORA'S _cloak and hat are lying on the sofa. She is alone in the room, walking about uneasily. She stops by the sofa and takes up her cloak._) _Nora_ (_drops the cloak_). Someone is coming now! (_Goes to the door and listens._) No--it is no one. Of course, no one will come today, Christmas Day--nor tomorrow either. But, perhaps--(_opens the door and looks out_.) No, nothing in the letter-box; it is quite empty. (_Comes forward._) What rubbish! of course he can't be in earnest about it. Such a thing couldn't happen; it is impossible--I have three little children. (_Enter the_ NURSE _from the room on the left, carrying a big cardboard box._) _Nurse_. At last I have found the box with the fancy dress. _Nora_. Thanks; put it on the table. _Nurse_ (_doing so_). But it is very much in want of mending. _Nora_. I should like to tear it into a hundred thousand pieces. _Nurse_. What an idea! It can easily be put in order--just a little patience. _Nora_. Yes, I will go and get Mrs. Linde to come and help me with it. _Nurse_. What, out again? In this horrible weather? You will catch cold, ma'am, and make yourself ill. _Nora_. Well, worse than that might happen. How are the children? _Nurse_. The poor little souls are playing with their Christmas presents, but-- _Nora_. Do they ask much for me? _Nurse_. You see, they are so accustomed to have their mamma with them. _Nora_. Yes, but, nurse, I shall not be able to be so much with them now as I was before. _Nurse_. Oh well, young children easily get accustomed to anything. _Nora_. Do you think so? Do you think they would forget their mother if she went away altogether? _Nurse_. Good heavens!--went away altogether? _Nora_. Nurse, I want you to tell me something I have often wondered about--how could you have the heart to put your own child out among strangers? _Nurse_. I was obliged to, if I wanted to be little Nora's nurse. _Nora_. Yes, but how could you be willing to do it? _Nurse_. What, when I was going to get such a good place by it? A poor girl who has got into trouble should be glad to. Besides, that wicked man didn't do a single thing for me. _Nora_. But I suppose your daughter has quite forgotten you. _Nurse_. No, indeed she hasn't. She wrote to me when she was confirmed, and when she was married. _Nora_ (_putting her arms round her neck_). Dear old Anne, you were a good mother to me when I was little. _Nurse_. Little Nora, poor dear, had no other mother but me. _Nora_. And if my little ones had no other mother, I am sure you would--What nonsense I am talking! (_Opens the box._) Go in to them. Now I must--. You will see tomorrow how charming I shall look. _Nurse_. I am sure there will be no one at the ball so charming as you, ma'am. (_Goes into the room on the left._) _Nora_ (_begins to unpack the box, but soon pushes it away from her_). If only I dared go out. If only no one would come. If only I could be sure nothing would happen here in the meantime. Stuff and nonsense! No one will come. Only I mustn't think about it. I will brush my muff. What lovely, lovely gloves! Out of my thoughts, out of my thoughts! One, two, three, four, five, six--(_Screams._) Ah! there is someone coming--. (_Makes a movement towards the door, but stands irresolute_.) (_Enter_ MRS. LINDE _from the hall, where she has taken off her cloak and hat_.) _Nora_. Oh, it's you, Christine. There is no one else out there, is there? How good of you to come! _Mrs. Linde_. I heard you were up asking for me. _Nora_. Yes, I was passing by. As a matter of fact, it is something you could help me with. Let us sit down here on the sofa. Look here. Tomorrow evening there is to be a fancy-dress ball at the Stenborgs', who live above us; and Torvald wants me to go as a Neapolitan fisher-girl, and dance the Tarantella that I learnt at Capri. _Mrs. Linde_. I see; you are going to keep up the character. _Nora_. Yes, Torvald wants me to. Look, here is the dress; Torvald had it made for me there, but now it is all so torn, and I haven't any idea-- _Mrs. Linde_. We will easily put that right. It is only some of the trimming come unsewn here and there. Needle and thread? Now then, that's all we want. _Nora_. It _is_ nice of you. _Mrs. Linde_ (_sewing_). So you are going to be dressed up tomorrow, Nora. I will tell you what--I shall come in for a moment and see you in your fine feathers. But I have completely forgotten to thank you for a delightful evening yesterday. _Nora_ (_gets up, and crosses the stage_). Well I don't think yesterday was as pleasant as usual. You ought to have come to town a little earlier, Christine. Certainly Torvald does understand how to make a house dainty and attractive. _Mrs. Linde_. And so do you, it seems to me; you are not your father's daughter for nothing. But tell me, is Doctor Rank always as depressed as he was yesterday? _Nora_. No; yesterday it was very noticeable. I must tell you that he suffers from a _very_ dangerous disease. He has consumption of the spine, poor creature. His father was a horrible man who committed all sorts of excesses; and that is why his son was sickly from childhood, do you understand? _Mrs. Linde_ (_dropping her sewing_). But, my dearest Nora, how do you know anything about such things? _Nora_ (_walking about_). Pooh! When you have three children, you get visits now and then from--from married women, who know something of medical matters, and they talk about one thing and another. _Mrs. Linde_ (_goes on sewing. A short silence_). Does Doctor Rank come here every day? _Nora_. Every day regularly. He is Torvald's most intimate friend, and a great friend of mine too. He is just like one of the family. _Mrs. Linde_. But tell me this--is he perfectly sincere? I mean, isn't he the kind of a man that is very anxious to make himself agreeable? _Nora_. Not in the least. What makes you think that? _Mrs. Linde_. When you introduced him to me yesterday, he declared he had often heard my name mentioned in this house; but afterwards I noticed that your husband hadn't the slightest idea who I was. So how could Doctor Rank--? _Nora_. That is quite right, Christine. Torvald is so absurdly fond of me that he wants me absolutely to himself, as he says. At first he used to seem almost jealous if I mentioned any of the dear folk at home, so naturally I gave up doing so. But I often talk about such things with Doctor Rank, because he likes hearing about them. _Mrs. Linde_. Listen to me, Nora. You are still very like a child in many ways, and I am older than you in many ways and have a little more experience. Let me tell you this--you ought to make an end of it with Doctor Rank. _Nora_. What ought I to make an end of? _Mrs. Linde_. Of two things, I think. Yesterday you talked some nonsense about a rich admirer who was to leave you money-- _Nora_. An admirer who doesn't exist, unfortunately! But what then? _Mrs. Linde_. Is Doctor Rank a man of means? _Nora_. Yes, he is. _Mrs. Linde_. And has no one to provide for? _Nora_. No, no one; but-- _Mrs. Linde_. And comes here every day? _Nora_. Yes, I told you so. _Mrs. Linde_. But how can this well-bred man be so tactless? _Nora_. I don't understand you at all. _Helmer_. I am going to tell the maid to cancel the fancy dress ball. _Helmer_ (_looking among his papers)_. Settle it. (_Enter_ MAID.) Look here; take this letter and go downstairs with it at once. Find a messenger and tell him to deliver it, and be quick. The address is on it, and here is the money. _Maid_. Very well, sir. (_Exit with the letter_.) _Helmer_ (_putting his papers together_). Now, then, little Miss Obstinate. _Nora_ (_breathlessly_). Torvald--what was that letter? _Helmer_. Krogstad's dismissal. _Nora_. Call her back, Torvald! There is still time. Oh Torvald, call her back! Do it for my sake--for your own sake, for the children's sake! Do you hear me, Torvald? Call her back! You don't know what that letter can bring upon us. _Helmer_. It's too late. _Nora_. Yes, it's too late. _Helmer_. My dear Nora, I can forgive the anxiety you are in, although really it is an insult to me. It is, indeed. Isn't it an insult to think that I should be afraid of a starving quill-driver's vengeance? But I forgive you, nevertheless, because it is such eloquent witness to your great love for me. (_Takes her in his arms.)_ And that is as it should be, my own darling Nora. Come what will, you may be sure I shall have both courage and strength if they be needed. You will see I am man enough to take everything upon myself. _Nora_ (_in a horror-stricken voice_). What do you mean by that? _Helmer_. Everything I say-- _Nora_ (_recovering herself_). You will never have to do that. _Helmer_. That's right. Well, we will share it, Nora, as man and wife should. That is how it shall be. (_Caressing her_.) Are you content now? There! There!--not these frightened dove's eyes! The whole thing is only the wildest fancy!--Now, you must go and play through the Tarantella and practice with your tambourine. I shall go into the inner office and shut the door, and I shall hear nothing; you can make as much noise as you please. (_Turns back at the door.)_ And when Rank comes, tell him where he will find me. (_Nods to her, takes his papers and goes into his room, and shuts the door after him_.) _Nora_ (_bewildered with anxiety, stands as if rooted to the spot, and whispers_). He was capable of doing it. He will do it. He will do it in spite of everything.--No, not that! Never, never! Anything rather than that! Oh, for some help, some way out of it. (_The door-bell rings_.) Doctor Rank! Anything rather than that--anything, whatever it is! (_She puts her hands over her face, pulls herself together, goes to the door and opens it. _RANK_ is standing without, hanging up his coat. During the following dialogue it begins to grow dark_.) _Nora_. Good-day, Doctor Rank. I knew your ring. But you mustn't go into Torvald now; I think he is busy with something. _Rank_. And you? _Nora_ (_brings him in and shuts the door after him_). Oh, you know very well I always have time for you. _Rank_. Thank you. I shall make use of as much of it as I can. _Nora_. What do you mean by that? As much of it as you can. _Rank_. Well, does that alarm you? _Nora_. It was such a strange way of putting it. Is anything likely to happen? _Rank_. Nothing but what I have long been prepared for. But I certainly didn't expect it to happen so soon. _Nora_ (_gripping him by the arm_). What have you found out? Doctor Rank, you must tell me. _Rank_ (_sitting down by the stove_). It is all up with me. And it can't be helped. _Nora_ (_with a sigh of relief_). Is it about yourself? _Rank_. Who else? It is no use lying to one's self. I am the most wretched of all my patients, Mrs. Helmer. Lately I have been taking stock of my internal economy. Bankrupt! Probably within a month I shall lie rotting in the church-yard. _Nora_. What an ugly thing to say! _Rank_. The thing itself is cursedly ugly, and the worst of it is that I shall have to face so much more that is ugly before that. I shall only make one more examination of myself; when I have done that, I shall know pretty certainly when it will be that the horrors of dissolution will begin. There is something I want to tell you. Helmer's refined nature gives him an unconquerable disgust of everything that is ugly; I won't have him in my sick-room. _Nora_. Oh, but, Doctor Rank-- _Rank_. I won't have him there. Not on any account. I bar my door to him. As soon as I am quite certain that the worst has come, I shall send you my card with a black cross on it, and then you will know that the loathsome end has begun. _Nora_. You are quite absurd to-day. And I wanted you so much to be in a really good humour. _Rank_. With death stalking beside me?--To have to pay this penalty for another man's sin! Is there any justice in that? And in every single family, in one way or another, some such inexorable retribution is being exacted-- _Nora_ (_putting her hands over her ears_). Rubbish! Do talk of something cheerful. _Rank_. Oh, it's a mere laughing matter, the whole thing. My poor innocent spine has to suffer for my father's youthful amusements. _Nora_ (_sitting at the table on the left_). I suppose you mean that he was too partial to asparagus and pate de foie gras, don't you? _Rank_. Yes, and to truffles. _Nora_. Truffles, yes. And oysters too, I suppose? _Rank_. Oysters, of course, that goes without saying. _Nora_. And heaps of port and champagne. It is sad that all these nice things should take their revenge on our bones. _Rank_. Especially that they should revenge themselves on the unlucky bones of those who have not had the satisfaction of enjoying them. _Nora_. Yes, that's the saddest part of it all. _Rank_ (_with a searching look at her_). Hm!-- _Nora_ (_after a short pause_). Why did you smile? _Rand_. No, it was you that laughed. _Nora_. No, it was you that smiled, Doctor Rank! _Rank_ (_rising_). You are a greater rascal than I thought. _Nora_. I am in a silly mood today. _Rank_. So it seems. _Nora_ (_putting her hands on his shoulders_). Dear, dear Doctor Rank, death mustn't take you away from Torvald and me. _Rank_. It is a loss you would easily recover from. Those who are gone are soon forgotten. _Nora_ (_looking at him anxiously_). Do you believe that? _Rank_. People form new ties, and then-- _Nora_. Who will form new ties? _Rank_. Both you and Helmer, when I am gone. You yourself are already on the high road to it, I think. What did that Mrs. Linde want here last night? _Nora_. Oho!--you don't mean to say you are jealous of poor Christine? _Rank_. Yes, I am. She will be my successor in this house. When I am done for, this woman will-- _Nora_. Hush! don't speak so loud. She is in that room. _Rank_. To-day again. There, you see. _Nora_. She has only come to sew my dress for me. Bless my soul, how unreasonable you are! (_Sits down on the sofa_.) Be nice now, Doctor Rank, and to-morrow you will see how beautifully I shall dance, and you can imagine I am doing it all for you--and for Torvald too, of course. (_Takes various things out of the box._) Doctor Rank, come and sit down here, and I will show you something. _Rank_ (_sitting down_). What is it? _Nora_. Just look at those. _Rank_. Silk stockings. _Nora_. Flesh-coloured. Aren't they lovely? It is so dark here now, but to-morrow--. No, no, no! you must only look at the feet. Oh, well, you may have leave to look at the legs too. _Rank_. Hm!-- _Nora_. Why are you looking so critical? Don't you think they will fit me? _Rank_. I have no means of forming an opinion about that. _Nora_ (_looks at him for a moment_). For shame! (_Hits him lightly on the ear with the stockings_.) That's to punish you. (_Folds them up again_.) _Rank_. And what other nice things am I to be allowed to see? _Nora_. Not a single thing more, for being so naughty. (_She looks among the things, humming to herself_.) _Rank_ (_after a short silence_). When I am sitting here, talking to you as intimately as this, I cannot imagine for a moment what would have become of me if I had never come into this house. _Nora_ (_smiling_). I believe you do feel thoroughly at home with us. _Rank_ (_in a lower voice, looking straight in front of him_). And to be obliged to leave it all-- _Nora_. Nonsense, you are not going to leave it. _Rank_ (_as before_). And not be able to leave behind one the slightest token of one's gratitude, scarcely even a fleeting regret--nothing but an empty place which the first comer can fill as well as any other. _Nora_. And if I asked you now for a--? No! _Rank_. For what? _Nora_. For a big proof of your friendship-- _Rank_. Yes, yes. _Nora_. I mean a tremendously big favour-- _Rank_. Would you really make me so happy for once? _Nora_. Ah, but you don't know what it is yet. _Rank_. No--but tell me. _Nora_. I really can't, Doctor Rank. It is something out of all reason; it means advice, and help, and a favour-- _Rank_. The bigger a thing it is the better. I can't conceive what it is you mean. Do tell me. Haven't I your confidence? _Nora_. More than anyone else. I know you are my truest and best friend, and so I will tell you what it is. Well, Doctor Rank, it is something you must help me to prevent. You know how devotedly, how inexpressibly deeply Torvald loves me; he would never for a moment hesitate to give his life for me. _Rank_ (_leaning toward her_). Nora--do you think he is the only one--? _Nora_ (_with a slight start_). The only one--? _Rank_. The only one who would gladly give his life for your sake. _Nora_ (_sadly_). Is that it? _Rank_. I was determined you should know it before I went away, and there will never be a better opportunity than this. Now you know it, Nora. And now you know, too, that you can trust me as you would trust no one else. _Nora_ (_rises deliberately and quietly_). Let me pass. _Rank_ (_makes room for her to pass him, but sits still_). Nora! _Nora_ (_at the hall door_). Helen, bring in the lamp. (_Goes over to the stove_.) Dear Doctor Rank, that was really horrid of you. _Rank_. To have loved you as much as anyone else does? Was that horrid? _Nora_. No, but to go and tell me so. There was really no need-- _Rank_. What do you mean? Did you know--? (MAID _enters with lamp, puts it down on the table, and goes out_.) Nora--Mrs. Helmer--tell me, had you any idea of this? _Nora_. Oh, how do I know whether I had or whether I hadn't. I really can't tell you--To think you could be so clumsy, Doctor Rank! We were getting on so nicely. _Bank_. Well, at all events you know now that you can command me, body and soul. So won't you speak out? _Nora_ (_looking at him_). After what happened? _Rank_. I beg you to let me know what it is. _Nora_. I can't tell you anything now. _Rank_. Yes, yes. You mustn't punish me in that way. Let me have permission to do for you whatever a man may do. _Nora_. You can do nothing for me now. Besides, I really don't need any help at all. You will find that the whole thing is merely fancy on my part. It really is so--of course it is! (_Sits down in the rocking-chair, and looks at him with a smile_.) You are a nice sort of man, Doctor Rank!--don't you feel ashamed of yourself, now the lamp has come? _Rank_. Not a bit. But perhaps I had better go--forever? _Nora_. No, indeed, you shall not. Of course you must come here just as before. You know very well Torvald can't do without you. _Rank_. Yes, but you? _Nora_. Oh, I am always tremendously pleased when you come. _Rank_. It is just that, that put me on the wrong track. You are a riddle to me. I have often thought that you would almost as soon be in my company as in Helmer's. _Nora_. Yes--you see there are some people one loves best, and others whom one would almost always rather have as companions. _Rank_. Yes, there is something in that. _Nora_. When I was at home, of course I loved papa best. But I always thought it tremendous fun if I could steal down into the maids' room, because they never moralized at all, and talked to each other about such entertaining things. _Rank_. I see--it is their place I have taken. _Nora_ (_jumping-up and going to him_). Oh, dear, nice Doctor Rank, I never meant that at all. But surely you can understand that being with Torvald is a little like being with papa--(_Enter_ MAID _from the hall_.) _Maid_. If you please, ma'am. (_Whispers and hands her a card_.) _Nora_ (_glancing at the card_). Oh! (_Puts it in her pocket_.) _Rank_. Is there anything wrong? _Nora_. No, no, not in the least. It is only something--It is my new dress-- _Rank_. What? Your dress is lying there. _Nora_. Oh, yes, that one; but this is another. I ordered it. Torvald mustn't know about it-- _Rank_. Oho! Then that was the great secret. _Nora_. Of course. Just go in to him; he is sitting in the inner room. Keep him as long as-- _Rank_. Make your mind easy; I won't let him escape. (_Goes into_ HELMER'S _room_.) _Nora_ (_to the_ MAID). And he is standing waiting in the kitchen? _Maid_. Yes; he came up the back stairs. _Nora_. But didn't you tell him no one was in? _Maid_. Yes, but it was no good. _Nora_. He won't go away? _Maid_. No; he says he won't until he has seen you, ma'am. _Nora_. Well, let him come in--but quietly. Helen, you mustn't say anything about it to any one. It is a surprise for my husband. _Maid_. Yes, ma'am, I quite understand. (_Exit_.) _Nora_. This dreadful thing is going to happen. It will happen in spite of me! No, no, no, it can't happen--it shan't happen! (_She bolts the door of_ HELMER'S _room. The_ MAID _opens the hall door for_ KROGSTAD _and shuts it after him. He is wearing a fur coat, high boots and a fur cap_.) _Nora_ (_advancing towards him_). Speak low--my husband is at home. _Krogstad_. No matter about that. _Nora_. What do you want of me? _Krogstad_. An explanation of something. _Nora_. Make haste then. What is it? _Krogstad_. You know, I suppose, that I have got my dismissal. _Nora_. I couldn't prevent it, Mr. Krogstad. I fought as hard as I could on your side, but it was no good. _Krogstad_. Does your husband love you so little, then? He knows what I can expose you to, and yet he ventures-- _Nora_. How can you suppose that he has any knowledge of the sort? _Krogstad_. I didn't suppose so at all. It would not be the least like our dear Torvald Helmer to show so much courage-- _Nora_. Mr. Krogstad, a little respect for my husband, please. _Krogstad_. Certainly--all the respect he deserves. But since you have kept the matter so carefully to yourself, I make bold to suppose that you have a little clearer idea than you had yesterday, of what it actually is that you have done? _Nora_. More than you could ever teach me. _Krogstad_. Yes, such a bad lawyer as I am. _Nora_. What is it you want of me? _Krogstad_. Only to see how you were, Mrs. Helmer. I have been thinking about you all day long. A mere cashier--a quill-driver, a--well, a man like me--even he has a little of what is called feeling, you know. _Nora_. Show it, then; think of my little children. _Krogstad_. Have you and your husband thought of mine? But never mind about that. I only wanted to tell you that you need not take this matter too seriously. In the first place there will be no accusation made on my part. _Nora_. No, of course not; I was sure of that. _Krogstad_. The whole thing can be arranged amicably; there is no reason why anyone should know anything about it. It will remain a secret between us three. _Nora_. My husband must never get to know anything about it. _Krogstad_. How will you be able to prevent it? Am I to understand that you can pay the balance that is owing? _Nora_. No, not just at present. _Krogstad_. Or perhaps that you have some expedient for raising the money soon? _Nora_. No expedient that I mean to make use of. _Krogstad_. Well, in any case, it would have been of no use to you now. If you stood there with ever so much money in your hand, I would never part with your bond. _Nora_. Tell me what purpose you mean to put it to. _Krogstad_. I shall only preserve it--keep it in my possession. No one who is not concerned in the matter shall have the slightest hint of it. So that if the thought of it has driven you to any desperate resolution-- _Nora_. It has. _Krogstad_. If you had it in your mind to run away from your home-- _Nora_. I had. _Krogstad_. Or even something worse-- _Nora_. How could you know that? _Krogstad_. Give up the idea. _Nora_. How did you know I had thought of _that?_ _Krogstad_. Most of us think of that at first. I did, too--but I hadn't the courage. _Nora_ (_faintly_). No more had I. _Krogstad_ (_in a tone of relief)_. No, that's it, isn't it--you hadn't the courage either? _Nora_. No, I haven't--I haven't. _Krogstad_. Besides, it would have been a great piece of folly. Once the first storm at home is over--. I have a letter for your husband in my pocket. _Nora_. Telling him everything? _Krogstad_. In as lenient a manner as I possibly could. _Nora_ (_quickly)_. He mustn't get the letter. Tear it up. I will find some means of getting money. _Krogstad_. Excuse me, Mrs. Helmer, but I think I told you just how-- _Nora_. I am not speaking of what I owe you. Tell me what sum you are asking my husband for, and I will get the money. _Krogstad_. I am not asking your husband for a penny. _Nora_. What do you want, then? _Krogstad_. I will tell you. I want to rehabilitate myself, Mrs. Helmer; I want to get on; and in that your husband must help me. For the last year and a half I have not had a hand in anything dishonourable, and all that time I have been struggling in most restricted circumstances. I was content to work my way up step by step. Now I am turned out, and I am not going to be satisfied with merely being taken into favour again. I want to get on, I tell you. I want to get into the Bank again, in a higher position. Your husband must make a place for me-- _Nora_. That he will never do! _Krogstad_. He will; I know him; he dare not protest. And as soon as I am in there again with him, then you will see! Within a year I shall be the manager's right hand. It will be Nils Krogstad and not Torvald Helmer who manages the Bank. _Nora_. That's a thing you will never see! _Krogstad_. Do you mean that you will--? _Nora_. I have courage enough for it now. _Krogstad_. Oh, you can't frighten me. A fine, spoilt lady like you-- _Nora_. You will see, you will see. _Krogstad_. Under the ice, perhaps? Down into the cold, coal-black water? And then, in the spring, to float up to the surface, all horrible and unrecognizable, with your hair fallen out-- _Nora_. You can't frighten me. _Krogstad_. Nor you me. People don't do such things, Mrs. Helmer. Besides, what use would it be? I should have him completely in my power all the same. _Nora_. Afterwards? When I am no longer-- _Krogstad_. Have you forgot that it is I who have the keeping of your reputation? (_Nora stands speechlessly looking at him.)_ Well, now, I have warned you. Do not do anything foolish. When Helmer has had my letter, I shall expect a message from him. And be sure you remember that it is your husband himself who has forced me into such ways as this again. I will never forgive him for that. Good-bye, Mrs. Helmer. (_Exit through the hall.)_ _Nora_ (_goes to the hall door, opens it slightly and listens_). He is going. He is not putting the letter in the box. Oh, no, no, that's impossible! (_Opens the door by degrees._) What is that? He is standing outside. He is not going downstairs. Is he hesitating? Can he--? (_A letter drops into the box; then_ KROGSTAD'S _footsteps are heard, till they die away as he goes downstairs._ NORA _utters a stifled cry, and runs across the room to the table by the sofa. A short pause_.) _Nora_. In the letter-box. (_Steals across to the hall-door_.) There it lies--Torvald, Torvald, there is no hope for us now! (MRS. LINDE _comes in from the room on the left, carrying the dress_.) _Mrs. Linde_. There, I can't see anything more to mend now. Would you like to try it on--? _Nora_ (_in a hoarse whisper_). Christine, come here. _Mrs. Linde_ (_throwing the dress down on the sofa_). What is the matter with you? You look so agitated! _Nora_. Come here. Do you see that letter? There, look--you can see it through the glass in the letter-box. _Mrs. Linde_. Yes, I see it. _Nora_. That letter is from Krogstad. _Mrs. Linde_. Nora--it was Krogstad who lent you the money! _Nora_. Yes, and now Torvald will know all about it. _Mrs. Linde_. Believe me, Nora, that's the best thing for both of you. _Nora_. You don't know all. I forged a name. _Mrs. Linde_. Good heavens--! _Nora_. I only want to say this to you, Christine--you must be my witness. _Mrs. Linde_. Your witness! What do you mean? What am I to--? _Nora_. If I should go out of my mind--and it might easily happen-- _Mrs. Linde_. Nora! _Nora_. Or if anything else should happen to me--anything, for instance, that might prevent my being here-- _Mrs. Linde_. Nora! Nora! you are quite out of your mind. _Nora_. And if it should happen that there were someone who wanted to take all the responsibility, all the blame, you understand-- _Mrs. Linde_. Yes, yes--but how can you suppose--? _Nora_. Then you must be my witness, that it is not true, Christine. I am not out of my mind at all; I am in my right senses now, and I tell you no one else has known anything about it; I and I alone, did the whole thing. Remember that. _Mrs. Linde_. I will, indeed. But I don't understand all this. _Nora_. How should you understand it? A wonderful thing is going to happen. _Mrs. Linde_. A wonderful thing? _Nora_. Yes, a wonderful thing!--But it is so terrible, Christine; it _mustn't_ happen, not for all the world. _Mrs. Linde_. I will go at once and see Krogstad. _Nora_. Don't go to him; he will do you some harm. _Mrs. Linde_. There was a time when he would gladly do anything for my sake. _Nora_. He? _Mrs. Linde_. Where does he live? _Nora_. How should I know--? Yes (_feeling in her pocket_) here is his card. But the letter, the letter--! _Helmer_ (_calls from his room, knocking at the door_). Nora. _Nora_ (_cries out anxiously_). Oh, what's that? What do you want? _Helmer_. Don't be so frightened. We are not coming in; you have locked the door. Are you trying on your dress? _Nora_. Yes, that's it. I look so nice, Torvald. _Mrs. Linde_ (_who has read the card_) I see he lives at the corner here. _Nora_. Yes, but it's no use. It is hopeless. The letter is lying there in the box. _Mrs. Linde_. And your husband keeps the key? _Nora_. Yes, always. _Mrs. Linde_. Krogstad must ask for his letter back unread, he must find some pretence-- _Nora_. But it is just at this time that Torvald generally-- _Mrs. Linde_. You must delay him. Go in to him in the meantime. I will come back as soon as I can. (_She goes out hurriedly through the hall door_.) _Nora_ (_goes to_ HELMER'S _door, opens it and peeps in_). Torvald! _Helmer_ (_from the inner room_). Well? May I venture at last to come into my own room again? Come along, Rank, now you will see--(_ Halting in the doorway_.) But what is this? _Nora_. What is what, dear? _Helmer_. Rank led me to expect a splendid transformation. _Rank_ (_in the doorway_). I understood so, but evidently I was mistaken. _Nora_. Yes, nobody is to have the chance of admiring me in my dress until to-morrow. _Helmer_. But, my dear Nora, you look so worn out. Have you been practising too much? _Nora_. No, I have not practised at all. _Helmer_. But you will need to-- _Nora_. Yes, indeed I shall, Torvald. But I can't get on a bit without you to help me; I have absolutely forgotten the whole thing. _Helmer_. Oh, we will soon work it up again. _Nora_. Yes, help me, Torvald. Promise that you will! I am so nervous about it--all the people--. You must give yourself up to me entirely this evening. Not the tiniest bit of business--you mustn't even take a pen in your hand. Will you promise, Torvald dear? _Helmer_. I promise. This evening I will be wholly and absolutely at your service, you helpless little mortal. Ah, by the way, first of all I will just--(_Goes toward the hall-door_.) _Nora_. What are you going to do there? _Helmer_. Only see if any letters have come. _Nora_. No, no! don't do that, Torvald! _Helmer_. Why not? _Nora_. Torvald, please don't. There is nothing there. _Helmer_. Well, let me look. (_Turns to go to the letter-box._ NORA, _at the piano, plays the first bars of the Tarantella_. HELMER _stops in the doorway_.) Aha! _Nora_. I can't dance to-morrow if I don't practise with you. _Helmer_ (_going up to her_). Are you really so afraid of it, dear? _Nora_. Yes, so dreadfully afraid of it. Let me practise at once; there is time now, before we go to dinner. Sit down and play for me, Torvald dear; criticise me, and correct me as you play. _Helmer_. With great pleasure, if you wish me to. (_Sits down at the piano_.) _Nora_ (_takes out of the box a tambourine and a long variegated shawl. She hastily drapes the shawl round her. Then she springs to the front of the stage and calls out_). Now play for me! I am going to dance! (HELMER _plays and_ NORA _dances_. RANK _stands by the piano behind_ HELMER, _and looks on_.) _Helmer_ (_as he plays_). Slower, slower! _Nora_. I can't do it any other way. _Helmer_. Not so violently, Nora! _Nora_. This is the way. _Helmer_ (_stops playing_). No, no--that is not a bit right. _Nora_ (_laughing and swinging the tambourine_). Didn't I tell you so? _Rank_. Let me play for her. _Helmer_ (_getting up_). Yes, do. I can correct her better then. (RANK _sits down at the piano and plays. Nora dances more and more wildly_. HELMER _has taken up a position beside the stove, and during her dance gives her frequent instructions. She does not seem to hear him; her hair comes down and falls over her shoulders; she pays no attention to it, but goes on dancing. Enter_ MRS. LINDE.) _Mrs. Linde_ (_standing as if spell-bound in the doorway_). Oh!-- _Nora_ (_as she dances_). Such fun, Christine! _Helmer_. My dear darling Nora, you are dancing as if your life depended on it. _Nora_. So it does. _Helmer_. Stop, Rank; this is sheer madness. Stop, I tell you. (RANK _stops playing, and,_ NORA _suddenly stands still_. HELMER _goes up to her._) I could never have believed it. You have forgotten everything I taught you. _Nora_ (_throwing away the tambourine_). There, you see. _Helmer_. You will want a lot of coaching. _Nora_. Yes, you see how much I need it. You must coach me up to the last minute. Promise me that, Torvald! _Helmer_. You can depend on me. _Nora_. You must not think of anything but me, either to-day or to-morrow; you mustn't open a single letter--not even open the letter-box-- _Helmer_. Ah, you are still afraid of that fellow---- _Nora_. Yes, indeed I am. _Helmer_. Nora, I can tell from your looks that there is a letter from him lying there. _Nora_. I don't know; I think there is; but you must not read anything of that kind now. Nothing horrid must come between us till this is all over. _Rank_ (_whispers to_ HELMER). You mustn't contradict her. _Helmer_ (_taking her in his arms_). The child shall have her way. But to-morrow night, after you have danced-- _Nora_. Then you will be free. (_The_ MAID _appears in the doorway to the right_.) _Maid_. Dinner is served, ma'am. _Nora_. We will have champagne, Helen. _Maid_. Very good, ma'am. _Helmer_. Hullo!--are we going to have a banquet? (_Exit._) _Nora_. Yes, a champagne banquet till the small hours. (_Calls out_.) And a few macaroons, Helen--lots, just for once! _Helmer_. Come, come, don't be so wild and nervous. Be my own little skylark, as you used. _Nora_. Yes, dear, I will. But go in now and you too, Doctor Rank. Christine, you must, help me to do up my hair. _Rank_ (_whispers to_ HELMER _as they go out_). I suppose there is nothing--she is not expecting anything? _Helmer_. Far from it, my dear fellow; it is simply nothing more than this childish nervousness I was telling you of. (_They go into the right-hand room_.) _Nora_. Well! _Mrs. Linde_. Gone out of town. _Nora_. I could tell from your face. _Mrs. Linde_. He is coming home tomorrow evening. I wrote a note for him. _Nora_. You should have let it alone; you must prevent nothing. After all, it is splendid to be waiting for a wonderful thing to happen. Frau Linde. Worin wartest du? Nora. Oh, du würdest es nicht verstehen. Geh zu ihnen. Ich komme gleich nach. (Frau Linde geht ins Esszimmer. Nora bleibt einen Moment stehen, als würde sie sich selbst sammeln. Dann schaut sie auf ihre Uhr.) Fünf Uhr. Sieben Stunden bis Mitternacht; und dann vierundzwanzig Stunden bis zur nächsten Mitternacht. Dann wird die Tarantella vorbei sein. Vierundzwanzig plus sieben? Einunddreißig verbleibende Stunden. Helmer (aus der Türöffnung rechts). Wo ist meine kleine Lerche? Nora (geht mit ausgebreiteten Armen zu ihm). Hier ist sie! Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Akt II findet im gleichen Raum wie Akt I statt. Der Weihnachtsbaumschmuck wurde abgenommen und die Kerzen sind ausgebrannt. Nora ist allein und macht sich besorgt Gedanken darüber, ob Krogstad an Torvald schreiben wird und ihr Geheimnis enthüllt. Sie wird von der Krankenschwester unterbrochen, die eine Box mit schicken Kleidern zum Anschauen mitbringt. Nora fragt nach ihren Kindern und deutet auf negative Ereignisse hin, indem sie der Krankenschwester sagt, dass sie nicht so viel Zeit mit ihren Kindern verbringen kann wie zuvor. Als die Krankenschwester antwortet, dass die Kinder mit ihrer Abwesenheit klarkommen werden, überlegt Nora laut, ob sie sie ganz vergessen würden, wenn sie weggehen würde. Die Krankenschwester ist schockiert. Nora fragt, wie die Krankenschwester sich wohl gefühlt haben muss, als sie selbst noch ein Kind war und ihre eigenen Kinder bei Fremden zurückließ, um Nora zu betreuen. Die Krankenschwester antwortet, dass sie dankbar für eine solch gute Stellung war und sie angesichts ihrer finanziellen Situation die Gelegenheit nicht ausschlagen konnte. Nora sagt der Krankenschwester, was für eine wunderbare Mutter sie für Nora gewesen ist - und sie wäre eine wunderbare Mutter für Noras Kinder, sollten sie plötzlich ohne Mutter dastehen. Die Krankenschwester geht. Wieder allein versucht Nora vergeblich, sich auf die Party im Obergeschoss zu konzentrieren, um das Problem zu vergessen, dass Krogstad ihr Geheimnis verrät. Sie wird von Mrs. Linde unterbrochen, die gerade eintrifft. Mrs. Linde erkundigt sich nach Dr. Ranks depressiver Stimmung am Tag zuvor, und Nora erklärt, dass Dr. Rank an einer sehr gefährlichen Wirbelsäulen-Tuberkulose leidet, die er seit seiner Kindheit hat. Nora deutet an, dass Dr. Ranks Problem das Ergebnis sexueller Verfehlungen seines Vaters ist. Mrs. Linde fragt leise weiter nach Noras Beziehung zu Dr. Rank und fragt sich, ob er Noras "reicher Verehrer" ist. Nora antwortet, dass Dr. Rank ein Familienfreund ist und dass es keinen solchen Verehrer gibt. Mrs. Linde verfolgt ihren Gedanken weiter, nennt Dr. Rank taktlos und vermutet, dass er derjenige ist, von dem Nora sich das Geld geliehen hat. Als Torvald näher kommt, antwortet Nora nicht und wispert Mrs. Linde ins Nebenzimmer, um das Kostüm vor ihm zu verbergen. Torvald und Nora besprechen ihr Kleid. Als er geht, hält Nora ihn auf und fragt ihn immer wieder, ob er etwas für sein "kleines Eichhörnchen" oder "Lerche" tun würde, wenn sie sehr "hübsch" handeln und für ihn tanzen und singen würde. Nora bittet ihn, seine Entscheidung, Krogstad von der Bank zu entlassen, zu überdenken, aber Torvald wird wütend und enthüllt, dass es Krogstads Posten ist, den er Mrs. Linde versprochen hat. Nora erzählt Torvald, dass sie Angst vor Krogstad hat, der, einmal entlassen, versuchen wird, ihren Namen in den Zeitungen zu beschmutzen. Torvald denkt, Nora habe Angst vor Verleumdung, weil der Name ihres Vaters nach seinem Tod in den Zeitungen beschmutzt wurde, und beruhigt Nora, dass er, im Gegensatz zu ihrem Vater, über jeden Zweifel erhaben ist. Nora warnt vor den Machenschaften von Männern wie Krogstad gegen ihr glückliches, familiäres Zuhause. Schließlich antwortet Torvald, dass Nora Bitten es umso unmöglicher machen, seine Meinung zu ändern. Was wäre, wenn bekannt würde, dass er seine Entscheidung einfach wegen der Ängste seiner Frau umgekehrt habe? Torvald argumentiert, dass Krogstad seine frühe Kindheitsfreundschaft ausnutze, um mit ihm in einer unangemessen vertrauten Weise zu sprechen, was seine Position als Manager unerträglich machen würde. Ungläubig sagt Nora Torvald, er könne doch nicht dermaßen engstirnig sein. Immer wütender befiehlt Torvald der Magd, Krogstad sofort seinen Entlassungsbrief zu schicken. Um Nora zu beruhigen, die in Panik gerät, versichert Torvald ihr, dass er, komme, was wolle, den Mut haben werde, alles anzunehmen, was passiert. Nora ist von dieser Aussage besonders fasziniert und entsetzt, also bittet sie Torvald, sie zu verdeutlichen. Er wiederholt einfach, dass er alles auf sich nehmen wird, was auf sie zukommt. Nora sagt, dass das niemals geschehen wird. Torvald interpretiert ihre Aussage als Wunsch, die Lasten als Ehemann und Ehefrau zu teilen, und versichert ihr, dass er dasselbe im Sinn hat. Dann beendet er das ganze Thema und fragt sie, ob sie sich besser fühle, und bittet sie, mit dem Üben ihres Tanzes für den Ball am nächsten Abend weiterzumachen. Er weist sie auch an, Dr. Rank in sein Arbeitszimmer zu schicken, und lässt sie allein. Sein Ton ist der eines Vaterfiguren. Nora ist von Angst verwirrt, bis sie von der Ankunft von Dr. Rank unterbrochen wird. Nora hält ihn fest und sagt ihm, dass sie immer Zeit für ihn hat. Dr. Rank antwortet in gleicher Weise. Verwirrt von seiner Aussage bittet Nora ihn, seine Interessen zu klären, und fragt ihn, ob etwas zwischen ihnen geschehen könnte. Dr. Rank enthüllt, dass er erwartet, innerhalb eines Monats zu sterben. Er bittet Nora dann, Torvald daran zu hindern, Rank's Krankenzimmer zu betreten, wenn er sich im Endstadium seiner Krankheit befindet. Er arrangiert es so, dass er Nora eine Visitenkarte mit einem schwarzen Kreuz hinterlässt, um anzuzeigen, dass er im Begriff ist zu sterben. Als die Nacht hereinbricht, haben Nora und Rank ein merkwürdiges Gespräch, das zwischen dem Ernsthaften und dem leicht Flirtenden wechselt. Zum Beispiel zieht Nora ein Paar Seidenstrümpfe heraus und sie reden darüber, wie viel Bein Nora ihm zeigen müsste, um eine Meinung über die Strümpfe zu bilden. Nora baut offensichtlich darauf hin, Dr. Rank um finanzielle Hilfe zu bitten. Dann gesteht er scheinbar unerwartet, dass er Nora liebt. Er sagt, dass er nur wegen ihr in den Haushalt kommt. Dieses Geständnis macht ihre Bitte um Geld unmöglich, denn es würde nun ihre Beziehung verwirren und offensichtlich machen. Nora verlässt den Raum kurz, um eine Lampe hereinzubringen. Sie lenkt das Gespräch auf sichereres Gebiet zurück und erklärt Nora, warum sie Torvald liebt, obwohl sie anscheinend mehr Zeit mit Dr. Rank genießt. Sie bemerkt die Ähnlichkeiten zwischen ihrer Beziehung zu Torvald und zu ihrem verstorbenen Vater. Die Magd kommt mit Krogstads Visitenkarte herein und sagt Nora, dass er sich geweigert hat zu gehen, bevor er sie gesehen hat. Dr. Rank zieht sich schließlich in Torvalds Arbeitszimmer zurück. Als Krogstad eintritt, sagt Nora ihm, leise zu sprechen, und warnt ihn, dass Torvald zu Hause ist. Krogstad, unbeeindruckt, fragt sie nach einer Erklärung für seine Kündigung bei der Bank. Nora antwortet, dass sie ihr Bestes getan hat, um seinen Fall zu verteidigen, aber ihren Ehemann nicht überzeugen konnte. Vorausgesetzt, dass Nora Torvald alles erzählt hat, antwortet Krogstad, dass Torvald sie wohl sehr wenig lieben muss, um eine solche Entscheidung zu treffen. Nora teilt ihm mit, dass Torvald immer noch nichts von der Angelegenheit weiß. Krogstad fragt sie, ob sie nun eine klarere Vorstellung davon habe, was sie getan hat, und Nora antwortet, dass sie es sehr gut weiß. Krogstad sagt nun, dass er die Angelegenheit doch nicht publik machen wird, sie aber zwischen Nora, ihm und Torvald bleiben lassen wird. Nora protestiert, dass Torvald nichts wissen darf, aber Krogstad antwortet, dass er selbst wenn sie das Geld hätte, um den ausstehenden Betrag des Kredits zu bezahlen, Torvald trotzdem einbeziehen würde, denn sein Ziel ist es nicht, Nora bloßzustellen, sondern Torvald zu erpressen. Das heißt, er beabsichtigt nun, Noras Schuldschein zu verwenden, um Torvald zu zwingen, ihm einen neuen, hochrangigen Job bei der Bank zu geben. Krogstad verlässt den Raum und wirft einen Brief an Torvald in den verschlossenen Briefkasten, zu dem nur Torvald einen Schlüssel hat. Mrs. Linde kommt zurück und Nora offenbart ihr Problem und bittet ihre Freundin, Zeugin für sie zu sein, falls Nora etwas zustoßen sollte. Nora besteht darauf, dass Mrs. Linde in einem solchen Fall allen sagen soll, dass Nora nicht verrückt war und vor allem für alles verantwortlich war. Mrs. Linde reagiert verwirrt und Nora behauptet, dass Mrs. Linde das "Wunder", das geschehen wird, niemals verstehen könnte. Dieses Wunder, erklärt Nora, ist "erschreckend", aber es "darf auf keinen Fall geschehen, um nichts in der Welt". Mrs. Linde bietet an, zu versuchen, Krogstad zu überreden, den Brief zurückzuholen - sie würde ihre alte Liebesverbindung mit ihm als Überredungsmethode nutzen. Nora sagt, dass es hoffnungslos sei. Aber als Torvald an die Tür klopft, beschließt Mrs. Linde, es zu versuchen, und geht schnell hinaus. Nora öffnet Torvald und Dr. Rank die Tür, aber sie sind überrascht, weil sie erwartet haben, dass Nora ihr Kleid anprobiert; Torvald sagt, Rank habe ihn "auf irgendeine große Verwandlungsszene" vorbereitet. Torvald stellt stattdessen fest, dass Nora erschöpft aussieht und fragt sie, ob sie zu viel übt. Nora antwortet, dass sie es nicht einmal ohne Torvald kann, weil sie ohne ihn nichts mehr weiß. In der Hoffnung, ihn lange genug abzulenken, um das Problem mit dem Brief zu lösen, bittet sie ihn, ihr den ganzen Tag und die ganze Nacht bis zur Party zu helfen. Torvald stimmt zu. Aber er geht zuerst zum Briefkasten, also stoppt Nora ihn, indem sie die ersten Takte der Tarantella spielt, die sie tanzen wird. Dann lockt sie ihn, für sie zu spielen und sie beim Tanzen zu korrigieren. Dr. Rank, der bis jetzt nur beobachtet hat, übernimmt schließlich am Klavier, damit Torvald aufstehen und Nora besser korrigieren kann. Ihr Tanz wird immer wilder und verzweifelter, bis ihr Haar sich ganz gelöst hat. Während Nora noch tanzt, kehrt Mrs. Linde zurück und bemerkt, dass sie tanzt, als hänge ihr Leben davon ab. Torvald lässt schließlich alles abbrechen, tadelt Nora dafür, dass sie alles vergessen hat, was er ihr beigebracht hat. Nora antwortet, dass sie in der Tat alles vergessen hat und Hilfe braucht, um den Tanz neu zu lernen. Sie sagt ihm, dass er nicht an etwas anderes denken darf, besonders nicht an irgendwelche Briefe. Torvald bemerkt, dass er an ihrem Verhalten erkennen kann, dass ein Brief von Krogstad auf ihn wartet. Nora antwortet, dass sie es nicht weiß, aber dass es sein könnte. Sie bittet ihn inständig, nichts Schreckliches zwischen sie kommen zu lassen, bis nach der Party. Torvald nimmt sie in seine Arme und nennt sie ein Kind und stimmt zu, dass sie ihren Willen haben muss. Er verspricht, mit ihr zu arbeiten, bis nach der Party - zu der Zeit, wie Nora sagt, "wird er frei sein". Sie gehen alle zum Abendessen. Nora ruft nach vielen Makronen. Als sie gehen, tauschen Torvald und Dr. Rank ein paar Worte über Noras Gemütszustand aus, und es wird deutlich, dass sie diese Angelegenheit zuvor besprochen haben. Dr. Rank, besorgt, fragt, ob Nora etwas erwartet. Torvald schließt ihr über ihr besorgniserregendes Verhalten und sie verlassen den Raum. Allein mit Nora erzählt Mrs. Linde ihr, dass Krogstad die Stadt verlassen hat. Nora scheint unbesorgt zu sein und erwähnt erneut das Wunder. Mrs. Linde drängt Nora, sich zu erklären, aber Nora weist ihre Fragen ab und sagt ihr, dass sie es nicht verstehen würde. Sie schickt Mrs. Linde in das Esszimmer. Nun allein, fasst sie sich und sieht auf die Uhr und stellt fest, dass sie eineunddreißig Stunden zu leben hat. Torvalds Stimme ruft dann nach ihr, er fragt nach seinem "kleinen Lerchen". Der Akt endet damit, dass Nora mit weit geöffneten Armen auf ihn zugeht.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: |GET there they did, however, in due season. Mrs. Spencer lived in a big yellow house at White Sands Cove, and she came to the door with surprise and welcome mingled on her benevolent face. "Dear, dear," she exclaimed, "you're the last folks I was looking for today, but I'm real glad to see you. You'll put your horse in? And how are you, Anne?" "I'm as well as can be expected, thank you," said Anne smilelessly. A blight seemed to have descended on her. "I suppose we'll stay a little while to rest the mare," said Marilla, "but I promised Matthew I'd be home early. The fact is, Mrs. Spencer, there's been a queer mistake somewhere, and I've come over to see where it is. We send word, Matthew and I, for you to bring us a boy from the asylum. We told your brother Robert to tell you we wanted a boy ten or eleven years old." "Marilla Cuthbert, you don't say so!" said Mrs. Spencer in distress. "Why, Robert sent word down by his daughter Nancy and she said you wanted a girl--didn't she Flora Jane?" appealing to her daughter who had come out to the steps. "She certainly did, Miss Cuthbert," corroborated Flora Jane earnestly. "I'm dreadful sorry," said Mrs. Spencer. "It's too bad; but it certainly wasn't my fault, you see, Miss Cuthbert. I did the best I could and I thought I was following your instructions. Nancy is a terrible flighty thing. I've often had to scold her well for her heedlessness." "It was our own fault," said Marilla resignedly. "We should have come to you ourselves and not left an important message to be passed along by word of mouth in that fashion. Anyhow, the mistake has been made and the only thing to do is to set it right. Can we send the child back to the asylum? I suppose they'll take her back, won't they?" "I suppose so," said Mrs. Spencer thoughtfully, "but I don't think it will be necessary to send her back. Mrs. Peter Blewett was up here yesterday, and she was saying to me how much she wished she'd sent by me for a little girl to help her. Mrs. Peter has a large family, you know, and she finds it hard to get help. Anne will be the very girl for you. I call it positively providential." Marilla did not look as if she thought Providence had much to do with the matter. Here was an unexpectedly good chance to get this unwelcome orphan off her hands, and she did not even feel grateful for it. She knew Mrs. Peter Blewett only by sight as a small, shrewish-faced woman without an ounce of superfluous flesh on her bones. But she had heard of her. "A terrible worker and driver," Mrs. Peter was said to be; and discharged servant girls told fearsome tales of her temper and stinginess, and her family of pert, quarrelsome children. Marilla felt a qualm of conscience at the thought of handing Anne over to her tender mercies. "Well, I'll go in and we'll talk the matter over," she said. "And if there isn't Mrs. Peter coming up the lane this blessed minute!" exclaimed Mrs. Spencer, bustling her guests through the hall into the parlor, where a deadly chill struck on them as if the air had been strained so long through dark green, closely drawn blinds that it had lost every particle of warmth it had ever possessed. "That is real lucky, for we can settle the matter right away. Take the armchair, Miss Cuthbert. Anne, you sit here on the ottoman and don't wiggle. Let me take your hats. Flora Jane, go out and put the kettle on. Good afternoon, Mrs. Blewett. We were just saying how fortunate it was you happened along. Let me introduce you two ladies. Mrs. Blewett, Miss Cuthbert. Please excuse me for just a moment. I forgot to tell Flora Jane to take the buns out of the oven." Mrs. Spencer whisked away, after pulling up the blinds. Anne sitting mutely on the ottoman, with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, stared at Mrs Blewett as one fascinated. Was she to be given into the keeping of this sharp-faced, sharp-eyed woman? She felt a lump coming up in her throat and her eyes smarted painfully. She was beginning to be afraid she couldn't keep the tears back when Mrs. Spencer returned, flushed and beaming, quite capable of taking any and every difficulty, physical, mental or spiritual, into consideration and settling it out of hand. "It seems there's been a mistake about this little girl, Mrs. Blewett," she said. "I was under the impression that Mr. and Miss Cuthbert wanted a little girl to adopt. I was certainly told so. But it seems it was a boy they wanted. So if you're still of the same mind you were yesterday, I think she'll be just the thing for you." Mrs. Blewett darted her eyes over Anne from head to foot. "How old are you and what's your name?" she demanded. "Anne Shirley," faltered the shrinking child, not daring to make any stipulations regarding the spelling thereof, "and I'm eleven years old." "Humph! You don't look as if there was much to you. But you're wiry. I don't know but the wiry ones are the best after all. Well, if I take you you'll have to be a good girl, you know--good and smart and respectful. I'll expect you to earn your keep, and no mistake about that. Yes, I suppose I might as well take her off your hands, Miss Cuthbert. The baby's awful fractious, and I'm clean worn out attending to him. If you like I can take her right home now." Marilla looked at Anne and softened at sight of the child's pale face with its look of mute misery--the misery of a helpless little creature who finds itself once more caught in the trap from which it had escaped. Marilla felt an uncomfortable conviction that, if she denied the appeal of that look, it would haunt her to her dying day. More-over, she did not fancy Mrs. Blewett. To hand a sensitive, "highstrung" child over to such a woman! No, she could not take the responsibility of doing that! "Well, I don't know," she said slowly. "I didn't say that Matthew and I had absolutely decided that we wouldn't keep her. In fact I may say that Matthew is disposed to keep her. I just came over to find out how the mistake had occurred. I think I'd better take her home again and talk it over with Matthew. I feel that I oughtn't to decide on anything without consulting him. If we make up our mind not to keep her we'll bring or send her over to you tomorrow night. If we don't you may know that she is going to stay with us. Will that suit you, Mrs. Blewett?" "I suppose it'll have to," said Mrs. Blewett ungraciously. During Marilla's speech a sunrise had been dawning on Anne's face. First the look of despair faded out; then came a faint flush of hope; her eyes grew deep and bright as morning stars. The child was quite transfigured; and, a moment later, when Mrs. Spencer and Mrs. Blewett went out in quest of a recipe the latter had come to borrow she sprang up and flew across the room to Marilla. "Oh, Miss Cuthbert, did you really say that perhaps you would let me stay at Green Gables?" she said, in a breathless whisper, as if speaking aloud might shatter the glorious possibility. "Did you really say it? Or did I only imagine that you did?" "I think you'd better learn to control that imagination of yours, Anne, if you can't distinguish between what is real and what isn't," said Marilla crossly. "Yes, you did hear me say just that and no more. It isn't decided yet and perhaps we will conclude to let Mrs. Blewett take you after all. She certainly needs you much more than I do." "I'd rather go back to the asylum than go to live with her," said Anne passionately. "She looks exactly like a--like a gimlet." Marilla smothered a smile under the conviction that Anne must be reproved for such a speech. "A little girl like you should be ashamed of talking so about a lady and a stranger," she said severely. "Go back and sit down quietly and hold your tongue and behave as a good girl should." "I'll try to do and be anything you want me, if you'll only keep me," said Anne, returning meekly to her ottoman. When they arrived back at Green Gables that evening Matthew met them in the lane. Marilla from afar had noted him prowling along it and guessed his motive. She was prepared for the relief she read in his face when he saw that she had at least brought back Anne back with her. But she said nothing, to him, relative to the affair, until they were both out in the yard behind the barn milking the cows. Then she briefly told him Anne's history and the result of the interview with Mrs. Spencer. "I wouldn't give a dog I liked to that Blewett woman," said Matthew with unusual vim. "I don't fancy her style myself," admitted Marilla, "but it's that or keeping her ourselves, Matthew. And since you seem to want her, I suppose I'm willing--or have to be. I've been thinking over the idea until I've got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty. I've never brought up a child, especially a girl, and I dare say I'll make a terrible mess of it. But I'll do my best. So far as I'm concerned, Matthew, she may stay." Matthew's shy face was a glow of delight. "Well now, I reckoned you'd come to see it in that light, Marilla," he said. "She's such an interesting little thing." "It'd be more to the point if you could say she was a useful little thing," retorted Marilla, "but I'll make it my business to see she's trained to be that. And mind, Matthew, you're not to go interfering with my methods. Perhaps an old maid doesn't know much about bringing up a child, but I guess she knows more than an old bachelor. So you just leave me to manage her. When I fail it'll be time enough to put your oar in." "There, there, Marilla, you can have your own way," said Matthew reassuringly. "Only be as good and kind to her as you can without spoiling her. I kind of think she's one of the sort you can do anything with if you only get her to love you." Marilla sniffed, to express her contempt for Matthew's opinions concerning anything feminine, and walked off to the dairy with the pails. "I won't tell her tonight that she can stay," she reflected, as she strained the milk into the creamers. "She'd be so excited that she wouldn't sleep a wink. Marilla Cuthbert, you're fairly in for it. Did you ever suppose you'd see the day when you'd be adopting an orphan girl? It's surprising enough; but not so surprising as that Matthew should be at the bottom of it, him that always seemed to have such a mortal dread of little girls. Anyhow, we've decided on the experiment and goodness only knows what will come of it." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Marilla und Anne kommen bei Mrs. Spencers Haus an, zur Überraschung von Mrs. Spencer. Als sie nach dem Missverständnis gefragt wird, erklärt Mrs. Spencer, dass ihr von der Person, die Marillas Nachricht weitergegeben hat, gesagt wurde, dass die Cuthberts ein Mädchen wollten. Mrs. Spencer erzählt Marilla, dass wenn sie Anne nicht behalten möchte, eine andere Frau namens Mrs. Peter auf der Suche nach einem jungen Mädchen ist, das auf ihre Kinder aufpasst. Marilla ist besorgt über diese Idee, weil sie gehört hat, dass Mrs. Peter ein schreckliches Temperament hat. In diesem Moment nähert sich Mrs. Peter dem Haus von Mrs. Spencer. Mrs. Peter fragt Anne nach ihrem Namen und ihrem Alter und sagt ihr dann, dass sie sich sofort um ihr anspruchsvolles Baby kümmern kann. Marilla sieht, dass Anne miserabel aussieht, und sagt Mrs. Peter, dass sie Anne zumindest für den Abend mit nach Green Gables nehmen muss, um die Situation mit Matthew zu besprechen. Annes Gesicht erhellt sich, als sie Marilla das sagen hört, und als Mrs. Spencer und Mrs. Peter den Raum verlassen, erzählt Anne Marilla, dass sie alles tun wird, um in Green Gables bleiben zu können. Marilla und Anne kehren nach Green Gables zurück. Marilla erzählt Matthew von Annes Kindheit und dem Angebot, das Mrs. Peter gemacht hat. Marilla und Matthew beschließen, dass Anne bei ihnen bleiben kann und dass Marilla sie aufziehen wird. Marilla sagt Matthew, dass er sich nicht in Marillas Erziehungsmethoden einmischen darf, und Matthew stimmt zu. Marilla beschließt, Anne erst am nächsten Tag von dem Aufenthalt in Green Gables zu erzählen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: In the brightness of the wintry sun next morning as it streamed over the breakfast table he laughed at his fears. There was an air of prosaic wholesomeness about the room which it had lacked on the previous night, and the dirty, shrivelled little paw was pitched on the sideboard with a carelessness which betokened no great belief in its virtues. "I suppose all old soldiers are the same," said Mrs. White. "The idea of our listening to such nonsense! How could wishes be granted in these days? And if they could, how could two hundred pounds hurt you, father?" "Might drop on his head from the sky," said the frivolous Herbert. "Morris said the things happened so naturally," said his father, "that you might if you so wished attribute it to coincidence." "Well, don't break into the money before I come back," said Herbert as he rose from the table. "I'm afraid it'll turn you into a mean, avaricious man, and we shall have to disown you." His mother laughed, and following him to the door, watched him down the road; and returning to the breakfast table, was very happy at the expense of her husband's credulity. All of which did not prevent her from scurrying to the door at the postman's knock, nor prevent her from referring somewhat shortly to retired sergeant-majors of bibulous habits when she found that the post brought a tailor's bill. "Herbert will have some more of his funny remarks, I expect, when he comes home," she said, as they sat at dinner. "I dare say," said Mr. White, pouring himself out some beer; "but for all that, the thing moved in my hand; that I'll swear to." "You thought it did," said the old lady soothingly. "I say it did," replied the other. "There was no thought about it; I had just---- What's the matter?" His wife made no reply. She was watching the mysterious movements of a man outside, who, peering in an undecided fashion at the house, appeared to be trying to make up his mind to enter. In mental connection with the two hundred pounds, she noticed that the stranger was well dressed, and wore a silk hat of glossy newness. Three times he paused at the gate, and then walked on again. The fourth time he stood with his hand upon it, and then with sudden resolution flung it open and walked up the path. Mrs. White at the same moment placed her hands behind her, and hurriedly unfastening the strings of her apron, put that useful article of apparel beneath the cushion of her chair. She brought the stranger, who seemed ill at ease, into the room. He gazed at her furtively, and listened in a preoccupied fashion as the old lady apologized for the appearance of the room, and her husband's coat, a garment which he usually reserved for the garden. She then waited as patiently as her sex would permit, for him to broach his business, but he was at first strangely silent. "I--was asked to call," he said at last, and stooped and picked a piece of cotton from his trousers. "I come from 'Maw and Meggins.'" The old lady started. "Is anything the matter?" she asked, breathlessly. "Has anything happened to Herbert? What is it? What is it?" Her husband interposed. "There, there, mother," he said, hastily. "Sit down, and don't jump to conclusions. You've not brought bad news, I'm sure, sir;" and he eyed the other wistfully. "I'm sorry--" began the visitor. "Is he hurt?" demanded the mother, wildly. The visitor bowed in assent. "Badly hurt," he said, quietly, "but he is not in any pain." "Oh, thank God!" said the old woman, clasping her hands. "Thank God for that! Thank--" She broke off suddenly as the sinister meaning of the assurance dawned upon her and she saw the awful confirmation of her fears in the other's averted face. She caught her breath, and turning to her slower-witted husband, laid her trembling old hand upon his. There was a long silence. "He was caught in the machinery," said the visitor at length in a low voice. "Caught in the machinery," repeated Mr. White, in a dazed fashion, "yes." He sat staring blankly out at the window, and taking his wife's hand between his own, pressed it as he had been wont to do in their old courting-days nearly forty years before. "He was the only one left to us," he said, turning gently to the visitor. "It is hard." The other coughed, and rising, walked slowly to the window. "The firm wished me to convey their sincere sympathy with you in your great loss," he said, without looking round. "I beg that you will understand I am only their servant and merely obeying orders." There was no reply; the old woman's face was white, her eyes staring, and her breath inaudible; on the husband's face was a look such as his friend the sergeant might have carried into his first action. "I was to say that 'Maw and Meggins' disclaim all responsibility," continued the other. "They admit no liability at all, but in consideration of your son's services, they wish to present you with a certain sum as compensation." Mr. White dropped his wife's hand, and rising to his feet, gazed with a look of horror at his visitor. His dry lips shaped the words, "How much?" "Two hundred pounds," was the answer. Unconscious of his wife's shriek, the old man smiled faintly, put out his hands like a sightless man, and dropped, a senseless heap, to the floor. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Die Dinge wirken für Herbert im hellen Licht des Morgens nicht mehr so beängstigend. Er fühlt sich albern deswegen, dass ihn gestern Nacht eine schmutzige kleine Pfote erschreckt hat. Er macht ein paar Witze über die Pfote und macht sich dann auf den Weg zur Arbeit. Frau White glaubt auch nicht an die Kraft der Pfote, aber sie kann nicht aufhören, über die Möglichkeit nachzudenken, dass das Geld magischerweise auftaucht. Später am Tag besucht ein fein gekleideter Mann die Whites. Er sagt, er komme von Maw and Meggins, der Firma, in der Herbert arbeitet. Der Mann erzählt den Whites, dass Herbert "in die Maschinerie geraten ist". Ihr Sohn hat den Unfall nicht überlebt. Frau White sagt dem Mann, dass Herbert das einzige Kind ist, das sie noch haben. Nun zum Teil, auf den du gewartet hast: Der Mann erzählt den Whites, dass Maw and Meggins nicht für Herberts Tod verantwortlich ist, aber dass sie den Whites zweihundert Pfund zahlen wollen, um die Sache zu regeln. Bei dieser Nachricht schreit Frau White und Herr White fällt in Ohnmacht.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: IT is very difficult to give an all-round impression of a man. I wonder how far I have succeeded with Edward Ashburnham. I dare say I haven't succeeded at all. It is ever very difficult to see how such things matter. Was it the important point about poor Edward that he was very well built, carried himself well, was moderate at the table and led a regular life--that he had, in fact, all the virtues that are usually accounted English? Or have I in the least succeeded in conveying that he was all those things and had all those virtues? He certainly was them and had them up to the last months of his life. They were the things that one would set upon his tombstone. They will, indeed, be set upon his tombstone by his widow. And have I, I wonder, given the due impression of how his life was portioned and his time laid out? Because, until the very last, the amount of time taken up by his various passions was relatively small. I have been forced to write very much about his passions, but you have to consider--I should like to be able to make you consider--that he rose every morning at seven, took a cold bath, breakfasted at eight, was occupied with his regiment from nine until one; played polo or cricket with the men when it was the season for cricket, till tea-time. Afterwards he would occupy himself with the letters from his land-steward or with the affairs of his mess, till dinner-time. He would dine and pass the evening playing cards, or playing billiards with Leonora or at social functions of one kind or another. And the greater part of his life was taken up by that--by far the greater part of his life. His love-affairs, until the very end, were sandwiched in at odd moments or took place during the social evenings, the dances and dinners. But I guess I have made it hard for you, O silent listener, to get that impression. Anyhow, I hope I have not given you the idea that Edward Ashburnham was a pathological case. He wasn't. He was just a normal man and very much of a sentimentalist. I dare say the quality of his youth, the nature of his mother's influence, his ignorances, the crammings that he received at the hands of army coaches--I dare say that all these excellent influences upon his adolescence were very bad for him. But we all have to put up with that sort of thing and no doubt it is very bad for all of us. Nevertheless, the outline of Edward's life was an outline perfectly normal of the life of a hard-working, sentimental and efficient professional man. That question of first impressions has always bothered me a good deal--but quite academically. I mean that, from time to time I have wondered whether it were or were not best to trust to one's first impressions in dealing with people. But I never had anybody to deal with except waiters and chambermaids and the Ashburnhams, with whom I didn't know that I was having any dealings. And, as far as waiters and chambermaids were concerned, I have generally found that my first impressions were correct enough. If my first idea of a man was that he was civil, obliging, and attentive, he generally seemed to go on being all those things. Once, however, at our Paris flat we had a maid who appeared to be charming and transparently honest. She stole, nevertheless, one of Florence's diamond rings. She did it, however, to save her young man from going to prison. So here, as somebody says somewhere, was a special case. And, even in my short incursion into American business life--an incursion that lasted during part of August and nearly the whole of September--I found that to rely upon first impressions was the best thing I could do. I found myself automatically docketing and labelling each man as he was introduced to me, by the run of his features and by the first words that he spoke. I can't, however, be regarded as really doing business during the time that I spent in the United States. I was just winding things up. If it hadn't been for my idea of marrying the girl I might possibly have looked for something to do in my own country. For my experiences there were vivid and amusing. It was exactly as if I had come out of a museum into a riotous fancy-dress ball. During my life with Florence I had almost come to forget that there were such things as fashions or occupations or the greed of gain. I had, in fact, forgotten that there was such a thing as a dollar and that a dollar can be extremely desirable if you don't happen to possess one. And I had forgotten, too, that there was such a thing as gossip that mattered. In that particular, Philadelphia was the most amazing place I have ever been in in my life. I was not in that city for more than a week or ten days and I didn't there transact anything much in the way of business; nevertheless, the number of times that I was warned by everybody against everybody else was simply amazing. A man I didn't know would come up behind my lounge chair in the hotel, and, whispering cautiously beside my ear, would warn me against some other man that I equally didn't know but who would be standing by the bar. I don't know what they thought I was there to do--perhaps to buy out the city's debt or get a controlling hold of some railway interest. Or, perhaps, they imagined that I wanted to buy a newspaper, for they were either politicians or reporters, which, of course, comes to the same thing. As a matter of fact, my property in Philadelphia was mostly real estate in the old-fashioned part of the city and all I wanted to do there was just to satisfy myself that the houses were in good repair and the doors kept properly painted. I wanted also to see my relations, of whom I had a few. These were mostly professional people and they were mostly rather hard up because of the big bank failure in 1907 or thereabouts. Still, they were very nice. They would have been nicer still if they hadn't, all of them, had what appeared to me to be the mania that what they called influences were working against them. At any rate, the impression of that city was one of old-fashioned rooms, rather English than American in type, in which handsome but careworn ladies, cousins of my own, talked principally about mysterious movements that were going on against them. I never got to know what it was all about; perhaps they thought I knew or perhaps there weren't any movements at all. It was all very secret and subtle and subterranean. But there was a nice young fellow called Carter who was a sort of second-nephew of mine, twice removed. He was handsome and dark and gentle and tall and modest. I understand also that he was a good cricketer. He was employed by the real-estate agents who collected my rents. It was he, therefore, who took me over my own property and I saw a good deal of him and of a nice girl called Mary, to whom he was engaged. At that time I did, what I certainly shouldn't do now--I made some careful inquiries as to his character. I discovered from his employers that he was just all that he appeared, honest, industrious, high-spirited, friendly and ready to do anyone a good turn. His relatives, however, as they were mine, too--seemed to have something darkly mysterious against him. I imagined that he must have been mixed up in some case of graft or that he had at least betrayed several innocent and trusting maidens. I pushed, however, that particular mystery home and discovered it was only that he was a Democrat. My own people were mostly Republicans. It seemed to make it worse and more darkly mysterious to them that young Carter was what they called a sort of a Vermont Democrat which was the whole ticket and no mistake. But I don't know what it means. Anyhow, I suppose that my money will go to him when I die--I like the recollection of his friendly image and of the nice girl he was engaged to. May Fate deal very kindly with them. I have said just now that, in my present frame of mind, nothing would ever make me make inquiries as to the character of any man that I liked at first sight. (The little digression as to my Philadelphia experiences was really meant to lead around to this.) For who in this world can give anyone a character? Who in this world knows anything of any other heart--or of his own? I don't mean to say that one cannot form an average estimate of the way a person will behave. But one cannot be certain of the way any man will behave in every case--and until one can do that a "character" is of no use to anyone. That, for instance, was the way with Florence's maid in Paris. We used to trust that girl with blank cheques for the payment of the tradesmen. For quite a time she was so trusted by us. Then, suddenly, she stole a ring. We should not have believed her capable of it; she would not have believed herself capable of it. It was nothing in her character. So, perhaps, it was with Edward Ashburnham. Or, perhaps, it wasn't. No, I rather think it wasn't. It is difficult to figure out. I have said that the Kilsyte case eased the immediate tension for him and Leonora. It let him see that she was capable of loyalty to him; it gave her her chance to show that she believed in him. She accepted without question his statement that, in kissing the girl, he wasn't trying to do more than administer fatherly comfort to a weeping child. And, indeed, his own world--including the magistrates--took that view of the case. Whatever people say, one's world can be perfectly charitable at times... But, again, as I have said, it did Edward a great deal of harm. That, at least, was his view of it. He assured me that, before that case came on and was wrangled about by counsel with all sorts of dirty-mindedness that counsel in that sort of case can impute, he had not had the least idea that he was capable of being unfaithful to Leonora. But, in the midst of that tumult--he says that it came suddenly into his head whilst he was in the witness-box--in the midst of those august ceremonies of the law there came suddenly into his mind the recollection of the softness of the girl's body as he had pressed her to him. And, from that moment, that girl appeared desirable to him--and Leonora completely unattractive. He began to indulge in day-dreams in which he approached the nurse-maid more tactfully and carried the matter much further. Occasionally he thought of other women in terms of wary courtship--or, perhaps, it would be more exact to say that he thought of them in terms of tactful comforting, ending in absorption. That was his own view of the case. He saw himself as the victim of the law. I don't mean to say that he saw himself as a kind of Dreyfus. The law, practically, was quite kind to him. It stated that in its view Captain Ashburnham had been misled by an ill-placed desire to comfort a member of the opposite sex, and it fined him five shilling for his want of tact, or of knowledge of the world. But Edward maintained that it had put ideas into his head. I don't believe it, though he certainly did. He was twenty-seven then, and his wife was out of sympathy with him--some crash was inevitable. There was between them a momentary rapprochement; but it could not last. It made it, probably, all the worse that, in that particular matter, Leonara had come so very well up to the scratch. For, whilst Edward respected her more and was grateful to her, it made her seem by so much the more cold in other matters that were near his heart--his responsibilities, his career, his tradition. It brought his despair of her up to a point of exasperation--and it riveted on him the idea that he might find some other woman who would give him the moral support that he needed. He wanted to be looked upon as a sort of Lohengrin. At that time, he says, he went about deliberately looking for some woman who could help him. He found several--for there were quite a number of ladies in his set who were capable of agreeing with this handsome and fine fellow that the duties of a feudal gentleman were feudal. He would have liked to pass his days talking to one or other of these ladies. But there was always an obstacle--if the lady were married there would be a husband who claimed the greater part of her time and attention. If, on the other hand, it were an unmarried girl, he could not see very much of her for fear of compromising her. At that date, you understand, he had not the least idea of seducing any one of these ladies. He wanted only moral support at the hands of some female, because he found men difficult to talk to about ideals. Indeed, I do not believe that he had, at any time, any idea of making any one his mistress. That sounds queer; but I believe it is quite true as a statement of character. It was, I believe, one of Leonora's priests--a man of the world--who suggested that she should take him to Monte Carlo. He had the idea that what Edward needed, in order to fit him for the society of Leonora, was a touch of irresponsibility. For Edward, at that date, had much the aspect of a prig. I mean that, if he played polo and was an excellent dancer he did the one for the sake of keeping himself fit and the other because it was a social duty to show himself at dances, and, when there, to dance well. He did nothing for fun except what he considered to be his work in life. As the priest saw it, this must for ever estrange him from Leonora--not because Leonora set much store by the joy of life, but because she was out of sympathy with Edward's work. On the other hand, Leonora did like to have a good time, now and then, and, as the priest saw it, if Edward could be got to like having a good time now and then, too, there would be a bond of sympathy between them. It was a good idea, but it worked out wrongly. It worked out, in fact, in the mistress of the Grand Duke. In anyone less sentimental than Edward that would not have mattered. With Edward it was fatal. For, such was his honourable nature, that for him to enjoy a woman's favours made him feel that she had a bond on him for life. That was the way it worked out in practice. Psychologically it meant that he could not have a mistress without falling violently in love with her. He was a serious person--and in this particular case it was very expensive. The mistress of the Grand Duke--a Spanish dancer of passionate appearance--singled out Edward for her glances at a ball that was held in their common hotel. Edward was tall, handsome, blond and very wealthy as she understood--and Leonora went up to bed early. She did not care for public dances, but she was relieved to see that Edward appeared to be having a good time with several amiable girls. And that was the end of Edward--for the Spanish dancer of passionate appearance wanted one night of him for his beaux yeux. He took her into the dark gardens and, remembering suddenly the girl of the Kilsyte case, he kissed her. He kissed her passionately, violently, with a sudden explosion of the passion that had been bridled all his life--for Leonora was cold, or at any rate, well behaved. La Dolciquita liked this reversion, and he passed the night in her bed. When the palpitating creature was at last asleep in his arms he discovered that he was madly, was passionately, was overwhelmingly in love with her. It was a passion that had arisen like fire in dry corn. He could think of nothing else; he could live for nothing else. But La Dolciquita was a reasonable creature without an ounce of passion in her. She wanted a certain satisfaction of her appetites and Edward had appealed to her the night before. Now that was done with, and, quite coldly, she said that she wanted money if he was to have any more of her. It was a perfectly reasonable commercial transaction. She did not care two buttons for Edward or for any man and he was asking her to risk a very good situation with the Grand Duke. If Edward could put up sufficient money to serve as a kind of insurance against accident she was ready to like Edward for a time that would be covered, as it were, by the policy. She was getting fifty thousand dollars a year from her Grand Duke; Edward would have to pay a premium of two years' hire for a month of her society. There would not be much risk of the Grand Duke's finding it out and it was not certain that he would give her the keys of the street if he did find out. But there was the risk--a twenty per cent risk, as she figured it out. She talked to Edward as if she had been a solicitor with an estate to sell--perfectly quietly and perfectly coldly without any inflections in her voice. She did not want to be unkind to him; but she could see no reason for being kind to him. She was a virtuous business woman with a mother and two sisters and her own old age to be provided comfortably for. She did not expect more than a five years' further run. She was twenty-four and, as she said: "We Spanish women are horrors at thirty." Edward swore that he would provide for her for life if she would come to him and leave off talking so horribly; but she only shrugged one shoulder slowly and contemptuously. He tried to convince this woman, who, as he saw it, had surrendered to him her virtue, that he regarded it as in any case his duty to provide for her, and to cherish her and even to love her--for life. In return for her sacrifice he would do that. In return, again, for his honourable love she would listen for ever to the accounts of his estate. That was how he figured it out. She shrugged the same shoulder with the same gesture and held out her left hand with the elbow at her side: "Enfin, mon ami," she said, "put in this hand the price of that tiara at Forli's or..." And she turned her back on him. Edward went mad; his world stood on its head; the palms in front of the blue sea danced grotesque dances. You see, he believed in the virtue, tenderness and moral support of women. He wanted more than anything to argue with La Dolciquita; to retire with her to an island and point out to her the damnation of her point of view and how salvation can only be found in true love and the feudal system. She had once been his mistress, he reflected, and by all the moral laws she ought to have gone on being his mistress or at the very least his sympathetic confidante. But her rooms were closed to him; she did not appear in the hotel. Nothing: blank silence. To break that down he had to have twenty thousand pounds. You have heard what happened. He spent a week of madness; he hungered; his eyes sank in; he shuddered at Leonora's touch. I dare say that nine-tenths of what he took to be his passion for La Dolciquita was really discomfort at the thought that he had been unfaithful to Leonora. He felt uncommonly bad, that is to say--oh, unbearably bad, and he took it all to be love. Poor devil, he was incredibly naive. He drank like a fish after Leonora was in bed and he spread himself over the tables, and this went on for about a fortnight. Heaven knows what would have happened; he would have thrown away every penny that he possessed. On the night after he had lost about forty thousand pounds and whilst the whole hotel was whispering about it, La Dolciquita walked composedly into his bedroom. He was too drunk to recognize her, and she sat in his arm-chair, knitting and holding smelling salts to her nose--for he was pretty far gone with alcoholic poisoning--and, as soon as he was able to understand her, she said: "Look here, mon ami, do not go to the tables again. Take a good sleep now and come and see me this afternoon." He slept till the lunch-hour. By that time Leonora had heard the news. A Mrs Colonel Whelan had told her. Mrs Colonel Whelan seems to have been the only sensible person who was ever connected with the Ashburnhams. She had argued it out that there must be a woman of the harpy variety connected with Edward's incredible behaviour and mien; and she advised Leonora to go straight off to Town--which might have the effect of bringing Edward to his senses--and to consult her solicitor and her spiritual adviser. She had better go that very morning; it was no good arguing with a man in Edward's condition. Edward, indeed, did not know that she had gone. As soon as he awoke he went straight to La Dolciquita's room and she stood him his lunch in her own apartments. He fell on her neck and wept, and she put up with it for a time. She was quite a good-natured woman. And, when she had calmed him down with Eau de Melisse, she said: "Look here, my friend, how much money have you left? Five thousand dollars? Ten?" For the rumour went that Edward had lost two kings' ransoms a night for fourteen nights and she imagined that he must be near the end of his resources. The Eau de Melisse had calmed Edward to such an extent that, for the moment, he really had a head on his shoulders. He did nothing more than grunt: "And then?" "Why," she answered, "I may just as well have the ten thousand dollars as the tables. I will go with you to Antibes for a week for that sum." Edward grunted: "Five." She tried to get seven thousand five hundred; but he stuck to his five thousand and the hotel expenses at Antibes. The sedative carried him just as far as that and then he collapsed again. He had to leave for Antibes at three; he could not do without it. He left a note for Leonora saying that he had gone off for a week with the Clinton Morleys, yachting. He did not enjoy himself very much at Antibes. La Dolciquita could talk of nothing with any enthusiasm except money, and she tired him unceasingly, during every waking hour, for presents of the most expensive description. And, at the end of a week, she just quietly kicked him out. He hung about in Antibes for three days. He was cured of the idea that he had any duties towards La Dolciquita--feudal or otherwise. But his sentimentalism required of him an attitude of Byronic gloom--as if his court had gone into half-mourning. Then his appetite suddenly returned, and he remembered Leonora. He found at his hotel at Monte Carlo a telegram from Leonora, dispatched from London, saying; "Please return as soon as convenient." He could not understand why Leonora should have abandoned him so precipitately when she only thought that he had gone yachting with the Clinton Morleys. Then he discovered that she had left the hotel before he had written the note. He had a pretty rocky journey back to town; he was frightened out of his life--and Leonora had never seemed so desirable to him. I CALL this the Saddest Story, rather than "The Ashburnham Tragedy", just because it is so sad, just because there was no current to draw things along to a swift and inevitable end. There is about it none of the elevation that accompanies tragedy; there is about it no nemesis, no destiny. Here were two noble people--for I am convinced that both Edward and Leonora had noble natures--here, then, were two noble natures, drifting down life, like fireships afloat on a lagoon and causing miseries, heart-aches, agony of the mind and death. And they themselves steadily deteriorated. And why? For what purpose? To point what lesson? It is all a darkness. There is not even any villain in the story--for even Major Basil, the husband of the lady who next, and really, comforted the unfortunate Edward--even Major Basil was not a villain in this piece. He was a slack, loose, shiftless sort of fellow--but he did not do anything to Edward. Whilst they were in the same station in Burma he borrowed a good deal of money--though, really, since Major Basil had no particular vices, it was difficult to know why he wanted it. He collected--different types of horses' bits from the earliest times to the present day--but, since he did not prosecute even this occupation with any vigour, he cannot have needed much money for the acquirement, say, of the bit of Genghis Khan's charger--if Genghis Khan had a charger. And when I say that he borrowed a good deal of money from Edward I do not mean to say that he had more than a thousand pounds from him during the five years that the connection lasted. Edward, of course, did not have a great deal of money; Leonora was seeing to that. Still, he may have had five hundred pounds a year English, for his menus plaisirs--for his regimental subscriptions and for keeping his men smart. Leonora hated that; she would have preferred to buy dresses for herself or to have devoted the money to paying off a mortgage. Still, with her sense of justice, she saw that, since she was managing a property bringing in three thousand a year with a view to re-establishing it as a property of five thousand a year and since the property really, if not legally, belonged to Edward, it was reasonable and just that Edward should get a slice of his own. Of course she had the devil of a job. I don't know that I have got the financial details exactly right. I am a pretty good head at figures, but my mind, still, sometimes mixes up pounds with dollars and I get a figure wrong. Anyhow, the proposition was something like this: Properly worked and without rebates to the tenants and keeping up schools and things, the Branshaw estate should have brought in about five thousand a year when Edward had it. It brought in actually about four. (I am talking in pounds, not dollars.) Edward's excesses with the Spanish Lady had reduced its value to about three--as the maximum figure, without reductions. Leonora wanted to get it back to five. She was, of course, very young to be faced with such a proposition--twenty-four is not a very advanced age. So she did things with a youthful vigour that she would, very likely, have made more merciful, if she had known more about life. She got Edward remarkably on the hop. He had to face her in a London hotel, when he crept back from Monte Carlo with his poor tail between his poor legs. As far as I can make out she cut short his first mumblings and his first attempts at affectionate speech with words something like: "We're on the verge of ruin. Do you intend to let me pull things together? If not I shall retire to Hendon on my jointure." (Hendon represented a convent to which she occasionally went for what is called a "retreat" in Catholic circles.) And poor dear Edward knew nothing--absolutely nothing. He did not know how much money he had, as he put it, "blued" at the tables. It might have been a quarter of a million for all he remembered. He did not know whether she knew about La Dolciquita or whether she imagined that he had gone off yachting or had stayed at Monte Carlo. He was just dumb and he just wanted to get into a hole and not have to talk. Leonora did not make him talk and she said nothing herself. I do not know much about English legal procedure--I cannot, I mean, give technical details of how they tied him up. But I know that, two days later, without her having said more than I have reported to you, Leonora and her attorney had become the trustees, as I believe it is called, of all Edward's property, and there was an end of Edward as the good landlord and father of his people. He went out. Leonora then had three thousand a year at her disposal. She occupied Edward with getting himself transferred to a part of his regiment that was in Burma--if that is the right way to put it. She herself had an interview, lasting a week or so--with Edward's land-steward. She made him understand that the estate would have to yield up to its last penny. Before they left for India she had let Branshaw for seven years at a thousand a year. She sold two Vandykes and a little silver for eleven thousand pounds and she raised, on mortgage, twenty-nine thousand. That went to Edward's money-lending friends in Monte Carlo. So she had to get the twenty-nine thousand back, for she did not regard the Vandykes and the silver as things she would have to replace. They were just frills to the Ashburnham vanity. Edward cried for two days over the disappearance of his ancestors and then she wished she had not done it; but it did not teach her anything and it lessened such esteem as she had for him. She did not also understand that to let Branshaw affected him with a feeling of physical soiling--that it was almost as bad for him as if a woman belonging to him had become a prostitute. That was how it did affect him; but I dare say she felt just as bad about the Spanish dancer. So she went at it. They were eight years in India, and during the whole of that time she insisted that they must be self-supporting--they had to live on his Captain's pay, plus the extra allowance for being at the front. She gave him the five hundred a year for Ashburnham frills, as she called it to herself--and she considered she was doing him very well. Indeed, in a way, she did him very well--but it was not his way. She was always buying him expensive things which, as it were, she took off her own back. I have, for instance, spoken of Edward's leather cases. Well, they were not Edward's at all; they were Leonora's manifestations. He liked to be clean, but he preferred, as it were, to be threadbare. She never understood that, and all that pigskin was her idea of a reward to him for putting her up to a little speculation by which she made eleven hundred pounds. She did, herself, the threadbare business. When they went up to a place called Simla, where, as I understand, it is cool in the summer and very social--when they went up to Simla for their healths it was she who had him prancing around, as we should say in the United States, on a thousand-dollar horse with the gladdest of glad rags all over him. She herself used to go into "retreat". I believe that was very good for her health and it was also very inexpensive. It was probably also very good for Edward's health, because he pranced about mostly with Mrs Basil, who was a nice woman and very, very kind to him. I suppose she was his mistress, but I never heard it from Edward, of course. I seem to gather that they carried it on in a high romantic fashion, very proper to both of them--or, at any rate, for Edward; she seems to have been a tender and gentle soul who did what he wanted. I do not mean to say that she was without character; that was her job, to do what Edward wanted. So I figured it out, that for those five years, Edward wanted long passages of deep affection kept up in long, long talks and that every now and then they "fell," which would give Edward an opportunity for remorse and an excuse to lend the Major another fifty. I don't think that Mrs Basil considered it to be "falling"; she just pitied him and loved him. You see, Leonora and Edward had to talk about something during all these years. You cannot be absolutely dumb when you live with a person unless you are an inhabitant of the North of England or the State of Maine. So Leonora imagined the cheerful device of letting him see the accounts of his estate and discussing them with him. He did not discuss them much; he was trying to behave prettily. But it was old Mr Mumford--the farmer who did not pay his rent--that threw Edward into Mrs Basil's arms. Mrs Basil came upon Edward in the dusk, in the Burmese garden, with all sorts of flowers and things. And he was cutting up that crop--with his sword, not a walking-stick. He was also carrying on and cursing in a way you would not believe. She ascertained that an old gentleman called Mumford had been ejected from his farm and had been given a little cottage rent-free, where he lived on ten shillings a week from a farmers' benevolent society, supplemented by seven that was being allowed him by the Ashburnham trustees. Edward had just discovered that fact from the estate accounts. Leonora had left them in his dressing-room and he had begun to read them before taking off his marching-kit. That was how he came to have a sword. Leonora considered that she had been unusually generous to old Mr Mumford in allowing him to inhabit a cottage, rent-free, and in giving him seven shillings a week. Anyhow, Mrs Basil had never seen a man in such a state as Edward was. She had been passionately in love with him for quite a time, and he had been longing for her sympathy and admiration with a passion as deep. That was how they came to speak about it, in the Burmese garden, under the pale sky, with sheaves of severed vegetation, misty and odorous, in the night around their feet. I think they behaved themselves with decorum for quite a time after that, though Mrs Basil spent so many hours over the accounts of the Ashburnham estate that she got the name of every field by heart. Edward had a huge map of his lands in his harness-room and Major Basil did not seem to mind. I believe that people do not mind much in lonely stations. It might have lasted for ever if the Major had not been made what is called a brevet-colonel during the shuffling of troops that went on just before the South African War. He was sent off somewhere else and, of course, Mrs Basil could not stay with Edward. Edward ought, I suppose, to have gone to the Transvaal. It would have done him a great deal of good to get killed. But Leonora would not let him; she had heard awful stories of the extravagance of the hussar regiment in war-time--how they left hundred-bottle cases of champagne, at five guineas a bottle, on the veldt and so on. Besides, she preferred to see how Edward was spending his five hundred a year. I don't mean to say that Edward had any grievance in that. He was never a man of the deeds of heroism sort and it was just as good for him to be sniped at up in the hills of the North Western frontier, as to be shot at by an old gentleman in a tophat at the bottom of some spruit. Those are more or less his words about it. I believe he quite distinguished himself over there. At any rate, he had had his D.S.O. and was made a brevet-major. Leonora, however, was not in the least keen on his soldiering. She hated also his deeds of heroism. One of their bitterest quarrels came after he had, for the second time, in the Red Sea, jumped overboard from the troopship and rescued a private soldier. She stood it the first time and even complimented him. But the Red Sea was awful, that trip, and the private soldiers seemed to develop a suicidal craze. It got on Leonora's nerves; she figured Edward, for the rest of that trip, jumping overboard every ten minutes. And the mere cry of "Man overboard" is a disagreeable, alarming and disturbing thing. The ship gets stopped and there are all sorts of shouts. And Edward would not promise not to do it again, though, fortunately, they struck a streak of cooler weather when they were in the Persian Gulf. Leonora had got it into her head that Edward was trying to commit suicide, so I guess it was pretty awful for her when he would not give the promise. Leonora ought never to have been on that troopship; but she got there somehow, as an economy. Major Basil discovered his wife's relation with Edward just before he was sent to his other station. I don't know whether that was a blackmailer's adroitness or just a trick of destiny. He may have known of it all the time or he may not. At any rate, he got hold of, just about then, some letters and things. It cost Edward three hundred pounds immediately. I do not know how it was arranged; I cannot imagine how even a blackmailer can make his demands. I suppose there is some sort of way of saving your face. I figure the Major as disclosing the letters to Edward with furious oaths, then accepting his explanations that the letters were perfectly innocent if the wrong construction were not put upon them. Then the Major would say: "I say, old chap, I'm deuced hard up. Couldn't you lend me three hundred or so?" I fancy that was how it was. And, year by year, after that there would come a letter from the Major, saying that he was deuced hard up and couldn't Edward lend him three hundred or so? Edward was pretty hard hit when Mrs Basil had to go away. He really had been very fond of her, and he remained faithful to her memory for quite a long time. And Mrs Basil had loved him very much and continued to cherish a hope of reunion with him. Three days ago there came a quite proper but very lamentable letter from her to Leonora, asking to be given particulars as to Edward's death. She had read the advertisement of it in an Indian paper. I think she must have been a very nice woman.... And then the Ashburnhams were moved somewhere up towards a place or a district called Chitral. I am no good at geography of the Indian Empire. By that time they had settled down into a model couple and they never spoke in private to each other. Leonora had given up even showing the accounts of the Ashburnham estate to Edward. He thought that that was because she had piled up such a lot of money that she did not want him to know how she was getting on any more. But, as a matter of fact, after five or six years it had penetrated to her mind that it was painful to Edward to have to look on at the accounts of his estate and have no hand in the management of it. She was trying to do him a kindness. And, up in Chitral, poor dear little Maisie Maidan came along.... That was the most unsettling to Edward of all his affairs. It made him suspect that he was inconstant. The affair with the Dolciquita he had sized up as a short attack of madness like hydrophobia. His relations with Mrs Basil had not seemed to him to imply moral turpitude of a gross kind. The husband had been complaisant; they had really loved each other; his wife was very cruel to him and had long ceased to be a wife to him. He thought that Mrs Basil had been his soul-mate, separated from him by an unkind fate--something sentimental of that sort. But he discovered that, whilst he was still writing long weekly letters to Mrs Basil, he was beginning to be furiously impatient if he missed seeing Maisie Maidan during the course of the day. He discovered himself watching the doorways with impatience; he discovered that he disliked her boy husband very much for hours at a time. He discovered that he was getting up at unearthly hours in order to have time, later in the morning, to go for a walk with Maisie Maidan. He discovered himself using little slang words that she used and attaching a sentimental value to those words. These, you understand, were discoveries that came so late that he could do nothing but drift. He was losing weight; his eyes were beginning to fall in; he had touches of bad fever. He was, as he described it, pipped. And, one ghastly hot day, he suddenly heard himself say to Leonora: "I say, couldn't we take Mrs Maidan with us to Europe and drop her at Nauheim?" He hadn't had the least idea of saying that to Leonora. He had merely been standing, looking at an illustrated paper, waiting for dinner. Dinner was twenty minutes late or the Ashburnhams would not have been alone together. No, he hadn't had the least idea of framing that speech. He had just been standing in a silent agony of fear, of longing, of heat, of fever. He was thinking that they were going back to Branshaw in a month and that Maisie Maidan was going to remain behind and die. And then, that had come out. The punkah swished in the darkened room; Leonora lay exhausted and motionless in her cane lounge; neither of them stirred. They were both at that time very ill in indefinite ways. And then Leonora said: "Yes. I promised it to Charlie Maidan this afternoon. I have offered to pay her ex's myself." Edward just saved himself from saying: "Good God!" You see, he had not the least idea of what Leonora knew--about Maisie, about Mrs Basil, even about La Dolciquita. It was a pretty enigmatic situation for him. It struck him that Leonora must be intending to manage his loves as she managed his money affairs and it made her more hateful to him--and more worthy of respect. Leonora, at any rate, had managed his money to some purpose. She had spoken to him, a week before, for the first time in several years--about money. She had made twenty-two thousand pounds out of the Branshaw land and seven by the letting of Branshaw furnished. By fortunate investments--in which Edward had helped her--she had made another six or seven thousand that might well become more. The mortgages were all paid off, so that, except for the departure of the two Vandykes and the silver, they were as well off as they had been before the Dolciquita had acted the locust. It was Leonora's great achievement. She laid the figures before Edward, who maintained an unbroken silence. "I propose," she said, "that you should resign from the Army and that we should go back to Branshaw. We are both too ill to stay here any longer." Edward said nothing at all. "This," Leonora continued passionlessly, "is the great day of my life." Edward said: "You have managed the job amazingly. You are a wonderful woman." He was thinking that if they went back to Branshaw they would leave Maisie Maidan behind. That thought occupied him exclusively. They must, undoubtedly, return to Branshaw; there could be no doubt that Leonora was too ill to stay in that place. She said: "You understand that the management of the whole of the expenditure of the income will be in your hands. There will be five thousand a year." She thought that he cared very much about the expenditure of an income of five thousand a year and that the fact that she had done so much for him would rouse in him some affection for her. But he was thinking exclusively of Maisie Maidan--of Maisie, thousands of miles away from him. He was seeing the mountains between them--blue mountains and the sea and sunlit plains. He said: "That is very generous of you." And she did not know whether that were praise or a sneer. That had been a week before. And all that week he had passed in an increasing agony at the thought that those mountains, that sea, and those sunlit plains would be between him and Maisie Maidan. That thought shook him in the burning nights: the sweat poured from him and he trembled with cold, in the burning noons--at that thought. He had no minute's rest; his bowels turned round and round within him: his tongue was perpetually dry and it seemed to him that the breath between his teeth was like air from a pest-house. He gave no thought to Leonora at all; he had sent in his papers. They were to leave in a month. It seemed to him to be his duty to leave that place and to go away, to support Leonora. He did his duty. It was horrible, in their relationship at that time, that whatever she did caused him to hate her. He hated her when he found that she proposed to set him up as the Lord of Branshaw again--as a sort of dummy lord, in swaddling clothes. He imagined that she had done this in order to separate him from Maisie Maidan. Hatred hung in all the heavy nights and filled the shadowy corners of the room. So when he heard that she had offered to the Maidan boy to take his wife to Europe with him, automatically he hated her since he hated all that she did. It seemed to him, at that time, that she could never be other than cruel even if, by accident, an act of hers were kind.... Yes, it was a horrible situation. But the cool breezes of the ocean seemed to clear up that hatred as if it had been a curtain. They seemed to give him back admiration for her, and respect. The agreeableness of having money lavishly at command, the fact that it had bought for him the companionship of Maisie Maidan--these things began to make him see that his wife might have been right in the starving and scraping upon which she had insisted. He was at ease; he was even radiantly happy when he carried cups of bouillon for Maisie Maidan along the deck. One night, when he was leaning beside Leonora, over the ship's side, he said suddenly: "By jove, you're the finest woman in the world. I wish we could be better friends." She just turned away without a word and went to her cabin. Still, she was very much better in health. And now, I suppose, I must give you Leonora's side of the case.... That is very difficult. For Leonora, if she preserved an unchanged front, changed very frequently her point of view. She had been drilled--in her tradition, in her upbringing--to keep her mouth shut. But there were times, she said, when she was so near yielding to the temptation of speaking that afterwards she shuddered to think of those times. You must postulate that what she desired above all things was to keep a shut mouth to the world; to Edward and to the women that he loved. If she spoke she would despise herself. From the moment of his unfaithfulness with La Dolciquita she never acted the part of wife to Edward. It was not that she intended to keep herself from him as a principle, for ever. Her spiritual advisers, I believe, forbade that. But she stipulated that he must, in some way, perhaps symbolical, come back to her. She was not very clear as to what she meant; probably she did not know herself. Or perhaps she did. There were moments when he seemed to be coming back to her; there were moments when she was within a hair of yielding to her physical passion for him. In just the same way, at moments, she almost yielded to the temptation to denounce Mrs Basil to her husband or Maisie Maidan to hers. She desired then to cause the horrors and pains of public scandals. For, watching Edward more intently and with more straining of ears than that which a cat bestows upon a bird overhead, she was aware of the progress of his passion for each of these ladies. She was aware of it from the way in which his eyes returned to doors and gateways; she knew from his tranquillities when he had received satisfactions. At times she imagined herself to see more than was warranted. She imagined that Edward was carrying on intrigues with other women--with two at once; with three. For whole periods she imagined him to be a monster of libertinage and she could not see that he could have anything against her. She left him his liberty; she was starving herself to build up his fortunes; she allowed herself none of the joys of femininity--no dresses, no jewels--hardly even friendships, for fear they should cost money. And yet, oddly, she could not but be aware that both Mrs Basil and Maisie Maidan were nice women. The curious, discounting eye which one woman can turn on another did not prevent her seeing that Mrs Basil was very good to Edward and Mrs Maidan very good for him. That seemed her to be a monstrous and incomprehensible working of Fate's. Incomprehensible! Why, she asked herself again and again, did none of the good deeds that she did for her husband ever come through to him, or appear to him as good deeds? By what trick of mania could not he let her be as good to him as Mrs Basil was? Mrs Basil was not so extraordinarily dissimilar to herself. She was, it was true, tall, dark, with soft mournful voice and a great kindness of manner for every created thing, from punkah men to flowers on the trees. But she was not so well read as Leonora, at any rate in learned books. Leonora could not stand novels. But, even with all her differences, Mrs Basil did not appear to Leonora to differ so very much from herself. She was truthful, honest and, for the rest, just a woman. And Leonora had a vague sort of idea that, to a man, all women are the same after three weeks of close intercourse. She thought that the kindness should no longer appeal, the soft and mournful voice no longer thrill, the tall darkness no longer give a man the illusion that he was going into the depths of an unexplored wood. She could not understand how Edward could go on and on maundering over Mrs Basil. She could not see why he should continue to write her long letters after their separation. After that, indeed, she had a very bad time. She had at that period what I will call the "monstrous" theory of Edward. She was always imagining him ogling at every woman that he came across. She did not, that year, go into "retreat" at Simla because she was afraid that he would corrupt her maid in her absence. She imagined him carrying on intrigues with native women or Eurasians. At dances she was in a fever of watchfulness. She persuaded herself that this was because she had a dread of scandals. Edward might get himself mixed up with a marriageable daughter of some man who would make a row or some husband who would matter. But, really, she acknowledged afterwards to herself, she was hoping that, Mrs Basil being out of the way, the time might have come when Edward should return to her. All that period she passed in an agony of jealousy and fear--the fear that Edward might really become promiscuous in his habits. So that, in an odd way, she was glad when Maisie Maidan came along--and she realized that she had not, before, been afraid of husbands and of scandals, since, then, she did her best to keep Maisie's husband unsuspicious. She wished to appear so trustful of Edward that Maidan could not possibly have any suspicions. It was an evil position for her. But Edward was very ill and she wanted to see him smile again. She thought that if he could smile again through her agency he might return, through gratitude and satisfied love--to her. At that time she thought that Edward was a person of light and fleeting passions. And she could understand Edward's passion for Maisie, since Maisie was one of those women to whom other women will allow magnetism. She was very pretty; she was very young; in spite of her heart she was very gay and light on her feet. And Leonora was really very fond of Maisie, who was fond enough of Leonora. Leonora, indeed, imagined that she could manage this affair all right. She had no thought of Maisie's being led into adultery; she imagined that if she could take Maisie and Edward to Nauheim, Edward would see enough of her to get tired of her pretty little chatterings, and of the pretty little motions of her hands and feet. And she thought she could trust Edward. For there was not any doubt of Maisie's passion for Edward. She raved about him to Leonora as Leonora had heard girls rave about drawing masters in schools. She was perpetually asking her boy husband why he could not dress, ride, shoot, play polo, or even recite sentimental poems, like their major. And young Maidan had the greatest admiration for Edward, and he adored, was bewildered by and entirely trusted his wife. It appeared to him that Edward was devoted to Leonora. And Leonora imagined that when poor Maisie was cured of her heart and Edward had seen enough of her, he would return to her. She had the vague, passionate idea that, when Edward had exhausted a number of other types of women he must turn to her. Why should not her type have its turn in his heart? She imagined that, by now, she understood him better, that she understood better his vanities and that, by making him happier, she could arouse his love. Florence knocked all that on the head.... PART IV Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Teil III, Abschnitt IV: Dowell erklärt Edwards Hintergrund, Wünsche und Bedauern. Edward hatte alle Tugenden und den Anstand, die mit den besten Engländern assoziiert werden. Sein Leben hatte die Merkmale eines "fleißigen, sentimentalen und effizienten Berufsmanns". Seine Leidenschaften nahmen, wie Dowell erklärt, nur sehr wenig Zeit in Anspruch. Vor dem Fall Kilsyte behauptete Edward, er habe keinen Gedanken daran verschwendet, Leonora untreu zu sein, aber danach konnte er nicht aufhören, an das Kindermädchen im Eisenbahnwaggon zu denken. Obwohl das Gesetz seine Untreue ziemlich tolerant beurteilte, schwor Edward, sich nicht noch einmal mit einer Frau aus niedrigeren sozialen Schichten in Schwierigkeiten zu bringen. Dennoch suchte er, je weiter er sich von Leonora entfernte, bewusst nach einer Frau, die ihm Trost spenden würde. Es war einer von Leonoras Priestern, der vorschlug, dass sie Edward mit nach Monte Carlo nehmen solle. Er hatte die Idee, dass dieser Urlaub ihrer Ehe guttun würde. Leider stellte sich die Reise als das Schlimmste heraus. La Dolciquita, die spanische Geliebte des russischen Großherzogs, hatte ein Auge auf Edward geworfen. Er glaubte, er sei leidenschaftlich in sie verliebt und verbrachte eine Nacht mit ihr im Bett, bereit, ihr am nächsten Morgen seine unsterbliche Hingabe zu schwören. Er war entsetzt, als sie nach Geld verlangte, und versuchte erfolglos, mit ihr über Leidenschaft, Treue, Beständigkeit und die Ehre zu sprechen, die er ihr schuldete. La Dolciquita war jedoch eine praktisch denkende Geschäftsfrau und nahm Edward um mehr als 20.000 Pfund herein. Er entschuldigte sein Verhalten damit, dass er sich einredete, er sei in sie verliebt, doch nach einer schmerzhaften Woche mit ihr in Antibes wurde ihm klar, dass er ihr keine Pflichten der Liebe oder Ehre schuldete. Reumütig und eingeschüchtert kehrte er zu Leonora zurück. Teil III, Abschnitt V: Als Edward von Monte Carlo zurückkehrte, fand er eine Frau vor, die bereit war, seine Fehler auszubügeln und ihn vor dem finanziellen Ruin zu retten. Er war gedemütigt über sein Handeln an den Spieltischen und mit La Dolciquita, daher stimmte er zu, Leonora die Kontrolle über die Finanzen zu überlassen. Innerhalb von zwei Tagen standen alle Grundstücke auf ihren Namen und Edward Ashburnham wurde seines Amtes als großzügiger Richter enthoben. Ihre Motivation bestand zum Teil darin, ihre Finanzen zu sanieren und zum Teil darin, ihren Ehemann zu bestrafen. Leonora übernahm mit schneller Effizienz die Kontrolle über das Anwesen. Sie vermietete Branshaw Manor, hypotekierte einige Immobilien und verkaufte einige der alten Familienporträts. Der Verlust dieser Familienerbstücke berührte Edward tief. Er verachtete seine Frau dafür, dass sie ihn nicht verstand und einen so völlig anderen Charakter hatte. Er sehnte sich nach weiblichem Mitgefühl. Edward fand Mitgefühl bei Mrs. Basil, der Frau eines Mitoffiziers, die er während seines Einsatzes in Burma kennenlernte. Sie war eine freundliche Seele und pflegte die hohe Romantik, die Edward sich wünschte. Leonora, stets die praktische Frau, war von Edwards Position in der Armee oder von seinen Heldentaten nicht im Geringsten beeindruckt. Sie hielt es für albern, dass er sich in das Rote Meer stürzte, um einen Mitoffizier zu retten. Edward wusste nicht, wie er sich die Bewunderung seiner Frau verdienen konnte. Nachdem Edward sich von Mrs. Basil trennen musste, traf er seine nächste Liebesaffäre, Maisie Maidan. Seine Zuneigung zu Maisie störte ihn zutiefst, denn er begann zu vermuten, dass er "untreu" war. Für all seine anderen Affären hatte er, was er für eine gültige Entschuldigung hielt, aber es schien ihm unehrenhaft, Mrs. Maidan zu mögen, wenn er noch nicht über Mrs. Basil hinweg war. Er trifft mit Leonora die Vereinbarung, dass sie Mrs. Maidan mit nach Nauheim bringen sollen, und sie stimmt zu. Edward befürchtet, dass Leonora seine Liebschaften genauso kontrollieren will wie sein Geld. Leonora verwalte das Geld außerordentlich gut. Innerhalb weniger Jahre brachte sie die Ashburnhams wieder in eine hervorragende finanzielle Position. Leider macht ihr sie dadurch bei ihrem Ehemann nicht beliebt, dessen Fokus nur auf der jungen Mrs. Maidan liegt. Ihre Ehe ist in einem schrecklichen Zustand; alles, was Leonora versucht zu tun, lässt Edward sie noch mehr hassen. Leonora ist gekränkt. Sie versucht, gute Taten für Edward zu tun, damit er zu ihr zurückkommt. Sie fragt sich, warum er sich Frauen wie Mrs. Basil und Mrs. Maidan zuwendet und warum er bei ihr keine Trost findet. Aber Leonora hält es für glücklich, dass sie jemanden wie Maisie Maidan gefunden haben. Sie glaubt nicht, dass Mrs. Maidan und Edward jemals eine physische Beziehung haben werden, und hofft, dass Edward, wenn er Maisie überdrüssig wird, für die Freude dankbar sein wird, die seine Frau ihm ermöglicht hat. Sie sehnt sich danach, dass er zu ihr zurückkehrt. Aber als Florence ins Bild tritt, verliert Leonora alle Hoffnung, ihren Ehemann zurückzugewinnen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Early the next morning I left my grandmother's with my youngest child. My boy was ill, and I left him behind. I had many sad thoughts as the old wagon jolted on. Hitherto, I had suffered alone; now, my little one was to be treated as a slave. As we drew near the great house, I thought of the time when I was formerly sent there out of revenge. I wondered for what purpose I was now sent. I could not tell. I resolved to obey orders so far as duty required; but within myself, I determined to make my stay as short as possible. Mr. Flint was waiting to receive us, and told me to follow him up stairs to receive orders for the day. My little Ellen was left below in the kitchen. It was a change for her, who had always been so carefully tended. My young master said she might amuse herself in the yard. This was kind of him, since the child was hateful to his sight. My task was to fit up the house for the reception of the bride. In the midst of sheets, tablecloths, towels, drapery, and carpeting, my head was as busy planning, as were my fingers with the needle. At noon I was allowed to go to Ellen. She had sobbed herself to sleep. I heard Mr. Flint say to a neighbor, "I've got her down here, and I'll soon take the town notions out of her head. My father is partly to blame for her nonsense. He ought to have broke her in long ago." The remark was made within my hearing, and it would have been quite as manly to have made it to my face. He _had_ said things to my face which might, or might not, have surprised his neighbor if he had known of them. He was "a chip of the old block." I resolved to give him no cause to accuse me of being too much of a lady, so far as work was concerned. I worked day and night, with wretchedness before me. When I lay down beside my child, I felt how much easier it would be to see her die than to see her master beat her about, as I daily saw him beat other little ones. The spirit of the mothers was so crushed by the lash, that they stood by, without courage to remonstrate. How much more must I suffer, before I should be "broke in" to that degree? I wished to appear as contented as possible. Sometimes I had an opportunity to send a few lines home; and this brought up recollections that made it difficult, for a time, to seem calm and indifferent to my lot. Notwithstanding my efforts, I saw that Mr. Flint regarded me with a suspicious eye. Ellen broke down under the trials of her new life. Separated from me, with no one to look after her, she wandered about, and in a few days cried herself sick. One day, she sat under the window where I was at work, crying that weary cry which makes a mother's heart bleed. I was obliged to steel myself to bear it. After a while it ceased. I looked out, and she was gone. As it was near noon, I ventured to go down in search of her. The great house was raised two feet above the ground. I looked under it, and saw her about midway, fast asleep. I crept under and drew her out. As I held her in my arms, I thought how well it would be for her if she never waked up; and I uttered my thought aloud. I was startled to hear some one say, "Did you speak to me?" I looked up, and saw Mr. Flint standing beside me. He said nothing further, but turned, frowning, away. That night he sent Ellen a biscuit and a cup of sweetened milk. This generosity surprised me. I learned afterwards, that in the afternoon he had killed a large snake, which crept from under the house; and I supposed that incident had prompted his unusual kindness. The next morning the old cart was loaded with shingles for town. I put Ellen into it, and sent her to her grandmother. Mr. Flint said I ought to have asked his permission. I told him the child was sick, and required attention which I had no time to give. He let it pass; for he was aware that I had accomplished much work in a little time. I had been three weeks on the plantation, when I planned a visit home. It must be at night, after every body was in bed. I was six miles from town, and the road was very dreary. I was to go with a young man, who, I knew, often stole to town to see his mother. One night, when all was quiet, we started. Fear gave speed to our steps, and we were not long in performing the journey. I arrived at my grandmother's. Her bed room was on the first floor, and the window was open, the weather being warm. I spoke to her and she awoke. She let me in and closed the window, lest some late passer-by should see me. A light was brought, and the whole household gathered round me, some smiling and some crying. I went to look at my children, and thanked God for their happy sleep. The tears fell as I leaned over them. As I moved to leave, Benny stirred. I turned back, and whispered, "Mother is here." After digging at his eyes with his little fist, they opened, and he sat up in bed, looking at me curiously. Having satisfied himself that it was I, he exclaimed, "O mother! you ain't dad, are you? They didn't cut off your head at the plantation, did they?" My time was up too soon, and my guide was waiting for me. I laid Benny back in his bed, and dried his tears by a promise to come again soon. Rapidly we retraced our steps back to the plantation. About half way we were met by a company of four patrols. Luckily we heard their horse's hoofs before they came in sight, and we had time to hide behind a large tree. They passed, hallooing and shouting in a manner that indicated a recent carousal. How thankful we were that they had not their dogs with them! We hastened our footsteps, and when we arrived on the plantation we heard the sound of the hand-mill. The slaves were grinding their corn. We were safely in the house before the horn summoned them to their labor. I divided my little parcel of food with my guide, knowing that he had lost the chance of grinding his corn, and must toil all day in the field. Mr. Flint often took an inspection of the house, to see that no one was idle. The entire management of the work was trusted to me, because he knew nothing about it; and rather than hire a superintendent he contented himself with my arrangements. He had often urged upon his father the necessity of having me at the plantation to take charge of his affairs, and make clothes for the slaves; but the old man knew him too well to consent to that arrangement. When I had been working a month at the plantation, the great aunt of Mr. Flint came to make him a visit. This was the good old lady who paid fifty dollars for my grandmother, for the purpose of making her free, when she stood on the auction block. My grandmother loved this old lady, whom we all called Miss Fanny. She often came to take tea with us. On such occasions the table was spread with a snow-white cloth, and the china cups and silver spoons were taken from the old-fashioned buffet. There were hot muffins, tea rusks, and delicious sweetmeats. My grandmother kept two cows, and the fresh cream was Miss Fanny's delight. She invariably declared that it was the best in town. The old ladies had cosey times together. They would work and chat, and sometimes, while talking over old times, their spectacles would get dim with tears, and would have to be taken off and wiped. When Miss Fanny bade us good by, her bag was filled with grandmother's best cakes, and she was urged to come again soon. There had been a time when Dr. Flint's wife came to take tea with us, and when her children were also sent to have a feast of "Aunt Marthy's" nice cooking. But after I became an object of her jealousy and spite, she was angry with grandmother for giving a shelter to me and my children. She would not even speak to her in the street. This wounded my grandmother's feelings, for she could not retain ill will against the woman whom she had nourished with her milk when a babe. The doctor's wife would gladly have prevented our intercourse with Miss Fanny if she could have done it, but fortunately she was not dependent on the bounty of the Flints. She had enough to be independent; and that is more than can ever be gained from charity, however lavish it may be. Miss Fanny was endeared to me by many recollections, and I was rejoiced to see her at the plantation. The warmth of her large, loyal heart made the house seem pleasanter while she was in it. She staid a week, and I had many talks with her. She said her principal object in coming was to see how I was treated, and whether any thing could be done for me. She inquired whether she could help me in any way. I told her I believed not. She condoled with me in her own peculiar way; saying she wished that I and all my grandmother's family were at rest in our graves, for not until then should she feel any peace about us. The good old soul did not dream that I was planning to bestow peace upon her, with regard to myself and my children; not by death, but by securing our freedom. Again and again I had traversed those dreary twelve miles, to and from the town; and all the way, I was meditating upon some means of escape for myself and my children. My friends had made every effort that ingenuity could devise to effect our purchase, but all their plans had proved abortive. Dr. Flint was suspicious, and determined not to loosen his grasp upon us. I could have made my escape alone; but it was more for my helpless children than for myself that I longed for freedom. Though the boon would have been precious to me, above all price, I would not have taken it at the expense of leaving them in slavery. Every trial I endured, every sacrifice I made for their sakes, drew them closer to my heart, and gave me fresh courage to beat back the dark waves that rolled and rolled over me in a seemingly endless night of storms. The six weeks were nearly completed, when Mr. Flint's bride was expected to take possession of her new home. The arrangements were all completed, and Mr. Flint said I had done well. He expected to leave home on Saturday, and return with his bride the following Wednesday. After receiving various orders from him, I ventured to ask permission to spend Sunday in town. It was granted; for which favor I was thankful. It was the first I had ever asked of him, and I intended it should be the last. I needed more than one night to accomplish the project I had in view; but the whole of Sunday would give me an opportunity. I spent the Sabbath with my grandmother. A calmer, more beautiful day never came down out of heaven. To me it was a day of conflicting emotions. Perhaps it was the last day I should ever spend under that dear, old sheltering roof! Perhaps these were the last talks I should ever have with the faithful old friend of my whole life! Perhaps it was the last time I and my children should be together! Well, better so, I thought, than that they should be slaves. I knew the doom that awaited my fair baby in slavery, and I determined to save her from it, or perish in the attempt. I went to make this vow at the graves of my poor parents, in the burying-ground of the slaves. "There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary be at rest. There the prisoners rest together; they hear not the voice of the oppressor; the servant is free from his master." I knelt by the graves of my parents, and thanked God, as I had often done before, that they had not lived to witness my trials, or to mourn over my sins. I had received my mother's blessing when she died; and in many an hour of tribulation I had seemed to hear her voice, sometimes chiding me, sometimes whispering loving words into my wounded heart. I have shed many and bitter tears, to think that when I am gone from my children they cannot remember me with such entire satisfaction as I remembered my mother. The graveyard was in the woods, and twilight was coming on. Nothing broke the death-like stillness except the occasional twitter of a bird. My spirit was overawed by the solemnity of the scene. For more than ten years I had frequented this spot, but never had it seemed to me so sacred as now. A black stump, at the head of my mother's grave, was all that remained of a tree my father had planted. His grave was marked by a small wooden board, bearing his name, the letters of which were nearly obliterated. I knelt down and kissed them, and poured forth a prayer to God for guidance and support in the perilous step I was about to take. As I passed the wreck of the old meeting house, where, before Nat Turner's time, the slaves had been allowed to meet for worship, I seemed to hear my father's voice come from it, bidding me not to tarry till I reached freedom or the grave. I rushed on with renovated hopes. My trust in God had been strengthened by that prayer among the graves. My plan was to conceal myself at the house of a friend, and remain there a few weeks till the search was over. My hope was that the doctor would get discouraged, and, for fear of losing my value, and also of subsequently finding my children among the missing, he would consent to sell us; and I knew somebody would buy us. I had done all in my power to make my children comfortable during the time I expected to be separated from them. I was packing my things, when grandmother came into the room, and asked what I was doing. "I am putting my things in order," I replied. I tried to look and speak cheerfully; but her watchful eye detected something beneath the surface. She drew me towards her, and asked me to sit down. She looked earnestly at me, and said, "Linda, do you want to kill your old grandmother? Do you mean to leave your little, helpless children? I am old now, and cannot do for your babies as I once did for you." I replied, that if I went away, perhaps their father would be able to secure their freedom. "Ah, my child," said she, "don't trust too much to him. Stand by your own children, and suffer with them till death. Nobody respects a mother who forsakes her children; and if you leave them, you will never have a happy moment. If you go, you will make me miserable the short time I have to live. You would be taken and brought back, and your sufferings would be dreadful. Remember poor Benjamin. Do give it up, Linda. Try to bear a little longer. Things may turn out better than we expect." My courage failed me, in view of the sorrow I should bring on that faithful, loving old heart. I promised that I would try longer, and that I would take nothing out of her house without her knowledge. Whenever the children climbed on my knee, or laid their heads on my lap, she would say, "Poor little souls! what would you do without a mother? She don't love you as I do." And she would hug them to her own bosom, as if to reproach me for my want of affection; but she knew all the while that I loved them better than my life. I slept with her that night, and it was the last time. The memory of it haunted me for many a year. On Monday I returned to the plantation, and busied myself with preparations for the important day. Wednesday came. It was a beautiful day, and the faces of the slaves were as bright as the sunshine. The poor creatures were merry. They were expecting little presents from the bride, and hoping for better times under her administration. I had no such hopes for them. I knew that the young wives of slaveholders often thought their authority and importance would be best established and maintained by cruelty; and what I had heard of young Mrs. Flint gave me no reason to expect that her rule over them would be less severe than that of the master and overseer. Truly, the colored race are the most cheerful and forgiving people on the face of the earth. That their masters sleep in safety is owing to their superabundance of heart; and yet they look upon their sufferings with less pity than they would bestow on those of a horse or a dog. I stood at the door with others to receive the bridegroom and bride. She was a handsome, delicate-looking girl, and her face flushed with emotion at sight of her new home. I thought it likely that visions of a happy future were rising before her. It made me sad; for I knew how soon clouds would come over her sunshine. She examined every part of the house, and told me she was delighted with the arrangements I had made. I was afraid old Mrs. Flint had tried to prejudice her against me, and I did my best to please her. Alles lief reibungslos für mich, bis zur Abendessenszeit. Es war mir nicht so unangenehm, auf einer Abendgesellschaft zu warten, wie das Treffen mit Dr. Flint und seiner Frau, die unter den Gästen sein würden. Es war mir ein Rätsel, warum Mrs. Flint während der ganzen Zeit, in der ich das Haus in Ordnung brachte, nicht auf der Plantage erschienen war. Ich hatte sie seit fünf Jahren nicht mehr persönlich gesehen und keine Lust, sie jetzt zu sehen. Sie war eine betende Frau und betrachtete meine jetzige Position zweifelsohne als besondere Antwort auf ihre Gebete. Nichts würde sie mehr erfreuen als mich gedemütigt und niedergeworfen zu sehen. Ich war genau dort, wo sie mich haben wollte - in der Macht eines harten, skrupellosen Herrn. Sie sprach nicht mit mir, als sie sich am Tisch setzte, aber ihr zufriedenes, triumphierendes Lächeln, als ich ihr den Teller reichte, war aussagekräftiger als Worte. Der alte Arzt war nicht so ruhig in seinen Demonstrationen. Er befahl mir hierhin und dorthin und sprach mit besonderem Nachdruck, wenn er "deine _Herrin_" sagte. Ich wurde wie ein gedemütigter Soldat gedrillt. Als alles vorbei war und der letzte Schlüssel gedreht war, suchte ich mein Kissen auf und war dankbar, dass Gott eine Ruhezeit für die Erschöpften bestimmt hatte. Am nächsten Tag begann meine neue Herrin mit ihrer Hausarbeit. Ich wurde nicht genau als Arbeitssklavin eingestellt, aber ich sollte alles tun, was mir befohlen wurde. Es war Montagabend. Es war immer eine geschäftige Zeit. An diesem Abend bekamen die Sklaven ihre wöchentliche Ration an Lebensmitteln. Drei Pfund Fleisch, ein Scheffel Mais und vielleicht ein Dutzend Heringe wurden jedem Mann erlaubt. Frauen erhielten eineinhalb Pfund Fleisch, einen Scheffel Mais und die gleiche Anzahl Heringe. Kinder über zwölf Jahre erhielten die Hälfte der Ration der Frauen. Das Fleisch wurde vom Vorarbeiter der Feldarbeiter zerteilt und gewogen und auf Platten vor dem Fleischhaus gestapelt. Dann ging der zweite Vorarbeiter hinter das Gebäude, und wenn der erste Vorarbeiter rief: "Wer nimmt dieses Stück Fleisch?" antwortete er, indem er den Namen einer Person rief. Diese Methode wurde angewendet, um die Willkür bei der Verteilung des Fleisches zu verhindern. Die junge Herrin kam heraus, um zu sehen, wie die Dinge auf ihrer Plantage gemacht wurden, und sie gab bald eine Kostprobe ihres Charakters. Unter denen, die auf ihre Ration warteten, war ein sehr alter Sklave, der der Flint-Familie treu durch drei Generationen gedient hatte. Als er humpelnd auf sein Stück Fleisch zuging, sagte die Herrin, dass er zu alt sei, um eine Ration zu bekommen und dass Nigger, die zu alt zum Arbeiten seien, mit Gras gefüttert werden sollten. Armer alter Mann! Er litt viel, bevor er Ruhe im Grab fand. Meine Herrin und ich kamen gut miteinander aus. Nach einer Woche besuchte uns die alte Mrs. Flint erneut und war lange mit ihrer Schwiegertochter allein. Ich hatte meine Vermutungen, um was es bei dem Treffen ging. Die Frau des alten Doktors hatte erfahren, dass ich die Plantage unter einer Bedingung verlassen konnte, und sie wollte mich sehr dort behalten. Wenn sie mir vertraut hätte, so wie ich es verdient hätte, hätte sie keine Angst gehabt, dass ich diese Bedingung annehmen würde. Als sie in den Wagen stieg, um nach Hause zurückzukehren, sagte sie zu der jungen Mrs. Flint: "Vergiss nicht, sie so schnell wie möglich zu holen." Mein Herz war die ganze Zeit in Alarmbereitschaft, und ich schloss sofort, dass sie von meinen Kindern sprach. Der Doktor kam am nächsten Tag und als ich in den Raum trat, um den Teetisch zu decken, hörte ich ihn sagen: "Warte nicht länger. Hol sie morgen." Ich durchschaute den Plan. Sie dachten, dass meine Kinder dort sein würden, um mich an den Ort zu fesseln, und dass es ein guter Ort sei, um uns alle zur abject submission gegenüber unserer Rolle als Sklaven zu zwingen. Nachdem der Doktor gegangen war, kam ein Herr, der immer freundliche Gefühle gegenüber meiner Großmutter und ihrer Familie gezeigt hatte. Mr. Flint führte ihn über die Plantage, um ihm die Ergebnisse der Arbeit vorzuführen, die von unbezahlten, elend gekleideten und halb verhungerten Männern und Frauen geleistet wurde. Die Baumwollpflanze war alles, woran sie dachten. Sie wurde gebührend bewundert und der Herr kehrte mit Proben zurück, um sie seinen Freunden zu zeigen. Ich wurde beauftragt, Wasser zum Händewaschen zu bringen. Als ich das tat, sagte er: "Linda, wie gefällt dir dein neues Zuhause?" Ich sagte ihm, dass es mir so gut gefällt, wie ich erwartet hatte. Er antwortete: "Sie denken, du bist nicht zufrieden, und morgen werden sie deine Kinder holen. Es tut mir leid für dich, Linda. Ich hoffe, sie werden dich freundlich behandeln." Ich eilte aus dem Raum, unfähig, ihm zu danken. Meine Vermutungen waren richtig. Meine Kinder sollten auf die Plantage gebracht werden, um "gebrochen" zu werden. Bis heute bin ich dem Herrn dankbar, der mir diese rechtzeitige Information gegeben hat. Es gab mir Mut zur sofortigen Aktion. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Linda fährt mit ihrer Tochter Ellen zur Plantage. Benny ist krank, deshalb bleibt er zurück. Das ist gut für ihn, denn die arme kleine Ellen wird zur Arbeit gezwungen, von ihrer Mutter getrennt und im Grunde wie eine Sklavin behandelt. Schließlich hat Linda genug und schickt sie zurück zu Tante Martha. Mr. Flint ist kurzzeitig empört, aber Linda ist so eine gute Arbeiterin, dass er ihr im Grunde erlauben muss, zu tun, was sie will. Nach drei Wochen schleicht sich Linda zu nächtlichem Besuch zu Tante Martha. Das ist ein wenig spannend, da sie auf dem Rückweg an einer Patrouille vorbeigeht und fast erwischt wird - aber zum Glück haben die Kerle ihre Hunde vergessen, so dass sie und ihr Führer sicher zur Plantage zurückkehren können. Und dann eines Tages kommt Mr. Flints Großtante, Miss Fanny, zu Besuch. Falls du dich gefragt hast, wie Tante Martha so viel durchgekommen ist, hier erfahren wir, dass Miss Fanny ihre Freiheit für fünfzig Dollar gekauft hat. Miss Fanny versucht Linda zu trösten, aber Linda hat genug. Sie beginnt ihre Flucht zu planen. Als Mr. Flint seine Frau abholt, rennt Linda zu Tante Marthas Haus, um ihre Kinder zu sehen und ihre Sachen zu packen. Tante Martha erwischt Linda dabei und manipuliert sie, damit sie bleibt, indem sie sagt, dass eine Mutter mit ihren Kindern leiden sollte. Das ist... fragwürdige Logik, aber Linda sagt, dass sie versuchen wird, es noch eine Weile auszuhalten. Die jungen Flints veranstalten ein Dinner, um ihr neues Zuhause zu feiern, und Dr. Flint und seine Frau sind eingeladen. Es läuft so, wie man es erwarten würde. Am nächsten Tag bekommt Linda einen kleinen Einblick in ihre Zukunft, als die neue Mrs. Flint, die Frau von Mr. Flint, zuschaut, wie den Sklaven ihre wöchentliche Lebensmittelration ausgehändigt wird. Sie hindert einen alten Mann daran, sein Essen zu bekommen, denn Sklaven "sollten, wenn sie zu alt zum Arbeiten sind, mit Gras gefüttert werden". Herrlich. Es läuft eine Weile gut, aber dann erzählt eine weiße Freundin der Familie Linda, dass die Flints ihre Kinder auf die Plantage bringen, um sie "einzureiten", was alles andere als gut klingt. Das ist der Tropfen, der das Fass zum Überlaufen bringt für Linda.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The next day Mr. Henderland found for me a man who had a boat of his own and was to cross the Linnhe Loch that afternoon into Appin, fishing. Him he prevailed on to take me, for he was one of his flock; and in this way I saved a long day's travel and the price of the two public ferries I must otherwise have passed. It was near noon before we set out; a dark day with clouds, and the sun shining upon little patches. The sea was here very deep and still, and had scarce a wave upon it; so that I must put the water to my lips before I could believe it to be truly salt. The mountains on either side were high, rough and barren, very black and gloomy in the shadow of the clouds, but all silver-laced with little watercourses where the sun shone upon them. It seemed a hard country, this of Appin, for people to care as much about as Alan did. There was but one thing to mention. A little after we had started, the sun shone upon a little moving clump of scarlet close in along the water-side to the north. It was much of the same red as soldiers' coats; every now and then, too, there came little sparks and lightnings, as though the sun had struck upon bright steel. I asked my boatman what it should be, and he answered he supposed it was some of the red soldiers coming from Fort William into Appin, against the poor tenantry of the country. Well, it was a sad sight to me; and whether it was because of my thoughts of Alan, or from something prophetic in my bosom, although this was but the second time I had seen King George's troops, I had no good will to them. At last we came so near the point of land at the entering in of Loch Leven that I begged to be set on shore. My boatman (who was an honest fellow and mindful of his promise to the catechist) would fain have carried me on to Balachulish; but as this was to take me farther from my secret destination, I insisted, and was set on shore at last under the wood of Lettermore (or Lettervore, for I have heard it both ways) in Alan's country of Appin. This was a wood of birches, growing on a steep, craggy side of a mountain that overhung the loch. It had many openings and ferny howes; and a road or bridle track ran north and south through the midst of it, by the edge of which, where was a spring, I sat down to eat some oat-bread of Mr. Henderland's and think upon my situation. Here I was not only troubled by a cloud of stinging midges, but far more by the doubts of my mind. What I ought to do, why I was going to join myself with an outlaw and a would-be murderer like Alan, whether I should not be acting more like a man of sense to tramp back to the south country direct, by my own guidance and at my own charges, and what Mr. Campbell or even Mr. Henderland would think of me if they should ever learn my folly and presumption: these were the doubts that now began to come in on me stronger than ever. As I was so sitting and thinking, a sound of men and horses came to me through the wood; and presently after, at a turning of the road, I saw four travellers come into view. The way was in this part so rough and narrow that they came single and led their horses by the reins. The first was a great, red-headed gentleman, of an imperious and flushed face, who carried his hat in his hand and fanned himself, for he was in a breathing heat. The second, by his decent black garb and white wig, I correctly took to be a lawyer. The third was a servant, and wore some part of his clothes in tartan, which showed that his master was of a Highland family, and either an outlaw or else in singular good odour with the Government, since the wearing of tartan was against the Act. If I had been better versed in these things, I would have known the tartan to be of the Argyle (or Campbell) colours. This servant had a good-sized portmanteau strapped on his horse, and a net of lemons (to brew punch with) hanging at the saddle-bow; as was often enough the custom with luxurious travellers in that part of the country. As for the fourth, who brought up the tail, I had seen his like before, and knew him at once to be a sheriff's officer. I had no sooner seen these people coming than I made up my mind (for no reason that I can tell) to go through with my adventure; and when the first came alongside of me, I rose up from the bracken and asked him the way to Aucharn. He stopped and looked at me, as I thought, a little oddly; and then, turning to the lawyer, "Mungo," said he, "there's many a man would think this more of a warning than two pyats. Here am I on my road to Duror on the job ye ken; and here is a young lad starts up out of the bracken, and speers if I am on the way to Aucharn." "Glenure," said the other, "this is an ill subject for jesting." These two had now drawn close up and were gazing at me, while the two followers had halted about a stone-cast in the rear. "And what seek ye in Aucharn?" said Colin Roy Campbell of Glenure, him they called the Red Fox; for he it was that I had stopped. "The man that lives there," said I. "James of the Glens," says Glenure, musingly; and then to the lawyer: "Is he gathering his people, think ye?" "Anyway," says the lawyer, "we shall do better to bide where we are, and let the soldiers rally us." "If you are concerned for me," said I, "I am neither of his people nor yours, but an honest subject of King George, owing no man and fearing no man." "Why, very well said," replies the Factor. "But if I may make so bold as ask, what does this honest man so far from his country? and why does he come seeking the brother of Ardshiel? I have power here, I must tell you. I am King's Factor upon several of these estates, and have twelve files of soldiers at my back." "I have heard a waif word in the country," said I, a little nettled, "that you were a hard man to drive." He still kept looking at me, as if in doubt. "Well," said he, at last, "your tongue is bold; but I am no unfriend to plainness. If ye had asked me the way to the door of James Stewart on any other day but this, I would have set ye right and bidden ye God speed. But to-day--eh, Mungo?" And he turned again to look at the lawyer. But just as he turned there came the shot of a firelock from higher up the hill; and with the very sound of it Glenure fell upon the road. "O, I am dead!" he cried, several times over. The lawyer had caught him up and held him in his arms, the servant standing over and clasping his hands. And now the wounded man looked from one to another with scared eyes, and there was a change in his voice, that went to the heart. "Take care of yourselves," says he. "I am dead." He tried to open his clothes as if to look for the wound, but his fingers slipped on the buttons. With that he gave a great sigh, his head rolled on his shoulder, and he passed away. The lawyer said never a word, but his face was as sharp as a pen and as white as the dead man's; the servant broke out into a great noise of crying and weeping, like a child; and I, on my side, stood staring at them in a kind of horror. The sheriff's officer had run back at the first sound of the shot, to hasten the coming of the soldiers. At last the lawyer laid down the dead man in his blood upon the road, and got to his own feet with a kind of stagger. I believe it was his movement that brought me to my senses; for he had no sooner done so than I began to scramble up the hill, crying out, "The murderer! the murderer!" So little a time had elapsed, that when I got to the top of the first steepness, and could see some part of the open mountain, the murderer was still moving away at no great distance. He was a big man, in a black coat, with metal buttons, and carried a long fowling-piece. "Here!" I cried. "I see him!" At that the murderer gave a little, quick look over his shoulder, and began to run. The next moment he was lost in a fringe of birches; then he came out again on the upper side, where I could see him climbing like a jackanapes, for that part was again very steep; and then he dipped behind a shoulder, and I saw him no more. All this time I had been running on my side, and had got a good way up, when a voice cried upon me to stand. I was at the edge of the upper wood, and so now, when I halted and looked back, I saw all the open part of the hill below me. The lawyer and the sheriff's officer were standing just above the road, crying and waving on me to come back; and on their left, the red-coats, musket in hand, were beginning to struggle singly out of the lower wood. "Why should I come back?" I cried. "Come you on!" "Ten pounds if ye take that lad!" cried the lawyer. "He's an accomplice. He was posted here to hold us in talk." At that word (which I could hear quite plainly, though it was to the soldiers and not to me that he was crying it) my heart came in my mouth with quite a new kind of terror. Indeed, it is one thing to stand the danger of your life, and quite another to run the peril of both life and character. The thing, besides, had come so suddenly, like thunder out of a clear sky, that I was all amazed and helpless. The soldiers began to spread, some of them to run, and others to put up their pieces and cover me; and still I stood. "Jock* in here among the trees," said a voice close by. * Duck. Indeed, I scarce knew what I was doing, but I obeyed; and as I did so, I heard the firelocks bang and the balls whistle in the birches. Just inside the shelter of the trees I found Alan Breck standing, with a fishing-rod. He gave me no salutation; indeed it was no time for civilities; only "Come!" says he, and set off running along the side of the mountain towards Balachulish; and I, like a sheep, to follow him. Now we ran among the birches; now stooping behind low humps upon the mountain-side; now crawling on all fours among the heather. The pace was deadly: my heart seemed bursting against my ribs; and I had neither time to think nor breath to speak with. Only I remember seeing with wonder, that Alan every now and then would straighten himself to his full height and look back; and every time he did so, there came a great far-away cheering and crying of the soldiers. Quarter of an hour later, Alan stopped, clapped down flat in the heather, and turned to me. "Now," said he, "it's earnest. Do as I do, for your life." And at the same speed, but now with infinitely more precaution, we traced back again across the mountain-side by the same way that we had come, only perhaps higher; till at last Alan threw himself down in the upper wood of Lettermore, where I had found him at the first, and lay, with his face in the bracken, panting like a dog. My own sides so ached, my head so swam, my tongue so hung out of my mouth with heat and dryness, that I lay beside him like one dead. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Der Tod des Rotfuchses David überquert den Linnhe Loch nach Appin. Dort angekommen, geht er zu einer Nebenstraße, springt aus einem Busch und fragt eine kleine Gruppe von Reisenden nach dem Weg nach Aucharn, wo Alan angeblich auf David wartet. Die Reisenden entpuppen sich als niemand anders als Colin Campbell von Glenure, sein Anwalt und zwei weitere Männer. Glenure beginnt David über sein Geschäft auszufragen, als er plötzlich erschossen und getötet wird. David rennt dem Mörder hinterher, aber der Mörder entkommt ihm. Als David zum Tatort zurückkehrt, beschuldigt ihn der Anwalt, ein Mittäter des Verbrechens zu sein, und David muss erneut fliehen. Alan, der anscheinend in der Nähe Fischen war, zieht David in einen Busch. Alan führt ihn schnell in den Wald. Nach fast einer Stunde des Laufens brechen die beiden im Wald von Lettermore zusammen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The next day it was agreed that Alan should fend for himself till sunset; but as soon as it began to grow dark, he should lie in the fields by the roadside near to Newhalls, and stir for naught until he heard me whistling. At first I proposed I should give him for a signal the "Bonnie House of Airlie," which was a favourite of mine; but he objected that as the piece was very commonly known, any ploughman might whistle it by accident; and taught me instead a little fragment of a Highland air, which has run in my head from that day to this, and will likely run in my head when I lie dying. Every time it comes to me, it takes me off to that last day of my uncertainty, with Alan sitting up in the bottom of the den, whistling and beating the measure with a finger, and the grey of the dawn coming on his face. I was in the long street of Queensferry before the sun was up. It was a fairly built burgh, the houses of good stone, many slated; the town-hall not so fine, I thought, as that of Peebles, nor yet the street so noble; but take it altogether, it put me to shame for my foul tatters. As the morning went on, and the fires began to be kindled, and the windows to open, and the people to appear out of the houses, my concern and despondency grew ever the blacker. I saw now that I had no grounds to stand upon; and no clear proof of my rights, nor so much as of my own identity. If it was all a bubble, I was indeed sorely cheated and left in a sore pass. Even if things were as I conceived, it would in all likelihood take time to establish my contentions; and what time had I to spare with less than three shillings in my pocket, and a condemned, hunted man upon my hands to ship out of the country? Truly, if my hope broke with me, it might come to the gallows yet for both of us. And as I continued to walk up and down, and saw people looking askance at me upon the street or out of windows, and nudging or speaking one to another with smiles, I began to take a fresh apprehension: that it might be no easy matter even to come to speech of the lawyer, far less to convince him of my story. For the life of me I could not muster up the courage to address any of these reputable burghers; I thought shame even to speak with them in such a pickle of rags and dirt; and if I had asked for the house of such a man as Mr. Rankeillor, I suppose they would have burst out laughing in my face. So I went up and down, and through the street, and down to the harbour-side, like a dog that has lost its master, with a strange gnawing in my inwards, and every now and then a movement of despair. It grew to be high day at last, perhaps nine in the forenoon; and I was worn with these wanderings, and chanced to have stopped in front of a very good house on the landward side, a house with beautiful, clear glass windows, flowering knots upon the sills, the walls new-harled* and a chase-dog sitting yawning on the step like one that was at home. Well, I was even envying this dumb brute, when the door fell open and there issued forth a shrewd, ruddy, kindly, consequential man in a well-powdered wig and spectacles. I was in such a plight that no one set eyes on me once, but he looked at me again; and this gentleman, as it proved, was so much struck with my poor appearance that he came straight up to me and asked me what I did. * Newly rough-cast. I told him I was come to the Queensferry on business, and taking heart of grace, asked him to direct me to the house of Mr. Rankeillor. "Why," said he, "that is his house that I have just come out of; and for a rather singular chance, I am that very man." "Then, sir," said I, "I have to beg the favour of an interview." "I do not know your name," said he, "nor yet your face." "My name is David Balfour," said I. "David Balfour?" he repeated, in rather a high tone, like one surprised. "And where have you come from, Mr. David Balfour?" he asked, looking me pretty drily in the face. "I have come from a great many strange places, sir," said I; "but I think it would be as well to tell you where and how in a more private manner." He seemed to muse awhile, holding his lip in his hand, and looking now at me and now upon the causeway of the street. "Yes," says he, "that will be the best, no doubt." And he led me back with him into his house, cried out to some one whom I could not see that he would be engaged all morning, and brought me into a little dusty chamber full of books and documents. Here he sate down, and bade me be seated; though I thought he looked a little ruefully from his clean chair to my muddy rags. "And now," says he, "if you have any business, pray be brief and come swiftly to the point. Nec gemino bellum Trojanum orditur ab ovo--do you understand that?" says he, with a keen look. "I will even do as Horace says, sir," I answered, smiling, "and carry you in medias res." He nodded as if he was well pleased, and indeed his scrap of Latin had been set to test me. For all that, and though I was somewhat encouraged, the blood came in my face when I added: "I have reason to believe myself some rights on the estate of Shaws." He got a paper book out of a drawer and set it before him open. "Well?" said he. But I had shot my bolt and sat speechless. "Come, come, Mr. Balfour," said he, "you must continue. Where were you born?" "In Essendean, sir," said I, "the year 1733, the 12th of March." He seemed to follow this statement in his paper book; but what that meant I knew not. "Your father and mother?" said he. "My father was Alexander Balfour, schoolmaster of that place," said I, "and my mother Grace Pitarrow; I think her people were from Angus." "Have you any papers proving your identity?" asked Mr. Rankeillor. "No, sir," said I, "but they are in the hands of Mr. Campbell, the minister, and could be readily produced. Mr. Campbell, too, would give me his word; and for that matter, I do not think my uncle would deny me." "Meaning Mr. Ebenezer Balfour?" says he. "The same," said I. "Whom you have seen?" he asked. "By whom I was received into his own house," I answered. "Did you ever meet a man of the name of Hoseason?" asked Mr. Rankeillor. "I did so, sir, for my sins," said I; "for it was by his means and the procurement of my uncle, that I was kidnapped within sight of this town, carried to sea, suffered shipwreck and a hundred other hardships, and stand before you to-day in this poor accoutrement." "You say you were shipwrecked," said Rankeillor; "where was that?" "Off the south end of the Isle of Mull," said I. "The name of the isle on which I was cast up is the Island Earraid." "Ah!" says he, smiling, "you are deeper than me in the geography. But so far, I may tell you, this agrees pretty exactly with other informations that I hold. But you say you were kidnapped; in what sense?" "In the plain meaning of the word, sir," said I. "I was on my way to your house, when I was trepanned on board the brig, cruelly struck down, thrown below, and knew no more of anything till we were far at sea. I was destined for the plantations; a fate that, in God's providence, I have escaped." "The brig was lost on June the 27th," says he, looking in his book, "and we are now at August the 24th. Here is a considerable hiatus, Mr. Balfour, of near upon two months. It has already caused a vast amount of trouble to your friends; and I own I shall not be very well contented until it is set right." "Indeed, sir," said I, "these months are very easily filled up; but yet before I told my story, I would be glad to know that I was talking to a friend." "This is to argue in a circle," said the lawyer. "I cannot be convinced till I have heard you. I cannot be your friend till I am properly informed. If you were more trustful, it would better befit your time of life. And you know, Mr. Balfour, we have a proverb in the country that evil-doers are aye evil-dreaders." "You are not to forget, sir," said I, "that I have already suffered by my trustfulness; and was shipped off to be a slave by the very man that (if I rightly understand) is your employer?" All this while I had been gaining ground with Mr. Rankeillor, and in proportion as I gained ground, gaining confidence. But at this sally, which I made with something of a smile myself, he fairly laughed aloud. "No, no," said he, "it is not so bad as that. Fui, non sum. I was indeed your uncle's man of business; but while you (imberbis juvenis custode remoto) were gallivanting in the west, a good deal of water has run under the bridges; and if your ears did not sing, it was not for lack of being talked about. On the very day of your sea disaster, Mr. Campbell stalked into my office, demanding you from all the winds. I had never heard of your existence; but I had known your father; and from matters in my competence (to be touched upon hereafter) I was disposed to fear the worst. Mr. Ebenezer admitted having seen you; declared (what seemed improbable) that he had given you considerable sums; and that you had started for the continent of Europe, intending to fulfil your education, which was probable and praiseworthy. Interrogated how you had come to send no word to Mr. Campbell, he deponed that you had expressed a great desire to break with your past life. Further interrogated where you now were, protested ignorance, but believed you were in Leyden. That is a close sum of his replies. I am not exactly sure that any one believed him," continued Mr. Rankeillor with a smile; "and in particular he so much disrelished me expressions of mine that (in a word) he showed me to the door. We were then at a full stand; for whatever shrewd suspicions we might entertain, we had no shadow of probation. In the very article, comes Captain Hoseason with the story of your drowning; whereupon all fell through; with no consequences but concern to Mr. Campbell, injury to my pocket, and another blot upon your uncle's character, which could very ill afford it. And now, Mr. Balfour," said he, "you understand the whole process of these matters, and can judge for yourself to what extent I may be trusted." Indeed he was more pedantic than I can represent him, and placed more scraps of Latin in his speech; but it was all uttered with a fine geniality of eye and manner which went far to conquer my distrust. Moreover, I could see he now treated me as if I was myself beyond a doubt; so that first point of my identity seemed fully granted. "Sir," said I, "if I tell you my story, I must commit a friend's life to your discretion. Pass me your word it shall be sacred; and for what touches myself, I will ask no better guarantee than just your face." He passed me his word very seriously. "But," said he, "these are rather alarming prolocutions; and if there are in your story any little jostles to the law, I would beg you to bear in mind that I am a lawyer, and pass lightly." Thereupon I told him my story from the first, he listening with his spectacles thrust up and his eyes closed, so that I sometimes feared he was asleep. But no such matter! he heard every word (as I found afterward) with such quickness of hearing and precision of memory as often surprised me. Even strange outlandish Gaelic names, heard for that time only, he remembered and would remind me of, years after. Yet when I called Alan Breck in full, we had an odd scene. The name of Alan had of course rung through Scotland, with the news of the Appin murder and the offer of the reward; and it had no sooner escaped me than the lawyer moved in his seat and opened his eyes. "I would name no unnecessary names, Mr. Balfour," said he; "above all of Highlanders, many of whom are obnoxious to the law." "Well, it might have been better not," said I, "but since I have let it slip, I may as well continue." "Not at all," said Mr. Rankeillor. "I am somewhat dull of hearing, as you may have remarked; and I am far from sure I caught the name exactly. We will call your friend, if you please, Mr. Thomson--that there may be no reflections. And in future, I would take some such way with any Highlander that you may have to mention--dead or alive." By this, I saw he must have heard the name all too clearly, and had already guessed I might be coming to the murder. If he chose to play this part of ignorance, it was no matter of mine; so I smiled, said it was no very Highland-sounding name, and consented. Through all the rest of my story Alan was Mr. Thomson; which amused me the more, as it was a piece of policy after his own heart. James Stewart, in like manner, was mentioned under the style of Mr. Thomson's kinsman; Colin Campbell passed as a Mr. Glen; and to Cluny, when I came to that part of my tale, I gave the name of "Mr. Jameson, a Highland chief." It was truly the most open farce, and I wondered that the lawyer should care to keep it up; but, after all, it was quite in the taste of that age, when there were two parties in the state, and quiet persons, with no very high opinions of their own, sought out every cranny to avoid offence to either. "Well, well," said the lawyer, when I had quite done, "this is a great epic, a great Odyssey of yours. You must tell it, sir, in a sound Latinity when your scholarship is riper; or in English if you please, though for my part I prefer the stronger tongue. You have rolled much; quae regio in terris--what parish in Scotland (to make a homely translation) has not been filled with your wanderings? You have shown, besides, a singular aptitude for getting into false positions; and, yes, upon the whole, for behaving well in them. This Mr. Thomson seems to me a gentleman of some choice qualities, though perhaps a trifle bloody-minded. It would please me none the worse, if (with all his merits) he were soused in the North Sea, for the man, Mr. David, is a sore embarrassment. But you are doubtless quite right to adhere to him; indubitably, he adhered to you. It comes--we may say--he was your true companion; nor less paribus curis vestigia figit, for I dare say you would both take an orra thought upon the gallows. Well, well, these days are fortunately by; and I think (speaking humanly) that you are near the end of your troubles." As he thus moralised on my adventures, he looked upon me with so much humour and benignity that I could scarce contain my satisfaction. I had been so long wandering with lawless people, and making my bed upon the hills and under the bare sky, that to sit once more in a clean, covered house, and to talk amicably with a gentleman in broadcloth, seemed mighty elevations. Even as I thought so, my eye fell on my unseemly tatters, and I was once more plunged in confusion. But the lawyer saw and understood me. He rose, called over the stair to lay another plate, for Mr. Balfour would stay to dinner, and led me into a bedroom in the upper part of the house. Here he set before me water and soap, and a comb; and laid out some clothes that belonged to his son; and here, with another apposite tag, he left me to my toilet. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Ich komme zu Herrn Rankeillor, David und Alan vereinbaren, sich später am Tag wieder zu treffen, nachdem David mit seinem Anwalt, Herrn Rankeillor gesprochen hat. Nachdem er durch die Straßen von Newhalls geirrt ist, auf der Suche nach Rankeillor, entdeckt er den Mann schließlich zufällig, der ihn mitnimmt, und David erzählt ihm die ganze Geschichte. Bei der Erwähnung von Alans Namen gibt Rankeillor vor, den Namen nicht gehört zu haben, und behauptet, David müsse "Mr. Thomson" gesagt haben. Das ist, damit er unter Eid vor Gericht schwören kann, dass er den Namen Alan Breck Stewart nie gehört hat, falls es zu einem Prozess kommen sollte. Viele der schottischen Namen werden auf die gleiche Weise geändert. Nach der Geschichte nimmt Rankeillor David mit nach oben und gibt ihm eine Ersatzkleidung.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Die Gefühle, die durch diesen Spaziergang in Carrie hervorgerufen wurden, versetzten sie in eine äußerst empfängliche Stimmung für das Pathos, das im Stück folgte. Der Schauspieler, den sie sehen wollten, hatte seine Popularität erlangt, indem er einen sanften Komödiestil präsentierte, in dem genügend Trauer eingeführt wurde, um dem Humor Kontrast und Erleichterung zu verleihen. Die Bühne übte, wie wir wissen, eine große Anziehungskraft auf Carrie aus. Sie hatte ihren histrionischen Erfolg in Chicago nie vergessen. Es verweilte in ihrem Kopf und beschäftigte ihr Bewusstsein während vieler langer Nachmittage, in denen ihr Schaukelstuhl und ihr aktueller Roman die einzigen Freuden ihres Zustands waren. Sie konnte nie ein Stück sehen, ohne dass ihr eigenes Talent lebhaft bewusst wurde. Einige Szenen ließen sie sich danach sehnen, ein Teil von ihnen zu sein – ihre eigenen Gefühle zum Ausdruck zu bringen, die sie anstelle der dargestellten Figur empfunden hätte. Fast immer nahm sie die lebendige Vorstellungskraft mit sich und brütete am nächsten Tag allein darüber. Sie lebte ebenso sehr in diesen Dingen wie in den Realitäten, die ihr tägliches Leben ausmachten. Es geschah nicht oft, dass sie von tatsächlichen Ereignissen von Herzen bewegt zu einem Theaterbesuch kam. Heute hatte ein Lied der Sehnsucht in ihrem Herzen erklangen lassen, das durch den Prunk, das Vergnügen und die Schönheit entstanden war, die sie gesehen hatte. Oh, diese Frauen, die an ihr vorübergegangen waren, hunderte und hunderte, wer waren sie? Woher kamen die reichen, eleganten Kleider, die erstaunlich farbigen Knöpfe, die Silber- und Gold-Nippes? Wo waren diese schönen Kreaturen untergebracht? Inmitten welcher Pracht von geschnitzten Möbeln, verzierten Wänden, aufwändigen Wandteppichen bewegten sie sich? Wo waren ihre reichen Appartements, beladen mit allem, was Geld bieten konnte? In welchen Ställen futterten diese schlanken, nervösen Pferde und ruhten die prächtigen Kutschen aus? Wo hielten die vornehm gekleideten Kutscher sich auf? Oh, die Villen, die Lichter, das Parfüm, die geschmückten Boudoirs und Tische! New York musste von solchen Gartenlauben erfüllt sein, sonst könnten die schönen, hochmütigen, hochmütigen Kreaturen nicht existieren. Einige Gewächshäuser hatten sie. Es schmerzte sie zu wissen, dass sie nicht zu ihnen gehörte - dass sie leider von einem Traum geträumt hatte, der nicht wahr geworden war. Sie wunderte sich über ihre eigene Einsamkeit in den vergangenen zwei Jahren - ihre Gleichgültigkeit gegenüber der Tatsache, dass sie nie das erreicht hatte, was sie erwartet hatte. Das Spiel war eine dieser Salon-Kompositionen, in denen liebevoll gekleidete Damen und Herren unter goldenem Glanz die Schmerzen der Liebe und Eifersucht erleiden. Solche Wortwitze sind immer verlockend für diejenigen, die ihr ganzes Leben lang nach solchen materiellen Umständen gestrebt haben und sie nie erfüllt bekommen haben. Sie haben den Charme, Leiden unter idealen Bedingungen zu zeigen. Wer würde nicht auf einem goldigen Stuhl trauern? Wer würde nicht unter parfümierten Wandteppichen, gepolsterten Möbeln und livrierten Dienstmännern leiden? Leid unter solchen Umständen wird zu einer verführerischen Sache. Carrie sehnte sich danach, dazu zu gehören. Sie wollte ihr Leiden, was immer es sein mochte, in einer solchen Welt nehmen oder, falls das nicht möglich war, es zumindest unter solch charmanten Bedingungen auf der Bühne simulieren. Ihr Geist war so von dem beeinflusst, was sie gesehen hatte, dass das Stück jetzt eine außergewöhnlich schöne Sache schien. Sie verlor sich bald in der von ihm dargestellten Welt und wünschte, sie könnte nie zurückkehren. Zwischen den Akten beobachtete sie die Galaxie der Matinee-Besucher in den vorderen Reihen und Logen und entwickelte eine neue Vorstellung von den Möglichkeiten von New York. Sie war sicher, dass sie noch nicht alles gesehen hatte - dass die Stadt ein einziger Wirbel aus Vergnügen und Begeisterung war. Auf dem Weg nach draußen lehrte sie dasselbe Broadway eine schmerzliche Lektion. Die Szene, die sie beim Hinuntergehen beobachtet hatte, war nun erweitert und auf ihrem Höhepunkt. Solch ein Gedränge von Prunk und Narrheit hatte sie noch nie gesehen. Es verstärkte ihre Überzeugungen über ihren Zustand. Sie hatte nicht gelebt und konnte nicht behaupten, dass sie gelebt hätte, bis etwas davon in ihr eigenes Leben gekommen war. Frauen gaben Geld aus wie Wasser; das konnte sie in jedem eleganten Geschäft sehen, an dem sie vorbeikam. Blumen, Süßigkeiten, Schmuck schienen die Hauptinteressen der eleganten Damen zu sein. Und sie selbst hatte kaum genug Taschengeld, um sich einige Male im Monat solche Ausflüge zu gönnen. In dieser Nacht schien das hübsche kleine Apartment banal zu sein. Es war nicht das, was der Rest der Welt genoss. Sie sah die Bedienstete mit gleichgültigen Augen beim Abendessen arbeiten. In ihrem Kopf spielten sich Szenen des Stücks ab. Insbesondere erinnerte sie sich an eine schöne Schauspielerin, die Geliebte, die geworben und erobert worden war. Die Anmut dieser Frau hatte Carries Herz gewonnen. Ihre Kleider waren alles, was die Kunst vorschlagen konnte, ihr Leiden war so real gewesen. Den Schmerz, den sie dargestellt hatte, konnte Carrie fühlen. Es wurde so gemacht, wie sie sicher war, es selbst tun zu können. Es gab Orte, an denen sie sogar noch besser sein konnte. Daher wiederholte sie die Zeilen für sich selbst. Oh, wenn sie nur eine solche Rolle haben könnte, wie breit wäre dann ihr Leben! Auch sie konnte ansprechend agieren. Als Hurstwood kam, war Carrie mürrisch. Sie saß schaukelnd und nachdenklich da und wollte nicht, dass ihre verlockenden Vorstellungen unterbrochen wurden; daher sagte sie wenig oder gar nichts. "Was ist los, Carrie?", fragte Hurstwood nach einer Weile und bemerkte ihren ruhigen, fast mürrischen Zustand. "Nichts", sagte Carrie. "Ich fühle mich heute Abend nicht sehr gut." "Bist du krank?", fragte er und kam sehr nahe heran. "Oh nein", sagte sie fast ungehalten, "Mir geht's nur nicht besonders gut." "Das ist schade", sagte er und trat einen Schritt zurück und richtete sein Jackett nach seinem leichten Vorbeugen. "Ich dachte, wir könnten heute Abend ins Theater gehen." "Ich möchte nicht gehen", sagte Carrie, genervt, dass ihre großartigen Visionen so zerstört und aus ihrem Geist verdrängt worden waren. "Ich war heute Nachmittag schon in der Matinee." "Oh wirklich?", sagte Hurstwood. "Was war es?" "Gold Mine." "Wie war es?" "Ganz gut", sagte Carrie. "Und du willst heute Abend nicht noch einmal gehen?" "Ich glaube nicht", sagte sie. Dennoch, geweckt aus ihrer Melancholie und zum Abendessen gerufen, änderte sie ihre Meinung. Ein wenig Essen im Magen bewirkt Wunder. Sie ging erneut hin und erlangte vorübergehend ihre Gelassenheit zurück. Der große Weckruf war jedoch erfolgt. So oft sie jetzt auch von diesen unzufriedenen Gedanken genesen mochte, sie würden immer wieder auftreten. Zeit und Wiederholung - oh, das Wunder davon! Das fallende Wasser und der feste Stein - wie ganz und gar er am Ende nachgibt! Nicht lange nach diesem Matinee-Erlebnis - vielleicht einen Monat später - lud Mrs. Vance Carrie zu einem Abend im Theater mit ihnen ein. Carrie hörte sie sagen, dass Hurstwood nicht zum Abendessen nach Hause kommen würde. "Warum kommst du nicht mit uns? Mach dir kein Abendessen. Wir gehen zum Abendessen nach Sherry's und dann ins Lyceum. Komm mit uns." "Ich glaube, ich werde", antwortete Carrie. Sie begann um drei Uhr, sich für ihre Abreise um halb Carrie hörte mit gierigen Ohren zu. Diese Dinge kamen nie zwischen ihr und Hurstwood zur Sprache. Trotzdem begann sie, dies und das vorzuschlagen, dem Hurstwood ohne jede Meinungsäußerung zustimmte. Er bemerkte die neue Tendenz seitens Carrie und vermutete schließlich, woher die Veränderung kam, als er viel von Frau Vance und ihren liebenswerten Arten hörte. Er hatte nicht die geringste Einwendung, aber er spürte, dass Carries Bedürfnisse sich erweiterten. Das sprach ihn nicht direkt an, aber er kümmerte sich auf seine eigene Art um sie, und so standen die Dinge. Dennoch gab es etwas in den Details der Transaktionen, das Carrie das Gefühl gab, dass ihre Wünsche kein Vergnügen für ihn waren. Er war nicht begeistert von den Einkäufen. Das veranlasste sie zu der Annahme, dass Vernachlässigung Einzug hielt, und so wurde wieder ein kleiner Keil eingedrungen. Nichtsdestotrotz führte eine der Auswirkungen von Frau Vances Vorschlägen dazu, dass Carrie an diesem Anlass etwas nach ihrem eigenen Geschmack angezogen war. Sie trug das Beste, aber in dem Gedanken, dass sie sich auf das Beste beschränken musste, war sie ordentlich und passend gekleidet. Sie sah wie eine gepflegte Frau von einundzwanzig aus, und Frau Vance lobte sie, was ihren vollschlanken Wangen Farbe verlieh und ihren großen Augen eine auffällige Helligkeit verlieh. Es drohte zu regnen, und Herr Vance hatte, auf Frau Vances Bitte hin, eine Kutsche gerufen. "Dein Ehemann kommt nicht?" schlug Herr Vance vor, als er Carrie in seinem kleinen Salon traf. "Nein, er sagte, er würde nicht zum Abendessen nach Hause kommen." "Es ist besser, ihm einen kleinen Zettel zu hinterlassen, in dem du ihm sagst, wo wir sind. Vielleicht taucht er auf." "Das werde ich tun", sagte Carrie, die vorher nicht daran gedacht hatte. "Sage ihm, dass wir bis acht Uhr bei Sherry's sein werden. Er weiß es zwar, denke ich." Carrie überquerte den Flur mit raschelnden Röcken und schrieb den Zettel, während sie ihre Handschuhe anzog. Als sie zurückkehrte, war ein Neuankömmling in der Wohnung von Vance. "Mrs. Wheeler, lassen Sie mich Ihnen Mr. Ames vorstellen, ein Cousin von mir", sagte Mrs. Vance. "Er kommt mit uns mit, nicht wahr, Bob?" "Ich freue mich, Sie kennenzulernen", sagte Ames und verneigte sich höflich vor Carrie. Die Letztere erfasste mit einem Blick die Dimensionen einer sehr kräftigen Gestalt. Sie bemerkte auch, dass er glatt rasiert, gut aussehend und jung war, aber nichts weiter. "Mr. Ames ist nur für ein paar Tage in New York", sagte Vance, "und wir versuchen, ihm ein bisschen die Stadt zu zeigen." "Oh, ja?", sagte Carrie und warf einen weiteren Blick auf den Neuankömmling. "Ja, ich bin gerade von Indianapolis hierher gekommen, für etwa eine Woche oder so", sagte der junge Ames und setzte sich am Rand eines Stuhls hin, während Mrs. Vance die letzten Handgriffe ihrer Toilette vollendete. "Ich denke, Sie finden New York recht beeindruckend, nicht wahr?", wagte Carrie etwas vorzuschlagen, um eine mögliche tödliche Stille zu vermeiden. "Es ist ziemlich groß, um es in einer Woche zu erkunden", antwortete Ames freundlich. Er war eine äußerst herzliche Seele, dieser junge Mann, und völlig frei von Affektiertheit. Carrie hatte den Eindruck, dass er gerade erst die letzten Überreste von Jugendhaftigkeit überwunden hatte. Er schien keine große Begabung für das Gespräch zu haben, aber er hatte die Eigenschaft, gut gekleidet und völlig mutig zu sein. Es schien Carrie, als ob es nicht schwer sein würde, mit ihm zu reden. "Gut, ich denke, wir sind jetzt bereit. Die Kutsche wartet draußen." "Komm, Leute", sagte Mrs. Vance und kam lächelnd herein. "Bob, du musst auf Mrs. Wheeler aufpassen." "Ich werde mein Bestes tun", sagte Bob lächelnd und rückte näher an Carrie heran. "Du wirst nicht viel Aufsicht brauchen, oder?", bot er in einer Art anbiedernder und helfender Weise an. "Nicht sehr, hoffe ich", sagte Carrie. Sie gingen die Treppen hinunter, wobei Mrs. Vance Vorschläge machte, und stiegen in die offene Kutsche. "Alles klar", sagte Vance und schlug die Wagentür zu, und die Kutsche setzte sich in Bewegung. "Was wollen wir uns ansehen?", fragte Ames. "Sothern", sagte Vance, "in 'Lord Chumley'." "Oh, er ist so gut!", sagte Mrs. Vance. "Er ist einfach der lustigste Mann." "Ich habe gelesen, dass die Zeitungen ihn loben", sagte Ames. "Ich habe keinen Zweifel", mischte sich Vance ein, "aber uns wird es allen sehr gefallen." Ames hatte neben Carrie Platz genommen und fühlte sich daher verpflichtet, ihr etwas Aufmerksamkeit zu schenken. Es interessierte ihn zu sehen, dass sie so jung verheiratet war und so hübsch, obwohl es nur ein respektvolles Interesse war. Er hatte Achtung vor dem Ehestand und dachte nur an hübsche heiratsfähige Mädchen in Indianapolis. "Bist du eine geborene New Yorkerin?", fragte Ames Carrie. "Oh nein, ich bin erst seit zwei Jahren hier." "Oh, na ja, du hattest immerhin Zeit, eine Menge davon zu sehen." "Ich scheine es nicht getan zu haben", antwortete Carrie. "Es ist für mich genauso fremd wie am Anfang, als ich herkam." "Bist du vom Westen?", fragte Ames. "Ja. Ich komme aus Wisconsin", antwortete sie. "Nun, es scheint, als ob die meisten Leute in dieser Stadt noch nicht so lange hier gewesen wären. Ich höre von vielen Leuten aus Indiana in meinem Bereich, die hier sind." "In welchem Bereich bist du tätig?", fragte Carrie. "Ich arbeite bei einer Elektrofirma", sagte der junge Mann. Carrie pflegte dieses lose Gespräch gelegentlich mit Unterbrechungen von den Vances fortzusetzen. Mehrmals wurde es allgemein und teilweise humorvoll, und so erreichte man das Restaurant. Carrie hatte das Aussehen von Fröhlichkeit und Vergnügen auf den Straßen bemerkt, denen sie folgten. Kutschen waren zahlreich, Fußgänger viele, und in der Fifty-ninth Street waren die Straßenbahnen überfüllt. An der Fifty-ninth Street und der Fifth Avenue gab es einen Lichterglanz von mehreren neuen Hotels, die den Plaza Square umgaben und einen Hinweis auf das prachtvolle Hotel-Leben gaben. Die Fifth Avenue, das Zuhause der Reichen, war auffällig voll von Kutschen und Herren in Abendkleidung. Bei Sherry's öffnete ein imposanter Türsteher die Kutschentür und half ihnen auszusteigen. Der junge Ames stützte sich auf Carries Ellbogen, als er ihr die Treppe hochhalf. Sie betraten die bereits mit Gästen gefüllte Lobby und gingen dann, nachdem sie ihre Mäntel abgelegt hatten, in einen prächtigen Speiseraum. In all Carrie's Erfahrung hatte sie noch nie etwas Ähnliches gesehen. In der ganzen Zeit, in der sie in New York gewesen war, hatte Hurstwoods veränderter Zustand es nicht zugelassen, dass er sie an so einen Ort brachte. Es gab eine fast unbeschreibliche Atmosphäre darüber, die dem Neuling vermittelte, dass dies das Richtige war. Hier war der Ort, an dem die Ausgaben die Kunden auf die geld- oder vergnügungssuchende Klasse beschränkten. Carrie hatte oft davon in der "Morning"- und "Evening World" gelesen. Sie hatte Hinweise auf Tanzveranstaltungen, Partys, Bälle und Abendessen bei Sherry's gesehen Sobald sie saßen, begann diese Ausstellung von prahlerischer, verschwenderischer und ungesunder Gastronomie, wie sie von wohlhabenden Amerikanern praktiziert wird, die auf der ganzen Welt Bewunderung und Erstaunen für wahre Kultur und Würde hervorruft. Die umfangreiche Speisekarte enthielt eine Vielzahl von Gerichten, die ausreichten, um eine Armee zu ernähren, die jedoch mit Preisen versehen waren, die vernünftige Ausgaben zu einer lächerlichen Unmöglichkeit machten - eine Portion Suppe für fünfzig Cent oder einen Dollar, mit Dutzenden zur Auswahl; Austern in vierzig Variationen für sechzig Cent das halbe Dutzend; Vorspeisen, Fisch und Fleisch zu Preisen, für die man eine Nacht in einem durchschnittlichen Hotel übernachten könnte. Ein Dollar fünfzig und zwei Dollar schienen die häufigsten Beträge auf dieser sehr geschmackvoll gestalteten Speisekarte zu sein. Carrie bemerkte das und in ihrer Durchsicht der Karte führte sie der Preis für das junge Huhn zurück zu der anderen Speisekarte und einer ganz anderen Gelegenheit, als sie zum ersten Mal mit Drouet in einem guten Restaurant in Chicago saß. Es war nur von kurzer Dauer - ein trauriger Ton, wie aus einem alten Lied - und dann war er wieder weg. Doch in diesem Augenblick sah man die andere Carrie - arm, hungrig, orientierungslos und eine kalte und abweisende Welt, aus der sie nur trieb, weil sie keine Arbeit finden konnte. An den Wänden befanden sich farbige Designs, quadratische Stellen in robin's-egg-blauer Farbe, eingefasst in kunstvolle, vergoldete Rahmen, deren Ecken auswendig gearbeitete Verzierungen mit Früchten und Blumen waren, während fette Engel in paradiesischem Komfort schwebten. An der Decke befanden sich farbige Verzierungen mit noch mehr Gold, die zu einem Zentrum führten, in dem sich eine Menge Lichter befanden - Glühlampen vermischt mit glitzernden Prismen und vergoldeten Stuckranken. Der Boden hatte einen rötlichen Farbton, war gewachst und poliert, und in jeder Richtung gab es Spiegel - hohe, leuchtende, abgeschrägte Spiegel -, die Formen, Gesichter und Kerzenständer ein Dutzend- und hundertfach reflektierten. Die Tische waren an sich nicht ungewöhnlich, aber der Hauch von Sherry auf der Tischwäsche, der Name Tiffany auf dem Silberbesteck, der Name Haviland auf dem Porzellan und über allem der Glanz der kleinen, rot geschirmten Kandelaber und die reflektierten Töne der Wände auf Kleidung und Gesichtern machten sie bemerkenswert. Jeder Kellner verlieh durch die Art und Weise, wie er sich verbeugte, kratzte, berührte und mit Dingen spielte, eine Aura von Exklusivität und Eleganz. Die ausschließlich persönliche Aufmerksamkeit, die er jedem widmete, indem er halb gebückt dastand, ein Ohr zur Seite, die Ellbogen in die Hüften gestemmt und sagte: "Suppe - grüne Schildkröte, ja. Eine Portion, ja. Austern - sicher - ein halbes Dutzend - ja. Spargel. Oliven - ja." Mit jedem war es dasselbe, nur Vance versuchte für alle zu bestellen und lud zu Rat und Vorschlägen ein. Carrie studierte die Gesellschaft mit offenen Augen. So war das also das High-Life in New York. So verbrachten die Reichen ihre Tage und Abende. Ihr kleines, armes Verstand konnte sich nicht über das Anwenden jeder Szene auf die ganze Gesellschaft erheben. Jede feine Dame musste in der Masse auf dem Broadway am Nachmittag, im Theater bei der Matinee, in den Kutschen und Speisesälen am Abend sein. Überall musste es leuchten und glänzen, mit wartenden Kutschen und Bediensteten, und sie war außen vor. In den letzten zwei langen Jahren war sie noch nicht einmal an einem solchen Ort wie diesem gewesen. Vance war hier in seinem Element, wie es Hurstwood früher gewesen wäre. Er bestellte großzügig Suppe, Austern, Braten und Beilagen und ließ mehrere Flaschen Wein bringen, die in einem Weidenkorb neben den Tisch gestellt wurden. Ames sah etwas abwesend auf die Menge und bot Carrie ein interessantes Profil. Seine Stirn war hoch, seine Nase ziemlich groß und stark, sein Kinn mäßig ansprechend. Er hatte einen guten, breiten, gut geformten Mund, und sein dunkelbraunes Haar war leicht auf einer Seite gescheitelt. Er schien für Carrie den geringsten Touch Jugendlichkeit zu haben und dennoch war er ein vollständig erwachsener Mann. "Weißt du ", sagte er, sich wieder an Carrie wendend, nachdem er nachgedacht hatte, "manchmal finde ich es schade, dass Menschen so viel Geld auf diese Weise ausgeben." Carrie schaute ihn einen Moment lang mit der geringsten Überraschung über seine Ernsthaftigkeit an. Es schien, als würde er über etwas nachdenken, über das sie noch nie nachgedacht hatte. "Wirklich?", antwortete sie interessiert. "Ja", sagte er, "sie geben so viel mehr aus, als diese Dinge wert sind. Sie geben so viel vor." "Ich weiß nicht, warum die Leute nicht ausgeben sollten, wenn sie es haben", sagte Mrs. Vance. "Es schadet nicht", sagte Vance, der immer noch die Speisekarte studierte, obwohl er bereits bestellt hatte. Ames schaute wieder weg und Carrie betrachtete erneut seine Stirn. Für sie schien er über seltsame Dinge nachzudenken. Als er die Menge betrachtete, war sein Blick mild. "Schaue dir das Kleid dieser Frau da drüben an", sagte er und wandte sich wieder an Carrie und deutete in eine bestimmte Richtung. "Wo?", sagte Carrie und folgte seinem Blick. "Dort drüben in der Ecke - ganz hinten. Siehst du den Broschenanstecker?" "Ist er nicht groß?", sagte Carrie. "Einer der größten Juwelengebilde, die ich je gesehen habe", sagte Ames. "Ja, nicht wahr?", sagte Carrie. Sie hatte das Gefühl, diesem jungen Mann gefallen zu wollen, und da begleitete es sie, oder vielleicht ging es ihm voraus, der geringste Hauch des Gefühls, dass er besser ausgebildet war als sie - dass sein Verstand besser war. Er schien danach auszusehen und die rettende Gnade an Carrie war, dass sie verstehen konnte, dass Menschen weiser sein konnten. Sie hatte in ihrem Leben eine Reihe von Menschen gesehen, die sie an das erinnerten, was sie vage als Gelehrte bezeichnete. Dieser starke junge Mann neben ihr, mit seinem klaren, natürlichen Blick, schien Dinge zu begreifen, die sie nicht ganz verstand, die sie jedoch billigte. Es war schön, so zu sein, dachte sie, als Mann. Das Gespräch wechselte zu einem Buch, das zu der Zeit in Mode war - "Moulding a Maiden" (Das Formen einer Maid) von Albert Ross. Mrs. Vance hatte es gelesen, Vance hatte in einigen Zeitungen davon gelesen. "Ein Mann kann einen ziemlichen Erfolg haben, wenn er ein Buch schreibt", sagte Vance. "Ich habe bemerkt, dass dieser Typ Ross viel darüber gesprochen wird." Er schaute Carrie an, als er sprach. "Ich habe noch nie von ihm gehört", sagte Carrie ehrlich. "Oh, ich schon", sagte Mrs. Vance. "Er hat schon viele Dinge geschrieben. Diese letzte Geschichte ist ziemlich gut." "Ich halte nicht viel von ihm ", sagte Ames. Carrie schaute zu ihm auf wie zu einem Orakel. "Seine Sachen sind fast so schlecht wie 'Dora Thorne'", schloss Ames. Carrie empfand das als persönlichen Vorwurf. Sie hatte "Dora Thorne" Carrie dachte darüber zweifelhaft nach, aber von ihm kommend, hatte es Gewicht für sie. "Er könnte wahrscheinlich glücklich sein," dachte sie bei sich, "ganz alleine. Er ist so stark." Mr. und Mrs. Vance ließen nicht ab, in regelmäßigen Abständen unterbrechende Kommentare abzugeben, und diese beeindruckenden Dinge, die Ames sagte, kamen zu unerwarteten Momenten. Sie waren jedoch ausreichend, um die Atmosphäre, die dieser Jugendlichen umgab, Carrie auch ohne Worte zu beeindrucken. Es gab etwas an ihm oder der Welt, in der er sich bewegte, das sie ansprach. Er erinnerte sie an Szenen, die sie auf der Bühne gesehen hatte - die Leiden und Opfer, die immer mit etwas verbunden waren, was sie nicht kannte. Er hatte etwas von der Bitterkeit des Kontrasts zwischen diesem Leben und ihrem Leben genommen, und das alles durch eine gewisse ruhige Gleichgültigkeit, die nur ihn betraf. Als sie herausgingen, nahm er ihren Arm und half ihr in die Kutsche, und dann waren sie wieder unterwegs und gingen zur Show. Während der Akte hörte Carrie ihm sehr aufmerksam zu. Er erwähnte Dinge im Stück, die sie sehr gut fand - Dinge, die sie zutiefst berührten. "Findest du es nicht ziemlich großartig, Schauspieler zu sein?" fragte sie einmal. "Ja, finde ich schon", sagte er, "wenn man gut ist. Ich denke, das Theater ist etwas Großartiges." Schon diese kleine Zustimmung ließ Carries Herz höherschlagen. Ach, wenn sie doch nur eine Schauspielerin sein könnte - eine gute! Dieser Mann war weise - er wusste es - und er befürwortete es. Wenn sie eine gute Schauspielerin wäre, würden Männer wie er sie befürworten. Sie hatte das Gefühl, dass es gut war, wie er gesprochen hatte, obwohl es sie überhaupt nicht betraf. Sie wusste nicht, warum sie so fühlte. Am Ende der Show stellte sich plötzlich heraus, dass er nicht mit ihnen zurückkommen würde. "Oh, nicht wahr?" sagte Carrie mit einem unberechtigten Gefühl. "Oh, nein", sagte er, "ich bleibe gleich hier in der 33. Straße." Carrie konnte nichts weiter sagen, aber irgendwie schockierte sie diese Entwicklung. Sie hatte das Nachlassen eines angenehmen Abends bedauert, aber sie hatte gedacht, es gäbe noch eine halbe Stunde. Oh, die halben Stunden, die Minuten der Welt, welche Qualen und Sorgen sind darin gepackt! Sie verabschiedete sich mit vorgetäuschter Gleichgültigkeit. Was machte es schon? Dennoch schien die Kutsche verlassen. Als sie in ihrer eigenen Wohnung war, hatte sie das zu bedenken. Sie wusste nicht, ob sie diesen Mann jemals wiedersehen würde. Welchen Unterschied würde es machen - welchen Unterschied würde es machen? Hurstwood war zurückgekehrt und lag bereits im Bett. Seine Kleidung war lose verstreut. Carrie kam zur Tür, sah ihn und zog sich dann zurück. Sie wollte noch eine Weile nicht hineingehen. Sie wollte nachdenken. Es war ihr unangenehm. Zurück im Speisesaal saß sie in ihrem Stuhl und schaukelte. Ihre kleinen Hände waren fest gefaltet, während sie nachdachte. Durch einen Nebel aus Sehnsucht und widersprüchlichen Wünschen begann sie zu sehen. Oh, ihr Legionen der Hoffnung und des Mitgefühls - des Kummers und Schmerzes! Sie schaukelte und begann zu sehen. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst.

Wir werden daran erinnert, dass Carrie das Theater liebt und erfahren, dass sie immer noch viel darüber nachdenkt, wie ihr Bühnendebüt in Chicago war. Das Stück, das Carrie und Mrs. Vance sehen, handelt im Grunde davon, wie reiche Leute Liebeskummer und Eifersucht erleiden, und beim Anblick der luxuriösen Welt auf der Bühne wird Carries Verlangen nach teuren Dingen weiter angefacht. Nachdem sie all die Reichtumsdarstellungen auf der Straße und im Theater gesehen hat, lässt Carrie ihr Apartment darüber nachdenken, wie benachteiligt sie ist. Sie fängt an zu träumen, wie sehr sie wieder schauspielern möchte. Selbstverständlich findet Hurstwood Carrie, als er nach Hause kommt, in schlechter Stimmung vor. In dem Versuch, sie aufzuheitern, fragt Hurstwood sie, ob sie ins Theater gehen möchte. Sie sagt ihm, dass sie schon nachmittags dort war, aber nach dem Abendessen ändert sie ihre Meinung. Sie gehen ins Theater und Carrie wird erneut unzufrieden mit ihrem eigenen Leben, als sie weitere Ausstellungen von Reichtum betrachtet. Ein Monat später: Mrs. Vance lädt Carrie zu einem Essen in einem schicken Restaurant und anschließend ins Theater mit ihr und Mr. Vance ein, während Hurstwood andere Abendessenpläne hat. Mrs. Vance ist Carries Modeguru geworden und ermutigt sie dazu, immer mehr Sachen zu kaufen, was Hurstwood langsam nervt. Und die Tatsache, dass ihn das nervt, ärgert Carrie, die das Gefühl hat, dass er ihre Bedürfnisse vernachlässigt. Carrie macht sich bereit, mit Mr. und Mrs. Vance ins Theater zu gehen. Sie treffen sich und Mr. V sagt ihr, dass sie einen Zettel an Hurstwood schreiben soll, damit er weiß, wo sie sind, falls er zurückkommt. Carrie geht zurück in ihre Wohnung, um den Zettel zu schreiben, und als sie in die Wohnung von Vance zurückkehrt, erwartet sie eine Überraschung: Mrs. Vances Cousin Bob Ames, der aus Indianapolis zu Besuch ist. Während die beiden plaudern, denkt Carrie, dass dieser Ames-Typ nicht nur gut aussieht, sondern auch ein lieber, aufrichtiger Kerl zu sein scheint. Uh-oh... Sie machen sich alle fertig, um loszufahren, und Mrs. Vance sagt Ames, dass er auf Carrie "aufpasst". Da provoziert Mrs. V Ärger, oder? Auf der Fahrt zum Restaurant unterhalten sich Carrie und Ames weiter darüber, wie cool New York City ist. Ames arbeitet für eine Elektrofirma. Als sie ins Restaurant gehen, bemerkt Carrie erneut alle Zeichen von Reichtum um sich herum. Sie ist extrem beeindruckt davon, wie schick das Restaurant ist - so ein Ort liegt weit über Hurstwoods finanziellen Möglichkeiten - und sie denkt darüber nach, wie glücklich Mrs. Vance ist. Mr. Vance bestellt eine Tonne schicker, teurer Speisen und Weine für alle. Carrie bewundert Ames, während sie essen, und dann verkündet Ames, dass er manchmal denkt, dass es eigentlich ziemlich eklig ist, wenn reiche Leute so mit ihrem Geld prahlen. Carrie ist fasziniert und möchte mehr erfahren, aber Mr. und Mrs. Vance sagen, dass sie denken, dass reiche Leute mit ihrem Geld machen können, was sie wollen, was die Diskussion im Grunde beendet. Das Thema wechselt zur neuesten Bestseller-Autorin "Moulding a Maiden" von Albert Ross. Mrs. Vance findet es gut, Carrie hat es nicht gelesen, und Ames findet es fast genauso schlecht wie "Dora Thorne", was Carrie total beleidigt, denn sie hat dieses Buch gelesen und fand es in Ordnung. Trotzdem ist Carrie beeindruckt, dass Ames so klug erscheint - viel klüger als Drouet oder Hurstwood. Ames erzählt Carrie, dass ihm Reichtum egal ist, und bringt das alte Klischee "Geld kann keine Glück kaufen". Sie ist skeptisch, spielt aber mit und gibt vor, dass sie zustimmt. Sie verlassen alle das Restaurant und gehen ins Theater. Während des Stücks sagt Ames Carrie, dass er das Theater liebt, was ihren Wunsch, ihre Schauspielkarriere wiederzubeleben, noch verstärkt. Als die Vorstellung endet, erfährt Carrie, dass Ames nicht mit ihnen in die Wohnung zurückkehrt. Schade. Die Rückfahrt ohne ihn ist einsam. Carrie kehrt in ihre Wohnung zurück und findet Hurstwood bereits im Bett. Sie kann es nicht übers Herz bringen, sich zu ihm ins Bett zu legen, also geht sie ins Esszimmer, um sich im Schaukelstuhl zusammenzukuscheln und nachzudenken.