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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.

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: AN AWAKENING Belle Carpenter had a dark skin, grey eyes, and thick lips. She was tall and strong. When black thoughts visited her she grew angry and wished she were a man and could fight someone with her fists. She worked in the millinery shop kept by Mrs. Kate McHugh and during the day sat trimming hats by a window at the rear of the store. She was the daughter of Henry Carpenter, bookkeeper in the First National Bank of Winesburg, and lived with him in a gloomy old house far out at the end of Buckeye Street. The house was surrounded by pine trees and there was no grass beneath the trees. A rusty tin eaves-trough had slipped from its fastenings at the back of the house and when the wind blew it beat against the roof of a small shed, making a dismal drumming noise that sometimes persisted all through the night. When she was a young girl Henry Carpenter made life almost unbearable for Belle, but as she emerged from girlhood into womanhood he lost his power over her. The bookkeeper's life was made up of innumerable little pettinesses. When he went to the bank in the morning he stepped into a closet and put on a black alpaca coat that had become shabby with age. At night when he returned to his home he donned another black alpaca coat. Every evening he pressed the clothes worn in the streets. He had invented an arrangement of boards for the purpose. The trousers to his street suit were placed between the boards and the boards were clamped together with heavy screws. In the morning he wiped the boards with a damp cloth and stood them upright behind the dining room door. If they were moved during the day he was speechless with anger and did not recover his equilibrium for a week. The bank cashier was a little bully and was afraid of his daughter. She, he realized, knew the story of his brutal treatment of her mother and hated him for it. One day she went home at noon and carried a handful of soft mud, taken from the road, into the house. With the mud she smeared the face of the boards used for the pressing of trousers and then went back to her work feeling relieved and happy. Belle Carpenter occasionally walked out in the evening with George Willard. Secretly she loved another man, but her love affair, about which no one knew, caused her much anxiety. She was in love with Ed Handby, bartender in Ed Griffith's Saloon, and went about with the young reporter as a kind of relief to her feelings. She did not think that her station in life would permit her to be seen in the company of the bartender and walked about under the trees with George Willard and let him kiss her to relieve a longing that was very insistent in her nature. She felt that she could keep the younger man within bounds. About Ed Handby she was somewhat uncertain. Handby, the bartender, was a tall, broad-shouldered man of thirty who lived in a room upstairs above Griffith's saloon. His fists were large and his eyes unusually small, but his voice, as though striving to conceal the power back of his fists, was soft and quiet. At twenty-five the bartender had inherited a large farm from an uncle in Indiana. When sold, the farm brought in eight thousand dollars, which Ed spent in six months. Going to Sandusky, on Lake Erie, he began an orgy of dissipation, the story of which afterward filled his home town with awe. Here and there he went throwing the money about, driving carriages through the streets, giving wine parties to crowds of men and women, playing cards for high stakes and keeping mistresses whose wardrobes cost him hundreds of dollars. One night at a resort called Cedar Point, he got into a fight and ran amuck like a wild thing. With his fist he broke a large mirror in the wash room of a hotel and later went about smashing windows and breaking chairs in dance halls for the joy of hearing the glass rattle on the floor and seeing the terror in the eyes of clerks who had come from Sandusky to spend the evening at the resort with their sweethearts. The affair between Ed Handby and Belle Carpenter on the surface amounted to nothing. He had succeeded in spending but one evening in her company. On that evening he hired a horse and buggy at Wesley Moyer's livery barn and took her for a drive. The conviction that she was the woman his nature demanded and that he must get her settled upon him and he told her of his desires. The bartender was ready to marry and to begin trying to earn money for the support of his wife, but so simple was his nature that he found it difficult to explain his intentions. His body ached with physical longing and with his body he expressed himself. Taking the milliner into his arms and holding her tightly in spite of her struggles, he kissed her until she became helpless. Then he brought her back to town and let her out of the buggy. "When I get hold of you again I'll not let you go. You can't play with me," he declared as he turned to drive away. Then, jumping out of the buggy, he gripped her shoulders with his strong hands. "I'll keep you for good the next time," he said. "You might as well make up your mind to that. It's you and me for it and I'm going to have you before I get through." One night in January when there was a new moon George Willard, who was in Ed Handby's mind the only obstacle to his getting Belle Carpenter, went for a walk. Early that evening George went into Ransom Surbeck's pool room with Seth Richmond and Art Wilson, son of the town butcher. Seth Richmond stood with his back against the wall and remained silent, but George Willard talked. The pool room was filled with Winesburg boys and they talked of women. The young reporter got into that vein. He said that women should look out for themselves, that the fellow who went out with a girl was not responsible for what happened. As he talked he looked about, eager for attention. He held the floor for five minutes and then Art Wilson began to talk. Art was learning the barber's trade in Cal Prouse's shop and already began to consider himself an authority in such matters as baseball, horse racing, drinking, and going about with women. He began to tell of a night when he with two men from Winesburg went into a house of prostitution at the county seat. The butcher's son held a cigar in the side of his mouth and as he talked spat on the floor. "The women in the place couldn't embarrass me although they tried hard enough," he boasted. "One of the girls in the house tried to get fresh, but I fooled her. As soon as she began to talk I went and sat in her lap. Everyone in the room laughed when I kissed her. I taught her to let me alone." George Willard went out of the pool room and into Main Street. For days the weather had been bitter cold with a high wind blowing down on the town from Lake Erie, eighteen miles to the north, but on that night the wind had died away and a new moon made the night unusually lovely. Without thinking where he was going or what he wanted to do, George went out of Main Street and began walking in dimly lighted streets filled with frame houses. Out of doors under the black sky filled with stars he forgot his companions of the pool room. Because it was dark and he was alone he began to talk aloud. In a spirit of play he reeled along the street imitating a drunken man and then imagined himself a soldier clad in shining boots that reached to the knees and wearing a sword that jingled as he walked. As a soldier he pictured himself as an inspector, passing before a long line of men who stood at attention. He began to examine the accoutrements of the men. Before a tree he stopped and began to scold. "Your pack is not in order," he said sharply. "How many times will I have to speak of this matter? Everything must be in order here. We have a difficult task before us and no difficult task can be done without order." Hypnotized by his own words, the young man stumbled along the board sidewalk saying more words. "There is a law for armies and for men too," he muttered, lost in reflection. "The law begins with little things and spreads out until it covers everything. In every little thing there must be order, in the place where men work, in their clothes, in their thoughts. I myself must be orderly. I must learn that law. I must get myself into touch with something orderly and big that swings through the night like a star. In my little way I must begin to learn something, to give and swing and work with life, with the law." George Willard stopped by a picket fence near a street lamp and his body began to tremble. He had never before thought such thoughts as had just come into his head and he wondered where they had come from. For the moment it seemed to him that some voice outside of himself had been talking as he walked. He was amazed and delighted with his own mind and when he walked on again spoke of the matter with fervor. "To come out of Ransom Surbeck's pool room and think things like that," he whispered. "It is better to be alone. If I talked like Art Wilson the boys would understand me but they wouldn't understand what I've been thinking down here." In Winesburg, as in all Ohio towns of twenty years ago, there was a section in which lived day laborers. As the time of factories had not yet come, the laborers worked in the fields or were section hands on the railroads. They worked twelve hours a day and received one dollar for the long day of toil. The houses in which they lived were small cheaply constructed wooden affairs with a garden at the back. The more comfortable among them kept cows and perhaps a pig, housed in a little shed at the rear of the garden. With his head filled with resounding thoughts, George Willard walked into such a street on the clear January night. The street was dimly lighted and in places there was no sidewalk. In the scene that lay about him there was something that excited his already aroused fancy. For a year he had been devoting all of his odd moments to the reading of books and now some tale he had read concerning life in old world towns of the middle ages came sharply back to his mind so that he stumbled forward with the curious feeling of one revisiting a place that had been a part of some former existence. On an impulse he turned out of the street and went into a little dark alleyway behind the sheds in which lived the cows and pigs. For a half hour he stayed in the alleyway, smelling the strong smell of animals too closely housed and letting his mind play with the strange new thoughts that came to him. The very rankness of the smell of manure in the clear sweet air awoke something heady in his brain. The poor little houses lighted by kerosene lamps, the smoke from the chimneys mounting straight up into the clear air, the grunting of pigs, the women clad in cheap calico dresses and washing dishes in the kitchens, the footsteps of men coming out of the houses and going off to the stores and saloons of Main Street, the dogs barking and the children crying--all of these things made him seem, as he lurked in the darkness, oddly detached and apart from all life. The excited young man, unable to bear the weight of his own thoughts, began to move cautiously along the alleyway. A dog attacked him and had to be driven away with stones, and a man appeared at the door of one of the houses and swore at the dog. George went into a vacant lot and throwing back his head looked up at the sky. He felt unutterably big and remade by the simple experience through which he had been passing and in a kind of fervor of emotion put up his hands, thrusting them into the darkness above his head and muttering words. The desire to say words overcame him and he said words without meaning, rolling them over on his tongue and saying them because they were brave words, full of meaning. "Death," he muttered, "night, the sea, fear, loveliness." George Willard came out of the vacant lot and stood again on the sidewalk facing the houses. He felt that all of the people in the little street must be brothers and sisters to him and he wished he had the courage to call them out of their houses and to shake their hands. "If there were only a woman here I would take hold of her hand and we would run until we were both tired out," he thought. "That would make me feel better." With the thought of a woman in his mind he walked out of the street and went toward the house where Belle Carpenter lived. He thought she would understand his mood and that he could achieve in her presence a position he had long been wanting to achieve. In the past when he had been with her and had kissed her lips he had come away filled with anger at himself. He had felt like one being used for some obscure purpose and had not enjoyed the feeling. Now he thought he had suddenly become too big to be used. When George got to Belle Carpenter's house there had already been a visitor there before him. Ed Handby had come to the door and calling Belle out of the house had tried to talk to her. He had wanted to ask the woman to come away with him and to be his wife, but when she came and stood by the door he lost his self-assurance and became sullen. "You stay away from that kid," he growled, thinking of George Willard, and then, not knowing what else to say, turned to go away. "If I catch you together I will break your bones and his too," he added. The bartender had come to woo, not to threaten, and was angry with himself because of his failure. When her lover had departed Belle went indoors and ran hurriedly upstairs. From a window at the upper part of the house she saw Ed Handby cross the street and sit down on a horse block before the house of a neighbor. In the dim light the man sat motionless holding his head in his hands. She was made happy by the sight, and when George Willard came to the door she greeted him effusively and hurriedly put on her hat. She thought that, as she walked through the streets with young Willard, Ed Handby would follow and she wanted to make him suffer. For an hour Belle Carpenter and the young reporter walked about under the trees in the sweet night air. George Willard was full of big words. The sense of power that had come to him during the hour in the darkness in the alleyway remained with him and he talked boldly, swaggering along and swinging his arms about. He wanted to make Belle Carpenter realize that he was aware of his former weakness and that he had changed. "You'll find me different," he declared, thrusting his hands into his pockets and looking boldly into her eyes. "I don't know why but it is so. You've got to take me for a man or let me alone. That's how it is." Up and down the quiet streets under the new moon went the woman and the boy. When George had finished talking they turned down a side street and went across a bridge into a path that ran up the side of a hill. The hill began at Waterworks Pond and climbed upward to the Winesburg Fair Grounds. On the hillside grew dense bushes and small trees and among the bushes were little open spaces carpeted with long grass, now stiff and frozen. As he walked behind the woman up the hill George Willard's heart began to beat rapidly and his shoulders straightened. Suddenly he decided that Belle Carpenter was about to surrender herself to him. The new force that had manifested itself in him had, he felt, been at work upon her and had led to her conquest. The thought made him half drunk with the sense of masculine power. Although he had been annoyed that as they walked about she had not seemed to be listening to his words, the fact that she had accompanied him to this place took all his doubts away. "It is different. Everything has become different," he thought and taking hold of her shoulder turned her about and stood looking at her, his eyes shining with pride. Belle Carpenter did not resist. When he kissed her upon the lips she leaned heavily against him and looked over his shoulder into the darkness. In her whole attitude there was a suggestion of waiting. Again, as in the alleyway, George Willard's mind ran off into words and, holding the woman tightly he whispered the words into the still night. "Lust," he whispered, "lust and night and women." George Willard did not understand what happened to him that night on the hillside. Later, when he got to his own room, he wanted to weep and then grew half insane with anger and hate. He hated Belle Carpenter and was sure that all his life he would continue to hate her. On the hillside he had led the woman to one of the little open spaces among the bushes and had dropped to his knees beside her. As in the vacant lot, by the laborers' houses, he had put up his hands in gratitude for the new power in himself and was waiting for the woman to speak when Ed Handby appeared. The bartender did not want to beat the boy, who he thought had tried to take his woman away. He knew that beating was unnecessary, that he had power within himself to accomplish his purpose without using his fists. Gripping George by the shoulder and pulling him to his feet, he held him with one hand while he looked at Belle Carpenter seated on the grass. Then with a quick wide movement of his arm he sent the younger man sprawling away into the bushes and began to bully the woman, who had risen to her feet. "You're no good," he said roughly. "I've half a mind not to bother with you. I'd let you alone if I didn't want you so much." On his hands and knees in the bushes George Willard stared at the scene before him and tried hard to think. He prepared to spring at the man who had humiliated him. To be beaten seemed to be infinitely better than to be thus hurled ignominiously aside. Three times the young reporter sprang at Ed Handby and each time the bartender, catching him by the shoulder, hurled him back into the bushes. The older man seemed prepared to keep the exercise going indefinitely but George Willard's head struck the root of a tree and he lay still. Then Ed Handby took Belle Carpenter by the arm and marched her away. George heard the man and woman making their way through the bushes. As he crept down the hillside his heart was sick within him. He hated himself and he hated the fate that had brought about his humiliation. When his mind went back to the hour alone in the alleyway he was puzzled and stopping in the darkness listened, hoping to hear again the voice outside himself that had so short a time before put new courage into his heart. When his way homeward led him again into the street of frame houses he could not bear the sight and began to run, wanting to get quickly out of the neighborhood that now seemed to him utterly squalid and commonplace. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

Belle Carpenter, die Tochter von Henry Carpenter, arbeitete in einem Hutladen. Ihr Vater ist ein Tyrann und Kleinkariertworter. Als kleines Mädchen hatte sie Angst vor ihm, aber jetzt hat er keine Macht mehr über sie. Sie lacht über seine Kleinlichkeit und vereitelt seine Versuche nach Regelmäßigkeit und Routine. Belle geht gelegentlich mit George aus, aber insgeheim ist sie in Ed Handby, einen Barkeeper, verliebt. Ed liebt sie auch, kann es jedoch nicht in seiner brutalen Art und Weise ausdrücken. Wenn er bei ihr ist, übermannen ihn seine körperlichen Sehnsüchte und er findet nicht die richtigen Worte, um seine wahren Emotionen auszudrücken. Eines Tages, nachdem er einen Abend voller Gespräche und Reden im Billardzimmer mit seinen Freunden verbracht hat, geht George erfüllt von Ideen und Gedanken hinaus. Er fängt sogar an, sie laut auszusprechen und ist von seinen eigenen Worten wie hypnotisiert. Als er bei Belles Haus ankommt, ist es dunkel. Er fragt sie, ob sie ausgehen möchte, ohne zu wissen, dass Ed zuvor gekommen war und erneut daran gescheitert war, ihr einen Antrag zu machen. Er hatte sie nur mürrisch vor George gewarnt. Also geht Belle gezielt mit George mit, in der Hoffnung, dass Ed es sehen und leiden wird. In der Dunkelheit des Waldes nimmt George sie in den Arm, aber er hat das Gefühl, dass sie auf jemand anderen wartet. Dieses Gefühl hatte er bereits zuvor. An diesem Punkt kommt Ed zur Szene, schmeißt George brutal beiseite und führt Belle fort. George ist gedemütigt und hasst sich selbst. Seine Umgebung wirkt ihm selbst alltäglich und schäbig und er hat das Gefühl, davonlaufen zu wollen.

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.

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: Frank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his father's dinner waiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston was too anxious for his being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any imperfection which could be concealed. He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with a very good grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had done. He had no reason to wish his hair longer, to conceal any confusion of face; no reason to wish the money unspent, to improve his spirits. He was quite as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after seeing him, Emma thus moralised to herself:-- "I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way. Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly.--It depends upon the character of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is _not_ a trifling, silly young man. If he were, he would have done this differently. He would either have gloried in the achievement, or been ashamed of it. There would have been either the ostentation of a coxcomb, or the evasions of a mind too weak to defend its own vanities.--No, I am perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly." With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him again, and for a longer time than hitherto; of judging of his general manners, and by inference, of the meaning of his manners towards herself; of guessing how soon it might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air; and of fancying what the observations of all those might be, who were now seeing them together for the first time. She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr. Cole's; and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr. Elton, even in the days of his favour, none had disturbed her more than his propensity to dine with Mr. Cole. Her father's comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as well as Mrs. Goddard being able to come; and her last pleasing duty, before she left the house, was to pay her respects to them as they sat together after dinner; and while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her dress, to make the two ladies all the amends in her power, by helping them to large slices of cake and full glasses of wine, for whatever unwilling self-denial his care of their constitution might have obliged them to practise during the meal.--She had provided a plentiful dinner for them; she wished she could know that they had been allowed to eat it. She followed another carriage to Mr. Cole's door; and was pleased to see that it was Mr. Knightley's; for Mr. Knightley keeping no horses, having little spare money and a great deal of health, activity, and independence, was too apt, in Emma's opinion, to get about as he could, and not use his carriage so often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey. She had an opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm from her heart, for he stopped to hand her out. "This is coming as you should do," said she; "like a gentleman.--I am quite glad to see you." He thanked her, observing, "How lucky that we should arrive at the same moment! for, if we had met first in the drawing-room, I doubt whether you would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual.--You might not have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner." "Yes I should, I am sure I should. There is always a look of consciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be beneath them. You think you carry it off very well, I dare say, but with you it is a sort of bravado, an air of affected unconcern; I always observe it whenever I meet you under those circumstances. _Now_ you have nothing to try for. You are not afraid of being supposed ashamed. You are not striving to look taller than any body else. _Now_ I shall really be very happy to walk into the same room with you." "Nonsensical girl!" was his reply, but not at all in anger. Emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as with Mr. Knightley. She was received with a cordial respect which could not but please, and given all the consequence she could wish for. When the Westons arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of admiration were for her, from both husband and wife; the son approached her with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar object, and at dinner she found him seated by her--and, as she firmly believed, not without some dexterity on his side. The party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper unobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of naming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox's family, the lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the evening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but already, at dinner, they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be general; and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma could fairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her neighbour. The first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to attend, was the name of Jane Fairfax. Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating something of her that was expected to be very interesting. She listened, and found it well worth listening to. That very dear part of Emma, her fancy, received an amusing supply. Mrs. Cole was telling that she had been calling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she entered the room had been struck by the sight of a pianoforte--a very elegant looking instrument--not a grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte; and the substance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which ensued of surprize, and inquiry, and congratulations on her side, and explanations on Miss Bates's, was, that this pianoforte had arrived from Broadwood's the day before, to the great astonishment of both aunt and niece--entirely unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates's account, Jane herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could possibly have ordered it--but now, they were both perfectly satisfied that it could be from only one quarter;--of course it must be from Colonel Campbell. "One can suppose nothing else," added Mrs. Cole, "and I was only surprized that there could ever have been a doubt. But Jane, it seems, had a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it. She knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as any reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse to surprize her." Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell, and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still listen to Mrs. Cole. "I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me more satisfaction!--It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the drawing-room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.--I was saying this to Mr. Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that really is the reason why the instrument was bought--or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of it.--We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening." Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's, turned to Frank Churchill. "Why do you smile?" said she. "Nay, why do you?" "Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich and so liberal.--It is a handsome present." "Very." "I rather wonder that it was never made before." "Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before." "Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body." "That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs. Bates's house." "You may _say_ what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your _thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine." "I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?" "What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?" "Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be; and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young woman's scheme than an elderly man's. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I told you that your suspicions would guide mine." "If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in them." "Mr. Dixon.--Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance." "Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had entertained before.--I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions of either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune to fall in love with _her_, or that he became conscious of a little attachment on her side. One might guess twenty things without guessing exactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular cause for her chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland. Here, she must be leading a life of privation and penance; there it would have been all enjoyment. As to the pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse.--In the summer it might have passed; but what can any body's native air do for them in the months of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I dare say in her's. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions, though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell you what they are." "And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr. Dixon's preference of her music to her friend's, I can answer for being very decided." "And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?--A water party; and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her." "He did. I was there--one of the party." "Were you really?--Well!--But you observed nothing of course, for it seems to be a new idea to you.--If I had been there, I think I should have made some discoveries." "I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact, that Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon caught her.--It was the work of a moment. And though the consequent shock and alarm was very great and much more durable--indeed I believe it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable again--yet that was too general a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be observable. I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have made discoveries." The conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share in the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and obliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when the table was again safely covered, when every corner dish was placed exactly right, and occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma said, "The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I wanted to know a little more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it, we shall soon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon." "And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we must conclude it to come from the Campbells." "No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax knows it is not from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first. She would not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not have convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr. Dixon is a principal in the business." "Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your reasonings carry my judgment along with them entirely. At first, while I supposed you satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as paternal kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the world. But when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more probable that it should be the tribute of warm female friendship. And now I can see it in no other light than as an offering of love." There was no occasion to press the matter farther. The conviction seemed real; he looked as if he felt it. She said no more, other subjects took their turn; and the rest of the dinner passed away; the dessert succeeded, the children came in, and were talked to and admired amid the usual rate of conversation; a few clever things said, a few downright silly, but by much the larger proportion neither the one nor the other--nothing worse than everyday remarks, dull repetitions, old news, and heavy jokes. The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before the other ladies, in their different divisions, arrived. Emma watched the entree of her own particular little friend; and if she could not exult in her dignity and grace, she could not only love the blooming sweetness and the artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that light, cheerful, unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many alleviations of pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed affection. There she sat--and who would have guessed how many tears she had been lately shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed herself and seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and say nothing, was enough for the happiness of the present hour. Jane Fairfax did look and move superior; but Emma suspected she might have been glad to change feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the mortification of having loved--yes, of having loved even Mr. Elton in vain--by the surrender of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing herself beloved by the husband of her friend. In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach her. She did not wish to speak of the pianoforte, she felt too much in the secret herself, to think the appearance of curiosity or interest fair, and therefore purposely kept at a distance; but by the others, the subject was almost immediately introduced, and she saw the blush of consciousness with which congratulations were received, the blush of guilt which accompanied the name of "my excellent friend Colonel Campbell." Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested by the circumstance, and Emma could not help being amused at her perseverance in dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask and to say as to tone, touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious of that wish of saying as little about it as possible, which she plainly read in the fair heroine's countenance. They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the very first of the early was Frank Churchill. In he walked, the first and the handsomest; and after paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates and her niece, made his way directly to the opposite side of the circle, where sat Miss Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her, would not sit at all. Emma divined what every body present must be thinking. She was his object, and every body must perceive it. She introduced him to her friend, Miss Smith, and, at convenient moments afterwards, heard what each thought of the other. "He had never seen so lovely a face, and was delighted with her naivete." And she, "Only to be sure it was paying him too great a compliment, but she did think there were some looks a little like Mr. Elton." Emma restrained her indignation, and only turned from her in silence. Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first glancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most prudent to avoid speech. He told her that he had been impatient to leave the dining-room--hated sitting long--was always the first to move when he could--that his father, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were left very busy over parish business--that as long as he had staid, however, it had been pleasant enough, as he had found them in general a set of gentlemanlike, sensible men; and spoke so handsomely of Highbury altogether--thought it so abundant in agreeable families--that Emma began to feel she had been used to despise the place rather too much. She questioned him as to the society in Yorkshire--the extent of the neighbourhood about Enscombe, and the sort; and could make out from his answers that, as far as Enscombe was concerned, there was very little going on, that their visitings were among a range of great families, none very near; and that even when days were fixed, and invitations accepted, it was an even chance that Mrs. Churchill were not in health and spirits for going; that they made a point of visiting no fresh person; and that, though he had his separate engagements, it was not without difficulty, without considerable address _at_ _times_, that he could get away, or introduce an acquaintance for a night. She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury, taken at its best, might reasonably please a young man who had more retirement at home than he liked. His importance at Enscombe was very evident. He did not boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had persuaded his aunt where his uncle could do nothing, and on her laughing and noticing it, he owned that he believed (excepting one or two points) he could _with_ _time_ persuade her to any thing. One of those points on which his influence failed, he then mentioned. He had wanted very much to go abroad--had been very eager indeed to be allowed to travel--but she would not hear of it. This had happened the year before. _Now_, he said, he was beginning to have no longer the same wish. The unpersuadable point, which he did not mention, Emma guessed to be good behaviour to his father. "I have made a most wretched discovery," said he, after a short pause.-- "I have been here a week to-morrow--half my time. I never knew days fly so fast. A week to-morrow!--And I have hardly begun to enjoy myself. But just got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others!--I hate the recollection." "Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day, out of so few, in having your hair cut." "No," said he, smiling, "that is no subject of regret at all. I have no pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe myself fit to be seen." The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma found herself obliged to turn from him for a few minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole. When Mr. Cole had moved away, and her attention could be restored as before, she saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the room at Miss Fairfax, who was sitting exactly opposite. "What is the matter?" said she. He started. "Thank you for rousing me," he replied. "I believe I have been very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done her hair in so odd a way--so very odd a way--that I cannot keep my eyes from her. I never saw any thing so outree!--Those curls!--This must be a fancy of her own. I see nobody else looking like her!--I must go and ask her whether it is an Irish fashion. Shall I?--Yes, I will--I declare I will--and you shall see how she takes it;--whether she colours." He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before Miss Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady, as he had improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly in front of Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing. Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. Weston. "This is the luxury of a large party," said she:--"one can get near every body, and say every thing. My dear Emma, I am longing to talk to you. I have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like yourself, and I must tell them while the idea is fresh. Do you know how Miss Bates and her niece came here?" "How?--They were invited, were not they?" "Oh! yes--but how they were conveyed hither?--the manner of their coming?" "They walked, I conclude. How else could they come?" "Very true.--Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad it would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again, late at night, and cold as the nights are now. And as I looked at her, though I never saw her appear to more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and would therefore be particularly liable to take cold. Poor girl! I could not bear the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room, and I could get at him, I spoke to him about the carriage. You may guess how readily he came into my wishes; and having his approbation, I made my way directly to Miss Bates, to assure her that the carriage would be at her service before it took us home; for I thought it would be making her comfortable at once. Good soul! she was as grateful as possible, you may be sure. 'Nobody was ever so fortunate as herself!'--but with many, many thanks--'there was no occasion to trouble us, for Mr. Knightley's carriage had brought, and was to take them home again.' I was quite surprized;--very glad, I am sure; but really quite surprized. Such a very kind attention--and so thoughtful an attention!--the sort of thing that so few men would think of. And, in short, from knowing his usual ways, I am very much inclined to think that it was for their accommodation the carriage was used at all. I do suspect he would not have had a pair of horses for himself, and that it was only as an excuse for assisting them." "Very likely," said Emma--"nothing more likely. I know no man more likely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of thing--to do any thing really good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent. He is not a gallant man, but he is a very humane one; and this, considering Jane Fairfax's ill-health, would appear a case of humanity to him;--and for an act of unostentatious kindness, there is nobody whom I would fix on more than on Mr. Knightley. I know he had horses to-day--for we arrived together; and I laughed at him about it, but he said not a word that could betray." "Well," said Mrs. Weston, smiling, "you give him credit for more simple, disinterested benevolence in this instance than I do; for while Miss Bates was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head, and I have never been able to get it out again. The more I think of it, the more probable it appears. In short, I have made a match between Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax. See the consequence of keeping you company!--What do you say to it?" "Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!" exclaimed Emma. "Dear Mrs. Weston, how could you think of such a thing?--Mr. Knightley!--Mr. Knightley must not marry!--You would not have little Henry cut out from Donwell?--Oh! no, no, Henry must have Donwell. I cannot at all consent to Mr. Knightley's marrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely. I am amazed that you should think of such a thing." "My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of it. I do not want the match--I do not want to injure dear little Henry--but the idea has been given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished to marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry's account, a boy of six years old, who knows nothing of the matter?" "Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry supplanted.--Mr. Knightley marry!--No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt it now. And Jane Fairfax, too, of all women!" "Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you very well know." "But the imprudence of such a match!" "I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probability." "I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation than what you mention. His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you, would be quite enough to account for the horses. He has a great regard for the Bateses, you know, independent of Jane Fairfax--and is always glad to shew them attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to match-making. You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of the Abbey!--Oh! no, no;--every feeling revolts. For his own sake, I would not have him do so mad a thing." "Imprudent, if you please--but not mad. Excepting inequality of fortune, and perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing unsuitable." "But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure he has not the least idea of it. Do not put it into his head. Why should he marry?--He is as happy as possible by himself; with his farm, and his sheep, and his library, and all the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of his brother's children. He has no occasion to marry, either to fill up his time or his heart." "My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he really loves Jane Fairfax--" "Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the way of love, I am sure he does not. He would do any good to her, or her family; but--" "Well," said Mrs. Weston, laughing, "perhaps the greatest good he could do them, would be to give Jane such a respectable home." "If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil to himself; a very shameful and degrading connexion. How would he bear to have Miss Bates belonging to him?--To have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking him all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?--'So very kind and obliging!--But he always had been such a very kind neighbour!' And then fly off, through half a sentence, to her mother's old petticoat. 'Not that it was such a very old petticoat either--for still it would last a great while--and, indeed, she must thankfully say that their petticoats were all very strong.'" "For shame, Emma! Do not mimic her. You divert me against my conscience. And, upon my word, I do not think Mr. Knightley would be much disturbed by Miss Bates. Little things do not irritate him. She might talk on; and if he wanted to say any thing himself, he would only talk louder, and drown her voice. But the question is not, whether it would be a bad connexion for him, but whether he wishes it; and I think he does. I have heard him speak, and so must you, so very highly of Jane Fairfax! The interest he takes in her--his anxiety about her health--his concern that she should have no happier prospect! I have heard him express himself so warmly on those points!--Such an admirer of her performance on the pianoforte, and of her voice! I have heard him say that he could listen to her for ever. Oh! and I had almost forgotten one idea that occurred to me--this pianoforte that has been sent here by somebody--though we have all been so well satisfied to consider it a present from the Campbells, may it not be from Mr. Knightley? I cannot help suspecting him. I think he is just the person to do it, even without being in love." "Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love. But I do not think it is at all a likely thing for him to do. Mr. Knightley does nothing mysteriously." "I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly; oftener than I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common course of things, occur to him." "Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told her so." "There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I have a very strong notion that it comes from him. I am sure he was particularly silent when Mrs. Cole told us of it at dinner." "You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; as you have many a time reproached me with doing. I see no sign of attachment--I believe nothing of the pianoforte--and proof only shall convince me that Mr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax." They combated the point some time longer in the same way; Emma rather gaining ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was the most used of the two to yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed them that tea was over, and the instrument in preparation;--and at the same moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do them the honour of trying it. Frank Churchill, of whom, in the eagerness of her conversation with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing nothing, except that he had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr. Cole, to add his very pressing entreaties; and as, in every respect, it suited Emma best to lead, she gave a very proper compliance. She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more than she could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste nor spirit in the little things which are generally acceptable, and could accompany her own voice well. One accompaniment to her song took her agreeably by surprize--a second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank Churchill. Her pardon was duly begged at the close of the song, and every thing usual followed. He was accused of having a delightful voice, and a perfect knowledge of music; which was properly denied; and that he knew nothing of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly asserted. They sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her own. With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the numbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again. They had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half Emma's mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of Mrs. Weston's suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices gave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley's marrying did not in the least subside. She could see nothing but evil in it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley; consequently to Isabella. A real injury to the children--a most mortifying change, and material loss to them all;--a very great deduction from her father's daily comfort--and, as to herself, she could not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs. Knightley for them all to give way to!--No--Mr. Knightley must never marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell. Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own. "I often feel concern," said she, "that I dare not make our carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to for such a purpose." "Quite out of the question, quite out of the question," he replied;--"but you must often wish it, I am sure." And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step. "This present from the Campbells," said she--"this pianoforte is very kindly given." "Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell." From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual preference--remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's second song, her voice grew thick. "That will do," said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud--"you have sung quite enough for one evening--now be quiet." Another song, however, was soon begged for. "One more;--they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more." And Frank Churchill was heard to say, "I think you could manage this without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the song falls on the second." Mr. Knightley grew angry. "That fellow," said he, indignantly, "thinks of nothing but shewing off his own voice. This must not be." And touching Miss Bates, who at that moment passed near--"Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on her." Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther singing. Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but soon (within five minutes) the proposal of dancing--originating nobody exactly knew where--was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every thing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston, capital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top. While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off, Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley. This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur something. There was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs. Cole--he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole. Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than five couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a partner. They were a couple worth looking at. Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. It was growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her mother's account. After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin again, they were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and have done. "Perhaps it is as well," said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma to her carriage. "I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing would not have agreed with me, after yours." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Frank Churchill kehrt aus London zurück, ohne sich für das, was er getan hat, zu schämen. Auf der Party der Coles erzählt Frau Cole, wie Jane Fairfax ein neues Klavier von einer unbekannten Quelle erhalten hat. Frank Churchill amüsiert sich offensichtlich über die Geschichte, und Emma erzählt ihm ihre Vermutung, dass es ein Geschenk von Mrs. Dixon ist. Er schlägt Emma vor, dass sich Mr. Dixon in sie verliebt hat und deshalb beschlossen hat, nach Highbury zu kommen anstatt die Campbells nach Irland zu begleiten. Er erzählt auch, wie Mr. Dixon Jane Fairfax das Leben gerettet hat, als sie bei einer Bootsparty beinahe über Bord gefallen ist. Nebenbei bemerkt Frank, dass Mr. Knightley wahrscheinlich eine Kutsche zur Beförderung von Jane Fairfax und Miss Bates zu der Party zur Verfügung gestellt hat. Emma fragt sich, ob dies auf Mr. Knightleys Vorliebe für Jane hinweist, und wird unglücklich, wenn sie darüber nachdenkt, dass er sie vielleicht heiraten könnte. Sie spricht mit Mr. Knightley, um ihre Ängste zu besänftigen, und er verunglimpft Frank Churchill dafür, seine eigene Stimme zur Schau zu stellen, indem er auf der Party singt.

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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. Chapter: Summer drew to an end, and early autumn: it was past Michaelmas, but the harvest was late that year, and a few of our fields were still uncleared. Mr. Linton and his daughter would frequently walk out among the reapers; at the carrying of the last sheaves they stayed till dusk, and the evening happening to be chill and damp, my master caught a bad cold, that settled obstinately on his lungs, and confined him indoors throughout the whole of the winter, nearly without intermission. Poor Cathy, frightened from her little romance, had been considerably sadder and duller since its abandonment; and her father insisted on her reading less, and taking more exercise. She had his companionship no longer; I esteemed it a duty to supply its lack, as much as possible, with mine: an inefficient substitute; for I could only spare two or three hours, from my numerous diurnal occupations, to follow her footsteps, and then my society was obviously less desirable than his. On an afternoon in October, or the beginning of November--a fresh watery afternoon, when the turf and paths were rustling with moist, withered leaves, and the cold blue sky was half hidden by clouds--dark grey streamers, rapidly mounting from the west, and boding abundant rain--I requested my young lady to forego her ramble, because I was certain of showers. She refused; and I unwillingly donned a cloak, and took my umbrella to accompany her on a stroll to the bottom of the park: a formal walk which she generally affected if low-spirited--and that she invariably was when Mr. Edgar had been worse than ordinary, a thing never known from his confession, but guessed both by her and me from his increased silence and the melancholy of his countenance. She went sadly on: there was no running or bounding now, though the chill wind might well have tempted her to race. And often, from the side of my eye, I could detect her raising a hand, and brushing something off her cheek. I gazed round for a means of diverting her thoughts. On one side of the road rose a high, rough bank, where hazels and stunted oaks, with their roots half exposed, held uncertain tenure: the soil was too loose for the latter; and strong winds had blown some nearly horizontal. In summer Miss Catherine delighted to climb along these trunks, and sit in the branches, swinging twenty feet above the ground; and I, pleased with her agility and her light, childish heart, still considered it proper to scold every time I caught her at such an elevation, but so that she knew there was no necessity for descending. From dinner to tea she would lie in her breeze-rocked cradle, doing nothing except singing old songs--my nursery lore--to herself, or watching the birds, joint tenants, feed and entice their young ones to fly: or nestling with closed lids, half thinking, half dreaming, happier than words can express. 'Look, Miss!' I exclaimed, pointing to a nook under the roots of one twisted tree. 'Winter is not here yet. There's a little flower up yonder, the last bud from the multitude of bluebells that clouded those turf steps in July with a lilac mist. Will you clamber up, and pluck it to show to papa?' Cathy stared a long time at the lonely blossom trembling in its earthy shelter, and replied, at length--'No, I'll not touch it: but it looks melancholy, does it not, Ellen?' 'Yes,' I observed, 'about as starved and suckless as you: your cheeks are bloodless; let us take hold of hands and run. You're so low, I daresay I shall keep up with you.' 'No,' she repeated, and continued sauntering on, pausing at intervals to muse over a bit of moss, or a tuft of blanched grass, or a fungus spreading its bright orange among the heaps of brown foliage; and, ever and anon, her hand was lifted to her averted face. 'Catherine, why are you crying, love?' I asked, approaching and putting my arm over her shoulder. 'You mustn't cry because papa has a cold; be thankful it is nothing worse.' She now put no further restraint on her tears; her breath was stifled by sobs. 'Oh, it will be something worse,' she said. 'And what shall I do when papa and you leave me, and I am by myself? I can't forget your words, Ellen; they are always in my ear. How life will be changed, how dreary the world will be, when papa and you are dead.' 'None can tell whether you won't die before us,' I replied. 'It's wrong to anticipate evil. We'll hope there are years and years to come before any of us go: master is young, and I am strong, and hardly forty-five. My mother lived till eighty, a canty dame to the last. And suppose Mr. Linton were spared till he saw sixty, that would be more years than you have counted, Miss. And would it not be foolish to mourn a calamity above twenty years beforehand?' 'But Aunt Isabella was younger than papa,' she remarked, gazing up with timid hope to seek further consolation. 'Aunt Isabella had not you and me to nurse her,' I replied. 'She wasn't as happy as Master: she hadn't as much to live for. All you need do, is to wait well on your father, and cheer him by letting him see you cheerful; and avoid giving him anxiety on any subject: mind that, Cathy! I'll not disguise but you might kill him if you were wild and reckless, and cherished a foolish, fanciful affection for the son of a person who would be glad to have him in his grave; and allowed him to discover that you fretted over the separation he has judged it expedient to make.' 'I fret about nothing on earth except papa's illness,' answered my companion. 'I care for nothing in comparison with papa. And I'll never--never--oh, never, while I have my senses, do an act or say a word to vex him. I love him better than myself, Ellen; and I know it by this: I pray every night that I may live after him; because I would rather be miserable than that he should be: that proves I love him better than myself.' 'Good words,' I replied. 'But deeds must prove it also; and after he is well, remember you don't forget resolutions formed in the hour of fear.' As we talked, we neared a door that opened on the road; and my young lady, lightening into sunshine again, climbed up and seated herself on the top of the wall, reaching over to gather some hips that bloomed scarlet on the summit branches of the wild-rose trees shadowing the highway side: the lower fruit had disappeared, but only birds could touch the upper, except from Cathy's present station. In stretching to pull them, her hat fell off; and as the door was locked, she proposed scrambling down to recover it. I bid her be cautious lest she got a fall, and she nimbly disappeared. But the return was no such easy matter: the stones were smooth and neatly cemented, and the rose-bushes and black-berry stragglers could yield no assistance in re-ascending. I, like a fool, didn't recollect that, till I heard her laughing and exclaiming--'Ellen! you'll have to fetch the key, or else I must run round to the porter's lodge. I can't scale the ramparts on this side!' 'Stay where you are,' I answered; 'I have my bundle of keys in my pocket: perhaps I may manage to open it; if not, I'll go.' Catherine amused herself with dancing to and fro before the door, while I tried all the large keys in succession. I had applied the last, and found that none would do; so, repeating my desire that she would remain there, I was about to hurry home as fast as I could, when an approaching sound arrested me. It was the trot of a horse; Cathy's dance stopped also. 'Who is that?' I whispered. 'Ellen, I wish you could open the door,' whispered back my companion, anxiously. 'Ho, Miss Linton!' cried a deep voice (the rider's), 'I'm glad to meet you. Don't be in haste to enter, for I have an explanation to ask and obtain.' 'I sha'n't speak to you, Mr. Heathcliff,' answered Catherine. 'Papa says you are a wicked man, and you hate both him and me; and Ellen says the same.' 'That is nothing to the purpose,' said Heathcliff. (He it was.) 'I don't hate my son, I suppose; and it is concerning him that I demand your attention. Yes; you have cause to blush. Two or three months since, were you not in the habit of writing to Linton? making love in play, eh? You deserved, both of you, flogging for that! You especially, the elder; and less sensitive, as it turns out. I've got your letters, and if you give me any pertness I'll send them to your father. I presume you grew weary of the amusement and dropped it, didn't you? Well, you dropped Linton with it into a Slough of Despond. He was in earnest: in love, really. As true as I live, he's dying for you; breaking his heart at your fickleness: not figuratively, but actually. Though Hareton has made him a standing jest for six weeks, and I have used more serious measures, and attempted to frighten him out of his idiotcy, he gets worse daily; and he'll be under the sod before summer, unless you restore him!' 'How can you lie so glaringly to the poor child?' I called from the inside. 'Pray ride on! How can you deliberately get up such paltry falsehoods? Miss Cathy, I'll knock the lock off with a stone: you won't believe that vile nonsense. You can feel in yourself it is impossible that a person should die for love of a stranger.' 'I was not aware there were eavesdroppers,' muttered the detected villain. 'Worthy Mrs. Dean, I like you, but I don't like your double-dealing,' he added aloud. 'How could _you_ lie so glaringly as to affirm I hated the "poor child"? and invent bugbear stories to terrify her from my door-stones? Catherine Linton (the very name warms me), my bonny lass, I shall be from home all this week; go and see if have not spoken truth: do, there's a darling! Just imagine your father in my place, and Linton in yours; then think how you would value your careless lover if he refused to stir a step to comfort you, when your father himself entreated him; and don't, from pure stupidity, fall into the same error. I swear, on my salvation, he's going to his grave, and none but you can save him!' The lock gave way and I issued out. 'I swear Linton is dying,' repeated Heathcliff, looking hard at me. 'And grief and disappointment are hastening his death. Nelly, if you won't let her go, you can walk over yourself. But I shall not return till this time next week; and I think your master himself would scarcely object to her visiting her cousin.' 'Come in,' said I, taking Cathy by the arm and half forcing her to re-enter; for she lingered, viewing with troubled eyes the features of the speaker, too stern to express his inward deceit. He pushed his horse close, and, bending down, observed--'Miss Catherine, I'll own to you that I have little patience with Linton; and Hareton and Joseph have less. I'll own that he's with a harsh set. He pines for kindness, as well as love; and a kind word from you would be his best medicine. Don't mind Mrs. Dean's cruel cautions; but be generous, and contrive to see him. He dreams of you day and night, and cannot be persuaded that you don't hate him, since you neither write nor call.' I closed the door, and rolled a stone to assist the loosened lock in holding it; and spreading my umbrella, I drew my charge underneath: for the rain began to drive through the moaning branches of the trees, and warned us to avoid delay. Our hurry prevented any comment on the encounter with Heathcliff, as we stretched towards home; but I divined instinctively that Catherine's heart was clouded now in double darkness. Her features were so sad, they did not seem hers: she evidently regarded what she had heard as every syllable true. The master had retired to rest before we came in. Cathy stole to his room to inquire how he was; he had fallen asleep. She returned, and asked me to sit with her in the library. We took our tea together; and afterwards she lay down on the rug, and told me not to talk, for she was weary. I got a book, and pretended to read. As soon as she supposed me absorbed in my occupation, she recommenced her silent weeping: it appeared, at present, her favourite diversion. I suffered her to enjoy it a while; then I expostulated: deriding and ridiculing all Mr. Heathcliff's assertions about his son, as if I were certain she would coincide. Alas! I hadn't skill to counteract the effect his account had produced: it was just what he intended. 'You may be right, Ellen,' she answered; 'but I shall never feel at ease till I know. And I must tell Linton it is not my fault that I don't write, and convince him that I shall not change.' What use were anger and protestations against her silly credulity? We parted that night--hostile; but next day beheld me on the road to Wuthering Heights, by the side of my wilful young mistress's pony. I couldn't bear to witness her sorrow: to see her pale, dejected countenance, and heavy eyes: and I yielded, in the faint hope that Linton himself might prove, by his reception of us, how little of the tale was founded on fact. Könnten Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Im Winter hat Cathy wenig Zeit, um an Linton zu denken, weil sie sich um ihren Vater kümmert, von dem sie denkt, dass er sterbenskrank ist. Eines Tages weht Cathys Hut über die Gartenmauer. Nelly hilft Cathy über die Mauer, um ihn zurückzuholen, doch Cathy kann auf der anderen Seite nicht alleine hochklettern. Während Nelly nach einem Schlüssel sucht, um das Tor zu öffnen, taucht Heathcliff auf. Er tadelte Cathy dafür, dass sie mehrere Monate lang Briefe an Linton geschrieben hat und dann plötzlich aufgehört hat. Er behauptet, sie spiele Spielchen mit Lintons Zuneigung und dass er nun sterbenskrank vor gebrochenem Herzen sei. Heathcliff erzählt Cathy, dass er eine Woche weg sein wird und ermutigt sie, ihren Cousin zu besuchen. Cathy fühlt sich extrem schuldig wegen dem, was Heathcliff ihr erzählt hat, also machen sie und Nelly sich am nächsten Morgen auf den Weg nach Wuthering Heights.

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.

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: Enter Queene and her Women as at worke. Queen. Take thy Lute wench, My Soule growes sad with troubles, Sing, and disperse 'em if thou canst: leaue working. SONG. Orpheus with his Lute made Trees, And the Mountaine tops that freeze, Bow themselues when he did sing. To his Musicke, Plants and Flowers Euer sprung; as Sunne and Showers, There had made a lasting Spring. Euery thing that heard him play, Euen the Billowes of the Sea, Hung their heads, & then lay by. In sweet Musicke is such Art, Killing care, & griefe of heart, Fall asleepe, or hearing dye. Enter a Gentleman. Queen. How now? Gent. And't please your Grace, the two great Cardinals Wait in the presence Queen. Would they speake with me? Gent. They wil'd me say so Madam Queen. Pray their Graces To come neere: what can be their busines With me, a poore weake woman, falne from fauour? I doe not like their comming; now I thinke on't, They should bee good men, their affaires as righteous: But all Hoods, make not Monkes. Enter the two Cardinalls, Wolsey & Campian. Wols. Peace to your Highnesse Queen. Your Graces find me heere part of a Houswife, (I would be all) against the worst may happen: What are your pleasures with me, reuerent Lords? Wol. May it please you Noble Madam, to withdraw Into your priuate Chamber; we shall giue you The full cause of our comming Queen. Speake it heere. There's nothing I haue done yet o' my Conscience Deserues a Corner: would all other Women Could speake this with as free a Soule as I doe. My Lords, I care not (so much I am happy Aboue a number) if my actions Were tri'de by eu'ry tongue, eu'ry eye saw 'em, Enuy and base opinion set against 'em, I know my life so euen. If your busines Seeke me out, and that way I am Wife in; Out with it boldly: Truth loues open dealing Card. Tanta est erga te mentis integritas Regina serenissima Queen. O good my Lord, no Latin; I am not such a Truant since my comming, As not to know the Language I haue liu'd in: A strange Tongue makes my cause more strange, suspitious: Pray speake in English; heere are some will thanke you, If you speake truth, for their poore Mistris sake; Beleeue me she ha's had much wrong. Lord Cardinall, The willing'st sinne I euer yet committed, May be absolu'd in English Card. Noble Lady, I am sorry my integrity should breed, (And seruice to his Maiesty and you) So deepe suspition, where all faith was meant; We come not by the way of Accusation, To taint that honour euery good Tongue blesses; Nor to betray you any way to sorrow; You haue too much good Lady: But to know How you stand minded in the waighty difference Betweene the King and you, and to deliuer (Like free and honest men) our iust opinions, And comforts to our cause Camp. Most honour'd Madam, My Lord of Yorke, out of his Noble nature, Zeale and obedience he still bore your Grace, Forgetting (like a good man) your late Censure Both of his truth and him (which was too farre) Offers, as I doe, in a signe of peace, His Seruice, and his Counsell Queen. To betray me. My Lords, I thanke you both for your good wills, Ye speake like honest men, (pray God ye proue so) But how to make ye sodainly an Answere In such a poynt of weight, so neere mine Honour, (More neere my Life I feare) with my weake wit; And to such men of grauity and learning; In truth I know not. I was set at worke, Among my Maids, full little (God knowes) looking Either for such men, or such businesse; For her sake that I haue beene, for I feele The last fit of my Greatnesse; good your Graces Let me haue time and Councell for my Cause: Alas, I am a Woman frendlesse, hopelesse Wol. Madam, You wrong the Kings loue with these feares, Your hopes and friends are infinite Queen. In England, But little for my profit can you thinke Lords, That any English man dare giue me Councell? Or be a knowne friend 'gainst his Highnes pleasure, (Though he be growne so desperate to be honest) And liue a Subiect? Nay forsooth, my Friends, They that must weigh out my afflictions, They that my trust must grow to, liue not heere, They are (as all my other comforts) far hence In mine owne Countrey Lords Camp. I would your Grace Would leaue your greefes, and take my Counsell Queen. How Sir? Camp. Put your maine cause into the Kings protection, Hee's louing and most gracious. 'Twill be much, Both for your Honour better, and your Cause: For if the tryall of the Law o'retake ye, You'l part away disgrac'd Wol. He tels you rightly Queen. Ye tell me what ye wish for both, my ruine: Is this your Christian Councell? Out vpon ye. Heauen is aboue all yet; there sits a Iudge, That no King can corrupt Camp. Your rage mistakes vs Queen. The more shame for ye; holy men I thought ye, Vpon my Soule two reuerend Cardinall Vertues: But Cardinall Sins, and hollow hearts I feare ye: Mend 'em for shame my Lords: Is this your comfort? The Cordiall that ye bring a wretched Lady? A woman lost among ye, laugh't at, scornd? I will not wish ye halfe my miseries, I haue more Charity. But say I warn'd ye; Take heed, for heauens sake take heed, least at once The burthen of my sorrowes, fall vpon ye Car. Madam, this is a meere distraction, You turne the good we offer, into enuy Quee. Ye turne me into nothing. Woe vpon ye, And all such false Professors. Would you haue me (If you haue any Iustice, any Pitty, If ye be any thing but Churchmens habits) Put my sicke cause into his hands, that hates me? Alas, ha's banish'd me his Bed already, His Loue, too long ago. I am old my Lords, And all the Fellowship I hold now with him Is onely my Obedience. What can happen To me, aboue this wretchednesse? All your Studies Make me a Curse, like this Camp. Your feares are worse Qu. Haue I liu'd thus long (let me speake my selfe, Since Vertue findes no friends) a Wife, a true one? A Woman (I dare say without Vainglory) Neuer yet branded with Suspition? Haue I, with all my full Affections Still met the King? Lou'd him next Heau'n? Obey'd him? Bin (out of fondnesse) superstitious to him? Almost forgot my Prayres to content him? And am I thus rewarded? 'Tis not well Lords. Bring me a constant woman to her Husband, One that ne're dream'd a Ioy, beyond his pleasure; And to that Woman (when she has done most) Yet will I adde an Honor; a great Patience Car. Madam, you wander from the good We ayme at Qu. My Lord, I dare not make my selfe so guiltie, To giue vp willingly that Noble Title Your Master wed me to: nothing but death Shall e're diuorce my Dignities Car. Pray heare me Qu. Would I had neuer trod this English Earth, Or felt the Flatteries that grow vpon it: Ye haue Angels Faces; but Heauen knowes your hearts. What will become of me now, wretched Lady? I am the most vnhappy Woman liuing. Alas (poore Wenches) where are now your Fortunes? Shipwrack'd vpon a Kingdome, where no Pitty, No Friends, no Hope, no Kindred weepe for me? Almost no Graue allow'd me? Like the Lilly That once was Mistris of the Field, and flourish'd, Ile hang my head, and perish Car. If your Grace Could but be brought to know, our Ends are honest, Youl'd feele more comfort. Why shold we (good Lady) Vpon what cause wrong you? Alas, our Places, The way of our Profession is against it; We are to Cure such sorrowes, not to sowe 'em. For Goodnesse sake, consider what you do, How you may hurt your selfe: I, vtterly Grow from the Kings Acquaintance, by this Carriage. The hearts of Princes kisse Obedience, So much they loue it. But to stubborne Spirits, They swell and grow, as terrible as stormes. I know you haue a Gentle, Noble temper, A Soule as euen as a Calme; Pray thinke vs, Those we professe, Peace-makers, Friends, and Seruants Camp. Madam, you'l finde it so: You wrong your Vertues With these weake Womens feares. A Noble Spirit As yours was, put into you, euer casts Such doubts as false Coine from it. The King loues you, Beware you loose it not: For vs (if you please To trust vs in your businesse) we are ready To vse our vtmost Studies, in your seruice Qu. Do what ye will, my Lords: And pray forgiue me; If I haue vs'd my selfe vnmannerly, You know I am a Woman, lacking wit To make a seemely answer to such persons. Pray do my seruice to his Maiestie, He ha's my heart yet, and shall haue my Prayers While I shall haue my life. Come reuerend Fathers, Bestow your Councels on me. She now begges That little thought when she set footing heere, She should haue bought her Dignities so deere. Exeunt. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Katherine ist in ihrem Zimmer und hört Musik, als Wolsey mit Campeius auftaucht und sie um ein privates Gespräch bittet. Nein danke, antwortet Katherine. Sie sagt, sie habe nichts zu verbergen, also ist sie bereit, dort vor ihren Dienern zu sprechen. Wolsey versichert Katherine, dass sie nur ihre Gedanken über ihre Trennung von Henry hören und ihr einige Ratschläge geben möchten. Katherine weiß es besser. Sie erzählt dem Publikum, dass die Kardinäle dort sind, um sie zu verraten, aber sie sagt ihnen, dass sie ihre Freundlichkeit ihr gegenüber schätzt. Katherine betrachtet sich selbst als "eine frau ohne Freunde", denn sobald der König sie loswird, will niemand etwas mit ihr zu tun haben. Wolsey und Campeius trösten sie: Das wird niemals passieren, behaupten sie. Der König wird sich um sie kümmern, auch nach der Scheidung. Katherine hat genug: Sie nennt Wolsey und Campeius Blender. Sie tun so, als ob sie sie trösten wollen, wenn sie in Wahrheit nur ihr Verderben wollen. Sie kann nicht glauben, dass sie Männer der Kirche sind - es ist schon schlimm genug, dass sie Heuchler sind, aber sie sollen Männer Gottes sein. Sie sollten sich schämen, wie korrupt sie sind. Brennen sollen sie. Campeius sagt Katherine, sie liege falsch. Wolsey behauptet, sie seien nur da, um zu helfen. Katherine spricht weiter gegen Wolsey und Campeius. Sie war ihrem Ehemann ehrenhaft und gehorsam und trotzdem haben diese Typen gegen sie geplant. Sie war eine gute Ehefrau, also was könnten sie noch von ihr verlangen? Schließlich tritt Wolsey ein und sagt Katherine, es sei am besten, wenn sie nicht versucht, die Scheidung zu bekämpfen; es wird für sie einfacher sein, wenn sie es einfach geschehen lässt. Campeius stimmt zu und er und Wolsey trösten Katherine erneut, indem sie sagen, dass der König sich auch nach der Trennung um sie kümmern wird. Katherine sieht nicht wirklich eine andere Option und sagt Wolsey und Campeius, sie sollen tun, was sie wollen. Dann sagt sie ihnen, dass sie ihre Absichten falsch verstanden hat, weil sie eine Frau ist und deshalb keinen Verstand oder keine Intelligenz hat. Katherine ist total sarkastisch, aber wir sind uns nicht sicher, ob Wolsey und Campeius das sehen.

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.

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 course of time Mr. Earnshaw began to fail. He had been active and healthy, yet his strength left him suddenly; and when he was confined to the chimney-corner he grew grievously irritable. A nothing vexed him; and suspected slights of his authority nearly threw him into fits. This was especially to be remarked if any one attempted to impose upon, or domineer over, his favourite: he was painfully jealous lest a word should be spoken amiss to him; seeming to have got into his head the notion that, because he liked Heathcliff, all hated, and longed to do him an ill-turn. It was a disadvantage to the lad; for the kinder among us did not wish to fret the master, so we humoured his partiality; and that humouring was rich nourishment to the child's pride and black tempers. Still it became in a manner necessary; twice, or thrice, Hindley's manifestation of scorn, while his father was near, roused the old man to a fury: he seized his stick to strike him, and shook with rage that he could not do it. At last, our curate (we had a curate then who made the living answer by teaching the little Lintons and Earnshaws, and farming his bit of land himself) advised that the young man should be sent to college; and Mr. Earnshaw agreed, though with a heavy spirit, for he said--'Hindley was nought, and would never thrive as where he wandered.' I hoped heartily we should have peace now. It hurt me to think the master should be made uncomfortable by his own good deed. I fancied the discontent of age and disease arose from his family disagreements; as he would have it that it did: really, you know, sir, it was in his sinking frame. We might have got on tolerably, notwithstanding, but for two people--Miss Cathy, and Joseph, the servant: you saw him, I daresay, up yonder. He was, and is yet most likely, the wearisomest self-righteous Pharisee that ever ransacked a Bible to rake the promises to himself and fling the curses to his neighbours. By his knack of sermonising and pious discoursing, he contrived to make a great impression on Mr. Earnshaw; and the more feeble the master became, the more influence he gained. He was relentless in worrying him about his soul's concerns, and about ruling his children rigidly. He encouraged him to regard Hindley as a reprobate; and, night after night, he regularly grumbled out a long string of tales against Heathcliff and Catherine: always minding to flatter Earnshaw's weakness by heaping the heaviest blame on the latter. Certainly she had ways with her such as I never saw a child take up before; and she put all of us past our patience fifty times and oftener in a day: from the hour she came down-stairs till the hour she went to bed, we had not a minute's security that she wouldn't be in mischief. Her spirits were always at high-water mark, her tongue always going--singing, laughing, and plaguing everybody who would not do the same. A wild, wicked slip she was--but she had the bonniest eye, the sweetest smile, and lightest foot in the parish: and, after all, I believe she meant no harm; for when once she made you cry in good earnest, it seldom happened that she would not keep you company, and oblige you to be quiet that you might comfort her. She was much too fond of Heathcliff. The greatest punishment we could invent for her was to keep her separate from him: yet she got chided more than any of us on his account. In play, she liked exceedingly to act the little mistress; using her hands freely, and commanding her companions: she did so to me, but I would not bear slapping and ordering; and so I let her know. Now, Mr. Earnshaw did not understand jokes from his children: he had always been strict and grave with them; and Catherine, on her part, had no idea why her father should be crosser and less patient in his ailing condition than he was in his prime. His peevish reproofs wakened in her a naughty delight to provoke him: she was never so happy as when we were all scolding her at once, and she defying us with her bold, saucy look, and her ready words; turning Joseph's religious curses into ridicule, baiting me, and doing just what her father hated most--showing how her pretended insolence, which he thought real, had more power over Heathcliff than his kindness: how the boy would do _her_ bidding in anything, and _his_ only when it suited his own inclination. After behaving as badly as possible all day, she sometimes came fondling to make it up at night. 'Nay, Cathy,' the old man would say, 'I cannot love thee, thou'rt worse than thy brother. Go, say thy prayers, child, and ask God's pardon. I doubt thy mother and I must rue that we ever reared thee!' That made her cry, at first; and then being repulsed continually hardened her, and she laughed if I told her to say she was sorry for her faults, and beg to be forgiven. But the hour came, at last, that ended Mr. Earnshaw's troubles on earth. He died quietly in his chair one October evening, seated by the fire-side. A high wind blustered round the house, and roared in the chimney: it sounded wild and stormy, yet it was not cold, and we were all together--I, a little removed from the hearth, busy at my knitting, and Joseph reading his Bible near the table (for the servants generally sat in the house then, after their work was done). Miss Cathy had been sick, and that made her still; she leant against her father's knee, and Heathcliff was lying on the floor with his head in her lap. I remember the master, before he fell into a doze, stroking her bonny hair--it pleased him rarely to see her gentle--and saying, 'Why canst thou not always be a good lass, Cathy?' And she turned her face up to his, and laughed, and answered, 'Why cannot you always be a good man, father?' But as soon as she saw him vexed again, she kissed his hand, and said she would sing him to sleep. She began singing very low, till his fingers dropped from hers, and his head sank on his breast. Then I told her to hush, and not stir, for fear she should wake him. We all kept as mute as mice a full half-hour, and should have done so longer, only Joseph, having finished his chapter, got up and said that he must rouse the master for prayers and bed. He stepped forward, and called him by name, and touched his shoulder; but he would not move: so he took the candle and looked at him. I thought there was something wrong as he set down the light; and seizing the children each by an arm, whispered them to 'frame up-stairs, and make little din--they might pray alone that evening--he had summut to do.' 'I shall bid father good-night first,' said Catherine, putting her arms round his neck, before we could hinder her. The poor thing discovered her loss directly--she screamed out--'Oh, he's dead, Heathcliff! he's dead!' And they both set up a heart-breaking cry. I joined my wail to theirs, loud and bitter; but Joseph asked what we could be thinking of to roar in that way over a saint in heaven. He told me to put on my cloak and run to Gimmerton for the doctor and the parson. I could not guess the use that either would be of, then. However, I went, through wind and rain, and brought one, the doctor, back with me; the other said he would come in the morning. Leaving Joseph to explain matters, I ran to the children's room: their door was ajar, I saw they had never lain down, though it was past midnight; but they were calmer, and did not need me to console them. The little souls were comforting each other with better thoughts than I could have hit on: no parson in the world ever pictured heaven so beautifully as they did, in their innocent talk; and, while I sobbed and listened, I could not help wishing we were all there safe together. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

Im Laufe der Jahre wird Mr. Earnshaw zum Invaliden. Dennoch ist er beschützend gegenüber Heathcliff, den er seinem eigenen Sohn Hindley vorzieht. Der alte Mann gerät leicht in Wut, wenn Heathcliff misshandelt wird, was nur dazu führt, dass sich das Verhältnis zwischen Heathcliff und Hindley verschlechtert. Schließlich wird Hindley auf Anraten des Pfarrers zum Studium weggeschickt. Nach dem Weggang des Sohnes wird Mr. Earnshaw von Joseph und Catherine geplagt. Joseph gewinnt mit seinen Predigten eine enorme Kontrolle über den Herrn. Er beschwert sich ständig über Heathcliff und Catherine und macht Catherine für ihre gemeinsamen Verfehlungen verantwortlich. Sie provoziert auch ihren Vater, indem sie ihre Macht über Heathcliff zur Schau stellt. Das verärgert ihren Vater, der sie bittet, zu Gott um Vergebung zu beten. Zunächst ist sie beleidigt über den Ratschlag ihres Vaters, später lacht sie jedoch offen über seinen geistlichen Rat. An einem Oktoberabend stirbt Earnshaw ruhig in seinem Stuhl. Catherine, Heathcliff und Nelly weinen bitterlich. Später findet Nelly Catherine und Heathcliff dabei, wie sie sich gegenseitig mit einem schönen Bild vom Himmel trösten.

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.

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 I. SCENE 1. Windsor. Before PAGE'S house. [Enter JUSTICE SHALLOW, SLENDER, and SIR HUGH EVANS.] SHALLOW. Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will make a Star Chamber matter of it; if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, esquire. SLENDER. In the county of Gloucester, Justice of Peace, and 'coram.' SHALLOW. Ay, cousin Slender, and 'cust-alorum.' SLENDER. Ay, and 'rato-lorum' too; and a gentleman born, Master Parson, who writes himself 'armigero' in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation--'armigero.' SHALLOW. Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three hundred years. SLENDER. All his successors, gone before him, hath done't; and all his ancestors, that come after him, may: they may give the dozen white luces in their coat. SHALLOW. It is an old coat. EVANS. The dozen white louses do become an old coat well; it agrees well, passant; it is a familiar beast to man, and signifies love. SHALLOW. The luce is the fresh fish; the salt fish is an old coat. SLENDER. I may quarter, coz? SHALLOW. You may, by marrying. EVANS. It is marring indeed, if he quarter it. SHALLOW. Not a whit. EVANS. Yes, py'r lady! If he has a quarter of your coat, there is but three skirts for yourself, in my simple conjectures; but that is all one. If Sir John Falstaff have committed disparagements unto you, I am of the church, and will be glad to do my benevolence to make atonements and compremises between you. SHALLOW. The Council shall hear it; it is a riot. EVANS. It is not meet the Council hear a riot; there is no fear of Got in a riot; the Council, look you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in that. SHALLOW. Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should end it. EVANS. It is petter that friends is the sword and end it; and there is also another device in my prain, which peradventure prings goot discretions with it. There is Anne Page, which is daughter to Master George Page, which is pretty virginity. SLENDER. Mistress Anne Page? She has brown hair, and speaks small like a woman. EVANS. It is that fery person for all the orld, as just as you will desire; and seven hundred pounds of moneys, and gold, and silver, is her grandsire upon his death's-bed--Got deliver to a joyful resurrections!--give, when she is able to overtake seventeen years old. It were a goot motion if we leave our pribbles and prabbles, and desire a marriage between Master Abraham and Mistress Anne Page. SHALLOW. Did her grandsire leave her seven hundred pound? EVANS. Ay, and her father is make her a petter penny. SHALLOW. I know the young gentlewoman; she has good gifts. EVANS. Seven hundred pounds, and possibilities, is goot gifts. SHALLOW. Well, let us see honest Master Page. Is Falstaff there? EVANS. Shall I tell you a lie? I do despise a liar as I do despise one that is false; or as I despise one that is not true. The knight Sir John is there; and, I beseech you, be ruled by your well-willers. I will peat the door for Master Page. [Knocks.] What, hoa! Got pless your house here! PAGE. [Within.] Who's there? EVANS. Here is Got's plessing, and your friend, and Justice Shallow; and here young Master Slender, that peradventures shall tell you another tale, if matters grow to your likings. [Enter PAGE.] PAGE. I am glad to see your worships well. I thank you for my venison, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. Master Page, I am glad to see you; much good do it your good heart! I wished your venison better; it was ill killed. How doth good Mistress Page?--and I thank you always with my heart, la! with my heart. PAGE. Sir, I thank you. SHALLOW. Sir, I thank you; by yea and no, I do. PAGE. I am glad to see you, good Master Slender. SLENDER. How does your fallow greyhound, sir? I heard say he was outrun on Cotsall. PAGE. It could not be judged, sir. SLENDER. You'll not confess, you'll not confess. SHALLOW. That he will not: 'tis your fault; 'tis your fault. 'Tis a good dog. PAGE. A cur, sir. SHALLOW. Sir, he's a good dog, and a fair dog; can there be more said? he is good, and fair. Is Sir John Falstaff here? PAGE. Sir, he is within; and I would I could do a good office between you. EVANS. It is spoke as a Christians ought to speak. SHALLOW. He hath wronged me, Master Page. PAGE. Sir, he doth in some sort confess it. SHALLOW. If it be confessed, it is not redressed: is not that so, Master Page? He hath wronged me; indeed he hath;--at a word, he hath, --believe me; Robert Shallow, esquire, saith he is wronged. PAGE. Here comes Sir John. [Enter SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, BARDOLPH, NYM, and PISTOL.] FALSTAFF. Now, Master Shallow, you'll complain of me to the King? SHALLOW. Knight, you have beaten my men, killed my deer, and broke open my lodge. FALSTAFF. But not kiss'd your keeper's daughter? SHALLOW. Tut, a pin! this shall be answered. FALSTAFF. I will answer it straight: I have done all this. That is now answered. SHALLOW. The Council shall know this. FALSTAFF. 'Twere better for you if it were known in counsel: you'll be laughed at. EVANS. Pauca verba, Sir John; goot worts. FALSTAFF. Good worts! good cabbage! Slender, I broke your head; what matter have you against me? SLENDER. Marry, sir, I have matter in my head against you; and against your cony-catching rascals, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. They carried me to the tavern, and made me drunk, and afterwards picked my pocket. BARDOLPH. You Banbury cheese! SLENDER. Ay, it is no matter. PISTOL. How now, Mephostophilus! SLENDER. Ay, it is no matter. NYM. Slice, I say! pauca, pauca; slice! That's my humour. SLENDER. Where's Simple, my man? Can you tell, cousin? EVANS. Peace, I pray you. Now let us understand. There is three umpires in this matter, as I understand: that is--Master Page, fidelicet Master Page; and there is myself, fidelicet myself; and the three party is, lastly and finally, mine host of the Garter. PAGE. We three to hear it and end it between them. EVANS. Fery goot: I will make a prief of it in my note-book; and we will afterwards ork upon the cause with as great discreetly as we can. FALSTAFF. Pistol! PISTOL. He hears with ears. EVANS. The tevil and his tam! what phrase is this, 'He hears with ear'? Why, it is affectations. FALSTAFF. Pistol, did you pick Master Slender's purse? SLENDER. Ay, by these gloves, did he--or I would I might never come in mine own great chamber again else!--of seven groats in mill-sixpences, and two Edward shovel-boards that cost me two shilling and two pence a-piece of Yead Miller, by these gloves. FALSTAFF. Is this true, Pistol? EVANS. No, it is false, if it is a pick-purse. PISTOL. Ha, thou mountain-foreigner!--Sir John and master mine, I combat challenge of this latten bilbo. Word of denial in thy labras here! Word of denial! Froth and scum, thou liest. KAHL. EVANS. Nein, es ist besser noch. Gib ihr diesen Brief; denn es ist eine Dame, die mit Mistress Anne Page gut bekannt ist; und der Brief soll sie bitten und auffordern, die Wünsche deines Herrn an Mistress Anne Page zu überbringen. Ich bitte dich, geh weg: Ich werde mein Essen beenden; es gibt noch Pippins und Käse. [Abgang.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Justice Shallow betritt mit Master Slender und Sir Hugh Evans eine Straße in der Stadt. Shallow ist wütend auf Sir John Falstaff und sagt, er werde ihn vor Gericht bringen. Evans, ein Mann der Kirche, versteht das falsch und denkt, er könne Falstaff vor den Kirchenrat bringen. Evans schlägt vor, dass sie sich darauf konzentrieren, eine Ehe zwischen Slender und Anne Page zu arrangieren. Sie nähern sich dem Haus von Master Page, und Page tritt ein. Er bedankt sich bei Shallow für sein Geschenk von Wildbret. Shallow fragt, ob Falstaff in Pages Haus ist, und Page sagt, er sei da. Shallow sagt, Falstaff habe ihm Unrecht getan, und Page berichtet, dass Falstaff es zugibt. Falstaff tritt mit seiner Entourage von Bardolph, Nim und Pistol ein. Shallow beschuldigt Falstaff, seine Männer geschlagen und sein Wild getötet zu haben. Falstaff gibt es zu. Slender beschuldigt Falstaff, ihn geschlagen zu haben. Evans sagt, dass Slenders Brieftasche gestohlen wurde und dass er glaubt, dass Falstaffs Männer sie genommen haben. Die Männer leugnen es und sagen, dass Slender zu betrunken war, um zu wissen, was mit seiner Brieftasche passiert ist. Slender sagt, er werde nie wieder mit Männern trinken, die nicht gut und ehrlich sind. Anne Page betritt den Raum, um den Männern Wein zu servieren, aber Page sagt, sie werden alle hineingehen. Mistress Page und Mistress Ford betreten den Raum, begrüßen Falstaff und gehen mit den anderen zum Essen hinein. Slender sitzt allein und wünscht sich sein Buch mit Liebesgedichten. Sein Diener Simple tritt ein, und Slender fragt ihn, wo sein Buch ist. Shallow und Evans kommen aus Pages Haus, und Evans schlägt vor, dass er quasi einen Heiratsantrag im Namen Slenders an Page gemacht hat und um Annes Hand bittet. Shallow fragt, ob Slender sie lieben kann und ob er bereit wäre, sie zu heiraten, woraufhin Slender positiv antwortet. Selbst wenn es am Anfang keine große Liebe gibt, sagt er, wird sie wachsen, sobald wir uns kennenlernen. Anne tritt ein, um die Männer zum Essen zu rufen. Die anderen gehen hinein, aber Slender zögert. Anne sagt, die anderen warten auf ihn, aber er besteht darauf, dass er keinen Hunger hat und nicht hereingehen wird. Er versucht, mit ihr zu sprechen, scheitert aber kläglich. Page tritt ein und ermutigt Slender, hereinzukommen. Slender wiederholt, dass er keinen Hunger hat, geht aber nach einer Debatte darüber, wer als Erster die Tür betreten sollte, hinein. Evans verlässt das Essen mit Simple. Er schickt Simple zu Dr. Caius Haus, um nach Mistress Quickly, Caius' Dienerin, zu fragen. Er gibt Simple einen Brief für Mistress Quickly, in dem er um ihre Hilfe bittet, Anne Page dazu zu überreden, Slender zu heiraten.

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.

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: On the forenoon of the second day, coming to the top of a hill, I saw all the country fall away before me down to the sea; and in the midst of this descent, on a long ridge, the city of Edinburgh smoking like a kiln. There was a flag upon the castle, and ships moving or lying anchored in the firth; both of which, for as far away as they were, I could distinguish clearly; and both brought my country heart into my mouth. Presently after, I came by a house where a shepherd lived, and got a rough direction for the neighbourhood of Cramond; and so, from one to another, worked my way to the westward of the capital by Colinton, till I came out upon the Glasgow road. And there, to my great pleasure and wonder, I beheld a regiment marching to the fifes, every foot in time; an old red-faced general on a grey horse at the one end, and at the other the company of Grenadiers, with their Pope's-hats. The pride of life seemed to mount into my brain at the sight of the red coats and the hearing of that merry music. A little farther on, and I was told I was in Cramond parish, and began to substitute in my inquiries the name of the house of Shaws. It was a word that seemed to surprise those of whom I sought my way. At first I thought the plainness of my appearance, in my country habit, and that all dusty from the road, consorted ill with the greatness of the place to which I was bound. But after two, or maybe three, had given me the same look and the same answer, I began to take it in my head there was something strange about the Shaws itself. The better to set this fear at rest, I changed the form of my inquiries; and spying an honest fellow coming along a lane on the shaft of his cart, I asked him if he had ever heard tell of a house they called the house of Shaws. He stopped his cart and looked at me, like the others. "Ay" said he. "What for?" "It's a great house?" I asked. "Doubtless," says he. "The house is a big, muckle house." "Ay," said I, "but the folk that are in it?" "Folk?" cried he. "Are ye daft? There's nae folk there--to call folk." "What?" say I; "not Mr. Ebenezer?" "Ou, ay" says the man; "there's the laird, to be sure, if it's him you're wanting. What'll like be your business, mannie?" "I was led to think that I would get a situation," I said, looking as modest as I could. "What?" cries the carter, in so sharp a note that his very horse started; and then, "Well, mannie," he added, "it's nane of my affairs; but ye seem a decent-spoken lad; and if ye'll take a word from me, ye'll keep clear of the Shaws." The next person I came across was a dapper little man in a beautiful white wig, whom I saw to be a barber on his rounds; and knowing well that barbers were great gossips, I asked him plainly what sort of a man was Mr. Balfour of the Shaws. "Hoot, hoot, hoot," said the barber, "nae kind of a man, nae kind of a man at all;" and began to ask me very shrewdly what my business was; but I was more than a match for him at that, and he went on to his next customer no wiser than he came. I cannot well describe the blow this dealt to my illusions. The more indistinct the accusations were, the less I liked them, for they left the wider field to fancy. What kind of a great house was this, that all the parish should start and stare to be asked the way to it? or what sort of a gentleman, that his ill-fame should be thus current on the wayside? If an hour's walking would have brought me back to Essendean, I had left my adventure then and there, and returned to Mr. Campbell's. But when I had come so far a way already, mere shame would not suffer me to desist till I had put the matter to the touch of proof; I was bound, out of mere self-respect, to carry it through; and little as I liked the sound of what I heard, and slow as I began to travel, I still kept asking my way and still kept advancing. It was drawing on to sundown when I met a stout, dark, sour-looking woman coming trudging down a hill; and she, when I had put my usual question, turned sharp about, accompanied me back to the summit she had just left, and pointed to a great bulk of building standing very bare upon a green in the bottom of the next valley. The country was pleasant round about, running in low hills, pleasantly watered and wooded, and the crops, to my eyes, wonderfully good; but the house itself appeared to be a kind of ruin; no road led up to it; no smoke arose from any of the chimneys; nor was there any semblance of a garden. My heart sank. "That!" I cried. The woman's face lit up with a malignant anger. "That is the house of Shaws!" she cried. "Blood built it; blood stopped the building of it; blood shall bring it down. See here!" she cried again--"I spit upon the ground, and crack my thumb at it! Black be its fall! If ye see the laird, tell him what ye hear; tell him this makes the twelve hunner and nineteen time that Jennet Clouston has called down the curse on him and his house, byre and stable, man, guest, and master, wife, miss, or bairn--black, black be their fall!" And the woman, whose voice had risen to a kind of eldritch sing-song, turned with a skip, and was gone. I stood where she left me, with my hair on end. In those days folk still believed in witches and trembled at a curse; and this one, falling so pat, like a wayside omen, to arrest me ere I carried out my purpose, took the pith out of my legs. I sat me down and stared at the house of Shaws. The more I looked, the pleasanter that country-side appeared; being all set with hawthorn bushes full of flowers; the fields dotted with sheep; a fine flight of rooks in the sky; and every sign of a kind soil and climate; and yet the barrack in the midst of it went sore against my fancy. Country folk went by from the fields as I sat there on the side of the ditch, but I lacked the spirit to give them a good-e'en. At last the sun went down, and then, right up against the yellow sky, I saw a scroll of smoke go mounting, not much thicker, as it seemed to me, than the smoke of a candle; but still there it was, and meant a fire, and warmth, and cookery, and some living inhabitant that must have lit it; and this comforted my heart. So I set forward by a little faint track in the grass that led in my direction. It was very faint indeed to be the only way to a place of habitation; yet I saw no other. Presently it brought me to stone uprights, with an unroofed lodge beside them, and coats of arms upon the top. A main entrance it was plainly meant to be, but never finished; instead of gates of wrought iron, a pair of hurdles were tied across with a straw rope; and as there were no park walls, nor any sign of avenue, the track that I was following passed on the right hand of the pillars, and went wandering on toward the house. The nearer I got to that, the drearier it appeared. It seemed like the one wing of a house that had never been finished. What should have been the inner end stood open on the upper floors, and showed against the sky with steps and stairs of uncompleted masonry. Many of the windows were unglazed, and bats flew in and out like doves out of a dove-cote. The night had begun to fall as I got close; and in three of the lower windows, which were very high up and narrow, and well barred, the changing light of a little fire began to glimmer. Was this the palace I had been coming to? Was it within these walls that I was to seek new friends and begin great fortunes? Why, in my father's house on Essen-Waterside, the fire and the bright lights would show a mile away, and the door open to a beggar's knock! I came forward cautiously, and giving ear as I came, heard some one rattling with dishes, and a little dry, eager cough that came in fits; but there was no sound of speech, and not a dog barked. The door, as well as I could see it in the dim light, was a great piece of wood all studded with nails; and I lifted my hand with a faint heart under my jacket, and knocked once. Then I stood and waited. The house had fallen into a dead silence; a whole minute passed away, and nothing stirred but the bats overhead. I knocked again, and hearkened again. By this time my ears had grown so accustomed to the quiet, that I could hear the ticking of the clock inside as it slowly counted out the seconds; but whoever was in that house kept deadly still, and must have held his breath. I was in two minds whether to run away; but anger got the upper hand, and I began instead to rain kicks and buffets on the door, and to shout out aloud for Mr. Balfour. I was in full career, when I heard the cough right overhead, and jumping back and looking up, beheld a man's head in a tall nightcap, and the bell mouth of a blunderbuss, at one of the first-storey windows. "It's loaded," said a voice. "I have come here with a letter," I said, "to Mr. Ebenezer Balfour of Shaws. Is he here?" "From whom is it?" asked the man with the blunderbuss. "That is neither here nor there," said I, for I was growing very wroth. "Well," was the reply, "ye can put it down upon the doorstep, and be off with ye." "I will do no such thing," I cried. "I will deliver it into Mr. Balfour's hands, as it was meant I should. It is a letter of introduction." "A what?" cried the voice, sharply. I repeated what I had said. "Who are ye, yourself?" was the next question, after a considerable pause. "I am not ashamed of my name," said I. "They call me David Balfour." At that, I made sure the man started, for I heard the blunderbuss rattle on the window-sill; and it was after quite a long pause, and with a curious change of voice, that the next question followed: "Is your father dead?" I was so much surprised at this, that I could find no voice to answer, but stood staring. "Ay," the man resumed, "he'll be dead, no doubt; and that'll be what brings ye chapping to my door." Another pause, and then defiantly, "Well, man," he said, "I'll let ye in;" and he disappeared from the window. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

Ich komme an das Ende meiner Reise an. David wandert zwei Tage lang in Richtung Edinburgh. Es ist das erste Mal, dass er in der Stadt ist, und er ist von dem Anblick überrascht. Besonders interessiert ihn die Schiffe, die er im Hafen sieht. Aber er setzt seine Reise westlich von Edinburgh fort, in Richtung Cramond, wo sich das Haus der Shaws befindet. Er sieht eine Truppe britischer Soldaten und freut sich darüber. Sobald er Cramond erreicht, beginnt David nach dem Haus der Shaws zu fragen und merkt, dass er einige seltsame Blicke erntet. Er geht weiter und fragt schließlich jemanden nach dem Haus, ohne seine Verbindung dazu preiszugeben. Er erfährt, dass das Haus auf dem Land wenig Ansehen hat, insbesondere Ebenezer selbst. David wird von den Aussichten auf das Haus der Shaws desillusioniert und vermutet, dass sein Onkel ein gemeiner alter Mann ist. Er ist kurz davor umzukehren, entscheidet sich aber weiterzugehen. Er trifft eine Frau, die ihm das Haus der Shaws zeigt: ein riesiges, heruntergekommenes altes Haus, das im Kontrast zur schönen Landschaft steht. Während er dort steht, verflucht die Frau das Haus und seinen einzigen Bewohner. David, der sehr enttäuscht ist, geht zum Haus hinunter und klopft an. Es gibt keine Antwort, und er muss an die Tür klopfen, um endlich Aufmerksamkeit zu erregen. Ein alter Mann erscheint am Fenster, bewaffnet mit einer Waffe, und verlangt zu wissen, was David will. David antwortet, dass er einen Brief für Ebenezer hat, und nennt seinen Namen. Der Mann scheint am meisten daran interessiert zu sein, dass Davids Vater tot ist.

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.

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: TWO years after I left Lincoln I completed my academic course at Harvard. Before I entered the Law School I went home for the summer vacation. On the night of my arrival Mrs. Harling and Frances and Sally came over to greet me. Everything seemed just as it used to be. My grandparents looked very little older. Frances Harling was married now, and she and her husband managed the Harling interests in Black Hawk. When we gathered in grandmother's parlor, I could hardly believe that I had been away at all. One subject, however, we avoided all evening. When I was walking home with Frances, after we had left Mrs. Harling at her gate, she said simply, "You know, of course, about poor Antonia." Poor Antonia! Every one would be saying that now, I thought bitterly. I replied that grandmother had written me how Antonia went away to marry Larry Donovan at some place where he was working; that he had deserted her, and that there was now a baby. This was all I knew. "He never married her," Frances said. "I have n't seen her since she came back. She lives at home, on the farm, and almost never comes to town. She brought the baby in to show it to mama once. I'm afraid she's settled down to be Ambrosch's drudge for good." I tried to shut Antonia out of my mind. I was bitterly disappointed in her. I could not forgive her for becoming an object of pity, while Lena Lingard, for whom people had always foretold trouble, was now the leading dressmaker of Lincoln, much respected in Black Hawk. Lena gave her heart away when she felt like it, but she kept her head for her business and had got on in the world. Just then it was the fashion to speak indulgently of Lena and severely of Tiny Soderball, who had quietly gone West to try her fortune the year before. A Black Hawk boy, just back from Seattle, brought the news that Tiny had not gone to the coast on a venture, as she had allowed people to think, but with very definite plans. One of the roving promoters that used to stop at Mrs. Gardener's hotel owned idle property along the water-front in Seattle, and he had offered to set Tiny up in business in one of his empty buildings. She was now conducting a sailors' lodging-house. This, every one said, would be the end of Tiny. Even if she had begun by running a decent place, she could n't keep it up; all sailors' boarding-houses were alike. When I thought about it, I discovered that I had never known Tiny as well as I knew the other girls. I remembered her tripping briskly about the dining-room on her high heels, carrying a big tray full of dishes, glancing rather pertly at the spruce traveling men, and contemptuously at the scrubby ones--who were so afraid of her that they did n't dare to ask for two kinds of pie. Now it occurred to me that perhaps the sailors, too, might be afraid of Tiny. How astonished we would have been, as we sat talking about her on Frances Harling's front porch, if we could have known what her future was really to be! Of all the girls and boys who grew up together in Black Hawk, Tiny Soderball was to lead the most adventurous life and to achieve the most solid worldly success. This is what actually happened to Tiny: While she was running her lodging-house in Seattle, gold was discovered in Alaska. Miners and sailors came back from the North with wonderful stories and pouches of gold. Tiny saw it and weighed it in her hands. That daring which nobody had ever suspected in her, awoke. She sold her business and set out for Circle City, in company with a carpenter and his wife whom she had persuaded to go along with her. They reached Skaguay in a snowstorm, went in dog sledges over the Chilkoot Pass, and shot the Yukon in flatboats. They reached Circle City on the very day when some Siwash Indians came into the settlement with the report that there had been a rich gold strike farther up the river, on a certain Klondike Creek. Two days later Tiny and her friends, and nearly every one else in Circle City, started for the Klondike fields on the last steamer that went up the Yukon before it froze for the winter. That boatload of people founded Dawson City. Within a few weeks there were fifteen hundred homeless men in camp. Tiny and the carpenter's wife began to cook for them, in a tent. The miners gave her a lot, and the carpenter put up a log hotel for her. There she sometimes fed a hundred and fifty men a day. Miners came in on snowshoes from their placer claims twenty miles away to buy fresh bread from her, and paid for it in gold. That winter Tiny kept in her hotel a Swede whose legs had been frozen one night in a storm when he was trying to find his way back to his cabin. The poor fellow thought it great good fortune to be cared for by a woman, and a woman who spoke his own tongue. When he was told that his feet must be amputated, he said he hoped he would not get well; what could a working-man do in this hard world without feet? He did, in fact, die from the operation, but not before he had deeded Tiny Soderball his claim on Hunker Creek. Tiny sold her hotel, invested half her money in Dawson building lots, and with the rest she developed her claim. She went off into the wilds and lived on it. She bought other claims from discouraged miners, traded or sold them on percentages. After nearly ten years in the Klondike, Tiny returned, with a considerable fortune, to live in San Francisco. I met her in Salt Lake City in 1908. She was a thin, hard-faced woman, very well-dressed, very reserved in manner. Curiously enough, she reminded me of Mrs. Gardener, for whom she had worked in Black Hawk so long ago. She told me about some of the desperate chances she had taken in the gold country, but the thrill of them was quite gone. She said frankly that nothing interested her much now but making money. The only two human beings of whom she spoke with any feeling were the Swede, Johnson, who had given her his claim, and Lena Lingard. She had persuaded Lena to come to San Francisco and go into business there. "Lincoln was never any place for her," Tiny remarked. "In a town of that size Lena would always be gossiped about. Frisco's the right field for her. She has a fine class of trade. Oh, she's just the same as she always was! She's careless, but she's level-headed. She's the only person I know who never gets any older. It's fine for me to have her there; somebody who enjoys things like that. She keeps an eye on me and won't let me be shabby. When she thinks I need a new dress, she makes it and sends it home--with a bill that's long enough, I can tell you!" Tiny limped slightly when she walked. The claim on Hunker Creek took toll from its possessors. Tiny had been caught in a sudden turn of weather, like poor Johnson. She lost three toes from one of those pretty little feet that used to trip about Black Hawk in pointed slippers and striped stockings. Tiny mentioned this mutilation quite casually--did n't seem sensitive about it. She was satisfied with her success, but not elated. She was like some one in whom the faculty of becoming interested is worn out. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Nach seinem Abschluss von Harvard kehrt Jim zwei Jahre später für einen Besuch nach Hause zurück, bevor er sein Jurastudium beginnt. Er besucht die Harlings und seine Großeltern, die genau gleich aussehen. Ihm wird erzählt, dass "die arme Antonia" nachdem Larry Donovan abgehauen ist ein Kind bekommen hat und jetzt auf der Farm bei Ambrosch lebt, von der man kaum noch etwas hört. Jim ist untröstlich darüber, dass Antonia nun ein Objekt des Mitleids in der Stadt ist. Im Gegensatz dazu ist Lena Lingard jetzt eine sehr respektable, erfolgreiche Schneiderin in Black Hawk. Anscheinend führt Tiny Soderball ein Seemannslogierhaus in Seattle, und die Leute unterstellen, dass es bald ein Bordell wird. Was tatsächlich passiert ist, dass Tiny die erfolgreichste Person aus Black Hawk wird: Nachdem sie von dem Goldrausch in Alaska gehört hat, verkauft Tiny das Pensionat und reist nach Dawson City, wo sie ein Hotel eröffnet und für Hunderte obdachlose, alleinstehende Männer kocht. Ein schwedischer Mann namens Johnson überlässt ihr sein Land, nachdem sie ihn vor seinem Tod gepflegt hat, und sie fängt an, andere Landansprüche zu kaufen, zu handeln und zu verkaufen. Nach zehn Jahren häuft sie ein Vermögen an und zieht nach San Francisco um, wo Jim sich später mit ihr trifft. Zu diesem Zeitpunkt ist sie "hartherzig" und zurückhaltend, gelangweilt von allem außer Geldverdienen, und sie kümmert sich nur um den Schweden Johnson und Lena Lingard, die sie überredet, nach San Francisco zu ziehen. Tiny sagt, dass Lincoln für jemanden wie Lena zu klein ist. Tiny ist mit ihrem Leben zufrieden, aber im Grunde gelangweilt.

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.

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: Es ist mir nicht in den Sinn gekommen, Peggotty zu erwähnen, seitdem ich weggelaufen bin; aber selbstverständlich habe ich ihr bald nach meiner Ankunft in Dover einen Brief geschrieben, einen weiteren und einen längeren, in dem alle Einzelheiten ausführlich erläutert wurden, als meine Tante mich offiziell unter ihren Schutz nahm. Als ich mich bei Doktor Strong niedergelassen hatte, schrieb ich ihr erneut und beschrieb meine glückliche Lage und Aussichten. Das Geld, das mir Mr. Dick gegeben hatte, hätte mir niemals auch nur annähernd so viel Freude bereiten können, wie das Gold-Halbguinea, das ich Peggotty per Post in diesem letzten Brief zuschickte, um den Betrag, den ich von ihr geliehen hatte, zurückzuzahlen: In diesem Brief erwähnte ich zum ersten Mal den jungen Mann mit dem Eselkarren. Peggotty antwortete auf diese Briefe genauso prompt, wenn auch nicht so prägnant wie ein Kaufmannsangestellter. Ihre Ausdrucksmöglichkeiten (die mit Tinte sicherlich begrenzt waren), waren erschöpft in dem Versuch, das auszudrücken, was sie über meine Reise empfand. Vier Seiten zusammenhangloser und sehr lückenhafter Sätze, die niemals endeten, außer in Klecksen, reichten nicht aus, um ihr Erleichterung zu verschaffen. Aber die Kleckse sagten mir mehr als die beste Abhandlung; sie zeigten mir, dass Peggotty das ganze Papier mit ihren Tränen vollgeweint hatte, und was hätte ich mir mehr wünschen können? Ich verstand ohne große Schwierigkeiten, dass sie meine Tante noch nicht ganz sympathisch fand. Die Vorwarnung war zu kurz nach so langer gegenteiliger Überzeugung. Wir hatten nie eine Person gekannt, schrieb sie, aber zu denken, dass Miss Betsey so anders sein sollte, als man gedacht hatte, war eine Moral! – das war ihr Wort. Offensichtlich hatte sie immer noch Angst vor Miss Betsey, denn sie grüßte sie sehr dankbar, aber zurückhaltend. Offensichtlich hatte sie auch Angst vor mir und hielt es für wahrscheinlich, dass ich bald wieder weglaufen würde: Das konnte ich durch die wiederholten Andeutungen erahnen, dass ich jederzeit bei ihr ein Fahrgeld nach Yarmouth bekommen könnte. Sie gab mir eine Information, die mich sehr bewegte, nämlich dass die Möbel in unserem alten Zuhause verkauft worden waren und dass Mr. und Miss Murdstone fort waren und das Haus verschlossen war, um vermietet oder verkauft zu werden. Gott weiß, dass ich, solange sie dort waren, keine Rolle dabei gespielt habe, aber es schmerzte mich zu denken, dass der liebe alte Ort völlig verlassen war; dass das Unkraut im Garten hoch wuchs und die gefallenen Blätter dick und nass auf den Wegen lagen. Ich stellte mir vor, wie der Wind im Winter um das Haus heulen würde, wie der kalte Regen auf die Fensterscheiben schlagen würde, wie der Mond Geister an die Wände der leeren Zimmer zaubern würde, die jede Nacht ihre Einsamkeit überwachen. Ich dachte erneut an das Grab auf dem Friedhof unter dem Baum: und es schien, als wäre das Haus jetzt ebenfalls tot und alles, was mit meinem Vater und meiner Mutter verbunden war, wäre verblasst. Es gab keine anderen Nachrichten in Peggottys Briefen. Mr. Barkis war ein ausgezeichneter Ehemann, sagte sie, wenn auch etwas knauserig, aber wir alle hatten unsere Fehler und sie hatte genug (obwohl ich sicherlich nicht wusste, welche das waren); und er schickte Grüße und mein kleines Schlafzimmer war immer für mich bereit. Mr. Peggotty und Ham waren wohlauf und Mrs. Gummidge ging es nicht gut und die kleine Em'ly wollte ihr keine Grüße ausrichten, sagte aber, dass Peggotty ihr Grüße ausrichten könnte, wenn sie wolle. All diese Informationen gab ich meiner Tante pflichtbewusst weiter und behielt nur die Erwähnung von Em'ly für mich, da ich instinktiv spürte, dass sie nicht besonders zärtlich ihr gegenüber eingestellt sein würde. Solange ich noch neu bei Doktor Strong war, machte sie mehrere Ausflüge nach Canterbury, um mich zu sehen, und immer zu unpassenden Zeiten: wahrscheinlich in der Absicht, mich zu überraschen. Doch als sie mich fleißig beschäftigt vorfand und hörte, dass ich in der Schule schnell vorankam, hörten diese Besuche bald auf. Ich sah sie immer samstags, alle drei oder vier Wochen, wenn ich zum Vergnügen nach Dover fuhr, und ich sah Mr. Dick jeden zweiten Mittwoch, wenn er mittags mit dem Postkutsche ankam und bis zum nächsten Morgen blieb. Bei diesen Gelegenheiten reiste Mr. Dick niemals ohne eine ledernen Schreibmappe, gefüllt mit Büromaterial und dem Memorial, zu dem Dokument hatte er die Vorstellung, dass es nun langsam Zeit wurde und es wirklich erledigt werden müsse. Mr. Dick war sehr vernarrt in Lebkuchen. Um seine Besuche angenehmer zu gestalten, hatte meine Tante mir den Auftrag gegeben, für ihn in einer Konditorei auf Rechnung zu kaufen, jedoch mit der Bedingung, dass er nicht mehr als einen Schilling pro Tag bekommen durfte. Das, und die Tatsache, dass er alle seine kleinen Rechnungen im Gasthaus, in dem er übernachtete, meiner Tante vorlegte, bevor sie bezahlt wurden, ließ mich vermuten, dass er nur sein Geld klimpern lassen durfte, jedoch nicht ausgeben. Durch weitere Nachforschungen fand ich heraus, dass dies tatsächlich der Fall war, oder zumindest gab es eine Vereinbarung zwischen ihm und meiner Tante, dass er ihr alle Ausgaben auflisten müsste. Da er nicht vorhatte sie zu täuschen und immer bemüht war, ihr zu gefallen, hielt er sich daher mit Ausgaben zurück. Bei diesem Punkt, genauso wie bei vielen anderen möglichen Punkten, war Mr. Dick überzeugt, dass meine Tante die weiseste und wunderbarste aller Frauen war, wie er mir immer wieder unternehmungslustig, mit unendlicher Geheimniskrämerei und stets flüsternd, erzählte. "Oho, Trotwood", sagte Mr. Dick, mit einem Hauch von Geheimnis, nachdem er mir diese Vertraulichkeit verkündet hatte, an einem Mittwoch; "wer ist der Mann, der in der Nähe unseres Hauses lauert und sie erschreckt?" "Schreckt er meine Tante, Sir?" Mr. Dick nickte. "Ich hätte gedacht, nichts könnte sie erschrecken", sagte er, "da sie -" hier flüsterte er leise, "erwähnen Sie es nicht - die weiseste und wunderbarste aller Frauen ist." Nachdem er das gesagt hatte, zog er sich zurück, um die Wirkung zu beobachten, die diese Beschreibung auf mich hatte. "Das erste Mal, als er kam", sagte Mr. Dick, "war - mal überlegen - sechzehnhundertneunundvierzig war das Jahr der Hinrichtung von König Charles. Ich glaube, du hast gesagt, sechzehnhundertneunundvierzig?" "Ja, Sir." "Ich weiß nicht, wie das sein kann", sagte Mr. Dick, sichtlich verwirrt und den Kopf schüttelnd. "Ich glaube nicht, dass ich so alt bin." "War es in diesem Jahr, dass der Mann auftauchte, Sir?" fragte ich. "Nun, ich weiß nicht", sagte Mr. Dick, "wie das in diesem Jahr gewesen sein kann, Trotwood. Hast du dieses Datum aus der Geschichte?" "Ja, Sir." "Ich nehme an, Geschichte lügt nie, stimmt's?" sagte Mr. Dick, mit einem Hoffnungsschimmer. "Oh nein, Sir!" antwortete ich sehr entschieden. Ich war aufrichtig und jung und dachte das. "Ich kann das nicht verstehen", sagte Mr. Dick, den Kopf schüttelnd. "Da ist irgendwo etwas nicht in Ordnung. Wie dem auch sei, es war sehr bald nachdem der Fehler gemacht wurde, einen Teil der Probleme aus König Charles' Kopf in meinen Kop Herr Dick schüttelte den Kopf und lehnte den Vorschlag kategorisch ab. Er antwortete immer wieder mit großer Zuversicht: "Kein Bettler, kein Bettler, kein Bettler, mein Herr!" Er erzählte weiter, dass er aus seinem Fenster heraus beobachtet hatte, wie meine Tante dieser Person später in der Nacht im Mondschein Geld außerhalb des Gartenzauns gegeben hatte. Der Unbekannte verschwand dann, wie Herr Dick vermutete, in den Boden und wurde nicht mehr gesehen. Meine Tante war eilig und heimlich ins Haus zurückgekehrt und auch an diesem Morgen anders als üblich gewesen, was Herrn Dick belastete. Ich hatte von Anfang an keine geringste Vorstellung, dass der Unbekannte etwas anderes als eine Einbildung von Herrn Dick war, und eine aus der Kette jenes unglücklichen Prinzen, der ihm so viel Schwierigkeiten bereitet hatte. Nach einigem Nachdenken kam mir jedoch der Gedanke, dass möglicherweise zwei Versuche oder Drohungen unternommen worden waren, um den armen Herrn Dick selbst aus dem Schutz meiner Tante zu nehmen. Und ob meine Tante, deren starke Zuneigung zu ihm ich aus ihren eigenen Worten kannte, möglicherweise bereit gewesen war, einen Preis für seinen Frieden und seine Ruhe zu zahlen. Da ich bereits sehr an Herrn Dick hing und sehr besorgt um sein Wohlergehen war, unterstützten meine Ängste diese Vermutung. Und oft hatte ich bei seinen wöchentlichen Besuchen, die kaum ohne Zweifel verstrichen, die Befürchtung, dass er nicht wie gewohnt auf der Kutsche sein würde. Aber dort erschien er immer, mit grauem Haar, lachend und glücklich. Und er hatte nie etwas mehr über den Mann zu erzählen, der meine Tante erschrecken konnte. Diese Mittwoche waren die glücklichsten Tage im Leben von Herrn Dick, nicht die geringsten in meinem. Er wurde schnell bei allen Schülern bekannt und obwohl er nur beim Drachensteigen eine aktive Rolle spielte, interessierte er sich genauso tief für all unsere Spiele wie jeder andere von uns. Wie oft habe ich ihn dabei gesehen, wie er mit unendlichem Interesse einem Flitschspiel oder einem Kreiselmatch zusah und in den entscheidenden Momenten kaum atmete! Wie oft habe ich ihn bei Hunde- und Hasenjagden auf einer kleinen Anhöhe sitzen sehen, wie er das gesamte Feld zum Handeln anspornte und dabei seinen Hut über seinen grauen Kopf schwang, ganz vergessen, dass es den Kopf von König Karl dem Märtyrer und alles, was dazu gehört, gibt! Wie viele sonnige Stunden habe ich gekannt, die für ihn auf dem Cricketplatz nur glückliche Minuten waren! Und wie viele Winter habe ich ihn im Schnee und im Ostwind stehen sehen, mit blauem Näschen, wie er den Jungen zuschaute, wie sie die lange Rutsche hinuntergingen, und vor Begeisterung in seine Wollhandschuhe klatschte! Er war ein allseits beliebter Mann, und seine Handfertigkeit in kleinen Dingen war überragend. Er konnte Orangen so kunstvoll schneiden, wie keiner von uns es je gekonnt hätte. Er konnte aus allem, angefangen von einem Zahnstocher nach oben, ein Boot machen. Er konnte Grubenknochen zu Schachfiguren umarbeiten, römische Streitwagen aus alten Spielkarten gestalten, Speichenräder aus Garnspulen und Vogelkäfige aus altem Draht herstellen. Aber er war vielleicht am größten in den Bereichen Schnur und Stroh, von denen wir alle überzeugt waren, dass er damit alles tun konnte, was mit den Händen möglich war. Bald war Herr Dicks Ruhm nicht mehr nur auf uns beschränkt. Nach einigen Mittwochen erkundigte sich Dr. Strong selbst bei mir nach ihm, und ich erzählte ihm alles, was meine Tante mir erzählt hatte. Das interessierte den Doktor so sehr, dass er bei seinem nächsten Besuch darum bat, Herrn Dick vorgestellt zu werden. Diese Zeremonie fand statt, und der Doktor bat Herrn Dick, bei meiner Abwesenheit am Kutschbüro vorbeizukommen und sich bis zum Ende unserer Morgentätigkeit auszuruhen. Es wurde zur Gewohnheit, dass Herr Dick ganz selbstverständlich vorbeikam, und wenn wir einmal etwas spät dran waren, wie es an einem Mittwoch häufig der Fall war, ging er im Hof spazieren und wartete auf mich. Hier lernte er auch die schöne junge Frau des Doktors kennen (jetzt blasser als früher, inzwischen seltener von mir oder sonst jemandem gesehen und nicht mehr so fröhlich, aber nicht weniger schön) und wurde so nach und nach immer vertrauter, bis er schließlich ins Schulgebäude kam und wartete. Er saß immer in einer bestimmten Ecke auf einem bestimmten Hocker, der nach ihm "Dick" genannt wurde. Hier saß er mit nach vorne geneigtem grauem Kopf und hörte aufmerksam zu, was auch immer vor sich ging, in tiefer Verehrung für das Wissen, das er nie erlangen konnte. Diese Verehrung erstreckte Herr Dick auch auf den Doktor, den er für den subtilsten und vollkommensten Philosophen aller Zeiten hielt. Es dauerte lange, bevor Herr Dick den Doktor anders als mit bloßem Kopf ansprach. Und selbst als er und der Doktor eine echte Freundschaft schlossen und stundenlang Seite an Seite im Innenhof spazierten, der bei uns allen als "The Doctor's Walk" bekannt war, zog Herr Dick immer wieder seinen Hut ab, um seinen Respekt für Weisheit und Wissen zu zeigen. Wie es dazu kam, dass der Doktor angefangen hat in diesen Spaziergängen Auszüge aus dem berühmten Wörterbuch vorzulesen, habe ich nie erfahren. Vielleicht empfand er es anfangs genauso wie das Lesen für sich selbst. Aber es wurde ebenfalls zur Gewohnheit und Herr Dick lauschte mit einem Gesicht, das vor Stolz und Freude strahlte. In seinem Innersten glaubte er, dass das Wörterbuch das schönste Buch der Welt war. Wenn ich daran denke, wie sie vor den Fenstern des Schulzimmers auf und ab gehen - der Doktor, der mit seinem selbstzufriedenen Lächeln liest, gelegentlich einen Schwung mit dem Manuskript macht oder ernsthaft mit dem Kopf nickt; und Herr Dick, der mit seinem armen Verstand ruhig auf den Schwingen schwieriger Worte dahinschweift - dann halte ich es für eine der angenehmsten Dinge, die ich auf ruhige Weise je gesehen habe. Es kommt mir vor, als könnten sie ewig hin und her gehen, und die Welt könnte dadurch irgendwie besser werden - als ob tausend Dinge, um die sie sich so viel Lärm machen, nicht halb so gut für sie oder für mich wären. Agnes wurde bald eine von Herrn Dicks Freundinnen und lernte bei ihren häufigen Besuchen im Haus auch Uriah kennen. Die Freundschaft zwischen ihm und mir wuchs ständig, und sie wurde auf eine seltsame Weise aufrechterhalten: Während Herr Dick offiziell als mein Vormund zu mir kam, konsultierte er mich immer in allen kleinen Zweifelsfällen und richtete sich stets nach meinem Rat. Er hatte nicht nur großen Respekt vor meiner natürlichen Klugheit, sondern hielt auch viel von meiner Tante geerbten Klugheit. An einem Donnerstagmorgen, als ich mich darauf vorbereitete, mit Herrn Dick vom Hotel zum Kutschbüro zu gehen, um zur Schule zurückzukehren (denn wir hatten eine Stunde Unterricht vor dem Frühstück), traf ich Uriah auf der Straße, der mich an das Versprechen erinnerte, mit ihm und seiner Mutter Tee zu trinken. Dabei fügte er mit einer gewundenen Bewegung hinzu: "Aber ich habe nicht erwartet, dass du es einhalten würdest, Meister Copperfield, wir sind so sehr demütig." Ich hatte Nachdem er ein kleines Lied auf seinem Kinn gespielt hatte, ging er weiter und fügte hinzu: "Es gibt Ausdrücke, sehen Sie, Meister Copperfield - lateinische Wörter und Begriffe - in Herrn Tidd, die für einen Leser meines bescheidenen Wissensstandes versuchen sind." "Möchtest du Latein lernen?" sagte ich energisch. "Ich werde es dir mit Vergnügen beibringen, während ich es lerne." "Oh, danke, Meister Copperfield", antwortete er und schüttelte den Kopf. "Ich bin sicher, es ist sehr freundlich von Ihnen, das Angebot zu machen, aber ich bin viel zu bescheiden, um es anzunehmen." "Was für Unsinn, Uriah!" "Oh, wirklich, Sie müssen mich entschuldigen, Meister Copperfield! Ich bin sehr dankbar und ich würde es von allem gerne tun, versichere ich Ihnen; aber ich bin viel zu bescheiden. Es gibt schon genug Leute, die auf mich herumtrampeln in meinem bescheidenen Zustand, ohne dass ich ihre Gefühle verletze, indem ich gebildet bin. Bildung ist nichts für mich. Eine Person wie ich sollte besser nicht streben. Wenn er im Leben weiterkommen will, muss er bescheiden bleiben, Meister Copperfield!" Ich habe seinen Mund noch nie so weit aufgerissen gesehen, oder die Falten in seinen Wangen so tief, wie als er diese Gedanken äußerte: die ganze Zeit den Kopf schüttelnd und sich bescheiden windend. "Ich denke, du liegst falsch, Uriah", sagte ich. "Ich bin sicher, dass es einige Dinge gibt, die ich dir beibringen könnte, wenn du sie lernen möchtest." "Oh, daran zweifle ich nicht, Meister Copperfield", antwortete er, "überhaupt nicht. Aber da du selbst nicht bescheiden bist, urteilst du vielleicht nicht gut für diejenigen, die es sind. Mit Wissen will ich meine Vorgesetzten nicht provozieren, danke. Ich bin viel zu bescheiden. Hier ist meine bescheidene Behausung, Meister Copperfield!" Wir betraten ein niedriges, altmodisches Zimmer, das direkt von der Straße aus zugänglich war, und trafen dort auf Mrs. Heep, die Uriah in allem ähnelte, nur kleiner. Sie empfing mich mit äußerster Demut und entschuldigte sich bei mir, dass sie ihrem Sohn einen Kuss gegeben hatte, und bemerkte, dass sie, bescheiden wie sie waren, ihre natürlichen Zuneigungen hatten, die sie hofften, niemanden zu beleidigen. Es war ein ganz anständiges Zimmer, halb Salon und halb Küche, aber keineswegs ein gemütlicher Raum. Das Teegeschirr stand auf dem Tisch, und der Wasserkessel kochte auf dem Herd. Es gab eine Kommode mit einem Schreibpult, an dem Uriah abends lesen oder schreiben konnte; es lag Uriahs blaue Tasche da, die Papiere ausspuckte; es gab eine Sammlung von Uriahs Büchern unter der Aufsicht von Herrn Tidd; es gab einen Wandschrank und die üblichen Möbel. Ich erinnere mich nicht, dass ein einzelnes Objekt einen kargen, engen, spärlichen Eindruck machte; aber ich erinnere mich, dass der ganze Raum es tat. Vielleicht war es Teil von Mrs. Heeps Demut, dass sie immer noch Trauerkleidung trug. Trotz der vergangenen Zeit seit dem Tod von Mr. Heep trug sie immer noch Trauerkleidung. Ich glaube, es gab irgendwie einen Kompromiss in der Haube; aber ansonsten war sie genauso traurig wie in den ersten Tagen ihrer Trauer. "Das ist ein Tag, der in Erinnerung bleiben wird, mein Uriah, da bin ich mir sicher", sagte Mrs. Heep, während sie den Tee machte, "wenn Master Copperfield uns besucht." "Ich habe es dir gesagt, Mutter", sagte Uriah. "Wenn ich gewünscht hätte, dass Vater aus irgendeinem Grund bei uns bleibt", sagte Mrs. Heep, "dann wäre es gewesen, dass er seine Gesellschaft heute Nachmittag kennenlernen könnte." Diese Komplimente verlegen mich; aber ich war mir auch bewusst, dass ich als geehrter Gast unterhalten wurde, und ich fand Mrs. Heep eine angenehme Frau. "Mein Uriah", sagte Mrs. Heep, "hat sich sehr darauf gefreut, Sir, schon seit langer Zeit. Er hatte seine Befürchtungen, dass unsere Bescheidenheit im Weg stehen würde, und ich habe mich ihnen angeschlossen. Bescheiden sind wir, bescheiden waren wir, bescheiden werden wir immer sein", sagte Mrs. Heep. "Ich bin mir sicher, dass Sie das nicht sein müssen, Ma'am", sagte ich, "wenn Sie nicht möchten." "Danke, Sir", entgegnete Mrs. Heep. "Wir kennen unsere Stellung und sind dankbar dafür." Ich merkte, dass sich Mrs. Heep allmählich mir näherte und dass Uriah allmählich gegenüber von mir saß und dass sie mich respektvoll mit den besten Speisen auf dem Tisch bedienten. Dort gab es zwar nichts Besonderes zu essen, aber ich nahm den guten Willen für die Tat und empfand ihre Aufmerksamkeit als sehr angenehm. Bald begannen sie über Tanten zu sprechen, und dann erzählte ich ihnen von meiner Tante; und über Väter und Mütter, und dann erzählte ich ihnen von meinen; und dann fing Mrs. Heep an, über Schwiegerväter zu sprechen, und dann begann ich ihr von meinem zu erzählen - hörte aber auf, weil meine Tante mir geraten hatte, mich in dieser Angelegenheit bedeckt zu halten. Ein zarter junger Korken hätte jedoch keine größere Chance gegen ein Paar Korkenzieher gehabt oder ein zartes junges Zahn gegen ein paar Zahnärzte oder ein kleiner Federball gegen zwei Schläger, als ich gegen Uriah und Mrs. Heep. Sie taten genau das, was sie wollten, mit mir und schafften es, Dinge aus mir herauszulocken, von denen ich keine Lust hatte, sie zu erzählen, mit einer Gewissheit, über die ich erröten muss, zumal ich in meiner kindlichen Offenheit mir gewisse Verdienste zuschrieb, so vertraulich zu sein und das Gefühl hatte, der Schirmherr meiner beiden respektvollen Gastgeber zu sein. Sie waren sehr zuneinander hingezogen: Das war sicher. Ich nehme an, das hatte seine Wirkung auf mich als Hauch von Natur; aber die Geschicklichkeit, mit der der eine das, was der andere sagte, verfolgte, war eine kunstvolle Note, gegen die ich noch weniger immun war. Als es nichts mehr aus mir herauszubekommen gab über mich selbst (denn über das Leben bei Murdstone und Grinby und über meine Reise war ich stumm), begannen sie über Mr. Wickfield und Agnes zu sprechen. Uriah warf den Ball zu Mrs. Heep, Mrs. Heep fing ihn auf und warf ihn wieder zu Uriah, Uriah hielt ihn eine Weile in der Luft und schickte ihn dann erneut zu Mrs. Heep zurück, und so warfen sie ihn hin und her, bis ich keine Ahnung mehr hatte, wer ihn hatte, und ganz verwirrt war. Der Ball selbst änderte sich auch immer wieder. Mal war es Mr. Wickfield, dann Agnes, dann die Vorzüglichkeit von Mr. Wickfield, dann meine Bewunderung für Agnes; mal das Ausmaß von Mr. Wickfields Geschäft und Ressourcen, dann unser häusliches Leben nach dem Abendessen; mal der Wein, den Mr. Wickfield trank, der Grund, warum er so viel davon trank, und das Mitleid, dass er so viel davon trank; mal das eine, mal das andere, dann plötzlich alles auf einmal; und die ganze Zeit über, ohne besonders oft zu sprechen oder etwas zu tun, außer sie ein wenig zu ermutigen, aus Angst, dass ihre Bescheidenheit und die Ehre meiner Anwesenheit sie überwältigen könnte, ließ ich ständig etwas heraus, das ich nicht hätte preisgeben sollen, und sah die Wirkung davon im Zwinkern von Uriahs zerbeulten Nasenlöchern. Ich begann mich ein wenig unwohl zu fühlen und wünschte mir, ich wäre gut aus dem Besuch herausgekommen, als eine Figur die Straße herunterkam, an der offenen Tür vorbeiging - die ge "Vielen Dank", sagte Herr Micawber und winkte wie früher mit der Hand, während er sein Kinn in seinen Hemdkragen schob. "Sie ist einigermaßen auf dem Weg der Besserung. Die Zwillingskinder erhalten ihre Nahrung nicht mehr aus der Quelle der Natur - kurz gesagt", sagte Herr Micawber in einem seiner Vertrauensausbrüche, "sie sind entwöhnt - und Frau Micawber ist derzeit meine Reisebegleiterin. Sie wird erfreut sein, Copperfield, ihre Bekanntschaft mit jemandem wieder aufzufrischen, der sich in jeder Hinsicht als würdiger Diener am heiligen Altar der Freundschaft erwiesen hat." Ich sagte, dass ich mich freuen würde, sie zu sehen. "Sie sind sehr nett", sagte Herr Micawber. Herr Micawber lächelte, schob sein Kinn wieder zurecht und sah sich um. "Ich habe meinen Freund Copperfield entdeckt", sagte Herr Micawber höflich, ohne sich besonders an jemanden zu wenden, "nicht allein, sondern bei einem geselligen Mahl in Begleitung einer Witwe und ihres anscheinenden Nachwuchses - kurz gesagt", erklärte Herr Micawber in einem weiteren Vertrauensausbruch, "ihres Sohnes. Ich würde es als Ehre betrachten, vorgestellt zu werden." Unter diesen Umständen konnte ich nicht anders, als Herrn Micawber Uriah Heep und seiner Mutter bekannt zu machen, was ich auch tat. Als sie sich vor ihm erniedrigten, nahm Herr Micawber Platz und winkte auf höfliche Weise mit der Hand. "Jeder Freund meines Freundes Copperfield", sagte Herr Micawber, "hat einen persönlichen Anspruch auf mich." "Wir sind zu demütig, Herr", sagte Frau Heep, "mein Sohn und ich, um die Freunde von Master Copperfield zu sein. Er war so freundlich, mit uns Tee zu trinken, und wir danken ihm für seine Gesellschaft und Ihnen, Herr, für Ihre Aufmerksamkeit." "Meine Dame", erwiderte Herr Micawber mit einem Bogen, "Sie sind sehr zuvorkommend. Und was machen Sie, Copperfield? Befinden Sie sich immer noch im Weinhandel?" Ich war äußerst darauf bedacht, Herrn Micawber wegzubekommen, und antwortete mit meinem Hut in der Hand und einem sehr roten Gesicht, davon war ich überzeugt, dass ich Schüler bei Doktor Strong sei. "Ein Schüler?", sagte Herr Micawber und hob seine Augenbrauen. "Ich bin außerordentlich glücklich, das zu hören. Obwohl ein Verstand wie der meines Freundes Copperfield" - zu Uriah und Frau Heep - "keine Bildung benötigt, die ohne sein Wissen um Menschen und Dinge erforderlich wäre, ist er dennoch ein fruchtbarer Boden, der vor latentem Pflanzenleben nur so strotzt - kurz gesagt", sagte Herr Micawber lächelnd in einem weiteren Vertrauensausbruch, "es ist ein Verstand, der sich beliebig in die Klassiker einarbeiten kann." Uriah, dessen lange Hände sich langsam ineinander verschlungen, machte eine grässliche Zuckung vom Hüftbereich nach oben, um seine Zustimmung zu dieser Einschätzung von mir auszudrücken. "Sollen wir Frau Micawber besuchen, Sir?", sagte ich, um Herrn Micawber wegzubekommen. "Wenn Sie ihr diese Freude machen wollen, Copperfield", antwortete Herr Micawber und stand auf. "Ich habe keine Bedenken, vor unseren Freunden hier zu sagen, dass ich ein Mann bin, der sich seit einigen Jahren gegen den Druck finanzieller Schwierigkeiten zur Wehr setzt." Ich wusste, dass er etwas in dieser Art sagen würde; er war immer so prahlerisch mit seinen Schwierigkeiten. "Manchmal habe ich mich über meine Schwierigkeiten hinweggesetzt. Manchmal haben mich meine Schwierigkeiten... kurz gesagt, auf die Nase gelegt. Es gab Zeiten, in denen ich nacheinander Schläge eingesteckt habe; es gab Zeiten, in denen sie zu viel für mich waren, und ich bin eingeknickt und habe zu Frau Micawber gesagt, mit den Worten von Cato, 'Plato, du argumentierst gut. Es ist vorbei. Ich kann nicht mehr kämpfen.' Aber zu keiner Zeit in meinem Leben", sagte Herr Micawber, "habe ich eine größere Zufriedenheit empfunden als beim Ausgießen meiner Leiden (wenn ich Schwierigkeiten, die hauptsächlich aus Vollstreckungstiteln und Wechseln von zwei und vier Monaten resultieren, mit diesem Wort beschreiben darf) in den Schoß meines Freundes Copperfield." Herr Micawber beendete diese schöne Anerkennung, indem er sagte: "Mr. Heep! Guten Abend. Frau Heep! Ihr Diener." Dann ging er mit mir auf die modischste Weise hinaus, machte viel Lärm auf dem Gehweg mit seinen Schuhen und summte eine Melodie, während wir gingen. Es war eine kleine Herberge, in der Herr Micawber unterkam, und er bewohnte ein kleines Zimmer darin, das vom Handelsraum abgetrennt war und stark nach Tabakrauch roch. Ich glaube, es war über der Küche, weil ein warmer, fettiger Geruch durch die Ritzen im Boden aufstieg und eine schlaffe Feuchtigkeit an den Wänden hing. Ich weiß, dass es sich in der Nähe der Bar befand, wegen des Geruchs von Alkohol und des Gläsergeklappers. Hier lag Frau Micawber auf einem kleinen Sofa, unter einem Bild von einem Rennpferd, mit dem Kopf dicht am Feuer und den Füßen, die den Senf vom Servierwagen am anderen Ende des Raumes schoben. Herr Micawber, der zuerst eintrat, sagte: "Meine Liebe, erlaube mir, dir einen Schüler von Doktor Strong vorzustellen." Übrigens bemerkte ich, dass Herr Micawber zwar immer genauso verwirrt war, wie alt und angesehen ich war, aber er erinnerte sich immer daran, dass ich ein Schüler von Doktor Strong war, was er als höfliche Geste ansah. Frau Micawber war erstaunt, aber sehr froh, mich zu sehen. Ich war auch sehr froh, sie zu sehen, und nach einer herzlichen Begrüßung auf beiden Seiten setzte ich mich auf das kleine Sofa neben ihr. "Zu Kohlen", sagte Mrs. Micawber. "Zum Kohlehandel. Mr. Micawber war darauf gekommen, dass es im Medway Kohlehandel eine Möglichkeit für einen Mann seines Talents geben könnte. Dann, wie Mr. Micawber sehr richtig sagte, war der erste Schritt, der unternommen werden musste, klar zu kommen und das Medway zu sehen. Was wir gemacht haben. Ich sage 'wir', Master Copperfield; denn ich werde, betonte Mrs. Micawber mit Emotion, Mr. Micawber nie im Stich lassen." Ich flüsterte meine Bewunderung und Zustimmung. "Wir kamen", wiederholte Mrs. Micawber, "und sahen das Medway. Meine Meinung zum Kohlehandel auf diesem Fluss ist, dass es Talent erfordern könnte, aber sicherlich Kapital erfordert. Talent hat Mr. Micawber; Kapital hat Mr. Micawber nicht. Wir sahen, glaube ich, den größten Teil des Medway; und das ist meine persönliche Schlussfolgerung. Da wir so nah hier waren, war Mr. Micawber der Ansicht, dass es unklug wäre, nicht weiterzugehen und die Kathedrale zu besichtigen. Erstens, weil es so sehenswert ist und wir es noch nie gesehen haben; und zweitens wegen der großen Wahrscheinlichkeit, dass in einer Domstadt etwas passieren könnte. Wir sind jetzt seit drei Tagen hier", sagte Mrs. Micawber. "Bis jetzt ist noch nichts passiert; und es mag dich, mein lieber Master Copperfield, nicht so sehr überraschen wie einen Fremden zu wissen, dass wir derzeit auf eine Überweisung aus London warten, um unsere Zahlungsverpflichtungen in diesem Hotel zu begleichen. Bis zum Eintreffen dieser Überweisung", sagte Mrs. Micawber mit viel Gefühl, "bin ich von meinem Zuhause (ich beziehe mich auf das Zimmer in Pentonville), von meinem Jungen und Mädchen und von meinen Zwillingen abgeschnitten." Ich fühlte das größte Mitgefühl für Mr. und Mrs. Micawber in dieser besorgniserregenden Notlage und sagte das auch Mr. Micawber, der nun zurückkam: und fügte hinzu, dass ich nur wünschte, ich hätte genug Geld, um ihnen den Betrag, den sie brauchen, zu leihen. Mr. Micawbers Antwort drückte die Verwirrung seines Geistes aus. Er sagte, als er mir die Hand schüttelte: "Copperfield, du bist ein wahrer Freund; aber wenn es hart auf hart kommt, ist kein Mann ohne einen Freund, der Rasierutensilien besitzt." Bei diesem schrecklichen Hinweis warf Mrs. Micawber ihre Arme um den Hals von Mr. Micawber und bat ihn, ruhig zu sein. Er weinte; erholte sich aber fast sofort, um den Kellner zu rufen und für das Frühstück am nächsten Morgen einen heißen Nierenpudding und einen Teller Garnelen zu bestellen. Als ich mich von ihnen verabschiedete, drängten sie mich so sehr, vor ihrer Abreise zum Abendessen zu kommen, dass ich nicht ablehnen konnte. Aber da ich wusste, dass ich am nächsten Tag nicht kommen konnte, da ich abends noch viel vorzubereiten hatte, verabredete Mr. Micawber, dass er im Laufe des Vormittags bei Doctor Strong vorbeischauen würde (da er das Gefühl hatte, dass die Überweisung mit der Post ankommen würde) und den Tag danach vorschlagen würde, falls es mir besser passte. Dementsprechend wurde ich am nächsten Vormittag aus der Schule geholt und fand Mr. Micawber im Wohnzimmer vor, der gekommen war, um mitzuteilen, dass das Abendessen wie vorgeschlagen stattfinden würde. Als ich ihn fragte, ob die Überweisung gekommen sei, drückte er meine Hand und ging. Als ich am selben Abend aus dem Fenster schaute, überraschte es mich und machte mich eher unruhig, Mr. Micawber und Uriah Heep Arm in Arm vorbeigehen zu sehen: Uriah demütig bewusst, welch eine Ehre ihm zuteil wurde, und Mr. Micawber mit blander Freude daran, Uriah seine Gunst zu erweisen. Aber ich war noch mehr überrascht, als ich am nächsten Tag zur vereinbarten Essenszeit um vier Uhr zum kleinen Hotel ging und, von dem, was Mr. Micawber sagte, erfuhr, dass er mit Uriah nach Hause gegangen war und Brandy und Wasser bei Mrs. Heep getrunken hatte. "Und ich sage dir, mein lieber Copperfield", sagte Mr. Micawber, "dein Freund Heep ist ein junger Mann, der Generalstaatsanwalt sein könnte. Wenn ich diesen jungen Mann gekannt hätte zu der Zeit, als meine Schwierigkeiten ihren Höhepunkt erreichten, kann ich nur sagen, dass ich glaube, meine Gläubiger wären viel besser verwaltet worden als sie waren." Ich verstand kaum, wie das sein konnte, da Mr. Micawber ihnen ohnehin nichts bezahlt hatte; aber ich wollte nicht fragen. Ich wollte auch nicht sagen, dass ich hoffte, dass er nicht zu mitteilsam zu Uriah gewesen war, oder fragen, ob sie viel über mich gesprochen hatten. Ich hatte Angst, Mr. Micawbers Gefühle zu verletzen oder zumindest Mrs. Micawbers, da sie sehr empfindlich war; aber es machte mich auch unwohl und ich dachte später oft darüber nach. Wir hatten ein wunderschönes kleines Abendessen. Ein ganz elegantes Fischgericht; das Nierenende eines gerösteten Kalbsrückens; gebratene Wurstbrätchen; ein Rebhuhn und ein Pudding. Es gab Wein und starkes Bier; und nach dem Essen machte uns Mrs. Micawber mit eigenen Händen eine Schüssel mit heißem Punsch. Mr. Micawber war ungewöhnlich gesellig. Ich habe ihn nie so gute Gesellschaft gesehen. Er ließ sein Gesicht mit dem Punsch glänzen, so dass es aussah, als wäre es ganz lackiert gewesen. Er wurde fröhlich sentimental über die Stadt und wünschte ihr Erfolg; er bemerkte, dass er und Mrs. Micawber es dort äußerst gemütlich und komfortabel hatten und dass er die angenehmen Stunden, die sie in Canterbury verbracht hatten, nie vergessen würde. Dann schlug er mich vor; und er, Mrs. Micawber und ich ließen in unserem Rückblick auf unsere vergangene Bekanntschaft das Eigentum wieder verkaufen. Dann schlug ich Mrs. Micawber vor: oder besser gesagt, sagte bescheiden: "Wenn Sie es mir erlauben, Mrs. Micawber, werde ich jetzt das Vergnügen haben, auf Ihre Gesundheit, Madame, zu trinken." Daraufhin lobte Mr. Micawber den Charakter von Mrs. Micawber und sagte, sie sei immer seine Leitfigur, Philosophin und Freundin gewesen, und dass er mir empfehlen würde, wenn ich in ein heiratsfähiges Alter käme, eine solche Frau zu heiraten, wenn eine solche Frau nur gefunden werden könnte. Als der Punsch verschwand, wurde Mr. Micawber noch freundlicher und geselliger. Auch die Stimmung von Mrs. Micawber stieg an, und wir sangen "Auld Lang Syne". Als wir zu "Hier ist eine Hand, mein treuer Freund" kamen, reichten wir uns alle um den Tisch herum die Hände; und als wir erklärten, dass wir einen "right gude Willie Waught" nehmen würden und keine Ahnung hatten, was es bedeutete, waren wir wirklich berührt. Kurz gesagt, ich habe noch nie jemanden so ausgelassen gesehen wie Mr. Micawber, bis zur allerletzten Minute des Abends, als ich mich herzlich von ihm und seiner liebenswerten Frau verabschiedete. Daher war ich am nächsten Morgen um sieben Uhr nicht darauf vorbereitet, die folgende Mitteilung zu erhalten, datiert um halb zehn Uhr abends; eine Viertelstunde nachdem ich ihn verlassen hatte: "MEIN LIEBER JUNGER FREUND, "Das Würfel ist gefallen - alles ist vorbei. Um die Auswirkungen der Sorgen hinter einer kränkelnden Maske der Fröhlichkeit zu verbergen, habe ich Ihnen heute Abend nicht mitgeteilt, dass es keine Hoffnung auf die Überweisung gibt! Unter diesen Umständen, die gleichermaßen demütigend zu ertragen, demütigend zu betrachten und zu erzählen sind, habe ich die finanzielle Verpflicht Ich war so schockiert über den Inhalt dieses herzzerreißenden Briefes, dass ich direkt zum kleinen Hotel lief, mit der Absicht, es auf meinem Weg zu Doctor Strong's mitzunehmen und Mr. Micawber mit einem tröstenden Wort zu beruhigen. Aber auf halbem Weg traf ich den Londoner Kutschenwagen mit Mr. und Mrs. Micawber hinten drauf; Mr. Micawber, das Bild der ruhigen Freude, lächelnd über Mrs. Micawbers Unterhaltung, Walnüsse aus einer Papiertüte essend und eine Flasche aus seiner Brusttasche herausragend. Da sie mich nicht sahen, dachte ich, alles in allem wäre es am besten, sie nicht zu sehen. Also bog ich in eine Nebenstraße ein, die der kürzeste Weg zur Schule war, und fühlte mich insgesamt erleichtert, dass sie weg waren; obwohl ich sie trotzdem noch sehr mochte. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

Jemand taucht auf, Peggotty schreibt an David und erzählt ihm, dass die Möbel in seinem alten Haus verkauft wurden, die Murdstones umgezogen sind und das Haus zum Verkauf steht. David erzählt Miss Betsey von allen Neuigkeiten in Peggottys Briefen, wenn sie ihn in der Schule besucht, was sie häufig tut. Mr. Dick besucht sogar noch häufiger und wird zum Liebling von Doktor Strong und den anderen Jungen der Schule. Mr. Dick erzählt David, dass Miss Betsey vor kurzem eine seltsame nächtliche Begegnung mit einem Mann hatte, der sie so sehr erschreckte, dass sie ohnmächtig wurde. Weder Mr. Dick noch David verstehen die Begegnung. Mr. Dick berichtet, dass der Mann in der vorherigen Nacht wieder aufgetaucht sei und dass Miss Betsey ihm Geld gegeben habe. David geht zum Tee ins Haus von Uriah Heep, wo Uriah und seine Mutter ihn dazu bringen, ihnen Geheimnisse über Agnes zu verraten, insbesondere über die Gesundheit und finanzielle Situation ihres Vaters. David fühlt sich sehr unwohl bei den Heeps und hat das Gefühl, dass sie ihn manipulieren. Uriah und seine Mutter betonen immer wieder, dass sie so demütig sind, dass sie für jede Aufmerksamkeit von David dankbar sind. Inmitten des Tees geht Mr. Micawber an der Tür vorbei. Als er David sieht, tritt er ein. Die beiden gehen zusammen und besuchen Mrs. Micawber, die sehr froh ist, David zu sehen. Die Micawbers sind wieder in schrecklicher finanzieller Notlage, aber sie sind trotzdem fröhlich beim Abendessen.

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.

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: 38 Dolly and a Real Gentleman Winter came in early, with a great deal of cold and wet. There was snow, or sleet, or rain almost every day for weeks, changing only for keen driving winds or sharp frosts. The horses all felt it very much. When it is a dry cold a couple of good thick rugs will keep the warmth in us; but when it is soaking rain they soon get wet through and are no good. Some of the drivers had a waterproof cover to throw over, which was a fine thing; but some of the men were so poor that they could not protect either themselves or their horses, and many of them suffered very much that winter. When we horses had worked half the day we went to our dry stables, and could rest, while they had to sit on their boxes, sometimes staying out as late as one or two o'clock in the morning if they had a party to wait for. When the streets were slippery with frost or snow that was the worst of all for us horses. One mile of such traveling, with a weight to draw and no firm footing, would take more out of us than four on a good road; every nerve and muscle of our bodies is on the strain to keep our balance; and, added to this, the fear of falling is more exhausting than anything else. If the roads are very bad indeed our shoes are roughed, but that makes us feel nervous at first. When the weather was very bad many of the men would go and sit in the tavern close by, and get some one to watch for them; but they often lost a fare in that way, and could not, as Jerry said, be there without spending money. He never went to the Rising Sun; there was a coffee-shop near, where he now and then went, or he bought of an old man, who came to our rank with tins of hot coffee and pies. It was his opinion that spirits and beer made a man colder afterward, and that dry clothes, good food, cheerfulness, and a comfortable wife at home, were the best things to keep a cabman warm. Polly always supplied him with something to eat when he could not get home, and sometimes he would see little Dolly peeping from the corner of the street, to make sure if "father" was on the stand. If she saw him she would run off at full speed and soon come back with something in a tin or basket, some hot soup or pudding Polly had ready. It was wonderful how such a little thing could get safely across the street, often thronged with horses and carriages; but she was a brave little maid, and felt it quite an honor to bring "father's first course", as he used to call it. She was a general favorite on the stand, and there was not a man who would not have seen her safely across the street, if Jerry had not been able to do it. One cold windy day Dolly had brought Jerry a basin of something hot, and was standing by him while he ate it. He had scarcely begun when a gentleman, walking toward us very fast, held up his umbrella. Jerry touched his hat in return, gave the basin to Dolly, and was taking off my cloth, when the gentleman, hastening up, cried out, "No, no, finish your soup, my friend; I have not much time to spare, but I can wait till you have done, and set your little girl safe on the pavement." So saying, he seated himself in the cab. Jerry thanked him kindly, and came back to Dolly. "There, Dolly, that's a gentleman; that's a real gentleman, Dolly; he has got time and thought for the comfort of a poor cabman and a little girl." Jerry finished his soup, set the child across, and then took his orders to drive to Clapham Rise. Several times after that the same gentleman took our cab. I think he was very fond of dogs and horses, for whenever we took him to his own door two or three dogs would come bounding out to meet him. Sometimes he came round and patted me, saying in his quiet, pleasant way, "This horse has got a good master, and he deserves it." It was a very rare thing for any one to notice the horse that had been working for him. I have known ladies to do it now and then, and this gentleman, and one or two others have given me a pat and a kind word; but ninety-nine persons out of a hundred would as soon think of patting the steam engine that drew the train. The gentleman was not young, and there was a forward stoop in his shoulders as if he was always going at something. His lips were thin and close shut, though they had a very pleasant smile; his eye was keen, and there was something in his jaw and the motion of his head that made one think he was very determined in anything he set about. His voice was pleasant and kind; any horse would trust that voice, though it was just as decided as everything else about him. One day he and another gentleman took our cab; they stopped at a shop in R---- Street, and while his friend went in he stood at the door. A little ahead of us on the other side of the street a cart with two very fine horses was standing before some wine vaults; the carter was not with them, and I cannot tell how long they had been standing, but they seemed to think they had waited long enough, and began to move off. Before they had gone many paces the carter came running out and caught them. He seemed furious at their having moved, and with whip and rein punished them brutally, even beating them about the head. Our gentleman saw it all, and stepping quickly across the street, said in a decided voice: "If you don't stop that directly, I'll have you arrested for leaving your horses, and for brutal conduct." The man, who had clearly been drinking, poured forth some abusive language, but he left off knocking the horses about, and taking the reins, got into his cart; meantime our friend had quietly taken a note-book from his pocket, and looking at the name and address painted on the cart, he wrote something down. "What do you want with that?" growled the carter, as he cracked his whip and was moving on. A nod and a grim smile was the only answer he got. On returning to the cab our friend was joined by his companion, who said laughingly, "I should have thought, Wright, you had enough business of your own to look after, without troubling yourself about other people's horses and servants." Our friend stood still for a moment, and throwing his head a little back, "Do you know why this world is as bad as it is?" "No," said the other. "Then I'll tell you. It is because people think only about their own business, and won't trouble themselves to stand up for the oppressed, nor bring the wrongdoer to light. I never see a wicked thing like this without doing what I can, and many a master has thanked me for letting him know how his horses have been used." "I wish there were more gentlemen like you, sir," said Jerry, "for they are wanted badly enough in this city." After this we continued our journey, and as they got out of the cab our friend was saying, "My doctrine is this, that if we see cruelty or wrong that we have the power to stop, and do nothing, we make ourselves sharers in the guilt." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Der Winter in London ist brutal und besonders hart für Kutschpferde, da sie draußen stundenlang darauf warten müssen, dass ihre Fahrgäste von Partys und anderen Veranstaltungen zurückkehren. Das Wetter macht es ihnen nicht leicht: "Wenn die Straßen glitschig waren vor Frost oder Schnee, war das für uns Pferde das Schlimmste von allem." Einige der Kutscher gehen in Kneipen, um zu warten, aber Jerry sitzt lieber in einem Café, da er nicht trinkt. "Seine Meinung war, dass Spirituosen und Bier einen Mann danach noch kälter machen und dass trockene Kleidung, gutes Essen, Fröhlichkeit und eine gemütliche Frau zu Hause die besten Dinge sind, um einen Kutscher warm zu halten", sagt Beauty über seinen Herrn. Polly und Dolly geben ihr Bestes, um sicherzustellen, dass Jerry an kalten Tagen warmes Essen hat, und die kleine Dolly überquert oft die Straße, um es zu bringen. Eines Tages sieht ein Mann, der Jerry's Kutsche mieten möchte, wie Dolly die Straße überquert, und er wartet, um sicherzustellen, dass Jerry Dolly sicher über die Straße bringt, bevor sie losfahren. Jerry sagt zu Dolly: "... das ist ein Gentleman; das ist ein richtiger Gentleman, Dolly. Er nimmt sich Zeit und kümmert sich um den Komfort eines armen Kutschers und eines kleinen Mädchens." Dieser Gentleman wird ein regelmäßiger Kunde, und sie erfahren, dass er einige Hunde besitzt und Pferde mag. Wie Beauty bemerkt: "Es war sehr selten, dass jemand das Pferd bemerkt hat, das für ihn gearbeitet hat." Bei einem Ausflug sieht der Gentleman, wie ein Mann seine Pferde schlägt, weil sie zur falschen Zeit vorwärts gehen. Der freundliche Gentleman sagt dem Mann, er solle aufhören und droht ihm mit Verhaftung. Nachdem der Mann unhöflich gegangen ist, notiert sich der Gentleman die Nummer seines Wagenparks. Als sein Freund ihn fragt, warum es ihm wichtig war, antwortet der Gentleman: "Meine Doktrin ist diese: Wenn wir Grausamkeit oder Unrecht sehen, das wir stoppen könnten und nichts tun, machen wir uns mitschuldig." Tiefgründige Dinge für eine Kutschfahrt.

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.

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: An diesem Tag hatten wir viel Arbeit mit der kleinen Cathy: Sie war in großer Freude und wollte sich freudig ihrem Cousin anschließen. Doch als sie die Nachricht von seiner Abreise erfuhr, folgten leidenschaftliche Tränen und Klagelieder. Edgar selbst musste sie trösten, indem er versicherte, dass er bald zurückkommen werde. Er fügte jedoch hinzu: "Wenn ich ihn finden kann", und es gab keine Hoffnung dafür. Dieses Versprechen besänftigte sie nur unzureichend; aber die Zeit war mächtiger, und obwohl sie immer wieder nach ihrem Vater fragte, wann Linton zurückkehren würde, hatten sich seine Züge in ihrer Erinnerung so verschwommen, dass sie ihn nicht erkannte. Wenn ich die Haushälterin von Wuthering Heights traf, als ich geschäftliche Besuche in Gimmerton machte, fragte ich immer, wie sich der junge Herr machte; denn er lebte fast genauso abgeschieden wie Catherine selbst und wurde nie gesehen. Ich konnte von ihr entnehmen, dass er weiterhin kränklich war und ein mühsamer Bewohner. Sie sagte, dass Mr. Heathcliff ihn immer länger und schlimmer zu hassen schien, obwohl er sich Mühe gab, es zu verbergen: Er hatte eine Aversion gegen den Klang seiner Stimme und konnte es nicht ertragen, dass er längere Zeit im selben Raum mit ihm verbrachte. Es wurde selten viel zwischen ihnen gesprochen: Linton lernte seine Lektionen und verbrachte seine Abende in einem kleinen Raum namens "Das Zimmer" oder lag den ganzen Tag im Bett, denn er bekam ständig Husten, Erkältungen und Schmerzen jeder Art. "Und ich habe noch nie ein solch ängstliches Wesen gesehen", sagte die Frau, "oder jemanden, der so auf sich selbst Acht gibt. Er wird weitermachen, wenn ich das Fenster ein bisschen spät in den Abend geöffnet lasse. Oh! Es ist tödlich, ein Hauch von Nachtluft! Und er muss mitten im Sommer ein Feuer haben; und Josephs Pfeife ist Gift; und er muss immer Süßigkeiten und Köstlichkeiten haben, und immer Milch, für immer – egal, wie sehr der Rest von uns im Winter frieren; und dort sitzt er in seinen Pelzmantel gehüllt in seinem Stuhl vor dem Feuer mit Toast und Wasser oder anderem Dreck auf dem Herd zum Schlürfen; und wenn Hareton, aus Mitleid, kommt, um ihn zu unterhalten – Hareton ist nicht böswillig, obwohl er grob ist – dann werden sie sicher streiten, einer flucht und der andere weint. Ich glaube, der Meister würde es genießen, wenn Earnshaw ihn zu einer Mumie verprügeln würde, wenn er nicht sein Sohn wäre; und ich bin sicher, dass er ihn vor die Tür setzen würde, wenn er wüsste, wie sehr er sich selbst betreut. Aber dann würde er sich nicht in Versuchung begeben: Er betritt niemals das "Zimmer", und wenn sich Linton dort drinnen so verhält, wie er es getan hat, schickt er ihn sofort nach oben." Aus dieser Schilderung schloss ich, dass das völlige Fehlen von Mitgefühl Heathcliff egoistisch und unsympathisch gemacht hatte, falls er es nicht von Anfang an war; und mein Interesse an ihm nahm folglich ab: Obwohl ich nach wie vor von Trauer über sein Schicksal bewegt war und mir wünschte, er wäre bei uns geblieben. Herr Edgar ermutigte mich, Informationen einzuholen: Ich glaube, er dachte viel über ihn nach und wäre sogar bereit gewesen, ein gewisses Risiko einzugehen, um ihn zu sehen; und er sagte mir einst, dass ich die Haushälterin fragen solle, ob er jemals in das Dorf käme? Sie sagte, dass er nur zweimal auf einem Pferd begleitend seinen Vater besucht habe; und beide Male gab er vor, danach drei oder vier Tage völlig erschöpft zu sein. Die Haushälterin, wenn ich mich richtig erinnere, ging zwei Jahre nach seiner Ankunft; und eine andere, die ich nicht kannte, wurde ihre Nachfolgerin; sie lebt dort immer noch. Die Zeit verging auf dem Grange in ihrer früheren angenehmen Art, bis Miss Cathy sechzehn wurde. Am Tag ihres Geburtstags zeigten wir nie Anzeichen von Freude, denn es war auch der Jahrestag des Todes meiner verstorbenen Herrin. Ihr Vater verbrachte an diesem Tag immer alleine in der Bibliothek und ging bei Dunkelheit bis zum Gimmerton-Kirchhof, wo er seinen Aufenthalt oft bis nach Mitternacht verlängerte. Daher war Catherine auf ihre eigenen Ressourcen zur Unterhaltung angewiesen. Dieser zwanzigste März war ein schöner Frühlingstag, und als ihr Vater sich zurückgezogen hatte, kam meine junge Dame in ihrer zum Ausgehen angezogenen Kleidung herunter und sagte, sie wünsche einen Spaziergang am Rande des Moors mit mir zu machen: Mr. Linton hatte ihr erlaubt, wenn wir nur eine kurze Strecke gingen und innerhalb einer Stunde zurück sein würden. Also beeil dich, Ellen!" rief sie. "Ich weiß, wo ich hin möchte; da hat sich eine Gruppe von Moorfedern niedergelassen: Ich möchte sehen, ob sie schon ihre Nester gebaut haben." "Das muss ziemlich weit oben sein", antwortete ich. "Sie ziehen am Rande des Moors keine Brut groß." "Nein, ist es nicht", sagte sie. "Ich bin schon ganz nah mit Papa dort gewesen." Ich setzte meinen Hut auf und machte mich auf den Weg, und dachte nicht weiter darüber nach. Sie sprang vor mir her und kehrte zu meiner Seite zurück und war wieder wie ein junger Windhund unterwegs; und anfangs fand ich genug Unterhaltung darin, den Lerchen zu lauschen, die fern und nah sangen, und die süße, warme Sonnenschein zu genießen; und sie, mein Liebling und meine Freude, mit ihren goldenen Locken, die hinter ihr frei wehten, und ihrer strahlenden Wange, so weich und rein wie eine wilde Rose, und ihren Augen, strahlend vor ungetrübtem Vergnügen, zuzusehen. Sie war ein glückliches Wesen und ein Engel in diesen Tagen. Es ist schade, dass sie nicht zufrieden sein konnte. "Nun", sagte ich, "wo sind deine Moorfedern, Miss Cathy? Wir sollten dort sein: Der Grange-Parkzaun ist jetzt weit entfernt." "Oh, noch ein Stück weiter – nur ein kleines Stück weiter, Ellen", war ihre ständige Antwort. "Steig zu diesem Hügel hinauf, überquere diese Böschung, und wenn du auf der anderen Seite ankommst, habe ich die Vögel aufgescheucht." Aber es gab so viele Hügel und Böschungen zu erklimmen und zu überwinden, dass ich schließlich müde wurde und ihr mitteilte, dass wir innehalten und umkehren müssten. Ich rief ihr zu, da sie mir weit vorausgeeilt war; entweder hörte sie mich nicht oder sie kümmerte sich nicht darum, denn sie sprang immer weiter und ich war gezwungen, ihr zu folgen. Schließlich tauchte sie in eine Senke ein, und bevor ich sie wieder zu Gesicht bekam, war sie zwei Meilen näher an Wuthering Heights als an ihrem eigenen Zuhause; und ich sah, wie zwei Personen sie festhielten, von denen ich überzeugt war, dass einer von ihnen Mr. Heathcliff selbst war. Cathy war auf frischer Tat dabei erwischt worden, die Nester der Moorhühner zu plündern oder zumindest aufzuspüren. Die Heights waren Heathcliffs Land, und er züchtigte sie des Wilderns. "Ich habe weder welche genommen noch welche gefunden", sagte sie, als ich mich zu ihnen durchkämpfte und ihre Hände ausbreitete, um die Aussage zu untermau "Ich auch. Komm, Nelly, halt den Mund - es wird für sie ein Vergnügen sein, uns zu besuchen. Hareton, komm weiter mit dem Mädchen. Du wirst mit mir gehen, Nelly." "Nein, sie geht an keinen solchen Ort", rief ich und versuchte meinen Arm loszureißen, den er ergriffen hatte: Aber sie war bereits fast bei der Türschwelle, und rannte mit voller Geschwindigkeit um den Hügel herum. Ihr auserwählter Begleiter gab nicht vor, sie zu begleiten: Er wich am Straßenrand aus und verschwand. "Mr. Heathcliff, das ist sehr falsch", fuhr ich fort: "Sie wissen, dass Sie nichts Gutes im Sinn haben. Und dort wird sie Linton sehen, und alles wird erzählt werden, sobald wir zurück sind; und mir wird die Schuld gegeben." "Ich möchte, dass sie Linton sieht", antwortete er. "In den letzten Tagen sieht es besser aus mit ihm; es kommt nicht oft vor, dass er gesehen werden kann. Und wir werden sie bald dazu bringen, den Besuch geheimzuhalten: Was ist daran schlimm?" "Das Schlimme daran ist, dass ihr Vater mich hassen würde, wenn er herausfände, dass ich sie in Ihr Haus habe eintreten lassen; und ich bin überzeugt, dass Sie böse Absichten haben, sie dazu zu ermutigen", antwortete ich. "Meine Absicht ist so ehrlich wie möglich. Ich werde Ihnen den gesamten Hintergrund erklären", sagte er. "Dass sich die beiden Cousins ineinander verlieben und heiraten. Ich handle großzügig gegenüber Ihrem Herrn: Seine junge Göre hat keine Erwartungen, und wenn sie meinen Wünschen nachkommt, wird sie sofort als gleichberechtigte Erbin neben Linton versorgt." "Wenn Linton sterben würde", antwortete ich, "und sein Leben ist sehr unsicher, würde Catherine die Erbin sein." "Nein, das würde sie nicht", sagte er. "Es gibt keine Bestimmung im Testament, die es sichert. Sein Vermögen würde mir gehören. Aber um Streitigkeiten zu verhindern, wünsche ich ihre Vereinigung und bin entschlossen, sie zu bewerkstelligen." "Und ich bin entschlossen, dass sie nie wieder Ihr Haus betreten wird, wenn sie mit mir unterwegs ist", erwiderte ich, als wir das Tor erreichten, wo Miss Cathy auf unsere Ankunft wartete. Heathcliff bat mich, ruhig zu sein, und ging uns den Weg voran, um die Tür zu öffnen. Meine junge Dame warf ihm mehrere Blicke zu, als ob sie sich nicht genau entscheiden könnte, was sie von ihm halten sollte; aber jetzt lächelte er, als er ihr Auge traf, und milderte seine Stimme, als er sie ansprach; und ich war dumm genug zu glauben, dass die Erinnerung an ihre Mutter ihn davon abhalten könnte, ihr Schaden zuzufügen. Linton stand am Kamin. Er war draußen in den Feldern spazieren gegangen, denn er hatte seine Mütze auf und rief Joseph zu, ihm trockene Schuhe zu bringen. Er war für sein Alter groß gewachsen und noch einige Monate keine 16 Jahre alt. Seine Züge waren immer noch hübsch und sein Auge und seine Hautfarbe strahlender als ich mich erinnerte, wenn auch nur vorübergehendem Glanz, geliehen von der gesunden Luft und der warmen Sonne. "Nun, wer ist das?", fragte Mr. Heathcliff und wandte sich an Cathy. "Kannst du es sagen?" "Dein Sohn?", sagte sie, nachdem sie zuerst den einen und dann den anderen zweifelnd betrachtet hatte. "Ja, ja", antwortete er. "Aber ist das das einzige Mal, dass du ihn gesehen hast? Denk mal nach! Ah! Du hast ein kurzes Gedächtnis. Linton, erinnerst du dich nicht an deine Cousine, die uns so oft damit geärgert hat, sie sehen zu wollen?" "Was, Linton!", rief Cathy und entzündete sich vor freudiger Überraschung über den Namen. "Ist das der kleine Linton? Er ist größer als ich! Bist du Linton?" Der junge Mann trat vor und gab zu, dass er es war: Sie küsste ihn innig, und sie starrten verwundert auf die Veränderung, die die Zeit in beiden hervorgerufen hatte. Catherine hatte ihre volle Größe erreicht; ihre Figur war sowohl rundlich als auch schlank, elastisch wie Stahl, und ihr gesamtes Erscheinungsbild funkelte vor Gesundheit und Lebensfreude. Lintons Aussehen und Bewegungen waren sehr träge, und seine Gestalt äußerst schmal; aber es lag eine Anmut in seiner Art, die diese Mängel milderte und ihn nicht unsympathisch erscheinen ließ. Nachdem sie zahlreiche Zärtlichkeiten ausgetauscht hatte, ging seine Cousine zu Mr. Heathcliff, der an der Tür verweilte und seine Aufmerksamkeit zwischen den drinnen befindlichen Objekten und denen, die draußen lagen, aufteilte: vorgetäuscht, dass er die letzteren beobachtet, aber tatsächlich nur die ersteren wahrnehmend. "Und du bist mein Onkel, stimmt das?", rief sie und streckte sich, um ihm zu grüßen. "Ich dachte, ich mag dich, obwohl du am Anfang ziemlich mürrisch warst. Warum besuchst du das Grange nicht mit Linton? So viele Jahre so enge Nachbarn zu sein und uns nie zu sehen, ist seltsam: Was hast du so gemacht?" "Ich habe es einmal oder zweimal zu oft besucht, bevor du geboren wurdest", antwortete er. "Hier... verdammt nochmal! Wenn du noch Küsse übrig hast, gib sie Linton: Sie sind bei mir verschwendet." "Unartige Ellen!", rief Catherine, flog auf mich zu, um mich als Nächstes mit ihren verschwenderischen Liebkosungen anzugreifen. "Böse Ellen! Du versuchst, mich daran zu hindern, einzutreten. Aber ich werde von jetzt an jeden Morgen diesen Spaziergang machen: Darf ich, Onkel? Und manchmal Papa mitbringen. Wirst du nicht froh sein, uns zu sehen?" "Natürlich", antwortete der Onkel mit einem kaum unterdrückten Schmunzeln, das aus seiner tiefen Abneigung gegen beide vorgeschlagenen Besucher resultierte. "Aber warte", fuhr er fort und wandte sich der jungen Dame zu. "Jetzt, wo ich daran denke, sollte ich es dir besser sagen. Mr. Linton hat eine Abneigung gegen mich: Wir haben uns einmal in unserem Leben mit unchristlicher Gewalt gestritten; und wenn du ihm davon erzählst, wird er deinen Besuchen insgesamt einen Riegel vorschieben. Du darfst es also nicht erwähnen, es sei denn, es ist dir egal, deinen Cousin in Zukunft zu sehen: Du darfst kommen, wenn du willst, aber du darfst es nicht erwähnen." "Warum habt ihr euch gestritten?", fragte Catherine, ganz niedergeschlagen. "Er hielt mich für zu arm, um seine Schwester zu heiraten", antwortete Heathcliff, "und war betrübt, dass ich sie bekommen habe: Sein Stolz war verletzt, und er wird es mir nie verzeihen." "Das ist falsch!", sagte die junge Dame. "Irgendwann werde ich ihm das sagen. Aber Linton und ich haben keinen Anteil an eurem Streit. Ich werde dann nicht hierher kommen; er soll zum Grange kommen." "Das ist zu weit für mich", murmelte ihr Cousin, "vier Meilen zu gehen würde mich umbringen. Nein, komm her, Miss Catherine, ab und zu: nicht jeden Morgen, aber einmal oder zweimal pro Woche." Der Vater warf seinem Sohn einen Blick voll bitterer Verachtung zu. "Ich fürchte, Nelly, umsonst gearbeitet zu haben", murmelte er zu mir. "Miss Catherine, wie dieser Dummkopf sie nennt, wird seinen Wert erkennen und ihn zum Teufel schicken. Jetzt, wenn es Hareton gewesen wäre! Weißt du, dass ich zwanzigmal am Tag Hareton 'Du wirst der Liebling unter uns sein, Hareton! Sie sagt, du bist... Was war es nochmal? Nun, etwas sehr Schmeichelhaftes. Los, geh mit ihr über den Hof. Und benimm dich wie ein Gentleman, klar? Verwende keine schlechten Worte und starre nicht, wenn die junge Dame nicht hinschaut, und sei bereit, dein Gesicht zu verbergen, wenn sie es tut. Und wenn du sprichst, sprich langsam und lass die Hände aus den Taschen. Los, unterhalte sie so nett du kannst.' Er beobachtete das Paar, das am Fenster vorbeiging. Earnshaw hatte sein Gesicht vollständig von seinem Begleiter abgewandt. Er schien sich mit dem vertrauten Landschaftsbild mit dem Interesse eines Fremden und eines Künstlers zu beschäftigen. Catherine warf ihm einen verstohlenen Blick zu, der kleine Bewunderung ausdrückte. Dann wandte sie ihre Aufmerksamkeit darauf, Dinge zum Amüsement für sich selbst ausfindig zu machen, und hüpfte fröhlich weiter, ein Lied summend, um den Mangel an Unterhaltung auszugleichen. "Er hat ihm die Sprache verschlagen", bemerkte Heathcliff. "Er wird während der ganzen Zeit kein einziges Silbe wagen! Nelly, erinnerst du dich an mich in seinem Alter - nein, ein paar Jahre jünger. Sah ich jemals so dumm aus, so "gaumless", wie es Joseph nennt?" "Schlimmer", antwortete ich, "weil noch mürrischer mit dabei." "Ich habe Freude an ihm", fuhr er fort und dachte laut nach. "Er hat meine Erwartungen erfüllt. Wenn er ein geborener Narr wäre, würde ich es nicht halb so sehr genießen. Aber er ist kein Narr; und ich kann alle seine Gefühle nachvollziehen, da ich sie selbst gefühlt habe. Ich weiß genau, was er jetzt leidet. Es ist nur der Anfang von dem, was er leiden wird. Und er wird niemals in der Lage sein, aus seiner rohen Unwissenheit und Barbarie herauszutreten. Ich habe ihn schneller erwischt als sein hinterhältiger Vater mich erwischt hat, und tiefer; denn er ist stolz auf seine Tierhaftigkeit. Ich habe ihm beigebracht, alles Über-Tierische als dumm und schwach zu verachten. Glaubst du nicht, Hindley wäre stolz auf seinen Sohn, wenn er ihn sehen könnte? Fast so stolz wie ich auf meinen. Aber es gibt diesen Unterschied: Das eine ist Gold, das auf Pflastersteine gelegt wird, und das andere ist Zinn, das poliert wird, um wie ein Silberstück auszusehen. Mein Sohn hat nichts Wertvolles an sich; dennoch habe ich das Verdienst, es so weit wie möglich zu bringen. Seiner hatte erstklassige Eigenschaften, aber sie sind verloren, schlimmer als nutzlos geworden. Ich habe nichts zu bereuen; er hätte mehr zu bedauern als irgendjemand außer mir weiß. Und das Beste daran ist, Hareton ist verdammt gerne bei mir! Du wirst zugeben, dass ich Hindley dort übertrumpft habe. Wenn der tote Schurke aus seinem Grab auferstehen könnte, um mich für die Leiden seines Nachkommens zu beschimpfen, würde ich den Spaß haben, zu sehen, wie das genannte Kind ihn zurückschlägt und empört darüber ist, dass er sich erdreistet, den einzigen Freund, den er auf der Welt hat, zu beschimpfen!" Heathcliff lachte teuflisch über diese Vorstellung. Ich antwortete nicht, weil ich sah, dass er keine Antwort erwartete. In der Zwischenzeit begann unser junger Begleiter, der zu weit von uns entfernt saß, um zu hören, was gesagt wurde, Symptome von Unbehagen zu zeigen und bereute wahrscheinlich, dass er sich das Vergnügen von Catherines Gesellschaft wegen ein wenig Müdigkeit verweigerte. Sein Vater bemerkte die ruhelosen Blicke, die zum Fenster wanderten, und die unentschlossen ausgestreckte Hand, die nach seiner Mütze griff. "Steh auf, du fauler Junge!" rief er mit gespielter Herzlichkeit. "Hinter ihnen her! Sie sind gerade um die Ecke, beim Bienenstand." Linton sammelte seine Kräfte und verließ den Kamin. Das Fenster war geöffnet und als er hinaustrat, hörte ich, wie Cathy ihren ungeselligen Begleiter fragte, was diese Inschrift über der Tür bedeute. Hareton starrte hinauf und kratzte sich am Kopf, wie ein echter Clown. "Das ist irgendein verdammt dämliches Geschreibsel", antwortete er. "Ich kann es nicht lesen." "Kannst du es nicht lesen?", rief Catherine aus, "Ich kann es lesen: Es ist Englisch. Aber ich möchte wissen, warum es da ist." Linton kicherte, zum ersten Mal zeigte er Freude. "Er kennt seine Buchstaben nicht", sagte er zu seiner Cousine. "Könntest du dir vorstellen, dass es einen solchen Riesenidioten gibt?" "Ist er so, wie er sein sollte?", fragte Miss Cathy ernsthaft. "Oder ist er einfach: nicht richtig? Ich habe ihn jetzt zweimal befragt und jedes Mal sah er so dumm aus, dass ich glaube, er versteht mich nicht. Ich kann ihn kaum verstehen, bin ich echt!" Linton wiederholte sein Lachen und warf Hareton höhnische Blicke zu, der in diesem Moment sicher nicht ganz klar im Kopf zu sein schien. "Da ist nichts los außer Faulheit, nicht wahr, Earnshaw?", sagte er. "Meine Cousine glaubt, du bist ein Idiot. Da hast du die Konsequenz von "Buchlernen" verachtend, wie du sagen würdest. Hast du bemerkt, Catherine, seine schreckliche yorkshireische Aussprache?" "Warum zum Teufel ist das so?", knurrte Hareton und antwortete bereitwilliger auf seinen täglichen Begleiter. Er wollte weiter ausholen, aber die beiden jungen Leute brachen in ein lautes Gelächter aus. Meine chaotische Miss war begeistert, zu entdecken, dass sie seine eigenartige Sprache zu einer Unterhaltung machen konnte. "Wozu ist der Teufel in diesem Satz gut?", kicherte Linton. "Papa hat dir gesagt, keine schlechten Worte zu sagen, und du kannst den Mund nicht öffnen, ohne eines auszusprechen. Versuch dich jetzt wie ein Gentleman zu benehmen, versuch es!" "Wenn du mehr ein Mädel als ein Junge wärst, würde ich dich jetzt niederstrecken, wirklich!" erwiderte der wütende Bauer und zog sich zurück, während sein Gesicht von gemischter Wut und Beschämung brannte! Denn ihm war bewusst, beleidigt zu werden, und er wusste nicht, wie er darauf reagieren sollte. Mr. Heathcliff, der das Gespräch wie auch ich mitgehört hatte, lächelte, als er sah, wie er ging; warf jedoch sofort einen Blick des Abscheus auf das unbedachte Paar, das sich vor der Tür unterhielt: der Junge fand genügend Begeisterung, während er über Haretons Fehler und Mängel sprach und Anekdoten über seine Eskapaden erzählte; und das Mädchen genoss seine kecken und boshaften Aussagen, ohne die Boshaftigkeit zu berücksichtigen, die sie zum Ausdruck brachten. Ich begann Linton mehr zu missbilligen als zu bedauern und entschuldigte seinen Vater zum Teil dafür, dass er ihn gering schätzte. Wir blieben bis nachmittags: Ich konnte Miss Cathy nicht früher von dort weglocken; aber glücklicherweise hatte mein Herr sein Zimmer nicht verlassen und blieb über unsere ausgedehnte Abwesenheit im Unklaren. Auf dem Heimweg hätte ich meinen Schützling gerne über die Charaktere der Leute, von denen wir gegangen waren, aufgeklärt, aber sie hatte sich in den Kopf gesetzt, dass ich voreingenommen gegen sie war. "Aha!" rief sie aus, "du hälst zu Papa "Dann glaubst du also, dass mir meine eigenen Gefühle mehr bedeuten als deine, Cathy?" sagte er. "Nein, es lag nicht daran, dass ich Mr. Heathcliff nicht mochte, sondern weil Mr. Heathcliff mich nicht mag; er ist ein höchst teuflischer Mann, der Freude daran findet, diejenigen zu Unrecht zu behandeln und zu zerstören, die er hasst, wenn sie ihm die geringste Möglichkeit dazu geben. Ich wusste, dass du keine Bekanntschaft mit deinem Cousin halten kannst, ohne mit ihm in Kontakt zu kommen; und ich wusste, dass er dich wegen mir hassen würde; also habe ich aus deinem eigenen Wohl und nichts anderem Vorsichtsmaßnahmen getroffen, damit du Linton nicht wiedersehen konntest. Ich hatte vor, dir das später zu erklären, wenn du älter bist, und es tut mir leid, dass ich es verzögert habe." "Aber Mr. Heathcliff war ganz nett, Papa", bemerkte Catherine und war überhaupt nicht überzeugt. "Er hatte nichts dagegen, dass wir uns sehen: Er sagte, ich könnte zu ihm nach Hause kommen, wann immer ich wollte; nur durfte ich es dir nicht sagen, weil du mit ihm gestritten hattest und ihm nicht vergeben wolltest, dass er Tante Isabella geheiratet hat. Und du wirst es auch nicht tun. Du bist derjenige, der die Schuld trägt: Er ist bereit, uns zumindest Freunde sein zu lassen; Linton und mich; und du tust das nicht." Mein Herr, der merkte, dass sie sein Wort nicht für die böse Veranlagung ihres Schwagers akzeptieren würde, gab eine hastige Skizze seines Verhaltens gegenüber Isabella und der Art und Weise, wie Wuthering Heights sein Eigentum geworden war. Er konnte es nicht ertragen, lange über das Thema zu reden; denn obwohl er wenig darüber sprach, fühlte er immer noch den gleichen Schrecken und Abscheu vor seinem alten Feind, der sein Herz seit dem Tod von Mrs. Linton erfüllte. "Sie könnte noch am Leben sein, wenn es ihn nicht gegeben hätte!" war seine ständige bittere Überlegung; und in seinen Augen schien Heathcliff ein Mörder zu sein. Miss Cathy - die außer ihren eigenen kleinen Gehorsamsverweigerungen, Ungerechtigkeiten und Leidenschaften, die aus ihrer heißen Temperatur und Gedankenlosigkeit herrührten und am Tag ihrer Begehung bereut wurden, keine schlechten Taten kannte - war erstaunt über die Schwarzheit des Geistes, die Rache über Jahre hinweg nährte und ohne Gewissensbisse ihre Pläne verfolgte. Sie schien von dieser neuen Sichtweise der menschlichen Natur, die sie bis jetzt von all ihrem Studium und all ihren Ideen ausgeschlossen hatte, so tief beeindruckt und schockiert zu sein, dass Mr. Edgar es für unnötig hielt, das Thema weiter zu vertiefen. Er fügte nur hinzu: "Du wirst es später, Liebling, wissen, warum ich möchte, dass du sein Haus und seine Familie meidest; kehre jetzt zu deinen alten Beschäftigungen und Vergnügungen zurück und denke nicht mehr daran." Catherine küsste ihren Vater und setzte sich ruhig für ein paar Stunden zu ihren Lektionen, wie üblich; dann begleitete sie ihn in den Garten, und der ganze Tag verging wie immer: aber am Abend, als sie sich in ihr Zimmer zurückgezogen hatte und ich ihr beim Ausziehen half, fand ich sie weinend, auf den Knien am Bett. "Oh, fie, dummes Kind!", rief ich aus. "Wenn du wirkliche Sorgen hättest, würdest du dich schämen, eine Träne für diese kleine Widrigkeit zu verschwenden. Du hattest niemals einen Schatten echten Kummers, Miss Catherine. Stell dir mal vor, dass mein Herr und ich tot wären und du allein auf der Welt wärst: Wie würdest du dich dann fühlen? Vergleiche das gegenwärtige Ereignis mit einer solchen Unglücksfälle und sei dankbar für die Freunde, die du hast, anstatt nach mehr zu verlangen." "Ich weine nicht um mich, Ellen", antwortete sie. "Es ist für ihn. Er hat erwartet, mich morgen wiederzusehen, und er wird so enttäuscht sein: und er wird auf mich warten, und ich werde nicht kommen!" "Unsinn!", sagte ich. "Glaubst du, er hat so viel an dich gedacht wie du an ihn? Hat er nicht Hareton als Begleitung? Nicht einer von hundert würde um einen Verwandten weinen, den er gerade zweimal an zwei Nachmittagen gesehen hat. Linton wird sich das schon denken können und sich nicht weiter um dich kümmern." "Aber darf ich ihm nicht einen Brief schreiben, um ihm zu sagen, warum ich nicht kommen kann?", fragte sie und erhob sich. "Und ihm nur die Bücher schicken, die ich ihm versprochen habe? Seine Bücher sind nicht so schön wie meine, und er wollte sie unbedingt haben, als ich ihm erzählte, wie interessant sie sind. Darf ich nicht, Ellen?" "Nein, wirklich nicht! Nein, wirklich nicht!", antwortete ich entschieden. "Dann würde er dir schreiben, und das würde niemals enden. Nein, Miss Catherine, die Bekanntschaft muss komplett abgebrochen werden: das erwartet Papa, und ich werde sicherstellen, dass es geschieht." "Aber wie kann ein kleiner Brief...?", setzte sie wieder an und nahm einen flehenden Gesichtsausdruck an. "Schweig!", unterbrach ich sie. "Wir werden nicht mit deinen kleinen Briefen anfangen. Leg dich ins Bett." Sie warf mir einen sehr bösen Blick zu, so böse, dass ich sie zuerst nicht gute Nacht küssen wollte: Ich deckte sie zu und schloss ihre Tür in großer Verärgerung; aber halb bereuend ging ich leise zurück, und siehe da! Miss stand am Tisch mit einem Stück weißem Papier vor sich und einem Bleistift in der Hand, den sie schuldig aus meinem Blickfeld verschwinden ließ, als ich eintrat. "Niemand wird das für dich abgeben, Catherine", sagte ich, "wenn du es schreibst; und im Moment werde ich deine Kerze ausmachen." Ich setzte den Schutz über die Flamme und erhielt dafür einen Schlag auf meine Hand und ein aufsässiges "gemeines Ding!" Dann verließ ich sie wieder, und sie schob den Riegel in einer ihrer schlechtesten und launischsten Stimmungen vor. Der Brief war fertiggestellt und wurde von einem Milchholer, der aus dem Dorf kam, an seinen Bestimmungsort gebracht; aber das erfuhr ich erst später. Wochen vergingen, und Cathy bekam wieder gute Laune; obwohl sie wunderbar gerne alleine in Ecken verschwand und oft, wenn ich plötzlich in ihrer Nähe auftauchte, erschrak und sich über das Buch beugte, offensichtlich darum bemüht, es zu verstecken; und ich sah Kanten von losen Papieren, die über die Seiten hinausragten. Sie hatte auch die Angewohnheit, früh am Morgen hinunter in die Küche zu kommen und dort zu verweilen, als würde sie auf die Ankunft von etwas warten; und sie hatte eine kleine Schublade in einem Schrank in der Bibliothek, mit der sie stundenlang spielte, und deren Schlüssel sie sorgfältig entfernte, wenn sie sie verließ. Eines Tages, als sie diese Schublade inspizierte, bemerkte ich, dass die Spielzeuge und Schmuckstücke, die kürzlich ihren Inhalt bildeten, in gefaltetes Papier umgewandelt worden waren. Meine Neugier und Verdachtsmomente wurden geweckt; ich beschloss, einen Blick auf ihre mysteriösen Schätze zu werfen; also, in der Nacht, sobald sie und mein Herr sicher im Obergeschoss waren, suchte ich und fand leicht einen passenden Schlüssel unter meinen Hausschlüsseln. Nachdem ich geöffnet hatte, leerte ich den gesamten Inhalt in meine Schürze und nahm sie mit, um sie in meiner eigenen Kammer in Ruhe zu untersuchen. Obwohl ich nichts anderes erwartet hatte, war ich dennoch überrascht festzustellen, dass es eine Masse von Korrespondenz war - fast täglich, muss es gewesen sein - von Linton Heathcliff: Antworten auf von ihr weitergeleitete Dokumente. Die früheren datierten waren verlegen und knapp; allmählich jedoch wurden sie zu ausführlichen Liebesbriefen, albern, wie es das Alter des Verfassers natürlich machte, jedoch mit gelegentlichen Berührungen, die ich für entlehnt aus einer erfahreneren Quelle hielt. Einige von ihnen erschienen mir merkwürdig seltsame Mischungen aus Leidenschaft und Langeweile; sie begannen in starken Gefühlen und endeten in einem affektierten, wortreichen Stil, Wie immer begab sich meine junge Dame früh hinunter und besuchte die Küche: Ich beobachtete, wie sie bei der Ankunft eines bestimmten kleinen Jungen zur Tür ging, und während die Butterei sein Gefäß füllte, steckte sie etwas in seine Jackentasche und zog etwas heraus. Ich ging um den Garten herum und wartete auf den Boten, der tapfer kämpfte, um sein Geheimnis zu verteidigen, und so teilten wir uns die Milch; aber es gelang mir, den Brief herauszuziehen. Und drohte mit ernsthaften Konsequenzen, wenn er nicht schnell nach Hause gehen würde, blieb ich unter der Mauer stehen und las die liebevolle Zuschrift von Miss Cathy. Sie war einfacher und wortgewandter als die ihres Cousins: sehr hübsch und sehr dumm. Ich schüttelte den Kopf und ging nachdenklich ins Haus. Da es regnete, konnte sie sich nicht mit einem Spaziergang im Park ablenken, also suchte sie nach Abschluss ihres Morgenstudiums Trost in der Schublade. Ihr Vater saß am Tisch und ich hatte absichtlich etwas Arbeit an den ungenähten Fransen des Fenstervorhangs gesucht und hielt mein Auge fest auf ihr Vorgehen gerichtet. Noch nie hatte ein Vogel, der zu einem geplünderten Nest zurückflog, das er voller zwitschernder Jungtiere zurückgelassen hatte, in seinen angstvollen Schreien und Flatterbewegungen eine so vollständige Verzweiflung ausgedrückt wie sie mit ihrem einzigen „Oh!“ und der Veränderung, die ihr frühes glückliches Gesicht zum Ausdruck brachte. Mr. Linton schaute auf. „Was ist los, Liebling? Hast du dir wehgetan?“, fragte er. Sein Ton und sein Blick versicherten ihr, dass _er_ nicht der Entdecker des Verstecks gewesen war. „Nein, Papa!“, japste sie. „Ellen! Ellen! Komm nach oben – mir ist schlecht!“ Ich folgte ihrem Ruf und begleitete sie heraus. „Oh, Ellen! Du hast sie gefunden“, begann sie sofort und fiel auf die Knie, als wir allein eingeschlossen waren. „Oh, gib sie mir und ich werde so etwas nie, nie wieder tun! Sag es Papa nicht. Du hast es Papa nicht erzählt, Ellen? Sag, dass du es nicht getan hast? Ich war außerordentlich ungezogen, aber ich werde es nicht wieder tun!“ Mit einer ernsten Strenge in meiner Art befahl ich ihr, aufzustehen. „So“, rief ich aus, „Miss Catherine, du bist ziemlich weit gekommen, scheint es: Du solltest dich wirklich schämen! So ein Haufen Unsinn studierst du in deiner Freizeit, das ist sicher gut genug zum Drucken! Und was glaubst du, wird der Herr wohl denken, wenn ich es ihm zeige? Ich habe es noch nicht gezeigt, aber du sollst dir keine lächerlichen Geheimnisse vorstellen. Schäm dich! Und du musst den Weg vorgegeben haben, solche Absurditäten zu schreiben: Er hätte nicht einmal daran gedacht, anzufangen, da bin ich mir sicher.“ „Hab ich nicht! Hab ich nicht!“, schluchzte Cathy, ihrem gebrochenen Herzen nahe. „Ich habe nicht einmal daran gedacht, ihn zu lieben, bis –“ „_Lieben_!“, rief ich so verächtlich aus, wie ich das Wort nur konnte. „_Lieben_! Hat das jemand je gehört! Ich könnte genauso gut vom Lieben des Müllers sprechen, der einmal im Jahr kommt, um unser Korn zu kaufen. Sehr liebevoll, wirklich! Du hast Linton kaum vier Stunden in deinem Leben gesehen! Hier ist nun also der kindische Unrat. Ich gehe damit in die Bibliothek und wir werden sehen, was dein Vater zu solchem _Lieben_ sagt.“ Sie sprang nach ihren kostbaren Briefen, aber ich hielt sie über meinen Kopf und dann flehte sie weiter verzweifelt, dass ich sie verbrennen solle – irgendetwas tun solle, anstatt sie zu zeigen. Und da ich wirklich eher lachen als schimpfen wollte – denn ich hielt das alles für eitle Mädchenhaftigkeit – gab ich schließlich nach und fragte: „Wenn ich zustimme, sie zu verbrennen, versprichst du mir dann fest, weder einen Brief zu schicken noch zu empfangen, noch ein Buch (denn ich sehe, du hast ihm Bücher geschickt), noch Haarlocken, Ringe oder Spielzeug?“ „Wir schicken kein Spielzeug“, rief Catherine aus, ihr Stolz überwog ihre Scham. „Also gar nichts mehr, meine Dame?“, sagte ich. „Hier gehe ich dann.“ „Ich verspreche es, Ellen!“, rief sie und packte mein Kleid. „Oh, tu sie ins Feuer, bitte, bitte!“ Aber als ich mit dem Kaminhaken eine Stelle öffnen wollte, war das Opfer zu schmerzhaft. Sie flehte eindringlich, dass ich ihr ein oder zwei davon ersparen solle. „Ein oder zwei, Ellen, zum Wohl Lintons!“ Ich knüpfte das Taschentuch auf und ließ sie schräg hineinfallen und die Flamme züngelte im Kamin. „Ich werde eines haben, du grausames Ungeheuer!“, schrie sie und tauchte ihre Hand in das Feuer und holte einige halb verbrannte Überreste heraus, zum Preis ihrer Finger. „Sehr gut – und ich werde einige haben, die ich Papa zeigen werde!“, antwortete ich, schüttelte den Rest zurück in das Bündel und wandte mich erneut der Tür zu. Sie entleerte ihre verkohlten Stücke in die Flammen und gab mir ein Zeichen, das Opfer zu vollenden. Es war getan; ich rührte die Asche auf und begrub sie unter einer Schaufel Kohlen und sie zog sich stumm und mit dem Gefühl intensiver Kränkung in ihr privates Gemach zurück. Ich ging hinunter, um meinem Herrn zu berichten, dass das Unwohlsein des jungen Mädchens fast verschwunden war, aber ich hielt es für das Beste, dass sie sich eine Weile hinlegte. Sie wollte nicht zu Abend essen, aber sie erschien beim Tee wieder, blass und mit roten Augen und äußerlich bemerkenswert unterwürfig. Am nächsten Morgen antwortete ich auf den Brief mit einem Zettel, auf dem stand: „Es wird gebeten, dass Master Heathcliff keine weiteren Nachrichten an Miss Linton schickt, da sie diese nicht mehr erhalten wird.“ Und von da an kam der kleine Junge mit leeren Taschen. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Cathy ist nicht glücklich darüber, ihren neuen Cousin und Spielkameraden so schnell verloren zu haben. Die Haushälterin aus den Heights informiert Nelly darüber, wie es zwischen Linton und seinem Vater läuft - wie erwartet, nicht gut. Linton ist die ganze Zeit krank und "selbstsüchtig und unangenehm". An ihrem sechzehnten Geburtstag verkündet Cathy, dass sie den Tag auf den Mooren verbringen möchte. Natürlich macht sie sich auf den Weg nach Wuthering Heights und sie und Nelly treffen auf Heathcliff, der sie zurück zum Haus einlädt und darauf besteht, dass Cathy Linton besucht. Während er sie zurück ins Haus zieht, verkündet Heathcliff seinen Plan, dass die Cousins heiraten sollen, damit er Grange erbt, wenn Edgar stirbt. Hier geht es nur um Besitz. Cathy ist begeistert, diese Verwandten in der Nähe von Grange zu finden, und schimpft Nelly deshalb aus, dass sie ihr nichts von ihnen erzählt hat. Heathcliff erwähnt Edgars "Vorurteil" gegenüber ihm und beschwert sich bei Nelly darüber, dass sein eigener Sohn ein Weichei ist. Heathcliff erklärt Nelly, dass er Mitleid mit Hareton hat, aber es genossen hat, ihn zu misshandeln, zu erniedrigen und zu einem Tier zu machen, das "Buch-Lernen" verachtet - alles als Rache gegen seinen Vater Hindley. Heathcliff genießt es, Hareton gegen seinen Sohn auszuspielen, um Linton für Cathy attraktiver erscheinen zu lassen, einfach weil er im Vergleich zu seinem Trottel-Cousin ein Fünkchen Intelligenz hat. Anstatt den Besuch geheim zu halten, kündigt Cathy ihn am nächsten Tag ihrem Vater an. Edgar erzählt ihr die ganze dunkle Geschichte: wie Heathcliff mit Tante Isabella durchbrannte und nur Rache will. Cathy möchte anfangen, Briefe an Linton zu schreiben. Als Nelly sich weigert, ihr zu helfen, findet Cathy einen Milchholer, der ihr Briefträger sein soll. Sie sammelt schnell eine Menge Briefe an, die sie in einer Schublade versteckt. Nelly sammelt sie alle ein, und als sie Cathy mit ihrer Ungehorsamkeit konfrontiert, erfährt sie, dass Cathy in Linton verliebt ist. Nelly verbrennt die Briefe und macht der Korrespondenz ein Ende.

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.

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 Same Subject Continued (The Insufficiency of the Present Confederation to Preserve the Union) For the Independent Journal. Saturday, December 8, 1787 MADISON, with HAMILTON To the People of the State of New York: THE examples of ancient confederacies, cited in my last paper, have not exhausted the source of experimental instruction on this subject. There are existing institutions, founded on a similar principle, which merit particular consideration. The first which presents itself is the Germanic body. In the early ages of Christianity, Germany was occupied by seven distinct nations, who had no common chief. The Franks, one of the number, having conquered the Gauls, established the kingdom which has taken its name from them. In the ninth century Charlemagne, its warlike monarch, carried his victorious arms in every direction; and Germany became a part of his vast dominions. On the dismemberment, which took place under his sons, this part was erected into a separate and independent empire. Charlemagne and his immediate descendants possessed the reality, as well as the ensigns and dignity of imperial power. But the principal vassals, whose fiefs had become hereditary, and who composed the national diets which Charlemagne had not abolished, gradually threw off the yoke and advanced to sovereign jurisdiction and independence. The force of imperial sovereignty was insufficient to restrain such powerful dependants; or to preserve the unity and tranquillity of the empire. The most furious private wars, accompanied with every species of calamity, were carried on between the different princes and states. The imperial authority, unable to maintain the public order, declined by degrees till it was almost extinct in the anarchy, which agitated the long interval between the death of the last emperor of the Suabian, and the accession of the first emperor of the Austrian lines. In the eleventh century the emperors enjoyed full sovereignty: In the fifteenth they had little more than the symbols and decorations of power. Out of this feudal system, which has itself many of the important features of a confederacy, has grown the federal system which constitutes the Germanic empire. Its powers are vested in a diet representing the component members of the confederacy; in the emperor, who is the executive magistrate, with a negative on the decrees of the diet; and in the imperial chamber and the aulic council, two judiciary tribunals having supreme jurisdiction in controversies which concern the empire, or which happen among its members. The diet possesses the general power of legislating for the empire; of making war and peace; contracting alliances; assessing quotas of troops and money; constructing fortresses; regulating coin; admitting new members; and subjecting disobedient members to the ban of the empire, by which the party is degraded from his sovereign rights and his possessions forfeited. The members of the confederacy are expressly restricted from entering into compacts prejudicial to the empire; from imposing tolls and duties on their mutual intercourse, without the consent of the emperor and diet; from altering the value of money; from doing injustice to one another; or from affording assistance or retreat to disturbers of the public peace. And the ban is denounced against such as shall violate any of these restrictions. The members of the diet, as such, are subject in all cases to be judged by the emperor and diet, and in their private capacities by the aulic council and imperial chamber. The prerogatives of the emperor are numerous. The most important of them are: his exclusive right to make propositions to the diet; to negative its resolutions; to name ambassadors; to confer dignities and titles; to fill vacant electorates; to found universities; to grant privileges not injurious to the states of the empire; to receive and apply the public revenues; and generally to watch over the public safety. In certain cases, the electors form a council to him. In quality of emperor, he possesses no territory within the empire, nor receives any revenue for his support. But his revenue and dominions, in other qualities, constitute him one of the most powerful princes in Europe. From such a parade of constitutional powers, in the representatives and head of this confederacy, the natural supposition would be, that it must form an exception to the general character which belongs to its kindred systems. Nothing would be further from the reality. The fundamental principle on which it rests, that the empire is a community of sovereigns, that the diet is a representation of sovereigns and that the laws are addressed to sovereigns, renders the empire a nerveless body, incapable of regulating its own members, insecure against external dangers, and agitated with unceasing fermentations in its own bowels. The history of Germany is a history of wars between the emperor and the princes and states; of wars among the princes and states themselves; of the licentiousness of the strong, and the oppression of the weak; of foreign intrusions, and foreign intrigues; of requisitions of men and money disregarded, or partially complied with; of attempts to enforce them, altogether abortive, or attended with slaughter and desolation, involving the innocent with the guilty; of general imbecility, confusion, and misery. In the sixteenth century, the emperor, with one part of the empire on his side, was seen engaged against the other princes and states. In one of the conflicts, the emperor himself was put to flight, and very near being made prisoner by the elector of Saxony. The late king of Prussia was more than once pitted against his imperial sovereign; and commonly proved an overmatch for him. Controversies and wars among the members themselves have been so common, that the German annals are crowded with the bloody pages which describe them. Previous to the peace of Westphalia, Germany was desolated by a war of thirty years, in which the emperor, with one half of the empire, was on one side, and Sweden, with the other half, on the opposite side. Peace was at length negotiated, and dictated by foreign powers; and the articles of it, to which foreign powers are parties, made a fundamental part of the Germanic constitution. If the nation happens, on any emergency, to be more united by the necessity of self-defense, its situation is still deplorable. Military preparations must be preceded by so many tedious discussions, arising from the jealousies, pride, separate views, and clashing pretensions of sovereign bodies, that before the diet can settle the arrangements, the enemy are in the field; and before the federal troops are ready to take it, are retiring into winter quarters. The small body of national troops, which has been judged necessary in time of peace, is defectively kept up, badly paid, infected with local prejudices, and supported by irregular and disproportionate contributions to the treasury. The impossibility of maintaining order and dispensing justice among these sovereign subjects, produced the experiment of dividing the empire into nine or ten circles or districts; of giving them an interior organization, and of charging them with the military execution of the laws against delinquent and contumacious members. This experiment has only served to demonstrate more fully the radical vice of the constitution. Each circle is the miniature picture of the deformities of this political monster. They either fail to execute their commissions, or they do it with all the devastation and carnage of civil war. Sometimes whole circles are defaulters; and then they increase the mischief which they were instituted to remedy. We may form some judgment of this scheme of military coercion from a sample given by Thuanus. In Donawerth, a free and imperial city of the circle of Suabia, the Abbe de St. Croix enjoyed certain immunities which had been reserved to him. In the exercise of these, on some public occasions, outrages were committed on him by the people of the city. The consequence was that the city was put under the ban of the empire, and the Duke of Bavaria, though director of another circle, obtained an appointment to enforce it. He soon appeared before the city with a corps of ten thousand troops, and finding it a fit occasion, as he had secretly intended from the beginning, to revive an antiquated claim, on the pretext that his ancestors had suffered the place to be dismembered from his territory,(1) he took possession of it in his own name, disarmed, and punished the inhabitants, and reannexed the city to his domains. It may be asked, perhaps, what has so long kept this disjointed machine from falling entirely to pieces? The answer is obvious: The weakness of most of the members, who are unwilling to expose themselves to the mercy of foreign powers; the weakness of most of the principal members, compared with the formidable powers all around them; the vast weight and influence which the emperor derives from his separate and hereditary dominions; and the interest he feels in preserving a system with which his family pride is connected, and which constitutes him the first prince in Europe;--these causes support a feeble and precarious Union; whilst the repellant quality, incident to the nature of sovereignty, and which time continually strengthens, prevents any reform whatever, founded on a proper consolidation. Nor is it to be imagined, if this obstacle could be surmounted, that the neighboring powers would suffer a revolution to take place which would give to the empire the force and preeminence to which it is entitled. Foreign nations have long considered themselves as interested in the changes made by events in this constitution; and have, on various occasions, betrayed their policy of perpetuating its anarchy and weakness. If more direct examples were wanting, Poland, as a government over local sovereigns, might not improperly be taken notice of. Nor could any proof more striking be given of the calamities flowing from such institutions. Equally unfit for self-government and self-defense, it has long been at the mercy of its powerful neighbors; who have lately had the mercy to disburden it of one third of its people and territories. The connection among the Swiss cantons scarcely amounts to a confederacy; though it is sometimes cited as an instance of the stability of such institutions. They have no common treasury; no common troops even in war; no common coin; no common judicatory; nor any other common mark of sovereignty. They are kept together by the peculiarity of their topographical position; by their individual weakness and insignificancy; by the fear of powerful neighbors, to one of which they were formerly subject; by the few sources of contention among a people of such simple and homogeneous manners; by their joint interest in their dependent possessions; by the mutual aid they stand in need of, for suppressing insurrections and rebellions, an aid expressly stipulated and often required and afforded; and by the necessity of some regular and permanent provision for accommodating disputes among the cantons. The provision is, that the parties at variance shall each choose four judges out of the neutral cantons, who, in case of disagreement, choose an umpire. This tribunal, under an oath of impartiality, pronounces definitive sentence, which all the cantons are bound to enforce. The competency of this regulation may be estimated by a clause in their treaty of 1683, with Victor Amadeus of Savoy; in which he obliges himself to interpose as mediator in disputes between the cantons, and to employ force, if necessary, against the contumacious party. So far as the peculiarity of their case will admit of comparison with that of the United States, it serves to confirm the principle intended to be established. Whatever efficacy the union may have had in ordinary cases, it appears that the moment a cause of difference sprang up, capable of trying its strength, it failed. The controversies on the subject of religion, which in three instances have kindled violent and bloody contests, may be said, in fact, to have severed the league. The Protestant and Catholic cantons have since had their separate diets, where all the most important concerns are adjusted, and which have left the general diet little other business than to take care of the common bailages. That separation had another consequence, which merits attention. It produced opposite alliances with foreign powers: of Berne, at the head of the Protestant association, with the United Provinces; and of Luzerne, at the head of the Catholic association, with France. PUBLIUS 1. Pfeffel, "Nouvel Abreg. Chronol. de l'Hist., etc., d'Allemagne," says the pretext was to indemnify himself for the expense of the expedition. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

Paper 19 ist sehr ähnlich zu Paper 18. In Paper 19 versucht Madison, sein Argument für eine stärkere nationale Regierung zu stärken, indem er Beispiele von bestehenden Konföderationen anführt, die aufgrund unzureichender Befugnisse der Zentralregierung enorm gelitten haben. Er verweist auf Deutschland und in geringerem Maße auf Polen als hervorragende Beispiele dafür, was passiert, wenn ein Land keine starke zentrale Kontrolle hat. Er verweist auf die Gewalt und Instabilität, die das deutsche Feudalsystem geprägt haben, und behauptet, dass die "Hauptvasallen", die das deutsche Reich in dieser Zeit bildeten, zu mächtig waren, um vom Kaiser kontrolliert zu werden. Das Ergebnis war Anarchie. In der Zeit, in der Madison schreibt, hat Deutschland ein föderales System angenommen, das in vielerlei Hinsicht den amerikanischen Artikeln der Konföderation ähnelt. Das deutsche System hat jedoch zu schwachen und unwirksamen Regierungen geführt, da das Reich grundsätzlich "eine Gemeinschaft von Souveränen" ist, schreibt Madison. Als Folge davon ist der Kaiser nicht in der Lage, sein Reich effizient und zuverlässig zu kontrollieren. Das Reich leidet ständig unter Bürgerkriegen und ist angesichts ausländischer Aggressionen kläglich unfähig, eine vereinte Verteidigung zu organisieren. Deutschlands Nachbarn nutzen routinemäßig die Schwäche des Reiches aus und verfolgen sogar eine "Politik der Aufrechterhaltung seiner Anarchie und Schwäche".

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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. Chapter: The Rangoon--one of the Peninsular and Oriental Company's boats plying in the Chinese and Japanese seas--was a screw steamer, built of iron, weighing about seventeen hundred and seventy tons, and with engines of four hundred horse-power. She was as fast, but not as well fitted up, as the Mongolia, and Aouda was not as comfortably provided for on board of her as Phileas Fogg could have wished. However, the trip from Calcutta to Hong Kong only comprised some three thousand five hundred miles, occupying from ten to twelve days, and the young woman was not difficult to please. During the first days of the journey Aouda became better acquainted with her protector, and constantly gave evidence of her deep gratitude for what he had done. The phlegmatic gentleman listened to her, apparently at least, with coldness, neither his voice nor his manner betraying the slightest emotion; but he seemed to be always on the watch that nothing should be wanting to Aouda's comfort. He visited her regularly each day at certain hours, not so much to talk himself, as to sit and hear her talk. He treated her with the strictest politeness, but with the precision of an automaton, the movements of which had been arranged for this purpose. Aouda did not quite know what to make of him, though Passepartout had given her some hints of his master's eccentricity, and made her smile by telling her of the wager which was sending him round the world. After all, she owed Phileas Fogg her life, and she always regarded him through the exalting medium of her gratitude. Aouda confirmed the Parsee guide's narrative of her touching history. She did, indeed, belong to the highest of the native races of India. Many of the Parsee merchants have made great fortunes there by dealing in cotton; and one of them, Sir Jametsee Jeejeebhoy, was made a baronet by the English government. Aouda was a relative of this great man, and it was his cousin, Jeejeeh, whom she hoped to join at Hong Kong. Whether she would find a protector in him she could not tell; but Mr. Fogg essayed to calm her anxieties, and to assure her that everything would be mathematically--he used the very word--arranged. Aouda fastened her great eyes, "clear as the sacred lakes of the Himalaya," upon him; but the intractable Fogg, as reserved as ever, did not seem at all inclined to throw himself into this lake. The first few days of the voyage passed prosperously, amid favourable weather and propitious winds, and they soon came in sight of the great Andaman, the principal of the islands in the Bay of Bengal, with its picturesque Saddle Peak, two thousand four hundred feet high, looming above the waters. The steamer passed along near the shores, but the savage Papuans, who are in the lowest scale of humanity, but are not, as has been asserted, cannibals, did not make their appearance. The panorama of the islands, as they steamed by them, was superb. Vast forests of palms, arecs, bamboo, teakwood, of the gigantic mimosa, and tree-like ferns covered the foreground, while behind, the graceful outlines of the mountains were traced against the sky; and along the coasts swarmed by thousands the precious swallows whose nests furnish a luxurious dish to the tables of the Celestial Empire. The varied landscape afforded by the Andaman Islands was soon passed, however, and the Rangoon rapidly approached the Straits of Malacca, which gave access to the China seas. What was detective Fix, so unluckily drawn on from country to country, doing all this while? He had managed to embark on the Rangoon at Calcutta without being seen by Passepartout, after leaving orders that, if the warrant should arrive, it should be forwarded to him at Hong Kong; and he hoped to conceal his presence to the end of the voyage. It would have been difficult to explain why he was on board without awakening Passepartout's suspicions, who thought him still at Bombay. But necessity impelled him, nevertheless, to renew his acquaintance with the worthy servant, as will be seen. All the detective's hopes and wishes were now centred on Hong Kong; for the steamer's stay at Singapore would be too brief to enable him to take any steps there. The arrest must be made at Hong Kong, or the robber would probably escape him for ever. Hong Kong was the last English ground on which he would set foot; beyond, China, Japan, America offered to Fogg an almost certain refuge. If the warrant should at last make its appearance at Hong Kong, Fix could arrest him and give him into the hands of the local police, and there would be no further trouble. But beyond Hong Kong, a simple warrant would be of no avail; an extradition warrant would be necessary, and that would result in delays and obstacles, of which the rascal would take advantage to elude justice. Fix thought over these probabilities during the long hours which he spent in his cabin, and kept repeating to himself, "Now, either the warrant will be at Hong Kong, in which case I shall arrest my man, or it will not be there; and this time it is absolutely necessary that I should delay his departure. I have failed at Bombay, and I have failed at Calcutta; if I fail at Hong Kong, my reputation is lost: Cost what it may, I must succeed! But how shall I prevent his departure, if that should turn out to be my last resource?" Fix made up his mind that, if worst came to worst, he would make a confidant of Passepartout, and tell him what kind of a fellow his master really was. That Passepartout was not Fogg's accomplice, he was very certain. The servant, enlightened by his disclosure, and afraid of being himself implicated in the crime, would doubtless become an ally of the detective. But this method was a dangerous one, only to be employed when everything else had failed. A word from Passepartout to his master would ruin all. The detective was therefore in a sore strait. But suddenly a new idea struck him. The presence of Aouda on the Rangoon, in company with Phileas Fogg, gave him new material for reflection. Who was this woman? What combination of events had made her Fogg's travelling companion? They had evidently met somewhere between Bombay and Calcutta; but where? Had they met accidentally, or had Fogg gone into the interior purposely in quest of this charming damsel? Fix was fairly puzzled. He asked himself whether there had not been a wicked elopement; and this idea so impressed itself upon his mind that he determined to make use of the supposed intrigue. Whether the young woman were married or not, he would be able to create such difficulties for Mr. Fogg at Hong Kong that he could not escape by paying any amount of money. But could he even wait till they reached Hong Kong? Fogg had an abominable way of jumping from one boat to another, and, before anything could be effected, might get full under way again for Yokohama. Fix decided that he must warn the English authorities, and signal the Rangoon before her arrival. This was easy to do, since the steamer stopped at Singapore, whence there is a telegraphic wire to Hong Kong. He finally resolved, moreover, before acting more positively, to question Passepartout. It would not be difficult to make him talk; and, as there was no time to lose, Fix prepared to make himself known. It was now the 30th of October, and on the following day the Rangoon was due at Singapore. Fix emerged from his cabin and went on deck. Passepartout was promenading up and down in the forward part of the steamer. The detective rushed forward with every appearance of extreme surprise, and exclaimed, "You here, on the Rangoon?" "What, Monsieur Fix, are you on board?" returned the really astonished Passepartout, recognising his crony of the Mongolia. "Why, I left you at Bombay, and here you are, on the way to Hong Kong! Are you going round the world too?" "No, no," replied Fix; "I shall stop at Hong Kong--at least for some days." "Hum!" said Passepartout, who seemed for an instant perplexed. "But how is it I have not seen you on board since we left Calcutta?" "Oh, a trifle of sea-sickness--I've been staying in my berth. The Gulf of Bengal does not agree with me as well as the Indian Ocean. And how is Mr. Fogg?" "As well and as punctual as ever, not a day behind time! But, Monsieur Fix, you don't know that we have a young lady with us." "A young lady?" replied the detective, not seeming to comprehend what was said. Passepartout thereupon recounted Aouda's history, the affair at the Bombay pagoda, the purchase of the elephant for two thousand pounds, the rescue, the arrest, and sentence of the Calcutta court, and the restoration of Mr. Fogg and himself to liberty on bail. Fix, who was familiar with the last events, seemed to be equally ignorant of all that Passepartout related; and the later was charmed to find so interested a listener. "But does your master propose to carry this young woman to Europe?" "Not at all. We are simply going to place her under the protection of one of her relatives, a rich merchant at Hong Kong." "Nothing to be done there," said Fix to himself, concealing his disappointment. "A glass of gin, Mr. Passepartout?" "Willingly, Monsieur Fix. We must at least have a friendly glass on board the Rangoon." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Das Schiff hat noch 3.500 Meilen vor sich, um von Calcutta nach Hongkong zu gelangen. In dieser Zeit lernt Aouda Phileas Fogg besser kennen. Sie hält ihn für einen "Automaten". Er beruhigt sie und versichert ihr, dass sie ihren Cousin in Hongkong finden werden. Das Schiff passiert die Großen Andamanen und die Straße von Malakka. Fix plant, Fogg in Hongkong festzunehmen. Allerdings freundet er sich mit Passepartout an und bringt ihn zum Reden. Passepartout erzählt Fix, was in Indien passiert ist und dass Aouda sie nach Hongkong begleiten wird.

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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: SZENE 3. London. Vor den Toren des Towers Betritt DER HERZOG VON GLOUCESTER mit seinen Dienern in blauen Mänteln. GLOUCESTER. Ich bin heute gekommen, um den Tower zu inspizieren; Seit Henrys Tod fürchte ich, dass etwas unternommen wurde. Wo sind die Wächter, dass sie nicht hier warten? Öffnet die Tore; es ist Gloucester, der ruft. ERSTER WÄCHTER. [Von innen] Wer ist da, der so gebieterisch anklopft? ERSTER DIENER. Es ist der noble Herzog von Gloucester. ZWEITER WÄCHTER. [Von innen] Wer immer er ist, er darf nicht herein. ERSTER DIENER. Schurken, antwortet ihr so dem Lord Protector? ERSTER WÄCHTER. [Von innen] Der Herr schütze ihn! So antworten wir ihm. Wir tun nichts anderes als uns befohlen wird. GLOUCESTER. Wer hat euch befohlen oder welcher Wille steht außer meinem? Es gibt keinen anderen Protektor des Reiches als mich. Schlagt die Tore ein, ich werde eure Befugnis sein. Soll ich so von Misthaufen-Knechten verspottet werden? [Gloucesters Männer rennen auf die Tore des Towers zu und WOODVILLE, der Lieutenant, spricht von innen] WOODVILLE. [Von innen] Was ist das für ein Lärm? Welche Verräter haben wir hier? GLOUCESTER. Lieutenant, bist du es, dessen Stimme ich höre? Öffnet die Tore; hier ist Gloucester, der eintreten möchte. WOODVILLE. [Von innen] Hab Geduld, edler Herzog, ich darf nicht öffnen; Der Kardinal von Winchester untersagt es. Von ihm habe ich den ausdrücklichen Befehl Dass weder du noch einer deiner Leute hereingelassen werden dürfen. GLOUCESTER. Mutloser Woodville, hältst du ihn höher als mich? Arroganter Winchester, der hochnäsige Kirchenfürst Den Henry, unser verstorbener Souverän, nie leiden konnte! Du bist kein Freund Gottes oder des Königs. Öffne die Tore, oder ich werde dich bald aussperren. DIENER. Öffnet die Tore für den Lord Protector, Oder wir werden sie aufbrechen, wenn ihr nicht schnell kommt. Tritt der PROTEKTOR mit seinen Leuten in ockergelben Mänteln an den Torentürmen auf. WINCHESTER. Was ist los, ehrgeiziger Humphry? Was bedeutet das? GLOUCESTER. Geschorener Priester, befehle ich dir, mich auszusperren? WINCHESTER. Ja, das tue ich, du usurpierender Verräter, Und nicht Protektor des Königs oder des Reiches. GLOUCESTER. Schieb dich zurück, du offenbare Verschwörerin, Du, die den Mord an unserem toten Herrn geplant hat; Du, die Huren Nachlässe zur Sünde gewährst. Ich werde dich in deinem breiten Kardinalshut bloßstellen, Wenn du mit deiner Arroganz so fortfährst. WINCHESTER. Nein, du bleibst stehen; ich weiche keinen Fuß. Dies sei Damaskus; du seist verfluchter Kain, Der seinen Bruder Abel erschlägt, wenn du willst. GLOUCESTER. Ich werde dich nicht töten, aber ich werde dich zurückschlagen. Deine scharlachroben als Einhüllung für ein Kind Werden dazu dienen, dich aus diesem Ort zu tragen. WINCHESTER. Tu, was du wagst; ich provoziere dich ins Gesicht. GLOUCESTER. Was! Werde ich provoziert und ins Gesicht geschlagen? Zieht die Waffen, trotz dieses privilegierten Ortes Die blauen Mäntel gegen die ockergelben Mäntel. Priester, hüte deinen Bart; Ich meine, daran ziehen und dich ordentlich verprügeln; Ich werde deinen Kardinalshut mit meinen Füßen zertrampeln; Trotz des Papstes oder der Würdenträger der Kirche, Hier an den Backen werde ich dich rauf und runter zerren. WINCHESTER. Gloucester, du wirst dafür Rechenschaft ablegen beim Papst. GLOUCESTER. Winchester-Gans! Ich rufe "Ein Strick, ein Strick!" Vertreibt sie nun endlich; warum lasst ihr sie hier? Dich werde ich vertreiben, du Wolf im Schafspelz. Hinaus, ockergelbe Mäntel! Hinaus, scheinheiliger Kardinal! Hier schlagen Gloucesters Männer die Männer des Kardinals zurück und der Bürgermeister von London und seine Beamten treten ein im Tumult. BÜRGERMEISTER. Pfui, ihr Herren! Ihr, die obersten Magistraten, Die ihr so unverschämt den Frieden brecht! GLOUCESTER. Ruhe, Bürgermeister! Du kennst meine Leiden kaum: Hier ist Beaufort, der weder Gott noch König respektiert, Der den Tower für sich beansprucht hat. WINCHESTER. Hier ist Gloucester, ein Feind der Bürger; Einer, der ständig nach Krieg strebt und nie nach Frieden, Der eure freien Taschen mit hohen Strafen überfordernd belastet; Der versucht, die Religion zu stürzen, Weil er Protektor des Reiches ist, Und Rüstungen hier aus dem Tower will, Um sich selbst zum König zu krönen und den Prinzen zu unterdrücken. GLOUCESTER. Ich werde dir nicht mit Worten antworten, sondern mit Schlägen. [Hier bekämpfen sie sich erneut] BÜRGERMEISTER. Es bleibt mir in diesem tumultartigen Streit nichts anderes übrig, als eine öffentliche Bekanntmachung zu machen. Komm, Beamter, so laut wie du kannst, Rufe. BEAMTER. [ruft] Alle Arten von bewaffneten Männern, die sich heute gegen den Frieden Gottes und des Königs hier versammelt haben, fordern wir im Namen seiner Hoheit auf, zu euren verschiedenen Wohnorten zurückzukehren; und weder Schwerter, Waffen noch Dolche mehr zu tragen, zu benutzen oder zu führen, auf Lebensstrafe. GLOUCESTER. Kardinal, ich werde das Gesetz nicht brechen; Aber wir werden uns treffen und unsere Meinungen ausführlich austauschen. WINCHESTER. Gloucester, wir werden uns auf deine Kosten treffen, sei dir sicher; Dein Herzblut werde ich für die heutige Arbeit haben. BÜRGERMEISTER. Wenn ihr nicht geht, werde ich nach Keulen rufen. Dieser Kardinal ist anmaßender als der Teufel. GLOUCESTER. Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Bürgermeister; du tust nur, was du kannst. WINCHESTER. Abscheulicher Gloucester, hüte deinen Kopf, Denn ich beabsichtige, ihn bald zu haben. Abgang, getrennt, GLOUCESTER und WINCHESTER mit ihren Dienern BÜRGERMEISTER. Seht, die Küste ist bereinigt, und dann werden wir abreisen. Guter Gott, diese Adligen sollten solch götzenhafte Stimmungen haben! Ich selbst kämpfe nicht einmal einmal in vierzig Jahren. Abgang Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Zurück in England kommt Gloucester am Tower of London an, um die Munition zu inspizieren, die den Soldaten geliefert werden soll, die nach Frankreich abreisen. Die Torwächter des Turms weigern sich jedoch, Gloucester hereinzulassen, auf Anweisung des Kardinals von Winchester. Gloucester überlegt, dass der verstorbene Heinrich V. Winchester nicht mochte. Winchester erscheint am Tor mit seinen Männern. Er beschuldigt Gloucester, ein Usurpator und Verräter zu sein. Gloucester wiederum beschuldigt Winchester, während der Lebenszeit von Heinrich V. einen Mordanschlag geplant und Sündenvergebung an Huren verkauft zu haben. Die beiden Männer tauschen Beleidigungen aus und befehlen ihren Männern, zu kämpfen. Gloucesters Männer gewinnen. Der Bürgermeister von London tritt ein und rügt die beiden Männer wegen der Störung des Friedens. Gloucester und Winchester beginnen erneut, sich zu beleidigen, wobei Winchester Gloucester beschuldigt, militärische Ausrüstung aus dem Turm holen zu wollen, um Heinrich VI zu überwinden und selbst zum König zu krönen. Der Kampf bricht erneut aus. Der Bürgermeister beendet den Kampf, aber Gloucester und Winchester drohen sich gegenseitig zu töten zu einem späteren Zeitpunkt.

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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: AKT V. SZENE I. Dunsinane. Ein Raum im Schloss. [Betreten Sie einen Arzt und eine bedienende Dame.] ARZT. Ich habe zwei Nächte bei Ihnen gewacht, aber ich kann keine Wahrheit in Ihrem Bericht erkennen. Wann ist sie das letzte Mal gelaufen? DAME. Seit Seine Majestät ins Feld gezogen ist, habe ich gesehen, wie sie von ihrem Bett aufgestanden ist, ihr Nachthemd angezogen, ihren Schrank aufgeschlossen, Papier herausgenommen, es gefaltet, darauf geschrieben, es danach versiegelt und wieder ins Bett gegangen ist; jedoch die ganze Zeit über im tiefsten Schlaf. ARZT. Eine große Unruhe in der Natur, - auf einmal die Vorteile des Schlafs zu erhalten und die Auswirkungen des Wachens zu spüren - in dieser schlafenden Aufregung, was haben Sie zu irgendeinem Zeitpunkt von ihr gehört, während sie ging und andere tatsächliche Handlungen vollführte? DAME. Das, mein Herr, werde ich nicht nach ihr berichten. ARZT. Sie können es mir gegenüber tun; und es ist höchst angebracht, dass Sie es sollten. DAME. Weder Ihnen noch jemand anderem, ohne Zeugen, die meine Aussage bestätigen können. Schauen Sie, sie kommt! [Tritt Lady Macbeth mit einer Kerze ein.] Das ist genau ihre Art und ich schwöre beim meinem Leben, sie schläft tief. Beobachten Sie sie; bleiben Sie in der Nähe. ARZT. Woher hat sie dieses Licht? DAME. Warum, es war bei ihr: Sie hat immer Licht bei sich; es ist ihre Anweisung. ARZT. Sie sehen, ihre Augen sind offen. DAME. Ja, aber ihr Verstand ist geschlossen. ARZT. Was macht sie jetzt? Schauen Sie, wie sie ihre Hände reibt. DAME. Das ist eine gewohnte Handlung von ihr, sie wäscht sich so die Hände; ich habe sie schon eine Viertelstunde lang so gesehen. LADY MACBETH. Und doch ist hier ein Fleck. ARZT. Hören Sie, sie spricht: Ich werde aufschreiben, was von ihr kommt, um meine Erinnerung stärker zu bestätigen. LADY MACBETH. Hinaus, verdammter Fleck! Hinaus, sage ich! Eins; zwei; nun ist es Zeit zu tun; die Hölle ist düster! Pfui, mein Herr, pfui! Ein Soldat und ängstlich? Wovor sollen wir Angst haben, wer kennt es schon, wenn niemand unsere Macht zur Verantwortung ziehen kann? Und doch, wer hätte gedacht, dass der alte Mann so viel Blut in sich hatte? ARZT. Haben Sie das bemerkt? LADY MACBETH. Der Thane von Fife hatte eine Frau; wo ist sie jetzt? Werden diese Hände nie sauber sein? Nichts mehr davon, mein Herr, nichts mehr davon; mit diesem Zucken verderben Sie alles. ARZT. Schweigen Sie, schweigen Sie; Sie haben gewusst, was Sie nicht wissen sollten. DAME. Sie hat gesprochen, was sie nicht hätte tun sollen, dessen bin ich sicher: Gott weiß, was sie noch weiß. LADY MACBETH. Hier ist immer noch der Geruch von Blut: Alle Parfüms Arabiens werden diese kleine Hand nicht süß machen. Oh, oh, oh! ARZT. Was für ein Seufzer ist das! Das Herz ist schmerzlich belastet. DAME. Ich möchte solch ein Herz nicht in meiner Brust haben, nicht um die Würde des ganzen Körpers. ARZT. Nun, nun, nun-- DAME. Möge es Gott sein. ARZT. Diese Krankheit übersteigt meine Fähigkeiten: dennoch habe ich Menschen gekannt, die im Schlaf gewandelt sind und heilig in ihren Betten gestorben sind. LADY MACBETH. Waschen Sie Ihre Hände, ziehen Sie Ihr Nachthemd an und sehen Sie nicht so blass aus: Ich sage Ihnen noch einmal, Banquo ist begraben; er kann nicht aus seinem Grab kommen. ARZT. Wirklich? LADY MACBETH. Zu Bett, zu Bett; es wird an das Tor geklopft: Kommen Sie, kommen Sie, kommen Sie, geben Sie mir Ihre Hand: Was geschehen ist, kann nicht rückgängig gemacht werden: Zu Bett, zu Bett, zu Bett. [Abgang.] ARZT. Wird sie jetzt zu Bett gehen? DAME. Direkt. ARZT. Böse Gerüchte machen die Runde: unnatürliche Taten erzeugen unnatürliche Probleme: verseuchte Seelen werden ihre Geheimnisse auf ihre tauben Kissen entlassen. Ihr braucht nicht den Arzt, sondern das Göttliche. - Gott, Gott, vergib uns allen! - Kümmern Sie sich um sie; Entfernen Sie von ihr alle Mittel der Schwierigkeiten, Und behalten Sie weiterhin ein Auge auf sie: - so, gute Nacht: Mein Verstand ist irritiert und mein Blick verblüfft: Ich denke, aber ich wage nicht zu sprechen. DAME. Gute Nacht, guter Arzt. [Abgang.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Hinaus, verdammt Fleck; hinaus sage ich. Doch wer hätte gedacht, dass der alte Mann so viel Blut in sich hat. In der Nacht, im Palast des Königs in Dunsinane, diskutieren ein Arzt und eine Frau das seltsame Schlafwandeln von Lady Macbeth. Plötzlich betritt Lady Macbeth in Trance den Raum, eine Kerze in der Hand. Sie beklagt die Morde an Lady Macduff und Banquo, sieht Blut an ihren Händen und behauptet, dass es niemals abgewaschen werden könne. Sie geht und der Arzt und die Frau staunen über ihren Verfall in den Wahnsinn.

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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. Chapter: Le Bret, Ragueneau. RAGUENEAU: Since you are here, 'tis best she should not know! I was going to your friend just now--was but A few steps from the house, when I saw him Go out. I hurried to him. Saw him turn The corner. . .suddenly, from out a window Where he was passing--was it chance?. . .may be! A lackey let fall a large piece of wood. LE BRET: Cowards! O Cyrano! RAGUENEAU: I ran--I saw. . . LE BRET: 'Tis hideous! RAGUENEAU: Saw our poet, Sir--our friend-- Struck to the ground--a large wound in his head! LE BRET: He's dead? RAGUENEAU: No--but--I bore him to his room. . . Ah! his room! What a thing to see!--that garret! LE BRET: He suffers? RAGUENEAU: No, his consciousness has flown. LE BRET: Saw you a doctor? RAGUENEAU: One was kind--he came. LE BRET: My poor Cyrano!--We must not tell this To Roxane suddenly.--What said this leech?-- RAGUENEAU: Said,--what, I know not--fever, meningitis!-- Ah! could you see him--all his head bound up!-- But let us haste!--There's no one by his bed!-- And if he try to rise, Sir, he might die! LE BRET (dragging him toward the right): Come! Through the chapel! 'Tis the quickest way! ROXANE (appearing on the steps, and seeing Le Bret go away by the colonnade leading to the chapel door): Monsieur le Bret! (Le Bret and Ragueneau disappear without answering): Le Bret goes--when I call! 'Tis some new trouble of good Ragueneau's. (She descends the steps.) Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

Roxane geht weg, um mit de Guiche zu sprechen. Ragueneau erzählt Le Bret, dass Cyrano schwer verletzt und bewusstlos ist. Als er unter einem Fenster entlang ging, ließ ein Mann einen Holzklotz auf seinen Kopf fallen. Le Bret ist sicher, dass es kein Unfall war. Ein Arzt hat gesagt, dass wenn Cyrano aufsteht, wird er sterben.

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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. Chapter: "Le coeur se sature d'amour comme d'un sel divin qui le conserve; de la l'incorruptible adherence de ceux qui se sont aimes des l'aube de la vie, et la fraicheur des vielles amours prolonges. Il existe un embaumement d'amour. C'est de Daphnis et Chloe que sont faits Philemon et Baucis. Cette vieillesse la, ressemblance du soir avec l'aurore." --VICTOR HUGO: L'homme qui rit. Mrs. Garth, hearing Caleb enter the passage about tea-time, opened the parlor-door and said, "There you are, Caleb. Have you had your dinner?" (Mr. Garth's meals were much subordinated to "business.") "Oh yes, a good dinner--cold mutton and I don't know what. Where is Mary?" "In the garden with Letty, I think." "Fred is not come yet?" "No. Are you going out again without taking tea, Caleb?" said Mrs. Garth, seeing that her absent-minded husband was putting on again the hat which he had just taken off. "No, no; I'm only going to Mary a minute." Mary was in a grassy corner of the garden, where there was a swing loftily hung between two pear-trees. She had a pink kerchief tied over her head, making a little poke to shade her eyes from the level sunbeams, while she was giving a glorious swing to Letty, who laughed and screamed wildly. Seeing her father, Mary left the swing and went to meet him, pushing back the pink kerchief and smiling afar off at him with the involuntary smile of loving pleasure. "I came to look for you, Mary," said Mr. Garth. "Let us walk about a bit." Mary knew quite well that her father had something particular to say: his eyebrows made their pathetic angle, and there was a tender gravity in his voice: these things had been signs to her when she was Letty's age. She put her arm within his, and they turned by the row of nut-trees. "It will be a sad while before you can be married, Mary," said her father, not looking at her, but at the end of the stick which he held in his other hand. "Not a sad while, father--I mean to be merry," said Mary, laughingly. "I have been single and merry for four-and-twenty years and more: I suppose it will not be quite as long again as that." Then, after a little pause, she said, more gravely, bending her face before her father's, "If you are contented with Fred?" Caleb screwed up his mouth and turned his head aside wisely. "Now, father, you did praise him last Wednesday. You said he had an uncommon notion of stock, and a good eye for things." "Did I?" said Caleb, rather slyly. "Yes, I put it all down, and the date, anno Domini, and everything," said Mary. "You like things to be neatly booked. And then his behavior to you, father, is really good; he has a deep respect for you; and it is impossible to have a better temper than Fred has." "Ay, ay; you want to coax me into thinking him a fine match." "No, indeed, father. I don't love him because he is a fine match." "What for, then?" "Oh, dear, because I have always loved him. I should never like scolding any one else so well; and that is a point to be thought of in a husband." "Your mind is quite settled, then, Mary?" said Caleb, returning to his first tone. "There's no other wish come into it since things have been going on as they have been of late?" (Caleb meant a great deal in that vague phrase;) "because, better late than never. A woman must not force her heart--she'll do a man no good by that." "My feelings have not changed, father," said Mary, calmly. "I shall be constant to Fred as long as he is constant to me. I don't think either of us could spare the other, or like any one else better, however much we might admire them. It would make too great a difference to us--like seeing all the old places altered, and changing the name for everything. We must wait for each other a long while; but Fred knows that." Instead of speaking immediately, Caleb stood still and screwed his stick on the grassy walk. Then he said, with emotion in his voice, "Well, I've got a bit of news. What do you think of Fred going to live at Stone Court, and managing the land there?" "How can that ever be, father?" said Mary, wonderingly. "He would manage it for his aunt Bulstrode. The poor woman has been to me begging and praying. She wants to do the lad good, and it might be a fine thing for him. With saving, he might gradually buy the stock, and he has a turn for farming." "Oh, Fred would be so happy! It is too good to believe." "Ah, but mind you," said Caleb, turning his head warningly, "I must take it on _my_ shoulders, and be responsible, and see after everything; and that will grieve your mother a bit, though she mayn't say so. Fred had need be careful." "Perhaps it is too much, father," said Mary, checked in her joy. "There would be no happiness in bringing you any fresh trouble." "Nay, nay; work is my delight, child, when it doesn't vex your mother. And then, if you and Fred get married," here Caleb's voice shook just perceptibly, "he'll be steady and saving; and you've got your mother's cleverness, and mine too, in a woman's sort of way; and you'll keep him in order. He'll be coming by-and-by, so I wanted to tell you first, because I think you'd like to tell _him_ by yourselves. After that, I could talk it well over with him, and we could go into business and the nature of things." "Oh, you dear good father!" cried Mary, putting her hands round her father's neck, while he bent his head placidly, willing to be caressed. "I wonder if any other girl thinks her father the best man in the world!" "Nonsense, child; you'll think your husband better." "Impossible," said Mary, relapsing into her usual tone; "husbands are an inferior class of men, who require keeping in order." When they were entering the house with Letty, who had run to join them, Mary saw Fred at the orchard-gate, and went to meet him. "What fine clothes you wear, you extravagant youth!" said Mary, as Fred stood still and raised his hat to her with playful formality. "You are not learning economy." "Now that is too bad, Mary," said Fred. "Just look at the edges of these coat-cuffs! It is only by dint of good brushing that I look respectable. I am saving up three suits--one for a wedding-suit." "How very droll you will look!--like a gentleman in an old fashion-book." "Oh no, they will keep two years." "Two years! be reasonable, Fred," said Mary, turning to walk. "Don't encourage flattering expectations." "Why not? One lives on them better than on unflattering ones. If we can't be married in two years, the truth will be quite bad enough when it comes." "I have heard a story of a young gentleman who once encouraged flattering expectations, and they did him harm." "Mary, if you've got something discouraging to tell me, I shall bolt; I shall go into the house to Mr. Garth. I am out of spirits. My father is so cut up--home is not like itself. I can't bear any more bad news." "Should you call it bad news to be told that you were to live at Stone Court, and manage the farm, and be remarkably prudent, and save money every year till all the stock and furniture were your own, and you were a distinguished agricultural character, as Mr. Borthrop Trumbull says--rather stout, I fear, and with the Greek and Latin sadly weather-worn?" "You don't mean anything except nonsense, Mary?" said Fred, coloring slightly nevertheless. "That is what my father has just told me of as what may happen, and he never talks nonsense," said Mary, looking up at Fred now, while he grasped her hand as they walked, till it rather hurt her; but she would not complain. "Oh, I could be a tremendously good fellow then, Mary, and we could be married directly." "Not so fast, sir; how do you know that I would not rather defer our marriage for some years? That would leave you time to misbehave, and then if I liked some one else better, I should have an excuse for jilting you." "Pray don't joke, Mary," said Fred, with strong feeling. "Tell me seriously that all this is true, and that you are happy because of it--because you love me best." "It is all true, Fred, and I am happy because of it--because I love you best," said Mary, in a tone of obedient recitation. They lingered on the door-step under the steep-roofed porch, and Fred almost in a whisper said-- "When we were first engaged, with the umbrella-ring, Mary, you used to--" The spirit of joy began to laugh more decidedly in Mary's eyes, but the fatal Ben came running to the door with Brownie yapping behind him, and, bouncing against them, said-- "Fred and Mary! are you ever coming in?--or may I eat your cake?" FINALE. Every limit is a beginning as well as an ending. Who can quit young lives after being long in company with them, and not desire to know what befell them in their after-years? For the fragment of a life, however typical, is not the sample of an even web: promises may not be kept, and an ardent outset may be followed by declension; latent powers may find their long-waited opportunity; a past error may urge a grand retrieval. Marriage, which has been the bourne of so many narratives, is still a great beginning, as it was to Adam and Eve, who kept their honeymoon in Eden, but had their first little one among the thorns and thistles of the wilderness. It is still the beginning of the home epic--the gradual conquest or irremediable loss of that complete union which makes the advancing years a climax, and age the harvest of sweet memories in common. Some set out, like Crusaders of old, with a glorious equipment of hope and enthusiasm and get broken by the way, wanting patience with each other and the world. All who have cared for Fred Vincy and Mary Garth will like to know that these two made no such failure, but achieved a solid mutual happiness. Fred surprised his neighbors in various ways. He became rather distinguished in his side of the county as a theoretic and practical farmer, and produced a work on the "Cultivation of Green Crops and the Economy of Cattle-Feeding" which won him high congratulations at agricultural meetings. In Middlemarch admiration was more reserved: most persons there were inclined to believe that the merit of Fred's authorship was due to his wife, since they had never expected Fred Vincy to write on turnips and mangel-wurzel. But when Mary wrote a little book for her boys, called "Stories of Great Men, taken from Plutarch," and had it printed and published by Gripp & Co., Middlemarch, every one in the town was willing to give the credit of this work to Fred, observing that he had been to the University, "where the ancients were studied," and might have been a clergyman if he had chosen. In this way it was made clear that Middlemarch had never been deceived, and that there was no need to praise anybody for writing a book, since it was always done by somebody else. Moreover, Fred remained unswervingly steady. Some years after his marriage he told Mary that his happiness was half owing to Farebrother, who gave him a strong pull-up at the right moment. I cannot say that he was never again misled by his hopefulness: the yield of crops or the profits of a cattle sale usually fell below his estimate; and he was always prone to believe that he could make money by the purchase of a horse which turned out badly--though this, Mary observed, was of course the fault of the horse, not of Fred's judgment. He kept his love of horsemanship, but he rarely allowed himself a day's hunting; and when he did so, it was remarkable that he submitted to be laughed at for cowardliness at the fences, seeming to see Mary and the boys sitting on the five-barred gate, or showing their curly heads between hedge and ditch. There were three boys: Mary was not discontented that she brought forth men-children only; and when Fred wished to have a girl like her, she said, laughingly, "that would be too great a trial to your mother." Mrs. Vincy in her declining years, and in the diminished lustre of her housekeeping, was much comforted by her perception that two at least of Fred's boys were real Vincys, and did not "feature the Garths." But Mary secretly rejoiced that the youngest of the three was very much what her father must have been when he wore a round jacket, and showed a marvellous nicety of aim in playing at marbles, or in throwing stones to bring down the mellow pears. Ben and Letty Garth, who were uncle and aunt before they were well in their teens, disputed much as to whether nephews or nieces were more desirable; Ben contending that it was clear girls were good for less than boys, else they would not be always in petticoats, which showed how little they were meant for; whereupon Letty, who argued much from books, got angry in replying that God made coats of skins for both Adam and Eve alike--also it occurred to her that in the East the men too wore petticoats. But this latter argument, obscuring the majesty of the former, was one too many, for Ben answered contemptuously, "The more spooneys they!" and immediately appealed to his mother whether boys were not better than girls. Mrs. Garth pronounced that both were alike naughty, but that boys were undoubtedly stronger, could run faster, and throw with more precision to a greater distance. With this oracular sentence Ben was well satisfied, not minding the naughtiness; but Letty took it ill, her feeling of superiority being stronger than her muscles. Fred never became rich--his hopefulness had not led him to expect that; but he gradually saved enough to become owner of the stock and furniture at Stone Court, and the work which Mr. Garth put into his hands carried him in plenty through those "bad times" which are always present with farmers. Mary, in her matronly days, became as solid in figure as her mother; but, unlike her, gave the boys little formal teaching, so that Mrs. Garth was alarmed lest they should never be well grounded in grammar and geography. Nevertheless, they were found quite forward enough when they went to school; perhaps, because they had liked nothing so well as being with their mother. When Fred was riding home on winter evenings he had a pleasant vision beforehand of the bright hearth in the wainscoted parlor, and was sorry for other men who could not have Mary for their wife; especially for Mr. Farebrother. "He was ten times worthier of you than I was," Fred could now say to her, magnanimously. "To be sure he was," Mary answered; "and for that reason he could do better without me. But you--I shudder to think what you would have been--a curate in debt for horse-hire and cambric pocket-handkerchiefs!" On inquiry it might possibly be found that Fred and Mary still inhabit Stone Court--that the creeping plants still cast the foam of their blossoms over the fine stone-wall into the field where the walnut-trees stand in stately row--and that on sunny days the two lovers who were first engaged with the umbrella-ring may be seen in white-haired placidity at the open window from which Mary Garth, in the days of old Peter Featherstone, had often been ordered to look out for Mr. Lydgate. Lydgate's hair never became white. He died when he was only fifty, leaving his wife and children provided for by a heavy insurance on his life. He had gained an excellent practice, alternating, according to the season, between London and a Continental bathing-place; having written a treatise on Gout, a disease which has a good deal of wealth on its side. His skill was relied on by many paying patients, but he always regarded himself as a failure: he had not done what he once meant to do. His acquaintances thought him enviable to have so charming a wife, and nothing happened to shake their opinion. Rosamond never committed a second compromising indiscretion. She simply continued to be mild in her temper, inflexible in her judgment, disposed to admonish her husband, and able to frustrate him by stratagem. As the years went on he opposed her less and less, whence Rosamond concluded that he had learned the value of her opinion; on the other hand, she had a more thorough conviction of his talents now that he gained a good income, and instead of the threatened cage in Bride Street provided one all flowers and gilding, fit for the bird of paradise that she resembled. In brief, Lydgate was what is called a successful man. But he died prematurely of diphtheria, and Rosamond afterwards married an elderly and wealthy physician, who took kindly to her four children. She made a very pretty show with her daughters, driving out in her carriage, and often spoke of her happiness as "a reward"--she did not say for what, but probably she meant that it was a reward for her patience with Tertius, whose temper never became faultless, and to the last occasionally let slip a bitter speech which was more memorable than the signs he made of his repentance. He once called her his basil plant; and when she asked for an explanation, said that basil was a plant which had flourished wonderfully on a murdered man's brains. Rosamond had a placid but strong answer to such speeches. Why then had he chosen her? It was a pity he had not had Mrs. Ladislaw, whom he was always praising and placing above her. And thus the conversation ended with the advantage on Rosamond's side. But it would be unjust not to tell, that she never uttered a word in depreciation of Dorothea, keeping in religious remembrance the generosity which had come to her aid in the sharpest crisis of her life. Dorothea herself had no dreams of being praised above other women, feeling that there was always something better which she might have done, if she had only been better and known better. Still, she never repented that she had given up position and fortune to marry Will Ladislaw, and he would have held it the greatest shame as well as sorrow to him if she had repented. They were bound to each other by a love stronger than any impulses which could have marred it. No life would have been possible to Dorothea which was not filled with emotion, and she had now a life filled also with a beneficent activity which she had not the doubtful pains of discovering and marking out for herself. Will became an ardent public man, working well in those times when reforms were begun with a young hopefulness of immediate good which has been much checked in our days, and getting at last returned to Parliament by a constituency who paid his expenses. Dorothea could have liked nothing better, since wrongs existed, than that her husband should be in the thick of a struggle against them, and that she should give him wifely help. Many who knew her, thought it a pity that so substantive and rare a creature should have been absorbed into the life of another, and be only known in a certain circle as a wife and mother. But no one stated exactly what else that was in her power she ought rather to have done--not even Sir James Chettam, who went no further than the negative prescription that she ought not to have married Will Ladislaw. But this opinion of his did not cause a lasting alienation; and the way in which the family was made whole again was characteristic of all concerned. Mr. Brooke could not resist the pleasure of corresponding with Will and Dorothea; and one morning when his pen had been remarkably fluent on the prospects of Municipal Reform, it ran off into an invitation to the Grange, which, once written, could not be done away with at less cost than the sacrifice (hardly to be conceived) of the whole valuable letter. During the months of this correspondence Mr. Brooke had continually, in his talk with Sir James Chettam, been presupposing or hinting that the intention of cutting off the entail was still maintained; and the day on which his pen gave the daring invitation, he went to Freshitt expressly to intimate that he had a stronger sense than ever of the reasons for taking that energetic step as a precaution against any mixture of low blood in the heir of the Brookes. But that morning something exciting had happened at the Hall. A letter had come to Celia which made her cry silently as she read it; and when Sir James, unused to see her in tears, asked anxiously what was the matter, she burst out in a wail such as he had never heard from her before. "Dorothea has a little boy. And you will not let me go and see her. And I am sure she wants to see me. And she will not know what to do with the baby--she will do wrong things with it. And they thought she would die. It is very dreadful! Suppose it had been me and little Arthur, and Dodo had been hindered from coming to see me! I wish you would be less unkind, James!" "Good heavens, Celia!" said Sir James, much wrought upon, "what do you wish? I will do anything you like. I will take you to town to-morrow if you wish it." And Celia did wish it. It was after this that Mr. Brooke came, and meeting the Baronet in the grounds, began to chat with him in ignorance of the news, which Sir James for some reason did not care to tell him immediately. But when the entail was touched on in the usual way, he said, "My dear sir, it is not for me to dictate to you, but for my part I would let that alone. I would let things remain as they are." Mr. Brooke felt so much surprised that he did not at once find out how much he was relieved by the sense that he was not expected to do anything in particular. Such being the bent of Celia's heart, it was inevitable that Sir James should consent to a reconciliation with Dorothea and her husband. Where women love each other, men learn to smother their mutual dislike. Sir James never liked Ladislaw, and Will always preferred to have Sir James's company mixed with another kind: they were on a footing of reciprocal tolerance which was made quite easy only when Dorothea and Celia were present. It became an understood thing that Mr. and Mrs. Ladislaw should pay at least two visits during the year to the Grange, and there came gradually a small row of cousins at Freshitt who enjoyed playing with the two cousins visiting Tipton as much as if the blood of these cousins had been less dubiously mixed. Mr. Brooke lived to a good old age, and his estate was inherited by Dorothea's son, who might have represented Middlemarch, but declined, thinking that his opinions had less chance of being stifled if he remained out of doors. Sir James never ceased to regard Dorothea's second marriage as a mistake; and indeed this remained the tradition concerning it in Middlemarch, where she was spoken of to a younger generation as a fine girl who married a sickly clergyman, old enough to be her father, and in little more than a year after his death gave up her estate to marry his cousin--young enough to have been his son, with no property, and not well-born. Those who had not seen anything of Dorothea usually observed that she could not have been "a nice woman," else she would not have married either the one or the other. Certainly those determining acts of her life were not ideally beautiful. They were the mixed result of young and noble impulse struggling amidst the conditions of an imperfect social state, in which great feelings will often take the aspect of error, and great faith the aspect of illusion. For there is no creature whose inward being is so strong that it is not greatly determined by what lies outside it. A new Theresa will hardly have the opportunity of reforming a conventual life, any more than a new Antigone will spend her heroic piety in daring all for the sake of a brother's burial: the medium in which their ardent deeds took shape is forever gone. But we insignificant people with our daily words and acts are preparing the lives of many Dorotheas, some of which may present a far sadder sacrifice than that of the Dorothea whose story we know. Her finely touched spirit had still its fine issues, though they were not widely visible. Her full nature, like that river of which Cyrus broke the strength, spent itself in channels which had no great name on the earth. But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Caleb Garth akzeptiert den Vorschlag von Mrs. Bulstrode. Er kehrt nach Hause zurück, um die guten Nachrichten Mary zu überbringen. Es gibt eine liebevolle Zwischenzeit, in der er sie wegen Freds Wert neckt und sichergehen will, dass sie ihn liebt. Mary behauptet fröhlich, dass sie ihn nur liebt, "weil ich ihn schon immer geliebt habe. Ich würde niemand anderen so gerne schelten." Sie nimmt seine Nachricht mit Freude auf und macht sich dann daran, Fred zu quälen, bevor sie ihm die Neuigkeiten verrät. Die beiden Liebenden sind voller Freude.

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.

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. A council chamber. The Duke and Senators sitting at a table; Officers attending. DUKE. There is no composition in these news That gives them credit. FIRST SENATOR. Indeed they are disproportion'd; My letters say a hundred and seven galleys. DUKE. And mine, a hundred and forty. SECOND SENATOR. And mine, two hundred. But though they jump not on a just account-- As in these cases, where the aim reports, 'Tis oft with difference--yet do they all confirm A Turkish fleet, and bearing up to Cyprus. DUKE. Nay, it is possible enough to judgement. I do not so secure me in the error, But the main article I do approve In fearful sense. SAILOR. [Within.] What, ho! What, ho! What, ho! FIRST OFFICER. A messenger from the galleys. Enter Sailor. DUKE. Now, what's the business? SAILOR. The Turkish preparation makes for Rhodes, So was I bid report here to the state By Signior Angelo. DUKE. How say you by this change? FIRST SENATOR. This cannot be, By no assay of reason; 'tis a pageant To keep us in false gaze. When we consider The importancy of Cyprus to the Turk, And let ourselves again but understand That as it more concerns the Turk than Rhodes, So may he with more facile question bear it, For that it stands not in such warlike brace, But altogether lacks the abilities That Rhodes is dress'd in. If we make thought of this, We must not think the Turk is so unskillful To leave that latest which concerns him first, Neglecting an attempt of ease and gain, To wake and wage a danger profitless. DUKE. Nay, in all confidence, he's not for Rhodes. FIRST OFFICER. Here is more news. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. The Ottomites, reverend and gracious, Steering with due course toward the isle of Rhodes, Have there injointed them with an after fleet. FIRST SENATOR. Ay, so I thought. How many, as you guess? MESSENGER. Of thirty sail; and now they do re-stem Their backward course, bearing with frank appearance Their purposes toward Cyprus. Signior Montano, Your trusty and most valiant servitor, With his free duty recommends you thus, And prays you to believe him. DUKE. 'Tis certain then for Cyprus. Marcus Luccicos, is not he in town? FIRST SENATOR. He's now in Florence. DUKE. Write from us to him, post-post-haste dispatch. FIRST SENATOR. Here comes Brabantio and the valiant Moor. Enter Brabantio, Othello, Iago, Roderigo, and Officers. DUKE. Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you Against the general enemy Ottoman. [To Brabantio.] I did not see you; welcome, gentle signior; We lack'd your counsel and your help tonight. BRABANTIO. So did I yours. Good your Grace, pardon me: Neither my place nor aught I heard of business Hath raised me from my bed, nor doth the general care Take hold on me; for my particular grief Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself. DUKE. Why, what's the matter? BRABANTIO. My daughter! O, my daughter! ALL. Dead? BRABANTIO. Ay, to me. She is abused, stol'n from me and corrupted By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks; For nature so preposterously to err, Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense, Sans witchcraft could not. DUKE. Whoe'er he be that in this foul proceeding Hath thus beguiled your daughter of herself And you of her, the bloody book of law You shall yourself read in the bitter letter After your own sense, yea, though our proper son Stood in your action. BRABANTIO. Humbly I thank your Grace. Here is the man, this Moor, whom now, it seems, Your special mandate for the state affairs Hath hither brought. ALL. We are very sorry for't. DUKE. [To Othello.] What in your own part can you say to this? BRABANTIO. Nothing, but this is so. OTHELLO. Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approved good masters, That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, It is most true; true, I have married her; The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, And little blest with the soft phrase of peace; For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used Their dearest action in the tented field, And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broil and battle; And therefore little shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver Of my whole course of love: what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic-- For such proceeding I am charged withal-- I won his daughter. BRABANTIO. A maiden never bold, Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion Blush'd at herself; and she--in spite of nature, Of years, of country, credit, everything-- To fall in love with what she fear'd to look on! It is judgement maim'd and most imperfect, That will confess perfection so could err Against all rules of nature, and must be driven To find out practices of cunning hell Why this should be. I therefore vouch again That with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood, Or with some dram conjured to this effect, He wrought upon her. DUKE. To vouch this is no proof, Without more certain and more overt test Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods Of modern seeming do prefer against him. FIRST SENATOR. But, Othello, speak. Did you by indirect and forced courses Subdue and poison this young maid's affections? Or came it by request, and such fair question As soul to soul affordeth? OTHELLO. I do beseech you, Send for the lady to the Sagittary, And let her speak of me before her father. If you do find me foul in her report, The trust, the office I do hold of you, Not only take away, but let your sentence Even fall upon my life. DUKE. Fetch Desdemona hither. OTHELLO. Ancient, conduct them; you best know the place. Exeunt Iago and Attendants. And till she come, as truly as to heaven I do confess the vices of my blood, So justly to your grave ears I'll present How I did thrive in this fair lady's love And she in mine. DUKE. Say it, Othello. OTHELLO. Her father loved me, oft invited me, Still question'd me the story of my life From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have pass'd. I ran it through, even from my boyish days To the very moment that he bade me tell it: Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field, Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach, Of being taken by the insolent foe And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence And portance in my travels' history; Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle, Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven, It was my hint to speak--such was the process-- And of the Cannibals that each other eat, The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear Would Desdemona seriously incline; But still the house affairs would draw her thence, Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, She'ld come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse; which I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, Whereof by parcels she had something heard, But not intentively. I did consent, And often did beguile her of her tears When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffer'd. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs; She swore, in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful. She wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'd That heaven had made her such a man; she thank'd me, And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake: She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd, And I loved her that she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have used. Here comes the lady; let her witness it. Enter Desdemona, Iago, and Attendants. DUKE. I think this tale would win my daughter too. Good Brabantio, Take up this mangled matter at the best: Men do their broken weapons rather use Than their bare hands. BRABANTIO. I pray you, hear her speak. If she confess that she was half the wooer, Destruction on my head, if my bad blame Light on the man! Come hither, gentle mistress. Do you perceive in all this noble company Where most you owe obedience? DESDEMONA. My noble father, I do perceive here a divided duty. To you I am bound for life and education; My life and education both do learn me How to respect you; you are the lord of duty, I am hitherto your daughter. But here's my husband, And so much duty as my mother show'd To you, preferring you before her father, So much I challenge that I may profess Due to the Moor, my lord. BRABANTIO. God be with you! I have done. Please it your Grace, on to the state affairs; I had rather to adopt a child than get it. Come hither, Moor. I here do give thee that with all my heart Which, but thou hast already, with all my heart I would keep from thee. For your sake, jewel, I am glad at soul I have no other child; For thy escape would teach me tyranny, To hang clogs on them. I have done, my lord. DUKE. Let me speak like yourself, and lay a sentence Which, as a grise or step, may help these lovers Into your favor. When remedies are past, the griefs are ended By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended. To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on. What cannot be preserved when Fortune takes, Patience her injury a mockery makes. The robb'd that smiles steals something from the thief; He robs himself that spends a bootless grief. BRABANTIO. So let the Turk of Cyprus us beguile; We lose it not so long as we can smile. He bears the sentence well, that nothing bears But the free comfort which from thence he hears; But he bears both the sentence and the sorrow That, to pay grief, must of poor patience borrow. These sentences, to sugar or to gall, Being strong on both sides, are equivocal. But words are words; I never yet did hear That the bruised heart was pierced through the ear. I humbly beseech you, proceed to the affairs of state. DUKE. The Turk with a most mighty preparation makes for Cyprus. Othello, the fortitude of the place is best known to you; and though we have there a substitute of most allowed sufficiency, yet opinion, a sovereign mistress of effects, throws a more safer voice on you. You must therefore be content to slubber the gloss of your new fortunes with this more stubborn and boisterous expedition. OTHELLO. The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down. I do agnize A natural and prompt alacrity I find in hardness and do undertake These present wars against the Ottomites. Most humbly therefore bending to your state, I crave fit disposition for my wife, Due reference of place and exhibition, With such accommodation and besort As levels with her breeding. DUKE. If you please, Be't at her father's. BRABANTIO. I'll not have it so. OTHELLO. Nor I. DESDEMONA. Nor I. I would not there reside To put my father in impatient thoughts By being in his eye. Most gracious Duke, To my unfolding lend your prosperous ear, And let me find a charter in your voice To assist my simpleness. DUKE. What would you, Desdemona? DESDEMONA. That I did love the Moor to live with him, My downright violence and storm of fortunes May trumpet to the world. My heart's subdued Even to the very quality of my lord. I saw Othello's visage in his mind, And to his honors and his valiant parts Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate. So that, dear lords, if I be left behind, A moth of peace, and he go to the war, The rites for which I love him are bereft me, And I a heavy interim shall support By his dear absence. Let me go with him. OTHELLO. Let her have your voices. Vouch with me, heaven, I therefore beg it not To please the palate of my appetite, Nor to comply with heat--the young affects In me defunct--and proper satisfaction; But to be free and bounteous to her mind. And heaven defend your good souls, that you think I will your serious and great business scant For she is with me. No, when light-wing'd toys Of feather'd Cupid seal with wanton dullness My speculative and officed instruments, That my disports corrupt and taint my business, Let housewives make a skillet of my helm, And all indign and base adversities Make head against my estimation! DUKE. Be it as you shall privately determine, Either for her stay or going. The affair cries haste, And speed must answer't: you must hence tonight. DESDEMONA. Tonight, my lord? DUKE. This night. OTHELLO. With all my heart. DUKE. At nine i' the morning here we'll meet again. Othello, leave some officer behind, And he shall our commission bring to you, With such things else of quality and respect As doth import you. OTHELLO. So please your Grace, my ancient; A man he is of honesty and trust. To his conveyance I assign my wife, With what else needful your good Grace shall think To be sent after me. DUKE. Let it be so. Good night to everyone. [To Brabantio.] And, noble signior, If virtue no delighted beauty lack, Your son-in-law is far more fair than black. FIRST SENATOR. Adieu, brave Moor, use Desdemona well. BRABANTIO. Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see; She has deceived her father, and may thee. Exeunt Duke, Senators, and Officers. OTHELLO. My life upon her faith! Honest Iago, My Desdemona must I leave to thee. I prithee, let thy wife attend on her, And bring them after in the best advantage. Come, Desdemona, I have but an hour Of love, of worldly matters and direction, To spend with thee. We must obey the time. Exeunt Othello and Desdemona. RODERIGO. Iago! IAGO. What say'st thou, noble heart? RODERIGO. What will I do, thinkest thou? IAGO. Why, go to bed and sleep. RODERIGO. I will incontinently drown myself. IAGO. If thou dost, I shall never love thee after. Why, thou silly gentleman! RODERIGO. It is silliness to live when to live is torment, and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician. IAGO. O villainous! I have looked upon the world for four times seven years, and since I could distinguish betwixt a benefit and an injury, I never found man that knew how to love himself. Ere I would say I would drown myself for the love of a guinea hen, I would change my humanity with a baboon. RODERIGO. What should I do? I confess it is my shame to be so fond, but it is not in my virtue to amend it. IAGO. Virtue? a fig! 'Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners; so that if we will plant nettles or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs or distract it with many, either to have it sterile with idleness or manured with industry, why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. If the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us to most preposterous conclusions. But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts; whereof I take this, that you call love, to be a sect or scion. RODERIGO. It cannot be. IAGO. It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will. Come, be a man! Drown thyself? Drown cats and blind puppies. I have professed me thy friend, and I confess me knit to thy deserving with cables of perdurable toughness; I could never better stead thee than now. Put money in thy purse; follow thou the wars; defeat thy favor with an usurped beard. I say, put money in thy purse. It cannot be that Desdemona should long continue her love to the Moor--put money in thy purse--nor he his to her. It was a violent commencement, and thou shalt see an answerable sequestration--put but money in thy purse. These Moors are changeable in their wills--fill thy purse with money. The food that to him now is as luscious as locusts, shall be to him shortly as acerb as the coloquintida. She must change for youth; when she is sated with his body, she will find the error of her choice. She must have change, she must; therefore put money in thy purse. If thou wilt needs damn thyself, do it a more delicate way than drowning. Make all the money thou canst. If sanctimony and a frail vow betwixt an erring barbarian and a supersubtle Venetian be not too hard for my wits and all the tribe of hell, thou shalt enjoy her--therefore make money. A pox of drowning thyself! It is clean out of the way. Seek thou rather to be hanged in compassing thy joy than to be drowned and go without her. RODERIGO. Wilt thou be fast to my hopes, if I depend on the issue? IAGO. Thou art sure of me--go, make money. I have told thee often, and I retell thee again and again, I hate the Moor. My cause is hearted; thine hath no less reason. Let us be conjunctive in our revenge against him. If thou canst cuckold him, thou dost thyself a pleasure, me a sport. There are many events in the womb of time which will be delivered. Traverse, go, provide thy money. We will have more of this tomorrow. Adieu. RODERIGO. Where shall we meet i' the morning? IAGO. At my lodging. RODERIGO. I'll be with thee betimes. IAGO. Go to, farewell. Do you hear, Roderigo? RODERIGO. What say you? IAGO. No more of drowning, do you hear? RODERIGO. I am changed; I'll go sell all my land. Exit. IAGO. Thus do I ever make my fool my purse; For I mine own gain'd knowledge should profane If I would time expend with such a snipe But for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor, And it is thought abroad that 'twixt my sheets He has done my office. I know not if't be true, But I for mere suspicion in that kind Will do as if for surety. He holds me well, The better shall my purpose work on him. Cassio's a proper man. Let me see now-- To get his place, and to plume up my will In double knavery--How, how?--Let's see-- After some time, to abuse Othello's ear That he is too familiar with his wife. He hath a person and a smooth dispose To be suspected--framed to make women false. The Moor is of a free and open nature, That thinks men honest that but seem to be so, And will as tenderly be led by the nose As asses are. I have't. It is engender'd. Hell and night Must bring this monstrous birth to the world's light. Exit. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

Szene III Kontext Diese Szene findet im Ratssaal des Herzogs statt und informiert uns über die politische Situation in Bezug auf Zypern. Es werden verschiedene Nachrichten empfangen, aber es wird schnell klar, dass die Türken beabsichtigen, all ihre Ressourcen gegen Zypern einzusetzen. Als die Aufregung ihren Höhepunkt erreicht, treten Othello, Cassio, Iago, Roderigo und Brabantio ein, letzterer möchte seine Beschwerde über Othellos Ehe mit seiner Tochter vortragen. Dem Herzog ist die türkische Bedrohung wichtiger als Brabantios Tochter. Schließlich stimmt der Herzog zu, dass Desdemonas Liebhaber angemessen bestraft wird, aber als er erkennt, dass es sich um Othello handelt, wird das "Verbrechen" etwas vermindert und er bekundet Brabantio lediglich sein Beileid, dass er nicht wohlwollend auf den Mohren schaut. Othello beschreibt, wie seine Werbung um Desdemona stattfand und wie er in das Haus der Brabantios eingeladen wurde, um von seinen Abenteuern und Schlachten zu erzählen. Desdemona war fasziniert von dem Mohren und seinem Leben und verliebte sich bald in ihn. Nachdem er die Geschichte gehört hat, schlägt der Herzog vor, dass auch seine eigene Tochter sich wahrscheinlich in den Mohren verliebt hätte, und gibt damit seine Zustimmung zur Verbindung. Desdemonas Liebe zu Othello ist nun vollständig erklärt. Brabantio ist immer noch der Meinung, dass seine Tochter verzaubert wurde, und so schickt der Herzog Iago los, um sie in den Ratssaal zu holen. Desdemona spricht zum Herzog und zeigt große Tapferkeit, indem sie zugesteht, dass sie ihrem Vater viel für ihre Bildung schuldet, aber jetzt liegt ihre Pflicht bei Othello, genauso wie ihre Mutter ihrem Vater treu war. Desdemonas Vater ist immer noch verbittert, aber der Herzog legt Desdemonas Schicksal in Othellos Hände. Der Herzog beauftragt dann Othello, nach Zypern zu reisen, die Insel zu übernehmen und sich den Türken entgegenzustellen. Desdemona bittet den Herzog, sie mit Othello nach Zypern zu lassen, und Othello versichert dem Herzog, dass ihre Anwesenheit ihn nicht von der bevorstehenden Schlacht ablenken wird. Der Herzog ist ungeduldig, Zypern gesichert zu haben, und er befiehlt Othello, noch in dieser Nacht nach Zypern aufzubrechen. Desdemona wird separat nach Zypern reisen, begleitet von Emilia, Iagos Frau. Der unzufriedene Brabantio schlägt einen bedrohlichen Ton für Othellos Abreise an. Iago und Roderigo bleiben allein zurück, und Roderigo ist deprimiert über den Verlust von Desdemona. Iago braucht ihn immer noch und versucht, ihn aus seiner Depression herauszuholen. Sie ist so tief, dass er sagt: "Ich werde mich sofort ertränken." Da er selbst nie Liebe erfahren hat, ist Iago überrascht und empört über Roderigos Zustand und bringt ihn durch seine Intelligenz und Überzeugungskraft wieder zu einer gewissen Normalität zurück. Er braucht immer noch Roderigos finanzielle Unterstützung. Er sagt Roderigo, dass Desdemona sich bald des Mohren überdrüssig werden wird und sich einen jüngeren Liebhaber suchen wird. Roderigo lässt sich überreden, nach Zypern zu reisen, aufgrund der Andeutung von Iago, dass sich die Ereignisse zum Vorteil von beiden wenden könnten.

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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. Chapter: I THE Zenith Street Traction Company planned to build car-repair shops in the suburb of Dorchester, but when they came to buy the land they found it held, on options, by the Babbitt-Thompson Realty Company. The purchasing-agent, the first vice-president, and even the president of the Traction Company protested against the Babbitt price. They mentioned their duty toward stockholders, they threatened an appeal to the courts, though somehow the appeal to the courts was never carried out and the officials found it wiser to compromise with Babbitt. Carbon copies of the correspondence are in the company's files, where they may be viewed by any public commission. Just after this Babbitt deposited three thousand dollars in the bank, the purchasing-agent of the Street Traction Company bought a five thousand dollar car, the first vice-president built a home in Devon Woods, and the president was appointed minister to a foreign country. To obtain the options, to tie up one man's land without letting his neighbor know, had been an unusual strain on Babbitt. It was necessary to introduce rumors about planning garages and stores, to pretend that he wasn't taking any more options, to wait and look as bored as a poker-player at a time when the failure to secure a key-lot threatened his whole plan. To all this was added a nerve-jabbing quarrel with his secret associates in the deal. They did not wish Babbitt and Thompson to have any share in the deal except as brokers. Babbitt rather agreed. "Ethics of the business-broker ought to strictly represent his principles and not get in on the buying," he said to Thompson. "Ethics, rats! Think I'm going to see that bunch of holy grafters get away with the swag and us not climb in?" snorted old Henry. "Well, I don't like to do it. Kind of double-crossing." "It ain't. It's triple-crossing. It's the public that gets double-crossed. Well, now we've been ethical and got it out of our systems, the question is where we can raise a loan to handle some of the property for ourselves, on the Q. T. We can't go to our bank for it. Might come out." "I could see old Eathorne. He's close as the tomb." "That's the stuff." Eathorne was glad, he said, to "invest in character," to make Babbitt the loan and see to it that the loan did not appear on the books of the bank. Thus certain of the options which Babbitt and Thompson obtained were on parcels of real estate which they themselves owned, though the property did not appear in their names. In the midst of closing this splendid deal, which stimulated business and public confidence by giving an example of increased real-estate activity, Babbitt was overwhelmed to find that he had a dishonest person working for him. The dishonest one was Stanley Graff, the outside salesman. For some time Babbitt had been worried about Graff. He did not keep his word to tenants. In order to rent a house he would promise repairs which the owner had not authorized. It was suspected that he juggled inventories of furnished houses so that when the tenant left he had to pay for articles which had never been in the house and the price of which Graff put into his pocket. Babbitt had not been able to prove these suspicions, and though he had rather planned to discharge Graff he had never quite found time for it. Now into Babbitt's private room charged a red-faced man, panting, "Look here! I've come to raise particular merry hell, and unless you have that fellow pinched, I will!" "What's--Calm down, o' man. What's trouble?" "Trouble! Huh! Here's the trouble--" "Sit down and take it easy! They can hear you all over the building!" "This fellow Graff you got working for you, he leases me a house. I was in yesterday and signs the lease, all O.K., and he was to get the owner's signature and mail me the lease last night. Well, and he did. This morning I comes down to breakfast and the girl says a fellow had come to the house right after the early delivery and told her he wanted an envelope that had been mailed by mistake, big long envelope with 'Babbitt-Thompson' in the corner of it. Sure enough, there it was, so she lets him have it. And she describes the fellow to me, and it was this Graff. So I 'phones to him and he, the poor fool, he admits it! He says after my lease was all signed he got a better offer from another fellow and he wanted my lease back. Now what you going to do about it?" "Your name is--?" "William Varney--W. K. Varney." "Oh, yes. That was the Garrison house." Babbitt sounded the buzzer. When Miss McGoun came in, he demanded, "Graff gone out?" "Yes, sir." "Will you look through his desk and see if there is a lease made out to Mr. Varney on the Garrison house?" To Varney: "Can't tell you how sorry I am this happened. Needless to say, I'll fire Graff the minute he comes in. And of course your lease stands. But there's one other thing I'd like to do. I'll tell the owner not to pay us the commission but apply it to your rent. No! Straight! I want to. To be frank, this thing shakes me up bad. I suppose I've always been a Practical Business Man. Probably I've told one or two fairy stories in my time, when the occasion called for it--you know: sometimes you have to lay things on thick, to impress boneheads. But this is the first time I've ever had to accuse one of my own employees of anything more dishonest than pinching a few stamps. Honest, it would hurt me if we profited by it. So you'll let me hand you the commission? Good!" II He walked through the February city, where trucks flung up a spattering of slush and the sky was dark above dark brick cornices. He came back miserable. He, who respected the law, had broken it by concealing the Federal crime of interception of the mails. But he could not see Graff go to jail and his wife suffer. Worse, he had to discharge Graff and this was a part of office routine which he feared. He liked people so much, he so much wanted them to like him that he could not bear insulting them. Miss McGoun dashed in to whisper, with the excitement of an approaching scene, "He's here!" "Mr. Graff? Ask him to come in." He tried to make himself heavy and calm in his chair, and to keep his eyes expressionless. Graff stalked in--a man of thirty-five, dapper, eye-glassed, with a foppish mustache. "Want me?" said Graff. "Yes. Sit down." Graff continued to stand, grunting, "I suppose that old nut Varney has been in to see you. Let me explain about him. He's a regular tightwad, and he sticks out for every cent, and he practically lied to me about his ability to pay the rent--I found that out just after we signed up. And then another fellow comes along with a better offer for the house, and I felt it was my duty to the firm to get rid of Varney, and I was so worried about it I skun up there and got back the lease. Honest, Mr. Babbitt, I didn't intend to pull anything crooked. I just wanted the firm to have all the commis--" "Wait now, Stan. This may all be true, but I've been having a lot of complaints about you. Now I don't s'pose you ever mean to do wrong, and I think if you just get a good lesson that'll jog you up a little, you'll turn out a first-class realtor yet. But I don't see how I can keep you on." Graff leaned against the filing-cabinet, his hands in his pockets, and laughed. "So I'm fired! Well, old Vision and Ethics, I'm tickled to death! But I don't want you to think you can get away with any holier-than-thou stuff. Sure I've pulled some raw stuff--a little of it--but how could I help it, in this office?" "Now, by God, young man--" "Tut, tut! Keep the naughty temper down, and don't holler, because everybody in the outside office will hear you. They're probably listening right now. Babbitt, old dear, you're crooked in the first place and a damn skinflint in the second. If you paid me a decent salary I wouldn't have to steal pennies off a blind man to keep my wife from starving. Us married just five months, and her the nicest girl living, and you keeping us flat broke all the time, you damned old thief, so you can put money away for your saphead of a son and your wishywashy fool of a daughter! Wait, now! You'll by God take it, or I'll bellow so the whole office will hear it! And crooked--Say, if I told the prosecuting attorney what I know about this last Street Traction option steal, both you and me would go to jail, along with some nice, clean, pious, high-up traction guns!" "Well, Stan, looks like we were coming down to cases. That deal--There was nothing crooked about it. The only way you can get progress is for the broad-gauged men to get things done; and they got to be rewarded--" "Oh, for Pete's sake, don't get virtuous on me! As I gather it, I'm fired. All right. It's a good thing for me. And if I catch you knocking me to any other firm, I'll squeal all I know about you and Henry T. and the dirty little lickspittle deals that you corporals of industry pull off for the bigger and brainier crooks, and you'll get chased out of town. And me--you're right, Babbitt, I've been going crooked, but now I'm going straight, and the first step will be to get a job in some office where the boss doesn't talk about Ideals. Bad luck, old dear, and you can stick your job up the sewer!" Babbitt sat for a long time, alternately raging, "I'll have him arrested," and yearning "I wonder--No, I've never done anything that wasn't necessary to keep the Wheels of Progress moving." Next day he hired in Graff's place Fritz Weilinger, the salesman of his most injurious rival, the East Side Homes and Development Company, and thus at once annoyed his competitor and acquired an excellent man. Young Fritz was a curly-headed, merry, tennis-playing youngster. He made customers welcome to the office. Babbitt thought of him as a son, and in him had much comfort. III An abandoned race-track on the outskirts of Chicago, a plot excellent for factory sites, was to be sold, and Jake Offut asked Babbitt to bid on it for him. The strain of the Street Traction deal and his disappointment in Stanley Graff had so shaken Babbitt that he found it hard to sit at his desk and concentrate. He proposed to his family, "Look here, folks! Do you know who's going to trot up to Chicago for a couple of days--just week-end; won't lose but one day of school--know who's going with that celebrated business-ambassador, George F. Babbitt? Why, Mr. Theodore Roosevelt Babbitt!" "Hurray!" Ted shouted, and "Oh, maybe the Babbitt men won't paint that lil ole town red!" And, once away from the familiar implications of home, they were two men together. Ted was young only in his assumption of oldness, and the only realms, apparently, in which Babbitt had a larger and more grown-up knowledge than Ted's were the details of real estate and the phrases of politics. When the other sages of the Pullman smoking-compartment had left them to themselves, Babbitt's voice did not drop into the playful and otherwise offensive tone in which one addresses children but continued its overwhelming and monotonous rumble, and Ted tried to imitate it in his strident tenor: "Gee, dad, you certainly did show up that poor boot when he got flip about the League of Nations!" "Well, the trouble with a lot of these fellows is, they simply don't know what they're talking about. They don't get down to facts.... What do you think of Ken Escott?" "I'll tell you, dad: it strikes me Ken is a nice lad; no special faults except he smokes too much; but slow, Lord! Why, if we don't give him a shove the poor dumb-bell never will propose! And Rone just as bad. Slow." "Yes, I guess you're right. They're slow. They haven't either one of 'em got our pep." "That's right. They're slow. I swear, dad, I don't know how Rone got into our family! I'll bet, if the truth were known, you were a bad old egg when you were a kid!" "Well, I wasn't so slow!" "I'll bet you weren't! I'll bet you didn't miss many tricks!" "Well, when I was out with the girls I didn't spend all the time telling 'em about the strike in the knitting industry!" They roared together, and together lighted cigars. "What are we going to do with 'em?" Babbitt consulted. "Gosh, I don't know. I swear, sometimes I feel like taking Ken aside and putting him over the jumps and saying to him, 'Young fella me lad, are you going to marry young Rone, or are you going to talk her to death? Here you are getting on toward thirty, and you're only making twenty or twenty-five a week. When you going to develop a sense of responsibility and get a raise? If there's anything that George F. or I can do to help you, call on us, but show a little speed, anyway!'" "Well, at that, it might not be so bad if you or I talked to him, except he might not understand. He's one of these high brows. He can't come down to cases and lay his cards on the table and talk straight out from the shoulder, like you or I can." "That's right, he's like all these highbrows." "That's so, like all of 'em." "That's a fact." They sighed, and were silent and thoughtful and happy. The conductor came in. He had once called at Babbitt's office, to ask about houses. "H' are you, Mr. Babbitt! We going to have you with us to Chicago? This your boy?" "Yes, this is my son Ted." "Well now, what do you know about that! Here I been thinking you were a youngster yourself, not a day over forty, hardly, and you with this great big fellow!" "Forty? Why, brother, I'll never see forty-five again!" "Is that a fact! Wouldn't hardly 'a' thought it!" "Yes, sir, it's a bad give-away for the old man when he has to travel with a young whale like Ted here!" "You're right, it is." To Ted: "I suppose you're in college now?" Proudly, "No, not till next fall. I'm just kind of giving the diff'rent colleges the once-over now." As the conductor went on his affable way, huge watch-chain jingling against his blue chest, Babbitt and Ted gravely considered colleges. They arrived at Chicago late at night; they lay abed in the morning, rejoicing, "Pretty nice not to have to get up and get down to breakfast, heh?" They were staying at the modest Eden Hotel, because Zenith business men always stayed at the Eden, but they had dinner in the brocade and crystal Versailles Room of the Regency Hotel. Babbitt ordered Blue Point oysters with cocktail sauce, a tremendous steak with a tremendous platter of French fried potatoes, two pots of coffee, apple pie with ice cream for both of them and, for Ted, an extra piece of mince pie. "Hot stuff! Some feed, young fella!" Ted admired. "Huh! You stick around with me, old man, and I'll show you a good time!" They went to a musical comedy and nudged each other at the matrimonial jokes and the prohibition jokes; they paraded the lobby, arm in arm, between acts, and in the glee of his first release from the shame which dissevers fathers and sons Ted chuckled, "Dad, did you ever hear the one about the three milliners and the judge?" When Ted had returned to Zenith, Babbitt was lonely. As he was trying to make alliance between Offutt and certain Milwaukee interests which wanted the race-track plot, most of his time was taken up in waiting for telephone calls.... Sitting on the edge of his bed, holding the portable telephone, asking wearily, "Mr. Sagen not in yet? Didn' he leave any message for me? All right, I'll hold the wire." Staring at a stain on the wall, reflecting that it resembled a shoe, and being bored by this twentieth discovery that it resembled a shoe. Lighting a cigarette; then, bound to the telephone with no ashtray in reach, wondering what to do with this burning menace and anxiously trying to toss it into the tiled bathroom. At last, on the telephone, "No message, eh? All right, I'll call up again." One afternoon he wandered through snow-rutted streets of which he had never heard, streets of small tenements and two-family houses and marooned cottages. It came to him that he had nothing to do, that there was nothing he wanted to do. He was bleakly lonely in the evening, when he dined by himself at the Regency Hotel. He sat in the lobby afterward, in a plush chair bedecked with the Saxe-Coburg arms, lighting a cigar and looking for some one who would come and play with him and save him from thinking. In the chair next to him (showing the arms of Lithuania) was a half-familiar man, a large red-faced man with pop eyes and a deficient yellow mustache. He seemed kind and insignificant, and as lonely as Babbitt himself. He wore a tweed suit and a reluctant orange tie. It came to Babbitt with a pyrotechnic crash. The melancholy stranger was Sir Gerald Doak. Instinctively Babbitt rose, bumbling, "How 're you, Sir Gerald? 'Member we met in Zenith, at Charley McKelvey's? Babbitt's my name--real estate." "Oh! How d' you do." Sir Gerald shook hands flabbily. Embarrassed, standing, wondering how he could retreat, Babbitt maundered, "Well, I suppose you been having a great trip since we saw you in Zenith." "Quite. British Columbia and California and all over the place," he said doubtfully, looking at Babbitt lifelessly. "How did you find business conditions in British Columbia? Or I suppose maybe you didn't look into 'em. Scenery and sport and so on?" "Scenery? Oh, capital. But business conditions--You know, Mr. Babbitt, they're having almost as much unemployment as we are." Sir Gerald was speaking warmly now. "So? Business conditions not so doggone good, eh?" "No, business conditions weren't at all what I'd hoped to find them." "Not good, eh?" "No, not--not really good." "That's a darn shame. Well--I suppose you're waiting for somebody to take you out to some big shindig, Sir Gerald." "Shindig? Oh. Shindig. No, to tell you the truth, I was wondering what the deuce I could do this evening. Don't know a soul in Tchicahgo. I wonder if you happen to know whether there's a good theater in this city?" "Good? Why say, they're running grand opera right now! I guess maybe you'd like that." "Eh? Eh? Went to the opera once in London. Covent Garden sort of thing. Shocking! No, I was wondering if there was a good cinema-movie." Babbitt was sitting down, hitching his chair over, shouting, "Movie? Say, Sir Gerald, I supposed of course you had a raft of dames waiting to lead you out to some soiree--" "God forbid!" "--but if you haven't, what do you say you and me go to a movie? There's a peach of a film at the Grantham: Bill Hart in a bandit picture." "Right-o! Just a moment while I get my coat." Swollen with greatness, slightly afraid lest the noble blood of Nottingham change its mind and leave him at any street corner, Babbitt paraded with Sir Gerald Doak to the movie palace and in silent bliss sat beside him, trying not to be too enthusiastic, lest the knight despise his adoration of six-shooters and broncos. At the end Sir Gerald murmured, "Jolly good picture, this. So awfully decent of you to take me. Haven't enjoyed myself so much for weeks. All these Hostesses--they never let you go to the cinema!" "The devil you say!" Babbitt's speech had lost the delicate refinement and all the broad A's with which he had adorned it, and become hearty and natural. "Well, I'm tickled to death you liked it, Sir Gerald." They crawled past the knees of fat women into the aisle; they stood in the lobby waving their arms in the rite of putting on overcoats. Babbitt hinted, "Say, how about a little something to eat? I know a place where we could get a swell rarebit, and we might dig up a little drink--that is, if you ever touch the stuff." "Rather! But why don't you come to my room? I've some Scotch--not half bad." "Oh, I don't want to use up all your hootch. It's darn nice of you, but--You probably want to hit the hay." Sir Gerald was transformed. He was beefily yearning. "Oh really, now; I haven't had a decent evening for so long! Having to go to all these dances. No chance to discuss business and that sort of thing. Do be a good chap and come along. Won't you?" "Will I? You bet! I just thought maybe--Say, by golly, it does do a fellow good, don't it, to sit and visit about business conditions, after he's been to these balls and masquerades and banquets and all that society stuff. I often feel that way in Zenith. Sure, you bet I'll come." "That's awfully nice of you." They beamed along the street. "Look here, old chap, can you tell me, do American cities always keep up this dreadful social pace? All these magnificent parties?" "Go on now, quit your kidding! Gosh, you with court balls and functions and everything--" "No, really, old chap! Mother and I--Lady Doak, I should say, we usually play a hand of bezique and go to bed at ten. Bless my soul, I couldn't keep up your beastly pace! And talking! All your American women, they know so much--culture and that sort of thing. This Mrs. McKelvey--your friend--" "Yuh, old Lucile. Good kid." "--she asked me which of the galleries I liked best in Florence. Or was it in Firenze? Never been in Italy in my life! And primitives. Did I like primitives. Do you know what the deuce a primitive is?" "Me? I should say not! But I know what a discount for cash is." "Rather! So do I, by George! But primitives!" "Yuh! Primitives!" They laughed with the sound of a Boosters' luncheon. Sir Gerald's room was, except for his ponderous and durable English bags, very much like the room of George F. Babbitt; and quite in the manner of Babbitt he disclosed a huge whisky flask, looked proud and hospitable, and chuckled, "Say, when, old chap." It was after the third drink that Sir Gerald proclaimed, "How do you Yankees get the notion that writing chaps like Bertrand Shaw and this Wells represent us? The real business England, we think those chaps are traitors. Both our countries have their comic Old Aristocracy--you know, old county families, hunting people and all that sort of thing--and we both have our wretched labor leaders, but we both have a backbone of sound business men who run the whole show." "You bet. Here's to the real guys!" "I'm with you! Here's to ourselves!" It was after the fourth drink that Sir Gerald asked humbly, "What do you think of North Dakota mortgages?" but it was not till after the fifth that Babbitt began to call him "Jerry," and Sir Gerald confided, "I say, do you mind if I pull off my boots?" and ecstatically stretched his knightly feet, his poor, tired, hot, swollen feet out on the bed. After the sixth, Babbitt irregularly arose. "Well, I better be hiking along. Jerry, you're a regular human being! I wish to thunder we'd been better acquainted in Zenith. Lookit. Can't you come back and stay with me a while?" "So sorry--must go to New York to-morrow. Most awfully sorry, old boy. I haven't enjoyed an evening so much since I've been in the States. Real talk. Not all this social rot. I'd never have let them give me the beastly title--and I didn't get it for nothing, eh?--if I'd thought I'd have to talk to women about primitives and polo! Goodish thing to have in Nottingham, though; annoyed the mayor most frightfully when I got it; and of course the missus likes it. But nobody calls me 'Jerry' now--" He was almost weeping. "--and nobody in the States has treated me like a friend till to-night! Good-by, old chap, good-by! Thanks awfully!" "Don't mention it, Jerry. And remember whenever you get to Zenith, the latch-string is always out." "And don't forget, old boy, if you ever come to Nottingham, Mother and I will be frightfully glad to see you. I shall tell the fellows in Nottingham your ideas about Visions and Real Guys--at our next Rotary Club luncheon." IV Babbitt lay abed at his hotel, imagining the Zenith Athletic Club asking him, "What kind of a time d'you have in Chicago?" and his answering, "Oh, fair; ran around with Sir Gerald Doak a lot;" picturing himself meeting Lucile McKelvey and admonishing her, "You're all right, Mrs. Mac, when you aren't trying to pull this highbrow pose. It's just as Gerald Doak says to me in Chicago--oh, yes, Jerry's an old friend of mine--the wife and I are thinking of running over to England to stay with Jerry in his castle, next year--and he said to me, 'Georgie, old bean, I like Lucile first-rate, but you and me, George, we got to make her get over this highty-tighty hooptediddle way she's got." But that evening a thing happened which wrecked his pride. V At the Regency Hotel cigar-counter he fell to talking with a salesman of pianos, and they dined together. Babbitt was filled with friendliness and well-being. He enjoyed the gorgeousness of the dining-room: the chandeliers, the looped brocade curtains, the portraits of French kings against panels of gilded oak. He enjoyed the crowd: pretty women, good solid fellows who were "liberal spenders." He gasped. He stared, and turned away, and stared again. Three tables off, with a doubtful sort of woman, a woman at once coy and withered, was Paul Riesling, and Paul was supposed to be in Akron, selling tar-roofing. The woman was tapping his hand, mooning at him and giggling. Babbitt felt that he had encountered something involved and harmful. Paul was talking with the rapt eagerness of a man who is telling his troubles. He was concentrated on the woman's faded eyes. Once he held her hand and once, blind to the other guests, he puckered his lips as though he was pretending to kiss her. Babbitt had so strong an impulse to go to Paul that he could feel his body uncoiling, his shoulders moving, but he felt, desperately, that he must be diplomatic, and not till he saw Paul paying the check did he bluster to the piano-salesman, "By golly--friend of mine over there--'scuse me second--just say hello to him." He touched Paul's shoulder, and cried, "Well, when did you hit town?" Paul glared up at him, face hardening. "Oh, hello, George. Thought you'd gone back to Zenith." He did not introduce his companion. Babbitt peeped at her. She was a flabbily pretty, weakly flirtatious woman of forty-two or three, in an atrocious flowery hat. Her rouging was thorough but unskilful. "Where you staying, Paulibus?" The woman turned, yawned, examined her nails. She seemed accustomed to not being introduced. Paul grumbled, "Campbell Inn, on the South Side." "Alone?" It sounded insinuating. "Yes! Unfortunately!" Furiously Paul turned toward the woman, smiling with a fondness sickening to Babbitt. "May! Want to introduce you. Mrs. Arnold, this is my old-acquaintance, George Babbitt." "Pleasmeech," growled Babbitt, while she gurgled, "Oh, I'm very pleased to meet any friend of Mr. Riesling's, I'm sure." Babbitt demanded, "Be back there later this evening, Paul? I'll drop down and see you." "No, better--We better lunch together to-morrow." "All right, but I'll see you to-night, too, Paul. I'll go down to your hotel, and I'll wait for you!" 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." THE International Organization of Boosters' Clubs has become a world-force for optimism, manly pleasantry, and good business. Chapters are to be found now in thirty countries. Nine hundred and twenty of the thousand chapters, however, are in the United States. None of these is more ardent than the Zenith Boosters' Club. The second March lunch of the Zenith Boosters was the most important of the year, as it was to be followed by the annual election of officers. There was agitation abroad. The lunch was held in the ballroom of the O'Hearn House. As each of the four hundred Boosters entered he took from a wall-board a huge celluloid button announcing his name, his nick name, and his business. There was a fine of ten cents for calling a Fellow Booster by anything but his nickname at a lunch, and as Babbitt jovially checked his hat the air was radiant with shouts of "Hello, Chet!" and "How're you, Shorty!" and "Top o' the mornin', Mac!" They sat at friendly tables for eight, choosing places by lot. Babbitt was with Albert Boos the merchant tailor, Hector Seybolt of the Little Sweetheart Condensed Milk Company, Emil Wengert the jeweler, Professor Pumphrey of the Riteway Business College, Dr. Walter Gorbutt, Roy Teegarten the photographer, and Ben Berkey the photo-engraver. One of the merits of the Boosters' Club was that only two persons from each department of business were permitted to join, so that you at once encountered the Ideals of other occupations, and realized the metaphysical oneness of all occupations--plumbing and portrait-painting, medicine and the manufacture of chewing-gum. Babbitt's table was particularly happy to-day, because Professor Pumphrey had just had a birthday, and was therefore open to teasing. "Let's pump Pump about how old he is!" said Emil Wengert. "No, let's paddle him with a dancing-pump!" said Ben Berkey. But it was Babbitt who had the applause, with "Don't talk about pumps to that guy! The only pump he knows is a bottle! Honest, they tell me he's starting a class in home-brewing at the ole college!" At each place was the Boosters' Club booklet, listing the members. Though the object of the club was good-fellowship, yet they never lost sight of the importance of doing a little more business. After each name was the member's occupation. There were scores of advertisements in the booklet, and on one page the admonition: "There's no rule that you have to trade with your Fellow Boosters, but get wise, boy--what's the use of letting all this good money get outside of our happy fambly?" And at each place, to-day, there was a present; a card printed in artistic red and black: SERVICE AND BOOSTERISM Service finds its finest opportunity and development only in its broadest and deepest application and the consideration of its perpetual action upon reaction. I believe the highest type of Service, like the most progressive tenets of ethics, senses unceasingly and is motived by active adherence and loyalty to that which is the essential principle of Boosterism--Good Citizenship in all its factors and aspects. DAD PETERSEN. Compliments of Dadbury Petersen Advertising Corp. "Ads, not Fads, at Dad's" The Boosters all read Mr. Peterson's aphorism and said they understood it perfectly. The meeting opened with the regular weekly "stunts." Retiring President Vergil Gunch was in the chair, his stiff hair like a hedge, his voice like a brazen gong of festival. Members who had brought guests introduced them publicly. "This tall red-headed piece of misinformation is the sporting editor of the Press," said Willis Ijams; and H. H. Hazen, the druggist, chanted, "Boys, when you're on a long motor tour and finally get to a romantic spot or scene and draw up and remark to the wife, 'This is certainly a romantic place,' it sends a glow right up and down your vertebrae. Well, my guest to-day is from such a place, Harper's Ferry, Virginia, in the beautiful Southland, with memories of good old General Robert E. Lee and of that brave soul, John Brown who, like every good Booster, goes marching on--" There were two especially distinguished guests: the leading man of the "Bird of Paradise" company, playing this week at the Dodsworth Theater, and the mayor of Zenith, the Hon. Lucas Prout. Vergil Gunch thundered, "When we manage to grab this celebrated Thespian off his lovely aggregation of beautiful actresses--and I got to admit I butted right into his dressing-room and told him how the Boosters appreciated the high-class artistic performance he's giving us--and don't forget that the treasurer of the Dodsworth is a Booster and will appreciate our patronage--and when on top of that we yank Hizzonor out of his multifarious duties at City Hall, then I feel we've done ourselves proud, and Mr. Prout will now say a few words about the problems and duties--" By rising vote the Boosters decided which was the handsomest and which the ugliest guest, and to each of them was given a bunch of carnations, donated, President Gunch noted, by Brother Booster H. G. Yeager, the Jennifer Avenue florist. Each week, in rotation, four Boosters were privileged to obtain the pleasures of generosity and of publicity by donating goods or services to four fellow-members, chosen by lot. There was laughter, this week, when it was announced that one of the contributors was Barnabas Joy, the undertaker. Everybody whispered, "I can think of a coupla good guys to be buried if his donation is a free funeral!" Through all these diversions the Boosters were lunching on chicken croquettes, peas, fried potatoes, coffee, apple pie, and American cheese. Gunch did not lump the speeches. Presently he called on the visiting secretary of the Zenith Rotary Club, a rival organization. The secretary had the distinction of possessing State Motor Car License Number 5. The Rotary secretary laughingly admitted that wherever he drove in the state so low a number created a sensation, and "though it was pretty nice to have the honor, yet traffic cops remembered it only too darn well, and sometimes he didn't know but what he'd almost as soon have just plain B56,876 or something like that. Only let any doggone Booster try to get Number 5 away from a live Rotarian next year, and watch the fur fly! And if they'd permit him, he'd wind up by calling for a cheer for the Boosters and Rotarians and the Kiwanis all together!" Babbitt sighed to Professor Pumphrey, "Be pretty nice to have as low a number as that! Everybody 'd say, 'He must be an important guy!' Wonder how he got it? I'll bet he wined and dined the superintendent of the Motor License Bureau to a fare-you-well!" Then Chum Frink addressed them: "Some of you may feel that it's out of place here to talk on a strictly highbrow and artistic subject, but I want to come out flatfooted and ask you boys to O.K. the proposition of a Symphony Orchestra for Zenith. Now, where a lot of you make your mistake is in assuming that if you don't like classical music and all that junk, you ought to oppose it. Now, I want to confess that, though I'm a literary guy by profession, I don't care a rap for all this long-haired music. I'd rather listen to a good jazz band any time than to some piece by Beethoven that hasn't any more tune to it than a bunch of fighting cats, and you couldn't whistle it to save your life! But that isn't the point. Culture has become as necessary an adornment and advertisement for a city to-day as pavements or bank-clearances. It's Culture, in theaters and art-galleries and so on, that brings thousands of visitors to New York every year and, to be frank, for all our splendid attainments we haven't yet got the Culture of a New York or Chicago or Boston--or at least we don't get the credit for it. The thing to do then, as a live bunch of go-getters, is to CAPITALIZE CULTURE; to go right out and grab it. "Pictures and books are fine for those that have the time to study 'em, but they don't shoot out on the road and holler 'This is what little old Zenith can put up in the way of Culture.' That's precisely what a Symphony Orchestra does do. Look at the credit Minneapolis and Cincinnati get. An orchestra with first-class musickers and a swell conductor--and I believe we ought to do the thing up brown and get one of the highest-paid conductors on the market, providing he ain't a Hun--it goes right into Beantown and New York and Washington; it plays at the best theaters to the most cultured and moneyed people; it gives such class-advertising as a town can get in no other way; and the guy who is so short-sighted as to crab this orchestra proposition is passing up the chance to impress the glorious name of Zenith on some big New York millionaire that might-that might establish a branch factory here! "I could also go into the fact that for our daughters who show an interest in highbrow music and may want to teach it, having an A1 local organization is of great benefit, but let's keep this on a practical basis, and I call on you good brothers to whoop it up for Culture and a World-beating Symphony Orchestra!" They applauded. To a rustle of excitement President Gunch proclaimed, "Gentlemen, we will now proceed to the annual election of officers." For each of the six offices, three candidates had been chosen by a committee. The second name among the candidates for vice-president was Babbitt's. He was surprised. He looked self-conscious. His heart pounded. He was still more agitated when the ballots were counted and Gunch said, "It's a pleasure to announce that Georgie Babbitt will be the next assistant gavel-wielder. I know of no man who stands more stanchly for common sense and enterprise than good old George. Come on, let's give him our best long yell!" As they adjourned, a hundred men crushed in to slap his back. He had never known a higher moment. He drove away in a blur of wonder. He lunged into his office, chuckling to Miss McGoun, "Well, I guess you better congratulate your boss! Been elected vice-president of the Boosters!" He was disappointed. She answered only, "Yes--Oh, Mrs. Babbitt's been trying to get you on the 'phone." But the new salesman, Fritz Weilinger, said, "By golly, chief, say, that's great, that's perfectly great! I'm tickled to death! Congratulations!" Babbitt called the house, and crowed to his wife, "Heard you were trying to get me, Myra. Say, you got to hand it to little Georgie, this time! Better talk careful! You are now addressing the vice-president of the Boosters' Club!" "Oh, Georgie--" "Pretty nice, huh? Willis Ijams is the new president, but when he's away, little ole Georgie takes the gavel and whoops 'em up and introduces the speakers--no matter if they're the governor himself--and--" "George! Listen!" "--It puts him in solid with big men like Doc Dilling and--" "George! Paul Riesling--" "Yes, sure, I'll 'phone Paul and let him know about it right away." "Georgie! LISTEN! Paul's in jail. He shot his wife, he shot Zilla, this noon. She may not live." I HE drove to the City Prison, not blindly, but with unusual fussy care at corners, the fussiness of an old woman potting plants. It kept him from facing the obscenity of fate. The attendant said, "Naw, you can't see any of the prisoners till three-thirty--visiting-hour." It was three. For half an hour Babbitt sat looking at a calendar and a clock on a whitewashed wall. The chair was hard and mean and creaky. People went through the office and, he thought, stared at him. He felt a belligerent defiance which broke into a wincing fear of this machine which was grinding Paul--Paul---- Exactly at half-past three he sent in his name. The attendant returned with "Riesling says he don't want to see you." "You're crazy! You didn't give him my name! Tell him it's George wants to see him, George Babbitt." "Yuh, I told him, all right, all right! He said he didn't want to see you." "Then take me in anyway." "Nothing doing. If you ain't his lawyer, if he don't want to see you, that's all there is to it." "But, my GOD--Say, let me see the warden." "He's busy. Come on, now, you--" Babbitt reared over him. The attendant hastily changed to a coaxing "You can come back and try to-morrow. Probably the poor guy is off his nut." Babbitt drove, not at all carefully or fussily, sliding viciously past trucks, ignoring the truckmen's curses, to the City Hall; he stopped with a grind of wheels against the curb, and ran up the marble steps to the office of the Hon. Mr. Lucas Prout, the mayor. He bribed the mayor's doorman with a dollar; he was instantly inside, demanding, "You remember me, Mr. Prout? Babbitt--vice-president of the Boosters--campaigned for you? Say, have you heard about poor Riesling? Well, I want an order on the warden or whatever you call um of the City Prison to take me back and see him. Good. Thanks." In fifteen minutes he was pounding down the prison corridor to a cage where Paul Riesling sat on a cot, twisted like an old beggar, legs crossed, arms in a knot, biting at his clenched fist. Paul looked up blankly as the keeper unlocked the cell, admitted Babbitt, and left them together. He spoke slowly: "Go on! Be moral!" Babbitt plumped on the couch beside him. "I'm not going to be moral! I don't care what happened! I just want to do anything I can. I'm glad Zilla got what was coming to her." Paul said argumentatively, "Now, don't go jumping on Zilla. I've been thinking; maybe she hasn't had any too easy a time. Just after I shot her--I didn't hardly mean to, but she got to deviling me so I went crazy, just for a second, and pulled out that old revolver you and I used to shoot rabbits with, and took a crack at her. Didn't hardly mean to--After that, when I was trying to stop the blood--It was terrible what it did to her shoulder, and she had beautiful skin--Maybe she won't die. I hope it won't leave her skin all scarred. But just afterward, when I was hunting through the bathroom for some cotton to stop the blood, I ran onto a little fuzzy yellow duck we hung on the tree one Christmas, and I remembered she and I'd been awfully happy then--Hell. I can't hardly believe it's me here." As Babbitt's arm tightened about his shoulder, Paul sighed, "I'm glad you came. But I thought maybe you'd lecture me, and when you've committed a murder, and been brought here and everything--there was a big crowd outside the apartment house, all staring, and the cops took me through it--Oh, I'm not going to talk about it any more." But he went on, in a monotonous, terrified insane mumble. To divert him Babbitt said, "Why, you got a scar on your cheek." "Yes. That's where the cop hit me. I suppose cops get a lot of fun out of lecturing murderers, too. He was a big fellow. And they wouldn't let me help carry Zilla down to the ambulance." "Paul! Quit it! Listen: she won't die, and when it's all over you and I'll go off to Maine again. And maybe we can get that May Arnold to go along. I'll go up to Chicago and ask her. Good woman, by golly. And afterwards I'll see that you get started in business out West somewhere, maybe Seattle--they say that's a lovely city." Paul was half smiling. It was Babbitt who rambled now. He could not tell whether Paul was heeding, but he droned on till the coming of Paul's lawyer, P. J. Maxwell, a thin, busy, unfriendly man who nodded at Babbitt and hinted, "If Riesling and I could be alone for a moment--" Babbitt wrung Paul's hands, and waited in the office till Maxwell came pattering out. "Look, old man, what can I do?" he begged. "Nothing. Not a thing. Not just now," said Maxwell. "Sorry. Got to hurry. And don't try to see him. I've had the doctor give him a shot of morphine, so he'll sleep." It seemed somehow wicked to return to the office. Babbitt felt as though he had just come from a funeral. He drifted out to the City Hospital to inquire about Zilla. She was not likely to die, he learned. The bullet from Paul's huge old .44 army revolver had smashed her shoulder and torn upward and out. He wandered home and found his wife radiant with the horified interest we have in the tragedies of our friends. "Of course Paul isn't altogether to blame, but this is what comes of his chasing after other women instead of bearing his cross in a Christian way," she exulted. He was too languid to respond as he desired. He said what was to be said about the Christian bearing of crosses, and went out to clean the car. Dully, patiently, he scraped linty grease from the drip-pan, gouged at the mud caked on the wheels. He used up many minutes in washing his hands; scoured them with gritty kitchen soap; rejoiced in hurting his plump knuckles. "Damn soft hands--like a woman's. Aah!" At dinner, when his wife began the inevitable, he bellowed, "I forbid any of you to say a word about Paul! I'll 'tend to all the talking about this that's necessary, hear me? There's going to be one house in this scandal-mongering town to-night that isn't going to spring the holier-than-thou. And throw those filthy evening papers out of the house!" But he himself read the papers, after dinner. Before nine he set out for the house of Lawyer Maxwell. He was received without cordiality. "Well?" said Maxwell. "I want to offer my services in the trial. I've got an idea. Why couldn't I go on the stand and swear I was there, and she pulled the gun first and he wrestled with her and the gun went off accidentally?" "And perjure yourself?" "Huh? Yes, I suppose it would be perjury. Oh--Would it help?" "But, my dear fellow! Perjury!" "Oh, don't be a fool! Excuse me, Maxwell; I didn't mean to get your goat. I just mean: I've known and you've known many and many a case of perjury, just to annex some rotten little piece of real estate, and here where it's a case of saving Paul from going to prison, I'd perjure myself black in the face." "No. Aside from the ethics of the matter, I'm afraid it isn't practicable. The prosecutor would tear your testimony to pieces. It's known that only Riesling and his wife were there at the time." "Then, look here! Let me go on the stand and swear--and this would be the God's truth--that she pestered him till he kind of went crazy." "No. Sorry. Riesling absolutely refuses to have any testimony reflecting on his wife. He insists on pleading guilty." "Then let me get up and testify something--whatever you say. Let me do SOMETHING!" "I'm sorry, Babbitt, but the best thing you can do--I hate to say it, but you could help us most by keeping strictly out of it." Babbitt, revolving his hat like a defaulting poor tenant, winced so visibly that Maxwell condescended: "I don't like to hurt your feelings, but you see we both want to do our best for Riesling, and we mustn't consider any other factor. The trouble with you, Babbitt, is that you're one of these fellows who talk too readily. You like to hear your own voice. If there were anything for which I could put you in the witness-box, you'd get going and give the whole show away. Sorry. Now I must look over some papers--So sorry." II He spent most of the next morning nerving himself to face the garrulous world of the Athletic Club. They would talk about Paul; they would be lip-licking and rotten. But at the Roughnecks' Table they did not mention Paul. They spoke with zeal of the coming baseball season. He loved them as he never had before. III He had, doubtless from some story-book, pictured Paul's trial as a long struggle, with bitter arguments, a taut crowd, and sudden and overwhelming new testimony. Actually, the trial occupied less than fifteen minutes, largely filled with the evidence of doctors that Zilla would recover and that Paul must have been temporarily insane. Next day Paul was sentenced to three years in the State Penitentiary and taken off--quite undramatically, not handcuffed, merely plodding in a tired way beside a cheerful deputy sheriff--and after saying good-by to him at the station Babbitt returned to his office to realize that he faced a world which, without Paul, was meaningless. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

Kapitel Neunzehn beginnt mit Details über Babbitts Beteiligung an unethischen Geschäftspraktiken mit der Street Traction Company und seiner Kredit von Eathorne, der nicht in den Bankbüchern auftauchte. Seine Firma hat auch Eigentum erworben, das nicht auf ihren Namen eingetragen ist. Babbitt äußert Bedenken wegen der unethischen Praktiken, aber sein Partner und Schwiegervater, Thompson, stimmt dem nicht zu und Babbitt macht weiterhin Profit mit ihren Geschäften. Babbitts Heuchelei wird weiter betont, als er entdeckt, dass einer seiner Außendienstmitarbeiter, Stanley Graff, unehrlich gegenüber einem Kunden war. Ironischerweise wird Babbitt als "überwältigt" beschrieben, als er feststellt, dass er eine unehrliche Person in seinem Team hat, und entlässt ihn. Graff verteidigt sich, indem er Babbitt beschuldigt, ebenfalls korrupt zu sein, und nennt ihn ein "verdammtes Geizhals". Er warnt ihn, dass, wenn er den Staatsanwalt über die Geschäfte mit der Street Traction Company informieren würde, sowohl er als auch Babbitt ins Gefängnis kämen. Jake Offutt bittet Babbitt, für ihn ein Grundstück am Stadtrand von Chicago zu kaufen. Babbitt stimmt zu und macht einen Ausflug mit Ted. Dabei entwickeln sie eine Beziehung als Männer, nicht als Vater und Sohn. Als Ted nach Zenith zurückkehrt, fühlt sich Babbitt einsam und bemerkt dann, dass er neben Sir Gerald Doak in der Hotellobby sitzt. Doak und Babbitt verstehen sich gut und gehen zusammen ins Kino, danach trinken sie etwas in Doaks Zimmer. Nachdem sie getrunken haben, sagt "Jerry" zu Babbitt, dass er der einzige in den Vereinigten Staaten war, der ihn wie ein Freund behandelt hat. Am nächsten Abend sieht Babbitt Paul mit einer unbekannten Frau essen. Babbitt besteht darauf, dass er Paul in dieser Nacht in seinem Hotel treffen wird. In Kapitel Zwanzig wartet Babbitt auf Paul in seinem Hotel und macht sich Sorgen, dass Paul Selbstmord begangen hat. Als Paul ankommt, sagt er zu Babbitt, dass er sich nicht einmischen oder moralisieren soll. Er sagt auch, dass er nur Trost braucht. Babbitt zieht dann seine vorherige Aussage zurück und sagt, dass er alles tun wird, was er kann. Babbitt beschließt, Zilla eine Postkarte aus Akron zu schicken und sie wissen zu lassen, dass er Paul gesehen hat. Als er nach Zenith zurückkehrt, besucht er sie und sie verspricht, sich zurückzuhalten, wenn sie mit Paul streitet. Als Paul nach Hause zurückkehrt, gehen sie zusammen mit Zilla und Myra aus. Als sie alleine sind, sagt Paul zu Babbitt, dass nichts mehr übrig ist und er Zilla "irgendwie" verlassen wird. Kapitel Einundzwanzig handelt von der wichtigsten Sitzung des Boosters' Clubs im Jahr. Anschließend steht die Wahl der Vorstandsmitglieder an. Frink möchte, dass sie seinen Vorschlag für ein Zenith Symphony Orchestra akzeptieren und sagt, dass dies mehr Besucher in die Stadt bringen wird. Die Wahlen sind dann der Mittelpunkt der Sitzung und Babbitt erfährt, dass er als Kandidat für das Amt des Vizepräsidenten nominiert wurde. Er gewinnt die Wahl und ruft Myra an, um ihr Bescheid zu geben. Schließlich schafft sie es, ihm mitzuteilen, dass Paul im Gefängnis sitzt, weil er auf Zilla geschossen hat, und dass sie vielleicht nicht überleben wird. Babbitt besucht Paul im Gefängnis in Kapitel Zweiundzwanzig. Zuerst will Paul ihn nicht sehen, aber Babbitt erhält eine Anordnung vom Bürgermeister, die Pauls Entscheidung überstimmt. Paul wollte ihn nicht sehen, weil er befürchtete, dass Babbitt über seine Tat moralisiert, aber er verzichtet darauf. Danach besucht Babbitt Zilla im Krankenhaus und uns wird gesagt, dass sie jetzt wahrscheinlich nicht sterben wird. Babbitt geht dann zum Anwalt von Paul und bietet an, für ihn zu lügen. Maxwell sagt, dass er nicht will, dass Babbitt involviert ist, da er "zu leichtfertig" spricht und Paul sowieso schuldig plädiert. Pauls Prozess dauert 15 Minuten. Es wird festgestellt, dass er "vorübergehend wahnsinnig" war, und er wird zu drei Jahren im Staatsgefängnis verurteilt. Als Babbitt ins Büro zurückkehrt, erkennt er, dass er eine "sinnlose Welt" ohne Paul hat.

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.

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. M. Fouquet hielt den Steigbügel des Königs fest, der, nachdem er abgestiegen war, äußerst gnädig verneigte und ihm noch gnädiger die Hand entgegenstreckte, die Fouquet trotz eines leichten Widerstands des Königs respektvoll zu seinen Lippen führte. Der König wollte im ersten Hof auf die Ankunft der Kutschen warten und musste nicht lange warten, denn die Straßen waren vom Superintendenten in ausgezeichnetem Zustand gebracht worden und man hätte kaum einen Stein von der Größe eines Hühnereis finden können, von Melun bis Vaux.<END> The king was conducted with the greatest ceremony to the chamber of Morpheus, of which we owe some cursory description to our readers. It was the handsomest and largest in the palace. Lebrun had painted on the vaulted ceiling the happy as well as the unhappy dreams which Morpheus inflicts on kings as well as on other men. Everything that sleep gives birth to that is lovely, its fairy scenes, its flowers and nectar, the wild voluptuousness or profound repose of the senses, had the painter elaborated on his frescoes. It was a composition as soft and pleasing in one part as dark and gloomy and terrible in another. The poisoned chalice, the glittering dagger suspended over the head of the sleeper; wizards and phantoms with terrific masks, those half-dim shadows more alarming than the approach of fire or the somber face of midnight, these, and such as these, he had made the companions of his more pleasing pictures. No sooner had the king entered his room than a cold shiver seemed to pass through him, and on Fouquet asking him the cause of it, the king replied, as pale as death: "I am sleepy, that is all." "Does your majesty wish for your attendants at once?" "No; I have to talk with a few persons first," said the king. "Will you have the goodness to tell M. Colbert I wish to see him." Fouquet bowed and left the room. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Die königlichen Damen kommen gegen acht Uhr an. Alle Freuden von Vaux werden in vollem Umfang präsentiert. Anstatt erfreut zu sein, beginnt der König zu schmollen, denn sein eigenes Schloss verblasst im Vergleich zu Vaux. Beim Bankett wird allerlei köstliches Essen serviert. Anne von Österreich sieht alles von oben herab an, und Maria Theresa, die junge Königin, isst gut und lobt fröhlich alle Gerichte. Fouquet und seine Frau servieren persönlich den Königlichen. Sobald er satt ist, ist der König wieder genervt. Allen scheint Fouquet zu gefallen. Nach dem Abendessen geht der König in die Gärten und kann La Valliere bei der Hand nehmen und sagen "Ich liebe dich." Der Abend ist vollkommen. Der König wird in das Gemach von Morpheus gebracht, ein prächtiges Schlafzimmer, das von Le Brun dekoriert ist. Bevor er schlafen geht, bittet er darum, Colbert zu sehen.

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.

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: Dr. Flint, a physician in the neighborhood, had married the sister of my mistress, and I was now the property of their little daughter. It was not without murmuring that I prepared for my new home; and what added to my unhappiness, was the fact that my brother William was purchased by the same family. My father, by his nature, as well as by the habit of transacting business as a skillful mechanic, had more of the feelings of a freeman than is common among slaves. My brother was a spirited boy; and being brought up under such influences, he daily detested the name of master and mistress. One day, when his father and his mistress both happened to call him at the same time, he hesitated between the two; being perplexed to know which had the strongest claim upon his obedience. He finally concluded to go to his mistress. When my father reproved him for it, he said, "You both called me, and I didn't know which I ought to go to first." "You are _my_ child," replied our father, "and when I call you, you should come immediately, if you have to pass through fire and water." Poor Willie! He was now to learn his first lesson of obedience to a master. Grandmother tried to cheer us with hopeful words, and they found an echo in the credulous hearts of youth. When we entered our new home we encountered cold looks, cold words, and cold treatment. We were glad when the night came. On my narrow bed I moaned and wept, I felt so desolate and alone. I had been there nearly a year, when a dear little friend of mine was buried. I heard her mother sob, as the clods fell on the coffin of her only child, and I turned away from the grave, feeling thankful that I still had something left to love. I met my grandmother, who said, "Come with me, Linda;" and from her tone I knew that something sad had happened. She led me apart from the people, and then said, "My child, your father is dead." Dead! How could I believe it? He had died so suddenly I had not even heard that he was sick. I went home with my grandmother. My heart rebelled against God, who had taken from me mother, father, mistress, and friend. The good grandmother tried to comfort me. "Who knows the ways of God?" said she. "Perhaps they have been kindly taken from the evil days to come." Years afterwards I often thought of this. She promised to be a mother to her grandchildren, so far as she might be permitted to do so; and strengthened by her love, I returned to my master's. I thought I should be allowed to go to my father's house the next morning; but I was ordered to go for flowers, that my mistress's house might be decorated for an evening party. I spent the day gathering flowers and weaving them into festoons, while the dead body of my father was lying within a mile of me. What cared my owners for that? he was merely a piece of property. Moreover, they thought he had spoiled his children, by teaching them to feel that they were human beings. This was blasphemous doctrine for a slave to teach; presumptuous in him, and dangerous to the masters. The next day I followed his remains to a humble grave beside that of my dear mother. There were those who knew my father's worth, and respected his memory. My home now seemed more dreary than ever. The laugh of the little slave-children sounded harsh and cruel. It was selfish to feel so about the joy of others. My brother moved about with a very grave face. I tried to comfort him, by saying, "Take courage, Willie; brighter days will come by and by." "You don't know any thing about it, Linda," he replied. "We shall have to stay here all our days; we shall never be free." I argued that we were growing older and stronger, and that perhaps we might, before long, be allowed to hire our own time, and then we could earn money to buy our freedom. William declared this was much easier to say than to do; moreover, he did not intend to _buy_ his freedom. We held daily controversies upon this subject. Little attention was paid to the slaves' meals in Dr. Flint's house. If they could catch a bit of food while it was going, well and good. I gave myself no trouble on that score, for on my various errands I passed my grandmother's house, where there was always something to spare for me. I was frequently threatened with punishment if I stopped there; and my grandmother, to avoid detaining me, often stood at the gate with something for my breakfast or dinner. I was indebted to _her_ for all my comforts, spiritual or temporal. It was _her_ labor that supplied my scanty wardrobe. I have a vivid recollection of the linsey-woolsey dress given me every winter by Mrs. Flint. How I hated it! It was one of the badges of slavery. While my grandmother was thus helping to support me from her hard earnings, the three hundred dollars she had lent her mistress were never repaid. When her mistress died, her son-in-law, Dr. Flint, was appointed executor. When grandmother applied to him for payment, he said the estate was insolvent, and the law prohibited payment. It did not, however, prohibit him from retaining the silver candelabra, which had been purchased with that money. I presume they will be handed down in the family, from generation to generation. My grandmother's mistress had always promised her that, at her death, she should be free; and it was said that in her will she made good the promise. But when the estate was settled, Dr. Flint told the faithful old servant that, under existing circumstances, it was necessary she should be sold. On the appointed day, the customary advertisement was posted up, proclaiming that there would be a "public sale of negroes, horses, &c." Dr. Flint called to tell my grandmother that he was unwilling to wound her feelings by putting her up at auction, and that he would prefer to dispose of her at private sale. My grandmother saw through his hypocrisy; she understood very well that he was ashamed of the job. She was a very spirited woman, and if he was base enough to sell her, when her mistress intended she should be free, she was determined the public should know it. She had for a long time supplied many families with crackers and preserves; consequently, "Aunt Marthy," as she was called, was generally known, and every body who knew her respected her intelligence and good character. Her long and faithful service in the family was also well known, and the intention of her mistress to leave her free. When the day of sale came, she took her place among the chattels, and at the first call she sprang upon the auction-block. Many voices called out, "Shame! Shame! Who is going to sell _you_, aunt Marthy? Don't stand there! That is no place for _you_." Without saying a word, she quietly awaited her fate. No one bid for her. At last, a feeble voice said, "Fifty dollars." It came from a maiden lady, seventy years old, the sister of my grandmother's deceased mistress. She had lived forty years under the same roof with my grandmother; she knew how faithfully she had served her owners, and how cruelly she had been defrauded of her rights; and she resolved to protect her. The auctioneer waited for a higher bid; but her wishes were respected; no one bid above her. She could neither read nor write; and when the bill of sale was made out, she signed it with a cross. But what consequence was that, when she had a big heart overflowing with human kindness? She gave the old servant her freedom. At that time, my grandmother was just fifty years old. Laborious years had passed since then; and now my brother and I were slaves to the man who had defrauded her of her money, and tried to defraud her of her freedom. One of my mother's sisters, called Aunt Nancy, was also a slave in his family. She was a kind, good aunt to me; and supplied the place of both housekeeper and waiting maid to her mistress. She was, in fact, at the beginning and end of every thing. Mrs. Flint, like many southern women, was totally deficient in energy. She had not strength to superintend her household affairs; but her nerves were so strong, that she could sit in her easy chair and see a woman whipped, till the blood trickled from every stroke of the lash. She was a member of the church; but partaking of the Lord's supper did not seem to put her in a Christian frame of mind. If dinner was not served at the exact time on that particular Sunday, she would station herself in the kitchen, and wait till it was dished, and then spit in all the kettles and pans that had been used for cooking. She did this to prevent the cook and her children from eking out their meagre fare with the remains of the gravy and other scrapings. The slaves could get nothing to eat except what she chose to give them. Provisions were weighed out by the pound and ounce, three times a day. I can assure you she gave them no chance to eat wheat bread from her flour barrel. She knew how many biscuits a quart of flour would make, and exactly what size they ought to be. Dr. Flint was an epicure. The cook never sent a dinner to his table without fear and trembling; for if there happened to be a dish not to his liking, he would either order her to be whipped, or compel her to eat every mouthful of it in his presence. The poor, hungry creature might not have objected to eating it; but she did object to having her master cram it down her throat till she choked. They had a pet dog, that was a nuisance in the house. The cook was ordered to make some Indian mush for him. He refused to eat, and when his head was held over it, the froth flowed from his mouth into the basin. He died a few minutes after. When Dr. Flint came in, he said the mush had not been well cooked, and that was the reason the animal would not eat it. He sent for the cook, and compelled her to eat it. He thought that the woman's stomach was stronger than the dog's; but her sufferings afterwards proved that he was mistaken. This poor woman endured many cruelties from her master and mistress; sometimes she was locked up, away from her nursing baby, for a whole day and night. When I had been in the family a few weeks, one of the plantation slaves was brought to town, by order of his master. It was near night when he arrived, and Dr. Flint ordered him to be taken to the work house, and tied up to the joist, so that his feet would just escape the ground. In that situation he was to wait till the doctor had taken his tea. I shall never forget that night. Never before, in my life, had I heard hundreds of blows fall; in succession, on a human being. His piteous groans, and his "O, pray don't, massa," rang in my ear for months afterwards. There were many conjectures as to the cause of this terrible punishment. Some said master accused him of stealing corn; others said the slave had quarrelled with his wife, in presence of the overseer, and had accused his master of being the father of her child. They were both black, and the child was very fair. I went into the work house next morning, and saw the cowhide still wet with blood, and the boards all covered with gore. The poor man lived, and continued to quarrel with his wife. A few months afterwards Dr. Flint handed them both over to a slave-trader. The guilty man put their value into his pocket, and had the satisfaction of knowing that they were out of sight and hearing. When the mother was delivered into the trader's hands, she said. "You _promised_ to treat me well." To which he replied, "You have let your tongue run too far; damn you!" She had forgotten that it was a crime for a slave to tell who was the father of her child. From others than the master persecution also comes in such cases. I once saw a young slave girl dying soon after the birth of a child nearly white. In her agony she cried out, "O Lord, come and take me!" Her mistress stood by, and mocked at her like an incarnate fiend. "You suffer, do you?" she exclaimed. "I am glad of it. You deserve it all, and more too." The girl's mother said, "The baby is dead, thank God; and I hope my poor child will soon be in heaven, too." "Heaven!" retorted the mistress. "There is no such place for the like of her and her bastard." The poor mother turned away, sobbing. Her dying daughter called her, feebly, and as she bent over her, I heard her say, "Don't grieve so, mother; God knows all about it; and HE will have mercy upon me." Her sufferings, afterwards, became so intense, that her mistress felt unable to stay; but when she left the room, the scornful smile was still on her lips. Seven children called her mother. The poor black woman had but the one child, whose eyes she saw closing in death, while she thanked God for taking her away from the greater bitterness of life. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Die Erzählerin und ihr Bruder William ziehen zu ihrer neuen Familie, die von dem örtlichen Arzt Dr. Flint geleitet wird. Sie werden nicht sofort willkommen geheißen. Endlich erfahren wir den Namen der Erzählerin, dank ihrer Großmutter. Es ist Linda. Noch mehr Trauer: Lindas Vater stirbt. Man würde denken, sie bekäme den Tag frei, aber stattdessen beauftragt Mrs. Flint sie damit, Blumen zu pflücken, um das Haus zu schmücken. Erinnerst du dich an Großmutters Herrin, die all das Geld geliehen hat? Sie stirbt und die Schulden sind immer noch nicht beglichen. Großmutter geht zu dem Mann, der das Vermögen der Herrin geerbt hat und bittet um das Geld, was ziemlich erfolglos ist: Er lacht sie praktisch aus.

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.

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: They numbered scarce eight summers when a name Rose on their souls and stirred such motions there As thrill the buds and shape their hidden frame At penetration of the quickening air: His name who told of loyal Evan Dhu, Of quaint Bradwardine, and Vich Ian Vor, Making the little world their childhood knew Large with a land of mountain lake and scaur, And larger yet with wonder love belief Toward Walter Scott who living far away Sent them this wealth of joy and noble grief. The book and they must part, but day by day, In lines that thwart like portly spiders ran They wrote the tale, from Tully Veolan. The evening that Fred Vincy walked to Lowick parsonage (he had begun to see that this was a world in which even a spirited young man must sometimes walk for want of a horse to carry him) he set out at five o'clock and called on Mrs. Garth by the way, wishing to assure himself that she accepted their new relations willingly. He found the family group, dogs and cats included, under the great apple-tree in the orchard. It was a festival with Mrs. Garth, for her eldest son, Christy, her peculiar joy and pride, had come home for a short holiday--Christy, who held it the most desirable thing in the world to be a tutor, to study all literatures and be a regenerate Porson, and who was an incorporate criticism on poor Fred, a sort of object-lesson given to him by the educational mother. Christy himself, a square-browed, broad-shouldered masculine edition of his mother not much higher than Fred's shoulder--which made it the harder that he should be held superior--was always as simple as possible, and thought no more of Fred's disinclination to scholarship than of a giraffe's, wishing that he himself were more of the same height. He was lying on the ground now by his mother's chair, with his straw hat laid flat over his eyes, while Jim on the other side was reading aloud from that beloved writer who has made a chief part in the happiness of many young lives. The volume was "Ivanhoe," and Jim was in the great archery scene at the tournament, but suffered much interruption from Ben, who had fetched his own old bow and arrows, and was making himself dreadfully disagreeable, Letty thought, by begging all present to observe his random shots, which no one wished to do except Brownie, the active-minded but probably shallow mongrel, while the grizzled Newfoundland lying in the sun looked on with the dull-eyed neutrality of extreme old age. Letty herself, showing as to her mouth and pinafore some slight signs that she had been assisting at the gathering of the cherries which stood in a coral-heap on the tea-table, was now seated on the grass, listening open-eyed to the reading. But the centre of interest was changed for all by the arrival of Fred Vincy. When, seating himself on a garden-stool, he said that he was on his way to Lowick Parsonage, Ben, who had thrown down his bow, and snatched up a reluctant half-grown kitten instead, strode across Fred's outstretched leg, and said "Take me!" "Oh, and me too," said Letty. "You can't keep up with Fred and me," said Ben. "Yes, I can. Mother, please say that I am to go," urged Letty, whose life was much checkered by resistance to her depreciation as a girl. "I shall stay with Christy," observed Jim; as much as to say that he had the advantage of those simpletons; whereupon Letty put her hand up to her head and looked with jealous indecision from the one to the other. "Let us all go and see Mary," said Christy, opening his arms. "No, my dear child, we must not go in a swarm to the parsonage. And that old Glasgow suit of yours would never do. Besides, your father will come home. We must let Fred go alone. He can tell Mary that you are here, and she will come back to-morrow." Christy glanced at his own threadbare knees, and then at Fred's beautiful white trousers. Certainly Fred's tailoring suggested the advantages of an English university, and he had a graceful way even of looking warm and of pushing his hair back with his handkerchief. "Children, run away," said Mrs. Garth; "it is too warm to hang about your friends. Take your brother and show him the rabbits." The eldest understood, and led off the children immediately. Fred felt that Mrs. Garth wished to give him an opportunity of saying anything he had to say, but he could only begin by observing-- "How glad you must be to have Christy here!" "Yes; he has come sooner than I expected. He got down from the coach at nine o'clock, just after his father went out. I am longing for Caleb to come and hear what wonderful progress Christy is making. He has paid his expenses for the last year by giving lessons, carrying on hard study at the same time. He hopes soon to get a private tutorship and go abroad." "He is a great fellow," said Fred, to whom these cheerful truths had a medicinal taste, "and no trouble to anybody." After a slight pause, he added, "But I fear you will think that I am going to be a great deal of trouble to Mr. Garth." "Caleb likes taking trouble: he is one of those men who always do more than any one would have thought of asking them to do," answered Mrs. Garth. She was knitting, and could either look at Fred or not, as she chose--always an advantage when one is bent on loading speech with salutary meaning; and though Mrs. Garth intended to be duly reserved, she did wish to say something that Fred might be the better for. "I know you think me very undeserving, Mrs. Garth, and with good reason," said Fred, his spirit rising a little at the perception of something like a disposition to lecture him. "I happen to have behaved just the worst to the people I can't help wishing for the most from. But while two men like Mr. Garth and Mr. Farebrother have not given me up, I don't see why I should give myself up." Fred thought it might be well to suggest these masculine examples to Mrs. Garth. "Assuredly," said she, with gathering emphasis. "A young man for whom two such elders had devoted themselves would indeed be culpable if he threw himself away and made their sacrifices vain." Fred wondered a little at this strong language, but only said, "I hope it will not be so with me, Mrs. Garth, since I have some encouragement to believe that I may win Mary. Mr. Garth has told you about that? You were not surprised, I dare say?" Fred ended, innocently referring only to his own love as probably evident enough. "Not surprised that Mary has given you encouragement?" returned Mrs. Garth, who thought it would be well for Fred to be more alive to the fact that Mary's friends could not possibly have wished this beforehand, whatever the Vincys might suppose. "Yes, I confess I was surprised." "She never did give me any--not the least in the world, when I talked to her myself," said Fred, eager to vindicate Mary. "But when I asked Mr. Farebrother to speak for me, she allowed him to tell me there was a hope." The power of admonition which had begun to stir in Mrs. Garth had not yet discharged itself. It was a little too provoking even for _her_ self-control that this blooming youngster should flourish on the disappointments of sadder and wiser people--making a meal of a nightingale and never knowing it--and that all the while his family should suppose that hers was in eager need of this sprig; and her vexation had fermented the more actively because of its total repression towards her husband. Exemplary wives will sometimes find scapegoats in this way. She now said with energetic decision, "You made a great mistake, Fred, in asking Mr. Farebrother to speak for you." "Did I?" said Fred, reddening instantaneously. He was alarmed, but at a loss to know what Mrs. Garth meant, and added, in an apologetic tone, "Mr. Farebrother has always been such a friend of ours; and Mary, I knew, would listen to him gravely; and he took it on himself quite readily." "Yes, young people are usually blind to everything but their own wishes, and seldom imagine how much those wishes cost others," said Mrs. Garth. She did not mean to go beyond this salutary general doctrine, and threw her indignation into a needless unwinding of her worsted, knitting her brow at it with a grand air. "I cannot conceive how it could be any pain to Mr. Farebrother," said Fred, who nevertheless felt that surprising conceptions were beginning to form themselves. "Precisely; you cannot conceive," said Mrs. Garth, cutting her words as neatly as possible. For a moment Fred looked at the horizon with a dismayed anxiety, and then turning with a quick movement said almost sharply-- "Do you mean to say, Mrs. Garth, that Mr. Farebrother is in love with Mary?" "And if it were so, Fred, I think you are the last person who ought to be surprised," returned Mrs. Garth, laying her knitting down beside her and folding her arms. It was an unwonted sign of emotion in her that she should put her work out of her hands. In fact her feelings were divided between the satisfaction of giving Fred his discipline and the sense of having gone a little too far. Fred took his hat and stick and rose quickly. "Then you think I am standing in his way, and in Mary's too?" he said, in a tone which seemed to demand an answer. Mrs. Garth could not speak immediately. She had brought herself into the unpleasant position of being called on to say what she really felt, yet what she knew there were strong reasons for concealing. And to her the consciousness of having exceeded in words was peculiarly mortifying. Besides, Fred had given out unexpected electricity, and he now added, "Mr. Garth seemed pleased that Mary should be attached to me. He could not have known anything of this." Mrs. Garth felt a severe twinge at this mention of her husband, the fear that Caleb might think her in the wrong not being easily endurable. She answered, wanting to check unintended consequences-- "I spoke from inference only. I am not aware that Mary knows anything of the matter." But she hesitated to beg that he would keep entire silence on a subject which she had herself unnecessarily mentioned, not being used to stoop in that way; and while she was hesitating there was already a rush of unintended consequences under the apple-tree where the tea-things stood. Ben, bouncing across the grass with Brownie at his heels, and seeing the kitten dragging the knitting by a lengthening line of wool, shouted and clapped his hands; Brownie barked, the kitten, desperate, jumped on the tea-table and upset the milk, then jumped down again and swept half the cherries with it; and Ben, snatching up the half-knitted sock-top, fitted it over the kitten's head as a new source of madness, while Letty arriving cried out to her mother against this cruelty--it was a history as full of sensation as "This is the house that Jack built." Mrs. Garth was obliged to interfere, the other young ones came up and the tete-a-tete with Fred was ended. He got away as soon as he could, and Mrs. Garth could only imply some retractation of her severity by saying "God bless you" when she shook hands with him. She was unpleasantly conscious that she had been on the verge of speaking as "one of the foolish women speaketh"--telling first and entreating silence after. But she had not entreated silence, and to prevent Caleb's blame she determined to blame herself and confess all to him that very night. It was curious what an awful tribunal the mild Caleb's was to her, whenever he set it up. But she meant to point out to him that the revelation might do Fred Vincy a great deal of good. No doubt it was having a strong effect on him as he walked to Lowick. Fred's light hopeful nature had perhaps never had so much of a bruise as from this suggestion that if he had been out of the way Mary might have made a thoroughly good match. Also he was piqued that he had been what he called such a stupid lout as to ask that intervention from Mr. Farebrother. But it was not in a lover's nature--it was not in Fred's, that the new anxiety raised about Mary's feeling should not surmount every other. Notwithstanding his trust in Mr. Farebrother's generosity, notwithstanding what Mary had said to him, Fred could not help feeling that he had a rival: it was a new consciousness, and he objected to it extremely, not being in the least ready to give up Mary for her good, being ready rather to fight for her with any man whatsoever. But the fighting with Mr. Farebrother must be of a metaphorical kind, which was much more difficult to Fred than the muscular. Certainly this experience was a discipline for Fred hardly less sharp than his disappointment about his uncle's will. The iron had not entered into his soul, but he had begun to imagine what the sharp edge would be. It did not once occur to Fred that Mrs. Garth might be mistaken about Mr. Farebrother, but he suspected that she might be wrong about Mary. Mary had been staying at the parsonage lately, and her mother might know very little of what had been passing in her mind. He did not feel easier when he found her looking cheerful with the three ladies in the drawing-room. They were in animated discussion on some subject which was dropped when he entered, and Mary was copying the labels from a heap of shallow cabinet drawers, in a minute handwriting which she was skilled in. Mr. Farebrother was somewhere in the village, and the three ladies knew nothing of Fred's peculiar relation to Mary: it was impossible for either of them to propose that they should walk round the garden, and Fred predicted to himself that he should have to go away without saying a word to her in private. He told her first of Christy's arrival and then of his own engagement with her father; and he was comforted by seeing that this latter news touched her keenly. She said hurriedly, "I am so glad," and then bent over her writing to hinder any one from noticing her face. But here was a subject which Mrs. Farebrother could not let pass. "You don't mean, my dear Miss Garth, that you are glad to hear of a young man giving up the Church for which he was educated: you only mean that things being so, you are glad that he should be under an excellent man like your father." "No, really, Mrs. Farebrother, I am glad of both, I fear," said Mary, cleverly getting rid of one rebellious tear. "I have a dreadfully secular mind. I never liked any clergyman except the Vicar of Wakefield and Mr. Farebrother." "Now why, my dear?" said Mrs. Farebrother, pausing on her large wooden knitting-needles and looking at Mary. "You have always a good reason for your opinions, but this astonishes me. Of course I put out of the question those who preach new doctrine. But why should you dislike clergymen?" "Oh dear," said Mary, her face breaking into merriment as she seemed to consider a moment, "I don't like their neckcloths." "Why, you don't like Camden's, then," said Miss Winifred, in some anxiety. "Yes, I do," said Mary. "I don't like the other clergymen's neckcloths, because it is they who wear them." "How very puzzling!" said Miss Noble, feeling that her own intellect was probably deficient. "My dear, you are joking. You would have better reasons than these for slighting so respectable a class of men," said Mrs. Farebrother, majestically. "Miss Garth has such severe notions of what people should be that it is difficult to satisfy her," said Fred. "Well, I am glad at least that she makes an exception in favor of my son," said the old lady. Mary was wondering at Fred's piqued tone, when Mr. Farebrother came in and had to hear the news about the engagement under Mr. Garth. At the end he said with quiet satisfaction, "_That_ is right;" and then bent to look at Mary's labels and praise her handwriting. Fred felt horribly jealous--was glad, of course, that Mr. Farebrother was so estimable, but wished that he had been ugly and fat as men at forty sometimes are. It was clear what the end would be, since Mary openly placed Farebrother above everybody, and these women were all evidently encouraging the affair. He was feeling sure that he should have no chance of speaking to Mary, when Mr. Farebrother said-- "Fred, help me to carry these drawers back into my study--you have never seen my fine new study. Pray come too, Miss Garth. I want you to see a stupendous spider I found this morning." Mary at once saw the Vicar's intention. He had never since the memorable evening deviated from his old pastoral kindness towards her, and her momentary wonder and doubt had quite gone to sleep. Mary was accustomed to think rather rigorously of what was probable, and if a belief flattered her vanity she felt warned to dismiss it as ridiculous, having early had much exercise in such dismissals. It was as she had foreseen: when Fred had been asked to admire the fittings of the study, and she had been asked to admire the spider, Mr. Farebrother said-- "Wait here a minute or two. I am going to look out an engraving which Fred is tall enough to hang for me. I shall be back in a few minutes." And then he went out. Nevertheless, the first word Fred said to Mary was-- "It is of no use, whatever I do, Mary. You are sure to marry Farebrother at last." There was some rage in his tone. "What do you mean, Fred?" Mary exclaimed indignantly, blushing deeply, and surprised out of all her readiness in reply. "It is impossible that you should not see it all clearly enough--you who see everything." "I only see that you are behaving very ill, Fred, in speaking so of Mr. Farebrother after he has pleaded your cause in every way. How can you have taken up such an idea?" Fred was rather deep, in spite of his irritation. If Mary had really been unsuspicious, there was no good in telling her what Mrs. Garth had said. "It follows as a matter of course," he replied. "When you are continually seeing a man who beats me in everything, and whom you set up above everybody, I can have no fair chance." "You are very ungrateful, Fred," said Mary. "I wish I had never told Mr. Farebrother that I cared for you in the least." "No, I am not ungrateful; I should be the happiest fellow in the world if it were not for this. I told your father everything, and he was very kind; he treated me as if I were his son. I could go at the work with a will, writing and everything, if it were not for this." "For this? for what?" said Mary, imagining now that something specific must have been said or done. "This dreadful certainty that I shall be bowled out by Farebrother." Mary was appeased by her inclination to laugh. "Fred," she said, peeping round to catch his eyes, which were sulkily turned away from her, "you are too delightfully ridiculous. If you were not such a charming simpleton, what a temptation this would be to play the wicked coquette, and let you suppose that somebody besides you has made love to me." "Do you really like me best, Mary?" said Fred, turning eyes full of affection on her, and trying to take her hand. "I don't like you at all at this moment," said Mary, retreating, and putting her hands behind her. "I only said that no mortal ever made love to me besides you. And that is no argument that a very wise man ever will," she ended, merrily. "I wish you would tell me that you could not possibly ever think of him," said Fred. "Never dare to mention this any more to me, Fred," said Mary, getting serious again. "I don't know whether it is more stupid or ungenerous in you not to see that Mr. Farebrother has left us together on purpose that we might speak freely. I am disappointed that you should be so blind to his delicate feeling." There was no time to say any more before Mr. Farebrother came back with the engraving; and Fred had to return to the drawing-room still with a jealous dread in his heart, but yet with comforting arguments from Mary's words and manner. The result of the conversation was on the whole more painful to Mary: inevitably her attention had taken a new attitude, and she saw the possibility of new interpretations. She was in a position in which she seemed to herself to be slighting Mr. Farebrother, and this, in relation to a man who is much honored, is always dangerous to the firmness of a grateful woman. To have a reason for going home the next day was a relief, for Mary earnestly desired to be always clear that she loved Fred best. When a tender affection has been storing itself in us through many of our years, the idea that we could accept any exchange for it seems to be a cheapening of our lives. And we can set a watch over our affections and our constancy as we can over other treasures. "Fred has lost all his other expectations; he must keep this," Mary said to herself, with a smile curling her lips. It was impossible to help fleeting visions of another kind--new dignities and an acknowledged value of which she had often felt the absence. But these things with Fred outside them, Fred forsaken and looking sad for the want of her, could never tempt her deliberate thought. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

Fred geht zum Lowick-Pastorat, wo Mary einige Tage bei den Farebrothers verbringt und den alten Damen hilft, sich einzuleben. Auf dem Weg besucht er die Garths, um Mrs. Garth von seiner neuen Arbeit zu informieren und ihre Zustimmung zu suchen. Ihr gelehrter Sohn Christy ist für einen Urlaub zu Hause und sie stellt ihn Fred als Beispiel hin. Außerdem lässt sie ihre eigene Frustration darüber, dass sie Mr. Farebrother als Schwiegersohn verloren hat, an Fred aus, indem sie ihm von den Gefühlen des Letzteren berichtet. Fred ist erstaunt, da er es nie geahnt hat. Er geht weiter nach Lowick und hat das Gefühl, Mary an seinen weit überlegenen Rivalen zu verlieren. Im Pfarrhaus führt der "Rivale" sie bereitwillig in sein Studierzimmer, um ihnen Privatsphäre zu geben. Sie streiten über die Angelegenheit. Aber Mary gibt nach, da sie von Freds Treue zu ihr weiß, und gibt ihm neue Hoffnung in Bezug auf ihre Gefühle für ihn. Dennoch kann sie nicht verhindern, dass sie beim Verlust eines von ihr sehr bewunderten Mannes sowie eines angesehenen Status einen Stich empfindet.

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.

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: AFTER dinner the next day I said good-bye and drove back to Hastings to take the train for Black Hawk. Antonia and her children gathered round my buggy before I started, and even the little ones looked up at me with friendly faces. Leo and Ambrosch ran ahead to open the lane gate. When I reached the bottom of the hill, I glanced back. The group was still there by the windmill. Antonia was waving her apron. At the gate Ambrosch lingered beside my buggy, resting his arm on the wheel-rim. Leo slipped through the fence and ran off into the pasture. "That's like him," his brother said with a shrug. "He's a crazy kid. Maybe he's sorry to have you go, and maybe he's jealous. He's jealous of anybody mother makes a fuss over, even the priest." I found I hated to leave this boy, with his pleasant voice and his fine head and eyes. He looked very manly as he stood there without a hat, the wind rippling his shirt about his brown neck and shoulders. "Don't forget that you and Rudolph are going hunting with me up on the Niobrara next summer," I said. "Your father's agreed to let you off after harvest." He smiled. "I won't likely forget. I've never had such a nice thing offered to me before. I don't know what makes you so nice to us boys," he added, blushing. "Oh, yes you do!" I said, gathering up my reins. He made no answer to this, except to smile at me with unabashed pleasure and affection as I drove away. My day in Black Hawk was disappointing. Most of my old friends were dead or had moved away. Strange children, who meant nothing to me, were playing in the Harlings' big yard when I passed; the mountain ash had been cut down, and only a sprouting stump was left of the tall Lombardy poplar that used to guard the gate. I hurried on. The rest of the morning I spent with Anton Jelinek, under a shady cottonwood tree in the yard behind his saloon. While I was having my mid-day dinner at the hotel, I met one of the old lawyers who was still in practice, and he took me up to his office and talked over the Cutter case with me. After that, I scarcely knew how to put in the time until the night express was due. I took a long walk north of the town, out into the pastures where the land was so rough that it had never been ploughed up, and the long red grass of early times still grew shaggy over the draws and hillocks. Out there I felt at home again. Overhead the sky was that indescribable blue of autumn; bright and shadowless, hard as enamel. To the south I could see the dun-shaded river bluffs that used to look so big to me, and all about stretched drying cornfields, of the pale-gold color I remembered so well. Russian thistles were blowing across the uplands and piling against the wire fences like barricades. Along the cattle paths the plumes of golden-rod were already fading into sun-warmed velvet, gray with gold threads in it. I had escaped from the curious depression that hangs over little towns, and my mind was full of pleasant things; trips I meant to take with the Cuzak boys, in the Bad Lands and up on the Stinking Water. There were enough Cuzaks to play with for a long while yet. Even after the boys grew up, there would always be Cuzak himself! I meant to tramp along a few miles of lighted streets with Cuzak. As I wandered over those rough pastures, I had the good luck to stumble upon a bit of the first road that went from Black Hawk out to the north country; to my grandfather's farm, then on to the Shimerdas' and to the Norwegian settlement. Everywhere else it had been ploughed under when the highways were surveyed; this half-mile or so within the pasture fence was all that was left of that old road which used to run like a wild thing across the open prairie, clinging to the high places and circling and doubling like a rabbit before the hounds. On the level land the tracks had almost disappeared--were mere shadings in the grass, and a stranger would not have noticed them. But wherever the road had crossed a draw, it was easy to find. The rains had made channels of the wheel-ruts and washed them so deep that the sod had never healed over them. They looked like gashes torn by a grizzly's claws, on the slopes where the farm wagons used to lurch up out of the hollows with a pull that brought curling muscles on the smooth hips of the horses. I sat down and watched the haystacks turn rosy in the slanting sunlight. This was the road over which Antonia and I came on that night when we got off the train at Black Hawk and were bedded down in the straw, wondering children, being taken we knew not whither. I had only to close my eyes to hear the rumbling of the wagons in the dark, and to be again overcome by that obliterating strangeness. The feelings of that night were so near that I could reach out and touch them with my hand. I had the sense of coming home to myself, and of having found out what a little circle man's experience is. For Antonia and for me, this had been the road of Destiny; had taken us to those early accidents of fortune which predetermined for us all that we can ever be. Now I understood that the same road was to bring us together again. Whatever we had missed, we possessed together the precious, the incommunicable past. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Jim verabschiedet sich endlich und verlässt Black Hawk. Es fällt ihm schwer, sich von Ambrosch zu trennen, den er so sehr mag. Er sagt ihm und Rudolph, dass sie im nächsten Sommer zusammen jagen gehen werden. Jim genießt seinen Tag in Black Hawk nicht, weil er die meisten Menschen dort nicht erkennt. Er hält sich mit Anton Jelinek und einem alten Anwalt auf, der ihm die Einzelheiten des Cutter-Falls erzählt. Er geht aus der Stadt hinaus, um sich die Landschaft anzusehen. Er fühlt sich wieder zuhause. Er stolpert über die alte Straße, die zu der alte Farm seines Großvaters führt. Sie ist größtenteils schon umgepflügt worden. Jim setzt sich hin und betrachtet die Sonne. Er erinnert sich an die Nacht, in der er mit dem Zug aus Virginia angekommen ist. Er hat das Gefühl, dass er und Antonia auf dem Weg des Schicksals gelaufen sind, um dorthin zu gelangen, wo sie heute sind, und dass sie die Vergangenheit gemeinsam besitzen.

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.

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 frontiers of Mantua. A forest Enter certain OUTLAWS FIRST OUTLAW. Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger. SECOND OUTLAW. If there be ten, shrink not, but down with 'em. Enter VALENTINE and SPEED THIRD OUTLAW. Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye; 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. VALENTINE. My friends- FIRST OUTLAW. That's not so, sir; we are your enemies. SECOND OUTLAW. Peace! we'll hear him. THIRD OUTLAW. Ay, by my beard, will we; for he is a proper man. VALENTINE. Then know that I have little wealth to lose; A man I am cross'd with adversity; My riches are these poor habiliments, Of which if you should here disfurnish me, You take the sum and substance that I have. SECOND OUTLAW. Whither travel you? VALENTINE. To Verona. FIRST OUTLAW. Whence came you? VALENTINE. From Milan. THIRD OUTLAW. Have you long sojourn'd there? VALENTINE. Some sixteen months, and longer might have stay'd, If crooked fortune had not thwarted me. FIRST OUTLAW. What, were you banish'd thence? VALENTINE. I was. SECOND OUTLAW. For what offence? VALENTINE. For that which now torments me to rehearse: I kill'd a man, whose death I much repent; But yet I slew him manfully in fight, Without false vantage or base treachery. FIRST OUTLAW. Why, ne'er repent it, if it were done so. But were you banish'd for so small a fault? VALENTINE. I was, and held me glad of such a doom. SECOND OUTLAW. Have you the tongues? VALENTINE. My youthful travel therein made me happy, Or else I often had been miserable. THIRD OUTLAW. By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat friar, This fellow were a king for our wild faction! FIRST OUTLAW. We'll have him. Sirs, a word. SPEED. Master, be one of them; it's an honourable kind of thievery. VALENTINE. Peace, villain! SECOND OUTLAW. Tell us this: have you anything to take to? VALENTINE. Nothing but my fortune. THIRD OUTLAW. Know, then, that some of us are gentlemen, Such as the fury of ungovern'd youth Thrust from the company of awful men; Myself was from Verona banished For practising to steal away a lady, An heir, and near allied unto the Duke. SECOND OUTLAW. And I from Mantua, for a gentleman Who, in my mood, I stabb'd unto the heart. FIRST OUTLAW. And I for such-like petty crimes as these. But to the purpose- for we cite our faults That they may hold excus'd our lawless lives; And, partly, seeing you are beautified With goodly shape, and by your own report A linguist, and a man of such perfection As we do in our quality much want- SECOND OUTLAW. Indeed, because you are a banish'd man, Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you. Are you content to be our general- To make a virtue of necessity, And live as we do in this wilderness? THIRD OUTLAW. What say'st thou? Wilt thou be of our consort? Say 'ay' and be the captain of us all. We'll do thee homage, and be rul'd by thee, Love thee as our commander and our king. FIRST OUTLAW. But if thou scorn our courtesy thou diest. SECOND OUTLAW. Thou shalt not live to brag what we have offer'd. VALENTINE. I take your offer, and will live with you, Provided that you do no outrages On silly women or poor passengers. THIRD OUTLAW. No, we detest such vile base practices. Come, go with us; we'll bring thee to our crews, And show thee all the treasure we have got; Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose. Exeunt Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

In der Zwischenzeit sind Valentine und Speed in einen Wald zwischen Mailand und Mantua geflohen, wo sie auf eine Gruppe von Gesetzlosen stoßen. Einer der Gesetzlosen sagt "Hände hoch!", und Valentine erklärt, dass er nichts hat, was die Straßenräuber stehlen könnten. Die Gesetzlosen sind beeindruckt, als sie hören, dass Valentine aus Mailand verbannt wurde. Sie sind noch beeindruckter, als Valentine behauptet, einen Mann getötet zu haben. Die Gesetzlosen betrachten Valentine nun als eine Art Robin Hood-Figur und laden ihn ein, sich ihrem schurkischen Club anzuschließen. Die Gesetzlosen prahlen abwechselnd mit ihren Verbrechen und fügen hinzu, dass Valentine der Chef der Gang sein kann, wenn er sich anschließt. Ähm, und sie ihn töten werden, wenn er ablehnt. Valentine stimmt zu, dem Gesetzlosen-Club beizutreten, macht ihnen jedoch zur Bedingung, keine Frauen oder wehrlose Reisende zu verletzen. Sie stimmen zu und brechen auf, um als eine Bande glücklicher Junggesellen zu leben.

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.

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 Tag öffnete sich eine neue Szene in Longbourn. Mr. Collins machte seine Erklärung formell. Da er beschlossen hatte, es ohne Zeitverlust zu tun, da sein Urlaub nur bis zum folgenden Samstag verlängert wurde, und da er keine Gefühle der Scheu hatte, die es ihm selbst in diesem Moment unangenehm machen würden, begann er auf sehr ordentliche Weise damit, mit all den Sitten, von denen er annahm, dass sie einen festen Bestandteil des Geschäfts waren. Als er kurz nach dem Frühstück Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth und eine der jüngeren Mädchen zusammenfand, wandte er sich an die Mutter mit den Worten: "Darf ich hoffen, gnädige Frau, auf Ihr Interesse bei Ihrer schönen Tochter Elizabeth, wenn ich um die Ehre einer privaten Audienz bei ihr im Laufe des Vormittags bitte?" Bevor Elizabeth Zeit für etwas hatte, außer dass sie vor Überraschung errötete, antwortete Mrs. Bennet sofort: "Oh mein Gott! Ja, natürlich! Ich bin sicher, Lizzy wird sehr glücklich sein. Ich bin sicher, sie wird keine Einwände haben. Komm, Kitty, ich möchte, dass du nach oben gehst." Und sie sammelte ihre Arbeit zusammen und wollte schnell gehen, als Elizabeth rief: "Liebe Mama, geh nicht. Ich flehe dich an, geh nicht. Mr. Collins möge mir verzeihen. Er hat mir nichts zu sagen, was niemand hören muss. Ich gehe selbst weg." "Nein, nein, Unsinn, Lizzy. Ich bestehe darauf, dass du bleibst, wo du bist." - Und als Elizabeth wirklich mit verärgertem und verlegtem Blick schien, zu entwischen, fügte sie hinzu: "Lizzy, ich bestehe darauf, dass du bleibst und Mr. Collins zuhörst." Elizabeth wollte einer solchen Anordnung nicht widersprechen - und in einem Moment der Überlegung wurde ihr auch bewusst, dass es am klügsten wäre, dies so schnell und so ruhig wie möglich hinter sich zu bringen. Also setzte sie sich wieder hin und versuchte, durch ununterbrochene Beschäftigung die Gefühle zu verbergen, die zwischen Bedrängnis und Vergnügen geteilt waren. Mrs. Bennet und Kitty gingen weg, und sobald sie weg waren, begann Mr. Collins. "Glauben Sie mir, meine liebe Miss Elizabeth, dass Ihre Bescheidenheit, fern davon, Ihnen irgendwelche Nachteile zu bringen, Ihren anderen Vorzügen etwas hinzu fügt. Sie wären in meinen Augen weniger liebenswert gewesen, wenn es diese kleine Unwilligkeit nicht gegeben hätte. Aber erlauben Sie mir, Ihnen zu versichern, dass ich die Erlaubnis Ihrer hochverehrten Mutter für diese Ansprache habe. Sie können den Inhalt meiner Rede kaum bezweifeln, obwohl Ihre natürliche Feinfühligkeit Sie dazu verleiten mag, es zu verbergen. Meine Aufmerksamkeiten waren zu deutlich, als dass sie fehlinterpretiert werden könnten. Kaum war ich ins Haus gekommen, habe ich Sie als die Gefährtin meines zukünftigen Lebens ausgewählt. Aber bevor ich von meinen Gefühlen zu diesem Thema mitgerissen werde, ist es vielleicht ratsam, meine Gründe für die Heirat darzulegen - und außerdem für meine Ankunft in Hertfordshire mit der Absicht, eine Ehefrau auszuwählen, was ich definitiv getan habe." Die Vorstellung, dass Mr. Collins, mit seiner feierlichen Ruhe, von seinen Gefühlen mitgerissen wird, brachte Elizabeth so nahe daran, zu lachen, dass sie die kurze Pause, die er zuließ, nicht für den Versuch nutzen konnte, ihn weiter zu stoppen, und er fuhr fort: "Meine Gründe für die Heirat sind erstens, dass ich es für richtig halte, dass jeder Pfarrer in wohlhabenden Verhältnissen (wie ich) das Beispiel der Ehe in seiner Gemeinde geben sollte. Zweitens bin ich überzeugt, dass es meine Glückseligkeit sehr stark erhöhen wird; und drittens - was ich vielleicht früher erwähnt haben sollte - dass es der besondere Rat und die Empfehlung der sehr noble Lady ist, die ich die Ehre habe, Patronin zu nennen. Zweimal hat sie sich herabgelassen, mir ihre Meinung (ungefragt!) zu diesem Thema mitzuteilen; und es war genau am vergangenen Samstagabend, bevor ich Hunsford verließ - zwischen unseren Spielen beim Quadrille, während Mrs. Jenkinson Miss de Bourghs Fußschemel arrangierte, sagte sie: "Mr. Collins, Sie müssen heiraten. Ein Pfarrer wie Sie muss heiraten. Wählen Sie angemessen, wählen Sie eine vornehme Dame meinetwegen; und weil Sie sind, sollte sie eine tätige, nützliche Art von Person sein, nicht hoch gestellt, aber in der Lage, mit einem kleinen Einkommen gut auszukommen. Dies ist mein Rat. Finden Sie eine solche Frau so bald wie möglich, bringen Sie sie nach Hunsford, und ich werde sie besuchen." Erlauben Sie mir übrigens, meine liebe Cousine, anzumerken, dass ich die Aufmerksamkeit und Freundlichkeit von Lady Catherine de Bourgh nicht als die geringsten Vorteile betrachte, die ich Ihnen anbieten kann. Sie werden ihre Manieren jenseits meiner Beschreibung finden; und ich denke, Ihr Witz und Ihre Lebendigkeit müssen für sie akzeptabel sein, besonders wenn sie mit der Stille und dem Respekt vermischt sind, die ihr Rang zwangsläufig hervorrufen wird. So viel zu meiner allgemeinen Absicht, die Ehe zu befürworten. Es bleibt zu sagen, warum meine Absichten auf Longbourn gerichtet waren, anstatt auf meine eigene Nachbarschaft, in der es, versichern Sie sich, viele liebenswerte junge Frauen gibt. Aber die Tatsache ist, dass ich, da ich dieses Anwesen nach dem Tod Ihres verehrten Vaters erben werde (der jedoch noch viele Jahre leben mag), mich nicht damit zufrieden geben konnte, ohne zu beschließen, eine Ehefrau aus seinen Töchtern zu wählen, damit der Verlust für sie so gering wie möglich sein wird, wenn das melancholische Ereignis eintritt - das jedoch, wie ich bereits gesagt habe, möglicherweise noch mehrere Jahre dauern wird. Das war mein Motiv, meine liebe Cousine, und ich hege die Hoffnung, dass es mich nicht in Ihrem Ansehen herabsetzen wird. Und jetzt bleibt mir nichts anderes übrig, als Ihnen in leidenschaftlichsten Worten von der Heftigkeit meiner Zuneigung zu versichern. Auf das Vermögen bin ich völlig gleichgültig und werde von Ihrem Vater keine finanzielle Forderung stellen, da ich sehr wohl weiß, dass ihm das nicht möglich wäre. Und dass Sie nur tausend Pfund verfügen dürfen, die im 4-prozentigen Festzins erst nach dem Tod Ihrer Mutter Ihnen gehören werden, darauf werde ich auf jeden Fall schweigen; und Sie können sich darauf verlassen, dass keine unedle Vorwürfe über meine Lippen kommen werden, wenn wir verheiratet sind." Es war jetzt absolut notwendig, ihn zu unterbrechen. "Sie sind zu voreilig, Sir", rief sie. "Sie vergessen, dass ich noch keine Antwort gegeben habe. Lassen Sie mich das ohne weitere Zeitverlust tun. Nehmen Sie meinen Dank für das Kompliment, das Sie mir machen. Ich bin mir der Ehre Ihrer Anträge sehr bewusst, aber es ist mir unmöglich, etwas anderes zu tun, als sie abzulehnen." "Ich lerne jetzt nicht zum ersten Mal", antwortete Mr. Collins mit einer förmlichen Handbewegung, "dass es bei jungen Damen üblich ist, die Anträge des Mannes abzulehnen, den sie heimlich akzeptieren wollen, wenn er sich das erste Mal um ihre Gunst bemüht; und dass die Ablehnung manchmal ein zweites oder sogar ein drittes Mal wiederholt wird. Daher bin ich durch das, was Sie eben gesagt haben, keineswegs entmutigt, und ich hoffe, Sie bald zum Altar zu führen." "Bei meinem Wort, Sir", rief Elizabeth, "Ihre Hoffnung ist nach meiner Erklärung eher außergewöhnlich. Ich versichere Ihnen, dass ich Wirklich, Mr. Collins," rief Elizabeth mit einiger Erregung, "du verwirrst mich sehr. Wenn das, was ich bisher gesagt habe, für dich wie eine Ermutigung erscheinen kann, weiß ich nicht, wie ich meine Ablehnung so ausdrücken kann, dass du davon überzeugt wirst." "Sie müssen mir erlauben, mich selbst zu schmeicheln, meine liebe Cousine, dass Ihre Ablehnung meiner Avancen nur Floskeln sind. Meine Gründe, dies zu glauben, sind kurz gesagt folgende: Es scheint mir nicht, dass meine Hand unwürdig Ihrer Annahme ist, oder dass das, was ich bieten kann, etwas anderes als äußerst wünschenswert wäre. Meine Lebenssituation, meine Verbindungen zur Familie De Bourgh und meine Beziehung zu Ihnen sind Umstände, die stark für mich sprechen, und Sie sollten weiterhin bedenken, dass trotz all Ihrer vielen Vorzüge keineswegs sicher ist, ob Ihnen jemals ein weiterer Heiratsantrag gemacht wird. Ihr Erbe ist bedauerlicherweise so gering, dass es höchstwahrscheinlich die Auswirkungen Ihrer Liebenswürdigkeit und Ihrer liebenswerten Qualitäten zunichte machen wird. Da ich daher schlussfolgern muss, dass Sie Ihre Ablehnung meinerseits nicht ernst meinen, werde ich es als Ihren Wunsch ansehen, meine Liebe durch Ungewissheit zu steigern, wie es die übliche Gewohnheit eleganter Frauen ist." "Ich versichere Ihnen, Sir, dass ich keinerlei Anspruch auf jene Art von Eleganz erhebe, die darin besteht, einen anständigen Mann zu quälen. Ich würde es eher als Kompliment ansehen, als aufrichtig angesehen zu werden. Ich danke Ihnen immer wieder für die Ehre, die Sie mir mit Ihren Anträgen erwiesen haben, aber sie anzunehmen ist absolut unmöglich. Meine Gefühle in jeder Hinsicht verbieten es mir. Kann ich deutlicher sprechen? Betrachten Sie mich jetzt bitte nicht als elegante Frau, die Sie quälen will, sondern als vernünftiges Wesen, das die Wahrheit aus seinem Herzen spricht." "Sie sind durchweg bezaubernd!" rief er mit einer unbeholfenen Galanterie. "Und ich bin überzeugt, dass, wenn Ihre ausgezeichneten Eltern ausdrücklich damit einverstanden sind, meine Vorschläge nicht abgelehnt werden können." Elizabeth würde auf eine solche Hartnäckigkeit in eigenwilliger Selbsttäuschung keine Antwort geben und zog sich sofort und schweigend zurück. Falls er jedoch weiterhin ihre wiederholten Ablehnungen als ermutigenden Zuspruch betrachten sollte, entschloss sie sich, sich an ihren Vater zu wenden, dessen Ablehnung in einer solchen Art und Weise geäußert werden könnte, dass sie entscheidend wäre und dessen Verhalten zumindest nicht für das Getue und die Koketterie einer eleganten Frau gehalten werden könnte. Mr. Collins blieb nicht lange in stiller Betrachtung seiner erfolgreichen Liebe, denn Mrs. Bennet hatte sich in dem Vorraum herumgetummelt, um das Ende der Unterredung abzuwarten. Kaum sah sie Elizabeth die Tür öffnen und mit schnellen Schritten an ihr vorbei die Treppe hinaufgehen, betrat sie das Frühstückszimmer und beglückwünschte sowohl ihn als auch sich selbst in herzlichen Worten zur glücklichen Aussicht auf ihre nähere Verbindung. Mr. Collins empfing und erwiderte diese Glückwünsche mit gleicher Freude und erzählte dann Einzelheiten ihres Gesprächs, dessen Ergebnis erwartungsgemäß zufriedenstellend für ihn wäre, da die Ablehnung, die seine Cousine ihm standhaft gegeben hatte, natürlicherweise aus ihrer schüchternen Bescheidenheit und der echten Feinfühligkeit ihres Charakters resultieren würde. Diese Information erschreckte jedoch Mrs. Bennet; sie wäre gerne genauso zufrieden gewesen, dass ihre Tochter ihn durch ihr Ablehnen seiner Anträge ermutigen wollte, aber sie wagte nicht, es zu glauben, und konnte es nicht lassen, dies zu sagen. "Aber Sie können darauf wetten, Mr. Collins," fügte sie hinzu, "dass Lizzy zur Vernunft gebracht wird. Ich werde sofort mit ihr darüber sprechen. Sie ist ein sehr eigensinniges dummes Mädchen und kennt nicht ihre eigenen Interessen, aber ich werde sie dazu bringen, es zu erkennen." "Entschuldigen Sie die Unterbrechung, Madame", rief Mr. Collins, "aber wenn sie wirklich eigensinnig und dumm ist, weiß ich nicht, ob sie für einen Mann in meiner Situation überhaupt eine wünschenswerte Frau wäre, der sein Glück natürlich im Ehestand sucht. Wenn sie also tatsächlich darauf besteht, meine Avancen abzulehnen, wäre es vielleicht besser, sie nicht dazu zu zwingen, mich zu akzeptieren, denn wenn sie zu solchen charakterlichen Mängeln neigt, könnte sie nicht viel zu meinem Glück beitragen." "Herr, Sie verstehen mich völlig falsch", sagte Mrs. Bennet beunruhigt. "Lizzy ist nur in solchen Angelegenheiten eigensinnig. In allem anderen ist sie ein so gutmütiges Mädchen, wie es nur je gelebt hat. Ich werde direkt mit Mr. Bennet sprechen, und wir werden es sehr bald mit ihr klären, da bin ich sicher." Sie gab ihm keine Zeit, zu antworten, sondern eilte sofort zu ihrem Mann und rief, als sie die Bibliothek betrat: "Oh! Mr. Bennet, Sie werden sofort gebraucht; wir sind alle in Aufruhr. Sie müssen kommen und Lizzy dazu bringen, Mr. Collins zu heiraten, denn sie schwört, dass sie ihn nicht haben will, und wenn Sie sich nicht beeilen, wird er seine Meinung ändern und sie nicht haben." Mr. Bennet hob beim Betreten der Bibliothek den Blick von seinem Buch und fixierte ihr Gesicht mit einer ruhigen Gleichgültigkeit, die sich durch ihre Mitteilung nicht im Geringsten veränderte. "Ich habe das Vergnügen, Sie nicht zu verstehen", sagte er, als sie mit ihrer Rede fertig war. "Worüber sprichst du?" "Von Mr. Collins und Lizzy. Lizzy erklärt, dass sie Mr. Collins nicht haben will, und Mr. Collins fängt an zu sagen, dass er Lizzy nicht haben will." "Und was soll ich in dieser Angelegenheit tun? Es scheint eine aussichtslose Angelegenheit zu sein." "Sprich mit Lizzy selbst darüber. Sag ihr, dass du darauf bestehst, dass sie ihn heiratet." "Lass sie herunter gerufen werden. Sie soll meine Meinung hören." Mrs. Bennet läutete, und Miss Elizabeth wurde in die Bibliothek gerufen. "Komm her, Kind", rief ihr Vater, als sie erschien. "Ich habe dich wegen einer wichtigen Angelegenheit herbestellt. Ich habe gehört, dass Mr. Collins dir einen Heiratsantrag gemacht hat. Stimmt das?" Elizabeth antwortete, dass es so sei. "Sehr gut - und diesen Heiratsantrag hast du abgelehnt?" "Ja, Sir." "Sehr gut. Nun kommen wir zum Punkt. Deine Mutter besteht darauf, dass du ihn annimmst. Ist das nicht so, Mrs. Bennet?" "Ja, sonst werde ich sie nie wiedersehen." "Eine unglückliche Alternative steht dir bevor, Elizabeth. Von diesem Tag an musst du einer deiner Eltern fremd sein - deine Mutter wird dich nie wiedersehen, wenn du Mr. Collins nicht heiratest, und ich werde dich nie wiedersehen, wenn du es tust." Elizabeth konnte nicht anders, als über einen solchen Abschluss eines solchen Beginns zu lächeln, aber Mrs. Bennet, die sich überzeugt hatte, dass ihr Mann die Angelegenheit so sah, wie sie es wünschte, war außerordentlich enttäuscht. "Was meinst du, Mr. Bennet, wenn du so sprichst? Du hast mir versprochen, darauf zu bestehen, dass sie ihn heiratet." "Meine Liebe", antwortete ihr Mann, "ich habe zwei kleine Bitten an dich. Erstens, dass du mir gestattest, meinen Verstand in dieser Angelegenheit frei zu nutzen, und zweitens, dass du mir mein Zimmer lässt. Es würde mich freuen, in Kürze die Bibliothek ganz für mich allein zu haben." Noch nicht, trotz ihrer Enttäuschung von ihrem Mann, "Ja, da kommt sie", fuhr Mrs. Bennet fort, "sie sieht so unbesorgt aus und kümmert sich nicht mehr um uns, als wären wir in York, solange sie ihren Willen bekommt. Aber ich sag dir, Miss Lizzy, wenn du ablehnst, jedes Heiratsangebot auf diese Weise anzunehmen, wirst du niemals einen Ehemann bekommen - und ich weiß wirklich nicht, wer dich versorgen soll, wenn dein Vater tot ist. Ich werde nicht in der Lage sein, dich zu unterstützen - und deshalb warne ich dich. Ich habe ab heute nichts mehr mit dir zu tun. Ich habe dir schon in der Bibliothek gesagt, dass ich nie wieder mit dir sprechen werde, und du wirst sehen, dass ich mein Wort halte. Es macht mir keinen Spaß, mit ungehorsamen Kindern zu sprechen. Nicht dass es mir wirklich viel Freude macht, mit irgendjemandem zu sprechen. Menschen, die wie ich unter Nervenleiden leiden, haben wenig Lust zum Reden. Niemand kann sagen, was ich erleide! Aber es ist immer so. Diejenigen, die nicht klagen, werden nie bemitleidet." Ihre Töchter hörten schweigend dieser Ergießung zu und wussten, dass jeder Versuch, mit ihr zu vernünfteln oder sie zu beruhigen, die Irritation nur vergrößern würde. Deshalb sprach sie ununterbrochen weiter, bis sie von Mr. Collins unterbrochen wurden, der mit einer noch prächtigeren Haltung als gewöhnlich herein kam. Als sie ihn bemerkte, sagte sie zu den Mädchen: "Nun, ich bestehe darauf, dass ihr alle den Mund haltet und Mr. Collins und mir erlaubt, uns allein zu unterhalten." Elizabeth verließ ruhig das Zimmer, Jane und Kitty folgten ihr, aber Lydia blieb standhaft und war entschlossen, so viel wie möglich zu hören. Charlotte jedoch, die zunächst durch die Höflichkeit von Mr. Collins aufgehalten wurde, dessen Erkundigungen nach ihr selbst und ihrer Familie sehr genau waren, und dann durch ihre Neugier, begnügte sich damit, zum Fenster zu gehen und so zu tun, als höre sie nichts. Mit einer traurigen Stimme begann Mrs. Bennet das geplante Gespräch: "Oh! Mr. Collins!" "Meine liebe Dame", antwortete er, "lasst uns für immer über diesen Punkt schweigen. Weit sei es von mir," fuhr er fort, in einem Ton, der seine Missbilligung zeigte, "das Verhalten Ihrer Tochter zu verurteilen. Die Unterwerfung unter unvermeidliche Übel ist die Pflicht von uns allen; die besondere Pflicht eines jungen Mannes, der so viel Glück gehabt hat wie ich im frühen Aufstieg; und ich hoffe, ich habe mich unterworfen. Vielleicht umso mehr, als ich Zweifel an meinem absoluten Glück gehegt habe, wenn meine Cousine mich mit ihrer Hand geehrt hätte; denn ich habe oft bemerkt, dass die Unterwerfung nie so vollkommen ist wie wenn der verweigerte Segen seinen Wert zu verlieren beginnt. Sie werden, hoffe ich, mich nicht als respektlos gegenüber Ihrer Familie betrachten, meine liebe Dame, wenn ich meine Ansprüche auf die Gunst Ihrer Tochter ohne die Höflichkeit zurückziehe, Sie und Mr. Bennet um Ihre Unterstützung zu bitten. Mein Verhalten könnte anstößig sein, da ich meine Abweisung von den Lippen Ihrer Tochter anstatt von Ihren eigenen angenommen habe. Aber wir sind alle fehlbar. Ich habe sicherlich wohlgemeint gehandelt. Mein Ziel war es, mir eine liebenswerte Begleiterin zu sichern, unter angemessener Berücksichtigung des Vorteils Ihrer gesamten Familie, und wenn mein _Auftreten_ in irgendeiner Weise anstößig war, bitte ich hiermit um Entschuldigung." Die Diskussion über Mr. Collins' Angebot neigte sich nun dem Ende zu, und Elizabeth musste nur noch unter den unangenehmen Gefühlen leiden, die damit einhergingen, und gelegentlich unter einigen reizenden Anspielungen ihrer Mutter. Was den Herrn selbst betraf, so äußerte er seine Gefühle hauptsächlich durch Steifheit und schweigsamen Groll, nicht durch Verlegenheit oder Niedergeschlagenheit oder dadurch, dass er versuchte, ihr aus dem Weg zu gehen. Er sprach kaum mit ihr, und die aufmerksamen Aufmerksamkeiten, die er ansonsten so deutlich für sich selbst wahrgenommen hatte, wurden für den Rest des Tages auf Miss Lucas übertragen, deren Höflichkeit, ihm zuzuhören, eine willkommene Erleichterung für alle und besonders für ihre Freundin war. Der nächste Tag brachte keine Abnahme der schlechten Laune oder schlechten Gesundheit von Mrs. Bennet. Mr. Collins befand sich ebenfalls im gleichen Zustand des zornigen Stolzes. Elizabeth hatte gehofft, dass sein Groll seinen Besuch verkürzen würde, aber sein Plan schien davon in keiner Weise beeinflusst zu sein. Er sollte immer am Samstag gehen, und am Samstag beabsichtigte er immer noch zu bleiben. Nach dem Frühstück gingen die Mädchen nach Meryton, um zu fragen, ob Mr. Wickham zurückgekehrt sei, und um über sein Fehlen beim Netherfield Ball zu trauern. Als sie in die Stadt kamen, schloss er sich ihnen an und begleitete sie zu ihrer Tante, wo seine Bedauern und Ärgernisse und die Sorge aller ausführlich besprochen wurden. Elizabeth jedoch hatte eine gewisse Besorgnis zu diesem Thema, die ihre Aufmerksamkeit sogar von Wickham ablenkte. Und sobald er und sein Begleiter Abschied genommen hatten, lud sie der Blick von Jane ein, ihr in das obere Zimmer zu folgen. Als sie in ihrem Zimmer waren und Jane den Brief herausnahm, sagte sie: "Das ist von Caroline Bingley; was er enthält, hat mich ziemlich überrascht. Die ganze Gruppe hat Netherfield inzwischen verlassen und ist auf dem Weg nach London, und ohne die Absicht, wieder zurückzukommen. Du wirst hören, was sie sagt." Sie las dann den ersten Satz laut vor, der die Information enthielt, dass sie gerade beschlossen hatten, ihrem Bruder direkt nach London zu folgen, und dass sie an diesem Tag in der Grosvenor Street zu Abend essen wollten, wo Mr. Hurst ein Haus hatte. Der nächste Satz lautete wie folgt: "Ich tu nicht so, als würde ich irgendwas in Hertfordshire vermissen, außer deiner Gesellschaft, meine liebste Freundin; aber wir hoffen, dass zu einem späteren Zeitpunkt viele weitere schöne Begegnungen uns bevorstehen, und bis dahin können wir den Schmerz der Trennung durch eine sehr häufige und offene Korrespondenz verringern. Darauf kann ich mich bei dir verlassen." Auf diese übertriebenen Ausdrücke hörte Elizabeth mit all der Gleichgültigkeit des Misstrauens. Und obwohl sie von ihrer plötzlichen Abreise überrascht war, sah sie nichts darin, was sie wirklich bedauern sollte; es war nicht anzunehmen, dass ihre Abwesenheit von Netherfield verhindern würde, dass Mr. Bingley dort sein würde; und was den Verlust ihrer Gesellschaft betraf, war sie überzeugt, dass Jane bald aufhören würde, daran zu denken, wenn sie mit ihm Zeit verbrachte. "Es ist unglücklich", sagte sie nach einer kurzen Pause, "dass du deine Freunde nicht mehr sehen kannst, bevor sie das Land verlassen. Aber dürfen wir nicht hoffen, dass die Zeit des zukünftigen Glücks, auf die Miss Bingley hofft, früher kommt, als sie es erwartet, und dass der schöne Umgang, den ihr als Freunde hattet, mit noch größerer Zufriedenheit als Schwestern erneuert wird? Mr. Bingley wird nicht von ihnen in London aufgehalten werden." "Caroline sagt eindeutig, dass keiner der Gruppe diesen Winter nach Hertfordshire zurückkehren wird. Ich werde es dir vorlesen -." Als mein Bruder uns gestern verließ, stellte er sich vor, dass das Geschäft, das ihn nach London führte, in drei oder vier Tagen abgeschlossen sein könnte. Da wir jedoch sicher sind, dass dies nicht der Fall sein wird, und gleichzeitig überzeugt sind, dass Charles, wenn er in die Stadt kommt, keine Eile haben wird, sie wieder zu verlassen, haben wir beschlossen, ihm dorthin zu folgen, damit er seine freie Zeit nicht in einem trostlosen Hotel verbringen muss. Viele meiner Bekannten sind bereits dort für den Winter; Ich wünschte, ich könnte hören, dass du, meine liebste Freundin, die Absicht hättest, Teil der Menge zu sein, aber das verzweifele ich. Ich hoffe aufrichtig, dass dein Weihnachten in Hertfordshire von den Fröhlichkeiten, die diese Jahreszeit in der Regel mit sich bringt, nur so strotzen wird und dass deine Verehrer so zahlreich sein werden, dass du den Verlust der drei, die wir dir nehmen werden, nicht spüren wirst. "Daraus ergibt sich," fügte Jane hinzu, "dass er in diesem Winter nicht mehr zurückkommt." "Es ist nur klar, dass Miss Bingley nicht will, dass er es tut." "Warum denkst du das? Es muss seine eigene Entscheidung sein. Er ist sein eigener Herr. Aber du weißt nicht alles. Ich werde dir den Abschnitt vorlesen, der mich besonders verletzt. Ich werde keine Geheimnisse vor dir haben." "Mr. Darcy ist ungeduldig, seine Schwester zu sehen, und um die Wahrheit zu sagen, wir sind kaum weniger darauf erpicht, sie wiederzusehen. Ich glaube wirklich nicht, dass Georgiana Darcy an Schönheit, Eleganz und Fähigkeiten ihresgleichen hat; und die Zuneigung, die sie in Louisa und mir hervorruft, wird durch die Hoffnung, sie nachher als unsere Schwester zu haben, noch interessanter. Ich weiß nicht, ob ich dir jemals zuvor meine Gefühle zu diesem Thema erwähnt habe, aber ich werde das Land nicht verlassen, ohne sie dir anzuvertrauen, und ich hoffe, du wirst sie nicht für unvernünftig halten. Mein Bruder bewundert sie bereits sehr, er wird jetzt oft die Gelegenheit haben, sie im intimsten Verhältnis zu sehen, ihre Verwandten wünschen die Verbindung genauso sehr wie er, und die Vorliebe einer Schwester führt mich, glaube ich, nicht in die Irre, wenn ich Charles für am meisten fähig halte, das Herz jeder Frau zu gewinnen. Mit all diesen Umständen, die eine Bindung begünstigen, und nichts, was dagegen spricht, irre ich mich, meine liebste Jane, wenn ich die Hoffnung auf ein Ereignis hege, das das Glück so vieler sichert?" "Was hältst du von diesem Satz, meine liebe Lizzy?" - sagte Jane, als sie ihn beendet hatte. "Ist er nicht klar genug? - Erklärt er nicht ausdrücklich, dass Caroline nicht erwartet oder wünscht, dass ich ihre Schwester werde; dass sie vollkommen überzeugt von der Gleichgültigkeit ihres Bruders ist, und dass sie mich (sehr freundlich!) warnen will, falls sie die Natur meiner Gefühle für ihn vermutet? Kann es zu diesem Thema eine andere Meinung geben?" "Ja, das kann es; denn meine Meinung ist völlig anders. Willst du sie hören?" "Sehr gerne." "Du wirst es in wenigen Worten haben. Miss Bingley sieht, dass ihr Bruder in dich verliebt ist und will, dass er Miss Darcy heiratet. Sie folgt ihm in die Stadt in der Hoffnung, ihn dort zu halten, und versucht, dir einzureden, dass es ihm nichts ausmacht, ob du da bist oder nicht." Jane schüttelte den Kopf. "Wirklich, Jane, du solltest mir glauben. Niemand, der euch zusammen gesehen hat, kann an seiner Zuneigung zweifeln. Da bin ich sicher. Miss Bingley kann es sicher nicht. Sie ist keine dumme Gans. Hätte sie nur halb so viel Liebe bei Mr. Darcy für sich selbst gesehen, hätte sie schon ihre Hochzeitskleider bestellt. Aber die Sache ist die. Wir sind nicht reich genug oder groß genug für sie; und sie ist umso mehr darauf bedacht, Miss Darcy für ihren Bruder zu bekommen, weil sie glaubt, dass es, wenn es einmal eine Heirat gegeben hat, weniger Mühe kosten würde, eine zweite zu erreichen; in dem sicherlich etwas Erfindungsreichtum liegt, und ich bin sicher, es würde gelingen, wenn Miss de Bourgh nicht im Weg stehen würde. Aber, meine liebste Jane, kannst du ernsthaft glauben, dass Miss Bingley, nur weil sie dir sagt, dass ihr Bruder Miss Darcy sehr bewundert, auch nur im Geringsten weniger von deinen Qualitäten überzeugt ist als als er sich am Dienstag von dir verabschiedete, oder dass es ihr möglich sein wird, ihn davon zu überzeugen, dass er anstatt dich zu lieben, sehr in ihre Freundin verliebt ist?" "Wenn wir von Miss Bingley so dächten", erwiderte Jane, "könnte mich deine Darstellung von all dem sehr beruhigen. Aber ich weiß, dass der Vorwurf ungerecht ist. Caroline ist nicht fähig, jemanden absichtlich zu täuschen. Und alles, was ich in diesem Fall hoffen kann, ist, dass sie selbst getäuscht wird." "Das ist richtig. Du hättest keine bessere Idee haben können, da du dich nicht auf meine trösten willst. Glaube ruhig, dass sie getäuscht ist. Du hast jetzt deine Pflicht ihr gegenüber erfüllt und darfst nicht länger grübeln." "Aber, meine liebe Schwester, könnte ich glücklich sein, selbst wenn ich das Beste annehme, und einen Mann akzeptiere, dessen Schwestern und Freunde alle wollen, dass er jemand anderen heiratet?" "Du musst dich selbst entscheiden", sagte Elizabeth, "und wenn du nach reiflicher Überlegung feststellst, dass das Missfallen seiner beiden Schwestern dir mehr Sorge bereitet als das Glück, seine Frau zu sein, rate ich dir auf jeden Fall, ihm abzulehnen." "Wie kannst du so reden?" - sagte Jane schwach lächelnd - "Du musst wissen, dass ich, auch wenn ich sehr betrübt sein würde über ihr Missfallen, nicht zögern könnte." "Das habe ich nicht gedacht; und da das so ist, kann ich dein Dilemma nicht mit viel Mitgefühl betrachten." "Aber wenn er in diesem Winter nicht mehr zurückkehrt, wird meine Wahl nie gefordert werden. In sechs Monaten können tausend Dinge passieren!" Elizabeth behandelte die Idee, dass er nicht mehr zurückkehren würde, mit größter Verachtung. Für sie schien es nur der Vorschlag von Carolines interessierten Wünschen zu sein, und sie konnte sich keinen Moment lang vorstellen, dass diese Wünsche, wie auch immer offen oder geschickt geäußert, einen jungen Mann beeinflussen könnten, der völlig unabhängig von jedem ist. Sie verdeutlichte ihrer Schwester nachdrücklich, was sie zu dem Thema fühlte, und hatte bald die Freude zu sehen, dass es einen glücklichen Effekt hatte. Janes Stimmung war nicht verzweifelnd, und sie hoffte allmählich, obwohl die Unentschlossenheit der Liebe manchmal ihre Hoffnung überwältigte, dass Bingley nach Netherfield zurückkehren und jeden Wunsch ihres Herzens erfüllen würde. Sie waren sich einig, dass Mrs. Bennet nur von der Abreise der Familie hören sollte, ohne sich wegen des Verhaltens des Herrn zu beunruhigen; aber auch diese teilweise Mitteilung bereitete ihr großes Unbehagen, und sie beklagte es als äußerst unglücklich, dass die Damen ausgerechnet in dem Moment weggingen, als sie alle so vertraut miteinander wurden. Nachdem sie es jedoch ausführlich betrauert hatte, tröstete sie sich mit dem Gedanken, dass Herr Bingley bald wieder unten sein würde und bald in Longbourn dinieren würde, und das Ergebnis war die beruhigende Erklärung, dass, obwohl er nur zu einem Familienessen eingeladen worden war, sie darauf achten würde, dass zwei Gänge serviert werden. Die Bennets hatten sich verpflichtet In so kurzer Zeit wie Mr. Collins' langen Reden es erlauben würden, wurde alles zwischen ihnen zu beiderseitiger Zufriedenheit geklärt. Als sie das Haus betraten, bat er sie inständig, den Tag zu nennen, an dem er der glücklichste Mann der Welt sein würde. Obwohl sie solch eine Bitte vorerst ablehnen musste, hatte die Dame keine Lust, mit seinem Glück zu spielen. Die Dummheit, die ihm von Natur aus zu eigen war, sollte seine Werbung vor jedem Reiz bewahren, der eine Frau dazu bringen könnte, ihre Fortsetzung zu wünschen. Miss Lucas, die ihn allein aus dem reinen und selbstlosen Wunsch nach einer gesicherten Existenz akzeptierte, machte es nichts aus, wie schnell diese Existenz gewonnen würde. Sir William und Lady Lucas wurden bald um ihre Zustimmung gebeten, und sie gewährten sie mit großer Freude. Mr. Collins' derzeitige Verhältnisse machten ihn zu einer geeigneten Partie für ihre Tochter, der sie wenig Mitgift geben konnten; und seine Aussichten auf zukünftigen Wohlstand waren äußerst vielversprechend. Lady Lucas begann sofort damit, fieberhafter als je zuvor zu berechnen, wie viele Jahre Mr. Bennet noch zu leben hatte, und Sir William äußerte in seiner entschiedenen Meinung, dass es äußerst ratsam wäre, dass sowohl Mr. Collins als auch seine Frau, sobald er Besitzer des Anwesens von Longbourn wäre, in St. James's erscheinen sollten. Die ganze Familie war zu Recht überglücklich über diese Gelegenheit. Die jüngeren Mädchen hofften, ein oder zwei Jahre früher "rauszukommen", als es ansonsten der Fall gewesen wäre, und die Jungen waren erleichtert, dass Charlottes Angst, eine alte Jungfer zu werden, nun hinfällig war. Charlotte selbst war ziemlich ruhig. Sie hatte ihr Ziel erreicht und Zeit, darüber nachzudenken. Ihre Gedanken waren im Allgemeinen zufriedenstellend. Mr. Collins war zwar weder verständig noch charmant; seine Gesellschaft war lästig, und seine Zuneigung zu ihr musste imaginär sein. Aber er würde immer ihr Ehemann sein. Ohne Männer oder Ehe besonders hoch einzuschätzen, hatte Charlotte immer die Ehe angestrebt; sie war die einzige ehrenwerte Absicherung für gut ausgebildete junge Frauen mit wenig Vermögen, und obwohl ungewiss, ob sie glücklich machen würde, war sie ihr angenehmstes Schutzschild vor Not. Diesen Schutzschild hatte sie nun erreicht; und im Alter von siebenundzwanzig Jahren, ohne je hübsch gewesen zu sein, fühlte sie all ihr Glück. Das einzige unangenehme Ereignis dieser Angelegenheit war die Überraschung, die es bei Elizabeth Bennet hervorrufen würde, deren Freundschaft sie mehr schätzte als die irgendeines anderen Menschen. Elizabeth würde sich wundern und wahrscheinlich sie dafür beschuldigen; und obwohl ihr Entschluss nicht zu erschüttern war, würden solche Missbilligungen ihre Gefühle verletzen. Sie beschloss, ihr selbst die Informationen zu geben und wies daher Mr. Collins an, kein Wort von dem, was vor der Familie geschehen war, zu erwähnen, als er nach Longbourn zum Abendessen zurückkehrte. Ein Versprechen der Verschwiegenheit wurde natürlich sehr pflichtgemäß gegeben, aber es konnte nicht ohne Schwierigkeiten eingehalten werden. Neugier, die durch seine lange Abwesenheit hervorgerufen wurde, brach bei seiner Rückkehr in Fragen aus, die eine gewisse Geschicklichkeit erforderten, um ihnen auszuweichen. Gleichzeitig übte er große Selbstbeherrschung aus, da er danach brannte, seine glückliche Liebe zu verkünden. Da er am nächsten Morgen zu früh abreisen sollte, um jemanden aus der Familie zu sehen, wurde die Abschiedszeremonie durchgeführt, als sich die Damen zum Schlafengehen zurückzogen. Und Mrs. Bennet erklärte mit großer Höflichkeit und Herzlichkeit, wie glücklich sie wären, ihn wieder in Longbourn zu sehen, wann immer es sich durch seine anderen Verpflichtungen ergeben könnte. "Meine liebe Dame", antwortete er, "diese Einladung ist besonders erfreulich für mich, da ich gehofft habe, sie zu erhalten; und Sie können sich sehr sicher sein, dass ich sie so schnell wie möglich wahrnehmen werde." Sie waren alle erstaunt; und Mr. Bennet, der keineswegs eine so schnelle Rückkehr wünschen konnte, sagte sofort: "Aber besteht hier nicht die Gefahr der Missbilligung von Lady Catherine, mein lieber Herr? Es wäre besser, Ihre Verwandten zu vernachlässigen, als das Risiko einzugehen, Ihre Förderin zu verärgern." "Mein lieber Herr", erwiderte Mr. Collins, "ich danke Ihnen besonders für diese freundliche Warnung, und Sie können sich darauf verlassen, dass ich keinen so wichtigen Schritt ohne die Zustimmung Ihrer Ladyship unternehme." "Sie können nicht vorsichtig genug sein. Riskieren Sie lieber alles als ihren Unmut. Und wenn Sie feststellen, dass ihr Kommen zu uns wahrscheinlich zu ihrer Erregung führen wird - was ich für äußerst wahrscheinlich halte - bleiben Sie ruhig zu Hause und seien Sie versichert, dass wir uns nicht beleidigt fühlen werden." "Glauben Sie mir, mein lieber Herr, mein Dank wird durch solch liebevolle Aufmerksamkeit wärmstens geweckt, und verlassen Sie sich darauf, dass Sie bald von mir einen Dankesbrief für dies und für jedes andere Zeichen Ihrer Achtung während meines Aufenthalts in Hertfordshire erhalten werden. Was meine lieben Cousinen betrifft, obwohl meine Abwesenheit vielleicht nicht lange genug ist, um es notwendig zu machen, nehme ich mir jetzt die Freiheit, ihnen Gesundheit und Glück zu wünschen, einschließlich meiner Cousine Elizabeth." Mit gebührenden Höflichkeiten zogen sich die Damen dann zurück. Alle waren gleichermaßen erstaunt zu erfahren, dass er eine schnelle Rückkehr plante. Mrs. Bennet interpretierte es so, dass er beabsichtigte, um die Hand einer ihrer jüngeren Töchter anzuhalten, und Mary ließ sich möglicherweise dazu überreden, ihn anzunehmen. Sie schätzte seine Fähigkeiten viel höher ein als alle anderen; in seinen Überlegungen erwies er eine Stärke, die sie oft beeindruckte, und obwohl er bei weitem nicht so clever war wie sie selbst, dachte sie, dass er, wenn er durch ein solches Beispiel wie das ihre zum Lesen und zur Selbstverbesserung ermutigt würde, ein sehr angenehmer Begleiter werden könnte. Doch am nächsten Morgen wurden alle Hoffnungen dieser Art zunichte gemacht. Miss Lucas kam kurz nach dem Frühstück und berichtete Elizabeth in einem privaten Gespräch von dem Ereignis des Vortages. Dass Mr. Collins sich einbildete, in ihre Freundin verliebt zu sein, war Elizabeth in den letzten Tagen einmal eingefallen, aber dass Charlotte ihn dazu ermuntern könnte, schien fast genauso unwahrscheinlich wie dass sie ihn selbst dazu ermuntern könnte, und ihre Verwunderung war daher umso größer, dass sie zuerst die Grenzen der Höflichkeit überschritt und ausrief: "Verlobt mit Mr. Collins! Meine liebe Charlotte, unmöglich!" Das ernsthafte Gesicht, das Miss Lucas beim Erzählen ihrer Geschichte beibehalten hatte, wich hier einem momentanen Durcheinander, als sie eine so direkte Vorwurf freudig entgegennahm; aber da es nicht mehr als erwartet war, erlangte sie bald wieder ihre Fassung und antwortete ruhig: "Warum bist du überrascht, meine liebe Eliza? Glaubst du, es ist unglaublich, dass Mr. Collins die Gunst einer Frau gewinnen kann, nur weil es ihm nicht gelungen ist, bei dir Erfolg zu haben?" Aber Elizabeth hatte sich nun wieder gef Nichts weniger als die Gefälligkeit eines Höflings hätte eine solche Behandlung ohne Ärger ertragen können; aber Sir Williams gute Manieren brachten ihn durch alles hindurch; und obwohl er um Erlaubnis bat, sich positiv über die Wahrheit seiner Informationen äußern zu dürfen, hörte er ihre Unverschämtheiten mit der geduldigsten Höflichkeit an. Elizabeth, die es für ihre Pflicht hielt, ihn von einer so unangenehmen Situation zu befreien, trat nun vor, um seine Aussage zu bestätigen, indem sie ihre vorherige Kenntnis davon von Charlotte selbst erwähnte; und bemühte sich, den Ausrufen ihrer Mutter und Schwestern Einhalt zu gebieten, indem sie Sir William mit aller Ernsthaftigkeit gratulierte, in die sie schnell von Jane einbezogen wurde, und indem sie eine Vielzahl von Bemerkungen über das Glück, das von dieser Verbindung erwartet werden konnte, den ausgezeichneten Charakter von Mr. Collins und die bequeme Entfernung von Hunsford nach London machte. Mrs. Bennet war in der Tat zu sehr überwältigt, um viel zu sagen, solange Sir William blieb; aber kaum hatte er sie verlassen, fanden ihre Gefühle einen raschen Ausdruck. Zum einen bestand sie immer noch darauf, die ganze Sache nicht zu glauben; zum anderen war sie sich sehr sicher, dass Mr. Collins hereingelegt worden war; zum dritten vertraute sie darauf, dass sie niemals gemeinsam glücklich sein würden; und zum vierten, dass die Verbindung gelöst werden könnte. Zwei Schlussfolgerungen konnten jedoch klar aus dem Ganzen gezogen werden; erstens, dass Elizabeth die eigentliche Ursache für all das Unglück war; und zweitens, dass sie selbst von ihnen allen brutal behandelt worden war; und auf diese beiden Punkte legte sie während des restlichen Tages hauptsächlich Wert. Nichts konnte sie trösten und nichts sie besänftigen. - Auch ließ ihr Groll an diesem Tag nicht nach. Eine Woche verging, bevor sie Elizabeth ohne sie zu schimpfen wieder sehen konnte, ein Monat verging, bevor sie mit Sir William oder Lady Lucas sprechen konnte, ohne unhöflich zu sein, und viele Monate vergingen, bevor sie der Tochter insgesamt vergeben konnte. Die Gefühle von Herrn Bennet waren bei diesem Anlass um einiges ruhiger und er erklärte, dass die Erfahrungen, die er gemacht hatte, von äußerst angenehmer Art seien; denn es erfreute ihn, sagte er, zu entdecken, dass Charlotte Lucas, von der er immer dachte, sie sei ziemlich vernünftig, genauso dumm war wie seine Frau und noch dümmer als seine Tochter! Jane gestand ein, ein wenig überrascht von der Verbindung zu sein; aber sie äußerte weniger ihr Erstaunen als ihren ernsten Wunsch nach ihrem Glück; auch konnte Elizabeth sie nicht überzeugen, dass es unwahrscheinlich sei. Kitty und Lydia beneideten Miss Lucas keinesfalls, denn Mr. Collins war nur ein Geistlicher; und es betraf sie in keiner anderen Weise, als dass es eine Nachricht war, die sie in Meryton verbreiten konnten. Lady Lucas konnte nicht unempfindlich triumphieren, wenn es ihr gelang, Mrs. Bennet den Trost zu entgegnen, eine gut verheiratete Tochter zu haben; und sie besuchte Longbourn öfter als gewöhnlich, um zu sagen, wie glücklich sie sei, obwohl Mrs. Bennets saurer Blick und ihre bösartigen Bemerkungen Glückseligkeit hätten vertreiben können. Zwischen Elizabeth und Charlotte gab es eine Zurückhaltung, die sie gegenseitig dazu brachte, das Thema zu verschweigen; und Elizabeth war überzeugt, dass zwischen ihnen kein echtes Vertrauen mehr entstehen konnte. Ihre Enttäuschung über Charlotte ließ sie mit größerer Zuneigung auf ihre Schwester blicken, von deren Rechtschaffenheit und Feingefühl sie sicher war, dass sie niemals erschüttert werden könnte, und um deren Glück sie täglich besorgter wurde, da Bingley nun bereits eine Woche weg war und nichts von seiner Rückkehr zu hören war. Jane hatte Caroline eine frühe Antwort auf ihren Brief geschickt und zählte die Tage, bis sie wieder etwas von ihr hören konnte. Der versprochene Dankesbrief von Mr. Collins kam am Dienstag bei ihrem Vater an und war mit der ganzen Feierlichkeit der Dankbarkeit verfasst, die ein ganzes Jahr im Hause verbracht haben könnte. Nachdem er sein Gewissen in dieser Hinsicht erleichtert hatte, fuhr er fort, ihnen mit vielen begeisterten Äußerungen von seinem Glück zu erzählen, die Zuneigung ihrer liebenswerten Nachbarin, Miss Lucas, gewonnen zu haben. und erklärte dann, dass es nur mit dem Ziel, ihre Gesellschaft zu genießen, gewesen sei, dass er so bereit gewesen war, ihrem freundlichen Wunsch, ihn wieder bei Longbourn zu sehen, beizustimmen, wohin er hoffte, in anderthalb Wochen zurückkehren zu können. Denn Lady Catherine, fügte er hinzu, habe seine Heirat so herzlich gebilligt, dass sie wünschte, sie so bald wie möglich stattfinden zu lassen, was er darauf vertraute, ein unumstößliches Argument für seine liebenswerte Charlotte zu sein, einen frühen Termin zu nennen, um ihn zum glücklichsten aller Männer zu machen. Mr. Collins' Rückkehr nach Hertfordshire war für Mrs. Bennet nicht mehr von Freude. Im Gegenteil, sie war so geneigt, darüber zu klagen wie ihr Mann. Es war sehr seltsam, dass er nach Longbourn kam, anstatt nach Lucas Lodge zu kommen; es war auch sehr unpraktisch und äußerst lästig. Sie hasste es, Besucher im Haus zu haben, während es ihr so schlecht ging, und Liebhaber waren von allen Menschen die unangenehmsten. So lauteten die sanften Murmeln von Mrs. Bennet, und sie wich nur der größeren Verzweiflung von Herr Bingleys anhaltender Abwesenheit. Weder Jane noch Elizabeth fühlten sich in dieser Angelegenheit wohl. Tag für Tag verging, ohne andere Nachrichten von ihm zu bringen als das Gerücht, das sich bald in Meryton verbreitete, dass er den ganzen Winter nicht mehr nach Netherfield kommen würde; ein Gerücht, das Mrs. Bennet sehr erzürnte und das sie nie verfehlte, als schändliche Lüge zu widersprechen. Selbst Elizabeth begann zu fürchten - nicht dass Bingley gleichgültig war -, sondern dass seine Schwestern Erfolg haben würden, ihn fernzuhalten. So ungern sie auch eine Vorstellung zuließ, die so zerstörerisch für das Glück von Jane war und so verwerflich für die Beständigkeit ihres Geliebten, konnte sie nicht verhindern, dass sie häufig wiederkehrte. Die gemeinsamen Bemühungen seiner beiden gefühllosen Schwestern und seines überwältigenden Freundes, unterstützt von den Reizen von Miss Darcy und den Vergnügungen von London, könnten, fürchtete sie, zu viel für die Stärke seiner Zuneigung sein. Was Jane betraf, so war ihre Angst unter dieser Ungewissheit natürlich schmerzhafter als Elizabeths; aber was sie auch fühlte, sie war entschlossen, es zu verbergen, und daher wurde das Thema zwischen ihr und Elizabeth nie erwähnt. Aber da eine solche Delikatesse ihre Mutter nicht zurückhielt, verging selten eine Stunde, in der sie nicht von Bingley sprach, ihre Ungeduld auf seine Ankunft bekundete oder sogar von Jane verlangte, zuzugeben, dass sie sich sehr schlecht behandelt fühlen würde, wenn er nicht zurückkäme. Um diese Angriffe mit erträglicher Gelassenheit zu ertragen, benötigte Jane all ihre ruhige Sanftmut. Mr. Collins kam am Montag pünktlich zurück, seine Aufnahme in Longbourn war jedoch nicht ganz so freundlich wie bei seiner ersten Begegnung. Er war jedoch zu glücklich, um viel Aufmerksamkeit zu benötigen Von dem Autor von "Verstand und Gefühl." Bd. II. London: Gedruckt für T. Egerton, Militärbibliothek, Whitehall. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

Am Morgen nach dem Ball in Netherfield macht Mr. Collins Elizabeth einen Heiratsantrag. Er erläutert seine Motivation für den Antrag und verspricht, nie anzusprechen, dass sie so wenig Geld in die Ehe einbringt. Zwischen Unbehagen und dem Verlangen, über seine offiziöse Art zu lachen, lehnt Elizabeth höflich ab. Trotzdem glaubt Mr. Collins, dass Elizabeth in ihrer Ablehnung kokettiert, und listet die Gründe auf, warum es undenkbar ist, dass sie ihn ablehnt - nämlich seine eigene Würdigkeit, seine Verbindung zur Familie De Bourgh und Elizabeths eigene potenzielle Armut. Mrs. Bennet, die möchte, dass Elizabeth Mr. Collins annimmt, reagiert schlecht auf die Nachricht von der Widerstand ihrer Tochter und droht, Elizabeth nie wieder zu sehen, wenn sie ihn nicht heiratet. Als sich Mrs. Bennet an Mr. Bennet um Unterstützung wendet, erklärt er jedoch, dass er Elizabeth nie wieder sehen möchte, wenn sie Mr. Collins doch heiraten sollte. Mr. Collins erkennt endlich, dass sein Werben aussichtslos ist, und zieht sein Angebot zurück. Mitten im Tumult über den Heiratsantrag besucht Charlotte Lucas die Bennets und erfährt von Elizabeths Ablehnung von Mr. Collins. Nachdem Mr. Collins seinen Antrag zurückgezogen hat, verbringt Charlotte mehr Zeit mit ihm und wenige Tage später macht er ihr einen Heiratsantrag. Charlotte nimmt an, nicht aus Liebe, sondern aus Sicherheit, und die Nachricht von ihrer Verlobung empört Mrs. Bennet und schockiert Elizabeth, die nicht glauben kann, dass ihre Freundin dort heiraten würde, wo keine Liebe existiert. In der Zwischenzeit macht sich Bingley auf den Weg zu einem temporären Besuch in London, aber Jane erhält einen Brief von Caroline Bingley, in dem steht, dass die ganze Gesellschaft nach London gereist ist und den ganzen Winter nicht zurückkehren wird. Caroline erzählt Jane, dass sie viel Zeit mit Georgiana Darcy verbringen und dass sie gerne möchte, dass Miss Darcy ihren Bruder heiratet. Jane ist bestürzt über die Nachricht, glaubt aber, dass Carolines Brief in Freundschaft und Wohlwollen geschrieben ist. Elizabeth hingegen ist misstrauisch bezüglich der Rolle, die Darcy und Bingleys Schwestern dabei spielen könnten, ihn und Jane voneinander fernzuhalten.

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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. Chapter: CHAPTER XV THAT December she was in love with her husband. She romanticized herself not as a great reformer but as the wife of a country physician. The realities of the doctor's household were colored by her pride. Late at night, a step on the wooden porch, heard through her confusion of sleep; the storm-door opened; fumbling over the inner door-panels; the buzz of the electric bell. Kennicott muttering "Gol darn it," but patiently creeping out of bed, remembering to draw the covers up to keep her warm, feeling for slippers and bathrobe, clumping down-stairs. From below, half-heard in her drowsiness, a colloquy in the pidgin-German of the farmers who have forgotten the Old Country language without learning the new: "Hello, Barney, wass willst du?" "Morgen, doctor. Die Frau ist ja awful sick. All night she been having an awful pain in de belly." "How long she been this way? Wie lang, eh?" "I dunno, maybe two days." "Why didn't you come for me yesterday, instead of waking me up out of a sound sleep? Here it is two o'clock! So spat--warum, eh?" "Nun aber, I know it, but she got soch a lot vorse last evening. I t'ought maybe all de time it go avay, but it got a lot vorse." "Any fever?" "Vell ja, I t'ink she got fever." "Which side is the pain on?" "Huh?" "Das Schmertz--die Weh--which side is it on? Here?" "So. Right here it is." "Any rigidity there?" "Huh?" "Is it rigid--stiff--I mean, does the belly feel hard to the fingers?" "I dunno. She ain't said yet." "What she been eating?" "Vell, I t'ink about vot ve alwis eat, maybe corn beef and cabbage and sausage, und so weiter. Doc, sie weint immer, all the time she holler like hell. I vish you come." "Well, all right, but you call me earlier, next time. Look here, Barney, you better install a 'phone--telephone haben. Some of you Dutchmen will be dying one of these days before you can fetch the doctor." The door closing. Barney's wagon--the wheels silent in the snow, but the wagon-body rattling. Kennicott clicking the receiver-hook to rouse the night telephone-operator, giving a number, waiting, cursing mildly, waiting again, and at last growling, "Hello, Gus, this is the doctor. Say, uh, send me up a team. Guess snow's too thick for a machine. Going eight miles south. All right. Huh? The hell I will! Don't you go back to sleep. Huh? Well, that's all right now, you didn't wait so very darn long. All right, Gus; shoot her along. By!" His step on the stairs; his quiet moving about the frigid room while he dressed; his abstracted and meaningless cough. She was supposed to be asleep; she was too exquisitely drowsy to break the charm by speaking. On a slip of paper laid on the bureau--she could hear the pencil grinding against the marble slab--he wrote his destination. He went out, hungry, chilly, unprotesting; and she, before she fell asleep again, loved him for his sturdiness, and saw the drama of his riding by night to the frightened household on the distant farm; pictured children standing at a window, waiting for him. He suddenly had in her eyes the heroism of a wireless operator on a ship in a collision; of an explorer, fever-clawed, deserted by his bearers, but going on--jungle--going---- At six, when the light faltered in as through ground glass and bleakly identified the chairs as gray rectangles, she heard his step on the porch; heard him at the furnace: the rattle of shaking the grate, the slow grinding removal of ashes, the shovel thrust into the coal-bin, the abrupt clatter of the coal as it flew into the fire-box, the fussy regulation of drafts--the daily sounds of a Gopher Prairie life, now first appealing to her as something brave and enduring, many-colored and free. She visioned the fire-box: flames turned to lemon and metallic gold as the coal-dust sifted over them; thin twisty flutters of purple, ghost flames which gave no light, slipping up between the dark banked coals. It was luxurious in bed, and the house would be warm for her when she rose, she reflected. What a worthless cat she was! What were her aspirations beside his capability? She awoke again as he dropped into bed. "Seems just a few minutes ago that you started out!" "I've been away four hours. I've operated a woman for appendicitis, in a Dutch kitchen. Came awful close to losing her, too, but I pulled her through all right. Close squeak. Barney says he shot ten rabbits last Sunday." He was instantly asleep--one hour of rest before he had to be up and ready for the farmers who came in early. She marveled that in what was to her but a night-blurred moment, he should have been in a distant place, have taken charge of a strange house, have slashed a woman, saved a life. What wonder he detested the lazy Westlake and McGanum! How could the easy Guy Pollock understand this skill and endurance? Then Kennicott was grumbling, "Seven-fifteen! Aren't you ever going to get up for breakfast?" and he was not a hero-scientist but a rather irritable and commonplace man who needed a shave. They had coffee, griddle-cakes, and sausages, and talked about Mrs. McGanum's atrocious alligator-hide belt. Night witchery and morning disillusion were alike forgotten in the march of realities and days. II Familiar to the doctor's wife was the man with an injured leg, driven in from the country on a Sunday afternoon and brought to the house. He sat in a rocker in the back of a lumber-wagon, his face pale from the anguish of the jolting. His leg was thrust out before him, resting on a starch-box and covered with a leather-bound horse-blanket. His drab courageous wife drove the wagon, and she helped Kennicott support him as he hobbled up the steps, into the house. "Fellow cut his leg with an ax--pretty bad gash--Halvor Nelson, nine miles out," Kennicott observed. Carol fluttered at the back of the room, childishly excited when she was sent to fetch towels and a basin of water. Kennicott lifted the farmer into a chair and chuckled, "There we are, Halvor! We'll have you out fixing fences and drinking aquavit in a month." The farmwife sat on the couch, expressionless, bulky in a man's dogskin coat and unplumbed layers of jackets. The flowery silk handkerchief which she had worn over her head now hung about her seamed neck. Her white wool gloves lay in her lap. Kennicott drew from the injured leg the thick red "German sock," the innumerous other socks of gray and white wool, then the spiral bandage. The leg was of an unwholesome dead white, with the black hairs feeble and thin and flattened, and the scar a puckered line of crimson. Surely, Carol shuddered, this was not human flesh, the rosy shining tissue of the amorous poets. Kennicott examined the scar, smiled at Halvor and his wife, chanted, "Fine, b' gosh! Couldn't be better!" The Nelsons looked deprecating. The farmer nodded a cue to his wife and she mourned: "Vell, how much ve going to owe you, doctor?" "I guess it'll be----Let's see: one drive out and two calls. I guess it'll be about eleven dollars in all, Lena." "I dunno ve can pay you yoost a little w'ile, doctor." Kennicott lumbered over to her, patted her shoulder, roared, "Why, Lord love you, sister, I won't worry if I never get it! You pay me next fall, when you get your crop. . . . Carrie! Suppose you or Bea could shake up a cup of coffee and some cold lamb for the Nelsons? They got a long cold drive ahead." III He had been gone since morning; her eyes ached with reading; Vida Sherwin could not come to tea. She wandered through the house, empty as the bleary street without. The problem of "Will the doctor be home in time for supper, or shall I sit down without him?" was important in the household. Six was the rigid, the canonical supper-hour, but at half-past six he had not come. Much speculation with Bea: Had the obstetrical case taken longer than he had expected? Had he been called somewhere else? Was the snow much heavier out in the country, so that he should have taken a buggy, or even a cutter, instead of the car? Here in town it had melted a lot, but still---- A honking, a shout, the motor engine raced before it was shut off. She hurried to the window. The car was a monster at rest after furious adventures. The headlights blazed on the clots of ice in the road so that the tiniest lumps gave mountainous shadows, and the taillight cast a circle of ruby on the snow behind. Kennicott was opening the door, crying, "Here we are, old girl! Got stuck couple times, but we made it, by golly, we made it, and here we be! Come on! Food! Eatin's!" She rushed to him, patted his fur coat, the long hairs smooth but chilly to her fingers. She joyously summoned Bea, "All right! He's here! We'll sit right down!" IV There were, to inform the doctor's wife of his successes no clapping audiences nor book-reviews nor honorary degrees. But there was a letter written by a German farmer recently moved from Minnesota to Saskatchewan: Dear sor, as you haf bin treading mee for a fue Weaks dis Somer and seen wat is rong wit mee so in Regarding to dat i wont to tank you. the Doctor heir say wat shot bee rong wit mee and day give mee som Madsin but it diten halp mee like wat you dit. Now day glaim dat i Woten Neet aney Madsin ad all wat you tink? Well i haven ben tacking aney ting for about one & 1/2 Mont but i dont get better so i like to heir Wat you tink about it i feel like dis Disconfebil feeling around the Stomac after eating and dat Pain around Heard and down the arm and about 3 to 3 1/2 Hour after Eating i feel weeak like and dissy and a dull Hadig. Now you gust lett mee know Wat you tink about mee, i do Wat you say. V She encountered Guy Pollock at the drug store. He looked at her as though he had a right to; he spoke softly. "I haven't see you, the last few days." "No. I've been out in the country with Will several times. He's so----Do you know that people like you and me can never understand people like him? We're a pair of hypercritical loafers, you and I, while he quietly goes and does things." She nodded and smiled and was very busy about purchasing boric acid. He stared after her, and slipped away. When she found that he was gone she was slightly disconcerted. VI She could--at times--agree with Kennicott that the shaving-and-corsets familiarity of married life was not dreary vulgarity but a wholesome frankness; that artificial reticences might merely be irritating. She was not much disturbed when for hours he sat about the living-room in his honest socks. But she would not listen to his theory that "all this romance stuff is simply moonshine--elegant when you're courting, but no use busting yourself keeping it up all your life." She thought of surprises, games, to vary the days. She knitted an astounding purple scarf, which she hid under his supper plate. (When he discovered it he looked embarrassed, and gasped, "Is today an anniversary or something? Gosh, I'd forgotten it!") Once she filled a thermos bottle with hot coffee a corn-flakes box with cookies just baked by Bea, and bustled to his office at three in the afternoon. She hid her bundles in the hall and peeped in. The office was shabby. Kennicott had inherited it from a medical predecessor, and changed it only by adding a white enameled operating-table, a sterilizer, a Roentgen-ray apparatus, and a small portable typewriter. It was a suite of two rooms: a waiting-room with straight chairs, shaky pine table, and those coverless and unknown magazines which are found only in the offices of dentists and doctors. The room beyond, looking on Main Street, was business-office, consulting-room, operating-room, and, in an alcove, bacteriological and chemical laboratory. The wooden floors of both rooms were bare; the furniture was brown and scaly. Waiting for the doctor were two women, as still as though they were paralyzed, and a man in a railroad brakeman's uniform, holding his bandaged right hand with his tanned left. They stared at Carol. She sat modestly in a stiff chair, feeling frivolous and out of place. Kennicott appeared at the inner door, ushering out a bleached man with a trickle of wan beard, and consoling him, "All right, Dad. Be careful about the sugar, and mind the diet I gave you. Gut the prescription filled, and come in and see me next week. Say, uh, better, uh, better not drink too much beer. All right, Dad." His voice was artificially hearty. He looked absently at Carol. He was a medical machine now, not a domestic machine. "What is it, Carrie?" he droned. "No hurry. Just wanted to say hello." "Well----" Self-pity because he did not divine that this was a surprise party rendered her sad and interesting to herself, and she had the pleasure of the martyrs in saying bravely to him, "It's nothing special. If you're busy long I'll trot home." While she waited she ceased to pity and began to mock herself. For the first time she observed the waiting-room. Oh yes, the doctor's family had to have obi panels and a wide couch and an electric percolator, but any hole was good enough for sick tired common people who were nothing but the one means and excuse for the doctor's existing! No. She couldn't blame Kennicott. He was satisfied by the shabby chairs. He put up with them as his patients did. It was her neglected province--she who had been going about talking of rebuilding the whole town! When the patients were gone she brought in her bundles. "What's those?" wondered Kennicott. "Turn your back! Look out of the window!" He obeyed--not very much bored. When she cried "Now!" a feast of cookies and small hard candies and hot coffee was spread on the roll-top desk in the inner room. His broad face lightened. "That's a new one on me! Never was more surprised in my life! And, by golly, I believe I am hungry. Say, this is fine." When the first exhilaration of the surprise had declined she demanded, "Will! I'm going to refurnish your waiting-room!" "What's the matter with it? It's all right." "It is not! It's hideous. We can afford to give your patients a better place. And it would be good business." She felt tremendously politic. "Rats! I don't worry about the business. You look here now: As I told you----Just because I like to tuck a few dollars away, I'll be switched if I'll stand for your thinking I'm nothing but a dollar-chasing----" "Stop it! Quick! I'm not hurting your feelings! I'm not criticizing! I'm the adoring least one of thy harem. I just mean----" Two days later, with pictures, wicker chairs, a rug, she had made the waiting-room habitable; and Kennicott admitted, "Does look a lot better. Never thought much about it. Guess I need being bullied." She was convinced that she was gloriously content in her career as doctor's-wife. VII She tried to free herself from the speculation and disillusionment which had been twitching at her; sought to dismiss all the opinionation of an insurgent era. She wanted to shine upon the veal-faced bristly-bearded Lyman Cass as much as upon Miles Bjornstam or Guy Pollock. She gave a reception for the Thanatopsis Club. But her real acquiring of merit was in calling upon that Mrs. Bogart whose gossipy good opinion was so valuable to a doctor. Though the Bogart house was next door she had entered it but three times. Now she put on her new moleskin cap, which made her face small and innocent, she rubbed off the traces of a lip-stick--and fled across the alley before her admirable resolution should sneak away. The age of houses, like the age of men, has small relation to their years. The dull-green cottage of the good Widow Bogart was twenty years old, but it had the antiquity of Cheops, and the smell of mummy-dust. Its neatness rebuked the street. The two stones by the path were painted yellow; the outhouse was so overmodestly masked with vines and lattice that it was not concealed at all; the last iron dog remaining in Gopher Prairie stood among whitewashed conch-shells upon the lawn. The hallway was dismayingly scrubbed; the kitchen was an exercise in mathematics, with problems worked out in equidistant chairs. The parlor was kept for visitors. Carol suggested, "Let's sit in the kitchen. Please don't trouble to light the parlor stove." "No trouble at all! My gracious, and you coming so seldom and all, and the kitchen is a perfect sight, I try to keep it clean, but Cy will track mud all over it, I've spoken to him about it a hundred times if I've spoken once, no, you sit right there, dearie, and I'll make a fire, no trouble at all, practically no trouble at all." Mrs. Bogart groaned, rubbed her joints, and repeatedly dusted her hands while she made the fire, and when Carol tried to help she lamented, "Oh, it doesn't matter; guess I ain't good for much but toil and workin' anyway; seems as though that's what a lot of folks think." The parlor was distinguished by an expanse of rag carpet from which, as they entered, Mrs. Bogart hastily picked one sad dead fly. In the center of the carpet was a rug depicting a red Newfoundland dog, reclining in a green and yellow daisy field and labeled "Our Friend." The parlor organ, tall and thin, was adorned with a mirror partly circular, partly square, and partly diamond-shaped, and with brackets holding a pot of geraniums, a mouth-organ, and a copy of "The Oldtime Hymnal." On the center table was a Sears-Roebuck mail-order catalogue, a silver frame with photographs of the Baptist Church and of an elderly clergyman, and an aluminum tray containing a rattlesnake's rattle and a broken spectacle-lens. Mrs. Bogart spoke of the eloquence of the Reverend Mr. Zitterel, the coldness of cold days, the price of poplar wood, Dave Dyer's new hair-cut, and Cy Bogart's essential piety. "As I said to his Sunday School teacher, Cy may be a little wild, but that's because he's got so much better brains than a lot of these boys, and this farmer that claims he caught Cy stealing 'beggies, is a liar, and I ought to have the law on him." Mrs. Bogart went thoroughly into the rumor that the girl waiter at Billy's Lunch was not all she might be--or, rather, was quite all she might be. "My lands, what can you expect when everybody knows what her mother was? And if these traveling salesmen would let her alone she would be all right, though I certainly don't believe she ought to be allowed to think she can pull the wool over our eyes. The sooner she's sent to the school for incorrigible girls down at Sauk Centre, the better for all and----Won't you just have a cup of coffee, Carol dearie, I'm sure you won't mind old Aunty Bogart calling you by your first name when you think how long I've known Will, and I was such a friend of his dear lovely mother when she lived here and--was that fur cap expensive? But----Don't you think it's awful, the way folks talk in this town?" Mrs. Bogart hitched her chair nearer. Her large face, with its disturbing collection of moles and lone black hairs, wrinkled cunningly. She showed her decayed teeth in a reproving smile, and in the confidential voice of one who scents stale bedroom scandal she breathed: "I just don't see how folks can talk and act like they do. You don't know the things that go on under cover. This town--why it's only the religious training I've given Cy that's kept him so innocent of--things. Just the other day----I never pay no attention to stories, but I heard it mighty good and straight that Harry Haydock is carrying on with a girl that clerks in a store down in Minneapolis, and poor Juanita not knowing anything about it--though maybe it's the judgment of God, because before she married Harry she acted up with more than one boy----Well, I don't like to say it, and maybe I ain't up-to-date, like Cy says, but I always believed a lady shouldn't even give names to all sorts of dreadful things, but just the same I know there was at least one case where Juanita and a boy--well, they were just dreadful. And--and----Then there's that Ole Jenson the grocer, that thinks he's so plaguey smart, and I know he made up to a farmer's wife and----And this awful man Bjornstam that does chores, and Nat Hicks and----" There was, it seemed, no person in town who was not living a life of shame except Mrs. Bogart, and naturally she resented it. She knew. She had always happened to be there. Once, she whispered, she was going by when an indiscreet window-shade had been left up a couple of inches. Once she had noticed a man and woman holding hands, and right at a Methodist sociable! "Another thing----Heaven knows I never want to start trouble, but I can't help what I see from my back steps, and I notice your hired girl Bea carrying on with the grocery boys and all----" "Mrs. Bogart! I'd trust Bea as I would myself!" "Oh, dearie, you don't understand me! I'm sure she's a good girl. I mean she's green, and I hope that none of these horrid young men that there are around town will get her into trouble! It's their parents' fault, letting them run wild and hear evil things. If I had my way there wouldn't be none of them, not boys nor girls neither, allowed to know anything about--about things till they was married. It's terrible the bald way that some folks talk. It just shows and gives away what awful thoughts they got inside them, and there's nothing can cure them except coming right to God and kneeling down like I do at prayer-meeting every Wednesday evening, and saying, 'O God, I would be a miserable sinner except for thy grace.' "I'd make every last one of these brats go to Sunday School and learn to think about nice things 'stead of about cigarettes and goings-on--and these dances they have at the lodges are the worst thing that ever happened to this town, lot of young men squeezing girls and finding out----Oh, it's dreadful. I've told the mayor he ought to put a stop to them and----There was one boy in this town, I don't want to be suspicious or uncharitable but----" It was half an hour before Carol escaped. She stopped on her own porch and thought viciously: "If that woman is on the side of the angels, then I have no choice; I must be on the side of the devil. But--isn't she like me? She too wants to 'reform the town'! She too criticizes everybody! She too thinks the men are vulgar and limited! AM I LIKE HER? This is ghastly!" That evening she did not merely consent to play cribbage with Kennicott; she urged him to play; and she worked up a hectic interest in land-deals and Sam Clark. VIII In courtship days Kennicott had shown her a photograph of Nels Erdstrom's baby and log cabin, but she had never seen the Erdstroms. They had become merely "patients of the doctor." Kennicott telephoned her on a mid-December afternoon, "Want to throw your coat on and drive out to Erdstrom's with me? Fairly warm. Nels got the jaundice." "Oh yes!" She hastened to put on woolen stockings, high boots, sweater, muffler, cap, mittens. The snow was too thick and the ruts frozen too hard for the motor. They drove out in a clumsy high carriage. Tucked over them was a blue woolen cover, prickly to her wrists, and outside of it a buffalo robe, humble and moth-eaten now, used ever since the bison herds had streaked the prairie a few miles to the west. The scattered houses between which they passed in town were small and desolate in contrast to the expanse of huge snowy yards and wide street. They crossed the railroad tracks, and instantly were in the farm country. The big piebald horses snorted clouds of steam, and started to trot. The carriage squeaked in rhythm. Kennicott drove with clucks of "There boy, take it easy!" He was thinking. He paid no attention to Carol. Yet it was he who commented, "Pretty nice, over there," as they approached an oak-grove where shifty winter sunlight quivered in the hollow between two snow-drifts. They drove from the natural prairie to a cleared district which twenty years ago had been forest. The country seemed to stretch unchanging to the North Pole: low hill, brush-scraggly bottom, reedy creek, muskrat mound, fields with frozen brown clods thrust up through the snow. Her ears and nose were pinched; her breath frosted her collar; her fingers ached. "Getting colder," she said. "Yup." That was all their conversation for three miles. Yet she was happy. They reached Nels Erdstrom's at four, and with a throb she recognized the courageous venture which had lured her to Gopher Prairie: the cleared fields, furrows among stumps, a log cabin chinked with mud and roofed with dry hay. But Nels had prospered. He used the log cabin as a barn; and a new house reared up, a proud, unwise, Gopher Prairie house, the more naked and ungraceful in its glossy white paint and pink trimmings. Every tree had been cut down. The house was so unsheltered, so battered by the wind, so bleakly thrust out into the harsh clearing, that Carol shivered. But they were welcomed warmly enough in the kitchen, with its crisp new plaster, its black and nickel range, its cream separator in a corner. Mrs. Erdstrom begged her to sit in the parlor, where there was a phonograph and an oak and leather davenport, the prairie farmer's proofs of social progress, but she dropped down by the kitchen stove and insisted, "Please don't mind me." When Mrs. Erdstrom had followed the doctor out of the room Carol glanced in a friendly way at the grained pine cupboard, the framed Lutheran Konfirmations Attest, the traces of fried eggs and sausages on the dining table against the wall, and a jewel among calendars, presenting not only a lithographic young woman with cherry lips, and a Swedish advertisement of Axel Egge's grocery, but also a thermometer and a match-holder. She saw that a boy of four or five was staring at her from the hall, a boy in gingham shirt and faded corduroy trousers, but large-eyed, firm-mouthed, wide-browed. He vanished, then peeped in again, biting his knuckles, turning his shoulder toward her in shyness. Didn't she remember--what was it?--Kennicott sitting beside her at Fort Snelling, urging, "See how scared that baby is. Needs some woman like you." Magic had fluttered about her then--magic of sunset and cool air and the curiosity of lovers. She held out her hands as much to that sanctity as to the boy. He edged into the room, doubtfully sucking his thumb. "Hello," she said. "What's your name?" "Hee, hee, hee!" "You're quite right. I agree with you. Silly people like me always ask children their names." "Hee, hee, hee!" "Come here and I'll tell you the story of--well, I don't know what it will be about, but it will have a slim heroine and a Prince Charming." He stood stoically while she spun nonsense. His giggling ceased. She was winning him. Then the telephone bell--two long rings, one short. Mrs. Erdstrom galloped into the room, shrieked into the transmitter, "Vell? Yes, yes, dis is Erdstrom's place! Heh? Oh, you vant de doctor?" Kennicott appeared, growled into the telephone: "Well, what do you want? Oh, hello Dave; what do you want? Which Morgenroth's? Adolph's? All right. Amputation? Yuh, I see. Say, Dave, get Gus to harness up and take my surgical kit down there--and have him take some chloroform. I'll go straight down from here. May not get home tonight. You can get me at Adolph's. Huh? No, Carrie can give the anesthetic, I guess. G'-by. Huh? No; tell me about that tomorrow--too damn many people always listening in on this farmers' line." He turned to Carol. "Adolph Morgenroth, farmer ten miles southwest of town, got his arm crushed-fixing his cow-shed and a post caved in on him--smashed him up pretty bad--may have to amputate, Dave Dyer says. Afraid we'll have to go right from here. Darn sorry to drag you clear down there with me----" "Please do. Don't mind me a bit." "Think you could give the anesthetic? Usually have my driver do it." "If you'll tell me how." "All right. Say, did you hear me putting one over on these goats that are always rubbering in on party-wires? I hope they heard me! Well. . . . Now, Bessie, don't you worry about Nels. He's getting along all right. Tomorrow you or one of the neighbors drive in and get this prescription filled at Dyer's. Give him a teaspoonful every four hours. Good-by. Hel-lo! Here's the little fellow! My Lord, Bessie, it ain't possible this is the fellow that used to be so sickly? Why, say, he's a great big strapping Svenska now--going to be bigger 'n his daddy!" Kennicott's bluffness made the child squirm with a delight which Carol could not evoke. It was a humble wife who followed the busy doctor out to the carriage, and her ambition was not to play Rachmaninoff better, nor to build town halls, but to chuckle at babies. The sunset was merely a flush of rose on a dome of silver, with oak twigs and thin poplar branches against it, but a silo on the horizon changed from a red tank to a tower of violet misted over with gray. The purple road vanished, and without lights, in the darkness of a world destroyed, they swayed on--toward nothing. It was a bumpy cold way to the Morgenroth farm, and she was asleep when they arrived. Here was no glaring new house with a proud phonograph, but a low whitewashed kitchen smelling of cream and cabbage. Adolph Morgenroth was lying on a couch in the rarely used dining-room. His heavy work-scarred wife was shaking her hands in anxiety. Carol felt that Kennicott would do something magnificent and startling. But he was casual. He greeted the man, "Well, well, Adolph, have to fix you up, eh?" Quietly, to the wife, "Hat die drug store my schwartze bag hier geschickt? So--schon. Wie viel Uhr ist 's? Sieben? Nun, lassen uns ein wenig supper zuerst haben. Got any of that good beer left--giebt 's noch Bier?" He had supped in four minutes. His coat off, his sleeves rolled up, he was scrubbing his hands in a tin basin in the sink, using the bar of yellow kitchen soap. Carol had not dared to look into the farther room while she labored over the supper of beer, rye bread, moist cornbeef and cabbage, set on the kitchen table. The man in there was groaning. In her one glance she had seen that his blue flannel shirt was open at a corded tobacco-brown neck, the hollows of which were sprinkled with thin black and gray hairs. He was covered with a sheet, like a corpse, and outside the sheet was his right arm, wrapped in towels stained with blood. But Kennicott strode into the other room gaily, and she followed him. With surprising delicacy in his large fingers he unwrapped the towels and revealed an arm which, below the elbow, was a mass of blood and raw flesh. The man bellowed. The room grew thick about her; she was very seasick; she fled to a chair in the kitchen. Through the haze of nausea she heard Kennicott grumbling, "Afraid it will have to come off, Adolph. What did you do? Fall on a reaper blade? We'll fix it right up. Carrie! CAROL!" She couldn't--she couldn't get up. Then she was up, her knees like water, her stomach revolving a thousand times a second, her eyes filmed, her ears full of roaring. She couldn't reach the dining-room. She was going to faint. Then she was in the dining-room, leaning against the wall, trying to smile, flushing hot and cold along her chest and sides, while Kennicott mumbled, "Say, help Mrs. Morgenroth and me carry him in on the kitchen table. No, first go out and shove those two tables together, and put a blanket on them and a clean sheet." It was salvation to push the heavy tables, to scrub them, to be exact in placing the sheet. Her head cleared; she was able to look calmly in at her husband and the farmwife while they undressed the wailing man, got him into a clean nightgown, and washed his arm. Kennicott came to lay out his instruments. She realized that, with no hospital facilities, yet with no worry about it, her husband--HER HUSBAND--was going to perform a surgical operation, that miraculous boldness of which one read in stories about famous surgeons. She helped them to move Adolph into the kitchen. The man was in such a funk that he would not use his legs. He was heavy, and smelled of sweat and the stable. But she put her arm about his waist, her sleek head by his chest; she tugged at him; she clicked her tongue in imitation of Kennicott's cheerful noises. When Adolph was on the table Kennicott laid a hemispheric steel and cotton frame on his face; suggested to Carol, "Now you sit here at his head and keep the ether dripping--about this fast, see? I'll watch his breathing. Look who's here! Real anesthetist! Ochsner hasn't got a better one! Class, eh? . . . Now, now, Adolph, take it easy. This won't hurt you a bit. Put you all nice and asleep and it won't hurt a bit. Schweig' mal! Bald schlaft man grat wie ein Kind. So! So! Bald geht's besser!" As she let the ether drip, nervously trying to keep the rhythm that Kennicott had indicated, Carol stared at her husband with the abandon of hero-worship. He shook his head. "Bad light--bad light. Here, Mrs. Morgenroth, you stand right here and hold this lamp. Hier, und dieses--dieses lamp halten--so!" By that streaky glimmer he worked, swiftly, at ease. The room was still. Carol tried to look at him, yet not look at the seeping blood, the crimson slash, the vicious scalpel. The ether fumes were sweet, choking. Her head seemed to be floating away from her body. Her arm was feeble. It was not the blood but the grating of the surgical saw on the living bone that broke her, and she knew that she had been fighting off nausea, that she was beaten. She was lost in dizziness. She heard Kennicott's voice-- "Sick? Trot outdoors couple minutes. Adolph will stay under now." She was fumbling at a door-knob which whirled in insulting circles; she was on the stoop, gasping, forcing air into her chest, her head clearing. As she returned she caught the scene as a whole: the cavernous kitchen, two milk-cans a leaden patch by the wall, hams dangling from a beam, bats of light at the stove door, and in the center, illuminated by a small glass lamp held by a frightened stout woman, Dr. Kennicott bending over a body which was humped under a sheet--the surgeon, his bare arms daubed with blood, his hands, in pale-yellow rubber gloves, loosening the tourniquet, his face without emotion save when he threw up his head and clucked at the farmwife, "Hold that light steady just a second more--noch blos esn wenig." "He speaks a vulgar, common, incorrect German of life and death and birth and the soil. I read the French and German of sentimental lovers and Christmas garlands. And I thought that it was I who had the culture!" she worshiped as she returned to her place. After a time he snapped, "That's enough. Don't give him any more ether." He was concentrated on tying an artery. His gruffness seemed heroic to her. As he shaped the flap of flesh she murmured, "Oh, you ARE wonderful!" He was surprised. "Why, this is a cinch. Now if it had been like last week----Get me some more water. Now last week I had a case with an ooze in the peritoneal cavity, and by golly if it wasn't a stomach ulcer that I hadn't suspected and----There. Say, I certainly am sleepy. Let's turn in here. Too late to drive home. And tastes to me like a storm coming." IX They slept on a feather bed with their fur coats over them; in the morning they broke ice in the pitcher--the vast flowered and gilt pitcher. Kennicott's storm had not come. When they set out it was hazy and growing warmer. After a mile she saw that he was studying a dark cloud in the north. He urged the horses to the run. But she forgot his unusual haste in wonder at the tragic landscape. The pale snow, the prickles of old stubble, and the clumps of ragged brush faded into a gray obscurity. Under the hillocks were cold shadows. The willows about a farmhouse were agitated by the rising wind, and the patches of bare wood where the bark had peeled away were white as the flesh of a leper. The snowy slews were of a harsh flatness. The whole land was cruel, and a climbing cloud of slate-edged blackness dominated the sky. "Guess we're about in for a blizzard," speculated Kennicott "We can make Ben McGonegal's, anyway." "Blizzard? Really? Why----But still we used to think they were fun when I was a girl. Daddy had to stay home from court, and we'd stand at the window and watch the snow." "Not much fun on the prairie. Get lost. Freeze to death. Take no chances." He chirruped at the horses. They were flying now, the carriage rocking on the hard ruts. The whole air suddenly crystallized into large damp flakes. The horses and the buffalo robe were covered with snow; her face was wet; the thin butt of the whip held a white ridge. The air became colder. The snowflakes were harder; they shot in level lines, clawing at her face. She could not see a hundred feet ahead. Kennicott was stern. He bent forward, the reins firm in his coonskin gauntlets. She was certain that he would get through. He always got through things. Save for his presence, the world and all normal living disappeared. They were lost in the boiling snow. He leaned close to bawl, "Letting the horses have their heads. They'll get us home." With a terrifying bump they were off the road, slanting with two wheels in the ditch, but instantly they were jerked back as the horses fled on. She gasped. She tried to, and did not, feel brave as she pulled the woolen robe up about her chin. They were passing something like a dark wall on the right. "I know that barn!" he yelped. He pulled at the reins. Peeping from the covers she saw his teeth pinch his lower lip, saw him scowl as he slackened and sawed and jerked sharply again at the racing horses. They stopped. "Farmhouse there. Put robe around you and come on," he cried. It was like diving into icy water to climb out of the carriage, but on the ground she smiled at him, her face little and childish and pink above the buffalo robe over her shoulders. In a swirl of flakes which scratched at their eyes like a maniac darkness, he unbuckled the harness. He turned and plodded back, a ponderous furry figure, holding the horses' bridles, Carol's hand dragging at his sleeve. They came to the cloudy bulk of a barn whose outer wall was directly upon the road. Feeling along it, he found a gate, led them into a yard, into the barn. The interior was warm. It stunned them with its languid quiet. He carefully drove the horses into stalls. Her toes were coals of pain. "Let's run for the house," she said. "Can't. Not yet. Might never find it. Might get lost ten feet away from it. Sit over in this stall, near the horses. We'll rush for the house when the blizzard lifts." "I'm so stiff! I can't walk!" Er trug sie in den Stall, zog ihr die Überschuhe und Stiefel aus und hielt inne, um an seinen purpurnen Fingern zu blasen, während er an ihren Schnürsenkeln herumfummelte. Er rieb ihre Füße und bedeckte sie mit dem Büffelroben und Pferdedecken vom Stapel auf der Futterkiste. Sie war müde, vom Sturm eingeschlossen. Sie seufzte: "Du bist so stark und trotzdem so geschickt und hast keine Angst vor Blut oder Sturm oder----" "Ich habe mich daran gewöhnt. Das Einzige, was mir Sorgen machte, war die Gefahr, dass die Ätherdämpfe letzte Nacht explodieren könnten." "Ich verstehe nicht." "Nun ja, Dave hat mir verdammt nochmal Äther geschickt, anstatt wie ich ihm gesagt habe Chloroform, und du weißt, dass Ätherdämpfe sehr entzündlich sind, besonders in der Nähe der Lampe auf dem Tisch. Aber ich musste operieren, natürlich - die Wunde war voller Mist aus dem Stall." "Du wusstest die ganze Zeit, dass sowohl du als auch ich hätten in die Luft gesprengt werden können? Du wusstest das während der Operation?" "Sicher. Wusstest du es nicht? Warum, was ist los?" Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Carol ist stolz auf ihren Ehemann. Sie beobachtet stolz, wie ihr Ehemann mitten in der Nacht geweckt wird, um sich um die deutsche Bäuerin zu kümmern. Kennicott erfüllt seine Pflicht, ohne auf seinen Hunger und die Kälte zu achten. Er weckt Carol nicht auf. Obwohl sie wach ist, zögert sie, den Zauber zu brechen, indem sie aufsteht. Also beobachtet sie ihren Ehemann, wie er sich fertig macht, um zu gehen. Als er zurückkehrt, teilt er ihr mit, dass es ein Fall von Blinddarmentzündung war und dass er den Patienten operiert hat und sofort einschläft. Nelson mit einem verletzten Bein kommt zur Untersuchung. Kennicott untersucht die Wunde und stellt fest, dass sie ordentlich verheilt. Frau Nelson möchte wissen, wie viel sie ihm schulden, fügt aber hinzu, dass sie nicht sofort bezahlen können. Kennicott sagt ihr, dass sie sich keine Sorgen um das Geld machen soll. Er sagt Carol, dass sie ihnen Frühstück geben soll, weil sie eine lange Fahrt vor sich haben. Eines Tages verlässt Kennicott morgens das Haus und kehrt auch nach halb sieben nicht zurück. Ihre Abendessenzeit ist um sechs, aber Carol wartet besorgt auf Kennicott. Kennicott kehrt zurück und Carol sagt Bea, dass sie das Abendessen servieren soll. Carol möchte ihren Ehemann überraschen und bringt Kaffee und Snacks in Kennicotts Büro. Kennicotts Büro enthält neben der medizinischen Ausrüstung nur wenige Dinge. Es sieht ziemlich karg aus. Die Patienten sitzen steif und ruhig. Sie findet Kennicott beschäftigt mit seinen Patienten vor und beschließt zu warten, bis er frei ist. Während sie sich im schlichten Raum umsieht, gibt sie sich selbst die Schuld, dass sie sein Büro vernachlässigt hat. Kennicott ist begeistert, als er feststellt, dass sie Kaffee und Kekse mitgebracht hat, und sagt Carol, dass er noch nie so überrascht war wie in seinem ganzen Leben. Carol sagt ihm, dass sie die Möbel in seinem Büro ändern würde. Kennicott protestiert, aber als Carol das Wartezimmer mit Korbstühlen, Gemälden an den Wänden und einem Teppich gemütlich einrichtet, gibt er zu, dass der Raum viel besser aussieht. Carol gibt einen Empfang für den Thanatopsis Club. Sie versucht, freundlich mit Lymn Cass sowie mit Bjornstam und Guy Pollock zu sein. Sie ruft sogar bei Mrs. Bogart an, wie es Kennicott einmal vorgeschlagen hat. Sie findet das Haus der Bogarts gut geschrubbt. Obwohl Carol lieber in der Küche sitzt, entzündet Mrs. Bogart den Ofen im Wohnzimmer und lässt Carol dort bequem sitzen. Sie beschwert sich über die Leute, die sich über ihren Sohn Cy Bogart beschweren. Sie tratscht über die Kellnerin, über Harry Haydock, der angeblich eine Affäre mit einem Mädchen in Minneapolis hat, darüber, dass Juanita vor der Ehe Affären hatte, über Ole Jenson, über Bjornstam, sogar über Nat Hick, den Schneider. Sie warnt Carol sogar vor Bea und dem Lebensmitteljungen. Sie mault, dass ihr niemand zuhört, und verkündet, dass sie die Dinge in Ordnung bringen würde, wenn man ihr die Macht geben würde. Sie würde keinen Jungen oder kein Mädchen etwas über das Leben wissen lassen, bis sie verheiratet wären. Sie glaubt, dass nur Gebete sie davor bewahren würden, Sünder zu werden. Sie würde sie zwingen, den Sonntagsschulunterricht zu besuchen und das Tanzen zu beenden. Carol gelingt es erst nach einer weiteren halben Stunde, ihr zu entkommen. Kennicott nimmt Carol mit, um Nel Endstrom zu besuchen, der an Gelbsucht erkrankt ist. Sie fahren mit einem Pferdewagen. Kennicott hatte Carol ein Foto von Nel Endstroms Baby und seiner Blockhütte gezeigt, als er um Carol geworben hat. Es wird kälter, aber Carol fühlt sich sehr glücklich. Als sie das Haus erreichen, erkennt Carol die Blockhütte. Aber die Endstroms haben Erfolg gehabt und ein Haus gebaut. Die Blockhütte wird als Scheune genutzt. Das Haus enthält alle Symbole des Wohlstands. Carol macht es sich in der Küche bequem und findet heraus, dass das Baby auf dem Foto zu einem schüchternen vierjährigen Jungen gewachsen ist. Während sie versucht, mit ihm zu reden, wird Kennicott von Dave Dyer gerufen, um sich um Adolph zu kümmern, der zehn Meilen entfernt lebt und einen zerquetschten Arm hat, der amputiert werden muss. Der Arzt gibt Anweisungen für Medikamente und sagt ihm, dass Carol die Anästhesie geben wird. Dann findet er den Jungen und lobt ihn für sein gesundes Aussehen. Er sagt ihm, dass er größer werden wird, als sein Vater ist. Der Junge windet sich vor Freude und Carol fühlt, dass sie ein Kind nie so zum Lachen bringen könnte, und sie fühlt sich sehr gedemütigt.

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.

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: Dritte Szene. Hotspurre tritt alleine ein und liest einen Brief. Aber was mich betrifft, mein Herr, ich wäre gerne dort, in Anbetracht der Liebe, die ich für dein Haus empfinde. Er wäre zufrieden: Warum ist er es dann nicht? In Anbetracht der Liebe, die er für unser Haus empfindet. Er zeigt damit, dass ihm sein eigenes Kind mehr am Herzen liegt als unser Haus. Lass mich noch etwas sehen. Das Vorhaben, das du in Angriff nimmst, ist gefährlich. Das ist sicher: Es ist gefährlich, sich zu erkälten, zu schlafen, zu trinken: aber ich sage dir (mein Herr Narr), aus dieser Brennnessel, der Gefahr, pflücken wir diese Blume, die Sicherheit. Das Vorhaben, das du in Angriff nimmst, ist gefährlich, die Freunde, die du genannt hast, unsicher, die Zeit selbst ungeordnet, und dein gesamter Plan zu schwach, um einer so großen Gegenwehr standzuhalten. Sagst du das, sagst du das: Ich sage dir wiederum, dass du ein oberflächlicher, feiger Hinterwäldler bist und lügst. Was für ein Phantast ist das? Ich schwöre, unser Plan ist ebenso gut wie jeder andere Plan, den es je gab; unser Freund ist treu und beständig: Ein guter Plan, gute Freunde und voller Erwartung: Ein ausgezeichneter Plan, sehr gute Freunde. Was für ein frostgeistesloser Schurke ist das? Aber mein Herr von York lobt den Plan und den allgemeinen Verlauf der Handlung. Bei dieser Gelegenheit, wenn ich jetzt bei diesem Schurken wäre, könnte ich ihm mit dem Fächer seiner Dame den Schädel einschlagen. Gibt es nicht meinen Vater, meinen Onkel und mich selbst, Lord Edmund Mortimer, meinen Herrn von York und Owen Glendower? Gibt es nicht außerdem noch den Douglas? Habe ich nicht alle ihre Briefe, die mich treffen sollen, um mich mit ihnen am neunten des nächsten Monats zu bewaffnen? und sind nicht einige von ihnen bereits unterwegs? Was für ein heidnischer Schurke ist das? Ein Ungläubiger. Ha, du wirst jetzt sehen, mit welcher Aufrichtigkeit von Angst und Feigheit er zum König gehen wird und unsere gesamten Pläne offenlegen wird. Oh, ich könnte mich zerreißen und zum Faustkampf gehen, weil ich eine solch ehrenhafte Tat mit einer solch erbärmlichen Milchsuppe in Verbindung bringe. Hängt ihn auf, lasst ihn dem König sagen, dass wir vorbereitet sind. Ich werde heute Nacht aufbrechen. Seine Frau tritt auf. Was ist, Kate, ich muss dich in diesen zwei Stunden alleine lassen. Frau. Oh mein lieber Herr, warum bist du so alleine? Aus welchem Vergehen bin ich bereits seit zwei Wochen Eine verbannte Frau aus dem Bett meines Harries? Sag mir (süßer Herr), was nimmst du von dir Deinen Appetit, Vergnügen und deinen goldenen Schlaf? Warum senkst du deine Augen auf die Erde? Und zuckst so oft zusammen, wenn du alleine sitzt? Warum hast du das frische Blut in deinen Wangen verloren? Und meine Schätze und meine Rechte an dich gegeben, Für trübe Grübeleien und verfluchte Melancholie? In meinem schwachen Schlaf habe ich an deiner Seite gewacht, Und dich Geschichten von eisernen Kriegen murmeln hören: Rede im Umgang zu deinem stampfenden Pferd, Rufe Mut auf das Schlachtfeld. Und du hast gesprochen Von Angriffen und Rückzügen; Gräben, Zelten, Von Palisaden, Grenzen, Brustwehren, Von Basilisken, Kanonen, Granaten, Von Lösegeld für Gefangene und getöteten Soldaten, Und von all dem Trubel einer wildesten Schlacht. Dein Geist war so kriegerisch, Und hat dich so in deinem Schlaf bewegt, Dass Schweißtropfen auf deiner Stirn standen, Als wären es Blasen in einem gerade aufgewühlten Strom; Und in deinem Gesicht haben sich seltsame Bewegungen gezeigt, Solche, wie wir es sehen, wenn Männer den Atem anhalten Bei großer Hast. Oh, was bedeuten diese Vorzeichen? Mein Herr muss schwere Angelegenheiten haben, Und ich muss es wissen, sonst liebt er mich nicht. Hot. He, ist Gilliam schon mit dem Brief fort? Diener. Ja, mein Herr, er ist vor einer Stunde gegangen. Hot. Hat Butler die Pferde vom Sheriff gebracht? Diener. Ein Pferd, mein Herr, er hat es gerade eben gebracht. Hot. Welches Pferd? Ein Rappen mit abgeknickten Ohren, oder? Diener. Ja, mein Herr, genau das. Hot. Dieser Rappen wird mein Thron sein. Nun, ich werde gleich aufsteigen. Hoffnung, sag Butler, er solle ihn in den Park führen. Frau. Aber höre doch, mein Herr. Hot. Was sagst du, meine Dame? Frau. Was treibt dich fort? Hot. Nun, mein Pferd (meine Liebe), mein Pferd. Frau. Hinaus, du verrückter Affe, ein Wiesel hat nicht so viel Galle, wie du aufrührst. Wirklich, ich werde dein Geschäft herausfinden, Harry, das werde ich. Ich fürchte, mein Bruder Mortimer schleicht sich um seinen Titel herum und hat dich gerufen, um sein Unternehmen zu unterstützen. Aber wenn du gehst... Hot. Soweit zu Fuß werde ich müde sein, Liebes. Frau. Komm, komm, du kleiner Sprechapfel, antworte mir direkt auf diese Frage, die ich stellen werde. Ehrlich, ich werde dir das Fingerchen brechen, Harry, wenn du mir nicht die Wahrheit sagst. Hot. Geh weg, geh weg, du Scherzbold: Liebe, ich liebe dich nicht, es ist mir gleichgültig, Kate: das ist keine Welt, um mit Püppchen zu spielen und mit Lippen zu tändeln. Wir müssen blutige Nasen haben und eingeschlagene Kronen und sie für gültig erklären. Oh Gott, mein Pferd. Was sagst du, Kate? Was willst du von mir? Frau. Liebst du mich nicht? Liebst du mich wirklich nicht? Nun, dann tu es nicht. Denn wenn du mich nicht liebst, werde ich mich auch nicht selbst lieben. Liebst du mich nicht? Nein, sag mir, ob du scherzt oder nicht. Hot. Komm, willst du mich reiten sehen? Und wenn ich auf einem Pferd sitze, werde ich schwören, dass ich dich unendlich liebe. Aber hör mal, Kate, ich darf dich von nun an nicht mehr fragen, wohin ich gehe und worum es geht. Es ist meine Pflicht, das zu tun, und um es zusammenzufassen, heute Abend muss ich dich verlassen, liebe Kate. Ich weiß, du bist klug, aber nicht weiser als die Frau von Harry Percy. Du bist treu, aber trotzdem eine Frau: und was Geheimhaltung betrifft, keine Dame verständiger. Denn ich glaube, dass du nichts sagst, was du nicht weißt, und so weit werde ich dir vertrauen, liebe Kate. Frau. So weit? Hot. Keinen Zoll weiter. Aber hör mal, Kate, wohin ich gehe, dahin wirst du auch gehen: heute werde ich aufbrechen, morgen du. Wird dir das gefallen, Kate? Frau. Es muss wohl sein. Sie gehen ab. Szene 4. Prinz und Poines treten auf. Prinz. Ned, bitte komm aus diesem fetten Raum heraus und leih mir deine Hand, um ein wenig zu lachen. Poines. Wo warst du, Hall? Prinz. Bei drei oder vier Stiernköpfen, unter drei oder vier Fässern. Ich habe den untersten Tiefpunkt der Demut erreicht. Mein Freund, ich bin ein Bruder von drei Schenkenjungen und kann sie bei ihren Namen rufen, wie Tom, Dicke und Francis. Sie sind schon überzeugt, dass ich, obwohl ich nur der Prinz von Wales bin, der König der Höflichkeit bin. Sie sagen mir frech, dass ich kein stolzer Falstaff bin, sondern ein Mann mit Metall, ein guter Junge, und wenn ich König von England bin, werde ich alle guten Jungs in East-cheape befehligen. Sie nennen tiefes Trinken "sterben in Scharlach" und wenn du beim Trinken atmest, dann rufen sie "Hem" und fordern dich auf, weiterzuspielen. Zusammenfassend kann ich sagen, dass ich innerhalb von einer Viertelstunde so ein guter Schüler geworden bin, dass ich mein Leben lang mit jedem Klempner in seiner eigenen Sprache trinken kann. Ned, du hast viel Ehre verloren, dass du nicht mit mir in dieser Aktion warst. Aber süßer Ned, um deinen Namen zu versüßen, gebe ich dir diesen Wert von Zucker, gerade jetzt von einem Unterkellner in meine Hand gelegt, der noch nie ein anderes Englisch in seinem Leben gesprochen hat als "8 Schilling und 6 Pence" und "You are welcome", mit dieser schrillen Ergänzung "Anon, Anon, sir, Score a Pint of Bastard in the Halfe Moone, or so". Aber Ned, um die Zeit zu vertreiben, bis Falstaff kommt, bitte ich dich, stell dich in einen Nebenraum, während ich meinen dummen Schenkenjungen befrage, zu welchem Zweck er mir den Zucker gegeben hat, und immer wieder nach Francis rufe, damit er mich nur mit "Anon" antwortet. Tritt beiseite und ich werde dir ein Beispiel zeigen. Poines. Francis. Prinz. Du bist perfekt. Poin. Francis. Ein Schenkenjunge tritt auf. Francis: Sofort, sofort, mein Herr. Schauen Sie in den Pomgranat hinunter, Ralfe. Prinz: Komm her, Francis. Francis: Mein Herr. Prinz: Wie lange hast du noch zu dienen, Francis? Francis: Fünf Jahre, mein Herr, und so viel wie- Poin. Francis. Francis: Sofort, sofort, mein Herr. Prinz: Fünf Jahre: Bei Gott, das ist ein langer Mietvertrag für das Klirren von Zinn. Aber Francis, wagst du es, ein Feigling zu sein, und rennst davon und zeigst ihm ein schönes Paar Fersen? Francis: Oh, Herr, ich schwöre bei allen Büchern in England, dass ich es von Herzen gern hätte... Poin. Francis. Francis: Sofort, sofort, mein Herr. Prinz: Wie alt bist du, Francis? Francis: Lass mal sehen, etwa Anfang Oktober werde ich... Poin. Francis. Francis: Sofort, Sir, bitte warten Sie einen Moment, mein Herr. Prinz: Aber hör mal, Francis, für den Zucker, den du mir gegeben hast, war es nicht einen Penny wert? Francis: Oh, Herr, ich wünschte, es wären zwei gewesen. Prinz: Ich werde dir dafür tausend Pfund geben. Frag mich, wann immer du willst, und du wirst es bekommen. Poin. Francis. Francis: Sofort, sofort. Prinz: Sofort, Francis? Nein, Francis, aber morgen Francis, oder Francis, am Donnerstag, oder tatsächlich, Francis, wann immer du willst. Aber Francis... Francis: Mein Herr? Prinz: Wirst du dieses lederne Wams, Kristallknopf, Kahlkopf, Achatring, Puke-Strumpf, Caddice-Strumpfband, glatte Zunge, spanische Tasche stehlen? Francis: Oh, Herr, wen meint ihr denn? Prinz: Dann ist dein dunkler Bastard dein einziges Getränk. Denn siehe, Francis, dein weißes Segeltuchwams wird sich verdrecken. In Barbary, Herr, kann es nicht so viel kosten. Francis: Was, Herr? Poin. Francis. Prinz: Geh weg, du Schurke, hörst du nicht, wie sie rufen? Hier rufen sie beide nach ihm, der Schenkenjunge steht ratlos da und weiß nicht, wohin er gehen soll. Ein Wirt tritt auf. Wirt: Was, stehst du immer noch da und hörst dieses Rufen? Kümmere dich um die Gäste drinnen. Mein Herr, der alte Sir John und noch ein halbes Dutzend weitere sind an der Tür. Soll ich sie hereinlassen? Prinz: Lass sie eine Weile in Ruhe, und dann öffne die Tür. Poines! Poines tritt auf. Poines: Sofort, sofort, mein Herr. Prinz: Sir Jack, wo warst du? Falstaffe: Verdammt seien alle Feiglinge, sage ich, und ein Fluch noch dazu. Gib mir einen Becher Sack, Junge. Bevor ich mein Leben so lange lebe, werde ich keine Strümpfe nähen und sie auch nicht flicken. Ein Fluch über alle Feiglinge. Gib mir einen Becher Sack, Schurke. Gibt es keine Tapferkeit mehr? Prinz: Hast du jemals gesehen, wie Titan eine Schüssel Butter küsst, der mitleidige Titan, der bei der süßen Geschichte der Sonne schmolz? Wenn du das getan hast, dann sieh diese Zusammensetzung an. Falstaffe: Du Schurke, hier ist auch Kalk im Sack: Es gibt nichts als Gaunerei bei einem schlechten Menschen; und doch ist ein Feigling schlimmer als ein Becher Sack mit Kalk. Ein schändlicher Feigling, geh deinen Weg, alter Jack, stirb, wann immer du willst, wenn die Männlichkeit, die gute Männlichkeit nicht vergessen ist auf der Erde, dann bin ich eine abgeschossene Sardine: Es gibt keine drei guten Männer, die in England hängen geblieben sind, und einer von ihnen ist fett und wird alt, Gott helfe ihm, eine schlechte Welt, sage ich. Wäre ich doch ein Weber, dann könnte ich alle Arten von Liedern singen. Verfluchte Feiglinge, sage ich immer noch. Prinz: Wie steht's, weiser Sack? Was brummst du? Falstaffe: Ein Sohn des Königs? Wenn ich dich nicht aus deinem Königreich schlagen kann mit einem Lattdolch und all deine Untertanen vor dir her treiben kann wie eine Schar Wildgänse, dann trage ich nie mehr Haare im Gesicht. Du Prinz von Wales? Prinz: Warum, du fetter Wanst, was ist los? Falstaffe: Bist du kein Feigling? Antworte mir darauf, und Poines da? Prinz: Du dicker Bauch, und du nennst mich Feigling, ich steche dich. Falstaffe: Nenne ich dich Feigling? Möge ich verdammt sein, wenn ich dich Feigling nenne: aber ich würde tausend Pfund geben, wenn ich so schnell rennen könnte wie du. Du hast starke Schultern, du achtest nicht darauf, wer deinen Rücken sieht: Nennst du das Rückendeckung deiner Freunde? Verflucht sei solche Unterstützung: Gib mir diejenigen, die sich mir stellen. Gib mir einen Becher Sack, ich bin ein Schurke, wenn ich heute getrunken habe. Prinz: O Villaine, deine Lippen sind kaum abgewischt, seit du das letzte Mal getrunken hast. Falstaff: Es ist alles eins. Er trinkt. Ein Fluch über alle Feiglinge, sage ich. Prinz: Was ist los? Falstaff: Was ist los? Hier sind vier von uns, die heute Morgen tausend Pfund genommen haben. Prinz: Wo ist es, Jack? Wo ist es? Falstaff: Wo ist es? Von uns genommen worden, von sicherlich hundert armseeligen Vieren von uns. Prinz: Was, hundert, Mann? Falstaff: Ich bin ein Schurke, wenn ich nicht zwei Stunden lang mit einem Dutzend von ihnen auf halbem Schwert gestanden habe. Ich bin wie durch ein Wunder entkommen. Acht Mal wurde ich in meine Wams gestochen, vier Mal durch meine Strumpfhosen, mein Schild ist von oben bis unten durchschnitten, mein Schwert wie eine Bügelsäge, siehe hier das Zeichen. Noch nie habe ich so gut gekämpft, seitdem ich ein Mann bin: Alles half nichts. Ein Fluch über alle Feiglinge: Wenn sie reden, sollen sie reden; wenn sie mehr oder weniger als die Wahrheit sagen, sind sie Schurken und Kinder der Dunkelheit. Prinz: Sprecht, meine Herren, wie war es? Gadshill: Wir vier überfielen etwa ein Dutzend... Falstaff: Sechzehn, mindestens, mein Herr. Gadshill: Und fesselten sie... Peto: Nein, nein, sie waren nicht gefesselt... Falstaff: Du Schurke, sie waren gefesselt, jeder von ihnen, oder ich bin sonst ein Jude, ein hebräischer Jude. Gadshill: Als wir die Beute verteilten, griffen uns sechs oder sieben frische Männer an... Falstaff: Und entfesselten den Rest und dann kamen die anderen dazu... Prinz: Was, habt ihr alle mit ihnen gekämpft? Falstaff: Alle? Ich weiß nicht, was ihr alle nennt: Aber wenn ich nicht mit mindestens 50 von ihnen gekämpft habe, bin ich ein Hundskopf; wenn nicht zwei oder dreiundfünfzig auf den armen alten Jack eingestochen haben, bin ich kein zweibeiniges Wesen. Poinz: Betet zum Himmel, dass ihr nicht einige von ihnen ermordet habt. Falstaff: Das kann man nicht mehr beten, ich habe zwei von ihnen abgefertigt: Zwei habe ich sicherlich erledigt, zwei Schurken in Harnischen. Ich sage dir, Hal, wenn ich dir Lügen erzähle, spuck mir ins Gesicht, nenne mich ein Pferd: Du kennst meine alte Redewendung: Hier liege ich und so verteidigte ich mich; Vier Schurken in Harnischen griffen mich an. Prinz: Was, vier? Du hast gerade eben nur von zwei gesprochen. Falstaff: Vier, Hal, ich habe dir von vier erzählt. Poinz: Ja, ja, er hat von vier gesprochen. Falstaff: Diese vier attackierten mich frontal und stachen nach mir; Ich machte kein großes Aufheben, sondern blockte all ihre sieben Stöße mit meinem Schild ab, so. Prinz: Sieben? Es waren gerade eben noch vier. Falstaff: In Harnisch. Poinz: Ja, vier, in Harnischen. Falstaff: Sieben, bei diesen Griffen, oder ich bin ein Schurke. Prinz: Hört auf damit, wir werden noch mehr zuhören bekommen. Falstaff: Hörst du mich, Hal? Prinz: Ja, ich höre dich und merke mir dich auch, Jack. Falstaff: Gut so, denn es ist die Mühe wert zuzuhören. Diese neun in ihrer Rüstung, von denen ich dir erzählt habe... Prinz: Also, zwei weitere schon. Falstaff: Deren Schwerter zerbrachen... Poinz: Seine Hose fiel herunter. Falstaff: Sie begannen zurückzuweichen, aber ich verfolgte sie, kam ihnen mit Hand und Fuß entgegen; Und im Nu erledigte ich sieben von den Elf. Prinz: Oh, scheußlich! Elf Männer in Harnisch aus zwei? Falstaff: Aber der Teufel wollte es so, drei missratene Schurken in grüner Kleidung kamen von hinten auf mich zu und griffen mich an; denn es war so dunkel, Hal, dass du deine Hand nicht sehen konntest. Prinz: Diese Lügen sind wie der Vater, der sie hervorbringt, offensichtlich wie ein Berg. Warum, du Lehmgehäirter Feigling, du klobiges Dummkopf, du widerlicher obszöner Speckfettsammler. Falstaff: Was, bist du verrückt? Bist du verrückt? Ist es nicht die Wahrheit, die Wahrheit? Prinz: Warum konntest du diese Männer in grüner Kleidung erkennen, wenn es so dunkel war, dass du deine Hand nicht sehen konntest? Komm schon, erkläre uns deinen Grund: Was hast du dazu zu sagen? Poinz: Komm schon, Iack, erkläre dich, erkläre dich. Falstaff: Was, unter Zwang? Nein, selbst wenn ich am Rad hängen würde oder alle Foltermaschinen der Welt hätte, würde ich euch nicht aus Zwang die Wahrheit sagen. Einen Grund aus Zwang geben? Wenn Gründe so häufig wären wie Brombeeren, würde ich keinem Mann einen Grund aus Zwang geben. Prinz: Ich werde mich nicht länger dieser Sünde schuldig machen. Dieser blutige Feigling, dieser Bettenzusammendrücker, dieser Pferderückenzerbrecher, dieser riesige Berg aus Fleisch. Falstaff: Weg mit dir, Hungerhaken, du Elfenhaut, du vertrocknete Spitzbubenzunge, Bullenmischung, du Trockensalzfisch. Oh, um Atem zu haben, um auszusprechen. Wer ist dir ähnlich? Du Maßband der Schneider, du Hülle, du Köcher, du verachtenswerter messerscharfer Stumpf. Prinz: Nun, atme einen Augenblick durch und dann leg wieder los: Und wenn du dich in deinen niederen Vergleichen erschöpft hast, höre mich nur so sprechen. Poinz: Hört zu, Iack. Prinz: Wir beide sahen, wie ihr vier vier überfallen und gefesselt habt und Herren über ihr Vermögen wart; Hört nun zu, wie eine einfache Geschichte euch ausknockt: Dann haben wir zwei dich vier angegriffen und mit einem Wort von deiner Beute abgebracht und sie genommen: Ja, und wir können es dir im Haus zeigen. Und Falstaff, du hast deine Aufregung so schnell abgelegt, mit solcher Geschwindigkeit, und hast um Gnade gebettelt und bist gerannt und hast gebrüllt, wie ich noch nie einen Bullenkalb habe brüllen hören. Was für ein Sklave bist du, dein Schwert so zu zerhacken, wie du es getan hast, und dann zu sagen, es sei im Kampf passiert. Welcher Trick? Welche List? Welches Schlupfloch kannst du jetzt finden, um dich vor dieser offensichtlichen Schande zu verstecken? Poinz: Komm schon, lass uns hören, Iack. Welchen Trick hast du jetzt? Falstaff: Ich kannte euch so gut wie der, der euch hergestellt hat. Nun, hört mich an, meine Herren: War es meine Aufgabe, den Thronfolger zu töten? Sollte ich mich gegen den wahren Prinzen wenden? Ihr wisst, dass ich so tapfer bin wie Herkules: Aber hütet euch vor Instinkt, der Löwe wird den wahren Prinzen nicht angreifen; Instinkt ist eine große Sache. Ich habe aus Instinkt Feigling gespielt; Ich werde mich selbst und dich während meines Lebens besser einschätzen. Ich, der ich ein tapferer Löwe bin, und du, ein wahrer Prinz. Aber, Jungs, ich freue mich, dass ihr das Geld bekommen habt. Wirtin, schließt die Türen; wacht heute Nacht und Prinz. Nun, meine Herrschaften: Ihr habt fair gekämpft; das habt ihr gemacht, Peto, das habt ihr gemacht, Bardol: Ihr seid auch Löwen, aber ihr seid geflohen. instinktiv. Ihr werdet den wahren Prinzen nicht anfassen; Nein, schämt euch! Bard. Glauben Sie mir, ich bin geflohen, als ich andere fliehen sah. Prinz. Sag mir jetzt im Ernst, wie kam Falstaffs Schwert so zerhackt? Peto. Nun, er hat es mit seinem Dolch zerhackt und gesagt, er würde die Wahrheit aus England schwören, aber er würde uns glauben es wäre im Kampf passiert, und hat uns überzeugt, dasselbe zu tun. Bard. Ja, und um unsere Nasen mit Lanzenkraut zu kitzeln, sie bluten zu lassen und dann unsere Kleidung damit zu beschmieren, und zu schwören, es sei das Blut wahrer Männer. Ich habe das seit sieben Jahren nicht mehr getan. Ich habe rot angelaufen, als ich von seinen abscheulichen Plänen gehört habe. Prinz. O Schurke, du hast vor achtzehn Jahren einen Becher Sherry gestohlen, und wurdest auf frischer Tat ertappt, seitdem bist du rot geworden. Du hattest Feuer und Schwert auf deiner Seite und doch bist du geflohen; welch Instinkt hattest du dafür? Bard. Mein Herr, sehen Sie diese Kometen? Sehen Sie diese Ausdünstungen? Prinz. Ja, das sehe ich. Bard. Was denken Sie, dass sie bedeuten? Prinz. Heiße Lebern und kalte Geldbeutel. Bard. Galle, mein Herr, wenn man es richtig nimmt. Prinz. Nein, wenn es richtig genommen wird, Strick. Falstaff tritt auf. Hier kommt der schlanke Jacke, hier kommt der Knochen. Wie geht es dir, mein süßes Geschöpf von Bombast? Wie lange ist es her, Jacke, seit du dein eigenes Knie gesehen hast? Falst. Mein eigenes Knie? Als ich in deinem Alter war (Hal), war ich noch kein großer Krieger, ich hätte in jeden Ring eines Aldermans kriechen können. Verflucht sei das Seufzen und der Kummer, sie blähen einen wie einen Blasebalg auf. Es gibt schurkische Neuigkeiten; hier war Sir John Braby von deinem Vater; du musst morgen zum Hof gehen. Derselbe verrückte Kerl aus dem Norden, Percy; und er aus Wales, der Amamon die Bastonade gegeben hat, und Luzifer zum Hahnrei gemacht hat und geschworen hat, dass der Teufel sein wahrer Lehnsherr ist, auf dem Kreuz des walisischen Hakens; wie zum Teufel heißt er? Poin. O, Glendower. Falst. Owen, Owen; derselbe, und sein Schwiegersohn Mortimer, und der alte Northumberland, und der flinke Schotte der Schotten, Douglas, der mit einem Pferd einen senkrechten Berg hinaufläuft. Prinz. Derjenige, der in hohem Tempo reitet und mit einer Pistole einen fliegenden Spatz tötet? Falst. Du hast es erfasst. Prinz. Und doch niemals den Spatz. Falst. Nun, dieser Schurke hat Potential, er wird nicht davonlaufen. Prinz. Warum bist du dann so ein Schurke, um ihn dafür zu loben, dass er rennt? Falst. Zu Pferd (du Kuckuck), aber zu Fuß wird er keinen Meter tun. Prinz. Ja, Jacke, instinktiv. Falst. Ich stimme zu, instinktiv; Nun, er ist auch dort, und auch Mordake, und tausend Mann in blauen Kapuzen. Worcester ist in der Nacht entkommen: der Bart deines Vaters ist vor Schreck weiß geworden; du kannst jetzt Land kaufen, so billig wie stinkender Makrele. Prinz. Dann ist es wahrscheinlich, wenn die Sonne heiß scheint und diese zivilisierte Prügelei anhält, werden wir Jungfernhäute kaufen wie sie Hobnägel kaufen, zu Hunderten. Falst. Bei Gott, Junge, du sagst die Wahrheit, es ist wahrscheinlich, dass wir so auf gute Geschäfte stoßen werden. Aber sag mal, Hal, hast du nicht fürchterliche Angst? Du bist doch der Thronfolger, könnte die Welt dir noch einmal drei solche Feinde finden, wie den Teufel Douglas, den Geist Percy und den Teufel Glendower? Haben dich da nicht fürchterliche Angst? Schüttelt nicht dein Blut davor? Prinz. Keineswegs: Mir fehlt etwas von deinem Instinkt. Falst. Nun, du wirst morgen fürchterlich gerügt werden, wenn du zu deinem Vater kommst: wenn du mich lieb hast, dann übe eine Antwort ein. Prinz. Steh du für meinen Vater und befrage mich zu den Einzelheiten meines Lebens. Falst. Soll ich? In Ordnung: Dieser Stuhl wird mein Thron sein, dieser Dolch mein Zepter und dieses Kissen meine Krone. Prinz. Dein Thron wird als Hocker angesehen, dein Goldzepter als Bleidolch, und deine kostbare, reiche Krone als armselige, kahle Krone. Falst. Nun, wenn das Feuer der Gnade noch nicht ganz aus dir heraus ist, wirst du dich bewegen lassen. Gib mir einen Becher Sherry um meine Augen rot aussehen zu lassen, damit man denken kann, dass ich geweint habe, denn ich muss mit Leidenschaft sprechen, und ich werde es auf die Art von König Cambyses tun. Prinz. Nun, hier ist mein Bein. Falst. Und hier ist meine Rede: Bleib in der Nähe, Adel. Wirtin: Das ist ausgezeichneter Spaß, beim Glauben. Falst. Weine nicht, süße Königin, denn tröpfelnde Tränen sind vergeblich. Wirtin: Oh der Vater, wie er seine Haltung bewahrt! Falst. Um Gottes willen, Lords, geleiten Sie meine vertrauensvolle Königin, denn Tränen stoppen die Flutschleusen in ihren Augen. Wirtin: Oh selten, er tut es wie einer dieser liederlichen Schauspieler, wie ich noch nie gesehen habe. Falst. Friede, liebes Bierfass, Friede, guter Schädel. Harry, ich frage mich nicht nur, wohin du deine Zeit verbringst, sondern auch, mit wem du zusammen bist: denn obwohl die Kamille, je mehr man sie tritt, desto schneller wächst; doch die Jugend, je mehr sie verbraucht wird, desto schneller verschleißt sie. Du bist mein Sohn: Ich habe zum Teil das Wort deiner Mutter, teilweise meine Meinung; aber hauptsächlich ein schurkischer Zug deines Auges und ein albernes Herunterhängen deiner unteren Lippe, das mir Gewissheit gibt. Wenn du dann mein Sohn bist, hier liegt der Punkt: Warum wirst du, als mein Sohn, so angegriffen? Wird der gesegnete Sohn des Himmels ein Faulenzer sein und Brombeeren essen? Die Frage darf nicht gestellt werden. Wird der Sohn Englands ein Dieb sein und Geldbörsen nehmen? Die Frage darf gestellt werden. Es gibt da eine Sache, Harry, von der du oft gehört hast, und die vielen in unserem Land unter dem Namen Pech bekannt ist: Dieses Pech (wie die alten Schriftsteller berichten) macht Schmutz; so macht es auch die Gesellschaft, mit der du dich umgibst: Denn Harry, jetzt spreche ich nicht Prinz: Nun, Harry, woher kommst du? Falstaff: Mein edler Herr, aus Eastcheap. Prinz: Die Beschwerden, die ich über dich höre, sind gravierend. Falstaff: Ja, mein Herr, sie sind falsch. Nein, ich werde dich für einen jungen Prinzen in die Mangel nehmen. Prinz: Schwörst du, ungnädiger Junge? Von nun an schau mich nie wieder an. Du wirst gewaltsam von der Gnade weggetragen. Ein Teufel, der dich in der Gestalt eines fetten alten Mannes heimsucht; ein Fass Mann ist dein Begleiter. Warum hältst du Umgang mit diesem Haufen Humor, dieser Kiste voll Bestialität, diesem aufgeblasenen Haufen Wassersucht, dieser riesigen Sackpfeife voll Sack, diesem gefüllten Mantelsack voll Gedärme, diesem gerösteten Ochsenbaum mit Pudding im Bauch, dieser ehrenwerten Lasterhaftigkeit, diesem grauen Unrecht, diesem Vater der Schlägertypen, dieser Eitelkeit im Alter? Wo ist er gut außer zum Probieren von Sack und zum Trinken? Wo ist er sauber, außer um einen Kapaun zu tranchieren und zu essen? Wo ist er schlau, außer in seiner List? Wo ist er gerissen, außer in seiner Böswilligkeit? Wo ist er böswillig, außer in allem? Wo ist er wertvoll, außer in nichts? Falstaff: Ich wünschte, Eure Hoheit würde mich mitnehmen. Wen meint Eure Hoheit? Prinz: Dieser abscheuliche, verwerfliche Verführer der Jugend, Falstaff, dieser alte, weißbärtige Satan. Falstaff: Mein Herr, den Mann kenne ich. Prinz: Ich weiß, dass du ihn kennst. Falstaff: Aber zu sagen, ich wüsste mehr Schaden in ihm als in mir selbst, hieße mehr sagen, als ich weiß. Dass er alt ist (je mehr Bedauern), bezeugen seine weißen Haare. Aber dass er (bei allem Respekt) ein Hurenmeister ist, leugne ich entschieden. Wenn Sack und Zucker ein Fehler sind, hilf dem Bösewicht. Wenn alt und fröhlich zu sein eine Sünde ist, dann ist mancher alte Wirt, den ich kenne, verdammt. Wenn Fettsein bedeutet, gehasst zu werden, dann sollen Pharaos magere Kühe geliebt werden. Nein, mein guter Herr, verbanne Peto, verbanne Bardolph, verbanne Poins; aber den süßen Jack Falstaff, den liebenswerten Jack Falstaff, den treuen Jack Falstaff, den tapferen Jack Falstaff, und deshalb noch tapferer, weil er alt ist - verbanne ihn nicht aus deiner Gesellschaft, Harry, verbanne ihn nicht aus deiner Gesellschaft; verbanne den beleibten Jack und du verbannst die ganze Welt. Prinz: Das tue ich, das werde ich. (Bardolph rennt herein.) Bardolph: Oh mein Herr, mein Herr, der Sheriff ist da, mit einer monströsen Wache, er ist an der Tür. Falstaff: Du Schurke, spiel das Stück zu Ende. Ich habe viel dazu zu sagen, zum Wohle dieses Falstaff. (Die Wirtin kommt herein.) Wirtin: Oh mein Herr, mein Herr. Falstaff: Hei, hei, der Teufel reitet auf einem Geigenbogen. Was ist los? Wirtin: Der Sheriff und die ganze Wache sind an der Tür. Sie sind gekommen, um das Haus zu durchsuchen. Soll ich sie hereinlassen? Falstaff: Hör zu Hal, nenn niemals ein echtes Goldstück eine Fälschung. Du bist von Natur aus feige, ohne Instinkt. Falstaff: Ich widerspreche Eurer Hoheit. Wenn Ihr den Sheriff verweigern wollt, dann sei es so: Wenn nicht, lasst ihn rein. Wenn ich nicht genauso gut ein Karren werde wie jeder andere Mann, verdammt sei meine Erziehung: Ich hoffe, dass ich genauso bald mit einem Strick erdrosselt werde wie jemand anders. Prinz: Geh und verstecke dich hinter dem Vorhang, der Rest geht nach oben. Jetzt, meine Meister, für ein wahres Gesicht und ein gutes Gewissen. Falstaff: Beides hatte ich schon, aber ihre Zeit ist abgelaufen und deshalb werde ich mich verstecken. (Der Sheriff kommt herein.) Sheriff: Herr Sheriff, was ist Ihr Wille mit mir? Sie: Zuerst verzeihen Sie mir, mein Herr. Eine Hatz ist einigen Männern bis zu diesem Haus gefolgt. Prinz: Welchen Männern? Sheriff: Einer von ihnen ist bekannt, mein gnädiger Herr, ein großer, fetter Mann. Träger: So fett wie Butter. Prinz: Der Mann, versichere ich Euch, ist nicht hier. Denn ich selbst habe ihn in dieser Zeit beschäftigt. Und Sheriff, ich verspreche Ihnen auf mein Wort, dass ich ihn bis morgen zur Mittagszeit schicken werde, damit er Ihnen oder jedem anderen Rede und Antwort stehen kann, bezüglich aller Vorwürfe, die gegen ihn erhoben werden. Und so bitte ich Sie, verlassen Sie das Haus. Sheriff: Sehr gut, mein Herr. Zwei Herren haben bei diesem Raubüberfall dreihundert Mark verloren. Prinz: Das mag wohl sein. Wenn er diese Männer beraubt hat, wird er zur Rechenschaft gezogen werden. Und so lebe wohl. Sheriff: Gute Nacht, mein edler Herr. Prinz: Ich glaube, es ist ein guter Morgen, oder nicht? Sheriff: Tatsächlich, mein Herr, ich glaube, es ist zwei Uhr. (Verlassen die Szene.) Prinz: Dieser schmierige Schurke ist so bekannt wie St. Pauls. Hol ihn hervor. Peto: Falstaff? Schläft hinter dem Vorhang und schnarcht wie ein Pferd. Prinz: Hört, wie schwer er atmet. Durchsucht seine Taschen. (Such in den Taschen und findet einige Papiere.) Prinz: Was hast du gefunden? Peto: Nichts als Papiere, mein Herr. Prinz: Lass sehen, was sie sind. Lies sie vor. Peto: Ein Kapaun, 2 Schilling und 2 Pence, Sauce, 4 Pence, Sack, zwei Gallonen, 5 Schilling und 8 Pence, eingelegte Sardellen und Sack nach dem Abendessen, 2 Schilling und 6 Pence, Brot, 1 Penny. Prinz: Oh monströs, nur ein halber Penny Wert an Brot für diese unverantwortliche Menge an Sack? Was auch immer es noch gibt, bewahre es. Wir werden es in besserer Verfassung lesen. Lass ihn dort schlafen, bis zum Tag. Ich werde am Morgen zum Hof gehen. Wir müssen alle in den Krieg, und dein Platz wird ehrenvoll sein. Ich werde diesem fetten Schurken einen Fußsoldatenposten verschaffen, und ich weiß, sein Tod wird ein Duell von zwölf Schritten sein. Das Geld wird mit Zinsen zurückgezahlt werden. Sei früh am Morgen bei mir. Und so, guten Morgen, Peto. Peto: Guten Morgen, mein edler Herr. (Sie treten ab.) Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Als die vier das Gold aufteilen, stürmen Poins und Harry, in ihren Buckram-Verkleidungen und neuen Masken, auf die Diebe zu und fordern ihr Geld. Die vier fliehen in Angst, ohne Widerstand zu leisten - nur Falstaff versucht sogar ein oder zwei Schläge anzubringen. Beladen mit Gold und bestens unterhalten, gehen Poins und Harry zu ihren Pferden und lachen darüber, wie wütend Falstaff sein wird, wenn er erfährt, dass sie sein Pferd losgeworden sind und er zu Fuß nach London zurückgehen muss.

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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. Chapter: I awoke in my own bed. If it be that I had not dreamt, the Count must have carried me here. I tried to satisfy myself on the subject, but could not arrive at any unquestionable result. To be sure, there were certain small evidences, such as that my clothes were folded and laid by in a manner which was not my habit. My watch was still unwound, and I am rigorously accustomed to wind it the last thing before going to bed, and many such details. But these things are no proof, for they may have been evidences that my mind was not as usual, and, from some cause or another, I had certainly been much upset. I must watch for proof. Of one thing I am glad: if it was that the Count carried me here and undressed me, he must have been hurried in his task, for my pockets are intact. I am sure this diary would have been a mystery to him which he would not have brooked. He would have taken or destroyed it. As I look round this room, although it has been to me so full of fear, it is now a sort of sanctuary, for nothing can be more dreadful than those awful women, who were--who _are_--waiting to suck my blood. * * * * * _18 May._--I have been down to look at that room again in daylight, for I _must_ know the truth. When I got to the doorway at the top of the stairs I found it closed. It had been so forcibly driven against the jamb that part of the woodwork was splintered. I could see that the bolt of the lock had not been shot, but the door is fastened from the inside. I fear it was no dream, and must act on this surmise. * * * * * _19 May._--I am surely in the toils. Last night the Count asked me in the suavest tones to write three letters, one saying that my work here was nearly done, and that I should start for home within a few days, another that I was starting on the next morning from the time of the letter, and the third that I had left the castle and arrived at Bistritz. I would fain have rebelled, but felt that in the present state of things it would be madness to quarrel openly with the Count whilst I am so absolutely in his power; and to refuse would be to excite his suspicion and to arouse his anger. He knows that I know too much, and that I must not live, lest I be dangerous to him; my only chance is to prolong my opportunities. Something may occur which will give me a chance to escape. I saw in his eyes something of that gathering wrath which was manifest when he hurled that fair woman from him. He explained to me that posts were few and uncertain, and that my writing now would ensure ease of mind to my friends; and he assured me with so much impressiveness that he would countermand the later letters, which would be held over at Bistritz until due time in case chance would admit of my prolonging my stay, that to oppose him would have been to create new suspicion. I therefore pretended to fall in with his views, and asked him what dates I should put on the letters. He calculated a minute, and then said:-- "The first should be June 12, the second June 19, and the third June 29." I know now the span of my life. God help me! * * * * * _28 May._--There is a chance of escape, or at any rate of being able to send word home. A band of Szgany have come to the castle, and are encamped in the courtyard. These Szgany are gipsies; I have notes of them in my book. They are peculiar to this part of the world, though allied to the ordinary gipsies all the world over. There are thousands of them in Hungary and Transylvania, who are almost outside all law. They attach themselves as a rule to some great noble or _boyar_, and call themselves by his name. They are fearless and without religion, save superstition, and they talk only their own varieties of the Romany tongue. I shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them to have them posted. I have already spoken them through my window to begin acquaintanceship. They took their hats off and made obeisance and many signs, which, however, I could not understand any more than I could their spoken language.... * * * * * I have written the letters. Mina's is in shorthand, and I simply ask Mr. Hawkins to communicate with her. To her I have explained my situation, but without the horrors which I may only surmise. It would shock and frighten her to death were I to expose my heart to her. Should the letters not carry, then the Count shall not yet know my secret or the extent of my knowledge.... * * * * * I have given the letters; I threw them through the bars of my window with a gold piece, and made what signs I could to have them posted. The man who took them pressed them to his heart and bowed, and then put them in his cap. I could do no more. I stole back to the study, and began to read. As the Count did not come in, I have written here.... * * * * * The Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest voice as he opened two letters:-- "The Szgany has given me these, of which, though I know not whence they come, I shall, of course, take care. See!"--he must have looked at it--"one is from you, and to my friend Peter Hawkins; the other"--here he caught sight of the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and the dark look came into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly--"the other is a vile thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It is not signed. Well! so it cannot matter to us." And he calmly held letter and envelope in the flame of the lamp till they were consumed. Then he went on:-- "The letter to Hawkins--that I shall, of course, send on, since it is yours. Your letters are sacred to me. Your pardon, my friend, that unknowingly I did break the seal. Will you not cover it again?" He held out the letter to me, and with a courteous bow handed me a clean envelope. I could only redirect it and hand it to him in silence. When he went out of the room I could hear the key turn softly. A minute later I went over and tried it, and the door was locked. When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the room, his coming awakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa. He was very courteous and very cheery in his manner, and seeing that I had been sleeping, he said:-- "So, my friend, you are tired? Get to bed. There is the surest rest. I may not have the pleasure to talk to-night, since there are many labours to me; but you will sleep, I pray." I passed to my room and went to bed, and, strange to say, slept without dreaming. Despair has its own calms. * * * * * _31 May._--This morning when I woke I thought I would provide myself with some paper and envelopes from my bag and keep them in my pocket, so that I might write in case I should get an opportunity, but again a surprise, again a shock! Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my memoranda, relating to railways and travel, my letter of credit, in fact all that might be useful to me were I once outside the castle. I sat and pondered awhile, and then some thought occurred to me, and I made search of my portmanteau and in the wardrobe where I had placed my clothes. The suit in which I had travelled was gone, and also my overcoat and rug; I could find no trace of them anywhere. This looked like some new scheme of villainy.... * * * * * _17 June._--This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my bed cudgelling my brains, I heard without a cracking of whips and pounding and scraping of horses' feet up the rocky path beyond the courtyard. With joy I hurried to the window, and saw drive into the yard two great leiter-wagons, each drawn by eight sturdy horses, and at the head of each pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great nail-studded belt, dirty sheepskin, and high boots. They had also their long staves in hand. I ran to the door, intending to descend and try and join them through the main hall, as I thought that way might be opened for them. Again a shock: my door was fastened on the outside. Then I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked up at me stupidly and pointed, but just then the "hetman" of the Szgany came out, and seeing them pointing to my window, said something, at which they laughed. Henceforth no effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonised entreaty, would make them even look at me. They resolutely turned away. The leiter-wagons contained great, square boxes, with handles of thick rope; these were evidently empty by the ease with which the Slovaks handled them, and by their resonance as they were roughly moved. When they were all unloaded and packed in a great heap in one corner of the yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the Szgany, and spitting on it for luck, lazily went each to his horse's head. Shortly afterwards, I heard the cracking of their whips die away in the distance. * * * * * _24 June, before morning._--Last night the Count left me early, and locked himself into his own room. As soon as I dared I ran up the winding stair, and looked out of the window, which opened south. I thought I would watch for the Count, for there is something going on. The Szgany are quartered somewhere in the castle and are doing work of some kind. I know it, for now and then I hear a far-away muffled sound as of mattock and spade, and, whatever it is, it must be the end of some ruthless villainy. I had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when I saw something coming out of the Count's window. I drew back and watched carefully, and saw the whole man emerge. It was a new shock to me to find that he had on the suit of clothes which I had worn whilst travelling here, and slung over his shoulder the terrible bag which I had seen the women take away. There could be no doubt as to his quest, and in my garb, too! This, then, is his new scheme of evil: that he will allow others to see me, as they think, so that he may both leave evidence that I have been seen in the towns or villages posting my own letters, and that any wickedness which he may do shall by the local people be attributed to me. It makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I am shut up here, a veritable prisoner, but without that protection of the law which is even a criminal's right and consolation. I thought I would watch for the Count's return, and for a long time sat doggedly at the window. Then I began to notice that there were some quaint little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight. They were like the tiniest grains of dust, and they whirled round and gathered in clusters in a nebulous sort of way. I watched them with a sense of soothing, and a sort of calm stole over me. I leaned back in the embrasure in a more comfortable position, so that I could enjoy more fully the aerial gambolling. Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere far below in the valley, which was hidden from my sight. Louder it seemed to ring in my ears, and the floating motes of dust to take new shapes to the sound as they danced in the moonlight. I felt myself struggling to awake to some call of my instincts; nay, my very soul was struggling, and my half-remembered sensibilities were striving to answer the call. I was becoming hypnotised! Quicker and quicker danced the dust; the moonbeams seemed to quiver as they went by me into the mass of gloom beyond. More and more they gathered till they seemed to take dim phantom shapes. And then I started, broad awake and in full possession of my senses, and ran screaming from the place. The phantom shapes, which were becoming gradually materialised from the moonbeams, were those of the three ghostly women to whom I was doomed. I fled, and felt somewhat safer in my own room, where there was no moonlight and where the lamp was burning brightly. When a couple of hours had passed I heard something stirring in the Count's room, something like a sharp wail quickly suppressed; and then there was silence, deep, awful silence, which chilled me. With a beating heart, I tried the door; but I was locked in my prison, and could do nothing. I sat down and simply cried. As I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without--the agonised cry of a woman. I rushed to the window, and throwing it up, peered out between the bars. There, indeed, was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding her hands over her heart as one distressed with running. She was leaning against a corner of the gateway. When she saw my face at the window she threw herself forward, and shouted in a voice laden with menace:-- "Monster, give me my child!" She threw herself on her knees, and raising up her hands, cried the same words in tones which wrung my heart. Then she tore her hair and beat her breast, and abandoned herself to all the violences of extravagant emotion. Finally, she threw herself forward, and, though I could not see her, I could hear the beating of her naked hands against the door. Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard the voice of the Count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper. His call seemed to be answered from far and wide by the howling of wolves. Before many minutes had passed a pack of them poured, like a pent-up dam when liberated, through the wide entrance into the courtyard. There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves was but short. Before long they streamed away singly, licking their lips. I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of her child, and she was better dead. What shall I do? what can I do? How can I escape from this dreadful thing of night and gloom and fear? * * * * * _25 June, morning._--No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and how dear to his heart and eye the morning can be. When the sun grew so high this morning that it struck the top of the great gateway opposite my window, the high spot which it touched seemed to me as if the dove from the ark had lighted there. My fear fell from me as if it had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the warmth. I must take action of some sort whilst the courage of the day is upon me. Last night one of my post-dated letters went to post, the first of that fatal series which is to blot out the very traces of my existence from the earth. Let me not think of it. Action! It has always been at night-time that I have been molested or threatened, or in some way in danger or in fear. I have not yet seen the Count in the daylight. Can it be that he sleeps when others wake, that he may be awake whilst they sleep? If I could only get into his room! But there is no possible way. The door is always locked, no way for me. Yes, there is a way, if one dares to take it. Where his body has gone why may not another body go? I have seen him myself crawl from his window. Why should not I imitate him, and go in by his window? The chances are desperate, but my need is more desperate still. I shall risk it. At the worst it can only be death; and a man's death is not a calf's, and the dreaded Hereafter may still be open to me. God help me in my task! Good-bye, Mina, if I fail; good-bye, my faithful friend and second father; good-bye, all, and last of all Mina! * * * * * _Same day, later._--I have made the effort, and God, helping me, have come safely back to this room. I must put down every detail in order. I went whilst my courage was fresh straight to the window on the south side, and at once got outside on the narrow ledge of stone which runs around the building on this side. The stones are big and roughly cut, and the mortar has by process of time been washed away between them. I took off my boots, and ventured out on the desperate way. I looked down once, so as to make sure that a sudden glimpse of the awful depth would not overcome me, but after that kept my eyes away from it. I knew pretty well the direction and distance of the Count's window, and made for it as well as I could, having regard to the opportunities available. I did not feel dizzy--I suppose I was too excited--and the time seemed ridiculously short till I found myself standing on the window-sill and trying to raise up the sash. I was filled with agitation, however, when I bent down and slid feet foremost in through the window. Then I looked around for the Count, but, with surprise and gladness, made a discovery. The room was empty! It was barely furnished with odd things, which seemed to have never been used; the furniture was something the same style as that in the south rooms, and was covered with dust. I looked for the key, but it was not in the lock, and I could not find it anywhere. The only thing I found was a great heap of gold in one corner--gold of all kinds, Roman, and British, and Austrian, and Hungarian, and Greek and Turkish money, covered with a film of dust, as though it had lain long in the ground. None of it that I noticed was less than three hundred years old. There were also chains and ornaments, some jewelled, but all of them old and stained. At one corner of the room was a heavy door. I tried it, for, since I could not find the key of the room or the key of the outer door, which was the main object of my search, I must make further examination, or all my efforts would be in vain. It was open, and led through a stone passage to a circular stairway, which went steeply down. I descended, minding carefully where I went, for the stairs were dark, being only lit by loopholes in the heavy masonry. At the bottom there was a dark, tunnel-like passage, through which came a deathly, sickly odour, the odour of old earth newly turned. As I went through the passage the smell grew closer and heavier. At last I pulled open a heavy door which stood ajar, and found myself in an old, ruined chapel, which had evidently been used as a graveyard. The roof was broken, and in two places were steps leading to vaults, but the ground had recently been dug over, and the earth placed in great wooden boxes, manifestly those which had been brought by the Slovaks. There was nobody about, and I made search for any further outlet, but there was none. Then I went over every inch of the ground, so as not to lose a chance. I went down even into the vaults, where the dim light struggled, although to do so was a dread to my very soul. Into two of these I went, but saw nothing except fragments of old coffins and piles of dust; in the third, however, I made a discovery. There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on a pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either dead or asleep, I could not say which--for the eyes were open and stony, but without the glassiness of death--and the cheeks had the warmth of life through all their pallor; the lips were as red as ever. But there was no sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart. I bent over him, and tried to find any sign of life, but in vain. He could not have lain there long, for the earthy smell would have passed away in a few hours. By the side of the box was its cover, pierced with holes here and there. I thought he might have the keys on him, but when I went to search I saw the dead eyes, and in them, dead though they were, such a look of hate, though unconscious of me or my presence, that I fled from the place, and leaving the Count's room by the window, crawled again up the castle wall. Regaining my room, I threw myself panting upon the bed and tried to think.... * * * * * _29 June._--To-day is the date of my last letter, and the Count has taken steps to prove that it was genuine, for again I saw him leave the castle by the same window, and in my clothes. As he went down the wall, lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that I might destroy him; but I fear that no weapon wrought alone by man's hand would have any effect on him. I dared not wait to see him return, for I feared to see those weird sisters. I came back to the library, and read there till I fell asleep. I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly as a man can look as he said:-- "To-morrow, my friend, we must part. You return to your beautiful England, I to some work which may have such an end that we may never meet. Your letter home has been despatched; to-morrow I shall not be here, but all shall be ready for your journey. In the morning come the Szgany, who have some labours of their own here, and also come some Slovaks. When they have gone, my carriage shall come for you, and shall bear you to the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence from Bukovina to Bistritz. But I am in hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle Dracula." I suspected him, and determined to test his sincerity. Sincerity! It seems like a profanation of the word to write it in connection with such a monster, so asked him point-blank:-- "Why may I not go to-night?" "Because, dear sir, my coachman and horses are away on a mission." "But I would walk with pleasure. I want to get away at once." He smiled, such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I knew there was some trick behind his smoothness. He said:-- "And your baggage?" "I do not care about it. I can send for it some other time." The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which made me rub my eyes, it seemed so real:-- "You English have a saying which is close to my heart, for its spirit is that which rules our _boyars_: 'Welcome the coming; speed the parting guest.' Come with me, my dear young friend. Not an hour shall you wait in my house against your will, though sad am I at your going, and that you so suddenly desire it. Come!" With a stately gravity, he, with the lamp, preceded me down the stairs and along the hall. Suddenly he stopped. "Hark!" Close at hand came the howling of many wolves. It was almost as if the sound sprang up at the rising of his hand, just as the music of a great orchestra seems to leap under the baton of the conductor. After a pause of a moment, he proceeded, in his stately way, to the door, drew back the ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy chains, and began to draw it open. To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked. Suspiciously, I looked all round, but could see no key of any kind. As the door began to open, the howling of the wolves without grew louder and angrier; their red jaws, with champing teeth, and their blunt-clawed feet as they leaped, came in through the opening door. I knew then that to struggle at the moment against the Count was useless. With such allies as these at his command, I could do nothing. But still the door continued slowly to open, and only the Count's body stood in the gap. Suddenly it struck me that this might be the moment and means of my doom; I was to be given to the wolves, and at my own instigation. There was a diabolical wickedness in the idea great enough for the Count, and as a last chance I cried out:-- "Shut the door; I shall wait till morning!" and covered my face with my hands to hide my tears of bitter disappointment. With one sweep of his powerful arm, the Count threw the door shut, and the great bolts clanged and echoed through the hall as they shot back into their places. In silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or two I went to my own room. The last I saw of Count Dracula was his kissing his hand to me; with a red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile that Judas in hell might be proud of. When I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I heard a whispering at my door. I went to it softly and listened. Unless my ears deceived me, I heard the voice of the Count:-- "Back, back, to your own place! Your time is not yet come. Wait! Have patience! To-night is mine. To-morrow night is yours!" There was a low, sweet ripple of laughter, and in a rage I threw open the door, and saw without the three terrible women licking their lips. As I appeared they all joined in a horrible laugh, and ran away. I came back to my room and threw myself on my knees. It is then so near the end? To-morrow! to-morrow! Lord, help me, and those to whom I am dear! * * * * * _30 June, morning._--These may be the last words I ever write in this diary. I slept till just before the dawn, and when I woke threw myself on my knees, for I determined that if Death came he should find me ready. At last I felt that subtle change in the air, and knew that the morning had come. Then came the welcome cock-crow, and I felt that I was safe. With a glad heart, I opened my door and ran down to the hall. I had seen that the door was unlocked, and now escape was before me. With hands that trembled with eagerness, I unhooked the chains and drew back the massive bolts. But the door would not move. Despair seized me. I pulled, and pulled, at the door, and shook it till, massive as it was, it rattled in its casement. I could see the bolt shot. It had been locked after I left the Count. Then a wild desire took me to obtain that key at any risk, and I determined then and there to scale the wall again and gain the Count's room. He might kill me, but death now seemed the happier choice of evils. Without a pause I rushed up to the east window, and scrambled down the wall, as before, into the Count's room. It was empty, but that was as I expected. I could not see a key anywhere, but the heap of gold remained. I went through the door in the corner and down the winding stair and along the dark passage to the old chapel. I knew now well enough where to find the monster I sought. The great box was in the same place, close against the wall, but the lid was laid on it, not fastened down, but with the nails ready in their places to be hammered home. I knew I must reach the body for the key, so I raised the lid, and laid it back against the wall; and then I saw something which filled my very soul with horror. There lay the Count, but looking as if his youth had been half renewed, for the white hair and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey; the cheeks were fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath; the mouth was redder than ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners of the mouth and ran over the chin and neck. Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood. He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his repletion. I shuddered as I bent over to touch him, and every sense in me revolted at the contact; but I had to search, or I was lost. The coming night might see my own body a banquet in a similar way to those horrid three. I felt all over the body, but no sign could I find of the key. Then I stopped and looked at the Count. There was a mocking smile on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad. This was the being I was helping to transfer to London, where, perhaps, for centuries to come he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his lust for blood, and create a new and ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the helpless. The very thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon me to rid the world of such a monster. There was no lethal weapon at hand, but I seized a shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the cases, and lifting it high, struck, with the edge downward, at the hateful face. But as I did so the head turned, and the eyes fell full upon me, with all their blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to paralyse me, and the shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the face, merely making a deep gash above the forehead. The shovel fell from my hand across the box, and as I pulled it away the flange of the blade caught the edge of the lid which fell over again, and hid the horrid thing from my sight. The last glimpse I had was of the bloated face, blood-stained and fixed with a grin of malice which would have held its own in the nethermost hell. I thought and thought what should be my next move, but my brain seemed on fire, and I waited with a despairing feeling growing over me. As I waited I heard in the distance a gipsy song sung by merry voices coming closer, and through their song the rolling of heavy wheels and the cracking of whips; the Szgany and the Slovaks of whom the Count had spoken were coming. With a last look around and at the box which contained the vile body, I ran from the place and gained the Count's room, determined to rush out at the moment the door should be opened. With strained ears, I listened, and heard downstairs the grinding of the key in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door. There must have been some other means of entry, or some one had a key for one of the locked doors. Then there came the sound of many feet tramping and dying away in some passage which sent up a clanging echo. I turned to run down again towards the vault, where I might find the new entrance; but at the moment there seemed to come a violent puff of wind, and the door to the winding stair blew to with a shock that set the dust from the lintels flying. When I ran to push it open, I found that it was hopelessly fast. I was again a prisoner, and the net of doom was closing round me more closely. As I write there is in the passage below a sound of many tramping feet and the crash of weights being set down heavily, doubtless the boxes, with their freight of earth. There is a sound of hammering; it is the box being nailed down. Now I can hear the heavy feet tramping again along the hall, with many other idle feet coming behind them. The door is shut, and the chains rattle; there is a grinding of the key in the lock; I can hear the key withdraw: then another door opens and shuts; I hear the creaking of lock and bolt. Hark! in the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy wheels, the crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they pass into the distance. I am alone in the castle with those awful women. Faugh! Mina is a woman, and there is nought in common. They are devils of the Pit! I shall not remain alone with them; I shall try to scale the castle wall farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold with me, lest I want it later. I may find a way from this dreadful place. And then away for home! away to the quickest and nearest train! away from this cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his children still walk with earthly feet! At least God's mercy is better than that of these monsters, and the precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep--as a man. Good-bye, all! Mina! Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Jonathan Harkers Tagebuch setzt die Ereignisse fort. Er findet sich in seinem eigenen Bett wieder. Der Graf hat ihn zurückgebracht und ihn ausgezogen. Zum Glück wurde sein Tagebuch nicht gefunden. Am 18. Mai möchte er die Tür des Grafen Dracula überprüfen, aber die Tür ist von innen verriegelt. Der Graf hat Jonathan gebeten, drei Briefe zu schreiben. Einer besagt, dass seine Arbeit fast beendet ist und er in wenigen Tagen nach Hause zurückkehrt. Ein anderer, dass er bereits am nächsten Morgen nach Hause aufbricht, und der dritte, dass er das Schloss verlassen hat und in Bistritz angekommen ist. Der erste ist auf den 12. Juni datiert, der zweite auf den 19. Juni und der dritte auf den 29. Juni. Jonathan erkennt, dass sein Leben kurz ist. Am 28. Mai glaubt er, eine Chance zur Flucht zu haben, als er eine Gruppe von Zigeunern sieht. Er schreibt Briefe an Mina und Mr. Hawkins und gibt die Briefe den Zigeunern mit einem Goldstück. Die Zigeuner geben den Brief treulos dem Grafen. Der Graf verbrennt Minas Brief, weil er in Kurzschrift geschrieben ist, und verbrennt den Umschlag des anderen Briefes. Am 31. Mai werden alle Umschläge und Papiere aus Jonathans Tasche genommen. Am 17. Juni erkennt Jonathan, dass seine Tür von außen abgeschlossen ist. Am 24. Juni, bevor es Morgen wird, ist Jonathan entsetzt, den Grafen in seinen Kleidern zu sehen. Er erkennt, dass der Graf die anderen glauben lassen möchte, dass Jonathan gegangen ist. Jonathan erkennt, dass er gefangen ist. Ein paar Stunden später hört er eine Klage und sieht eine Frau, die um ihr Kind fleht. Der Graf gibt einen Pfiff und ein Rudel Wölfe erscheint und nimmt die Frau mit. Am 25. Juni beschließt Jonathan, ein Risiko einzugehen. Er geht zum Fenster auf der Südseite und klettert auf den Sims und steht auf einem schmalen Sims. Von dort versucht er, das Zimmer des Grafen zu betreten und findet es leer vor. In einer Ecke findet er einen Haufen alter Goldmünzen. Es gibt eine schwere Tür, die zu einer zerstörten Kapelle führt, die offensichtlich als Friedhof genutzt wird. Er findet alte Särge. Er öffnet die Särge und findet den Grafen darin. Jonathan rennt verängstigt davon. Am 29. Juni sagt der Graf Jonathan, dass dies sein letzter Tag ist. Jonathan erkennt, dass er getötet wird. Am 30. Juni kehrt Jonathan zurück in das Zimmer des Grafen zu dem Sarg. Er schlägt den Grafen mit einer Schaufel. Er eilt hinaus und entscheidet sich, hinunterzuspringen.

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.

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 III ELMIRE, MARIANE, DAMIS, CLEANTE, DORINE ELMIRE (zu Cleante) Du hast großes Glück gehabt, die Rede verpasst zu haben, die sie uns an der Tür gehalten hat. Ich sehe, mein Mann ist wieder zuhause. Er hat mich noch nicht bemerkt, also werde ich nach oben gehen und warten, bis er reinkommt. CLEANTE Und ich werde hier bleiben, um Zeit zu sparen; ich werde nur "Guten Morgen" sagen und gehen. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Nachdem Orgon gegangen ist, um sich wieder zu fassen, greift Dorine sofort Mariane an, die ihrem Vater nicht die Stirn geboten hat und offen ablehnt, Tartuffe zu heiraten. Mariane verteidigt sich, indem sie sagt, dass sie so lange unter der strengen Kontrolle ihres Vaters gelebt hat, dass sie sich ihm jetzt nicht widersetzen kann. Dorine malt dann ein Bild davon, wie es sein wird, Tartuffe zu heiraten. Sie ist realistisch genug, um Marianes Idee abzulehnen, dass sie sich lieber umbringt, als Tartuffe zu heiraten oder ihrem Vater zu widersprechen; solche Aussagen sind sentimentaler Schwachsinn. Als Mariane protestiert, dass sie keinen Weg kennt, ihrem Vater zu trotzen, beginnt Dorine dann, den ganzen Horror zu schildern, wie es wäre, Madame Tartuffe zu sein. Mariane ist dann so entsetzt über die Möglichkeit, Tartuffe heiraten zu müssen, dass sie in völliger Verzweiflung ist. Dorine tröstet sie, indem sie verspricht, eine Möglichkeit zu finden, diese absurde Situation zu verhindern. Valere, Marianes Verlobter, kommt an und fragt Mariane, ob es wahr ist, dass sie Tartuffe heiraten wird. Mariane antwortet, dass es der Wunsch ihres Vaters ist und unschuldig sagt, dass sie nicht weiß, was sie tun soll. Valere interpretiert dies so, dass sie der Ehe nicht ernsthaft widerspricht, und beleidigt rät er ihr, in die Ehe einzutreten. Mariane denkt dann, dass Valere sich nicht mehr um sie kümmert. Die beiden geraten dann in einen lächerlichen Liebesstreit, bis Dorine es nicht mehr ertragen kann. Gerade als Valere gehen will, zieht sie ihn zurück, stoppt dann die abfahrende Mariane und zwingt sie beide, ihre Liebe zueinander zuzugeben. Dorines Rat ist, vorzugeben, Orgons Plan mitzumachen, aber die Hochzeit immer weiter zu verschieben, bis etwas ausgetüftelt werden kann. Sie sagt, dass sie die Hilfe von jedem suchen wird, den sie finden kann.

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.

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: X. Two Promises More months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles Darnay was established in England as a higher teacher of the French language who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he would have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with young men who could find any leisure and interest for the study of a living tongue spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for its stores of knowledge and fancy. He could write of them, besides, in sound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were not at that time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that were to be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined nobility had dropped out of Tellson's ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As a tutor, whose attainments made the student's way unusually pleasant and profitable, and as an elegant translator who brought something to his work besides mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became known and encouraged. He was well acquainted, more-over, with the circumstances of his country, and those were of ever-growing interest. So, with great perseverance and untiring industry, he prospered. In London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, nor to lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted expectation, he would not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, and did it and made the best of it. In this, his prosperity consisted. A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where he read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a contraband trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greek and Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in London. Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has invariably gone one way--Charles Darnay's way--the way of the love of a woman. He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had never heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice; he had never seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when it was confronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had been dug for him. But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject; the assassination at the deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving water and the long, long, dusty roads--the solid stone chateau which had itself become the mere mist of a dream--had been done a year, and he had never yet, by so much as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his heart. That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again a summer day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation, he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity of opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer day, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross. He found the Doctor reading in his arm-chair at a window. The energy which had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravated their sharpness, had been gradually restored to him. He was now a very energetic man indeed, with great firmness of purpose, strength of resolution, and vigour of action. In his recovered energy he was sometimes a little fitful and sudden, as he had at first been in the exercise of his other recovered faculties; but, this had never been frequently observable, and had grown more and more rare. He studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue with ease, and was equably cheerful. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, at sight of whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand. "Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have been counting on your return these three or four days past. Mr. Stryver and Sydney Carton were both here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than due." "I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter," he answered, a little coldly as to them, though very warmly as to the Doctor. "Miss Manette--" "Is well," said the Doctor, as he stopped short, "and your return will delight us all. She has gone out on some household matters, but will soon be home." "Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the opportunity of her being from home, to beg to speak to you." There was a blank silence. "Yes?" said the Doctor, with evident constraint. "Bring your chair here, and speak on." He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking on less easy. "I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate here," so he at length began, "for some year and a half, that I hope the topic on which I am about to touch may not--" He was stayed by the Doctor's putting out his hand to stop him. When he had kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back: "Is Lucie the topic?" "She is." "It is hard for me to speak of her at any time. It is very hard for me to hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, Charles Darnay." "It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love, Doctor Manette!" he said deferentially. There was another blank silence before her father rejoined: "I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it." His constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that it originated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that Charles Darnay hesitated. "Shall I go on, sir?" Another blank. "Yes, go on." "You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot know how earnestly I say it, how earnestly I feel it, without knowing my secret heart, and the hopes and fears and anxieties with which it has long been laden. Dear Doctor Manette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly, disinterestedly, devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love her. You have loved yourself; let your old love speak for me!" The Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes bent on the ground. At the last words, he stretched out his hand again, hurriedly, and cried: "Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that!" His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in Charles Darnay's ears long after he had ceased. He motioned with the hand he had extended, and it seemed to be an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latter so received it, and remained silent. "I ask your pardon," said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, after some moments. "I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may be satisfied of it." He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, or raise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and his white hair overshadowed his face: "Have you spoken to Lucie?" "No." "Nor written?" "Never." "It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your self-denial is to be referred to your consideration for her father. Her father thanks you." He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it. "I know," said Darnay, respectfully, "how can I fail to know, Doctor Manette, I who have seen you together from day to day, that between you and Miss Manette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so belonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it can have few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and child. I know, Doctor Manette--how can I fail to know--that, mingled with the affection and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there is, in her heart, towards you, all the love and reliance of infancy itself. I know that, as in her childhood she had no parent, so she is now devoted to you with all the constancy and fervour of her present years and character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of the early days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly well that if you had been restored to her from the world beyond this life, you could hardly be invested, in her sight, with a more sacred character than that in which you are always with her. I know that when she is clinging to you, the hands of baby, girl, and woman, all in one, are round your neck. I know that in loving you she sees and loves her mother at her own age, sees and loves you at my age, loves her mother broken-hearted, loves you through your dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. I have known this, night and day, since I have known you in your home." Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing was a little quickened; but he repressed all other signs of agitation. "Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and you with this hallowed light about you, I have forborne, and forborne, as long as it was in the nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do even now feel, that to bring my love--even mine--between you, is to touch your history with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her. Heaven is my witness that I love her!" "I believe it," answered her father, mournfully. "I have thought so before now. I believe it." "But, do not believe," said Darnay, upon whose ear the mournful voice struck with a reproachful sound, "that if my fortune were so cast as that, being one day so happy as to make her my wife, I must at any time put any separation between her and you, I could or would breathe a word of what I now say. Besides that I should know it to be hopeless, I should know it to be a baseness. If I had any such possibility, even at a remote distance of years, harboured in my thoughts, and hidden in my heart--if it ever had been there--if it ever could be there--I could not now touch this honoured hand." He laid his own upon it as he spoke. "No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile from France; like you, driven from it by its distractions, oppressions, and miseries; like you, striving to live away from it by my own exertions, and trusting in a happier future; I look only to sharing your fortunes, sharing your life and home, and being faithful to you to the death. Not to divide with Lucie her privilege as your child, companion, and friend; but to come in aid of it, and bind her closer to you, if such a thing can be." His touch still lingered on her father's hand. Answering the touch for a moment, but not coldly, her father rested his hands upon the arms of his chair, and looked up for the first time since the beginning of the conference. A struggle was evidently in his face; a struggle with that occasional look which had a tendency in it to dark doubt and dread. "You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I thank you with all my heart, and will open all my heart--or nearly so. Have you any reason to believe that Lucie loves you?" "None. As yet, none." "Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at once ascertain that, with my knowledge?" "Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for weeks; I might (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulness to-morrow." "Do you seek any guidance from me?" "I ask none, sir. But I have thought it possible that you might have it in your power, if you should deem it right, to give me some." "Do you seek any promise from me?" "I do seek that." "What is it?" "I well understand that, without you, I could have no hope. I well understand that, even if Miss Manette held me at this moment in her innocent heart--do not think I have the presumption to assume so much--I could retain no place in it against her love for her father." "If that be so, do you see what, on the other hand, is involved in it?" "I understand equally well, that a word from her father in any suitor's favour, would outweigh herself and all the world. For which reason, Doctor Manette," said Darnay, modestly but firmly, "I would not ask that word, to save my life." "I am sure of it. Charles Darnay, mysteries arise out of close love, as well as out of wide division; in the former case, they are subtle and delicate, and difficult to penetrate. My daughter Lucie is, in this one respect, such a mystery to me; I can make no guess at the state of her heart." "May I ask, sir, if you think she is--" As he hesitated, her father supplied the rest. "Is sought by any other suitor?" "It is what I meant to say." Her father considered a little before he answered: "You have seen Mr. Carton here, yourself. Mr. Stryver is here too, occasionally. If it be at all, it can only be by one of these." "Or both," said Darnay. "I had not thought of both; I should not think either, likely. You want a promise from me. Tell me what it is." "It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you at any time, on her own part, such a confidence as I have ventured to lay before you, you will bear testimony to what I have said, and to your belief in it. I hope you may be able to think so well of me, as to urge no influence against me. I say nothing more of my stake in this; this is what I ask. The condition on which I ask it, and which you have an undoubted right to require, I will observe immediately." "I give the promise," said the Doctor, "without any condition. I believe your object to be, purely and truthfully, as you have stated it. I believe your intention is to perpetuate, and not to weaken, the ties between me and my other and far dearer self. If she should ever tell me that you are essential to her perfect happiness, I will give her to you. If there were--Charles Darnay, if there were--" The young man had taken his hand gratefully; their hands were joined as the Doctor spoke: "--any fancies, any reasons, any apprehensions, anything whatsoever, new or old, against the man she really loved--the direct responsibility thereof not lying on his head--they should all be obliterated for her sake. She is everything to me; more to me than suffering, more to me than wrong, more to me--Well! This is idle talk." So strange was the way in which he faded into silence, and so strange his fixed look when he had ceased to speak, that Darnay felt his own hand turn cold in the hand that slowly released and dropped it. "You said something to me," said Doctor Manette, breaking into a smile. "What was it you said to me?" He was at a loss how to answer, until he remembered having spoken of a condition. Relieved as his mind reverted to that, he answered: "Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full confidence on my part. My present name, though but slightly changed from my mother's, is not, as you will remember, my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and why I am in England." "Stop!" said the Doctor of Beauvais. "I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confidence, and have no secret from you." "Stop!" For an instant, the Doctor even had his two hands at his ears; for another instant, even had his two hands laid on Darnay's lips. "Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit should prosper, if Lucie should love you, you shall tell me on your marriage morning. Do you promise?" "Willingly. "Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and it is better she should not see us together to-night. Go! God bless you!" It was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it was an hour later and darker when Lucie came home; she hurried into the room alone--for Miss Pross had gone straight up-stairs--and was surprised to find his reading-chair empty. "My father!" she called to him. "Father dear!" Nothing was said in answer, but she heard a low hammering sound in his bedroom. Passing lightly across the intermediate room, she looked in at his door and came running back frightened, crying to herself, with her blood all chilled, "What shall I do! What shall I do!" Her uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back, and tapped at his door, and softly called to him. The noise ceased at the sound of her voice, and he presently came out to her, and they walked up and down together for a long time. She came down from her bed, to look at him in his sleep that night. He slept heavily, and his tray of shoemaking tools, and his old unfinished work, were all as usual. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Zwei Versprechen Ein Jahr später ist Charles Darnay zurück in England und arbeitet glücklich als Französischlehrer. Seit er Lucie kennengelernt hat, liebt er sie und bittet schließlich ihren Vater um Erlaubnis, seine Gefühle für sie an sie heranzutragen. Trotz der Bedenken von Dr. Manette überzeugt Darnay ihn davon, dass seine Absichten ehrenhaft und aufrichtig sind. Er möchte nicht zwischen Lucie und ihrem Vater stehen; er möchte sie, wenn möglich, enger aneinander binden. In Dr. Manettes Empfang von Darnay ist immer eine gewisse Zurückhaltung zu spüren, und dieser innerliche Kampf zeigt sich in seiner Ankündigung von Schrecken. Obwohl er sein Einverständnis zu Darnays Vorhaben gibt, stimmt etwas nicht ganz. Darnay erzählt dem Arzt, dass er einen falschen Namen benutzt und versucht, ihm zu sagen, warum er in England ist und wie sein richtiger Name lautet, doch der Arzt unterbricht ihn. Er sagt, dass Charles ihm diese Geheimnisse am Morgen der Hochzeit erzählen soll, wenn er Lucie heiratet. Als Lucie an diesem Abend ins Haus zurückkehrt, hört sie ihn zum ersten Mal seit Paris wieder an seinen Schuhen arbeiten und ist sehr beunruhigt. Sie klopft an seine Tür und er hört auf.

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.

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> 5--Sharp Words Are Spoken, and a Crisis Ensues When Yeobright was not with Eustacia he was sitting slavishly over his books; when he was not reading he was meeting her. These meetings were carried on with the greatest secrecy. One afternoon his mother came home from a morning visit to Thomasin. He could see from a disturbance in the lines of her face that something had happened. "I have been told an incomprehensible thing," she said mournfully. "The captain has let out at the Woman that you and Eustacia Vye are engaged to be married." "We are," said Yeobright. "But it may not be yet for a very long time." "I should hardly think it WOULD be yet for a very long time! You will take her to Paris, I suppose?" She spoke with weary hopelessness. "I am not going back to Paris." "What will you do with a wife, then?" "Keep a school in Budmouth, as I have told you." "That's incredible! The place is overrun with schoolmasters. You have no special qualifications. What possible chance is there for such as you?" "There is no chance of getting rich. But with my system of education, which is as new as it is true, I shall do a great deal of good to my fellow-creatures." "Dreams, dreams! If there had been any system left to be invented they would have found it out at the universities long before this time." "Never, Mother. They cannot find it out, because their teachers don't come in contact with the class which demands such a system--that is, those who have had no preliminary training. My plan is one for instilling high knowledge into empty minds without first cramming them with what has to be uncrammed again before true study begins." "I might have believed you if you had kept yourself free from entanglements; but this woman--if she had been a good girl it would have been bad enough; but being----" "She is a good girl." "So you think. A Corfu bandmaster's daughter! What has her life been? Her surname even is not her true one." "She is Captain Vye's granddaughter, and her father merely took her mother's name. And she is a lady by instinct." "They call him 'captain,' but anybody is captain." "He was in the Royal Navy!" "No doubt he has been to sea in some tub or other. Why doesn't he look after her? No lady would rove about the heath at all hours of the day and night as she does. But that's not all of it. There was something queer between her and Thomasin's husband at one time--I am as sure of it as that I stand here." "Eustacia has told me. He did pay her a little attention a year ago; but there's no harm in that. I like her all the better." "Clym," said his mother with firmness, "I have no proofs against her, unfortunately. But if she makes you a good wife, there has never been a bad one." "Believe me, you are almost exasperating," said Yeobright vehemently. "And this very day I had intended to arrange a meeting between you. But you give me no peace; you try to thwart my wishes in everything." "I hate the thought of any son of mine marrying badly! I wish I had never lived to see this; it is too much for me--it is more than I dreamt!" She turned to the window. Her breath was coming quickly, and her lips were pale, parted, and trembling. "Mother," said Clym, "whatever you do, you will always be dear to me--that you know. But one thing I have a right to say, which is, that at my age I am old enough to know what is best for me." Mrs. Yeobright remained for some time silent and shaken, as if she could say no more. Then she replied, "Best? Is it best for you to injure your prospects for such a voluptuous, idle woman as that? Don't you see that by the very fact of your choosing her you prove that you do not know what is best for you? You give up your whole thought--you set your whole soul--to please a woman." "I do. And that woman is you." "How can you treat me so flippantly!" said his mother, turning again to him with a tearful look. "You are unnatural, Clym, and I did not expect it." "Very likely," said he cheerlessly. "You did not know the measure you were going to mete me, and therefore did not know the measure that would be returned to you again." "You answer me; you think only of her. You stick to her in all things." "That proves her to be worthy. I have never yet supported what is bad. And I do not care only for her. I care for you and for myself, and for anything that is good. When a woman once dislikes another she is merciless!" "O Clym! please don't go setting down as my fault what is your obstinate wrongheadedness. If you wished to connect yourself with an unworthy person why did you come home here to do it? Why didn't you do it in Paris?--it is more the fashion there. You have come only to distress me, a lonely woman, and shorten my days! I wish that you would bestow your presence where you bestow your love!" Clym said huskily, "You are my mother. I will say no more--beyond this, that I beg your pardon for having thought this my home. I will no longer inflict myself upon you; I'll go." And he went out with tears in his eyes. It was a sunny afternoon at the beginning of summer, and the moist hollows of the heath had passed from their brown to their green stage. Yeobright walked to the edge of the basin which extended down from Mistover and Rainbarrow. By this time he was calm, and he looked over the landscape. In the minor valleys, between the hillocks which diversified the contour of the vale, the fresh young ferns were luxuriantly growing up, ultimately to reach a height of five or six feet. He descended a little way, flung himself down in a spot where a path emerged from one of the small hollows, and waited. Hither it was that he had promised Eustacia to bring his mother this afternoon, that they might meet and be friends. His attempt had utterly failed. He was in a nest of vivid green. The ferny vegetation round him, though so abundant, was quite uniform--it was a grove of machine-made foliage, a world of green triangles with saw-edges, and not a single flower. The air was warm with a vaporous warmth, and the stillness was unbroken. Lizards, grasshoppers, and ants were the only living things to be beheld. The scene seemed to belong to the ancient world of the carboniferous period, when the forms of plants were few, and of the fern kind; when there was neither bud nor blossom, nothing but a monotonous extent of leafage, amid which no bird sang. When he had reclined for some considerable time, gloomily pondering, he discerned above the ferns a drawn bonnet of white silk approaching from the left, and Yeobright knew directly that it covered the head of her he loved. His heart awoke from its apathy to a warm excitement, and, jumping to his feet, he said aloud, "I knew she was sure to come." She vanished in a hollow for a few moments, and then her whole form unfolded itself from the brake. "Only you here?" she exclaimed, with a disappointed air, whose hollowness was proved by her rising redness and her half-guilty low laugh. "Where is Mrs. Yeobright?" "She has not come," he replied in a subdued tone. "I wish I had known that you would be here alone," she said seriously, "and that we were going to have such an idle, pleasant time as this. Pleasure not known beforehand is half wasted; to anticipate it is to double it. I have not thought once today of having you all to myself this afternoon, and the actual moment of a thing is so soon gone." "It is indeed." "Poor Clym!" she continued, looking tenderly into his face. "You are sad. Something has happened at your home. Never mind what is--let us only look at what seems." "But, darling, what shall we do?" said he. "Still go on as we do now--just live on from meeting to meeting, never minding about another day. You, I know, are always thinking of that--I can see you are. But you must not--will you, dear Clym?" "You are just like all women. They are ever content to build their lives on any incidental position that offers itself; whilst men would fain make a globe to suit them. Listen to this, Eustacia. There is a subject I have determined to put off no longer. Your sentiment on the wisdom of Carpe diem does not impress me today. Our present mode of life must shortly be brought to an end." "It is your mother!" "It is. I love you none the less in telling you; it is only right you should know." "I have feared my bliss," she said, with the merest motion of her lips. "It has been too intense and consuming." "There is hope yet. There are forty years of work in me yet, and why should you despair? I am only at an awkward turning. I wish people wouldn't be so ready to think that there is no progress without uniformity." "Ah--your mind runs off to the philosophical side of it. Well, these sad and hopeless obstacles are welcome in one sense, for they enable us to look with indifference upon the cruel satires that Fate loves to indulge in. I have heard of people, who, upon coming suddenly into happiness, have died from anxiety lest they should not live to enjoy it. I felt myself in that whimsical state of uneasiness lately; but I shall be spared it now. Let us walk on." Clym took the hand which was already bared for him--it was a favourite way with them to walk bare hand in bare hand--and led her through the ferns. They formed a very comely picture of love at full flush, as they walked along the valley that late afternoon, the sun sloping down on their right, and throwing their thin spectral shadows, tall as poplar trees, far out across the furze and fern. Eustacia went with her head thrown back fancifully, a certain glad and voluptuous air of triumph pervading her eyes at having won by her own unaided self a man who was her perfect complement in attainment, appearance, and age. On the young man's part, the paleness of face which he had brought with him from Paris, and the incipient marks of time and thought, were less perceptible than when he returned, the healthful and energetic sturdiness which was his by nature having partially recovered its original proportions. They wandered onward till they reached the nether margin of the heath, where it became marshy and merged in moorland. "I must part from you here, Clym," said Eustacia. They stood still and prepared to bid each other farewell. Everything before them was on a perfect level. The sun, resting on the horizon line, streamed across the ground from between copper-coloured and lilac clouds, stretched out in flats beneath a sky of pale soft green. All dark objects on the earth that lay towards the sun were overspread by a purple haze, against which groups of wailing gnats shone out, rising upwards and dancing about like sparks of fire. "O! this leaving you is too hard to bear!" exclaimed Eustacia in a sudden whisper of anguish. "Your mother will influence you too much; I shall not be judged fairly, it will get afloat that I am not a good girl, and the witch story will be added to make me blacker!" "They cannot. Nobody dares to speak disrespectfully of you or of me." "Oh how I wish I was sure of never losing you--that you could not be able to desert me anyhow!" Clym stood silent a moment. His feelings were high, the moment was passionate, and he cut the knot. "You shall be sure of me, darling," he said, folding her in his arms. "We will be married at once." "O Clym!" "Do you agree to it?" "If--if we can." "We certainly can, both being of full age. And I have not followed my occupation all these years without having accumulated money; and if you will agree to live in a tiny cottage somewhere on the heath, until I take a house in Budmouth for the school, we can do it at a very little expense." "How long shall we have to live in the tiny cottage, Clym?" "About six months. At the end of that time I shall have finished my reading--yes, we will do it, and this heart-aching will be over. We shall, of course, live in absolute seclusion, and our married life will only begin to outward view when we take the house in Budmouth, where I have already addressed a letter on the matter. Would your grandfather allow you?" "I think he would--on the understanding that it should not last longer than six months." "I will guarantee that, if no misfortune happens." "If no misfortune happens," she repeated slowly. "Which is not likely. Dearest, fix the exact day." And then they consulted on the question, and the day was chosen. It was to be a fortnight from that time. This was the end of their talk, and Eustacia left him. Clym watched her as she retired towards the sun. The luminous rays wrapped her up with her increasing distance, and the rustle of her dress over the sprouting sedge and grass died away. As he watched, the dead flat of the scenery overpowered him, though he was fully alive to the beauty of that untarnished early summer green which was worn for the nonce by the poorest blade. There was something in its oppressive horizontality which too much reminded him of the arena of life; it gave him a sense of bare equality with, and no superiority to, a single living thing under the sun. Eustacia was now no longer the goddess but the woman to him, a being to fight for, support, help, be maligned for. Now that he had reached a cooler moment he would have preferred a less hasty marriage; but the card was laid, and he determined to abide by the game. Whether Eustacia was to add one other to the list of those who love too hotly to love long and well, the forthcoming event was certainly a ready way of proving. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> 6--Yeobright Goes, and the Breach Is Complete All that evening smart sounds denoting an active packing up came from Yeobright's room to the ears of his mother downstairs. Next morning he departed from the house and again proceeded across the heath. A long day's march was before him, his object being to secure a dwelling to which he might take Eustacia when she became his wife. Such a house, small, secluded, and with its windows boarded up, he had casually observed a month earlier, about two miles beyond the village of East Egdon, and six miles distant altogether; and thither he directed his steps today. The weather was far different from that of the evening before. The yellow and vapoury sunset which had wrapped up Eustacia from his parting gaze had presaged change. It was one of those not infrequent days of an English June which are as wet and boisterous as November. The cold clouds hastened on in a body, as if painted on a moving slide. Vapours from other continents arrived upon the wind, which curled and parted round him as he walked on. At length Clym reached the margin of a fir and beech plantation that had been enclosed from heath land in the year of his birth. Here the trees, laden heavily with their new and humid leaves, were now suffering more damage than during the highest winds of winter, when the boughs are especially disencumbered to do battle with the storm. The wet young beeches were undergoing amputations, bruises, cripplings, and harsh lacerations, from which the wasting sap would bleed for many a day to come, and which would leave scars visible till the day of their burning. Each stem was wrenched at the root, where it moved like a bone in its socket, and at every onset of the gale convulsive sounds came from the branches, as if pain were felt. In a neighbouring brake a finch was trying to sing; but the wind blew under his feathers till they stood on end, twisted round his little tail, and made him give up his song. Yet a few yards to Yeobright's left, on the open heath, how ineffectively gnashed the storm! Those gusts which tore the trees merely waved the furze and heather in a light caress. Egdon was made for such times as these. Yeobright reached the empty house about midday. It was almost as lonely as that of Eustacia's grandfather, but the fact that it stood near a heath was disguised by a belt of firs which almost enclosed the premises. He journeyed on about a mile further to the village in which the owner lived, and, returning with him to the house, arrangements were completed, and the man undertook that one room at least should be ready for occupation the next day. Clym's intention was to live there alone until Eustacia should join him on their wedding-day. Then he turned to pursue his way homeward through the drizzle that had so greatly transformed the scene. The ferns, among which he had lain in comfort yesterday, were dripping moisture from every frond, wetting his legs through as he brushed past; and the fur of the rabbits leaping before him was clotted into dark locks by the same watery surrounding. He reached home damp and weary enough after his ten-mile walk. It had hardly been a propitious beginning, but he had chosen his course, and would show no swerving. The evening and the following morning were spent in concluding arrangements for his departure. To stay at home a minute longer than necessary after having once come to his determination would be, he felt, only to give new pain to his mother by some word, look, or deed. He had hired a conveyance and sent off his goods by two o'clock that day. The next step was to get some furniture, which, after serving for temporary use in the cottage, would be available for the house at Budmouth when increased by goods of a better description. A mart extensive enough for the purpose existed at Anglebury, some miles beyond the spot chosen for his residence, and there he resolved to pass the coming night. It now only remained to wish his mother good-bye. She was sitting by the window as usual when he came downstairs. "Mother, I am going to leave you," he said, holding out his hand. "I thought you were, by your packing," replied Mrs. Yeobright in a voice from which every particle of emotion was painfully excluded. "And you will part friends with me?" "Certainly, Clym." "I am going to be married on the twenty-fifth." "I thought you were going to be married." "And then--and then you must come and see us. You will understand me better after that, and our situation will not be so wretched as it is now." "I do not think it likely I shall come to see you." "Then it will not be my fault or Eustacia's, Mother. Good-bye!" He kissed her cheek, and departed in great misery, which was several hours in lessening itself to a controllable level. The position had been such that nothing more could be said without, in the first place, breaking down a barrier; and that was not to be done. No sooner had Yeobright gone from his mother's house than her face changed its rigid aspect for one of blank despair. After a while she wept, and her tears brought some relief. During the rest of the day she did nothing but walk up and down the garden path in a state bordering on stupefaction. Night came, and with it but little rest. The next day, with an instinct to do something which should reduce prostration to mournfulness, she went to her son's room, and with her own hands arranged it in order, for an imaginary time when he should return again. She gave some attention to her flowers, but it was perfunctorily bestowed, for they no longer charmed her. It was a great relief when, early in the afternoon, Thomasin paid her an unexpected visit. This was not the first meeting between the relatives since Thomasin's marriage; and past blunders having been in a rough way rectified, they could always greet each other with pleasure and ease. The oblique band of sunlight which followed her through the door became the young wife well. It illuminated her as her presence illuminated the heath. In her movements, in her gaze, she reminded the beholder of the feathered creatures who lived around her home. All similes and allegories concerning her began and ended with birds. There was as much variety in her motions as in their flight. When she was musing she was a kestrel, which hangs in the air by an invisible motion of its wings. When she was in a high wind her light body was blown against trees and banks like a heron's. When she was frightened she darted noiselessly like a kingfisher. When she was serene she skimmed like a swallow, and that is how she was moving now. "You are looking very blithe, upon my word, Tamsie," said Mrs. Yeobright, with a sad smile. "How is Damon?" "He is very well." "Is he kind to you, Thomasin?" And Mrs. Yeobright observed her narrowly. "Pretty fairly." "Is that honestly said?" "Yes, Aunt. I would tell you if he were unkind." She added, blushing, and with hesitation, "He--I don't know if I ought to complain to you about this, but I am not quite sure what to do. I want some money, you know, Aunt--some to buy little things for myself--and he doesn't give me any. I don't like to ask him; and yet, perhaps, he doesn't give it me because he doesn't know. Ought I to mention it to him, Aunt?" "Of course you ought. Have you never said a word on the matter?" "You see, I had some of my own," said Thomasin evasively, "and I have not wanted any of his until lately. I did just say something about it last week; but he seems--not to remember." "He must be made to remember. You are aware that I have a little box full of spade-guineas, which your uncle put into my hands to divide between yourself and Clym whenever I chose. Perhaps the time has come when it should be done. They can be turned into sovereigns at any moment." "I think I should like to have my share--that is, if you don't mind." "You shall, if necessary. But it is only proper that you should first tell your husband distinctly that you are without any, and see what he will do." "Very well, I will.... Aunt, I have heard about Clym. I know you are in trouble about him, and that's why I have come." Mrs. Yeobright turned away, and her features worked in her attempt to conceal her feelings. Then she ceased to make any attempt, and said, weeping, "O Thomasin, do you think he hates me? How can he bear to grieve me so, when I have lived only for him through all these years?" "Hate you--no," said Thomasin soothingly. "It is only that he loves her too well. Look at it quietly--do. It is not so very bad of him. Do you know, I thought it not the worst match he could have made. Miss Vye's family is a good one on her mother's side; and her father was a romantic wanderer--a sort of Greek Ulysses." "It is no use, Thomasin; it is no use. Your intention is good; but I will not trouble you to argue. I have gone through the whole that can be said on either side times, and many times. Clym and I have not parted in anger; we have parted in a worse way. It is not a passionate quarrel that would have broken my heart; it is the steady opposition and persistence in going wrong that he has shown. O Thomasin, he was so good as a little boy--so tender and kind!" "He was, I know." "I did not think one whom I called mine would grow up to treat me like this. He spoke to me as if I opposed him to injure him. As though I could wish him ill!" "There are worse women in the world than Eustacia Vye." "There are too many better that's the agony of it. It was she, Thomasin, and she only, who led your husband to act as he did--I would swear it!" "No," said Thomasin eagerly. "It was before he knew me that he thought of her, and it was nothing but a mere flirtation." "Very well; we will let it be so. There is little use in unravelling that now. Sons must be blind if they will. Why is it that a woman can see from a distance what a man cannot see close? Clym must do as he will--he is nothing more to me. And this is maternity--to give one's best years and best love to ensure the fate of being despised!" "You are too unyielding. Think how many mothers there are whose sons have brought them to public shame by real crimes before you feel so deeply a case like this." "Thomasin, don't lecture me--I can't have it. It is the excess above what we expect that makes the force of the blow, and that may not be greater in their case than in mine--they may have foreseen the worst.... I am wrongly made, Thomasin," she added, with a mournful smile. "Some widows can guard against the wounds their children give them by turning their hearts to another husband and beginning life again. But I always was a poor, weak, one-idea'd creature--I had not the compass of heart nor the enterprise for that. Just as forlorn and stupefied as I was when my husband's spirit flew away I have sat ever since--never attempting to mend matters at all. I was comparatively a young woman then, and I might have had another family by this time, and have been comforted by them for the failure of this one son." "It is more noble in you that you did not." "The more noble, the less wise." "Forget it, and be soothed, dear Aunt. And I shall not leave you alone for long. I shall come and see you every day." And for one week Thomasin literally fulfilled her word. She endeavoured to make light of the wedding; and brought news of the preparations, and that she was invited to be present. The next week she was rather unwell, and did not appear. Nothing had as yet been done about the guineas, for Thomasin feared to address her husband again on the subject, and Mrs. Yeobright had insisted upon this. One day just before this time Wildeve was standing at the door of the Quiet Woman. In addition to the upward path through the heath to Rainbarrow and Mistover, there was a road which branched from the highway a short distance below the inn, and ascended to Mistover by a circuitous and easy incline. This was the only route on that side for vehicles to the captain's retreat. A light cart from the nearest town descended the road, and the lad who was driving pulled up in front of the inn for something to drink. "You come from Mistover?" said Wildeve. "Yes. They are taking in good things up there. Going to be a wedding." And the driver buried his face in his mug. Wildeve had not received an inkling of the fact before, and a sudden expression of pain overspread his face. He turned for a moment into the passage to hide it. Then he came back again. "Do you mean Miss Vye?" he said. "How is it--that she can be married so soon?" "By the will of God and a ready young man, I suppose." "You don't mean Mr. Yeobright?" "Yes. He has been creeping about with her all the spring." "I suppose--she was immensely taken with him?" "She is crazy about him, so their general servant of all work tells me. And that lad Charley that looks after the horse is all in a daze about it. The stun-poll has got fond-like of her." "Is she lively--is she glad? Going to be married so soon--well!" "It isn't so very soon." "No; not so very soon." Wildeve went indoors to the empty room, a curious heartache within him. He rested his elbow upon the mantelpiece and his face upon his hand. When Thomasin entered the room he did not tell her of what he had heard. The old longing for Eustacia had reappeared in his soul--and it was mainly because he had discovered that it was another man's intention to possess her. To be yearning for the difficult, to be weary of that offered; to care for the remote, to dislike the near; it was Wildeve's nature always. This is the true mark of the man of sentiment. Though Wildeve's fevered feeling had not been elaborated to real poetical compass, it was of the standard sort. His might have been called the Rousseau of Egdon. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> 7--The Morning and the Evening of a Day The wedding morning came. Nobody would have imagined from appearances that Blooms-End had any interest in Mistover that day. A solemn stillness prevailed around the house of Clym's mother, and there was no more animation indoors. Mrs. Yeobright, who had declined to attend the ceremony, sat by the breakfast table in the old room which communicated immediately with the porch, her eyes listlessly directed towards the open door. It was the room in which, six months earlier, the merry Christmas party had met, to which Eustacia came secretly and as a stranger. The only living thing that entered now was a sparrow; and seeing no movements to cause alarm, he hopped boldly round the room, endeavoured to go out by the window, and fluttered among the pot-flowers. This roused the lonely sitter, who got up, released the bird, and went to the door. She was expecting Thomasin, who had written the night before to state that the time had come when she would wish to have the money and that she would if possible call this day. Yet Thomasin occupied Mrs. Yeobright's thoughts but slightly as she looked up the valley of the heath, alive with butterflies, and with grasshoppers whose husky noises on every side formed a whispered chorus. A domestic drama, for which the preparations were now being made a mile or two off, was but little less vividly present to her eyes than if enacted before her. She tried to dismiss the vision, and walked about the garden plot; but her eyes ever and anon sought out the direction of the parish church to which Mistover belonged, and her excited fancy clove the hills which divided the building from her eyes. The morning wore away. Eleven o'clock struck--could it be that the wedding was then in progress? It must be so. She went on imagining the scene at the church, which he had by this time approached with his bride. She pictured the little group of children by the gate as the pony carriage drove up in which, as Thomasin had learnt, they were going to perform the short journey. Then she saw them enter and proceed to the chancel and kneel; and the service seemed to go on. She covered her face with her hands. "O, it is a mistake!" she groaned. "And he will rue it some day, and think of me!" While she remained thus, overcome by her forebodings, the old clock indoors whizzed forth twelve strokes. Soon after, faint sounds floated to her ear from afar over the hills. The breeze came from that quarter, and it had brought with it the notes of distant bells, gaily starting off in a peal: one, two, three, four, five. The ringers at East Egdon were announcing the nuptials of Eustacia and her son. "Then it is over," she murmured. "Well, well! and life too will be over soon. And why should I go on scalding my face like this? Cry about one thing in life, cry about all; one thread runs through the whole piece. And yet we say, 'a time to laugh!'" Towards evening Wildeve came. Since Thomasin's marriage Mrs. Yeobright had shown him that grim friendliness which at last arises in all such cases of undesired affinity. The vision of what ought to have been is thrown aside in sheer weariness, and browbeaten human endeavour listlessly makes the best of the fact that is. Wildeve, to do him justice, had behaved very courteously to his wife's aunt; and it was with no surprise that she saw him enter now. "Thomasin has not been able to come, as she promised to do," he replied to her inquiry, which had been anxious, for she knew that her niece was badly in want of money. "The captain came down last night and personally pressed her to join them today. So, not to be unpleasant, she determined to go. They fetched her in the pony-chaise, and are going to bring her back." "Then it is done," said Mrs. Yeobright. "Have they gone to their new home?" "I don't know. I have had no news from Mistover since Thomasin left to go." "You did not go with her?" said she, as if there might be good reasons why. "I could not," said Wildeve, reddening slightly. "We could not both leave the house; it was rather a busy morning, on account of Anglebury Great Market. I believe you have something to give to Thomasin? If you like, I will take it." Mrs. Yeobright hesitated, and wondered if Wildeve knew what the something was. "Did she tell you of this?" she inquired. "Not particularly. She casually dropped a remark about having arranged to fetch some article or other." "It is hardly necessary to send it. She can have it whenever she chooses to come." "That won't be yet. In the present state of her health she must not go on walking so much as she has done." He added, with a faint twang of sarcasm, "What wonderful thing is it that I cannot be trusted to take?" "Nothing worth troubling you with." "One would think you doubted my honesty," he said, with a laugh, though his colour rose in a quick resentfulness frequent with him. "You need think no such thing," said she drily. "It is simply that I, in common with the rest of the world, feel that there are certain things which had better be done by certain people than by others." "As you like, as you like," said Wildeve laconically. "It is not worth arguing about. Well, I think I must turn homeward again, as the inn must not be left long in charge of the lad and the maid only." He went his way, his farewell being scarcely so courteous as his greeting. But Mrs. Yeobright knew him thoroughly by this time, and took little notice of his manner, good or bad. When Wildeve was gone Mrs. Yeobright stood and considered what would be the best course to adopt with regard to the guineas, which she had not liked to entrust to Wildeve. It was hardly credible that Thomasin had told him to ask for them, when the necessity for them had arisen from the difficulty of obtaining money at his hands. At the same time Thomasin really wanted them, and might be unable to come to Blooms-End for another week at least. To take or send the money to her at the inn would be impolite, since Wildeve would pretty surely be present, or would discover the transaction; and if, as her aunt suspected, he treated her less kindly than she deserved to be treated, he might then get the whole sum out of her gentle hands. But on this particular evening Thomasin was at Mistover, and anything might be conveyed to her there without the knowledge of her husband. Upon the whole the opportunity was worth taking advantage of. Her son, too, was there, and was now married. There could be no more proper moment to render him his share of the money than the present. And the chance that would be afforded her, by sending him this gift, of showing how far she was from bearing him ill-will, cheered the sad mother's heart. She went upstairs and took from a locked drawer a little box, out of which she poured a hoard of broad unworn guineas that had lain there many a year. There were a hundred in all, and she divided them into two heaps, fifty in each. Tying up these in small canvas bags, she went down to the garden and called to Christian Cantle, who was loitering about in hope of a supper which was not really owed him. Mrs. Yeobright gave him the moneybags, charged him to go to Mistover, and on no account to deliver them into any one's hands save her son's and Thomasin's. On further thought she deemed it advisable to tell Christian precisely what the two bags contained, that he might be fully impressed with their importance. Christian pocketed the moneybags, promised the greatest carefulness, and set out on his way. "You need not hurry," said Mrs. Yeobright. "It will be better not to get there till after dusk, and then nobody will notice you. Come back here to supper, if it is not too late." It was nearly nine o'clock when he began to ascend the vale towards Mistover; but the long days of summer being at their climax, the first obscurity of evening had only just begun to tan the landscape. At this point of his journey Christian heard voices, and found that they proceeded from a company of men and women who were traversing a hollow ahead of him, the tops only of their heads being visible. He paused and thought of the money he carried. It was almost too early even for Christian seriously to fear robbery; nevertheless he took a precaution which ever since his boyhood he had adopted whenever he carried more than two or three shillings upon his person--a precaution somewhat like that of the owner of the Pitt Diamond when filled with similar misgivings. He took off his boots, untied the guineas, and emptied the contents of one little bag into the right boot, and of the other into the left, spreading them as flatly as possible over the bottom of each, which was really a spacious coffer by no means limited to the size of the foot. Pulling them on again and lacing them to the very top, he proceeded on his way, more easy in his head than under his soles. His path converged towards that of the noisy company, and on coming nearer he found to his relief that they were several Egdon people whom he knew very well, while with them walked Fairway, of Blooms-End. "What! Christian going too?" said Fairway as soon as he recognized the newcomer. "You've got no young woman nor wife to your name to gie a gown-piece to, I'm sure." "What d'ye mean?" said Christian. "Why, the raffle. The one we go to every year. Going to the raffle as well as ourselves?" "Never knew a word o't. Is it like cudgel playing or other sportful forms of bloodshed? I don't want to go, thank you, Mister Fairway, and no offence." "Christian don't know the fun o't, and 'twould be a fine sight for him," said a buxom woman. "There's no danger at all, Christian. Every man puts in a shilling apiece, and one wins a gown-piece for his wife or sweetheart if he's got one." "Well, as that's not my fortune there's no meaning in it to me. But I should like to see the fun, if there's nothing of the black art in it, and if a man may look on without cost or getting into any dangerous wrangle?" "There will be no uproar at all," said Timothy. "Sure, Christian, if you'd like to come we'll see there's no harm done." "And no ba'dy gaieties, I suppose? You see, neighbours, if so, it would be setting father a bad example, as he is so light moral'd. But a gown-piece for a shilling, and no black art--'tis worth looking in to see, and it wouldn't hinder me half an hour. Yes, I'll come, if you'll step a little way towards Mistover with me afterwards, supposing night should have closed in, and nobody else is going that way?" One or two promised; and Christian, diverging from his direct path, turned round to the right with his companions towards the Quiet Woman. When they entered the large common room of the inn they found assembled there about ten men from among the neighbouring population, and the group was increased by the new contingent to double that number. Most of them were sitting round the room in seats divided by wooden elbows like those of crude cathedral stalls, which were carved with the initials of many an illustrious drunkard of former times who had passed his days and his nights between them, and now lay as an alcoholic cinder in the nearest churchyard. Among the cups on the long table before the sitters lay an open parcel of light drapery--the gown-piece, as it was called--which was to be raffled for. Wildeve was standing with his back to the fireplace smoking a cigar; and the promoter of the raffle, a packman from a distant town, was expatiating upon the value of the fabric as material for a summer dress. "Now, gentlemen," he continued, as the newcomers drew up to the table, "there's five have entered, and we want four more to make up the number. I think, by the faces of those gentlemen who have just come in, that they are shrewd enough to take advantage of this rare opportunity of beautifying their ladies at a very trifling expense." Fairway, Sam, and another placed their shillings on the table, and the man turned to Christian. "No, sir," said Christian, drawing back, with a quick gaze of misgiving. "I am only a poor chap come to look on, an it please ye, sir. I don't so much as know how you do it. If so be I was sure of getting it I would put down the shilling; but I couldn't otherwise." "I think you might almost be sure," said the pedlar. "In fact, now I look into your face, even if I can't say you are sure to win, I can say that I never saw anything look more like winning in my life." "You'll anyhow have the same chance as the rest of us," said Sam. "And the extra luck of being the last comer," said another. "And I was born wi' a caul, and perhaps can be no more ruined than drowned?" Christian added, beginning to give way. Ultimately Christian laid down his shilling, the raffle began, and the dice went round. When it came to Christian's turn he took the box with a trembling hand, shook it fearfully, and threw a pair-royal. Three of the others had thrown common low pairs, and all the rest mere points. "The gentleman looked like winning, as I said," observed the chapman blandly. "Take it, sir; the article is yours." "Haw-haw-haw!" said Fairway. "I'm damned if this isn't the quarest start that ever I knowed!" "Mine?" asked Christian, with a vacant stare from his target eyes. "I--I haven't got neither maid, wife, nor widder belonging to me at all, and I'm afeard it will make me laughed at to ha'e it, Master Traveller. What with being curious to join in I never thought of that! What shall I do wi' a woman's clothes in MY bedroom, and not lose my decency!" "Keep 'em, to be sure," said Fairway, "if it is only for luck. Perhaps 'twill tempt some woman that thy poor carcase had no power over when standing empty-handed." "Keep it, certainly," said Wildeve, who had idly watched the scene from a distance. The table was then cleared of the articles, and the men began to drink. "Well, to be sure!" said Christian, half to himself. "To think I should have been born so lucky as this, and not have found it out until now! What curious creatures these dice be--powerful rulers of us all, and yet at my command! I am sure I never need be afeared of anything after this." He handled the dice fondly one by one. "Why, sir," he said in a confidential whisper to Wildeve, who was near his left hand, "if I could only use this power that's in me of multiplying money I might do some good to a near relation of yours, seeing what I've got about me of hers--eh?" He tapped one of his money-laden boots upon the floor. "What do you mean?" said Wildeve. "That's a secret. Well, I must be going now." He looked anxiously towards Fairway. "Where are you going?" Wildeve asked. "To Mistover Knap. I have to see Mrs. Thomasin there--that's all." "I am going there, too, to fetch Mrs. Wildeve. We can walk together." Wildeve became lost in thought, and a look of inward illumination came into his eyes. It was money for his wife that Mrs. Yeobright could not trust him with. "Yet she could trust this fellow," he said to himself. "Why doesn't that which belongs to the wife belong to the husband too?" He called to the pot-boy to bring him his hat, and said, "Now, Christian, I am ready." "Mr. Wildeve," said Christian timidly, as he turned to leave the room, "would you mind lending me them wonderful little things that carry my luck inside 'em, that I might practise a bit by myself, you know?" He looked wistfully at the dice and box lying on the mantlepiece. "Certainly," said Wildeve carelessly. "They were only cut out by some lad with his knife, and are worth nothing." And Christian went back and privately pocketed them. Wildeve opened the door and looked out. The night was warm and cloudy. "By Gad! 'tis dark," he continued. "But I suppose we shall find our way." "If we should lose the path it might be awkward," said Christian. "A lantern is the only shield that will make it safe for us." "Let's have a lantern by all means." The stable lantern was fetched and lighted. Christian took up his gownpiece, and the two set out to ascend the hill. Within the room the men fell into chat till their attention was for a moment drawn to the chimney-corner. This was large, and, in addition to its proper recess, contained within its jambs, like many on Egdon, a receding seat, so that a person might sit there absolutely unobserved, provided there was no fire to light him up, as was the case now and throughout the summer. From the niche a single object protruded into the light from the candles on the table. It was a clay pipe, and its colour was reddish. The men had been attracted to this object by a voice behind the pipe asking for a light. "Upon my life, it fairly startled me when the man spoke!" said Fairway, handing a candle. "Oh--'tis the reddleman! You've kept a quiet tongue, young man." "Yes, I had nothing to say," observed Venn. In a few minutes he arose and wished the company good night. Meanwhile Wildeve and Christian had plunged into the heath. It was a stagnant, warm, and misty night, full of all the heavy perfumes of new vegetation not yet dried by hot sun, and among these particularly the scent of the fern. The lantern, dangling from Christian's hand, brushed the feathery fronds in passing by, disturbing moths and other winged insects, which flew out and alighted upon its horny panes. "So you have money to carry to Mrs. Wildeve?" said Christian's companion, after a silence. "Don't you think it very odd that it shouldn't be given to me?" "As man and wife be one flesh, 'twould have been all the same, I should think," said Christian. "But my strict documents was, to give the money into Mrs. Wildeve's hand--and 'tis well to do things right." "No doubt," said Wildeve. Any person who had known the circumstances might have perceived that Wildeve was mortified by the discovery that the matter in transit was money, and not, as he had supposed when at Blooms-End, some fancy nick-nack which only interested the two women themselves. Mrs. Yeobright's refusal implied that his honour was not considered to be of sufficiently good quality to make him a safer bearer of his wife's property. "How very warm it is tonight, Christian!" he said, panting, when they were nearly under Rainbarrow. "Let us sit down for a few minutes, for Heaven's sake." Wildeve flung himself down on the soft ferns; and Christian, placing the lantern and parcel on the ground, perched himself in a cramped position hard by, his knees almost touching his chin. He presently thrust one hand into his coat-pocket and began shaking it about. "What are you rattling in there?" said Wildeve. "Only the dice, sir," said Christian, quickly withdrawing his hand. "What magical machines these little things be, Mr. Wildeve! 'Tis a game I should never get tired of. Would you mind my taking 'em out and looking at 'em for a minute, to see how they are made? I didn't like to look close before the other men, for fear they should think it bad manners in me." Christian took them out and examined them in the hollow of his hand by the lantern light. "That these little things should carry such luck, and such charm, and such a spell, and such power in 'em, passes all I ever heard or zeed," he went on, with a fascinated gaze at the dice, which, as is frequently the case in country places, were made of wood, the points being burnt upon each face with the end of a wire. "They are a great deal in a small compass, You think?" "Yes. Do ye suppose they really be the devil's playthings, Mr. Wildeve? If so, 'tis no good sign that I be such a lucky man." "You ought to win some money, now that you've got them. Any woman would marry you then. Now is your time, Christian, and I would recommend you not to let it slip. Some men are born to luck, some are not. I belong to the latter class." "Did you ever know anybody who was born to it besides myself?" "O yes. I once heard of an Italian, who sat down at a gaming table with only a louis, (that's a foreign sovereign), in his pocket. He played on for twenty-four hours, and won ten thousand pounds, stripping the bank he had played against. Then there was another man who had lost a thousand pounds, and went to the broker's next day to sell stock, that he might pay the debt. The man to whom he owed the money went with him in a hackney-coach; and to pass the time they tossed who should pay the fare. The ruined man won, and the other was tempted to continue the game, and they played all the way. When the coachman stopped he was told to drive home again: the whole thousand pounds had been won back by the man who was going to sell." "Ha--ha--splendid!" exclaimed Christian. "Go on--go on!" "Then there was a man of London, who was only a waiter at White's clubhouse. He began playing first half-crown stakes, and then higher and higher, till he became very rich, got an appointment in India, and rose to be Governor of Madras. His daughter married a member of Parliament, and the Bishop of Carlisle stood godfather to one of the children." "Wonderful! wonderful!" "And once there was a young man in America who gambled till he had lost his last dollar. He staked his watch and chain, and lost as before; staked his umbrella, lost again; staked his hat, lost again; staked his coat and stood in his shirt-sleeves, lost again. Began taking off his breeches, and then a looker-on gave him a trifle for his pluck. With this he won. Won back his coat, won back his hat, won back his umbrella, his watch, his money, and went out of the door a rich man." "Oh, 'tis too good--it takes away my breath! Mr. Wildeve, I think I will try another shilling with you, as I am one of that sort; no danger can come o't, and you can afford to lose." "Very well," said Wildeve, rising. Searching about with the lantern, he found a large flat stone, which he placed between himself and Christian, and sat down again. The lantern was opened to give more light, and it's rays directed upon the stone. Christian put down a shilling, Wildeve another, and each threw. Christian won. They played for two, Christian won again. "Let us try four," said Wildeve. They played for four. This time the stakes were won by Wildeve. "Ah, those little accidents will, of course, sometimes happen, to the luckiest man," he observed. "And now I have no more money!" explained Christian excitedly. "And yet, if I could go on, I should get it back again, and more. I wish this was mine." He struck his boot upon the ground, so that the guineas chinked within. "What! you have not put Mrs. Wildeve's money there?" "Yes. 'Tis for safety. Is it any harm to raffle with a married lady's money when, if I win, I shall only keep my winnings, and give her her own all the same; and if t'other man wins, her money will go to the lawful owner?" "None at all." Wildeve had been brooding ever since they started on the mean estimation in which he was held by his wife's friends; and it cut his heart severely. As the minutes passed he had gradually drifted into a revengeful intention without knowing the precise moment of forming it. This was to teach Mrs. Yeobright a lesson, as he considered it to be; in other words, to show her if he could that her niece's husband was the proper guardian of her niece's money. "Well, here goes!" said Christian, beginning to unlace one boot. "I shall dream of it nights and nights, I suppose; but I shall always swear my flesh don't crawl when I think o't!" He thrust his hand into the boot and withdrew one of poor Thomasin's precious guineas, piping hot. Wildeve had already placed a sovereign on the stone. The game was then resumed. Wildeve won first, and Christian ventured another, winning himself this time. The game fluctuated, but the average was in Wildeve's favour. Both men became so absorbed in the game that they took no heed of anything but the pigmy objects immediately beneath their eyes, the flat stone, the open lantern, the dice, and the few illuminated fern-leaves which lay under the light, were the whole world to them. At length Christian lost rapidly; and presently, to his horror, the whole fifty guineas belonging to Thomasin had been handed over to his adversary. "I don't care--I don't care!" he moaned, and desperately set about untying his left boot to get at the other fifty. "The devil will toss me into the flames on his three-pronged fork for this night's work, I know! But perhaps I shall win yet, and then I'll get a wife to sit up with me o' nights and I won't be afeard, I won't! Here's another for'ee, my man!" He slapped another guinea down upon the stone, and the dice-box was rattled again. Time passed on. Wildeve began to be as excited as Christian himself. When commencing the game his intention had been nothing further than a bitter practical joke on Mrs. Yeobright. To win the money, fairly or otherwise, and to hand it contemptuously to Thomasin in her aunt's presence, had been the dim outline of his purpose. But men are drawn from their intentions even in the course of carrying them out, and it was extremely doubtful, by the time the twentieth guinea had been reached, whether Wildeve was conscious of any other intention than that of winning for his own personal benefit. Moreover, he was now no longer gambling for his wife's money, but for Yeobright's; though of this fact Christian, in his apprehensiveness, did not inform him till afterwards. It was nearly eleven o'clock, when, with almost a shriek, Christian placed Yeobright's last gleaming guinea upon the stone. In thirty seconds it had gone the way of its companions. Christian turned and flung himself on the ferns in a convulsion of remorse, "O, what shall I do with my wretched self?" he groaned. "What shall I do? Will any good Heaven hae mercy upon my wicked soul?" "Do? Live on just the same." "I won't live on just the same! I'll die! I say you are a--a----" "A man sharper than my neighbour." "Yes, a man sharper than my neighbour; a regular sharper!" "Poor chips-in-porridge, you are very unmannerly." "I don't know about that! And I say you be unmannerly! You've got money that isn't your own. Half the guineas are poor Mr. Clym's." "How's that?" "Because I had to gie fifty of 'em to him. Mrs. Yeobright said so." "Oh?... Well, 'twould have been more graceful of her to have given them to his wife Eustacia. But they are in my hands now." Christian pulled on his boots, and with heavy breathings, which could be heard to some distance, dragged his limbs together, arose, and tottered away out of sight. Wildeve set about shutting the lantern to return to the house, for he deemed it too late to go to Mistover to meet his wife, who was to be driven home in the captain's four-wheel. While he was closing the little horn door a figure rose from behind a neighbouring bush and came forward into the lantern light. It was the reddleman approaching. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> 8--A New Force Disturbs the Current Wildeve stared. Venn looked coolly towards Wildeve, and, without a word being spoken, he deliberately sat himself down where Christian had been seated, thrust his hand into his pocket, drew out a sovereign, and laid it on the stone. "You have been watching us from behind that bush?" said Wildeve. The reddleman nodded. "Down with your stake," he said. "Or haven't you pluck enough to go on?" Now, gambling is a species of amusement which is much more easily begun with full pockets than left off with the same; and though Wildeve in a cooler temper might have prudently declined this invitation, the excitement of his recent success carried him completely away. He placed one of the guineas on a slab beside the reddleman's sovereign. "Mine is a guinea," he said. "A guinea that's not your own," said Venn sarcastically. "It is my own," answered Wildeve haughtily. "It is my wife's, and what is hers is mine." "Very well; let's make a beginning." He shook the box, and threw eight, ten, and nine; the three casts amounted to twenty-seven. This encouraged Wildeve. He took the box; and his three casts amounted to forty-five. Down went another of the reddleman's sovereigns against his first one which Wildeve laid. This time Wildeve threw fifty-one points, but no pair. The reddleman looked grim, threw a raffle of aces, and pocketed the stakes. "Here you are again," said Wildeve contemptuously. "Double the stakes." He laid two of Thomasin's guineas, and the reddleman his two pounds. Venn won again. New stakes were laid on the stone, and the gamblers proceeded as before. Wildeve was a nervous and excitable man, and the game was beginning to tell upon his temper. He writhed, fumed, shifted his seat, and the beating of his heart was almost audible. Venn sat with lips impassively closed and eyes reduced to a pair of unimportant twinkles; he scarcely appeared to breathe. He might have been an Arab, or an automaton; he would have been like a red sandstone statue but for the motion of his arm with the dice-box. The game fluctuated, now in favour of one, now in favour of the other, without any great advantage on the side of either. Nearly twenty minutes were passed thus. The light of the candle had by this time attracted heath-flies, moths, and other winged creatures of night, which floated round the lantern, flew into the flame, or beat about the faces of the two players. But neither of the men paid much attention to these things, their eyes being concentrated upon the little flat stone, which to them was an arena vast and important as a battlefield. By this time a change had come over the game; the reddleman won continually. At length sixty guineas--Thomasin's fifty, and ten of Clym's--had passed into his hands. Wildeve was reckless, frantic, exasperated. "'Won back his coat,'" said Venn slily. Another throw, and the money went the same way. "'Won back his hat,'" continued Venn. "Oh, oh!" said Wildeve. "'Won back his watch, won back his money, and went out of the door a rich man,'" added Venn sentence by sentence, as stake after stake passed over to him. "Five more!" shouted Wildeve, dashing down the money. "And three casts be hanged--one shall decide." The red automaton opposite lapsed into silence, nodded, and followed his example. Wildeve rattled the box, and threw a pair of sixes and five points. He clapped his hands; "I have done it this time--hurrah!" "There are two playing, and only one has thrown," said the reddleman, quietly bringing down the box. The eyes of each were then so intently converged upon the stone that one could fancy their beams were visible, like rays in a fog. Venn lifted the box, and behold a triplet of sixes was disclosed. Wildeve was full of fury. While the reddleman was grasping the stakes Wildeve seized the dice and hurled them, box and all, into the darkness, uttering a fearful imprecation. Then he arose and began stamping up and down like a madman. "It is all over, then?" said Venn. "No, no!" cried Wildeve. "I mean to have another chance yet. I must!" "But, my good man, what have you done with the dice?" "I threw them away--it was a momentary irritation. What a fool I am! Here--come and help me to look for them--we must find them again." Wildeve snatched up the lantern and began anxiously prowling among the furze and fern. "You are not likely to find them there," said Venn, following. "What did you do such a crazy thing as that for? Here's the box. The dice can't be far off." Wildeve turned the light eagerly upon the spot where Venn had found the box, and mauled the herbage right and left. In the course of a few minutes one of the dice was found. They searched on for some time, but no other was to be seen. "Never mind," said Wildeve; "let's play with one." "Agreed," said Venn. Down they sat again, and recommenced with single guinea stakes; and the play went on smartly. But Fortune had unmistakably fallen in love with the reddleman tonight. He won steadily, till he was the owner of fourteen more of the gold pieces. Seventy-nine of the hundred guineas were his, Wildeve possessing only twenty-one. The aspect of the two opponents was now singular. Apart from motions, a complete diorama of the fluctuations of the game went on in their eyes. A diminutive candle-flame was mirrored in each pupil, and it would have been possible to distinguish therein between the moods of hope and the moods of abandonment, even as regards the reddleman, though his facial muscles betrayed nothing at all. Wildeve played on with the recklessness of despair. "What's that?" he suddenly exclaimed, hearing a rustle; and they both looked up. They were surrounded by dusky forms between four and five feet high, standing a few paces beyond the rays of the lantern. A moment's inspection revealed that the encircling figures were heath-croppers, their heads being all towards the players, at whom they gazed intently. "Hoosh!" said Wildeve, and the whole forty or fifty animals at once turned and galloped away. Play was again resumed. Ten minutes passed away. Then a large death's head moth advanced from the obscure outer air, wheeled twice round the lantern, flew straight at the candle, and extinguished it by the force of the blow. Wildeve had just thrown, but had not lifted the box to see what he had cast; and now it was impossible. "What the infernal!" he shrieked. "Now, what shall we do? Perhaps I have thrown six--have you any matches?" "None," said Venn. "Christian had some--I wonder where he is. Christian!" But there was no reply to Wildeve's shout, save a mournful whining from the herons which were nesting lower down the vale. Both men looked blankly round without rising. As their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness they perceived faint greenish points of light among the grass and fern. These lights dotted the hillside like stars of a low magnitude. "Ah--glowworms," said Wildeve. "Wait a minute. We can continue the game." Venn sat still, and his companion went hither and thither till he had gathered thirteen glowworms--as many as he could find in a space of four or five minutes--upon a fox-glove leaf which he pulled for the purpose. The reddleman vented a low humorous laugh when he saw his adversary return with these. "Determined to go on, then?" he said drily. "I always am!" said Wildeve angrily. And shaking the glowworms from the leaf he ranged them with a trembling hand in a circle on the stone, leaving a space in the middle for the descent of the dice-box, over which the thirteen tiny lamps threw a pale phosphoric shine. The game was again renewed. It happened to be that season of the year at which glowworms put forth their greatest brilliancy, and the light they yielded was more than ample for the purpose, since it is possible on such nights to read the handwriting of a letter by the light of two or three. The incongruity between the men's deeds and their environment was great. Amid the soft juicy vegetation of the hollow in which they sat, the motionless and the uninhabited solitude, intruded the chink of guineas, the rattle of dice, the exclamations of the reckless players. Wildeve had lifted the box as soon as the lights were obtained, and the solitary die proclaimed that the game was still against him. "I won't play any more--you've been tampering with the dice," he shouted. "How--when they were your own?" said the reddleman. "We'll change the game: the lowest point shall win the stake--it may cut off my ill luck. Do you refuse?" "No--go on," said Venn. "O, there they are again--damn them!" cried Wildeve, looking up. The heath-croppers had returned noiselessly, and were looking on with erect heads just as before, their timid eyes fixed upon the scene, as if they were wondering what mankind and candlelight could have to do in these haunts at this untoward hour. "What a plague those creatures are--staring at me so!" he said, and flung a stone, which scattered them; when the game was continued as before. Wildeve had now ten guineas left; and each laid five. Wildeve threw three points; Venn two, and raked in the coins. The other seized the die, and clenched his teeth upon it in sheer rage, as if he would bite it in pieces. "Never give in--here are my last five!" he cried, throwing them down. "Hang the glowworms--they are going out. Why don't you burn, you little fools? Stir them up with a thorn." He probed the glowworms with a bit of stick, and rolled them over, till the bright side of their tails was upwards. "There's light enough. Throw on," said Venn. Wildeve brought down the box within the shining circle and looked eagerly. He had thrown ace. "Well done!--I said it would turn, and it has turned." Venn said nothing; but his hand shook slightly. He threw ace also. "O!" said Wildeve. "Curse me!" The die smacked the stone a second time. It was ace again. Venn looked gloomy, threw--the die was seen to be lying in two pieces, the cleft sides uppermost. "I've thrown nothing at all," he said. "Serves me right--I split the die with my teeth. Here--take your money. Blank is less than one." "I don't wish it." "Take it, I say--you've won it!" And Wildeve threw the stakes against the reddleman's chest. Venn gathered them up, arose, and withdrew from the hollow, Wildeve sitting stupefied. When he had come to himself he also arose, and, with the extinguished lantern in his hand, went towards the highroad. On reaching it he stood still. The silence of night pervaded the whole heath except in one direction; and that was towards Mistover. There he could hear the noise of light wheels, and presently saw two carriagelamps descending the hill. Wildeve screened himself under a bush and waited. The vehicle came on and passed before him. It was a hired carriage, and behind the coachman were two persons whom he knew well. There sat Eustacia and Yeobright, the arm of the latter being round her waist. They turned the sharp corner at the bottom towards the temporary home which Clym had hired and furnished, about five miles to the eastward. Wildeve forgot the loss of the money at the sight of his lost love, whose preciousness in his eyes was increasing in geometrical progression with each new incident that reminded him of their hopeless division. Brimming with the subtilized misery that he was capable of feeling, he followed the opposite way towards the inn. About the same moment that Wildeve stepped into the highway Venn also had reached it at a point a hundred yards further on; and he, hearing the same wheels, likewise waited till the carriage should come up. When he saw who sat therein he seemed to be disappointed. Reflecting a minute or two, during which interval the carriage rolled on, he crossed the road, and took a short cut through the furze and heath to a point where the turnpike road bent round in ascending a hill. He was now again in front of the carriage, which presently came up at a walking pace. Venn stepped forward and showed himself. Eustacia started when the lamp shone upon him, and Clym's arm was involuntarily withdrawn from her waist. He said, "What, Diggory? You are having a lonely walk." "Yes--I beg your pardon for stopping you," said Venn. "But I am waiting about for Mrs. Wildeve: I have something to give her from Mrs. Yeobright. Can you tell me if she's gone home from the party yet?" "No. But she will be leaving soon. You may possibly meet her at the corner." Venn made a farewell obeisance, and walked back to his former position, where the byroad from Mistover joined the highway. Here he remained fixed for nearly half an hour, and then another pair of lights came down the hill. It was the old-fashioned wheeled nondescript belonging to the captain, and Thomasin sat in it alone, driven by Charley. The reddleman came up as they slowly turned the corner. "I beg pardon for stopping you, Mrs. Wildeve," he said. "But I have something to give you privately from Mrs. Yeobright." He handed a small parcel; it consisted of the hundred guineas he had just won, roughly twisted up in a piece of paper. Thomasin recovered from her surprise, and took the packet. "That's all, ma'am--I wish you good night," he said, and vanished from her view. Thus Venn, in his anxiety to rectify matters, had placed in Thomasin's hands not only the fifty guineas which rightly belonged to her, but also the fifty intended for her cousin Clym. His mistake had been based upon Wildeve's words at the opening of the game, when he indignantly denied that the guinea was not his own. It had not been comprehended by the reddleman that at halfway through the performance the game was continued with the money of another person; and it was an error which afterwards helped to cause more misfortune than treble the loss in money value could have done. The night was now somewhat advanced; and Venn plunged deeper into the heath, till he came to a ravine where his van was standing--a spot not more than two hundred yards from the site of the gambling bout. He entered this movable home of his, lit his lantern, and, before closing his door for the night, stood reflecting on the circumstances of the preceding hours. While he stood the dawn grew visible in the northeast quarter of the heavens, which, the clouds having cleared off, was bright with a soft sheen at this midsummer time, though it was only between one and two o'clock. Venn, thoroughly weary, then shut his door and flung himself down to sleep. </CHAPTER> Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Erneut streitet Clym Yeobright mit seiner Mutter über seine Karrierepläne und seine Beziehung zu Eustacia Vye. Ihre Auseinandersetzungen, die bereits eine Weile andauern, eskalieren bis zu dem Punkt, an dem Mrs. Yeobright darauf hinweist, dass Clym in ihrem Haus nicht mehr willkommen ist. Verzweifelt trifft sich Clym mit Eustacia, und während ihres Spaziergangs auf der Heide planen sie, sehr bald zu heiraten und in einem kleinen, abgelegenen Häuschen auf der Heide zu leben, bis Clym bereit ist, in die geschäftige Hafenstadt Budmouth zu ziehen, wo er seinen Plan, eine Internatsschule zu eröffnen, umsetzen will. Dementsprechend besorgt Clym sich ein Häuschen und zieht aus dem Haus seiner Mutter aus. Sie weigert sich weiterhin, sich mit ihm zu versöhnen, und sagt ihm, dass sie ihn nach der Hochzeit nicht besuchen werde. Am Tag von Clyms Abreise wird Mrs. Yeobright von ihrer Nichte Thomasin besucht, die erfolglos versucht, sie davon zu überzeugen, Clym zu verzeihen. Thomasin erzählt Mrs. Yeobright auch, dass Damon Wildeve, ihr neuer Ehemann, zögert, ihr Geld zum Ausgeben zu geben, und Mrs. Yeobright verspricht, Thomasin ihren Anteil ihres Erbes, 50 Guineen, zu schicken. Am Tag von Clyms Hochzeit befindet sich Mrs. Yeobright in ihrem Haus Blooms-End. Dort wird sie von Damon Wildeve besucht, der ebenfalls nicht bei der Hochzeit anwesend war: Eustacias Heirat hat seine alte Leidenschaft für sie wieder entfacht, und er ist eifersüchtig. Damon erkundigt sich nach dem "Artikel", den Thomasin ihn gebeten hat, bei Mrs. Yeobright abzuholen, aber Mrs. Yeobright weigert sich, Thomasins Erbschaftsgeld an Damon zu geben, und sagt ihm nicht einmal, um was für einen Artikel es sich handelt. Stattdessen schickt sie den ungeschickten Christian Cantle, um das Geld zu Thomasin zu bringen; da sowohl Thomasin als auch Clym auf Mistover Knapp die Hochzeit feiern, gibt sie auch Christians Anteil des Erbes an Clym, damit er es zu ihm bringt. Auf dem Weg nach Mistover gerät Christian jedoch in eine Gruppe Einheimischer, die zu Damons Gasthaus, dem Quiet Woman, gehen, um an einer Verlosung für ein wertvolles Stück Stoff teilzunehmen. Christian selbst nimmt an der Verlosung teil und ist ungewöhnlich glücklich, als er den Würfel für den Stoff gewinnt. Er verrät Damon versehentlich, dass er Thomasins Geld bei sich trägt, und Damon wird missgünstig; er wartet auf die Gelegenheit, das Geld für sich selbst zu beanspruchen. Diese Gelegenheit ergibt sich, als Damon und Christian während des Spaziergangs nach Mistover Knapp miteinander spielen; Damon erweist sich als der glücklichere Mann und nimmt Christian all das Geld - 50 Guineen, die Thomasin gehören, und 50, die Clym gehören - ab. Die Szene wird von Diggory Venn beobachtet, der Damon daraufhin zu einem Würfelspiel herausfordert. Die beiden spielen weiter, bis sie von pechschwarzer Dunkelheit umgeben sind; schließlich gewinnt Diggory all das Geld zurück, das Damon frustriert hat. Ohne zu erkennen, dass 50 Guineen Clym gehören, gibt er sofort alle 100 Guineen an Thomasin, die - unwissend über die tatsächliche Höhe ihres Erbes - den Fehler ebenfalls nicht bemerkt.

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.

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 HOT SUN--YET BOUND--THE CORDS SINK INTO MY FLESH--CHAPIN'S UNEASINESS--SPECULATION--RACHEL, AND HER CUP OF WATER--SUFFERING INCREASES--THE HAPPINESS OF SLAVERY--ARRIVAL OF FORD--HE CUTS THE CORDS WHICH BIND ME, AND TAKES THE ROPE FROM MY NECK--MISERY--THE GATHERING OF THE SLAVES IN ELIZA'S CABIN--THEIR KINDNESS--RACHEL REPEATS THE OCCURRENCES OF THE DAY--LAWSON ENTERTAINS HIS COMPANIONS WITH AN ACCOUNT OF HIS RIDE--CHAPIN'S APPREHENSIONS OF TIBEATS--HIRED TO PETER TANNER--PETER EXPOUNDS THE SCRIPTURES--DESCRIPTION OF THE STOCKS. As the sun approached the meridian that day it became insufferably warm. Its hot rays scorched the ground. The earth almost blistered the foot that stood upon it. I was without coat or hat, standing bare-headed, exposed to its burning blaze. Great drops of perspiration rolled down my face, drenching the scanty apparel wherewith I was clothed. Over the fence, a very little way off, the peach trees cast their cool, delicious shadows on the grass. I would gladly have given a long year of service to have been enabled to exchange the heated oven, as it were, wherein I stood, for a seat beneath their branches. But I was yet bound, the rope still dangling from my neck, and standing in the same tracks where Tibeats and his comrades left me. I could not move an inch, so firmly had I been bound. To have been enabled to lean against the weaving house would have been a luxury indeed. But it was far beyond my reach, though distant less than twenty feet. I wanted to lie down, but knew I could not rise again. The ground was so parched and boiling hot I was aware it would but add to the discomfort of my situation. If I could have only moved my position, however slightly, it would have been relief unspeakable. But the hot rays of a southern sun, beating all the long summer day on my bare head, produced not half the suffering I experienced from my aching limbs. My wrists and ankles, and the cords of my legs and arms began to swell, burying the rope that bound them into the swollen flesh. All day Chapin walked back and forth upon the stoop, but not once approached me. He appeared to be in a state of great uneasiness, looking first towards me, and then up the road, as if expecting some arrival every moment. He did not go to the field, as was his custom. It was evident from his manner that he supposed Tibeats would return with more and better armed assistance, perhaps, to renew the quarrel, and it was equally evident he had prepared his mind to defend my life at whatever hazard. Why he did not relieve me--why he suffered me to remain in agony the whole weary day, I never knew. It was not for want of sympathy, I am certain. Perhaps he wished Ford to see the rope about my neck, and the brutal manner in which I had been bound; perhaps his interference with another's property in which he had no legal interest might have been a trespass, which would have subjected him to the penalty of the law. Why Tibeats was all day absent was another mystery I never could divine. He knew well enough that Chapin would not harm him unless he persisted in his design against me. Lawson told me afterwards, that, as he passed the plantation of John David Cheney, he saw the three, and that they turned and looked after him as he flew by. I think his supposition was, that Lawson had been sent out by Overseer Chapin to arouse the neighboring planters, and to call on them to come to his assistance. He, therefore, undoubtedly, acted on the principle, that "discretion is the better part of valor," and kept away. But whatever motive may have governed the cowardly and malignant tyrant, it is of no importance. There I still stood in the noon-tide sun, groaning with pain. From long before daylight I had not eaten a morsel. I was growing faint from pain, and thirst, and hunger. Once only, in the very hottest portion of the day, Rachel, half fearful she was acting contrary to the overseer's wishes, ventured to me, and held a cup of water to my lips. The humble creature never knew, nor could she comprehend if she had heard them, the blessings I invoked upon her, for that balmy draught. She could only say, "Oh, Platt, how I do pity you," and then hastened back to her labors in the kitchen. Never did the sun move so slowly through the heavens--never did it shower down such fervent and fiery rays, as it did that day. At least, so it appeared to me. What my meditations were--the innumerable thoughts that thronged through my distracted brain--I will not attempt to give expression to. Suffice it to say, during the whole long day I came not to the conclusion, even once, that the southern slave, fed, clothed, whipped and protected by his master, is happier than the free colored citizen of the North. To that conclusion I have never since arrived. There are many, however, even in the Northern States, benevolent and well-disposed men, who will pronounce my opinion erroneous, and gravely proceed to substantiate the assertion with an argument. Alas! they have never drunk, as I have, from the bitter cup of slavery. Just at sunset my heart leaped with unbounded joy, as Ford came riding into the yard, his horse covered with foam. Chapin met him at the door, and after conversing a short time, he walked directly to me. "Poor Platt, you are in a bad state," was the only expression that escaped his lips. "Thank God!" said I, "thank God, Master Ford, that you have come at last." Drawing a knife from his pocket, he indignantly cut the cord from my wrists, arms, and ankles, and slipped the noose from my neck. I attempted to walk, but staggered like a drunken man, and fell partially to the ground. Ford returned immediately to the house, leaving me alone again. As he reached the piazza, Tibeats and his two friends rode up. A long dialogue followed. I could hear the sound of their voices, the mild tones of Ford mingling with the angry accents of Tibeats, but was unable to distinguish what was said. Finally the three departed again, apparently not well pleased. I endeavored to raise the hammer, thinking to show Ford how willing I was to work, by proceeding with my labors on the weaving house, but it fell from my nerveless hand. At dark I crawled into the cabin, and laid down. I was in great misery--all sore and swollen--the slightest movement producing excruciating suffering. Soon the hands came in from the field. Rachel, when she went after Lawson, had told them what had happened. Eliza and Mary broiled me a piece of bacon, but my appetite was gone. Then they scorched some corn meal and made coffee. It was all that I could take. Eliza consoled me and was very kind. It was not long before the cabin was full of slaves. They gathered round me, asking many questions about the difficulty with Tibeats in the morning--and the particulars of all the occurrences of the day. Then Rachel came in, and in her simple language, repeated it over again--dwelling emphatically on the kick that sent Tibeats rolling over on the ground--whereupon there was a general titter throughout the crowd. Then she described how Chapin walked out with his pistols and rescued me, and how Master Ford cut the ropes with his knife, just as if he was mad. By this time Lawson had returned. He had to regale them with an account of his trip to the Pine Woods--how the brown mule bore him faster than a "streak o'lightnin"--how he astonished everybody as he flew along--how Master Ford started right away--how he said Platt was a good nigger, and they shouldn't kill him, concluding with pretty strong intimations that there was not another human being in the wide world, who could have created such a universal sensation on the road, or performed such a marvelous John Gilpin feat, as he had done that day on the brown mule. The kind creatures loaded me with the expression of their sympathy--saying, Tibeats was a hard, cruel man, and hoping "Massa Ford" would get me back again. In this manner they passed the time, discussing, chatting, talking over and over again the exciting affair, until suddenly Chapin presented himself at the cabin door and called me. "Platt," said he, "you will sleep on the floor in the great house to-night; bring your blanket with you." I arose as quickly as I was able, took my blanket in my hand, and followed him. On the way he informed me that he should not wonder if Tibeats was back again before morning--that he intended to kill me--and that he did not mean he should do it without witnesses. Had he stabbed me to the heart in the presence of a hundred slaves, not one of them, by the laws of Louisiana, could have given evidence against him. I laid down on the floor in the "great house"--the first and the last time such a sumptuous resting place was granted me during my twelve years of bondage--and tried to sleep. Near midnight the dog began to bark. Chapin arose, looked from the window, but could discover nothing. At length the dog was quiet. As he returned to his room, he said, "I believe, Platt, that scoundrel is skulking about the premises somewhere. If the dog barks again, and I am sleeping, wake me." I promised to do so. After the lapse of an hour or more, the dog re-commenced his clamor, running towards the gate, then back again, all the while barking furiously. Chapin was out of bed without waiting to be called. On this occasion, he stepped forth upon the piazza, and remained standing there a considerable length of time. Nothing, however, was to be seen, and the dog returned to his kennel. We were not disturbed again during the night. The excessive pain that I suffered, and the dread of some impending danger, prevented any rest whatever. Whether or not Tibeats did actually return to the plantation that night, seeking an opportunity to wreak his vengeance upon me, is a secret known only to himself, perhaps. I thought then, however, and have the strong impression still, that he was there. At all events, he had the disposition of an assassin--cowering before a brave man's words, but ready to strike his helpless or unsuspecting victim in the back, as I had reason afterwards to know. At daylight in the morning, I arose, sore and weary, having rested little. Nevertheless, after partaking breakfast, which Mary and Eliza had prepared for me in the cabin, I proceeded to the weaving house and commenced the labors of another day. It was Chapin's practice, as it is the practice of overseers generally, immediately on arising, to bestride his horse, always saddled and bridled and ready for him--the particular business of some slave--and ride into the field. This morning, on the contrary, he came to the weaving house, asking if I had seen anything of Tibeats yet. Replying in the negative, he remarked there was something not right about the fellow--there was bad blood in him--that I must keep a sharp watch of him, or he would do me wrong some day when I least expected it. While he was yet speaking, Tibeats rode in, hitched his horse, and entered the house. I had little fear of him while Ford and Chapin were at hand, but they could not be near me always. Oh! how heavily the weight of slavery pressed upon me then. I must toil day after day, endure abuse and taunts and scoffs, sleep on the hard ground, live on the coarsest fare, and not only this, but live the slave of a blood-seeking wretch, of whom I must stand henceforth in continued fear and dread. Why had I not died in my young years--before God had given me children to love and live for? What unhappiness and suffering and sorrow it would have prevented. I sighed for liberty; but the bondman's chain was round me, and could not be shaken off. I could only gaze wistfully towards the North, and think of the thousands of miles that stretched between me and the soil of freedom, over which a _black_ freeman may not pass. Tibeats, in the course of half an hour, walked over to the weaving-house, looked at me sharply, then returned without saying anything. Most of the forenoon he sat on the piazza, reading a newspaper and conversing with Ford. After dinner, the latter left for the Pine Woods, and it was indeed with regret that I beheld him depart from the plantation. Once more during the day Tibeats came to me, gave me some order, and returned. During the week the weaving-house was completed--Tibeats in the meantime making no allusion whatever to the difficulty--when I was informed he had hired me to Peter Tanner, to work under another carpenter by the name of Myers. This announcement was received with gratification, as any place was desirable that would relieve me of his hateful presence. Peter Tanner, as the reader has already been informed, lived on the opposite shore, and was the brother of Mistress Ford. He is one of the most extensive planters on Bayou Boeuf, and owns a large number of slaves. Over I went to Tanner's, joyfully enough. He had heard of my late difficulties--in fact, I ascertained the flogging of Tibeats was soon blazoned far and wide. This affair, together with my rafting experiment, had rendered me somewhat notorious. More than once I heard it said that Platt Ford, now Platt Tibeats--a slave's name changes with his change of master--was "a devil of a nigger." But I was destined to make a still further noise, as will presently be seen, throughout the little world of Bayou Boeuf. Peter Tanner endeavored to impress upon me the idea that he was quite severe, though I could perceive there was a vein of good humor in the old fellow, after all. "You're the nigger," he said to me on my arrival--"You're the nigger that flogged your master, eh? You're the nigger that kicks, and holds carpenter Tibeats by the leg, and wallops him, are ye? I'd like to see you hold me by the leg--I should. You're a 'portant character--you're a great nigger--very remarkable nigger, ain't ye? _I'd_ lash you--_I'd_ take the tantrums out of ye. Jest take hold of my leg, if you please. None of your pranks here, my boy, remember _that_. Now go to work, you _kickin'_ rascal," concluded Peter Tanner, unable to suppress a half-comical grin at his own wit and sarcasm. After listening to this salutation, I was taken charge of by Myers, and labored under his direction for a month, to his and my own satisfaction. Like William Ford, his brother-in-law, Tanner was in the habit of reading the Bible to his slaves on the Sabbath, but in a somewhat different spirit. He was an impressive commentator on the New Testament. The first Sunday after my coming to the plantation, he called them together, and began to read the twelfth chapter of Luke. When he came to the 47th verse, he looked deliberately around him, and continued--"And that servant which knew his lord's _will_,"--here he paused, looking around more deliberately than before, and again proceeded--"which knew his lord's _will_, and _prepared_ not himself"--here was another pause--"_prepared_ not himself, neither did _according_ to his will, shall be beaten with many _stripes_." "D'ye hear that?" demanded Peter, emphatically. "_Stripes_," he repeated, slowly and distinctly, taking off his spectacles, preparatory to making a few remarks. "That nigger that don't take care--that don't obey his lord--that's his master--d'ye see?--that _'ere_ nigger shall be beaten with many stripes. Now, 'many' signifies a _great_ many--forty, a hundred, a hundred and fifty lashes. _That's_ Scripter!" and so Peter continued to elucidate the subject for a great length of time, much to the edification of his sable audience. At the conclusion of the exercises, calling up three of his slaves, Warner, Will and Major, he cried out to me-- "Here, Platt, you held Tibeats by the legs; now I'll see if you can hold these rascals in the same way, till I get back from meetin'." Thereupon he ordered them to the stocks--a common thing on plantations in the Red River country. The stocks are formed of two planks, the lower one made fast at the ends to two short posts, driven firmly into the ground. At regular distances half circles are cut in the upper edge. The other plank is fastened to one of the posts by a hinge, so that it can be opened or shut down, in the same manner as the blade of a pocket-knife is shut or opened. In the lower edge of the upper plank corresponding half circles are also cut, so that when they close, a row of holes is formed large enough to admit a negro's leg above the ankle, but not large enough to enable him to draw out his foot. The other end of the upper plank, opposite the hinge, is fastened to its post by lock and key. The slave is made to sit upon the ground, when the uppermost plank is elevated, his legs, just above the ankles, placed in the sub-half circles, and shutting it down again, and locking it, he is held secure and fast. Very often the neck instead of the ankle is enclosed. In this manner they are held during the operation of whipping. Warner, Will and Major, according to Tanner's account of them, were melon-stealing, Sabbath-breaking niggers, and not approving of such wickedness, he felt it his duty to put them in the stocks. Handing me the key, himself, Myers, Mistress Tanner and the children entered the carriage and drove away to church at Cheneyville. When they were gone, the boys begged me to let them out. I felt sorry to see them sitting on the hot ground, and remembered my own sufferings in the sun. Upon their promise to return to the stocks at any moment they were required to do so, I consented to release them. Grateful for the lenity shown them, and in order in some measure to repay it, they could do no less, of course, than pilot me to the melon-patch. Shortly before Tanner's return, they were in the stocks again. Finally he drove up, and looking at the boys, said, with a chuckle,-- "Aha! ye havn't been strolling about much to-day, any way. _I'll_ teach you what's what. _I'll_ tire ye of eating water-melons on the Lord's day, ye Sabbath-breaking niggers." Peter Tanner prided himself upon his strict religious observances: he was a deacon in the church. But I have now reached a point in the progress of my narrative, when it becomes necessary to turn away from these light descriptions, to the more grave and weighty matter of the second battle with Master Tibeats, and the flight through the great Pacoudrie Swamp. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Solomon bleibt weiterhin unter der sengenden Sonne gefesselt. Er fühlt sich kurz vor dem Zusammenbruch und seine Glieder schmerzen, aber er kann sich nicht bewegen. Chapin entlastet ihn nie, sondern geht auf der Veranda auf und ab. Vielleicht wollte er, dass Ford sieht, wie schlecht Tibeats Solomon behandelt hat, oder vielleicht wollte er nicht weiter eingreifen. Rachel kommt einmal heraus, um Solomon Wasser zu geben und sagt ihm, dass sie Mitleid mit ihm hat. Schließlich kommt Ford angeritten und alles, was er sagt, ist, dass es Solomon schlecht geht. Er löst seine Fesseln und stürzt ins Haus. Solomon fällt um und kann nicht gehen. Er sieht Tibeats und seine beiden Freunde auf das Haus zukommen und mit Ford reden, nur um wieder zu gehen. Solomon kriecht in der Abenddämmerung zu seiner Hütte, da er nicht arbeiten kann. Er leidet sehr. Die anderen Sklaven kehren von ihrer Arbeit zurück. Sie hören Solomons Geschichte und geben ihm Essen und Wasser. Rachel fügt hinzu, was sie gesehen hat. Lawson erzählt auch seine Version der Geschichte. Plötzlich erscheint Chapin an der Tür und sagt Solomon, dass er heute Nacht auf dem Boden im Herrenhaus schlafen wird. Auf dem Weg dorthin sagt er, dass er glaubt, dass Tibeats vor Morgengrauen zurückkommen wird, um Solomon zu töten, und wenn er ihn vor den anderen Sklaven tötet, kann niemand etwas gegen ihn vor Gericht tun. Solomon liegt auf dem Boden und versucht zu schlafen. Gegen Mitternacht beginnt der Hund zu bellen; Chapin schaut nach draußen, sieht aber nichts. Er sagt Solomon, dass er glaubt, dass Tibeats irgendwo auf dem Grundstück herumschleicht, ist sich aber nicht sicher. Der Hund bellt erneut; Chapin geht nachsehen, aber da ist nichts. Der Rest der Nacht verläuft ereignislos. Am nächsten Morgen macht sich Solomon daran, seine Arbeit zu erledigen. Chapin sagt Solomon, er solle wachsam sein, denn Tibeats trägt schlechtes Blut in sich und er könne ihm eines Tages Unrecht tun. Tibeats kommt in diesem Moment angeritten und Solomon fühlt eine große Müdigkeit darüber, dass dies nun sein Leben ist: Er muss arbeiten und die Verachtung und Gefahr von Monstern ertragen. Wäre er doch nur in jungen Jahren gestorben. Es dauert eine Woche, um das Weberei-Gebäude fertigzustellen, und Solomon erfährt zu seiner Freude, dass Tibeats ihn an Peter Tanner verkauft hat, um mit einem anderen Zimmermann namens Myers zu arbeiten. Solomons Ruf ist ihm über die Bucht vorausgeeilt und Tanner macht ihm deutlich, dass er streng mit seinen Sklaven umgeht, obwohl Solomon heraushört, dass er auch einen gewissen Humor hat. Solomon arbeitet einen Monat lang für Myers. Tanner hat die Angewohnheit, seinen Sklaven am Sabbat aus der Bibel vorzulesen, und eines Tages liest er, dass Sklaven, die nicht den Willen ihres Herrn tun, mit vielen Schlägen bestraft werden sollen. Er ruft drei seiner Sklaven - Warner, Will und Major - zu sich und sagt ihnen, dass sie melonenstehlende, den Sabbat brechende Sklaven sind und in die Bestockung müssen. Er befiehlt Solomon, über sie zu wachen. Als die Tanner-Familie zur Kirche geht, bitten die drei Sklaven Solomon, sie herauszulassen. Er gibt nach; sie essen alle Melonen und dann kehren die Männer in die Bestockung zurück, als Tanner nach Hause kommt. Diese Fröhlichkeit ist jedoch von kurzer Dauer, denn Solomons großer Konflikt mit Tibeats steht bevor.

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.

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: Aktus Quartus. Szene 1. Der Prinz, der Bastard, Leonato, der Friar, Claudio, Benedikt, Hero und Beatrice betreten die Szene. Leonato: Komm, Friar Franziskus, sei kurz, nur um die einfache Form der Ehe, und du wirst ihre spezifischen Pflichten später erzählen. Friar Franziskus: Ihr seid hierhergekommen, mein Herr, um diese Dame zu heiraten. Claudio: Nein. Leonato: Um sie zu heiraten. Friar, du kommst, um sie zu heiraten. Friar Franziskus: Dame, du kommst hierher, um diesen Grafen zu heiraten. Hero: Ja, das tue ich. Friar Franziskus: Wenn einer von euch irgendein internes Hindernis kennt, warum ihr nicht verbunden sein solltet, dann befehle ich euch bei eurer Seele, es auszusprechen. Claudio: Weißt du etwas, Hero? Hero: Nein, mein Herr. Friar Franziskus: Weißt du etwas, Graf? Leonato: Ich wette, seine Antwort lautet: Nein. Claudio: Oh, was Männer tun dürfen! Was Männer tun könnten! Was Männer täglich tun! Benedikt: Wie jetzt! Ausdrücke? Dann einige zum Lachen, wie ha, ha, he. Claudio: Steh du zur Seite, Friar, Vater, mit deiner Erlaubnis, würdest du mir, mit freier und ungezwungener Seele, dieses Mädchen, deine Tochter, geben? Leonato: So frei wie Gott sie mir gegeben hat, mein Sohn. Claudio: Und was habe ich dir zu geben, dessen Wert diese reiche und kostbare Gabe ausgleichen könnte? Prinz: Nichts, es sei denn, du gibst sie mir zurück. Claudio: Süßer Prinz, du lehrst mich noble Dankbarkeit. Dort, Leonato, nimm sie wieder zurück. Gib diesem verfaulten Apfel nicht deinem Freund. Sie ist nur das Zeichen und der Anschein ihrer Ehre. Sieh, wie sie hier wie ein Mädchen errötet! Oh, welche Autorität und welcher Schein von Wahrheit kann geschickte Sünde sich selbst damit verdecken! Ist nicht dieses Blut, als einfacher Beweis, um einfache Tugend zu bezeugen? Würdest du nicht schwören, alle die sie sehen, dass sie noch eine Jungfrau ist, anhand dieser äußerlichen Erscheinung? Aber sie ist keine. Sie kennt die Hitze eines ausschweifenden Bettes. Ihre Errötung ist Schuld, nicht Bescheidenheit. Leonato: Was meinst du damit, mein Herr? Claudio: Nicht zu heiraten, meine Seele nicht mit einer anerkannten Wollust zu verbinden. Leonus: Mein lieber Herr, wenn du in deinem eigenen Beweis den Widerstand ihrer Jugend überwunden hast und ihre Jungfräulichkeit besiegt hast. Claudio: Ich weiß, was du sagen willst. Wenn ich sie gekannt habe, würdest du sagen, dass sie mich als Ehemann angenommen hat und somit die vorausgehende Sünde verharmlost hat. Nein, Leonato, ich habe sie niemals mit einer zu großzügigen Sprache in Versuchung geführt, sondern wie ein Bruder zu seiner Schwester, Züchtigkeit und anständige Liebe gezeigt. Hero: Und schien ich dir jemals anders? Claudio: Schäm dich, du scheinst mir wie Diana in ihrer Bahn, so keusch wie die Knospe, bevor sie erblüht. Aber du bist unmaßgeblich in deinem Blut, intemperanter als Venus oder diese verwöhnten Tiere, die in wilder Sinnlichkeit toben. Hero: Geht es meinem Herrn gut, dass er so breit spricht? Leonato: Süßer Prinz, warum sprichst du nicht? Prinz: Was soll ich sagen? Ich stehe entehrt da, dass ich versuchte, meinen lieben Freund mit einer gewöhnlichen Hure zu verbinden. Leonato: Werden diese Dinge gesprochen oder träume ich nur? Bastard: Sir, sie werden gesprochen, und diese Dinge sind wahr. Benedikt: Das sieht nicht nach einer Hochzeit aus. Hero: Wahr, oh Gott! Claudio: Leonato, stehe ich hier? Ist das der Prinz? Ist das der Bruder des Prinzen? Ist dieses Gesicht Hero? Gehören unsere Augen uns? Leonato: Alles ist so, aber was bedeutet das, mein Herr? Claudio: Lass mich nur eine Frage an deine Tochter stellen und durch deine väterliche und freundliche Macht, die du über sie hast, aufgefordert, dass sie ehrlich antwortet. Leonato: Ich befehle dir, es zu tun, mein Kind. Hero: Oh Gott, beschütze mich! Wie bin ich gefangen? Was für eine Art von Verhör ist das? Claudio: Um dich dazu zu bringen, wahrhaftig auf deinen Namen zu antworten. Hero: Ist es nicht Hero? Wer kann diesen Namen mit einem gerechten Vorwurf beschmutzen? Claudio: Nun, das kann Hero allein tun. Hero selbst kann Heros Tugend beschmutzen. Welcher Mann hat gestern Nacht mit dir gesprochen, zwischen zwölf und eins, aus deinem Fenster heraus? Wenn du eine Jungfrau bist, antworte darauf. Hero: Ich habe um diese Zeit, mein Herr, mit keinem Mann gesprochen. Prinz: Dann bist du keine Jungfrau. Leonato, es tut mir leid, dass du es hören musst. Auf mein Ehrenwort haben mein Bruder, dieser betrübte Graf und ich sie gesehen und gehört, wie sie gestern Nacht mit einem Schurken an ihrem Fenster gesprochen hat. Dieser hat tatsächlich wie ein freizügiger Schurke die schändlichen Begegnungen zugegeben, die sie tausendmal im Geheimen hatten. Johannes: Pfui, pfui, sie dürfen nicht genannt werden, mein Herr. Sie dürfen nicht ausgesprochen werden. Es gibt nicht genug Keuschheit in der Sprache, ohne sie zu beleidigen. Daher, hübsche Dame, tut es mir leid für deine große Verirrung. Claudio: Oh Hero! Was für eine Hero hättest du sein können, wenn nur die Hälfte deiner äußeren Anmut in deinen Gedanken und Ratschlägen deines Herzens gewesen wären. Aber lebe wohl, die schmutzigste und schönste, lebe wohl. Du reine Gottlosigkeit und gottloser Anstand, ich werde alle Tore der Liebe verschließen und auf meinen Augenlidern wird sich Vermutung festsetzen, um jede Schönheit in böse Gedanken zu verwandeln. Und nie wird sie wieder gnädig sein. Leonato: Hat niemand hier ein Messer für mich? Beatrice: Was ist denn los, Cousin? Warum sinkst du nieder? Bastard: Komm, lass uns gehen. Diese Dinge kommen so ans Licht, verdränge ihre Gedanken. Benedikt: Wie geht es der Dame? Beatrice: Ich denke, sie ist tot. Hilf, Onkel, Hero, warum, Hero, Onkel, Herr Benedikt, Friar! Leonato: Oh Schicksal! Nimm deine schwere Hand nicht weg. Der Tod ist die schönste Decke für ihre Schande, die man sich wünschen kann. Beatrice: Wie geht es dir, Cousin Hero? Friar: Hab Mut, Lady. Leonato: Schau auf! Warum sollte sie es nicht? Warum? Warum verurteilt nicht jedes irdische Ding sie? Hätte sie hier die Geschichte bestritten, die in ihrem Blut geschrieben steht? Lebe nicht, Hero, öffne nicht deine Augen. Denn wenn ich dachte, du würdest nicht schnell sterben, wenn ich dachte, deine Stärke wäre stärker als deine Schande, hätte ich mich selbst mit Schmähungen auf dein Leben gesetzt. Würde ich mich ärgern, dass ich nur eins hatte? Tadelte ich das sparsame Werk der Natur? Oh, eins zu viel durch dich. Warum war ich überhaupt angetan von dir? Warum habe ich nicht mit einer milden Hand das Kind einer Bettlerin an meiner Tür aufgehoben? Die so beschmutzte und besudelte Person, ich hätte sagen können, dass nichts davon mir gehört. Diese Sch Fr. Hört mich kurz an, denn ich habe nur so lange geschwiegen und dem Schicksalsverlauf nachgegeben, indem ich die Dame beobachtet habe, habe ich bemerkt. Tausend errötende Erscheinungen Erscheinen in ihrem Gesicht, tausend unschuldige Schamgefühle, In engelhafter Weiße nehmen sie diese Röte mit sich fort, Und in ihren Augen ist ein Feuer erschienen, Um die Fehler zu verbrennen, die diese Prinzen Gegen ihre jungfräuliche Wahrheit haben. Nennt mich einen Narren, Vertraut nicht meiner Lektüre, noch meinen Beobachtungen, Die mit experimenteller Dichtung das Recht meines Buches besiegeln: Vertraut nicht meinem Alter, Meiner Würde, Berufung oder Geistlichkeit, Wenn diese süße Dame nicht unschuldig hier liegt, Aufgrund eines beißenden Irrtums. Le. Pater, das kann nicht sein: Du siehst, dass alle Anmut, die sie noch hat, Ist, dass sie ihrer Verdammnis nichts hinzufügen will, Eine Sünde des Meineids, sie leugnet es nicht: Warum versuchst du dann, mit Entschuldigungen zu vertuschen, Was in angemessener Nacktheit erscheint? Fr. Dame, welcher Mann beschuldigt Sie? He. Die, die mich beschuldigen, wissen es, ich kenne keinen: Wenn ich mehr von einem lebenden Mann wüsste, Als das, was die jungfräuliche Bescheidenheit zulässt, Ja, stehen all meine Sünden ohne Gnade da. O mein Vater, Weisen Sie nach, dass ich mich mit einem Mann verabredet habe, Um unangemessene Stunden, oder dass ich gestern Nacht Einen Wortwechsel mit irgendeinem Wesen hatte, Lehnen Sie mich, hassen Sie mich, foltern Sie mich zu Tode. Fr. Es liegt eine seltsame Missdeutung in den Prinzen. Bn. Zwei von ihnen haben einen wahren Ehrenkodex, Und wenn ihre Weisheit in diesem Fall fehlgeleitet wird: Die Übung davon lebt in John dem Bastard, Dessen Geist sich in die Gestalt von Schurkereien quält. Le. Ich weiß es nicht: Wenn sie aber die Wahrheit über sie sprechen, Werden meine Hände sie zerreissen: Wenn sie ihre Ehre beleidigen, Wird der Stolzeste von ihnen davon hören. Noch hat die Zeit mein Blut nicht so getrocknet, Noch hat das Alter meine Erfindung nicht so aufgefressen, Noch hat das Schicksal meine Mittel nicht so zerstört, Noch hat mein schlechtes Leben mich nicht so sehr von Freunden beraubt, Aber sie werden, wenn sie in dieser Art geweckt werden, Stärke des Körpers und Politik des Geistes, Fähigkeit in Mitteln und Freundeswahl finden, Um mich von ihnen vollständig zu befreien. Fr. Mache eine Weile Pause: Und lass meinen Rat in diesem Fall auf dich einwirken, Deine Tochter, die Prinzessin (für tot gehalten) Lass sie eine Weile heimlich hier bleiben, Und verkünde, dass sie wirklich tot ist: Beweise Trauerrituale, Und am alten Denkmal deiner Familien Hänge traurige Epitaphien und führe alle Riten durch, Die zu einer Beerdigung gehören. Le. Was wird aus dem daraus? Was wird das tun? Fr. Ja, wenn das gut durchgeführt wird, wird es in ihrem Namen Verleumdung in Reue verwandeln; das ist etwas Gutes, Aber nicht wegen dieser Träumerei unternehme ich diesen seltsamen Kurs, Aber auf dieser Reise rechne ich mit größerer Wirkung: Wenn sie stirbt, wie es bestätigt werden muss, Sofort nachdem sie beschuldigt wurde, Wird sie betrauert, bedauert und entschuldigt sein Von jedem Hörer: Denn es geschieht so, Dass wir, was wir haben, nicht nach dem Wert schätzen, Solange wir es genießen; aber wenn wir es vermissen und verlieren, Warum dann steigern wir den Wert, dann entdecken wir Die Tugend, die der Besitz uns nicht zeigen würde, Solange sie uns gehörte, so wird es auch mit Claudio sein: Wenn er hört, dass sie aufgrund seiner Worte gestorben ist, Wird das Bild ihres Lebens sanft einfließen In sein Studium der Vorstellungskraft: Und jedes liebliche Organ ihres Lebens Wird in kostbarerer Kleidung erscheinen: Beweglicher, zarter und voller Leben, In das Auge und die Aussicht seiner Seele Als wenn sie tatsächlich lebte: Dann wird er trauern, Wenn die Liebe je einen Einfluss auf seine Leber hatte, Und wünschen, er hätte sie nicht beschuldigt: Nein, auch wenn er seine Anschuldigung für wahr hielt: Lass es so sein, und zweifle nicht daran, dass der Erfolg Das Ereignis in besserer Form gestalten wird, Als ich es in Wahrscheinlichkeit niederschreiben kann. Aber wenn alles andere als das anvisiert wird, Die Annahme des Tods der Dame, Wird das Staunen über ihre Schande erlöschen. Und wenn es nicht gut geht, kannst du sie verbergen, Wie es ihrem verwundeten Ruf am besten entspricht, In einem abgeschiedenen und religiösen Leben, Fernab aller Augen, Zungen, Gedanken und Verletzungen. Bn. Signior Leonato, lass den Bruder dich beraten, Und obwohl du meine innere Bindung und Liebe kennst Sehr zu dem Prinzen und Claudio. Doch bei meiner Ehre werde ich in dieser Angelegenheit handeln, So geheim und gerecht wie deine Seele Mit deinem Körper handeln sollte. Le. Da ich in Trauer schwimme, Kann mich der kleinste Faden leiten. Fr. Es ist gut vereinbart, sofort loszugehen, Denn zu fremden Wunden bringen sie selbst seltsame Heilmethoden, Komm, Lady, sei tot, um zu leben, dieser Hochzeitstag Wird vielleicht nur hinausgezögert, habe Geduld und ertrage es. (Räumen ab) Bn. Lady Beatrice, hast du die ganze Zeit geweint? B. Ja, und ich werde noch etwas länger weinen. Bn. Ich werde das nicht verlangen. B. Du hast keinen Grund, ich tue es freiwillig. Bn. Ich glaube sicher, dass dein liebliches Kusin Unrecht hat. B. Ach, wie sehr müsste der Mann verdient haben, Der ihr das Recht verschaffen würde! Bn. Gibt es eine Möglichkeit, solche Freundschaft zu zeigen? B. Ein sehr gerader Weg, aber kein solcher Freund. Bn. Kann ein Mann es tun? B. Es ist die Aufgabe eines Mannes, aber nicht deine. Bn. Ich liebe nichts auf der Welt so sehr wie dich, ist das nicht seltsam? B. So seltsam wie die Sache, die ich nicht kenne, es wäre so Möglich für mich, zu sagen, ich liebte nichts so sehr wie dich, aber Glaub mir nicht, und doch lüge ich nicht, ich gestehe nichts, noch Ich leugne nichts, ich bedaure meine Cousine. Bn. Bei meinem Schwert, Beatrice, du liebst mich. B. Schwöre nicht darauf und iss es. Bn. Ich werde darauf schwören, dass du mich liebst, und ich werde Ihn essen lassen, der sagt, ich liebe dich nicht. B. Willst du dein Wort nicht essen? Bn. Mit keiner Sauce, die dafür erfunden werden kann, beteuer ich Ich liebe dich. B. Dann vergib mir Gott. Bn. Welche Straftat, süße Beatrice? B. Du hast mich in einer glücklichen Stunde aufgehalten, ich war dabei zu erklären, dass ich dich liebe. Bn. Und tue es aus ganzem Herzen. Beat. Verwende es für meine Liebe auf eine andere Art und Weise als das Schwören darauf. Benedikt. Denkst du in deiner Seele, dass der Graf Claudio Hero Unrecht getan hat? Beat. Ja, so sicher wie ich einen Gedanken oder eine Seele habe. Benedikt. Genug, ich bin verwickelt, ich werde ihn herausfordern, ich werde deine Hand küssen und dich so verlassen: Bei dieser Hand wird mir Claudio Rechenschaft ablegen. Wie du von mir hörst, so denk an mich. Tröste deine Cousine und ich muss sagen, sie ist tot. So lebwohl. Szene 2. Die Verwahrer, Borachio und der Stadtschreiber in Roben treten auf. Verwahrer. Sind wir komplett? Cowley. Ein Stuhl und ein Kissen für den Totengräber. Totengräber. Wer sind die Übeltäter? Andrew. Das bin ich, und mein Partner. Cowley. Nein, das ist sicher, wir haben die Anzeige, um zu untersuchen. Totengräber. Aber wer sind die Angeklagten, die untersucht werden sollen? Lasst sie vor den Meister-Verwalter treten. Kemp. Ja, lasst sie vor mich treten. Wie ist dein Name, Freund? Bor. Borachio. Kemp. Schreib Borachio auf. Und du, Sirrah? Verwalter. Ich bin ein Herr, und mein Name ist Conrade. Kemp. Schreib Gentleman Conrade auf. Meister, dienen Sie Gott? Meister, es ist bereits bewiesen, dass Sie wenig besser als falsche Schurken sind, und es wird bald gedacht werden. Was antworten Sie für sich? Conrade. Sir, wir sagen, dass wir keine Schurken sind. Kemp. Ein erstaunlich witziger Kerl, versichere ich Ihnen, aber ich werde es mit ihm versuchen. Komm her, Sirrah, ein Wort in dein Ohr, Sir. Ich sage dir, man denkt, du bist ein falscher Schurke. Borachio. Sir, ich sage Ihnen, dass wir keine sind. Kemp. Nun gut, geh zur Seite. Beim Himmel, sie sind beide in einem Märchen. Hast du aufgeschrieben, dass sie keine sind? Totengräber. Meister-Verwalter, du gehst nicht auf die richtige Weise vor, du musst die Wachen rufen, die ihre Ankläger sind. Kemp. Ja, das ist der beste Weg. Lasst die Wachen erscheinen. Meister, ich befehle euch im Namen des Prinzen, beschuldigt diese Männer. Wache 1. Dieser Mann hat gesagt, dass Don Juan, der Bruder des Prinzen, ein Schurke ist. Kemp. Schreib auf, Prinz Juan ein Schurke. Das ist offensichtlicher Meineid, den Bruder eines Prinzen einen Schurken zu nennen. Borachio. Meister-Verwalter. Kemp. Hör auf, Kerl, ich mag deinen Blick nicht, verspreche ich dir. Totengräber. Was hast du ihn sonst sagen hören? Wache 2. Dass er tausend Dukaten von Don Juan erhalten hat, um die Dame Hero zu Unrecht zu beschuldigen. Kemp. Flacher Einbruch, wie er jemals begangen wurde. Verwalter. Ja, beim Himmel, das ist es. Totengräber. Was noch, Kerl? Wache 1. Und dass Graf Claudio vor der gesamten Versammlung beabsichtigte, Hero zu beschämen und sie nicht zu heiraten. Kemp. Oh, Schurke! Du wirst auf ewige Erlösung für dieses verurteilt. Totengräber. Was noch? Wache. Das ist alles. Totengräber. Und das ist mehr, Meister, als ihr leugnen könnt. Prinz Juan ist heute Morgen heimlich entkommen. Hero wurde auf diese Weise angeklagt und auf diese Weise abgelehnt, und vor Kummer darüber starb sie plötzlich. Meister-Verwalter, bindet diese Männer und bringt sie zu Leonato. Ich werde vorausgehen und ihm ihre Vernehmung zeigen. Verwalter. Los, sie sollen vernommen werden. Totengräber. Lasst sie in den Händen des Narren sein. Kemp. Zum Teufel, wo ist der Totengräber? Lass ihn aufschreiben, der Prinzenbeamte Narrenkopf. Los, bindet sie, du böser Schurke. Cowley. Weg, du bist ein Esel, ein Esel. Kemp. Verdächtigst du nicht meinen Platz? Verdächtigst du nicht mein Alter? Oh, dass er hier wäre, um mich als Esel aufzuschreiben! Aber Meister, denkt dran, dass ich ein Esel bin, auch wenn es nicht aufgeschrieben steht, vergesst nicht, dass ich ein Esel bin. Nein, du Schurke, du bist so fromm wie du durch gute Zeugen bewiesen werden wirst. Ich bin ein kluger Kerl und, was mehr ist, ein Beamter und, was mehr ist, ein Haushalter und, was mehr ist, ein hübsch Stück Fleisch wie jedes in Messina und einer, der das Gesetz kennt. Los, und ein reicher genug Kerl dazu und einer, der Verluste hatte und einer, der zwei Roben hat und alles Schöne an ihm. Bringt ihn weg. Oh, dass ich als Esel aufgeschrieben wäre! Betritt den Totengräber. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Im Gaultree Forest warten der Erzbischof von York, Hastings und Mowbray mit ihren Offizieren. Der Erzbischof teilt die schlechte Nachricht mit: Northumberland hat ihnen ausrichten lassen, dass er sich ihnen nicht anschließen werde. Die Männer halten jedoch an ihrer Sache fest, und ihre Truppen stehen kurz vor der Auseinandersetzung mit der königlichen Armee. Ein Bote nähert sich: Es ist Westmoreland, der die Männer respektvoll anspricht und bittet, den Beschwerden der Rebellen zuzuhören. Er verspricht, dass der König ihre Beschwerden hören und versuchen werde, sie zu beheben, wenn die Rebellen ihren Krieg aufgeben. Der Erzbischof und Mowbray beginnen, einige ihrer Beschwerden zu äußern. Zunächst sind die Rebellen, insbesondere Mowbray, skeptisch. Der Erzbischof übergibt Westmoreland ein Stück Papier, auf dem die Beschwerden der Rebellen aufgeführt sind, und Westmoreland bringt die Botschaft zu Prinz John. Die Rebellen diskutieren diesen Fortschritt. Insbesondere der Erzbischof vertraut darauf, dass der König sein Wort hält. Prinz John tritt ein und spricht mit den Männern in einem viel respektloseren und weit weniger versöhnlichen Ton als Westmoreland. Aber er verspricht, dass die Anliegen der Männer angegangen werden. Die Rebellen nehmen ihm das Wort ab und schicken Befehle, ihr Heer aufzulösen. Der Prinz soll dasselbe tun. Die Männer beginnen alle gemeinsam zu trinken und führen angenehme Gespräche. Aber sobald das Rebellengebiet aufgelöst ist, werden die Rebellenanführer verhaftet. Sie sollen schnell hingerichtet werden: Als der Erzbischof den Prinzen beschuldigt, sein Wort gebrochen zu haben, sagt Prinz John, er habe nur versprochen, dass die Anliegen der Männer angegangen werden würden. Ihre Beschwerden würden in der Tat angegangen werden, aber die Rebellen würden als Verräter sterben. Szene zwei: Nach der Schlacht von Shrewsbury verlieh ihm das Gerücht einen Ruf als großer Krieger. Ein Rebellenritter namens Colevile, der mit diesem Ruf vertraut ist, trifft Falstaff und ergibt sich ihm prompt. Prinz John tritt ein und schilt Falstaff dafür, dass er so spät kommt. Falstaff bietet ihm seinen Gefangenen an. John stellt Fragen an den Gefangenen, der zugibt, ein Rebellenritter zu sein. Er spricht trotzig zu John. Der Prinz ordnet an, dass Colevile zusammen mit anderen Rebellen nach York zur Hinrichtung geschickt wird. Falstaff bittet um Erlaubnis, nach Hause zurückzukehren und durch Gloucestershire zu reisen. Die Erlaubnis wird gewährt und alle außer Falstaff gehen hinaus. Falstaff spricht darüber, wie sehr Prinz John ihn nicht mag, und er gibt dem Jungen dessen Verdrießlichkeit von zu wenig Alkohol die Schuld. Er preist Alkohol und seine vielen positiven Auswirkungen auf den Charakter. Bardolph tritt ein, und Falstaff sagt ihm, dass sie jetzt zurück nach Gloucestershire gehen, um Justice Shallow hereinzulegen. Szene drei: Der König wartet auf die Nachricht über die Schlacht und hofft, dass ein klarer Sieg bedeutet, dass er endlich in den Kreuzzug gehen wird. Er fragt, wo Prinz Hal ist, aber erhält eine falsche Antwort. Der König spricht mit Thomas of Clarence, einem von Hals Brüdern. Er stellt fest, dass Thomas der Bruder ist, den Hal am meisten liebt; daher, rät der König, müsse Thomas Hal nahe sein und als Vermittler zwischen Hal und den anderen Brüdern agieren. Thomas verspricht, dass er es tun wird. König Heinrich fragt, wo Hal jetzt ist, und Thomas berichtet, dass Hal in London mit Poins und Gefolge speist. Der König spricht bitter über die Exzesse des Prinzen. Hals schlechte Wahl der Gesellschaft bereitet dem König große Schmerzen. Warwick sagt dem König, dass er keine Angst haben muss: Der Prinz studiert die Menge in Eastcheap, um Wissen zu erlangen, aber sobald das Wissen gewonnen ist, wird er sich nicht länger mit ihnen abgeben. Westmoreland tritt mit der Nachricht eines Sieges im Gaultree Forest ein. Harcourt tritt mit weiteren guten Nachrichten ein: Die Truppen von Northumberland und Lord Bardolph wurden vom Sheriff von Yorkshire besiegt. Der König erstarrt. Seine Söhne sorgen sich um seinen bewusstlosen Körper: Thomas von Clarence weist darauf hin, dass der Fluss dreimal geflossen ist, ohne Ebbe, und die Älteren sagen, dass er sich das letzte Mal so verhalten hat, bevor ihr Urgroßvater Edgar starb. König Heinrich kommt wieder zu Bewusstsein und bittet darum, in ein Bett in einem anderen Raum gebracht zu werden. Prinz Hal tritt ein und erkundigt sich nach der Gesundheit des Königs. Sie sagen ihm, dass sie nicht gut ist, aber Hal sagt, dass die guten Nachrichten ihn wieder ins Leben zurückholen sollten. Alle gehen bis auf Hal, der bleibt, um über seinen Vater zu wachen. Hal sieht keinen Atemhauch und denkt, der König sei tot. Er nimmt die Krone und setzt sie auf sein eigenes Haupt und geht mit ihr. Der König wacht auf und ruft nach Warwick, Gloucester und Clarence. Als er hört, dass Prinz Hal zurück ist, schickt er Warwick, ihn zu rufen. Als er sieht, dass die Krone fehlt, findet König Heinrich schnell heraus, warum. Er spricht wütend darüber, wie die Gier Liebe und f

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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. Chapter: "For there can live no hatred in thine eye, Therefore in that I cannot know thy change: In many's looks the false heart's history Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange: But Heaven in thy creation did decree That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell: Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell." --SHAKESPEARE: Sonnets. At the time when Mr. Vincy uttered that presentiment about Rosamond, she herself had never had the idea that she should be driven to make the sort of appeal which he foresaw. She had not yet had any anxiety about ways and means, although her domestic life had been expensive as well as eventful. Her baby had been born prematurely, and all the embroidered robes and caps had to be laid by in darkness. This misfortune was attributed entirely to her having persisted in going out on horseback one day when her husband had desired her not to do so; but it must not be supposed that she had shown temper on the occasion, or rudely told him that she would do as she liked. What led her particularly to desire horse-exercise was a visit from Captain Lydgate, the baronet's third son, who, I am sorry to say, was detested by our Tertius of that name as a vapid fop "parting his hair from brow to nape in a despicable fashion" (not followed by Tertius himself), and showing an ignorant security that he knew the proper thing to say on every topic. Lydgate inwardly cursed his own folly that he had drawn down this visit by consenting to go to his uncle's on the wedding-tour, and he made himself rather disagreeable to Rosamond by saying so in private. For to Rosamond this visit was a source of unprecedented but gracefully concealed exultation. She was so intensely conscious of having a cousin who was a baronet's son staying in the house, that she imagined the knowledge of what was implied by his presence to be diffused through all other minds; and when she introduced Captain Lydgate to her guests, she had a placid sense that his rank penetrated them as if it had been an odor. The satisfaction was enough for the time to melt away some disappointment in the conditions of marriage with a medical man even of good birth: it seemed now that her marriage was visibly as well as ideally floating her above the Middlemarch level, and the future looked bright with letters and visits to and from Quallingham, and vague advancement in consequence for Tertius. Especially as, probably at the Captain's suggestion, his married sister, Mrs. Mengan, had come with her maid, and stayed two nights on her way from town. Hence it was clearly worth while for Rosamond to take pains with her music and the careful selection of her lace. As to Captain Lydgate himself, his low brow, his aquiline nose bent on one side, and his rather heavy utterance, might have been disadvantageous in any young gentleman who had not a military bearing and mustache to give him what is doted on by some flower-like blond heads as "style." He had, moreover, that sort of high-breeding which consists in being free from the petty solicitudes of middle-class gentility, and he was a great critic of feminine charms. Rosamond delighted in his admiration now even more than she had done at Quallingham, and he found it easy to spend several hours of the day in flirting with her. The visit altogether was one of the pleasantest larks he had ever had, not the less so perhaps because he suspected that his queer cousin Tertius wished him away: though Lydgate, who would rather (hyperbolically speaking) have died than have failed in polite hospitality, suppressed his dislike, and only pretended generally not to hear what the gallant officer said, consigning the task of answering him to Rosamond. For he was not at all a jealous husband, and preferred leaving a feather-headed young gentleman alone with his wife to bearing him company. "I wish you would talk more to the Captain at dinner, Tertius," said Rosamond, one evening when the important guest was gone to Loamford to see some brother officers stationed there. "You really look so absent sometimes--you seem to be seeing through his head into something behind it, instead of looking at him." "My dear Rosy, you don't expect me to talk much to such a conceited ass as that, I hope," said Lydgate, brusquely. "If he got his head broken, I might look at it with interest, not before." "I cannot conceive why you should speak of your cousin so contemptuously," said Rosamond, her fingers moving at her work while she spoke with a mild gravity which had a touch of disdain in it. "Ask Ladislaw if he doesn't think your Captain the greatest bore he ever met with. Ladislaw has almost forsaken the house since he came." Rosamond thought she knew perfectly well why Mr. Ladislaw disliked the Captain: he was jealous, and she liked his being jealous. "It is impossible to say what will suit eccentric persons," she answered, "but in my opinion Captain Lydgate is a thorough gentleman, and I think you ought not, out of respect to Sir Godwin, to treat him with neglect." "No, dear; but we have had dinners for him. And he comes in and goes out as he likes. He doesn't want me." "Still, when he is in the room, you might show him more attention. He may not be a phoenix of cleverness in your sense; his profession is different; but it would be all the better for you to talk a little on his subjects. _I_ think his conversation is quite agreeable. And he is anything but an unprincipled man." "The fact is, you would wish me to be a little more like him, Rosy," said Lydgate, in a sort of resigned murmur, with a smile which was not exactly tender, and certainly not merry. Rosamond was silent and did not smile again; but the lovely curves of her face looked good-tempered enough without smiling. Those words of Lydgate's were like a sad milestone marking how far he had travelled from his old dreamland, in which Rosamond Vincy appeared to be that perfect piece of womanhood who would reverence her husband's mind after the fashion of an accomplished mermaid, using her comb and looking-glass and singing her song for the relaxation of his adored wisdom alone. He had begun to distinguish between that imagined adoration and the attraction towards a man's talent because it gives him prestige, and is like an order in his button-hole or an Honorable before his name. It might have been supposed that Rosamond had travelled too, since she had found the pointless conversation of Mr. Ned Plymdale perfectly wearisome; but to most mortals there is a stupidity which is unendurable and a stupidity which is altogether acceptable--else, indeed, what would become of social bonds? Captain Lydgate's stupidity was delicately scented, carried itself with "style," talked with a good accent, and was closely related to Sir Godwin. Rosamond found it quite agreeable and caught many of its phrases. Therefore since Rosamond, as we know, was fond of horseback, there were plenty of reasons why she should be tempted to resume her riding when Captain Lydgate, who had ordered his man with two horses to follow him and put up at the "Green Dragon," begged her to go out on the gray which he warranted to be gentle and trained to carry a lady--indeed, he had bought it for his sister, and was taking it to Quallingham. Rosamond went out the first time without telling her husband, and came back before his return; but the ride had been so thorough a success, and she declared herself so much the better in consequence, that he was informed of it with full reliance on his consent that she should go riding again. On the contrary Lydgate was more than hurt--he was utterly confounded that she had risked herself on a strange horse without referring the matter to his wish. After the first almost thundering exclamations of astonishment, which sufficiently warned Rosamond of what was coming, he was silent for some moments. "However, you have come back safely," he said, at last, in a decisive tone. "You will not go again, Rosy; that is understood. If it were the quietest, most familiar horse in the world, there would always be the chance of accident. And you know very well that I wished you to give up riding the roan on that account." "But there is the chance of accident indoors, Tertius." "My darling, don't talk nonsense," said Lydgate, in an imploring tone; "surely I am the person to judge for you. I think it is enough that I say you are not to go again." Rosamond was arranging her hair before dinner, and the reflection of her head in the glass showed no change in its loveliness except a little turning aside of the long neck. Lydgate had been moving about with his hands in his pockets, and now paused near her, as if he awaited some assurance. "I wish you would fasten up my plaits, dear," said Rosamond, letting her arms fall with a little sigh, so as to make a husband ashamed of standing there like a brute. Lydgate had often fastened the plaits before, being among the deftest of men with his large finely formed fingers. He swept up the soft festoons of plaits and fastened in the tall comb (to such uses do men come!); and what could he do then but kiss the exquisite nape which was shown in all its delicate curves? But when we do what we have done before, it is often with a difference. Lydgate was still angry, and had not forgotten his point. "I shall tell the Captain that he ought to have known better than offer you his horse," he said, as he moved away. "I beg you will not do anything of the kind, Tertius," said Rosamond, looking at him with something more marked than usual in her speech. "It will be treating me as if I were a child. Promise that you will leave the subject to me." There did seem to be some truth in her objection. Lydgate said, "Very well," with a surly obedience, and thus the discussion ended with his promising Rosamond, and not with her promising him. In fact, she had been determined not to promise. Rosamond had that victorious obstinacy which never wastes its energy in impetuous resistance. What she liked to do was to her the right thing, and all her cleverness was directed to getting the means of doing it. She meant to go out riding again on the gray, and she did go on the next opportunity of her husband's absence, not intending that he should know until it was late enough not to signify to her. The temptation was certainly great: she was very fond of the exercise, and the gratification of riding on a fine horse, with Captain Lydgate, Sir Godwin's son, on another fine horse by her side, and of being met in this position by any one but her husband, was something as good as her dreams before marriage: moreover she was riveting the connection with the family at Quallingham, which must be a wise thing to do. But the gentle gray, unprepared for the crash of a tree that was being felled on the edge of Halsell wood, took fright, and caused a worse fright to Rosamond, leading finally to the loss of her baby. Lydgate could not show his anger towards her, but he was rather bearish to the Captain, whose visit naturally soon came to an end. In all future conversations on the subject, Rosamond was mildly certain that the ride had made no difference, and that if she had stayed at home the same symptoms would have come on and would have ended in the same way, because she had felt something like them before. Lydgate could only say, "Poor, poor darling!"--but he secretly wondered over the terrible tenacity of this mild creature. There was gathering within him an amazed sense of his powerlessness over Rosamond. His superior knowledge and mental force, instead of being, as he had imagined, a shrine to consult on all occasions, was simply set aside on every practical question. He had regarded Rosamond's cleverness as precisely of the receptive kind which became a woman. He was now beginning to find out what that cleverness was--what was the shape into which it had run as into a close network aloof and independent. No one quicker than Rosamond to see causes and effects which lay within the track of her own tastes and interests: she had seen clearly Lydgate's preeminence in Middlemarch society, and could go on imaginatively tracing still more agreeable social effects when his talent should have advanced him; but for her, his professional and scientific ambition had no other relation to these desirable effects than if they had been the fortunate discovery of an ill-smelling oil. And that oil apart, with which she had nothing to do, of course she believed in her own opinion more than she did in his. Lydgate was astounded to find in numberless trifling matters, as well as in this last serious case of the riding, that affection did not make her compliant. He had no doubt that the affection was there, and had no presentiment that he had done anything to repel it. For his own part he said to himself that he loved her as tenderly as ever, and could make up his mind to her negations; but--well! Lydgate was much worried, and conscious of new elements in his life as noxious to him as an inlet of mud to a creature that has been used to breathe and bathe and dart after its illuminated prey in the clearest of waters. Rosamond was soon looking lovelier than ever at her worktable, enjoying drives in her father's phaeton and thinking it likely that she might be invited to Quallingham. She knew that she was a much more exquisite ornament to the drawing-room there than any daughter of the family, and in reflecting that the gentlemen were aware of that, did not perhaps sufficiently consider whether the ladies would be eager to see themselves surpassed. Lydgate, relieved from anxiety about her, relapsed into what she inwardly called his moodiness--a name which to her covered his thoughtful preoccupation with other subjects than herself, as well as that uneasy look of the brow and distaste for all ordinary things as if they were mixed with bitter herbs, which really made a sort of weather-glass to his vexation and foreboding. These latter states of mind had one cause amongst others, which he had generously but mistakenly avoided mentioning to Rosamond, lest it should affect her health and spirits. Between him and her indeed there was that total missing of each other's mental track, which is too evidently possible even between persons who are continually thinking of each other. To Lydgate it seemed that he had been spending month after month in sacrificing more than half of his best intent and best power to his tenderness for Rosamond; bearing her little claims and interruptions without impatience, and, above all, bearing without betrayal of bitterness to look through less and less of interfering illusion at the blank unreflecting surface her mind presented to his ardor for the more impersonal ends of his profession and his scientific study, an ardor which he had fancied that the ideal wife must somehow worship as sublime, though not in the least knowing why. But his endurance was mingled with a self-discontent which, if we know how to be candid, we shall confess to make more than half our bitterness under grievances, wife or husband included. It always remains true that if we had been greater, circumstance would have been less strong against us. Lydgate was aware that his concessions to Rosamond were often little more than the lapse of slackening resolution, the creeping paralysis apt to seize an enthusiasm which is out of adjustment to a constant portion of our lives. And on Lydgate's enthusiasm there was constantly pressing not a simple weight of sorrow, but the biting presence of a petty degrading care, such as casts the blight of irony over all higher effort. This was the care which he had hitherto abstained from mentioning to Rosamond; and he believed, with some wonder, that it had never entered her mind, though certainly no difficulty could be less mysterious. It was an inference with a conspicuous handle to it, and had been easily drawn by indifferent observers, that Lydgate was in debt; and he could not succeed in keeping out of his mind for long together that he was every day getting deeper into that swamp, which tempts men towards it with such a pretty covering of flowers and verdure. It is wonderful how soon a man gets up to his chin there--in a condition in which, in spite of himself, he is forced to think chiefly of release, though he had a scheme of the universe in his soul. Eighteen months ago Lydgate was poor, but had never known the eager want of small sums, and felt rather a burning contempt for any one who descended a step in order to gain them. He was now experiencing something worse than a simple deficit: he was assailed by the vulgar hateful trials of a man who has bought and used a great many things which might have been done without, and which he is unable to pay for, though the demand for payment has become pressing. How this came about may be easily seen without much arithmetic or knowledge of prices. When a man in setting up a house and preparing for marriage finds that his furniture and other initial expenses come to between four and five hundred pounds more than he has capital to pay for; when at the end of a year it appears that his household expenses, horses and et caeteras, amount to nearly a thousand, while the proceeds of the practice reckoned from the old books to be worth eight hundred per annum have sunk like a summer pond and make hardly five hundred, chiefly in unpaid entries, the plain inference is that, whether he minds it or not, he is in debt. Those were less expensive times than our own, and provincial life was comparatively modest; but the ease with which a medical man who had lately bought a practice, who thought that he was obliged to keep two horses, whose table was supplied without stint, and who paid an insurance on his life and a high rent for house and garden, might find his expenses doubling his receipts, can be conceived by any one who does not think these details beneath his consideration. Rosamond, accustomed from her childhood to an extravagant household, thought that good housekeeping consisted simply in ordering the best of everything--nothing else "answered;" and Lydgate supposed that "if things were done at all, they must be done properly"--he did not see how they were to live otherwise. If each head of household expenditure had been mentioned to him beforehand, he would have probably observed that "it could hardly come to much," and if any one had suggested a saving on a particular article--for example, the substitution of cheap fish for dear--it would have appeared to him simply a penny-wise, mean notion. Rosamond, even without such an occasion as Captain Lydgate's visit, was fond of giving invitations, and Lydgate, though he often thought the guests tiresome, did not interfere. This sociability seemed a necessary part of professional prudence, and the entertainment must be suitable. It is true Lydgate was constantly visiting the homes of the poor and adjusting his prescriptions of diet to their small means; but, dear me! has it not by this time ceased to be remarkable--is it not rather that we expect in men, that they should have numerous strands of experience lying side by side and never compare them with each other? Expenditure--like ugliness and errors--becomes a totally new thing when we attach our own personality to it, and measure it by that wide difference which is manifest (in our own sensations) between ourselves and others. Lydgate believed himself to be careless about his dress, and he despised a man who calculated the effects of his costume; it seemed to him only a matter of course that he had abundance of fresh garments--such things were naturally ordered in sheaves. It must be remembered that he had never hitherto felt the check of importunate debt, and he walked by habit, not by self-criticism. But the check had come. Its novelty made it the more irritating. He was amazed, disgusted that conditions so foreign to all his purposes, so hatefully disconnected with the objects he cared to occupy himself with, should have lain in ambush and clutched him when he was unaware. And there was not only the actual debt; there was the certainty that in his present position he must go on deepening it. Two furnishing tradesmen at Brassing, whose bills had been incurred before his marriage, and whom uncalculated current expenses had ever since prevented him from paying, had repeatedly sent him unpleasant letters which had forced themselves on his attention. This could hardly have been more galling to any disposition than to Lydgate's, with his intense pride--his dislike of asking a favor or being under an obligation to any one. He had scorned even to form conjectures about Mr. Vincy's intentions on money matters, and nothing but extremity could have induced him to apply to his father-in-law, even if he had not been made aware in various indirect ways since his marriage that Mr. Vincy's own affairs were not flourishing, and that the expectation of help from him would be resented. Some men easily trust in the readiness of friends; it had never in the former part of his life occurred to Lydgate that he should need to do so: he had never thought what borrowing would be to him; but now that the idea had entered his mind, he felt that he would rather incur any other hardship. In the mean time he had no money or prospects of money; and his practice was not getting more lucrative. No wonder that Lydgate had been unable to suppress all signs of inward trouble during the last few months, and now that Rosamond was regaining brilliant health, he meditated taking her entirely into confidence on his difficulties. New conversance with tradesmen's bills had forced his reasoning into a new channel of comparison: he had begun to consider from a new point of view what was necessary and unnecessary in goods ordered, and to see that there must be some change of habits. How could such a change be made without Rosamond's concurrence? The immediate occasion of opening the disagreeable fact to her was forced upon him. Having no money, and having privately sought advice as to what security could possibly be given by a man in his position, Lydgate had offered the one good security in his power to the less peremptory creditor, who was a silversmith and jeweller, and who consented to take on himself the upholsterer's credit also, accepting interest for a given term. The security necessary was a bill of sale on the furniture of his house, which might make a creditor easy for a reasonable time about a debt amounting to less than four hundred pounds; and the silversmith, Mr. Dover, was willing to reduce it by taking back a portion of the plate and any other article which was as good as new. "Any other article" was a phrase delicately implying jewellery, and more particularly some purple amethysts costing thirty pounds, which Lydgate had bought as a bridal present. Opinions may be divided as to his wisdom in making this present: some may think that it was a graceful attention to be expected from a man like Lydgate, and that the fault of any troublesome consequences lay in the pinched narrowness of provincial life at that time, which offered no conveniences for professional people whose fortune was not proportioned to their tastes; also, in Lydgate's ridiculous fastidiousness about asking his friends for money. However, it had seemed a question of no moment to him on that fine morning when he went to give a final order for plate: in the presence of other jewels enormously expensive, and as an addition to orders of which the amount had not been exactly calculated, thirty pounds for ornaments so exquisitely suited to Rosamond's neck and arms could hardly appear excessive when there was no ready cash for it to exceed. But at this crisis Lydgate's imagination could not help dwelling on the possibility of letting the amethysts take their place again among Mr. Dover's stock, though he shrank from the idea of proposing this to Rosamond. Having been roused to discern consequences which he had never been in the habit of tracing, he was preparing to act on this discernment with some of the rigor (by no means all) that he would have applied in pursuing experiment. He was nerving himself to this rigor as he rode from Brassing, and meditated on the representations he must make to Rosamond. It was evening when he got home. He was intensely miserable, this strong man of nine-and-twenty and of many gifts. He was not saying angrily within himself that he had made a profound mistake; but the mistake was at work in him like a recognized chronic disease, mingling its uneasy importunities with every prospect, and enfeebling every thought. As he went along the passage to the drawing-room, he heard the piano and singing. Of course, Ladislaw was there. It was some weeks since Will had parted from Dorothea, yet he was still at the old post in Middlemarch. Lydgate had no objection in general to Ladislaw's coming, but just now he was annoyed that he could not find his hearth free. When he opened the door the two singers went on towards the key-note, raising their eyes and looking at him indeed, but not regarding his entrance as an interruption. To a man galled with his harness as poor Lydgate was, it is not soothing to see two people warbling at him, as he comes in with the sense that the painful day has still pains in store. His face, already paler than usual, took on a scowl as he walked across the room and flung himself into a chair. The singers feeling themselves excused by the fact that they had only three bars to sing, now turned round. "How are you, Lydgate?" said Will, coming forward to shake hands. Lydgate took his hand, but did not think it necessary to speak. "Have you dined, Tertius? I expected you much earlier," said Rosamond, who had already seen that her husband was in a "horrible humor." She seated herself in her usual place as she spoke. "I have dined. I should like some tea, please," said Lydgate, curtly, still scowling and looking markedly at his legs stretched out before him. Will was too quick to need more. "I shall be off," he said, reaching his hat. "Tea is coming," said Rosamond; "pray don't go." "Yes, Lydgate is bored," said Will, who had more comprehension of Lydgate than Rosamond had, and was not offended by his manner, easily imagining outdoor causes of annoyance. "There is the more need for you to stay," said Rosamond, playfully, and in her lightest accent; "he will not speak to me all the evening." "Yes, Rosamond, I shall," said Lydgate, in his strong baritone. "I have some serious business to speak to you about." No introduction of the business could have been less like that which Lydgate had intended; but her indifferent manner had been too provoking. "There! you see," said Will. "I'm going to the meeting about the Mechanics' Institute. Good-by;" and he went quickly out of the room. Rosamond did not look at her husband, but presently rose and took her place before the tea-tray. She was thinking that she had never seen him so disagreeable. Lydgate turned his dark eyes on her and watched her as she delicately handled the tea-service with her taper fingers, and looked at the objects immediately before her with no curve in her face disturbed, and yet with an ineffable protest in her air against all people with unpleasant manners. For the moment he lost the sense of his wound in a sudden speculation about this new form of feminine impassibility revealing itself in the sylph-like frame which he had once interpreted as the sign of a ready intelligent sensitiveness. His mind glancing back to Laure while he looked at Rosamond, he said inwardly, "Would _she_ kill me because I wearied her?" and then, "It is the way with all women." But this power of generalizing which gives men so much the superiority in mistake over the dumb animals, was immediately thwarted by Lydgate's memory of wondering impressions from the behavior of another woman--from Dorothea's looks and tones of emotion about her husband when Lydgate began to attend him--from her passionate cry to be taught what would best comfort that man for whose sake it seemed as if she must quell every impulse in her except the yearnings of faithfulness and compassion. These revived impressions succeeded each other quickly and dreamily in Lydgate's mind while the tea was being brewed. He had shut his eyes in the last instant of reverie while he heard Dorothea saying, "Advise me--think what I can do--he has been all his life laboring and looking forward. He minds about nothing else--and I mind about nothing else." That voice of deep-souled womanhood had remained within him as the enkindling conceptions of dead and sceptred genius had remained within him (is there not a genius for feeling nobly which also reigns over human spirits and their conclusions?); the tones were a music from which he was falling away--he had really fallen into a momentary doze, when Rosamond said in her silvery neutral way, "Here is your tea, Tertius," setting it on the small table by his side, and then moved back to her place without looking at him. Lydgate was too hasty in attributing insensibility to her; after her own fashion, she was sensitive enough, and took lasting impressions. Her impression now was one of offence and repulsion. But then, Rosamond had no scowls and had never raised her voice: she was quite sure that no one could justly find fault with her. Perhaps Lydgate and she had never felt so far off each other before; but there were strong reasons for not deferring his revelation, even if he had not already begun it by that abrupt announcement; indeed some of the angry desire to rouse her into more sensibility on his account which had prompted him to speak prematurely, still mingled with his pain in the prospect of her pain. But he waited till the tray was gone, the candles were lit, and the evening quiet might be counted on: the interval had left time for repelled tenderness to return into the old course. He spoke kindly. "Dear Rosy, lay down your work and come to sit by me," he said, gently, pushing away the table, and stretching out his arm to draw a chair near his own. Rosamond obeyed. As she came towards him in her drapery of transparent faintly tinted muslin, her slim yet round figure never looked more graceful; as she sat down by him and laid one hand on the elbow of his chair, at last looking at him and meeting his eyes, her delicate neck and cheek and purely cut lips never had more of that untarnished beauty which touches as in spring-time and infancy and all sweet freshness. It touched Lydgate now, and mingled the early moments of his love for her with all the other memories which were stirred in this crisis of deep trouble. He laid his ample hand softly on hers, saying-- "Dear!" with the lingering utterance which affection gives to the word. Rosamond too was still under the power of that same past, and her husband was still in part the Lydgate whose approval had stirred delight. She put his hair lightly away from his forehead, then laid her other hand on his, and was conscious of forgiving him. "I am obliged to tell you what will hurt you, Rosy. But there are things which husband and wife must think of together. I dare say it has occurred to you already that I am short of money." Lydgate paused; but Rosamond turned her neck and looked at a vase on the mantel-piece. "I was not able to pay for all the things we had to get before we were married, and there have been expenses since which I have been obliged to meet. The consequence is, there is a large debt at Brassing--three hundred and eighty pounds--which has been pressing on me a good while, and in fact we are getting deeper every day, for people don't pay me the faster because others want the money. I took pains to keep it from you while you were not well; but now we must think together about it, and you must help me." "What can--I--do, Tertius?" said Rosamond, turning her eyes on him again. That little speech of four words, like so many others in all languages, is capable by varied vocal inflections of expressing all states of mind from helpless dimness to exhaustive argumentative perception, from the completest self-devoting fellowship to the most neutral aloofness. Rosamond's thin utterance threw into the words "What can--I--do!" as much neutrality as they could hold. They fell like a mortal chill on Lydgate's roused tenderness. He did not storm in indignation--he felt too sad a sinking of the heart. And when he spoke again it was more in the tone of a man who forces himself to fulfil a task. "It is necessary for you to know, because I have to give security for a time, and a man must come to make an inventory of the furniture." Rosamond colored deeply. "Have you not asked papa for money?" she said, as soon as she could speak. "No." "Then I must ask him!" she said, releasing her hands from Lydgate's, and rising to stand at two yards' distance from him. "No, Rosy," said Lydgate, decisively. "It is too late to do that. The inventory will be begun to-morrow. Remember it is a mere security: it will make no difference: it is a temporary affair. I insist upon it that your father shall not know, unless I choose to tell him," added Lydgate, with a more peremptory emphasis. This certainly was unkind, but Rosamond had thrown him back on evil expectation as to what she would do in the way of quiet steady disobedience. The unkindness seemed unpardonable to her: she was not given to weeping and disliked it, but now her chin and lips began to tremble and the tears welled up. Perhaps it was not possible for Lydgate, under the double stress of outward material difficulty and of his own proud resistance to humiliating consequences, to imagine fully what this sudden trial was to a young creature who had known nothing but indulgence, and whose dreams had all been of new indulgence, more exactly to her taste. But he did wish to spare her as much as he could, and her tears cut him to the heart. He could not speak again immediately; but Rosamond did not go on sobbing: she tried to conquer her agitation and wiped away her tears, continuing to look before her at the mantel-piece. "Try not to grieve, darling," said Lydgate, turning his eyes up towards her. That she had chosen to move away from him in this moment of her trouble made everything harder to say, but he must absolutely go on. "We must brace ourselves to do what is necessary. It is I who have been in fault: I ought to have seen that I could not afford to live in this way. But many things have told against me in my practice, and it really just now has ebbed to a low point. I may recover it, but in the mean time we must pull up--we must change our way of living. We shall weather it. When I have given this security I shall have time to look about me; and you are so clever that if you turn your mind to managing you will school me into carefulness. I have been a thoughtless rascal about squaring prices--but come, dear, sit down and forgive me." Lydgate was bowing his neck under the yoke like a creature who had talons, but who had Reason too, which often reduces us to meekness. When he had spoken the last words in an imploring tone, Rosamond returned to the chair by his side. His self-blame gave her some hope that he would attend to her opinion, and she said-- "Why can you not put off having the inventory made? You can send the men away to-morrow when they come." "I shall not send them away," said Lydgate, the peremptoriness rising again. Was it of any use to explain? "If we left Middlemarch? there would of course be a sale, and that would do as well." "But we are not going to leave Middlemarch." "I am sure, Tertius, it would be much better to do so. Why can we not go to London? Or near Durham, where your family is known?" "We can go nowhere without money, Rosamond." "Your friends would not wish you to be without money. And surely these odious tradesmen might be made to understand that, and to wait, if you would make proper representations to them." "This is idle Rosamond," said Lydgate, angrily. "You must learn to take my judgment on questions you don't understand. I have made necessary arrangements, and they must be carried out. As to friends, I have no expectations whatever from them, and shall not ask them for anything." Rosamond sat perfectly still. The thought in her mind was that if she had known how Lydgate would behave, she would never have married him. "We have no time to waste now on unnecessary words, dear," said Lydgate, trying to be gentle again. "There are some details that I want to consider with you. Dover says he will take a good deal of the plate back again, and any of the jewellery we like. He really behaves very well." "Are we to go without spoons and forks then?" said Rosamond, whose very lips seemed to get thinner with the thinness of her utterance. She was determined to make no further resistance or suggestions. "Oh no, dear!" said Lydgate. "But look here," he continued, drawing a paper from his pocket and opening it; "here is Dover's account. See, I have marked a number of articles, which if we returned them would reduce the amount by thirty pounds and more. I have not marked any of the jewellery." Lydgate had really felt this point of the jewellery very bitter to himself; but he had overcome the feeling by severe argument. He could not propose to Rosamond that she should return any particular present of his, but he had told himself that he was bound to put Dover's offer before her, and her inward prompting might make the affair easy. "It is useless for me to look, Tertius," said Rosamond, calmly; "you will return what you please." She would not turn her eyes on the paper, and Lydgate, flushing up to the roots of his hair, drew it back and let it fall on his knee. Meanwhile Rosamond quietly went out of the room, leaving Lydgate helpless and wondering. Was she not coming back? It seemed that she had no more identified herself with him than if they had been creatures of different species and opposing interests. He tossed his head and thrust his hands deep into his pockets with a sort of vengeance. There was still science--there were still good objects to work for. He must give a tug still--all the stronger because other satisfactions were going. But the door opened and Rosamond re-entered. She carried the leather box containing the amethysts, and a tiny ornamental basket which contained other boxes, and laying them on the chair where she had been sitting, she said, with perfect propriety in her air-- "This is all the jewellery you ever gave me. You can return what you like of it, and of the plate also. You will not, of course, expect me to stay at home to-morrow. I shall go to papa's." To many women the look Lydgate cast at her would have been more terrible than one of anger: it had in it a despairing acceptance of the distance she was placing between them. "And when shall you come back again?" he said, with a bitter edge on his accent. "Oh, in the evening. Of course I shall not mention the subject to mamma." Rosamond was convinced that no woman could behave more irreproachably than she was behaving; and she went to sit down at her work-table. Lydgate sat meditating a minute or two, and the result was that he said, with some of the old emotion in his tone-- "Now we have been united, Rosy, you should not leave me to myself in the first trouble that has come." "Certainly not," said Rosamond; "I shall do everything it becomes me to do." "It is not right that the thing should be left to servants, or that I should have to speak to them about it. And I shall be obliged to go out--I don't know how early. I understand your shrinking from the humiliation of these money affairs. But, my dear Rosamond, as a question of pride, which I feel just as much as you can, it is surely better to manage the thing ourselves, and let the servants see as little of it as possible; and since you are my wife, there is no hindering your share in my disgraces--if there were disgraces." Rosamond did not answer immediately, but at last she said, "Very well, I will stay at home." "I shall not touch these jewels, Rosy. Take them away again. But I will write out a list of plate that we may return, and that can be packed up and sent at once." "The servants will know _that_," said Rosamond, with the slightest touch of sarcasm. "Well, we must meet some disagreeables as necessities. Where is the ink, I wonder?" said Lydgate, rising, and throwing the account on the larger table where he meant to write. Rosamond went to reach the inkstand, and after setting it on the table was going to turn away, when Lydgate, who was standing close by, put his arm round her and drew her towards him, saying-- "Come, darling, let us make the best of things. It will only be for a time, I hope, that we shall have to be stingy and particular. Kiss me." His native warm-heartedness took a great deal of quenching, and it is a part of manliness for a husband to feel keenly the fact that an inexperienced girl has got into trouble by marrying him. She received his kiss and returned it faintly, and in this way an appearance of accord was recovered for the time. But Lydgate could not help looking forward with dread to the inevitable future discussions about expenditure and the necessity for a complete change in their way of living. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

Die Differenzen zwischen Lydgate und Rosamond kommen schnell ans Licht. Er stellt fest, dass sein Eindruck, dass sie folgsam sei, eine Illusion war. Sie selbst ist enttäuscht von der Vorstellung, dass sein Talent und seine "hohen" Verbindungen zu Fortschritt und Reichtum führen würden. In der Zwischenzeit häufen sich ihre Schulden. Einer seiner "noblen" Cousins, ein Militäroffizier, kommt zu Besuch. Lydgate ist ungeduldig mit ihm und ignoriert seine Flirts mit Rosamond. Aber er ist wütend, als seine schwangere Frau gegen seinen Rat mit dem Cousin reitet und das Baby verliert. Sowohl Ehemann als auch Ehefrau erwarten die besten Waren und Kleidung, haben aber wenig Ahnung von Budgetierung. Schließlich häuft Lydgate eine Schuldenlast von ungefähr vierhundert Pfund an und muss sein Silbergeschirr und Möbel verpfänden. Rosamonds Reaktion besteht darin, sich von ihm fernzuhalten, als ob er sie enttäuscht hätte. Sie weigert sich, selbst auf kleinste Weise zu helfen. Da er den liebevolleren Charakter hat, sieht er sich mit allen Kompromissen konfrontiert. Ihr einziger Vorschlag ist, dass sie nach London ziehen sollten, um ein prosperierenderes Leben zu führen.

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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. Chapter: Bartle Massey's was one of a few scattered houses on the edge of a common, which was divided by the road to Treddleston. Adam reached it in a quarter of an hour after leaving the Hall Farm; and when he had his hand on the door-latch, he could see, through the curtainless window, that there were eight or nine heads bending over the desks, lighted by thin dips. When he entered, a reading lesson was going forward and Bartle Massey merely nodded, leaving him to take his place where he pleased. He had not come for the sake of a lesson to-night, and his mind was too full of personal matters, too full of the last two hours he had passed in Hetty's presence, for him to amuse himself with a book till school was over; so he sat down in a corner and looked on with an absent mind. It was a sort of scene which Adam had beheld almost weekly for years; he knew by heart every arabesque flourish in the framed specimen of Bartle Massey's handwriting which hung over the schoolmaster's head, by way of keeping a lofty ideal before the minds of his pupils; he knew the backs of all the books on the shelf running along the whitewashed wall above the pegs for the slates; he knew exactly how many grains were gone out of the ear of Indian corn that hung from one of the rafters; he had long ago exhausted the resources of his imagination in trying to think how the bunch of leathery seaweed had looked and grown in its native element; and from the place where he sat, he could make nothing of the old map of England that hung against the opposite wall, for age had turned it of a fine yellow brown, something like that of a well-seasoned meerschaum. The drama that was going on was almost as familiar as the scene, nevertheless habit had not made him indifferent to it, and even in his present self-absorbed mood, Adam felt a momentary stirring of the old fellow-feeling, as he looked at the rough men painfully holding pen or pencil with their cramped hands, or humbly labouring through their reading lesson. The reading class now seated on the form in front of the schoolmaster's desk consisted of the three most backward pupils. Adam would have known it only by seeing Bartle Massey's face as he looked over his spectacles, which he had shifted to the ridge of his nose, not requiring them for present purposes. The face wore its mildest expression: the grizzled bushy eyebrows had taken their more acute angle of compassionate kindness, and the mouth, habitually compressed with a pout of the lower lip, was relaxed so as to be ready to speak a helpful word or syllable in a moment. This gentle expression was the more interesting because the schoolmaster's nose, an irregular aquiline twisted a little on one side, had rather a formidable character; and his brow, moreover, had that peculiar tension which always impresses one as a sign of a keen impatient temperament: the blue veins stood out like cords under the transparent yellow skin, and this intimidating brow was softened by no tendency to baldness, for the grey bristly hair, cut down to about an inch in length, stood round it in as close ranks as ever. "Nay, Bill, nay," Bartle was saying in a kind tone, as he nodded to Adam, "begin that again, and then perhaps, it'll come to you what d-r-y spells. It's the same lesson you read last week, you know." "Bill" was a sturdy fellow, aged four-and-twenty, an excellent stone-sawyer, who could get as good wages as any man in the trade of his years; but he found a reading lesson in words of one syllable a harder matter to deal with than the hardest stone he had ever had to saw. The letters, he complained, were so "uncommon alike, there was no tellin' 'em one from another," the sawyer's business not being concerned with minute differences such as exist between a letter with its tail turned up and a letter with its tail turned down. But Bill had a firm determination that he would learn to read, founded chiefly on two reasons: first, that Tom Hazelow, his cousin, could read anything "right off," whether it was print or writing, and Tom had sent him a letter from twenty miles off, saying how he was prospering in the world and had got an overlooker's place; secondly, that Sam Phillips, who sawed with him, had learned to read when he was turned twenty, and what could be done by a little fellow like Sam Phillips, Bill considered, could be done by himself, seeing that he could pound Sam into wet clay if circumstances required it. So here he was, pointing his big finger towards three words at once, and turning his head on one side that he might keep better hold with his eye of the one word which was to be discriminated out of the group. The amount of knowledge Bartle Massey must possess was something so dim and vast that Bill's imagination recoiled before it: he would hardly have ventured to deny that the schoolmaster might have something to do in bringing about the regular return of daylight and the changes in the weather. The man seated next to Bill was of a very different type: he was a Methodist brickmaker who, after spending thirty years of his life in perfect satisfaction with his ignorance, had lately "got religion," and along with it the desire to read the Bible. But with him, too, learning was a heavy business, and on his way out to-night he had offered as usual a special prayer for help, seeing that he had undertaken this hard task with a single eye to the nourishment of his soul--that he might have a greater abundance of texts and hymns wherewith to banish evil memories and the temptations of old habit--or, in brief language, the devil. For the brickmaker had been a notorious poacher, and was suspected, though there was no good evidence against him, of being the man who had shot a neighbouring gamekeeper in the leg. However that might be, it is certain that shortly after the accident referred to, which was coincident with the arrival of an awakening Methodist preacher at Treddleston, a great change had been observed in the brickmaker; and though he was still known in the neighbourhood by his old sobriquet of "Brimstone," there was nothing he held in so much horror as any further transactions with that evil-smelling element. He was a broad-chested fellow with a fervid temperament, which helped him better in imbibing religious ideas than in the dry process of acquiring the mere human knowledge of the alphabet. Indeed, he had been already a little shaken in his resolution by a brother Methodist, who assured him that the letter was a mere obstruction to the Spirit, and expressed a fear that Brimstone was too eager for the knowledge that puffeth up. The third beginner was a much more promising pupil. He was a tall but thin and wiry man, nearly as old as Brimstone, with a very pale face and hands stained a deep blue. He was a dyer, who in the course of dipping homespun wool and old women's petticoats had got fired with the ambition to learn a great deal more about the strange secrets of colour. He had already a high reputation in the district for his dyes, and he was bent on discovering some method by which he could reduce the expense of crimsons and scarlets. The druggist at Treddleston had given him a notion that he might save himself a great deal of labour and expense if he could learn to read, and so he had begun to give his spare hours to the night-school, resolving that his "little chap" should lose no time in coming to Mr. Massey's day-school as soon as he was old enough. It was touching to see these three big men, with the marks of their hard labour about them, anxiously bending over the worn books and painfully making out, "The grass is green," "The sticks are dry," "The corn is ripe"--a very hard lesson to pass to after columns of single words all alike except in the first letter. It was almost as if three rough animals were making humble efforts to learn how they might become human. And it touched the tenderest fibre in Bartle Massey's nature, for such full-grown children as these were the only pupils for whom he had no severe epithets and no impatient tones. He was not gifted with an imperturbable temper, and on music-nights it was apparent that patience could never be an easy virtue to him; but this evening, as he glances over his spectacles at Bill Downes, the sawyer, who is turning his head on one side with a desperate sense of blankness before the letters d-r-y, his eyes shed their mildest and most encouraging light. After the reading class, two youths between sixteen and nineteen came up with the imaginary bills of parcels, which they had been writing out on their slates and were now required to calculate "off-hand"--a test which they stood with such imperfect success that Bartle Massey, whose eyes had been glaring at them ominously through his spectacles for some minutes, at length burst out in a bitter, high-pitched tone, pausing between every sentence to rap the floor with a knobbed stick which rested between his legs. "Now, you see, you don't do this thing a bit better than you did a fortnight ago, and I'll tell you what's the reason. You want to learn accounts--that's well and good. But you think all you need do to learn accounts is to come to me and do sums for an hour or so, two or three times a-week; and no sooner do you get your caps on and turn out of doors again than you sweep the whole thing clean out of your mind. You go whistling about, and take no more care what you're thinking of than if your heads were gutters for any rubbish to swill through that happened to be in the way; and if you get a good notion in 'em, it's pretty soon washed out again. You think knowledge is to be got cheap--you'll come and pay Bartle Massey sixpence a-week, and he'll make you clever at figures without your taking any trouble. But knowledge isn't to be got with paying sixpence, let me tell you. If you're to know figures, you must turn 'em over in your heads and keep your thoughts fixed on 'em. There's nothing you can't turn into a sum, for there's nothing but what's got number in it--even a fool. You may say to yourselves, 'I'm one fool, and Jack's another; if my fool's head weighed four pound, and Jack's three pound three ounces and three quarters, how many pennyweights heavier would my head be than Jack's?' A man that had got his heart in learning figures would make sums for himself and work 'em in his head. When he sat at his shoemaking, he'd count his stitches by fives, and then put a price on his stitches, say half a farthing, and then see how much money he could get in an hour; and then ask himself how much money he'd get in a day at that rate; and then how much ten workmen would get working three, or twenty, or a hundred years at that rate--and all the while his needle would be going just as fast as if he left his head empty for the devil to dance in. But the long and the short of it is--I'll have nobody in my night-school that doesn't strive to learn what he comes to learn, as hard as if he was striving to get out of a dark hole into broad daylight. I'll send no man away because he's stupid: if Billy Taft, the idiot, wanted to learn anything, I'd not refuse to teach him. But I'll not throw away good knowledge on people who think they can get it by the sixpenn'orth, and carry it away with 'em as they would an ounce of snuff. So never come to me again, if you can't show that you've been working with your own heads, instead of thinking that you can pay for mine to work for you. That's the last word I've got to say to you." With this final sentence, Bartle Massey gave a sharper rap than ever with his knobbed stick, and the discomfited lads got up to go with a sulky look. The other pupils had happily only their writing-books to show, in various stages of progress from pot-hooks to round text; and mere pen-strokes, however perverse, were less exasperating to Bartle than false arithmetic. He was a little more severe than usual on Jacob Storey's Z's, of which poor Jacob had written a pageful, all with their tops turned the wrong way, with a puzzled sense that they were not right "somehow." But he observed in apology, that it was a letter you never wanted hardly, and he thought it had only been there "to finish off th' alphabet, like, though ampusand (&) would ha' done as well, for what he could see." At last the pupils had all taken their hats and said their "Good-nights," and Adam, knowing his old master's habits, rose and said, "Shall I put the candles out, Mr. Massey?" "Yes, my boy, yes, all but this, which I'll carry into the house; and just lock the outer door, now you're near it," said Bartle, getting his stick in the fitting angle to help him in descending from his stool. He was no sooner on the ground than it became obvious why the stick was necessary--the left leg was much shorter than the right. But the school-master was so active with his lameness that it was hardly thought of as a misfortune; and if you had seen him make his way along the schoolroom floor, and up the step into his kitchen, you would perhaps have understood why the naughty boys sometimes felt that his pace might be indefinitely quickened and that he and his stick might overtake them even in their swiftest run. The moment he appeared at the kitchen door with the candle in his hand, a faint whimpering began in the chimney-corner, and a brown-and-tan-coloured bitch, of that wise-looking breed with short legs and long body, known to an unmechanical generation as turnspits, came creeping along the floor, wagging her tail, and hesitating at every other step, as if her affections were painfully divided between the hamper in the chimney-corner and the master, whom she could not leave without a greeting. "Well, Vixen, well then, how are the babbies?" said the schoolmaster, making haste towards the chimney-corner and holding the candle over the low hamper, where two extremely blind puppies lifted up their heads towards the light from a nest of flannel and wool. Vixen could not even see her master look at them without painful excitement: she got into the hamper and got out again the next moment, and behaved with true feminine folly, though looking all the while as wise as a dwarf with a large old-fashioned head and body on the most abbreviated legs. "Why, you've got a family, I see, Mr. Massey?" said Adam, smiling, as he came into the kitchen. "How's that? I thought it was against the law here." "Law? What's the use o' law when a man's once such a fool as to let a woman into his house?" said Bartle, turning away from the hamper with some bitterness. He always called Vixen a woman, and seemed to have lost all consciousness that he was using a figure of speech. "If I'd known Vixen was a woman, I'd never have held the boys from drowning her; but when I'd got her into my hand, I was forced to take to her. And now you see what she's brought me to--the sly, hypocritical wench"--Bartle spoke these last words in a rasping tone of reproach, and looked at Vixen, who poked down her head and turned up her eyes towards him with a keen sense of opprobrium--"and contrived to be brought to bed on a Sunday at church-time. I've wished again and again I'd been a bloody minded man, that I could have strangled the mother and the brats with one cord." "I'm glad it was no worse a cause kept you from church," said Adam. "I was afraid you must be ill for the first time i' your life. And I was particularly sorry not to have you at church yesterday." "Ah, my boy, I know why, I know why," said Bartle kindly, going up to Adam and raising his hand up to the shoulder that was almost on a level with his own head. "You've had a rough bit o' road to get over since I saw you--a rough bit o' road. But I'm in hopes there are better times coming for you. I've got some news to tell you. But I must get my supper first, for I'm hungry, I'm hungry. Sit down, sit down." Bartel went into his little pantry, and brought out an excellent home-baked loaf; for it was his one extravagance in these dear times to eat bread once a-day instead of oat-cake; and he justified it by observing, that what a schoolmaster wanted was brains, and oat-cake ran too much to bone instead of brains. Then came a piece of cheese and a quart jug with a crown of foam upon it. He placed them all on the round deal table which stood against his large arm-chair in the chimney-corner, with Vixen's hamper on one side of it and a window-shelf with a few books piled up in it on the other. The table was as clean as if Vixen had been an excellent housewife in a checkered apron; so was the quarry floor; and the old carved oaken press, table, and chairs, which in these days would be bought at a high price in aristocratic houses, though, in that period of spider-legs and inlaid cupids, Bartle had got them for an old song, where as free from dust as things could be at the end of a summer's day. "Now, then, my boy, draw up, draw up. We'll not talk about business till we've had our supper. No man can be wise on an empty stomach. But," said Bartle, rising from his chair again, "I must give Vixen her supper too, confound her! Though she'll do nothing with it but nourish those unnecessary babbies. That's the way with these women--they've got no head-pieces to nourish, and so their food all runs either to fat or to brats." He brought out of the pantry a dish of scraps, which Vixen at once fixed her eyes on, and jumped out of her hamper to lick up with the utmost dispatch. "I've had my supper, Mr. Massey," said Adam, "so I'll look on while you eat yours. I've been at the Hall Farm, and they always have their supper betimes, you know: they don't keep your late hours." "I know little about their hours," said Bartle dryly, cutting his bread and not shrinking from the crust. "It's a house I seldom go into, though I'm fond of the boys, and Martin Poyser's a good fellow. There's too many women in the house for me: I hate the sound of women's voices; they're always either a-buzz or a-squeak--always either a-buzz or a-squeak. Mrs. Poyser keeps at the top o' the talk like a fife; and as for the young lasses, I'd as soon look at water-grubs. I know what they'll turn to--stinging gnats, stinging gnats. Here, take some ale, my boy: it's been drawn for you--it's been drawn for you." "Nay, Mr. Massey," said Adam, who took his old friend's whim more seriously than usual to-night, "don't be so hard on the creaturs God has made to be companions for us. A working-man 'ud be badly off without a wife to see to th' house and the victual, and make things clean and comfortable." "Nonsense! It's the silliest lie a sensible man like you ever believed, to say a woman makes a house comfortable. It's a story got up because the women are there and something must be found for 'em to do. I tell you there isn't a thing under the sun that needs to be done at all, but what a man can do better than a woman, unless it's bearing children, and they do that in a poor make-shift way; it had better ha' been left to the men--it had better ha' been left to the men. I tell you, a woman 'ull bake you a pie every week of her life and never come to see that the hotter th' oven the shorter the time. I tell you, a woman 'ull make your porridge every day for twenty years and never think of measuring the proportion between the meal and the milk--a little more or less, she'll think, doesn't signify. The porridge WILL be awk'ard now and then: if it's wrong, it's summat in the meal, or it's summat in the milk, or it's summat in the water. Look at me! I make my own bread, and there's no difference between one batch and another from year's end to year's end; but if I'd got any other woman besides Vixen in the house, I must pray to the Lord every baking to give me patience if the bread turned out heavy. And as for cleanliness, my house is cleaner than any other house on the Common, though the half of 'em swarm with women. Will Baker's lad comes to help me in a morning, and we get as much cleaning done in one hour, without any fuss, as a woman 'ud get done in three, and all the while be sending buckets o' water after your ankles, and let the fender and the fire-irons stand in the middle o' the floor half the day for you to break your shins against 'em. Don't tell me about God having made such creatures to be companions for us! I don't say but He might make Eve to be a companion to Adam in Paradise--there was no cooking to be spoilt there, and no other woman to cackle with and make mischief, though you see what mischief she did as soon as she'd an opportunity. But it's an impious, unscriptural opinion to say a woman's a blessing to a man now; you might as well say adders and wasps, and foxes and wild beasts are a blessing, when they're only the evils that belong to this state o' probation, which it's lawful for a man to keep as clear of as he can in this life, hoping to get quit of 'em for ever in another--hoping to get quit of 'em for ever in another." Bartle had become so excited and angry in the course of his invective that he had forgotten his supper, and only used the knife for the purpose of rapping the table with the haft. But towards the close, the raps became so sharp and frequent, and his voice so quarrelsome, that Vixen felt it incumbent on her to jump out of the hamper and bark vaguely. "Quiet, Vixen!" snarled Bartle, turning round upon her. "You're like the rest o' the women--always putting in your word before you know why." Vixen returned to her hamper again in humiliation, and her master continued his supper in a silence which Adam did not choose to interrupt; he knew the old man would be in a better humour when he had had his supper and lighted his pipe. Adam was used to hear him talk in this way, but had never learned so much of Bartle's past life as to know whether his view of married comfort was founded on experience. On that point Bartle was mute, and it was even a secret where he had lived previous to the twenty years in which happily for the peasants and artisans of this neighbourhood he had been settled among them as their only schoolmaster. If anything like a question was ventured on this subject, Bartle always replied, "Oh, I've seen many places--I've been a deal in the south," and the Loamshire men would as soon have thought of asking for a particular town or village in Africa as in "the south." "Now then, my boy," said Bartle, at last, when he had poured out his second mug of ale and lighted his pipe, "now then, we'll have a little talk. But tell me first, have you heard any particular news to-day?" "No," said Adam, "not as I remember." "Ah, they'll keep it close, they'll keep it close, I daresay. But I found it out by chance; and it's news that may concern you, Adam, else I'm a man that don't know a superficial square foot from a solid." Here Bartle gave a series of fierce and rapid puffs, looking earnestly the while at Adam. Your impatient loquacious man has never any notion of keeping his pipe alight by gentle measured puffs; he is always letting it go nearly out, and then punishing it for that negligence. At last he said, "Satchell's got a paralytic stroke. I found it out from the lad they sent to Treddleston for the doctor, before seven o'clock this morning. He's a good way beyond sixty, you know; it's much if he gets over it." "Well," said Adam, "I daresay there'd be more rejoicing than sorrow in the parish at his being laid up. He's been a selfish, tale-bearing, mischievous fellow; but, after all, there's nobody he's done so much harm to as to th' old squire. Though it's the squire himself as is to blame--making a stupid fellow like that a sort o' man-of-all-work, just to save th' expense of having a proper steward to look after th' estate. And he's lost more by ill management o' the woods, I'll be bound, than 'ud pay for two stewards. If he's laid on the shelf, it's to be hoped he'll make way for a better man, but I don't see how it's like to make any difference to me." "But I see it, but I see it," said Bartle, "and others besides me. The captain's coming of age now--you know that as well as I do--and it's to be expected he'll have a little more voice in things. And I know, and you know too, what 'ud be the captain's wish about the woods, if there was a fair opportunity for making a change. He's said in plenty of people's hearing that he'd make you manager of the woods to-morrow, if he'd the power. Why, Carroll, Mr. Irwine's butler, heard him say so to the parson not many days ago. Carroll looked in when we were smoking our pipes o' Saturday night at Casson's, and he told us about it; and whenever anybody says a good word for you, the parson's ready to back it, that I'll answer for. It was pretty well talked over, I can tell you, at Casson's, and one and another had their fling at you; for if donkeys set to work to sing, you're pretty sure what the tune'll be." "Why, did they talk it over before Mr. Burge?" said Adam; "or wasn't he there o' Saturday?" "Oh, he went away before Carroll came; and Casson--he's always for setting other folks right, you know--would have it Burge was the man to have the management of the woods. 'A substantial man,' says he, 'with pretty near sixty years' experience o' timber: it 'ud be all very well for Adam Bede to act under him, but it isn't to be supposed the squire 'ud appoint a young fellow like Adam, when there's his elders and betters at hand!' But I said, 'That's a pretty notion o' yours, Casson. Why, Burge is the man to buy timber; would you put the woods into his hands and let him make his own bargains? I think you don't leave your customers to score their own drink, do you? And as for age, what that's worth depends on the quality o' the liquor. It's pretty well known who's the backbone of Jonathan Burge's business.'" "I thank you for your good word, Mr. Massey," said Adam. "But, for all that, Casson was partly i' the right for once. There's not much likelihood that th' old squire 'ud ever consent t' employ me. I offended him about two years ago, and he's never forgiven me." "Why, how was that? You never told me about it," said Bartle. "Oh, it was a bit o' nonsense. I'd made a frame for a screen for Miss Lyddy--she's allays making something with her worsted-work, you know--and she'd given me particular orders about this screen, and there was as much talking and measuring as if we'd been planning a house. However, it was a nice bit o' work, and I liked doing it for her. But, you know, those little friggling things take a deal o' time. I only worked at it in overhours--often late at night--and I had to go to Treddleston over an' over again about little bits o' brass nails and such gear; and I turned the little knobs and the legs, and carved th' open work, after a pattern, as nice as could be. And I was uncommon pleased with it when it was done. And when I took it home, Miss Lyddy sent for me to bring it into her drawing-room, so as she might give me directions about fastening on the work--very fine needlework, Jacob and Rachel a-kissing one another among the sheep, like a picture--and th' old squire was sitting there, for he mostly sits with her. Well, she was mighty pleased with the screen, and then she wanted to know what pay she was to give me. I didn't speak at random--you know it's not my way; I'd calculated pretty close, though I hadn't made out a bill, and I said, 'One pound thirteen.' That was paying for the mater'als and paying me, but none too much, for my work. Th' old squire looked up at this, and peered in his way at the screen, and said, 'One pound thirteen for a gimcrack like that! Lydia, my dear, if you must spend money on these things, why don't you get them at Rosseter, instead of paying double price for clumsy work here? Such things are not work for a carpenter like Adam. Give him a guinea, and no more.' Well, Miss Lyddy, I reckon, believed what he told her, and she's not overfond o' parting with the money herself--she's not a bad woman at bottom, but she's been brought up under his thumb; so she began fidgeting with her purse, and turned as red as her ribbon. But I made a bow, and said, 'No, thank you, madam; I'll make you a present o' the screen, if you please. I've charged the regular price for my work, and I know it's done well; and I know, begging His Honour's pardon, that you couldn't get such a screen at Rosseter under two guineas. I'm willing to give you my work--it's been done in my own time, and nobody's got anything to do with it but me; but if I'm paid, I can't take a smaller price than I asked, because that 'ud be like saying I'd asked more than was just. With your leave, madam, I'll bid you good-morning.' I made my bow and went out before she'd time to say any more, for she stood with the purse in her hand, looking almost foolish. I didn't mean to be disrespectful, and I spoke as polite as I could; but I can give in to no man, if he wants to make it out as I'm trying to overreach him. And in the evening the footman brought me the one pound thirteen wrapped in paper. But since then I've seen pretty clear as th' old squire can't abide me." "That's likely enough, that's likely enough," said Bartle meditatively. "The only way to bring him round would be to show him what was for his own interest, and that the captain may do--that the captain may do." "Nay, I don't know," said Adam; "the squire's 'cute enough but it takes something else besides 'cuteness to make folks see what'll be their interest in the long run. It takes some conscience and belief in right and wrong, I see that pretty clear. You'd hardly ever bring round th' old squire to believe he'd gain as much in a straightfor'ard way as by tricks and turns. And, besides, I've not much mind to work under him: I don't want to quarrel with any gentleman, more particular an old gentleman turned eighty, and I know we couldn't agree long. If the captain was master o' th' estate, it 'ud be different: he's got a conscience and a will to do right, and I'd sooner work for him nor for any man living." "Well, well, my boy, if good luck knocks at your door, don't you put your head out at window and tell it to be gone about its business, that's all. You must learn to deal with odd and even in life, as well as in figures. I tell you now, as I told you ten years ago, when you pommelled young Mike Holdsworth for wanting to pass a bad shilling before you knew whether he was in jest or earnest--you're overhasty and proud, and apt to set your teeth against folks that don't square to your notions. It's no harm for me to be a bit fiery and stiff-backed--I'm an old schoolmaster, and shall never want to get on to a higher perch. But where's the use of all the time I've spent in teaching you writing and mapping and mensuration, if you're not to get for'ard in the world and show folks there's some advantage in having a head on your shoulders, instead of a turnip? Do you mean to go on turning up your nose at every opportunity because it's got a bit of a smell about it that nobody finds out but yourself? It's as foolish as that notion o' yours that a wife is to make a working-man comfortable. Stuff and nonsense! Stuff and nonsense! Leave that to fools that never got beyond a sum in simple addition. Simple addition enough! Add one fool to another fool, and in six years' time six fools more--they're all of the same denomination, big and little's nothing to do with the sum!" During this rather heated exhortation to coolness and discretion the pipe had gone out, and Bartle gave the climax to his speech by striking a light furiously, after which he puffed with fierce resolution, fixing his eye still on Adam, who was trying not to laugh. "There's a good deal o' sense in what you say, Mr. Massey," Adam began, as soon as he felt quite serious, "as there always is. But you'll give in that it's no business o' mine to be building on chances that may never happen. What I've got to do is to work as well as I can with the tools and mater'als I've got in my hands. If a good chance comes to me, I'll think o' what you've been saying; but till then, I've got nothing to do but to trust to my own hands and my own head-piece. I'm turning over a little plan for Seth and me to go into the cabinet-making a bit by ourselves, and win a extra pound or two in that way. But it's getting late now--it'll be pretty near eleven before I'm at home, and Mother may happen to lie awake; she's more fidgety nor usual now. So I'll bid you good-night." "Well, well, we'll go to the gate with you--it's a fine night," said Bartle, taking up his stick. Vixen was at once on her legs, and without further words the three walked out into the starlight, by the side of Bartle's potato-beds, to the little gate. "Come to the music o' Friday night, if you can, my boy," said the old man, as he closed the gate after Adam and leaned against it. "Aye, aye," said Adam, striding along towards the streak of pale road. He was the only object moving on the wide common. The two grey donkeys, just visible in front of the gorse bushes, stood as still as limestone images--as still as the grey-thatched roof of the mud cottage a little farther on. Bartle kept his eye on the moving figure till it passed into the darkness, while Vixen, in a state of divided affection, had twice run back to the house to bestow a parenthetic lick on her puppies. "Aye, aye," muttered the schoolmaster, as Adam disappeared, "there you go, stalking along--stalking along; but you wouldn't have been what you are if you hadn't had a bit of old lame Bartle inside you. The strongest calf must have something to suck at. There's plenty of these big, lumbering fellows 'ud never have known their A B C if it hadn't been for Bartle Massey. Well, well, Vixen, you foolish wench, what is it, what is it? I must go in, must I? Aye, aye, I'm never to have a will o' my own any more. And those pups--what do you think I'm to do with 'em, when they're twice as big as you? For I'm pretty sure the father was that hulking bull-terrier of Will Baker's--wasn't he now, eh, you sly hussy?" (Here Vixen tucked her tail between her legs and ran forward into the house. Subjects are sometimes broached which a well-bred female will ignore.) "But where's the use of talking to a woman with babbies?" continued Bartle. "She's got no conscience--no conscience; it's all run to milk." Book Three Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Adam erreicht Bartle Masseys Haus dreißig Minuten später, gerade rechtzeitig, um das Ende der Abendschule mitzuerleben. Der Lehrer half Bill dabei, lesen zu lernen. Der Mann hat einen doppelten Grund, sich zu beeilen - sein Cousin kann lesen, ebenso wie ein junger Junge, der in seiner Bildhauerwerkstatt arbeitet. Ein weiterer Anfänger ist ein Maurer, der früher berüchtigt war, jetzt aber Methodist ist und lesen lernen möchte, um Religion besser zu verstehen. Der dritte Anfänger ist ein Färber, der sein Geschäft verbessern möchte. Der Lehrer hat weniger Geduld mit sechzehnjährigen Schülern, die ihre Rechenübungen nicht gut machen. Der Unterricht endet und Adam hilft dem Lehrer beim Aufräumen. Er schaut nach den beiden Welpen seines Hundes, Vixen. Die beiden Männer essen Abendbrot mit Brot, Käse und Bier. Bartle sagt, dass er die Poysers mag, aber dass es dort zu viele Frauen gibt, und er argumentiert, dass ein Mann sein Haus genauso bequem führen kann wie eine Frau. Er ist besser im Backen und ähnlichem, weil er die Zutaten abmessen kann und herausgefunden hat, dass je heißer der Ofen, desto kürzer die Backzeit. Es ist ein Rätsel, ob Bartle jemals verheiratet war, denn vor seinem Leben in Hayslope lebte er im Süden. Bartle sagt, er habe einige Neuigkeiten für Adam, nämlich dass der Squire einen Schlaganfall erlitten hat. Bartle glaubt, dass Adam im Falle des Todes des Squires wahrscheinlich zum Förster ernannt wird. Adam sagt, dass der Squire ihn sowieso nicht einstellen wird, weil er einmal einen aufwändigen Schirm für Miss Lydia gemacht hat und der Squire ihm den Preis, den er verlangte, missgönnte und Lydia sagte, weniger zu zahlen. Adam hat ihn dann geschenkt, weil weniger zu bekommen bedeuten würde, dass er eine unangemessene Summe verlangt hat. Der Squire schickte ihm später das Geld, aber Adam hasste ihn seitdem.

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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. Chapter: Next day at 11 a.m. Higgins's laboratory in Wimpole Street. It is a room on the first floor, looking on the street, and was meant for the drawing-room. The double doors are in the middle of the back hall; and persons entering find in the corner to their right two tall file cabinets at right angles to one another against the walls. In this corner stands a flat writing-table, on which are a phonograph, a laryngoscope, a row of tiny organ pipes with a bellows, a set of lamp chimneys for singing flames with burners attached to a gas plug in the wall by an indiarubber tube, several tuning-forks of different sizes, a life-size image of half a human head, showing in section the vocal organs, and a box containing a supply of wax cylinders for the phonograph. Further down the room, on the same side, is a fireplace, with a comfortable leather-covered easy-chair at the side of the hearth nearest the door, and a coal-scuttle. There is a clock on the mantelpiece. Between the fireplace and the phonograph table is a stand for newspapers. On the other side of the central door, to the left of the visitor, is a cabinet of shallow drawers. On it is a telephone and the telephone directory. The corner beyond, and most of the side wall, is occupied by a grand piano, with the keyboard at the end furthest from the door, and a bench for the player extending the full length of the keyboard. On the piano is a dessert dish heaped with fruit and sweets, mostly chocolates. The middle of the room is clear. Besides the easy chair, the piano bench, and two chairs at the phonograph table, there is one stray chair. It stands near the fireplace. On the walls, engravings; mostly Piranesis and mezzotint portraits. No paintings. Pickering is seated at the table, putting down some cards and a tuning-fork which he has been using. Higgins is standing up near him, closing two or three file drawers which are hanging out. He appears in the morning light as a robust, vital, appetizing sort of man of forty or thereabouts, dressed in a professional-looking black frock-coat with a white linen collar and black silk tie. He is of the energetic, scientific type, heartily, even violently interested in everything that can be studied as a scientific subject, and careless about himself and other people, including their feelings. He is, in fact, but for his years and size, rather like a very impetuous baby "taking notice" eagerly and loudly, and requiring almost as much watching to keep him out of unintended mischief. His manner varies from genial bullying when he is in a good humor to stormy petulance when anything goes wrong; but he is so entirely frank and void of malice that he remains likeable even in his least reasonable moments. HIGGINS [as he shuts the last drawer] Well, I think that's the whole show. PICKERING. It's really amazing. I haven't taken half of it in, you know. HIGGINS. Would you like to go over any of it again? PICKERING [rising and coming to the fireplace, where he plants himself with his back to the fire] No, thank you; not now. I'm quite done up for this morning. HIGGINS [following him, and standing beside him on his left] Tired of listening to sounds? PICKERING. Yes. It's a fearful strain. I rather fancied myself because I can pronounce twenty-four distinct vowel sounds; but your hundred and thirty beat me. I can't hear a bit of difference between most of them. HIGGINS [chuckling, and going over to the piano to eat sweets] Oh, that comes with practice. You hear no difference at first; but you keep on listening, and presently you find they're all as different as A from B. [Mrs. Pearce looks in: she is Higgins's housekeeper] What's the matter? MRS. PEARCE [hesitating, evidently perplexed] A young woman wants to see you, sir. HIGGINS. A young woman! What does she want? MRS. PEARCE. Well, sir, she says you'll be glad to see her when you know what she's come about. She's quite a common girl, sir. Very common indeed. I should have sent her away, only I thought perhaps you wanted her to talk into your machines. I hope I've not done wrong; but really you see such queer people sometimes--you'll excuse me, I'm sure, sir-- HIGGINS. Oh, that's all right, Mrs. Pearce. Has she an interesting accent? MRS. PEARCE. Oh, something dreadful, sir, really. I don't know how you can take an interest in it. HIGGINS [to Pickering] Let's have her up. Show her up, Mrs. Pearce [he rushes across to his working table and picks out a cylinder to use on the phonograph]. MRS. PEARCE [only half resigned to it] Very well, sir. It's for you to say. [She goes downstairs]. HIGGINS. This is rather a bit of luck. I'll show you how I make records. We'll set her talking; and I'll take it down first in Bell's visible Speech; then in broad Romic; and then we'll get her on the phonograph so that you can turn her on as often as you like with the written transcript before you. MRS. PEARCE [returning] This is the young woman, sir. The flower girl enters in state. She has a hat with three ostrich feathers, orange, sky-blue, and red. She has a nearly clean apron, and the shoddy coat has been tidied a little. The pathos of this deplorable figure, with its innocent vanity and consequential air, touches Pickering, who has already straightened himself in the presence of Mrs. Pearce. But as to Higgins, the only distinction he makes between men and women is that when he is neither bullying nor exclaiming to the heavens against some featherweight cross, he coaxes women as a child coaxes its nurse when it wants to get anything out of her. HIGGINS [brusquely, recognizing her with unconcealed disappointment, and at once, baby-like, making an intolerable grievance of it] Why, this is the girl I jotted down last night. She's no use: I've got all the records I want of the Lisson Grove lingo; and I'm not going to waste another cylinder on it. [To the girl] Be off with you: I don't want you. THE FLOWER GIRL. Don't you be so saucy. You ain't heard what I come for yet. [To Mrs. Pearce, who is waiting at the door for further instruction] Did you tell him I come in a taxi? MRS. PEARCE. Nonsense, girl! what do you think a gentleman like Mr. Higgins cares what you came in? THE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, we are proud! He ain't above giving lessons, not him: I heard him say so. Well, I ain't come here to ask for any compliment; and if my money's not good enough I can go elsewhere. HIGGINS. Good enough for what? THE FLOWER GIRL. Good enough for ye--oo. Now you know, don't you? I'm come to have lessons, I am. And to pay for em too: make no mistake. HIGGINS [stupent] WELL!!! [Recovering his breath with a gasp] What do you expect me to say to you? THE FLOWER GIRL. Well, if you was a gentleman, you might ask me to sit down, I think. Don't I tell you I'm bringing you business? HIGGINS. Pickering: shall we ask this baggage to sit down or shall we throw her out of the window? THE FLOWER GIRL [running away in terror to the piano, where she turns at bay] Ah--ah--ah--ow--ow--ow--oo! [Wounded and whimpering] I won't be called a baggage when I've offered to pay like any lady. Motionless, the two men stare at her from the other side of the room, amazed. PICKERING [gently] What is it you want, my girl? THE FLOWER GIRL. I want to be a lady in a flower shop stead of selling at the corner of Tottenham Court Road. But they won't take me unless I can talk more genteel. He said he could teach me. Well, here I am ready to pay him--not asking any favor--and he treats me as if I was dirt. MRS. PEARCE. How can you be such a foolish ignorant girl as to think you could afford to pay Mr. Higgins? THE FLOWER GIRL. Why shouldn't I? I know what lessons cost as well as you do; and I'm ready to pay. HIGGINS. How much? THE FLOWER GIRL [coming back to him, triumphant] Now you're talking! I thought you'd come off it when you saw a chance of getting back a bit of what you chucked at me last night. [Confidentially] You'd had a drop in, hadn't you? HIGGINS [peremptorily] Sit down. THE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, if you're going to make a compliment of it-- HIGGINS [thundering at her] Sit down. MRS. PEARCE [severely] Sit down, girl. Do as you're told. [She places the stray chair near the hearthrug between Higgins and Pickering, and stands behind it waiting for the girl to sit down]. THE FLOWER GIRL. Ah--ah--ah--ow--ow--oo! [She stands, half rebellious, half bewildered]. PICKERING [very courteous] Won't you sit down? LIZA [coyly] Don't mind if I do. [She sits down. Pickering returns to the hearthrug]. HIGGINS. What's your name? THE FLOWER GIRL. Liza Doolittle. HIGGINS [declaiming gravely] Eliza, Elizabeth, Betsy and Bess, They went to the woods to get a bird's nes': PICKERING. They found a nest with four eggs in it: HIGGINS. They took one apiece, and left three in it. They laugh heartily at their own wit. LIZA. Oh, don't be silly. MRS. PEARCE. You mustn't speak to the gentleman like that. LIZA. Well, why won't he speak sensible to me? HIGGINS. Come back to business. How much do you propose to pay me for the lessons? LIZA. Oh, I know what's right. A lady friend of mine gets French lessons for eighteenpence an hour from a real French gentleman. Well, you wouldn't have the face to ask me the same for teaching me my own language as you would for French; so I won't give more than a shilling. Take it or leave it. HIGGINS [walking up and down the room, rattling his keys and his cash in his pockets] You know, Pickering, if you consider a shilling, not as a simple shilling, but as a percentage of this girl's income, it works out as fully equivalent to sixty or seventy guineas from a millionaire. PICKERING. How so? HIGGINS. Figure it out. A millionaire has about 150 pounds a day. She earns about half-a-crown. LIZA [haughtily] Who told you I only-- HIGGINS [continuing] She offers me two-fifths of her day's income for a lesson. Two-fifths of a millionaire's income for a day would be somewhere about 60 pounds. It's handsome. By George, it's enormous! it's the biggest offer I ever had. LIZA [rising, terrified] Sixty pounds! What are you talking about? I never offered you sixty pounds. Where would I get-- HIGGINS. Hold your tongue. LIZA [weeping] But I ain't got sixty pounds. Oh-- MRS. PEARCE. Don't cry, you silly girl. Sit down. Nobody is going to touch your money. HIGGINS. Somebody is going to touch you, with a broomstick, if you don't stop snivelling. Sit down. LIZA [obeying slowly] Ah--ah--ah--ow--oo--o! One would think you was my father. HIGGINS. If I decide to teach you, I'll be worse than two fathers to you. Here [he offers her his silk handkerchief]! LIZA. What's this for? HIGGINS. To wipe your eyes. To wipe any part of your face that feels moist. Remember: that's your handkerchief; and that's your sleeve. Don't mistake the one for the other if you wish to become a lady in a shop. Liza, utterly bewildered, stares helplessly at him. MRS. PEARCE. It's no use talking to her like that, Mr. Higgins: she doesn't understand you. Besides, you're quite wrong: she doesn't do it that way at all [she takes the handkerchief]. LIZA [snatching it] Here! You give me that handkerchief. He give it to me, not to you. PICKERING [laughing] He did. I think it must be regarded as her property, Mrs. Pearce. MRS. PEARCE [resigning herself] Serve you right, Mr. Higgins. PICKERING. Higgins: I'm interested. What about the ambassador's garden party? I'll say you're the greatest teacher alive if you make that good. I'll bet you all the expenses of the experiment you can't do it. And I'll pay for the lessons. LIZA. Oh, you are real good. Thank you, Captain. HIGGINS [tempted, looking at her] It's almost irresistible. She's so deliciously low--so horribly dirty-- LIZA [protesting extremely] Ah--ah--ah--ah--ow--ow--oooo!!! I ain't dirty: I washed my face and hands afore I come, I did. PICKERING. You're certainly not going to turn her head with flattery, Higgins. MRS. PEARCE [uneasy] Oh, don't say that, sir: there's more ways than one of turning a girl's head; and nobody can do it better than Mr. Higgins, though he may not always mean it. I do hope, sir, you won't encourage him to do anything foolish. HIGGINS [becoming excited as the idea grows on him] What is life but a series of inspired follies? The difficulty is to find them to do. Never lose a chance: it doesn't come every day. I shall make a duchess of this draggletailed guttersnipe. LIZA [strongly deprecating this view of her] Ah--ah--ah--ow--ow--oo! HIGGINS [carried away] Yes: in six months--in three if she has a good ear and a quick tongue--I'll take her anywhere and pass her off as anything. We'll start today: now! this moment! Take her away and clean her, Mrs. Pearce. Monkey Brand, if it won't come off any other way. Is there a good fire in the kitchen? MRS. PEARCE [protesting]. Yes; but-- HIGGINS [storming on] Take all her clothes off and burn them. Ring up Whiteley or somebody for new ones. Wrap her up in brown paper till they come. LIZA. You're no gentleman, you're not, to talk of such things. I'm a good girl, I am; and I know what the like of you are, I do. HIGGINS. We want none of your Lisson Grove prudery here, young woman. You've got to learn to behave like a duchess. Take her away, Mrs. Pearce. If she gives you any trouble wallop her. LIZA [springing up and running between Pickering and Mrs. Pearce for protection] No! I'll call the police, I will. MRS. PEARCE. But I've no place to put her. HIGGINS. Put her in the dustbin. LIZA. Ah--ah--ah--ow--ow--oo! PICKERING. Oh come, Higgins! be reasonable. MRS. PEARCE [resolutely] You must be reasonable, Mr. Higgins: really you must. You can't walk over everybody like this. Higgins, thus scolded, subsides. The hurricane is succeeded by a zephyr of amiable surprise. HIGGINS [with professional exquisiteness of modulation] I walk over everybody! My dear Mrs. Pearce, my dear Pickering, I never had the slightest intention of walking over anyone. All I propose is that we should be kind to this poor girl. We must help her to prepare and fit herself for her new station in life. If I did not express myself clearly it was because I did not wish to hurt her delicacy, or yours. Liza, reassured, steals back to her chair. MRS. PEARCE [to Pickering] Well, did you ever hear anything like that, sir? PICKERING [laughing heartily] Never, Mrs. Pearce: never. HIGGINS [patiently] What's the matter? MRS. PEARCE. Well, the matter is, sir, that you can't take a girl up like that as if you were picking up a pebble on the beach. HIGGINS. Why not? MRS. PEARCE. Why not! But you don't know anything about her. What about her parents? She may be married. LIZA. Garn! HIGGINS. There! As the girl very properly says, Garn! Married indeed! Don't you know that a woman of that class looks a worn out drudge of fifty a year after she's married. LIZA. Who'd marry me? HIGGINS [suddenly resorting to the most thrillingly beautiful low tones in his best elocutionary style] By George, Eliza, the streets will be strewn with the bodies of men shooting themselves for your sake before I've done with you. MRS. PEARCE. Nonsense, sir. You mustn't talk like that to her. LIZA [rising and squaring herself determinedly] I'm going away. He's off his chump, he is. I don't want no balmies teaching me. HIGGINS [wounded in his tenderest point by her insensibility to his elocution] Oh, indeed! I'm mad, am I? Very well, Mrs. Pearce: you needn't order the new clothes for her. Throw her out. LIZA [whimpering] Nah--ow. You got no right to touch me. MRS. PEARCE. You see now what comes of being saucy. [Indicating the door] This way, please. LIZA [almost in tears] I didn't want no clothes. I wouldn't have taken them [she throws away the handkerchief]. I can buy my own clothes. HIGGINS [deftly retrieving the handkerchief and intercepting her on her reluctant way to the door] You're an ungrateful wicked girl. This is my return for offering to take you out of the gutter and dress you beautifully and make a lady of you. MRS. PEARCE. Stop, Mr. Higgins. I won't allow it. It's you that are wicked. Go home to your parents, girl; and tell them to take better care of you. LIZA. I ain't got no parents. They told me I was big enough to earn my own living and turned me out. MRS. PEARCE. Where's your mother? LIZA. I ain't got no mother. Her that turned me out was my sixth stepmother. But I done without them. And I'm a good girl, I am. HIGGINS. Very well, then, what on earth is all this fuss about? The girl doesn't belong to anybody--is no use to anybody but me. [He goes to Mrs. Pearce and begins coaxing]. You can adopt her, Mrs. Pearce: I'm sure a daughter would be a great amusement to you. Now don't make any more fuss. Take her downstairs; and-- MRS. PEARCE. But what's to become of her? Is she to be paid anything? Do be sensible, sir. HIGGINS. Oh, pay her whatever is necessary: put it down in the housekeeping book. [Impatiently] What on earth will she want with money? She'll have her food and her clothes. She'll only drink if you give her money. LIZA [turning on him] Oh you are a brute. It's a lie: nobody ever saw the sign of liquor on me. [She goes back to her chair and plants herself there defiantly]. PICKERING [in good-humored remonstrance] Does it occur to you, Higgins, that the girl has some feelings? HIGGINS [looking critically at her] Oh no, I don't think so. Not any feelings that we need bother about. [Cheerily] Have you, Eliza? LIZA. I got my feelings same as anyone else. HIGGINS [to Pickering, reflectively] You see the difficulty? PICKERING. Eh? What difficulty? HIGGINS. To get her to talk grammar. The mere pronunciation is easy enough. LIZA. I don't want to talk grammar. I want to talk like a lady. MRS. PEARCE. Will you please keep to the point, Mr. Higgins. I want to know on what terms the girl is to be here. Is she to have any wages? And what is to become of her when you've finished your teaching? You must look ahead a little. HIGGINS [impatiently] What's to become of her if I leave her in the gutter? Tell me that, Mrs. Pearce. MRS. PEARCE. That's her own business, not yours, Mr. Higgins. HIGGINS. Well, when I've done with her, we can throw her back into the gutter; and then it will be her own business again; so that's all right. LIZA. Oh, you've no feeling heart in you: you don't care for nothing but yourself [she rises and takes the floor resolutely]. Here! I've had enough of this. I'm going [making for the door]. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you ought. HIGGINS [snatching a chocolate cream from the piano, his eyes suddenly beginning to twinkle with mischief] Have some chocolates, Eliza. LIZA [halting, tempted] How do I know what might be in them? I've heard of girls being drugged by the like of you. Higgins whips out his penknife; cuts a chocolate in two; puts one half into his mouth and bolts it; and offers her the other half. HIGGINS. Pledge of good faith, Eliza. I eat one half you eat the other. [Liza opens her mouth to retort: he pops the half chocolate into it]. You shall have boxes of them, barrels of them, every day. You shall live on them. Eh? LIZA [who has disposed of the chocolate after being nearly choked by it] I wouldn't have ate it, only I'm too ladylike to take it out of my mouth. HIGGINS. Listen, Eliza. I think you said you came in a taxi. LIZA. Well, what if I did? I've as good a right to take a taxi as anyone else. HIGGINS. You have, Eliza; and in future you shall have as many taxis as you want. You shall go up and down and round the town in a taxi every day. Think of that, Eliza. MRS. PEARCE. Mr. Higgins: you're tempting the girl. It's not right. She should think of the future. HIGGINS. At her age! Nonsense! Time enough to think of the future when you haven't any future to think of. No, Eliza: do as this lady does: think of other people's futures; but never think of your own. Think of chocolates, and taxis, and gold, and diamonds. LIZA. No: I don't want no gold and no diamonds. I'm a good girl, I am. [She sits down again, with an attempt at dignity]. HIGGINS. You shall remain so, Eliza, under the care of Mrs. Pearce. And you shall marry an officer in the Guards, with a beautiful moustache: the son of a marquis, who will disinherit him for marrying you, but will relent when he sees your beauty and goodness-- PICKERING. Excuse me, Higgins; but I really must interfere. Mrs. Pearce is quite right. If this girl is to put herself in your hands for six months for an experiment in teaching, she must understand thoroughly what she's doing. HIGGINS. How can she? She's incapable of understanding anything. Besides, do any of us understand what we are doing? If we did, would we ever do it? PICKERING. Very clever, Higgins; but not sound sense. [To Eliza] Miss Doolittle-- LIZA [overwhelmed] Ah--ah--ow--oo! HIGGINS. There! That's all you get out of Eliza. Ah--ah--ow--oo! No use explaining. As a military man you ought to know that. Give her her orders: that's what she wants. Eliza: you are to live here for the next six months, learning how to speak beautifully, like a lady in a florist's shop. If you're good and do whatever you're told, you shall sleep in a proper bedroom, and have lots to eat, and money to buy chocolates and take rides in taxis. If you're naughty and idle you will sleep in the back kitchen among the black beetles, and be walloped by Mrs. Pearce with a broomstick. At the end of six months you shall go to Buckingham Palace in a carriage, beautifully dressed. If the King finds out you're not a lady, you will be taken by the police to the Tower of London, where your head will be cut off as a warning to other presumptuous flower girls. If you are not found out, you shall have a present of seven-and-sixpence to start life with as a lady in a shop. If you refuse this offer you will be a most ungrateful and wicked girl; and the angels will weep for you. [To Pickering] Now are you satisfied, Pickering? [To Mrs. Pearce] Can I put it more plainly and fairly, Mrs. Pearce? MRS. PEARCE [patiently] I think you'd better let me speak to the girl properly in private. I don't know that I can take charge of her or consent to the arrangement at all. Of course I know you don't mean her any harm; but when you get what you call interested in people's accents, you never think or care what may happen to them or you. Come with me, Eliza. HIGGINS. That's all right. Thank you, Mrs. Pearce. Bundle her off to the bath-room. LIZA [rising reluctantly and suspiciously] You're a great bully, you are. I won't stay here if I don't like. I won't let nobody wallop me. I never asked to go to Bucknam Palace, I didn't. I was never in trouble with the police, not me. I'm a good girl-- MRS. PEARCE. Don't answer back, girl. You don't understand the gentleman. Come with me. [She leads the way to the door, and holds it open for Eliza]. LIZA [as she goes out] Well, what I say is right. I won't go near the king, not if I'm going to have my head cut off. If I'd known what I was letting myself in for, I wouldn't have come here. I always been a good girl; and I never offered to say a word to him; and I don't owe him nothing; and I don't care; and I won't be put upon; and I have my feelings the same as anyone else-- Mrs. Pearce shuts the door; and Eliza's plaints are no longer audible. Pickering comes from the hearth to the chair and sits astride it with his arms on the back. PICKERING. Excuse the straight question, Higgins. Are you a man of good character where women are concerned? HIGGINS [moodily] Have you ever met a man of good character where women are concerned? PICKERING. Yes: very frequently. HIGGINS [dogmatically, lifting himself on his hands to the level of the piano, and sitting on it with a bounce] Well, I haven't. I find that the moment I let a woman make friends with me, she becomes jealous, exacting, suspicious, and a damned nuisance. I find that the moment I let myself make friends with a woman, I become selfish and tyrannical. Women upset everything. When you let them into your life, you find that the woman is driving at one thing and you're driving at another. PICKERING. At what, for example? HIGGINS [coming off the piano restlessly] Oh, Lord knows! I suppose the woman wants to live her own life; and the man wants to live his; and each tries to drag the other on to the wrong track. One wants to go north and the other south; and the result is that both have to go east, though they both hate the east wind. [He sits down on the bench at the keyboard]. So here I am, a confirmed old bachelor, and likely to remain so. PICKERING [rising and standing over him gravely] Come, Higgins! You know what I mean. If I'm to be in this business I shall feel responsible for that girl. I hope it's understood that no advantage is to be taken of her position. HIGGINS. What! That thing! Sacred, I assure you. [Rising to explain] You see, she'll be a pupil; and teaching would be impossible unless pupils were sacred. I've taught scores of American millionairesses how to speak English: the best looking women in the world. I'm seasoned. They might as well be blocks of wood. I might as well be a block of wood. It's-- Mrs. Pearce opens the door. She has Eliza's hat in her hand. Pickering retires to the easy-chair at the hearth and sits down. HIGGINS [eagerly] Well, Mrs. Pearce: is it all right? MRS. PEARCE [at the door] I just wish to trouble you with a word, if I may, Mr. Higgins. HIGGINS. Yes, certainly. Come in. [She comes forward]. Don't burn that, Mrs. Pearce. I'll keep it as a curiosity. [He takes the hat]. MRS. PEARCE. Handle it carefully, sir, please. I had to promise her not to burn it; but I had better put it in the oven for a while. HIGGINS [putting it down hastily on the piano] Oh! thank you. Well, what have you to say to me? PICKERING. Am I in the way? MRS. PEARCE. Not at all, sir. Mr. Higgins: will you please be very particular what you say before the girl? HIGGINS [sternly] Of course. I'm always particular about what I say. Why do you say this to me? MRS. PEARCE [unmoved] No, sir: you're not at all particular when you've mislaid anything or when you get a little impatient. Now it doesn't matter before me: I'm used to it. But you really must not swear before the girl. HIGGINS [indignantly] I swear! [Most emphatically] I never swear. I detest the habit. What the devil do you mean? MRS. PEARCE [stolidly] That's what I mean, sir. You swear a great deal too much. I don't mind your damning and blasting, and what the devil and where the devil and who the devil-- HIGGINS. Really! Mrs. Pearce: this language from your lips! MRS. PEARCE [not to be put off]--but there is a certain word I must ask you not to use. The girl has just used it herself because the bath was too hot. It begins with the same letter as bath. She knows no better: she learnt it at her mother's knee. But she must not hear it from your lips. HIGGINS [loftily] I cannot charge myself with having ever uttered it, Mrs. Pearce. [She looks at him steadfastly. He adds, hiding an uneasy conscience with a judicial air] Except perhaps in a moment of extreme and justifiable excitement. MRS. PEARCE. Only this morning, sir, you applied it to your boots, to the butter, and to the brown bread. HIGGINS. Oh, that! Mere alliteration, Mrs. Pearce, natural to a poet. MRS. PEARCE. Well, sir, whatever you choose to call it, I beg you not to let the girl hear you repeat it. HIGGINS. Oh, very well, very well. Is that all? MRS. PEARCE. No, sir. We shall have to be very particular with this girl as to personal cleanliness. HIGGINS. Certainly. Quite right. Most important. MRS. PEARCE. I mean not to be slovenly about her dress or untidy in leaving things about. HIGGINS [going to her solemnly] Just so. I intended to call your attention to that [He passes on to Pickering, who is enjoying the conversation immensely]. It is these little things that matter, Pickering. Take care of the pence and the pounds will take care of themselves is as true of personal habits as of money. [He comes to anchor on the hearthrug, with the air of a man in an unassailable position]. MRS. PEARCE. Yes, sir. Then might I ask you not to come down to breakfast in your dressing-gown, or at any rate not to use it as a napkin to the extent you do, sir. And if you would be so good as not to eat everything off the same plate, and to remember not to put the porridge saucepan out of your hand on the clean tablecloth, it would be a better example to the girl. You know you nearly choked yourself with a fishbone in the jam only last week. HIGGINS [routed from the hearthrug and drifting back to the piano] I may do these things sometimes in absence of mind; but surely I don't do them habitually. [Angrily] By the way: my dressing-gown smells most damnably of benzine. MRS. PEARCE. No doubt it does, Mr. Higgins. But if you will wipe your fingers-- HIGGINS [yelling] Oh very well, very well: I'll wipe them in my hair in future. MRS. PEARCE. I hope you're not offended, Mr. Higgins. HIGGINS [shocked at finding himself thought capable of an unamiable sentiment] Not at all, not at all. You're quite right, Mrs. Pearce: I shall be particularly careful before the girl. Is that all? MRS. PEARCE. No, sir. Might she use some of those Japanese dresses you brought from abroad? I really can't put her back into her old things. HIGGINS. Certainly. Anything you like. Is that all? MRS. PEARCE. Thank you, sir. That's all. [She goes out]. HIGGINS. You know, Pickering, that woman has the most extraordinary ideas about me. Here I am, a shy, diffident sort of man. I've never been able to feel really grown-up and tremendous, like other chaps. And yet she's firmly persuaded that I'm an arbitrary overbearing bossing kind of person. I can't account for it. Mrs. Pearce returns. MRS. PEARCE. If you please, sir, the trouble's beginning already. There's a dustman downstairs, Alfred Doolittle, wants to see you. He says you have his daughter here. PICKERING [rising] Phew! I say! [He retreats to the hearthrug]. HIGGINS [promptly] Send the blackguard up. MRS. PEARCE. Oh, very well, sir. [She goes out]. PICKERING. He may not be a blackguard, Higgins. HIGGINS. Nonsense. Of course he's a blackguard. PICKERING. Whether he is or not, I'm afraid we shall have some trouble with him. HIGGINS [confidently] Oh no: I think not. If there's any trouble he shall have it with me, not I with him. And we are sure to get something interesting out of him. PICKERING. About the girl? HIGGINS. No. I mean his dialect. PICKERING. Oh! MRS. PEARCE [at the door] Doolittle, sir. [She admits Doolittle and retires]. Alfred Doolittle is an elderly but vigorous dustman, clad in the costume of his profession, including a hat with a back brim covering his neck and shoulders. He has well marked and rather interesting features, and seems equally free from fear and conscience. He has a remarkably expressive voice, the result of a habit of giving vent to his feelings without reserve. His present pose is that of wounded honor and stern resolution. DOOLITTLE [at the door, uncertain which of the two gentlemen is his man] Professor Higgins? HIGGINS. Here. Good morning. Sit down. DOOLITTLE. Morning, Governor. [He sits down magisterially] I come about a very serious matter, Governor. HIGGINS [to Pickering] Brought up in Hounslow. Mother Welsh, I should think. [Doolittle opens his mouth, amazed. Higgins continues] What do you want, Doolittle? DOOLITTLE [menacingly] I want my daughter: that's what I want. See? HIGGINS. Of course you do. You're her father, aren't you? You don't suppose anyone else wants her, do you? I'm glad to see you have some spark of family feeling left. She's upstairs. Take her away at once. DOOLITTLE [rising, fearfully taken aback] What! HIGGINS. Take her away. Do you suppose I'm going to keep your daughter for you? DOOLITTLE [remonstrating] Now, now, look here, Governor. Is this reasonable? Is it fair to take advantage of a man like this? The girl belongs to me. You got her. Where do I come in? [He sits down again]. HIGGINS. Your daughter had the audacity to come to my house and ask me to teach her how to speak properly so that she could get a place in a flower-shop. This gentleman and my housekeeper have been here all the time. [Bullying him] How dare you come here and attempt to blackmail me? You sent her here on purpose. DOOLITTLE [protesting] No, Governor. HIGGINS. You must have. How else could you possibly know that she is here? DOOLITTLE. Don't take a man up like that, Governor. HIGGINS. The police shall take you up. This is a plant--a plot to extort money by threats. I shall telephone for the police [he goes resolutely to the telephone and opens the directory]. DOOLITTLE. Have I asked you for a brass farthing? I leave it to the gentleman here: have I said a word about money? HIGGINS [throwing the book aside and marching down on Doolittle with a poser] What else did you come for? DOOLITTLE [sweetly] Well, what would a man come for? Be human, governor. HIGGINS [disarmed] Alfred: did you put her up to it? DOOLITTLE. So help me, Governor, I never did. I take my Bible oath I ain't seen the girl these two months past. HIGGINS. Then how did you know she was here? DOOLITTLE ["most musical, most melancholy"] I'll tell you, Governor, if you'll only let me get a word in. I'm willing to tell you. I'm wanting to tell you. I'm waiting to tell you. HIGGINS. Pickering: this chap has a certain natural gift of rhetoric. Observe the rhythm of his native woodnotes wild. "I'm willing to tell you: I'm wanting to tell you: I'm waiting to tell you." Sentimental rhetoric! That's the Welsh strain in him. It also accounts for his mendacity and dishonesty. PICKERING. Oh, PLEASE, Higgins: I'm west country myself. [To Doolittle] How did you know the girl was here if you didn't send her? DOOLITTLE. It was like this, Governor. The girl took a boy in the taxi to give him a jaunt. Son of her landlady, he is. He hung about on the chance of her giving him another ride home. Well, she sent him back for her luggage when she heard you was willing for her to stop here. I met the boy at the corner of Long Acre and Endell Street. HIGGINS. Public house. Yes? DOOLITTLE. The poor man's club, Governor: why shouldn't I? PICKERING. Do let him tell his story, Higgins. DOOLITTLE. He told me what was up. And I ask you, what was my feelings and my duty as a father? I says to the boy, "You bring me the luggage," I says-- PICKERING. Why didn't you go for it yourself? DOOLITTLE. Landlady wouldn't have trusted me with it, Governor. She's that kind of woman: you know. I had to give the boy a penny afore he trusted me with it, the little swine. I brought it to her just to oblige you like, and make myself agreeable. That's all. HIGGINS. How much luggage? DOOLITTLE. Musical instrument, Governor. A few pictures, a trifle of jewelry, and a bird-cage. She said she didn't want no clothes. What was I to think from that, Governor? I ask you as a parent what was I to think? HIGGINS. So you came to rescue her from worse than death, eh? DOOLITTLE [appreciatively: relieved at being understood] Just so, Governor. That's right. PICKERING. But why did you bring her luggage if you intended to take her away? DOOLITTLE. Have I said a word about taking her away? Have I now? HIGGINS [determinedly] You're going to take her away, double quick. [He crosses to the hearth and rings the bell]. DOOLITTLE [rising] No, Governor. Don't say that. I'm not the man to stand in my girl's light. Here's a career opening for her, as you might say; and-- Mrs. Pearce opens the door and awaits orders. HIGGINS. Mrs. Pearce: this is Eliza's father. He has come to take her away. Give her to him. [He goes back to the piano, with an air of washing his hands of the whole affair]. DOOLITTLE. No. This is a misunderstanding. Listen here-- MRS. PEARCE. He can't take her away, Mr. Higgins: how can he? You told me to burn her clothes. DOOLITTLE. That's right. I can't carry the girl through the streets like a blooming monkey, can I? I put it to you. HIGGINS. You have put it to me that you want your daughter. Take your daughter. If she has no clothes go out and buy her some. DOOLITTLE [desperate] Where's the clothes she come in? Did I burn them or did your missus here? MRS. PEARCE. I am the housekeeper, if you please. I have sent for some clothes for your girl. When they come you can take her away. You can wait in the kitchen. This way, please. Doolittle, much troubled, accompanies her to the door; then hesitates; finally turns confidentially to Higgins. DOOLITTLE. Listen here, Governor. You and me is men of the world, ain't we? HIGGINS. Oh! Men of the world, are we? You'd better go, Mrs. Pearce. MRS. PEARCE. I think so, indeed, sir. [She goes, with dignity]. PICKERING. The floor is yours, Mr. Doolittle. DOOLITTLE [to Pickering] I thank you, Governor. [To Higgins, who takes refuge on the piano bench, a little overwhelmed by the proximity of his visitor; for Doolittle has a professional flavor of dust about him]. Well, the truth is, I've taken a sort of fancy to you, Governor; and if you want the girl, I'm not so set on having her back home again but what I might be open to an arrangement. Regarded in the light of a young woman, she's a fine handsome girl. As a daughter she's not worth her keep; and so I tell you straight. All I ask is my rights as a father; and you're the last man alive to expect me to let her go for nothing; for I can see you're one of the straight sort, Governor. Well, what's a five pound note to you? And what's Eliza to me? [He returns to his chair and sits down judicially]. PICKERING. I think you ought to know, Doolittle, that Mr. Higgins's intentions are entirely honorable. DOOLITTLE. Course they are, Governor. If I thought they wasn't, I'd ask fifty. HIGGINS [revolted] Do you mean to say, you callous rascal, that you would sell your daughter for 50 pounds? DOOLITTLE. Not in a general way I wouldn't; but to oblige a gentleman like you I'd do a good deal, I do assure you. PICKERING. Have you no morals, man? DOOLITTLE [unabashed] Can't afford them, Governor. Neither could you if you was as poor as me. Not that I mean any harm, you know. But if Liza is going to have a bit out of this, why not me too? HIGGINS [troubled] I don't know what to do, Pickering. There can be no question that as a matter of morals it's a positive crime to give this chap a farthing. And yet I feel a sort of rough justice in his claim. DOOLITTLE. That's it, Governor. That's all I say. A father's heart, as it were. PICKERING. Well, I know the feeling; but really it seems hardly right-- DOOLITTLE. Don't say that, Governor. Don't look at it that way. What am I, Governors both? I ask you, what am I? I'm one of the undeserving poor: that's what I am. Think of what that means to a man. It means that he's up agen middle class morality all the time. If there's anything going, and I put in for a bit of it, it's always the same story: "You're undeserving; so you can't have it." But my needs is as great as the most deserving widow's that ever got money out of six different charities in one week for the death of the same husband. I don't need less than a deserving man: I need more. I don't eat less hearty than him; and I drink a lot more. I want a bit of amusement, cause I'm a thinking man. I want cheerfulness and a song and a band when I feel low. Well, they charge me just the same for everything as they charge the deserving. What is middle class morality? Just an excuse for never giving me anything. Therefore, I ask you, as two gentlemen, not to play that game on me. I'm playing straight with you. I ain't pretending to be deserving. I'm undeserving; and I mean to go on being undeserving. I like it; and that's the truth. Will you take advantage of a man's nature to do him out of the price of his own daughter what he's brought up and fed and clothed by the sweat of his brow until she's growed big enough to be interesting to you two gentlemen? Is five pounds unreasonable? I put it to you; and I leave it to you. HIGGINS [rising, and going over to Pickering] Pickering: if we were to take this man in hand for three months, he could choose between a seat in the Cabinet and a popular pulpit in Wales. PICKERING. What do you say to that, Doolittle? DOOLITTLE. Not me, Governor, thank you kindly. I've heard all the preachers and all the prime ministers--for I'm a thinking man and game for politics or religion or social reform same as all the other amusements--and I tell you it's a dog's life anyway you look at it. Undeserving poverty is my line. Taking one station in society with another, it's--it's--well, it's the only one that has any ginger in it, to my taste. HIGGINS. I suppose we must give him a fiver. PICKERING. He'll make a bad use of it, I'm afraid. DOOLITTLE. Not me, Governor, so help me I won't. Don't you be afraid that I'll save it and spare it and live idle on it. There won't be a penny of it left by Monday: I'll have to go to work same as if I'd never had it. It won't pauperize me, you bet. Just one good spree for myself and the missus, giving pleasure to ourselves and employment to others, and satisfaction to you to think it's not been throwed away. You couldn't spend it better. HIGGINS [taking out his pocket book and coming between Doolittle and the piano] This is irresistible. Let's give him ten. [He offers two notes to the dustman]. DOOLITTLE. No, Governor. She wouldn't have the heart to spend ten; and perhaps I shouldn't neither. Ten pounds is a lot of money: it makes a man feel prudent like; and then goodbye to happiness. You give me what I ask you, Governor: not a penny more, and not a penny less. PICKERING. Why don't you marry that missus of yours? I rather draw the line at encouraging that sort of immorality. DOOLITTLE. Tell her so, Governor: tell her so. I'm willing. It's me that suffers by it. I've no hold on her. I got to be agreeable to her. I got to give her presents. I got to buy her clothes something sinful. I'm a slave to that woman, Governor, just because I'm not her lawful husband. And she knows it too. Catch her marrying me! Take my advice, Governor: marry Eliza while she's young and don't know no better. If you don't you'll be sorry for it after. If you do, she'll be sorry for it after; but better you than her, because you're a man, and she's only a woman and don't know how to be happy anyhow. HIGGINS. Pickering: if we listen to this man another minute, we shall have no convictions left. [To Doolittle] Five pounds I think you said. DOOLITTLE. Thank you kindly, Governor. HIGGINS. You're sure you won't take ten? DOOLITTLE. Not now. Another time, Governor. HIGGINS [handing him a five-pound note] Here you are. DOOLITTLE. Thank you, Governor. Good morning. [He hurries to the door, anxious to get away with his booty. When he opens it he is confronted with a dainty and exquisitely clean young Japanese lady in a simple blue cotton kimono printed cunningly with small white jasmine blossoms. Mrs. Pearce is with her. He gets out of her way deferentially and apologizes]. Beg pardon, miss. THE JAPANESE LADY. Garn! Don't you know your own daughter? DOOLITTLE {exclaiming Bly me! it's Eliza! HIGGINS {simul- What's that! This! PICKERING {taneously By Jove! LIZA. Don't I look silly? HIGGINS. Silly? MRS. PEARCE [at the door] Now, Mr. Higgins, please don't say anything to make the girl conceited about herself. HIGGINS [conscientiously] Oh! Quite right, Mrs. Pearce. [To Eliza] Yes: damned silly. MRS. PEARCE. Please, sir. HIGGINS [correcting himself] I mean extremely silly. LIZA. I should look all right with my hat on. [She takes up her hat; puts it on; and walks across the room to the fireplace with a fashionable air]. HIGGINS. A new fashion, by George! And it ought to look horrible! DOOLITTLE [with fatherly pride] Well, I never thought she'd clean up as good looking as that, Governor. She's a credit to me, ain't she? LIZA. I tell you, it's easy to clean up here. Hot and cold water on tap, just as much as you like, there is. Woolly towels, there is; and a towel horse so hot, it burns your fingers. Soft brushes to scrub yourself, and a wooden bowl of soap smelling like primroses. Now I know why ladies is so clean. Washing's a treat for them. Wish they saw what it is for the like of me! HIGGINS. I'm glad the bath-room met with your approval. LIZA. It didn't: not all of it; and I don't care who hears me say it. Mrs. Pearce knows. HIGGINS. What was wrong, Mrs. Pearce? MRS. PEARCE [blandly] Oh, nothing, sir. It doesn't matter. LIZA. I had a good mind to break it. I didn't know which way to look. But I hung a towel over it, I did. HIGGINS. Over what? MRS. PEARCE. Over the looking-glass, sir. HIGGINS. Doolittle: you have brought your daughter up too strictly. DOOLITTLE. Me! I never brought her up at all, except to give her a lick of a strap now and again. Don't put it on me, Governor. She ain't accustomed to it, you see: that's all. But she'll soon pick up your free-and-easy ways. LIZA. I'm a good girl, I am; and I won't pick up no free and easy ways. HIGGINS. Eliza: if you say again that you're a good girl, your father shall take you home. LIZA. Not him. You don't know my father. All he come here for was to touch you for some money to get drunk on. DOOLITTLE. Well, what else would I want money for? To put into the plate in church, I suppose. [She puts out her tongue at him. He is so incensed by this that Pickering presently finds it necessary to step between them]. Don't you give me none of your lip; and don't let me hear you giving this gentleman any of it neither, or you'll hear from me about it. See? HIGGINS. Have you any further advice to give her before you go, Doolittle? Your blessing, for instance. DOOLITTLE. No, Governor: I ain't such a mug as to put up my children to all I know myself. Hard enough to hold them in without that. If you want Eliza's mind improved, Governor, you do it yourself with a strap. So long, gentlemen. [He turns to go]. HIGGINS [impressively] Stop. You'll come regularly to see your daughter. It's your duty, you know. My brother is a clergyman; and he could help you in your talks with her. DOOLITTLE [evasively] Certainly. I'll come, Governor. Not just this week, because I have a job at a distance. But later on you may depend on me. Afternoon, gentlemen. Afternoon, ma'am. [He takes off his hat to Mrs. Pearce, who disdains the salutation and goes out. He winks at Higgins, thinking him probably a fellow sufferer from Mrs. Pearce's difficult disposition, and follows her]. LIZA. Don't you believe the old liar. He'd as soon you set a bull-dog on him as a clergyman. You won't see him again in a hurry. HIGGINS. I don't want to, Eliza. Do you? LIZA. Not me. I don't want never to see him again, I don't. He's a disgrace to me, he is, collecting dust, instead of working at his trade. PICKERING. What is his trade, Eliza? LIZA. Talking money out of other people's pockets into his own. His proper trade's a navvy; and he works at it sometimes too--for exercise--and earns good money at it. Ain't you going to call me Miss Doolittle any more? PICKERING. I beg your pardon, Miss Doolittle. It was a slip of the tongue. LIZA. Oh, I don't mind; only it sounded so genteel. I should just like to take a taxi to the corner of Tottenham Court Road and get out there and tell it to wait for me, just to put the girls in their place a bit. I wouldn't speak to them, you know. PICKERING. Better wait til we get you something really fashionable. HIGGINS. Besides, you shouldn't cut your old friends now that you have risen in the world. That's what we call snobbery. LIZA. You don't call the like of them my friends now, I should hope. They've took it out of me often enough with their ridicule when they had the chance; and now I mean to get a bit of my own back. But if I'm to have fashionable clothes, I'll wait. I should like to have some. Mrs. Pearce says you're going to give me some to wear in bed at night different to what I wear in the daytime; but it do seem a waste of money when you could get something to show. Besides, I never could fancy changing into cold things on a winter night. MRS. PEARCE [coming back] Now, Eliza. The new things have come for you to try on. LIZA. Ah--ow--oo--ooh! [She rushes out]. MRS. PEARCE [following her] Oh, don't rush about like that, girl [She shuts the door behind her]. HIGGINS. Pickering: we have taken on a stiff job. PICKERING [with conviction] Higgins: we have. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Die Szene wechselt in Higgins' Labor in seinem Haus in der Wimpole Street. Es ist elf Uhr am nächsten Morgen und Higgins hat Pickering einige Demonstrationen der Arten von Geräten gegeben, die er verwendet, um Geräusche aufzuzeichnen, die dann in wissenschaftlicher Weise studiert werden können. Als Higgins seine Demonstration beendet, gibt Pickering zu, dass er beeindruckt ist, aber er konnte mehr als die Hälfte von dem, was Higgins ihm gezeigt hat, nicht verstehen. Mrs. Pearce, die Haushälterin, kommt herein und kündigt an, dass es ein seltsames Mädchen, "ein ziemlich gewöhnliches Mädchen", unten gibt, das nach dem Professor fragt. Higgins ist verwirrt, aber er denkt, dass dies eine gute Gelegenheit wäre, sie in Anwesenheit von Pickering aufzunehmen, zumal sie angeblich einen ungewöhnlichen Akzent hat. Er wird Pickering also zeigen können, wie er Aufnahmen macht, indem er verschiedene Teile seiner Geräte verwendet, die er vorgeführt hat. Eliza, das Blumenmädchen vom vorherigen Abend, tritt ein. Sie ist jetzt in einem ausgefallenen Outfit gekleidet, bestehend unter anderem aus drei Straußenfedern in Orange, Himmelblau und Rot. Als Higgins sie erkennt, befiehlt er ihr wegzugehen, weil er schon genug von ihrer "Lisson Grove" Dialekt aufgenommen hat. Eliza hingegen ist mit einem Taxi gekommen und hat einen Vorschlag. Higgins ist nicht beeindruckt und fragt unhöflich: "Sollen wir diese Gepäckstück zum Sitzen einladen oder sollen wir sie aus dem Fenster werfen?" Pickering ist besorgter und so wendet sich Eliza an ihn und enthüllt, dass sie einen Job als Dame in einem Blumenladen bekommen möchte, aber sie wird nicht eingestellt, wenn sie nicht in einer vornehmen, damenhaften Art sprechen kann. Deshalb ist sie zu Higgins gekommen, weil er letzte Nacht damit geprahlt hat, jedem ordentliche Sprache beibringen zu können. Sie ist sogar bereit, bis zu einem Schilling pro Stunde zu zahlen. Higgins berechnet, dass Elizas Angebot einem bestimmten Teil ihres Tageseinkommens entspricht und daher für sie eine hohe Bezahlung darstellt. Während er über die Vereinbarung nachdenkt, macht Pickering, dessen Interesse auch geweckt wurde, eine Wette: "Ich wette, dass Sie alle Kosten des Experiments tragen," sagt er zu Higgins, dass der Professor Eliza nicht innerhalb von sechs Monaten "wie eine Herzogin" sprechen lehren und sie auf einer Gartenparty des Botschafters als "Dame" ausgeben kann. Darüber hinaus sagt Pickering ironisch: "Und ich werde für den Unterricht bezahlen," da der Unterricht nur fünfundzwanzig Cent pro Stunde kostet. Higgins ist tatsächlich in Versuchung - die Herausforderung ist gewaltig, weil Eliza "so köstlich niedrig - so schrecklich schmutzig -" ist. Deshalb beschließt er, es zu tun: Er "wird aus diesem heruntergekommenen Rinnsteinschwein eine Herzogin machen" in "sechs Monaten - in drei, wenn sie ein gutes Gehör und eine schnelle Zunge hat." Er befiehlt dann Mrs. Pearce, sie wegzubringen, sie abzuschrubben, ihre Kleider zu verbrennen und ihr neue zu besorgen. Und wenn sie Lärm macht, solle Mrs. Pearce sie "verdreschen". Sowohl Eliza als auch Mrs. Pearce sind entsetzt über diese Vorschläge. Mrs. Pearce schlägt vor, dass das Mädchen vielleicht verheiratet ist oder dass sie Eltern haben könnte, die dagegen wären. Aber wie sich herausstellt, haben Elizas Eltern sie vor über zwei Jahren rausgeworfen, um ihr eigenes Geld zu verdienen. Higgins tyrannisiert das Mädchen erneut, befiehlt ihr herum und ignoriert ihre Gefühle, sodass Pickering ihm ins Gedächtnis ruft, dass Eliza "Gefühle hat". Aber Higgins ignoriert diese Möglichkeit und konzentriert sich auf das unmittelbare Problem mit Eliza: es ist nicht die Aussprache, es ist die Grammatik, die das Problem sein wird. Bevor Mrs. Pearce geht, fragt sie sich, was mit Eliza passieren wird, wenn sie mit ihr fertig sind. Higgins' Reaktion ist eine vage Frage danach, was mit ihr passieren wird, wenn er sie alleine lässt; für ihn macht es keinen Unterschied - wenn sie fertig sind, "können wir sie zurück in den Rinnstein werfen, und dann ist es wieder ihr eigenes Problem". Als Eliza anfängt, sich zu widersetzen, lockt Higgins sie mit Schokolade und der Vorstellung, dass irgendein junger Mann sie heiraten will. Eliza gibt nach und Mrs. Pearce bringt sie weg, um sie zu waschen. Nach Mrs. Pearces Vorschlägen interessiert sich Pickering plötzlich für die Moralität ihres Abenteuers. Er fragt, ob Higgins "ein Mann von gutem Charakter ist, was Frauen betrifft?" Higgins gibt zu, dass er nie gewusst hat, wie er mit Frauen umgehen soll, weil sie, sobald man eine Frau in sein Leben lässt, "eifersüchtig, anspruchsvoll, misstrauisch und eine verdammte Plage" wird. Außerdem sagt er, dass er "ein bestätigter alter Junggeselle" ist und einer bleiben will, und er versichert Pickering, dass er Eliza nicht ausnutzen wird. Mrs. Pierce kehrt mit Elizas Hut zurück, den Eliza gern behalten möchte, und bittet Higgins, sein Verhalten dem jungen Mädchen gegenüber zu beobachten. Das heißt, er sollte versuchen aufzuhören zu fluchen, bessere Tischmanieren zu haben und sich mehr wie ein Gentleman zu benehmen. Mrs. Pearce öffnet die Tür und informiert Higgins, dass ein Müllmann, Alfred Doolittle, draußen ist und behauptet, dass Higgins seine Tochter drinnen hat. Pickering warnt Higgins davor, dass das eine Falle sein könnte, dass Doolittle ein Halunke sein könnte. Higgins ist nicht beunruhigt und lässt den Mann holen. Doolittle ist ein älterer, aber kräftiger Mann mit einer bemerkenswert ausdrucksstarken Stimme. Entgegen aller Erwartungen gibt es keinen Dissens, denn als Doolittle verkündet, dass er seine Tochter möchte, stimmt Higgins voll und ganz zu; er sagt Doolittle, er solle sie sofort mitnehmen. Das schockiert und überrascht Doolittle, der seine Tochter definitiv nicht haben will; schließlich hat er schon einmal die Mühe auf sich genommen, sie loszuwerden, und er will sie jetzt sicher nicht zurückhaben. Als Higgins behauptet, dass es "eine Intrige ist - ein Plan, um Geld durch Drohungen zu erpressen", zieht Doolittle seine Aussage zurück. Er behauptet, dass er das Mädchen seit zwei Monaten nicht mehr gesehen hat. Während Doolittle spricht, ist Higgins fasziniert von dem walisischen Akzent des alten Mannes und auch von seiner "Unehrlichkeit und Unehrlichkeit". Doolittle will seine Tochter offensichtlich nicht zurück; er will nur einen Fünf-Pfund-Schein, um mit seiner nichtehelichen Frau ausgehen und sich betrinken zu können. Als Pickering Doolittle fragt, ob er keine Moralvorstellungen hat, antwortet Doolittle ganz ehrlich, dass er es sich nicht leisten kann, und außerdem ist "Was ist ein Fünf-Pfund-Schein für Sie? Und was ist Eliza für mich?" Higgins ist begeistert von Doolittles zynischer Sicht auf die bürgerliche Moral, während Doolittle sich selbst als Mitglied der "ungerechtfertigten Armen" bezeichnet. Man hat sich zu sehr um die verdienten Armen gekümmert, sagt er, und es wird Zeit, dass Leute wie er, die unverdient sind, einige der Vorteile des Geldes ernten. "Ungerechtfertigtes Elend" ist sein Motto und wenn Higgins und Pickering ihm fünf Pfund geben, verspricht er, es nicht zu sparen; bis Montag wird er die gesamten fünf Pfund an einem einzigen Trinkgelage mit seiner "Frau" ausgegeben haben. Higgins findet die Idee und den Menschen unwiderstehlich; tatsächlich erwägt er, dem Mann zehn Pfund zu geben, aber Doolittle weigert sich und sagt, dass ihn zehn Pfund vorsichtig machen könnten, während fünf Pfund gerade genug für einen Rausch sind. Freudestrahlend gibt Higgins Doolittle fünf Pfund und in diesem Moment betritt Eliza das Zimmer, gekleidet in einem neuen japanischen Kimono. Ihr Vater erkennt sie zunächst nicht und ist wirklich überrascht, dass sie sich jemals so gut herrichten kann. Eliza warnt sie alle sofort davor, dass ihr Vater nur gekommen ist, um ihnen Geld herauszupressen, damit er sich betrinken kann. Eliza ist bereit, ihre Beziehungen zu ihrem Vater abzubrechen und auch über ihre alten Freunde zu herrschen, aber Higgins warnt sie davor, ihre alten Freunde nicht zu schnell abzuschreiben. Dann kommen neue Kleider für Eliza, und sie macht eines dieser

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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: Obwohl Charles und Mary viel länger in Lyme geblieben waren, nachdem Herr und Frau Musgrove gegangen waren, als Anne sich vorstellen konnte, dass sie überhaupt gebraucht wurden, waren sie dennoch die ersten in der Familie, die wieder zu Hause waren. So bald wie möglich nach ihrer Rückkehr nach Uppercross fuhren sie zum Lodge. Sie hatten Louisa sitzen gelernt, aber ihr Kopf war, obwohl klar, extrem schwach und ihre Nerven äußerst empfindlich. Obwohl man sagen konnte, dass es ihr insgesamt sehr gut ging, war es immer noch unmöglich zu sagen, wann sie die Heimreise antreten konnte und ihr Vater und ihre Mutter, die rechtzeitig zurückkehren mussten, um ihre jüngeren Kinder für die Weihnachtsferien zu empfangen, hatten kaum die Hoffnung, sie mitbringen zu dürfen. Sie hatten alle gemeinsam in Unterkünften gewohnt. Frau Musgrove hatte die Kinder von Frau Harville so oft wie möglich weggeschickt, jede mögliche Versorgung aus Uppercross war bereitgestellt worden, um die Unannehmlichkeit für die Harvilles zu verringern, während die Harvilles jeden Tag um einen Besuch zum Abendessen gebeten hatten; und kurz gesagt, schien es nur ein Wettbewerb auf beiden Seiten zu sein, wer am uneigennützigsten und gastfreundlichsten sein konnte. Mary hatte ihre Probleme gehabt, aber im Großen und Ganzen hatte sie, wie deutlich durch ihre lange Verweildauer ersichtlich war, mehr zu genießen als zu leiden gehabt. Charles Hayter war öfter in Lyme gewesen, als ihr recht war, und als sie bei den Harvilles zum Essen waren, gab es nur eine Dienstmagd zum Bedienen, und anfangs hatte Frau Harville immer Frau Musgrove den Vortritt gelassen; aber dann hatte sie eine sehr elegante Entschuldigung erhalten, als sie herausfand, wessen Tochter sie war, und es war jeden Tag so viel los gewesen, es gab so viele Spaziergänge zwischen ihren Unterkünften und den Harvilles, und sie hatte Bücher aus der Bibliothek bekommen und sie so oft gewechselt, dass die Bilanz sicherlich sehr für Lyme sprach. Sie war auch nach Charmouth gebracht worden, hatte gebadet und war in die Kirche gegangen, und es gab in der Kirche in Lyme viel mehr Leute zu sehen als in Uppercross; und all dies, verbunden mit dem Gefühl, so sehr nützlich zu sein, hatte wirklich eine angenehme Woche ergeben. Anne erkundigte sich nach Captain Benwick. Marys Gesicht wurde sofort finster. Charles lachte. "Oh, Captain Benwick hat es sehr gut, glaube ich, aber er ist ein sehr eigenartiger junger Mann. Ich weiß nicht, was er vorhat. Wir haben ihn gebeten, für ein oder zwei Tage mit uns nach Hause zu kommen: Charles versprach, mit ihm zu jagen, und er schien sehr erfreut zu sein, und ich dachte wirklich, dass alles abgemacht war; und dann, sieh da! Am Dienstagabend hat er eine sehr umständliche Entschuldigung vorgebracht; 'er hat noch nie gejagt' und er 'wurde völlig missverstanden', und er hat dies und das versprochen, und das Ende vom Lied war, dass er nicht kommen wollte. Ich vermute, er hatte Angst, dass es ihm langweilig wird, aber um Himmels willen, ich dachte, wir wären in Uppercross lebhaft genug für einen so gebrochenen Herzen Mann wie Captain Benwick." Charles lachte erneut und sagte: "Nun Mary, du weißt sehr wohl, wie es wirklich war. Das hast du eingefädelt," (sich an Anne wendend). "Er dachte, dass er dich treffen würde, wenn er mit uns kommt: Er dachte, dass alle in Uppercross leben; und als er herausfand, dass Lady Russell drei Meilen entfernt wohnt, hat ihn der Mut verlassen und er hatte nicht den Mut zu kommen. Das ist die Wahrheit, darauf gebe ich mein Ehrenwort. Mary weiß es." Aber Mary gab nicht sehr anmutig nach, sei es, weil sie nicht glaubte, dass Captain Benwick aufgrund seiner Geburt und Situation das Recht hatte, sich in eine Elliot zu verlieben, oder weil sie nicht glauben wollte, dass Anne für Uppercross attraktiver war als sie selbst. Annes Wohlwollen ließ sich jedoch durch das Gehörte nicht mindern. Sie gab offen zu, dass sie geschmeichelt war, und fuhr mit ihren Nachforschungen fort. "Oh, er spricht von dir," rief Charles, "in solchen Ausdrücken--" Mary unterbrach ihn. "Ich versichere dir, Charles, er hat Anne überhaupt nicht erwähnt, während ich dort war. Ich versichere dir, Anne, er spricht überhaupt nicht von dir." "Ja", gab Charles zu, "ich weiß nicht, ob er das überhaupt jemals tut, im Allgemeinen; aber wie auch immer, es ist ganz klar, dass er dich außerordentlich bewundert. Sein Kopf ist voller Bücher, die er auf deine Empfehlung liest, und er möchte mit dir darüber sprechen; er hat in einem von ihnen etwas entdeckt, von dem er denkt - oh, ich kann mich nicht daran erinnern, aber es war etwas sehr Schönes - ich habe ihn dabei erwischt, wie er Henrietta alles darüber erzählt hat; und dann wurde von 'Miss Elliot' in den höchsten Tönen gesprochen! Jetzt, Mary, ich schwöre, es war so, ich habe es selbst gehört, und du warst im anderen Zimmer. 'Eleganz, Süße, Schönheit.' Oh, den Reizen von Miss Elliot war kein Ende gesetzt." "Und ich bin sicher", rief Mary hitzig, "es war sehr wenig zu seinem Vorteil, wenn er das getan hat. Miss Harville ist erst letzten Juni gestorben. Solch ein Herz ist sehr wenig wert; stimmen Sie nicht zu, Lady Russell? Ich bin sicher, Sie werden mir zustimmen." "Ich muss Captain Benwick sehen, bevor ich urteile", sagte Lady Russell und lächelte. "Darauf können Sie sich verlassen, Madame, dass Sie ihn sehr bald sehen werden", sagte Charles. "Obwohl er nicht die Nerven hatte, mit uns fortzugehen und anschließend alleine hierher zu fahren, wird er eines Tages alleine nach Kellynch kommen, darauf können Sie wetten. Ich habe ihm die Entfernung und den Weg gezeigt und ich habe ihm gesagt, dass es sich lohnt, die Kirche zu besichtigen; denn da er einen Geschmack für solche Dinge hat, dachte ich, das wäre eine gute Ausrede, und er hat mit all seinem Verständnis und seiner Seele zugehört; und ich bin mir sicher, dass er bald hier anrufen wird. Also, ich sage Ihnen Bescheid, Lady Russell." "Jede Bekanntschaft von Anne ist für mich immer willkommen", war Lady Russells freundliche Antwort. "Oh, was die Bekanntschaft mit Anne betrifft", sagte Mary, "glaube ich eher, dass er meine Bekanntschaft ist, denn ich habe ihn die letzten zwei Wochen jeden Tag gesehen." "Nun, als eure gemeinsame Bekanntschaft, werde ich mich sehr freuen, Captain Benwick zu sehen." "Sie werden nichts sehr Angenehmes in ihm finden, darauf können Sie sich verlassen, Madame. Er ist einer der langweiligsten jungen Männer, die es je gegeben hat. Er ist mit mir gewandert, manchmal vom einen Ende des Strandes zum anderen, ohne ein Wort zu sagen. Er ist überhaupt kein gut erzogener junger Mann. Ich bin sicher, er wird Ihnen nicht gefallen." "Da sind wir anderer Meinung, Mary", sagte Anne. "Ich denke, Lady Russell würde ihn mögen. Ich denke, sie wäre so begeistert von seinem Geist, dass sie sehr bald keinen Mangel in seinem Benehmen sehen würde." "So sehe ich das auch, Anne", sagte Charles. "Ich bin sicher, dass Lady Russell ihn mögen würde. Er ist genau Lady Russells Art. Geben Sie ihm ein Buch, und er wird den ganzen Tag lesen." "Ja, das wird er!", rief Mary höhnisch. "Er wird über seinem Buch sitzen und nicht merken, wenn jemand mit ihm spricht oder wenn jemand seine Schere fallen lässt oder irgendetwas, das passiert. Glauben Sie, dass Lady Russell das mögen würde?" Lady Russell konnte sich das Lachen nicht verkneifen. "Mein Wort", sagte sie, "ich hätte nicht vermutet, dass meine Meinung von irgendjemandem Was Captain Wentworth angingingeln, so war die Kommunikation freiwillig ausreichend. Seine Stimmung hatte sich in letzter Zeit stark verbessert, wie zu erwarten war. Mit Louisas Besserung hatte er sich ebenfalls verbessert und war nun ein völlig anderer Mensch als in der ersten Woche. Er hatte Louisa nicht gesehen und hatte so große Angst vor möglichen negativen Folgen eines Treffens, dass er überhaupt nicht danach drängte. Im Gegenteil, es schien, als hätte er vor, für eine Woche oder zehn Tage wegzugehen, bis ihr Kopf stärker war. Er hatte davon gesprochen, für eine Woche nach Plymouth zu gehen und wollte Captain Benwick dazu überreden, mit ihm zu kommen. Aber, wie Charles bis zum Ende behauptete, schien Captain Benwick eher dazu geneigt zu sein, nach Kellynch zu reiten. Es besteht kein Zweifel, dass Lady Russell und Anne ab diesem Zeitpunkt gelegentlich beide an Captain Benwick dachten. Lady Russell konnte nicht das Klingeln der Tür hören, ohne zu denken, dass es sein Herold sein könnte; und Anne kehrte von keinem Spaziergang in den Anwesen ihres Vaters oder von einem Wohltätigkeitsbesuch im Dorf zurück, ohne sich zu fragen, ob sie ihn sehen oder etwas von ihm hören würde. Captain Benwick kam jedoch nicht. Entweder war er weniger dazu geneigt, als Charles sich vorgestellt hatte, oder er war zu schüchtern. Nachdem sie ihm eine Woche lang Nachsicht gewährt hatte, entschied Lady Russell, dass er nicht das Interesse verdiene, das er zu erwecken begonnen hatte. Die Musgroves kamen zurück, um ihre glücklichen Jungen und Mädchen aus der Schule abzuholen und brachten Mrs. Harvilles kleine Kinder mit, um den Lärm von Uppercross zu verstärken und den von Lyme zu mildern. Henrietta blieb bei Louisa, aber der Rest der Familie war wieder in ihren gewohnten Quartieren. Lady Russell und Anne übermittelten ihnen einmal ihre Grüße, als Anne nicht anders konnte, als zu fühlen, dass Uppercross bereits wieder voller Leben war. Obwohl weder Henrietta noch Louisa noch Charles Hayter noch Captain Wentworth dort waren, bot der Raum einen so starken Kontrast wie der letzte Zustand, den sie gesehen hatte. Unmittelbar um Mrs. Musgrove herum waren die kleinen Harvilles, die sie eifrig vor der Tyrannei der beiden Kinder aus dem Cottage schützte, die extra angereist waren, um sie zu unterhalten. Auf der einen Seite befand sich ein Tisch, an dem einige plappernde Mädchen saßen und Seide und Goldpapier zuschnitten, und auf der anderen Seite standen Tressel und Tabletts, die unter dem Gewicht von Schweinefleisch und kalten Pasteten ächzten, wo sich lustige Jungen ein wildes Festmahl lieferten. Das Ganze wurde von einem prasselnden Weihnachtsfeuer perfekt abgerundet, das sich anscheinend trotz des Lärms der anderen durchsetzen wollte. Charles und Mary kamen während ihres Besuchs natürlich auch herein, und Herr Musgrove nahm sich die Zeit, seine Aufwartung bei Lady Russell zu machen und sich für zehn Minuten neben sie zu setzen und trotz der Lärmkulisse der Kinder auf seinen Knien mit erhobener Stimme zu sprechen. Es war ein schönes Familiengemälde. Anne hätte, basierend auf ihrer eigenen Natur, einen solchen häuslichen Sturm als schlechten Rückzugsort für die Nerven empfunden, die Louisas Krankheit sicherlich stark erschüttert hatte. Aber Frau Musgrove, die Anne absichtlich in ihrer Nähe platziert hatte, um sie immer wieder herzlich für all ihre Aufmerksamkeiten zu danken, schloss ihre kurze Zusammenfassung von dem, was sie selbst durchgemacht hatte, mit einem glücklichen Blick auf den Raum ab und stellte fest, dass nach allem, was sie durchgestanden hatte, nichts ihr so gut tun könne wie etwas ruhige Fröhlichkeit zu Hause. Louisa erholte sich nun rasch. Ihre Mutter konnte sogar daran denken, dass sie sich ihrer Party zu Hause anschließen konnte, bevor ihre Geschwister wieder zur Schule gingen. Die Harvilles hatten versprochen, mit ihr zu kommen und in Uppercross zu bleiben, wann immer sie zurückkehrte. Captain Wentworth war vorerst weg, um seinen Bruder in Shropshire zu besuchen. "Ich hoffe, ich werde mich in Zukunft daran erinnern", sagte Lady Russell, sobald sie im Wagen wieder Platz genommen hatten, "in den Weihnachtsferien nicht in Uppercross anzurufen." Jeder hat seinen Geschmack an Geräuschen sowie an anderen Dingen, und Geräusche sind eher durch ihre Art als durch ihre Menge harmlos oder äußerst störend. Als Lady Russell nicht lange danach an einem regnerischen Nachmittag nach Bath fuhr und durch die langen Straßen vom Old Bridge bis nach Camden Place fuhr, zwischen dem Rattern anderer Wagen, dem schweren Rollen von Karren und Fuhrwerken, dem Geschrei von Zeitungsverkäufern, Toastverkäufern und Milchmännern und dem unaufhörlichen Klirren von Holzpantinen, beschwerte sie sich nicht. Nein, das waren Geräusche, die zu den Freuden des Winters gehörten; ihre Stimmung stieg unter ihrem Einfluss, und wie Mrs. Musgrove fühlte sie, auch wenn sie es nicht sagte, dass nach einem längeren Aufenthalt auf dem Land nichts so gut für sie war wie etwas ruhige Fröhlichkeit. Anne teilte diese Gefühle nicht. Sie beharrte hartnäckig auf ihrer Abneigung gegen Bath, obwohl sie eine sehr entschlossene, wenn auch sehr stille Abneigung hatte. Sie fing den ersten schwachen Blick auf die ausgedehnten Gebäude an, die im Regen rauchten, ohne den Wunsch, sie genauer zu sehen. Sie fand ihre Fortbewegung durch die Straßen zwar unangenehm, aber auch zu schnell. Denn wer würde froh sein, sie zu sehen, wenn sie ankam? Und sie blickte mit liebevollem Bedauern auf das Gedränge von Uppercross und die Abgeschiedenheit von Kellynch zurück. Elizabeths letzter Brief hatte eine Nachricht von einigem Interesse übermittelt. Mr. Elliot war in Bath. Er hatte in der Camden Place angerufen, ein zweites Mal, ein drittes Mal; er hatte sich ausgesprochen aufmerksam verhalten. Wenn Elizabeth und ihr Vater sich nicht irrten, hatte er sich große Mühe gegeben, die Bekanntschaft zu suchen und den Wert der Verbindung zu betonen, so wie er sich früher bemüht hatte, Gleichgültigkeit zu zeigen. Das war sehr erstaunlich, wenn es wahr war; und Lady Russell befand sich in einem Zustand angenehmer Neugier und Ratlosigkeit über Mr. Elliot, während sie schon ihre erst kürzlich ausgedrückte Meinung gegenüber Mary, dass er "ein Mann war, den sie nicht sehen wollte", revidierte. Sie wollte ihn sehr gerne sehen. Wenn er tatsächlich versuchte, sich wie ein gehorsames Kind zu versöhnen, musste man ihm vergeben, dass er sich vom väterlichen Baum abgespalten hatte. Anne war von den Ereignissen nicht in gleicher Weise begeistert, aber sie spürte, dass sie Mr. Elliot lieber wiedersehen würde als nicht, was mehr war, als sie von vielen anderen Personen in Bath sagen konnte. Sie wurde in der Camden Place abgesetzt, und Lady Russell fuhr dann zu ihrer eigenen Unterkunft in der Rivers Street. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

Charles und Mary kehren endlich aus Lyme zurück. Sie besuchen Anne und Lady Russell, um zu berichten, dass Louisa jetzt aufrecht sitzen kann, obwohl ihr Kopf noch sehr schwach ist. Mary sagt, sie habe ihren zweiwöchigen Aufenthalt in Lyme wirklich genossen; sie sei in die Kirche gegangen, habe gebadet, täglich zu Abend gegessen und zahlreiche Bücher aus der Bibliothek genommen. Ihre Zeit wurde nicht durch die Pflege von Louisa begrenzt. Anne fragt, wie es Captain Benwick geht, und Charles lacht nur. Er findet, dass Captain Benwick romantisches Interesse an seiner Schwägerin hat. Er erzählt Anne, wie hoch der Captain von ihr spricht. Mary ist anderer Meinung; sie glaubt nicht, dass Captain Benwick ihrer Schwester würdig ist oder Interesse an ihr hat. Lady Russell amüsiert sich und erklärt, dass sie Captain Benwick selbst sehen muss, bevor sie sich eine Meinung über ihn bilden kann. Es gibt das Gerücht, dass Benwick bald nach Kellynch kommen wird, um Anne zu besuchen, aber er kommt nicht, und Lady Russell entlässt ihn als nicht wert, ihr Interesse zu wecken. Die Musgroves kehren nach Uppercross zurück, um sich um ihre eigenen jüngeren Kinder sowie um diejenigen der Harvilles zu kümmern. Lady Russell und Anne besuchen sie in Uppercross. Der Erzähler beschreibt den starken Kontrast zwischen dem Musgrove-Haus, das sie nun sehen, und dem von vor wenigen Wochen. Dieser Haushalt ist gefüllt mit Kindern, Essen, Licht und Aktivität, während das Zuhause vor wenigen Wochen noch durch den Gedanken an die erkrankte Tochter bedrückt war. Louisa erholt sich nun schnell, und sie erwarten, dass sie bald nach Hause kommt. Anne freut sich nicht darauf, sich ihrem Vater und ihrer Schwester in Bath anzuschließen; sie mag die großen, unangenehmen Gebäude und das Gefühl der Stadt nicht. Anne erhält einen Brief von Elizabeth, in dem sie berichtet, dass ihr Cousin, Mr. Elliot, in Bath ist. Er ist gekommen, um Sir Walter zu besuchen, wurde vergeben und wird wieder in den Kreis seines Onkels und seiner Cousins aufgenommen. Sowohl Anne als auch Lady Russell möchten Mr. Elliot sehen. Sie machen die Reise nach Bath.

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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. Chapter: I HE tried to explain to his wife, as they prepared for bed, how objectionable was Sheldon Smeeth, but all her answer was, "He has such a beautiful voice--so spiritual. I don't think you ought to speak of him like that just because you can't appreciate music!" He saw her then as a stranger; he stared bleakly at this plump and fussy woman with the broad bare arms, and wondered how she had ever come here. In his chilly cot, turning from aching side to side, he pondered of Tanis. "He'd been a fool to lose her. He had to have somebody he could really talk to. He'd--oh, he'd BUST if he went on stewing about things by himself. And Myra, useless to expect her to understand. Well, rats, no use dodging the issue. Darn shame for two married people to drift apart after all these years; darn rotten shame; but nothing could bring them together now, as long as he refused to let Zenith bully him into taking orders--and he was by golly not going to let anybody bully him into anything, or wheedle him or coax him either!" He woke at three, roused by a passing motor, and struggled out of bed for a drink of water. As he passed through the bedroom he heard his wife groan. His resentment was night-blurred; he was solicitous in inquiring, "What's the trouble, hon?" "I've got--such a pain down here in my side--oh, it's just--it tears at me." "Bad indigestion? Shall I get you some bicarb?" "Don't think--that would help. I felt funny last evening and yesterday, and then--oh!--it passed away and I got to sleep and--That auto woke me up." Her voice was laboring like a ship in a storm. He was alarmed. "I better call the doctor." "No, no! It'll go away. But maybe you might get me an ice-bag." He stalked to the bathroom for the ice-bag, down to the kitchen for ice. He felt dramatic in this late-night expedition, but as he gouged the chunk of ice with the dagger-like pick he was cool, steady, mature; and the old friendliness was in his voice as he patted the ice-bag into place on her groin, rumbling, "There, there, that'll be better now." He retired to bed, but he did not sleep. He heard her groan again. Instantly he was up, soothing her, "Still pretty bad, honey?" "Yes, it just gripes me, and I can't get to sleep." Her voice was faint. He knew her dread of doctors' verdicts and he did not inform her, but he creaked down-stairs, telephoned to Dr. Earl Patten, and waited, shivering, trying with fuzzy eyes to read a magazine, till he heard the doctor's car. The doctor was youngish and professionally breezy. He came in as though it were sunny noontime. "Well, George, little trouble, eh? How is she now?" he said busily as, with tremendous and rather irritating cheerfulness, he tossed his coat on a chair and warmed his hands at a radiator. He took charge of the house. Babbitt felt ousted and unimportant as he followed the doctor up to the bedroom, and it was the doctor who chuckled, "Oh, just little stomach-ache" when Verona peeped through her door, begging, "What is it, Dad, what is it?" To Mrs. Babbitt the doctor said with amiable belligerence, after his examination, "Kind of a bad old pain, eh? I'll give you something to make you sleep, and I think you'll feel better in the morning. I'll come in right after breakfast." But to Babbitt, lying in wait in the lower hall, the doctor sighed, "I don't like the feeling there in her belly. There's some rigidity and some inflammation. She's never had her appendix out has she? Um. Well, no use worrying. I'll be here first thing in the morning, and meantime she'll get some rest. I've given her a hypo. Good night." Then was Babbitt caught up in the black tempest. Instantly all the indignations which had been dominating him and the spiritual dramas through which he had struggled became pallid and absurd before the ancient and overwhelming realities, the standard and traditional realities, of sickness and menacing death, the long night, and the thousand steadfast implications of married life. He crept back to her. As she drowsed away in the tropic languor of morphia, he sat on the edge of her bed, holding her hand, and for the first time in many weeks her hand abode trustfully in his. He draped himself grotesquely in his toweling bathrobe and a pink and white couch-cover, and sat lumpishly in a wing-chair. The bedroom was uncanny in its half-light, which turned the curtains to lurking robbers, the dressing-table to a turreted castle. It smelled of cosmetics, of linen, of sleep. He napped and woke, napped and woke, a hundred times. He heard her move and sigh in slumber; he wondered if there wasn't some officious brisk thing he could do for her, and before he could quite form the thought he was asleep, racked and aching. The night was infinite. When dawn came and the waiting seemed at an end, he fell asleep, and was vexed to have been caught off his guard, to have been aroused by Verona's entrance and her agitated "Oh, what is it, Dad?" His wife was awake, her face sallow and lifeless in the morning light, but now he did not compare her with Tanis; she was not merely A Woman, to be contrasted with other women, but his own self, and though he might criticize her and nag her, it was only as he might criticize and nag himself, interestedly, unpatronizingly, without the expectation of changing--or any real desire to change--the eternal essence. With Verona he sounded fatherly again, and firm. He consoled Tinka, who satisfactorily pointed the excitement of the hour by wailing. He ordered early breakfast, and wanted to look at the newspaper, and felt somehow heroic and useful in not looking at it. But there were still crawling and totally unheroic hours of waiting before Dr. Patten returned. "Don't see much change," said Patten. "I'll be back about eleven, and if you don't mind, I think I'll bring in some other world-famous pill-pedler for consultation, just to be on the safe side. Now George, there's nothing you can do. I'll have Verona keep the ice-bag filled--might as well leave that on, I guess--and you, you better beat it to the office instead of standing around her looking as if you were the patient. The nerve of husbands! Lot more neurotic than the women! They always have to horn in and get all the credit for feeling bad when their wives are ailing. Now have another nice cup of coffee and git!" Under this derision Babbitt became more matter-of-fact. He drove to the office, tried to dictate letters, tried to telephone and, before the call was answered, forgot to whom he was telephoning. At a quarter after ten he returned home. As he left the down-town traffic and sped up the car, his face was as grimly creased as the mask of tragedy. His wife greeted him with surprise. "Why did you come back, dear? I think I feel a little better. I told Verona to skip off to her office. Was it wicked of me to go and get sick?" He knew that she wanted petting, and she got it, joyously. They were curiously happy when he heard Dr. Patten's car in front. He looked out of the window. He was frightened. With Patten was an impatient man with turbulent black hair and a hussar mustache--Dr. A. I. Dilling, the surgeon. Babbitt sputtered with anxiety, tried to conceal it, and hurried down to the door. Dr. Patten was profusely casual: "Don't want to worry you, old man, but I thought it might be a good stunt to have Dr. Dilling examine her." He gestured toward Dilling as toward a master. Dilling nodded in his curtest manner and strode up-stairs Babbitt tramped the living-room in agony. Except for his wife's confinements there had never been a major operation in the family, and to him surgery was at once a miracle and an abomination of fear. But when Dilling and Patten came down again he knew that everything was all right, and he wanted to laugh, for the two doctors were exactly like the bearded physicians in a musical comedy, both of them rubbing their hands and looking foolishly sagacious. Dr. Dilling spoke: "I'm sorry, old man, but it's acute appendicitis. We ought to operate. Of course you must decide, but there's no question as to what has to be done." Babbitt did not get all the force of it. He mumbled, "Well I suppose we could get her ready in a couple o' days. Probably Ted ought to come down from the university, just in case anything happened." Dr. Dilling growled, "Nope. If you don't want peritonitis to set in, we'll have to operate right away. I must advise it strongly. If you say go ahead, I'll 'phone for the St. Mary's ambulance at once, and we'll have her on the table in three-quarters of an hour." "I--I Of course, I suppose you know what--But great God, man, I can't get her clothes ready and everything in two seconds, you know! And in her state, so wrought-up and weak--" "Just throw her hair-brush and comb and tooth-brush in a bag; that's all she'll need for a day or two," said Dr. Dilling, and went to the telephone. Babbitt galloped desperately up-stairs. He sent the frightened Tinka out of the room. He said gaily to his wife, "Well, old thing, the doc thinks maybe we better have a little operation and get it over. Just take a few minutes--not half as serious as a confinement--and you'll be all right in a jiffy." She gripped his hand till the fingers ached. She said patiently, like a cowed child, "I'm afraid--to go into the dark, all alone!" Maturity was wiped from her eyes; they were pleading and terrified. "Will you stay with me? Darling, you don't have to go to the office now, do you? Could you just go down to the hospital with me? Could you come see me this evening--if everything's all right? You won't have to go out this evening, will you?" He was on his knees by the bed. While she feebly ruffled his hair, he sobbed, he kissed the lawn of her sleeve, and swore, "Old honey, I love you more than anything in the world! I've kind of been worried by business and everything, but that's all over now, and I'm back again." "Are you really? George, I was thinking, lying here, maybe it would be a good thing if I just WENT. I was wondering if anybody really needed me. Or wanted me. I was wondering what was the use of my living. I've been getting so stupid and ugly--" "Why, you old humbug! Fishing for compliments when I ought to be packing your bag! Me, sure, I'm young and handsome and a regular village cut-up and--" He could not go on. He sobbed again; and in muttered incoherencies they found each other. As he packed, his brain was curiously clear and swift. He'd have no more wild evenings, he realized. He admitted that he would regret them. A little grimly he perceived that this had been his last despairing fling before the paralyzed contentment of middle-age. Well, and he grinned impishly, "it was one doggone good party while it lasted!" And--how much was the operation going to cost? "I ought to have fought that out with Dilling. But no, damn it, I don't care how much it costs!" The motor ambulance was at the door. Even in his grief the Babbitt who admired all technical excellences was interested in the kindly skill with which the attendants slid Mrs. Babbitt upon a stretcher and carried her down-stairs. The ambulance was a huge, suave, varnished, white thing. Mrs. Babbitt moaned, "It frightens me. It's just like a hearse, just like being put in a hearse. I want you to stay with me." "I'll be right up front with the driver," Babbitt promised. "No, I want you to stay inside with me." To the attendants: "Can't he be inside?" "Sure, ma'am, you bet. There's a fine little camp-stool in there," the older attendant said, with professional pride. He sat beside her in that traveling cabin with its cot, its stool, its active little electric radiator, and its quite unexplained calendar, displaying a girl eating cherries, and the name of an enterprising grocer. But as he flung out his hand in hopeless cheerfulness it touched the radiator, and he squealed: "Ouch! Jesus!" "Why, George Babbitt, I won't have you cursing and swearing and blaspheming!" "I know, awful sorry but--Gosh all fish-hooks, look how I burned my hand! Gee whiz, it hurts! It hurts like the mischief! Why, that damn radiator is hot as--it's hot as--it's hotter 'n the hinges of Hades! Look! You can see the mark!" So, as they drove up to St. Mary's Hospital, with the nurses already laying out the instruments for an operation to save her life, it was she who consoled him and kissed the place to make it well, and though he tried to be gruff and mature, he yielded to her and was glad to be babied. The ambulance whirled under the hooded carriage-entrance of the hospital, and instantly he was reduced to a zero in the nightmare succession of cork-floored halls, endless doors open on old women sitting up in bed, an elevator, the anesthetizing room, a young interne contemptuous of husbands. He was permitted to kiss his wife; he saw a thin dark nurse fit the cone over her mouth and nose; he stiffened at a sweet and treacherous odor; then he was driven out, and on a high stool in a laboratory he sat dazed, longing to see her once again, to insist that he had always loved her, had never for a second loved anybody else or looked at anybody else. In the laboratory he was conscious only of a decayed object preserved in a bottle of yellowing alcohol. It made him very sick, but he could not take his eyes from it. He was more aware of it than of waiting. His mind floated in abeyance, coming back always to that horrible bottle. To escape it he opened the door to the right, hoping to find a sane and business-like office. He realized that he was looking into the operating-room; in one glance he took in Dr. Dilling, strange in white gown and bandaged head, bending over the steel table with its screws and wheels, then nurses holding basins and cotton sponges, and a swathed thing, just a lifeless chin and a mound of white in the midst of which was a square of sallow flesh with a gash a little bloody at the edges, protruding from the gash a cluster of forceps like clinging parasites. He shut the door with haste. It may be that his frightened repentance of the night and morning had not eaten in, but this dehumanizing interment of her who had been so pathetically human shook him utterly, and as he crouched again on the high stool in the laboratory he swore faith to his wife . . . to Zenith . . . to business efficiency . . . to the Boosters' Club . . . to every faith of the Clan of Good Fellows. Then a nurse was soothing, "All over! Perfect success! She'll come out fine! She'll be out from under the anesthetic soon, and you can see her." He found her on a curious tilted bed, her face an unwholesome yellow but her purple lips moving slightly. Then only did he really believe that she was alive. She was muttering. He bent, and heard her sighing, "Hard get real maple syrup for pancakes." He laughed inexhaustibly; he beamed on the nurse and proudly confided, "Think of her talking about maple syrup! By golly, I'm going to go and order a hundred gallons of it, right from Vermont!" II She was out of the hospital in seventeen days. He went to see her each afternoon, and in their long talks they drifted back to intimacy. Once he hinted something of his relations to Tanis and the Bunch, and she was inflated by the view that a Wicked Woman had captivated her poor George. If once he had doubted his neighbors and the supreme charm of the Good Fellows, he was convinced now. You didn't, he noted, "see Seneca Doane coming around with any flowers or dropping in to chat with the Missus," but Mrs. Howard Littlefield brought to the hospital her priceless wine jelly (flavored with real wine); Orville Jones spent hours in picking out the kind of novels Mrs. Babbitt liked--nice love stories about New York millionaries and Wyoming cowpunchers; Louetta Swanson knitted a pink bed-jacket; Sidney Finkelstein and his merry brown-eyed flapper of a wife selected the prettiest nightgown in all the stock of Parcher and Stein. All his friends ceased whispering about him, suspecting him. At the Athletic Club they asked after her daily. Club members whose names he did not know stopped him to inquire, "How's your good lady getting on?" Babbitt felt that he was swinging from bleak uplands down into the rich warm air of a valley pleasant with cottages. One noon Vergil Gunch suggested, "You planning to be at the hospital about six? The wife and I thought we'd drop in." They did drop in. Gunch was so humorous that Mrs. Babbitt said he must "stop making her laugh because honestly it was hurting her incision." As they passed down the hall Gunch demanded amiably, "George, old scout, you were soreheaded about something, here a while back. I don't know why, and it's none of my business. But you seem to be feeling all hunky-dory again, and why don't you come join us in the Good Citizens' League, old man? We have some corking times together, and we need your advice." Then did Babbitt, almost tearful with joy at being coaxed instead of bullied, at being permitted to stop fighting, at being able to desert without injuring his opinion of himself, cease utterly to be a domestic revolutionist. He patted Gunch's shoulder, and next day he became a member of the Good Citizens' League. Within two weeks no one in the League was more violent regarding the wickedness of Seneca Doane, the crimes of labor unions, the perils of immigration, and the delights of golf, morality, and bank-accounts than was George F. Babbitt. I THE Good Citizens' League had spread through the country, but nowhere was it so effective and well esteemed as in cities of the type of Zenith, commercial cities of a few hundred thousand inhabitants, most of which--though not all--lay inland, against a background of cornfields and mines and of small towns which depended upon them for mortgage-loans, table-manners, art, social philosophy and millinery. To the League belonged most of the prosperous citizens of Zenith. They were not all of the kind who called themselves "Regular Guys." Besides these hearty fellows, these salesmen of prosperity, there were the aristocrats, that is, the men who were richer or had been rich for more generations: the presidents of banks and of factories, the land-owners, the corporation lawyers, the fashionable doctors, and the few young-old men who worked not at all but, reluctantly remaining in Zenith, collected luster-ware and first editions as though they were back in Paris. All of them agreed that the working-classes must be kept in their place; and all of them perceived that American Democracy did not imply any equality of wealth, but did demand a wholesome sameness of thought, dress, painting, morals, and vocabulary. In this they were like the ruling-class of any other country, particularly of Great Britain, but they differed in being more vigorous and in actually trying to produce the accepted standards which all classes, everywhere, desire, but usually despair of realizing. The longest struggle of the Good Citizens' League was against the Open Shop--which was secretly a struggle against all union labor. Accompanying it was an Americanization Movement, with evening classes in English and history and economics, and daily articles in the newspapers, so that newly arrived foreigners might learn that the true-blue and one hundred per cent. American way of settling labor-troubles was for workmen to trust and love their employers. The League was more than generous in approving other organizations which agreed with its aims. It helped the Y.M. C.A. to raise a two-hundred-thousand-dollar fund for a new building. Babbitt, Vergil Gunch, Sidney Finkelstein, and even Charles McKelvey told the spectators at movie theaters how great an influence for manly Christianity the "good old Y." had been in their own lives; and the hoar and mighty Colonel Rutherford Snow, owner of the Advocate-Times, was photographed clasping the hand of Sheldon Smeeth of the Y.M.C.A. It is true that afterward, when Smeeth lisped, "You must come to one of our prayer-meetings," the ferocious Colonel bellowed, "What the hell would I do that for? I've got a bar of my own," but this did not appear in the public prints. The League was of value to the American Legion at a time when certain of the lesser and looser newspapers were criticizing that organization of veterans of the Great War. One evening a number of young men raided the Zenith Socialist Headquarters, burned its records, beat the office staff, and agreeably dumped desks out of the window. All of the newspapers save the Advocate-Times and the Evening Advocate attributed this valuable but perhaps hasty direct-action to the American Legion. Then a flying squadron from the Good Citizens' League called on the unfair papers and explained that no ex-soldier could possibly do such a thing, and the editors saw the light, and retained their advertising. When Zenith's lone Conscientious Objector came home from prison and was righteously run out of town, the newspapers referred to the perpetrators as an "unidentified mob." II In all the activities and triumphs of the Good Citizens' League Babbitt took part, and completely won back to self-respect, placidity, and the affection of his friends. But he began to protest, "Gosh, I've done my share in cleaning up the city. I want to tend to business. Think I'll just kind of slacken up on this G.C.L. stuff now." He had returned to the church as he had returned to the Boosters' Club. He had even endured the lavish greeting which Sheldon Smeeth gave him. He was worried lest during his late discontent he had imperiled his salvation. He was not quite sure there was a Heaven to be attained, but Dr. John Jennison Drew said there was, and Babbitt was not going to take a chance. One evening when he was walking past Dr. Drew's parsonage he impulsively went in and found the pastor in his study. "Jus' minute--getting 'phone call," said Dr. Drew in businesslike tones, then, aggressively, to the telephone: "'Lo--'lo! This Berkey and Hannis? Reverend Drew speaking. Where the dickens is the proof for next Sunday's calendar? Huh? Y' ought to have it here. Well, I can't help it if they're ALL sick! I got to have it to-night. Get an A.D.T. boy and shoot it up here quick." He turned, without slackening his briskness. "Well, Brother Babbitt, what c'n I do for you?" "I just wanted to ask--Tell you how it is, dominie: Here a while ago I guess I got kind of slack. Took a few drinks and so on. What I wanted to ask is: How is it if a fellow cuts that all out and comes back to his senses? Does it sort of, well, you might say, does it score against him in the long run?" The Reverend Dr. Drew was suddenly interested. "And, uh, brother--the other things, too? Women?" "No, practically, you might say, practically not at all." "Don't hesitate to tell me, brother! That's what I'm here for. Been going on joy-rides? Squeezing girls in cars?" The reverend eyes glistened. "No--no--" "Well, I'll tell you. I've got a deputation from the Don't Make Prohibition a Joke Association coming to see me in a quarter of an hour, and one from the Anti-Birth-Control Union at a quarter of ten." He busily glanced at his watch. "But I can take five minutes off and pray with you. Kneel right down by your chair, brother. Don't be ashamed to seek the guidance of God." Babbitt's scalp itched and he longed to flee, but Dr. Drew had already flopped down beside his desk-chair and his voice had changed from rasping efficiency to an unctuous familiarity with sin and with the Almighty. Babbitt also knelt, while Drew gloated: "O Lord, thou seest our brother here, who has been led astray by manifold temptations. O Heavenly Father, make his heart to be pure, as pure as a little child's. Oh, let him know again the joy of a manly courage to abstain from evil--" Sheldon Smeeth came frolicking into the study. At the sight of the two men he smirked, forgivingly patted Babbitt on the shoulder, and knelt beside him, his arm about him, while he authorized Dr. Drew's imprecations with moans of "Yes, Lord! Help our brother, Lord!" Though he was trying to keep his eyes closed, Babbitt squinted between his fingers and saw the pastor glance at his watch as he concluded with a triumphant, "And let him never be afraid to come to Us for counsel and tender care, and let him know that the church can lead him as a little lamb." Dr. Drew sprang up, rolled his eyes in the general direction of Heaven, chucked his watch into his pocket, and demanded, "Has the deputation come yet, Sheldy?" "Yep, right outside," Sheldy answered, with equal liveliness; then, caressingly, to Babbitt, "Brother, if it would help, I'd love to go into the next room and pray with you while Dr. Drew is receiving the brothers from the Don't Make Prohibition a Joke Association." "No--no thanks--can't take the time!" yelped Babbitt, rushing toward the door. Thereafter he was often seen at the Chatham Road Presbyterian Church, but it is recorded that he avoided shaking hands with the pastor at the door. III If his moral fiber had been so weakened by rebellion that he was not quite dependable in the more rigorous campaigns of the Good Citizens' League nor quite appreciative of the church, yet there was no doubt of the joy with which Babbitt returned to the pleasures of his home and of the Athletic Club, the Boosters, the Elks. Verona and Kenneth Escott were eventually and hesitatingly married. For the wedding Babbitt was dressed as carefully as was Verona; he was crammed into the morning-coat he wore to teas thrice a year; and with a certain relief, after Verona and Kenneth had driven away in a limousine, he returned to the house, removed the morning coat, sat with his aching feet up on the davenport, and reflected that his wife and he could have the living-room to themselves now, and not have to listen to Verona and Kenneth worrying, in a cultured collegiate manner, about minimum wages and the Drama League. But even this sinking into peace was less consoling than his return to being one of the best-loved men in the Boosters' Club. IV President Willis Ijams began that Boosters' Club luncheon by standing quiet and staring at them so unhappily that they feared he was about to announce the death of a Brother Booster. He spoke slowly then, and gravely: "Boys, I have something shocking to reveal to you; something terrible about one of our own members." Several Boosters, including Babbitt, looked disconcerted. "A knight of the grip, a trusted friend of mine, recently made a trip up-state, and in a certain town, where a certain Booster spent his boyhood, he found out something which can no longer be concealed. In fact, he discovered the inward nature of a man whom we have accepted as a Real Guy and as one of us. Gentlemen, I cannot trust my voice to say it, so I have written it down." He uncovered a large blackboard and on it, in huge capitals, was the legend: George Follansbee Babbitt--oh you Folly! The Boosters cheered, they laughed, they wept, they threw rolls at Babbitt, they cried, "Speech, speech! Oh you Folly!" President Ijams continued: "That, gentlemen, is the awful thing Georgie Babbitt has been concealing all these years, when we thought he was just plain George F. Now I want you to tell us, taking it in turn, what you've always supposed the F. stood for." Flivver, they suggested, and Frog-face and Flathead and Farinaceous and Freezone and Flapdoodle and Foghorn. By the joviality of their insults Babbitt knew that he had been taken back to their hearts, and happily he rose. "Boys, I've got to admit it. I've never worn a wrist-watch, or parted my name in the middle, but I will confess to 'Follansbee.' My only justification is that my old dad--though otherwise he was perfectly sane, and packed an awful wallop when it came to trimming the City Fellers at checkers--named me after the family doc, old Dr. Ambrose Follansbee. I apologize, boys. In my next what-d'you-call-it I'll see to it that I get named something really practical--something that sounds swell and yet is good and virile--something, in fact, like that grand old name so familiar to every household--that bold and almost overpowering name, Willis Jimjams Ijams!" He knew by the cheer that he was secure again and popular; he knew that he would no more endanger his security and popularity by straying from the Clan of Good Fellows. V Henry Thompson dashed into the office, clamoring, "George! Big news! Jake Offutt says the Traction Bunch are dissatisfied with the way Sanders, Torrey and Wing handled their last deal, and they're willing to dicker with us!" Babbitt was pleased in the realization that the last scar of his rebellion was healed, yet as he drove home he was annoyed by such background thoughts as had never weakened him in his days of belligerent conformity. He discovered that he actually did not consider the Traction group quite honest. "Well, he'd carry out one more deal for them, but as soon as it was practicable, maybe as soon as old Henry Thompson died, he'd break away from all association from them. He was forty-eight; in twelve years he'd be sixty; he wanted to leave a clean business to his grandchildren. Course there was a lot of money in negotiating for the Traction people, and a fellow had to look at things in a practical way, only--" He wriggled uncomfortably. He wanted to tell the Traction group what he thought of them. "Oh, he couldn't do it, not now. If he offended them this second time, they would crush him. But--" He was conscious that his line of progress seemed confused. He wondered what he would do with his future. He was still young; was he through with all adventuring? He felt that he had been trapped into the very net from which he had with such fury escaped and, supremest jest of all, been made to rejoice in the trapping. "They've licked me; licked me to a finish!" he whimpered. The house was peaceful, that evening, and he enjoyed a game of pinochle with his wife. He indignantly told the Tempter that he was content to do things in the good old fashioned way. The day after, he went to see the purchasing-agent of the Street Traction Company and they made plans for the secret purchase of lots along the Evanston Road. But as he drove to his office he struggled, "I'm going to run things and figure out things to suit myself--when I retire." VI Ted had come down from the University for the week-end. Though he no longer spoke of mechanical engineering and though he was reticent about his opinion of his instructors, he seemed no more reconciled to college, and his chief interest was his wireless telephone set. On Saturday evening he took Eunice Littlefield to a dance at Devon Woods. Babbitt had a glimpse of her, bouncing in the seat of the car, brilliant in a scarlet cloak over a frock of thinnest creamy silk. They two had not returned when the Babbitts went to bed, at half-past eleven. At a blurred indefinite time of late night Babbitt was awakened by the ring of the telephone and gloomily crawled down-stairs. Howard Littlefield was speaking: "George, Euny isn't back yet. Is Ted?" "No--at least his door is open--" "They ought to be home. Eunice said the dance would be over at midnight. What's the name of those people where they're going?" "Why, gosh, tell the truth, I don't know, Howard. It's some classmate of Ted's, out in Devon Woods. Don't see what we can do. Wait, I'll skip up and ask Myra if she knows their name." Babbitt turned on the light in Ted's room. It was a brown boyish room; disordered dresser, worn books, a high-school pennant, photographs of basket-ball teams and baseball teams. Ted was decidedly not there. Mrs. Babbitt, awakened, irritably observed that she certainly did not know the name of Ted's host, that it was late, that Howard Littlefield was but little better than a born fool, and that she was sleepy. But she remained awake and worrying while Babbitt, on the sleeping-porch, struggled back into sleep through the incessant soft rain of her remarks. It was after dawn when he was aroused by her shaking him and calling "George! George!" in something like horror. "Wha--wha--what is it?" "Come here quick and see. Be quiet!" She led him down the hall to the door of Ted's room and pushed it gently open. On the worn brown rug he saw a froth of rose-colored chiffon lingerie; on the sedate Morris chair a girl's silver slipper. And on the pillows were two sleepy heads--Ted's and Eunice's. Ted woke to grin, and to mutter with unconvincing defiance, "Good morning! Let me introduce my wife--Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt Eunice Littlefield Babbitt, Esquiress." "Good God!" from Babbitt, and from his wife a long wailing, "You've gone and--" "We got married last evening. Wife! Sit up and say a pretty good morning to mother-in-law." But Eunice hid her shoulders and her charming wild hair under the pillow. By nine o'clock the assembly which was gathered about Ted and Eunice in the living-room included Mr. and Mrs. George Babbitt, Dr. and Mrs. Howard Littlefield, Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Escott, Mr. and Mrs. Henry T. Thompson, and Tinka Babbitt, who was the only pleased member of the inquisition. A crackling shower of phrases filled the room: "At their age--" "Ought to be annulled--" "Never heard of such a thing in--" "Fault of both of them and--" "Keep it out of the papers--" "Ought to be packed off to school--" "Do something about it at once, and what I say is--" "Damn good old-fashioned spanking--" Worst of them all was Verona. "TED! Some way MUST be found to make you understand how dreadfully SERIOUS this is, instead of standing AROUND with that silly foolish SMILE on your face!" He began to revolt. "Gee whittakers, Rone, you got married yourself, didn't you?" "That's entirely different." "You bet it is! They didn't have to work on Eu and me with a chain and tackle to get us to hold hands!" "Now, young man, we'll have no more flippancy," old Henry Thompson ordered. "You listen to me." "You listen to Grandfather!" said Verona. "Yes, listen to your Grandfather!" said Mrs. Babbitt. "Ted, you listen to Mr. Thompson!" said Howard Littlefield. "Oh, for the love o' Mike, I am listening!" Ted shouted. "But you look here, all of you! I'm getting sick and tired of being the corpse in this post mortem! If you want to kill somebody, go kill the preacher that married us! Why, he stung me five dollars, and all the money I had in the world was six dollars and two bits. I'm getting just about enough of being hollered at!" A new voice, booming, authoritative, dominated the room. It was Babbitt. "Yuh, there's too darn many putting in their oar! Rone, you dry up. Howard and I are still pretty strong, and able to do our own cussing. Ted, come into the dining-room and we'll talk this over." In the dining-room, the door firmly closed, Babbitt walked to his son, put both hands on his shoulders. "You're more or less right. They all talk too much. Now what do you plan to do, old man?" "Gosh, dad, are you really going to be human?" "Well, I--Remember one time you called us 'the Babbitt men' and said we ought to stick together? I want to. I don't pretend to think this isn't serious. The way the cards are stacked against a young fellow to-day, I can't say I approve of early marriages. But you couldn't have married a better girl than Eunice; and way I figure it, Littlefield is darn lucky to get a Babbitt for a son-in-law! But what do you plan to do? Course you could go right ahead with the U., and when you'd finished--" "Dad, I can't stand it any more. Maybe it's all right for some fellows. Maybe I'll want to go back some day. But me, I want to get into mechanics. I think I'd get to be a good inventor. There's a fellow that would give me twenty dollars a week in a factory right now." "Well--" Babbitt crossed the floor, slowly, ponderously, seeming a little old. "I've always wanted you to have a college degree." He meditatively stamped across the floor again. "But I've never--Now, for heaven's sake, don't repeat this to your mother, or she'd remove what little hair I've got left, but practically, I've never done a single thing I've wanted to in my whole life! I don't know 's I've accomplished anything except just get along. I figure out I've made about a quarter of an inch out of a possible hundred rods. Well, maybe you'll carry things on further. I don't know. But I do get a kind of sneaking pleasure out of the fact that you knew what you wanted to do and did it. Well, those folks in there will try to bully you, and tame you down. Tell 'em to go to the devil! I'll back you. Take your factory job, if you want to. Don't be scared of the family. No, nor all of Zenith. Nor of yourself, the way I've been. Go ahead, old man! The world is yours!" Arms about each other's shoulders, the Babbitt men marched into the living-room and faced the swooping family. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

Eines Nachts liegt Babbitt wach da und beklagt sein Schicksal. Er tadelt sich selbst dafür, Tanis verloren zu haben; es tut ihm leid, dass seine Beziehung zu seiner Frau so armselig ist. Er erkennt, dass er und Myra keine Chance auf Versöhnung haben, es sei denn, er beendet seinen Aufstand gegen die Konformität, aber sein Stolz erlaubt es ihm nicht, sich von anderen dazu zwingen zu lassen, seine Ansichten zu ändern. Gegen drei Uhr morgens stellt Babbitt fest, dass seine Frau krank ist. Er versucht ihr zu helfen, aber Myras Bauchschmerzen nehmen weiter zu. Verängstigt ruft Babbitt den Arzt an. Als er eintrifft, gibt der Arzt Myra ein Beruhigungsmittel und verspricht am nächsten Tag zurückzukommen. Babbitt sitzt die ganze Nacht an ihrer Seite, hält ihre Hand und hofft verzweifelt auf ihre Genesung. Am Morgen kehrt der Arzt mit einem Spezialisten zurück. Nach einer kurzen Untersuchung verkünden sie, dass die Patientin an einer akuten Blinddarmentzündung leidet und eine sofortige Operation erforderlich ist. Myra hat eine altmodische Angst vor Krankenhäusern und wird sehr aufgeregt. Babbitt bleibt bei ihr in der Ambulanz und in ihrem Zimmer, ermuntert sie, bittet um Vergebung und versichert, dass er sie liebt. Zu seiner großen Freude verläuft die Operation erfolgreich. Danach beschließt Babbitt, zu einem normalen Lebensstil zurückzukehren. Er besucht Myra jeden Tag im Krankenhaus und gemeinsam gehen sie alle ihre vergangenen Fehler durch und machen Pläne für die Zukunft. Zu Babbitts Überraschung zeigen auch die Gunches und die Littlefields sowie andere alte Freunde Interesse an Myra und besuchen sie im Krankenhaus. Sie verhalten sich auch freundlich gegenüber Babbitt. Die Leute auf der Straße und im Athletic Club fragen oft nach ihr und er beginnt die warmen und echten menschlichen Werte der Welt, gegen die er gekämpft hat, zu schätzen. Als Gunch ihn beiläufig bittet, sich der Liga anzuschließen, nimmt Babbitt begeistert an. Innerhalb weniger Wochen hat Babbitt seine alte Position in der Gemeinschaft wiedererlangt. Er ist erneut ein aktiver und lautstarker Sprecher des kernigen, bürgerlichen Lebensstils; er ist erneut ein lauter Gegner von Seneca Doane, Gewerkschaften, Einwanderern und Immoralität. In der Zwischenzeit verbreitet sich in der ganzen Nation die Liga der guten Bürger und dringt in andere Handelsstädte ähnlich wie Zenith ein. Alle wohlhabenden Bürger und Geschäftsleute werden Mitglieder und widmen sich der Etablierung einer soliden, bürgerlichen amerikanischen Lebensweise. In Zenith nimmt Babbitt aktiv an all diesen Aktivitäten teil und gewinnt wenig überraschend die Achtung seiner alten Freunde zurück. Er kehrt in seine Kirche zurück, obwohl er von der Weisheit von Dr. Drew nie vollständig überzeugt ist. Vor allem aber erfreut sich Babbitt wieder daran, an allen Sitzungen und gesellschaftlichen Veranstaltungen der Elks, Boosters und des Athletic Club teilzunehmen. Alles kehrt zur Normalität zurück. Verona und Escott sind verheiratet und die Street Traction Company erlaubt Babbitt, mit ihrem nächsten unehrlichen Immobiliengeschäft umzugehen. Während eines Wochenendausflugs werden Ted und Eunice heimlich verheiratet und Ted plant, die Universität zu verlassen, um einen besser bezahlten Fabrikjob anzunehmen. Als die beiden betroffenen Familien von der Hochzeit erfahren, sind sie schockiert und wütend. Jeder lehnt die Handlungen der beiden ungestümen jungen Leute energisch ab. Babbitt spricht jedoch privat mit Ted und verspricht, die Entscheidung des Jungen zu unterstützen. Er billigt zwar nicht Teds unvollständige Ausbildung oder seine frühe Ehe, aber, so sagt Babbitt, zumindest tut Ted das, was er wirklich tun möchte. Das Wichtigste, sagt Babbitt, ist, keine Angst vor den Konventionen und Einflüssen der Außenwelt zu haben und das zu tun, was man für den richtigen Weg für sich selbst hält. Babbitt bedauert, dass er diese Lektion so spät in seinem eigenen Leben gelernt hat.

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.

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: CANTO THE TENTH. When Newton saw an apple fall, he found In that slight startle from his contemplation-- 'T is said (for I 'll not answer above ground For any sage's creed or calculation)-- A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round In a most natural whirl, called 'gravitation;' And this is the sole mortal who could grapple, Since Adam, with a fall or with an apple. Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, If this be true; for we must deem the mode In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike road, A thing to counterbalance human woes: For ever since immortal man hath glow'd With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon. And wherefore this exordium?--Why, just now, In taking up this paltry sheet of paper, My bosom underwent a glorious glow, And my internal spirit cut a caper: And though so much inferior, as I know, To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour, Discover stars and sail in the wind's eye, I wish to do as much by poesy. In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail; but for The stars, I own my telescope is dim: But at least I have shunn'd the common shore, And leaving land far out of sight, would skim The ocean of eternity: the roar Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim, But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float Where ships have founder'd, as doth many a boat. We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush; And far be it from my Muses to presume (For I have more than one Muse at a push) To follow him beyond the drawing-room: It is enough that Fortune found him flush Of youth, and vigour, beauty, and those things Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings. But soon they grow again and leave their nest. 'Oh!' saith the Psalmist, 'that I had a dove's Pinions to flee away, and be at rest!' And who that recollects young years and loves,-- Though hoary now, and with a withering breast, And palsied fancy, which no longer roves Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere,--but would much rather Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather? But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink, Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow, So narrow as to shame their wintry brink, Which threatens inundations deep and yellow! Such difference doth a few months make. You 'd think Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow; No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys, Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys. But coughs will come when sighs depart--and now And then before sighs cease; for oft the one Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun Of life reach'd ten o'clock: and while a glow, Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done, O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay, Thousands blaze, love, hope, die,--how happy they! But Juan was not meant to die so soon. We left him in the focus of such glory As may be won by favour of the moon Or ladies' fancies--rather transitory Perhaps; but who would scorn the month of June, Because December, with his breath so hoary, Must come? Much rather should he court the ray, To hoard up warmth against a wintry day. Besides, he had some qualities which fix Middle-aged ladies even more than young: The former know what 's what; while new-fledged chicks Know little more of love than what is sung In rhymes, or dreamt (for fancy will play tricks) In visions of those skies from whence Love sprung. Some reckon women by their suns or years, I rather think the moon should date the dears. And why? because she 's changeable and chaste. I know no other reason, whatsoe'er Suspicious people, who find fault in haste, May choose to tax me with; which is not fair, Nor flattering to 'their temper or their taste,' As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air: However, I forgive him, and I trust He will forgive himself;--if not, I must. Old enemies who have become new friends Should so continue--'t is a point of honour; And I know nothing which could make amends For a return to hatred: I would shun her Like garlic, howsoever she extends Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes-- Converted foes should scorn to join with those. This were the worst desertion:--renegadoes, Even shuffling Southey, that incarnate lie, Would scarcely join again the 'reformadoes,' Whom he forsook to fill the laureate's sty: And honest men from Iceland to Barbadoes, Whether in Caledon or Italy, Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize To pain, the moment when you cease to please. The lawyer and the critic but behold The baser sides of literature and life, And nought remains unseen, but much untold, By those who scour those double vales of strife. While common men grow ignorantly old, The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife, Dissecting the whole inside of a question, And with it all the process of digestion. A legal broom 's a moral chimney-sweeper, And that 's the reason he himself 's so dirty; The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper Than can be hid by altering his shirt; he Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper, At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty, In all their habits;--not so you, I own; As Caesar wore his robe you wear your gown. And all our little feuds, at least all mine, Dear Jefferson, once my most redoubted foe (As far as rhyme and criticism combine To make such puppets of us things below), Are over: Here 's a health to 'Auld Lang Syne!' I do not know you, and may never know Your face--but you have acted on the whole Most nobly, and I own it from my soul. And when I use the phrase of 'Auld Lang Syne!' 'T is not address'd to you--the more 's the pity For me, for I would rather take my wine With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city. But somehow,--it may seem a schoolboy's whine, And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty, But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred A whole one, and my heart flies to my head,-- As 'Auld Lang Syne' brings Scotland, one and all, Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear streams, The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's black wall, All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall, Like Banquo's offspring;--floating past me seems My childhood in this childishness of mine: I care not--'t is a glimpse of 'Auld Lang Syne.' And though, as you remember, in a fit Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit, Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, Yet 't is in vain such sallies to permit, They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early: I 'scotch'd not kill'd' the Scotchman in my blood, And love the land of 'mountain and of flood.' Don Juan, who was real, or ideal,-- For both are much the same, since what men think Exists when the once thinkers are less real Than what they thought, for mind can never sink, And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal; And yet 't is very puzzling on the brink Of what is call'd eternity, to stare, And know no more of what is here, than there;-- Don Juan grew a very polish'd Russian-- How we won't mention, why we need not say: Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion Of any slight temptation in their way; But his just now were spread as is a cushion Smooth'd for a monarch's seat of honour; gay Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. The favour of the empress was agreeable; And though the duty wax'd a little hard, Young people at his time of life should be able To come off handsomely in that regard. He was now growing up like a green tree, able For love, war, or ambition, which reward Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium Make some prefer the circulating medium. About this time, as might have been anticipated, Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated; Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples On our fresh feelings, but--as being participated With all kinds of incorrigible samples Of frail humanity--must make us selfish, And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish. This we pass over. We will also pass The usual progress of intrigues between Unequal matches, such as are, alas! A young lieutenant's with a not old queen, But one who is not so youthful as she was In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter, And Death, the sovereign's sovereign, though the great Gracchus of all mortality, who levels With his Agrarian laws the high estate Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels, To one small grass-grown patch (which must await Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils Who never had a foot of land till now,-- Death 's a reformer, all men must allow. He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter, In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry-- Which (though I hate to say a thing that 's bitter) Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry, Through all the 'purple and fine linen,' fitter For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot-- And neutralize her outward show of scarlet. And this same state we won't describe: we would Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection; But getting nigh grim Dante's 'obscure wood,' That horrid equinox, that hateful section Of human years, that half-way house, that rude Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspection Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontier Of age, and looking back to youth, give one tear;-- I won't describe,--that is, if I can help Description; and I won't reflect,--that is, If I can stave off thought, which--as a whelp Clings to its teat--sticks to me through the abyss Of this odd labyrinth; or as the kelp Holds by the rock; or as a lover's kiss Drains its first draught of lips:--but, as I said, I won't philosophise, and will be read. Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted,-- A thing which happens rarely: this he owed Much to his youth, and much to his reported Valour; much also to the blood he show'd, Like a race-horse; much to each dress he sported, Which set the beauty off in which he glow'd, As purple clouds befringe the sun; but most He owed to an old woman and his post. He wrote to Spain:--and all his near relations, Perceiving fie was in a handsome way Of getting on himself, and finding stations For cousins also, answer'd the same day. Several prepared themselves for emigrations; And eating ices, were o'erheard to say, That with the addition of a slight pelisse, Madrid's and Moscow's climes were of a piece. His mother, Donna Inez, finding, too, That in the lieu of drawing on his banker, Where his assets were waxing rather few, He had brought his spending to a handsome anchor,-- Replied, 'that she was glad to see him through Those pleasures after which wild youth will hanker; As the sole sign of man's being in his senses Is, learning to reduce his past expenses. 'She also recommended him to God, And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother, Warn'd him against Greek worship, which looks odd In Catholic eyes; but told him, too, to smother Outward dislike, which don't look well abroad; Inform'd him that he had a little brother Born in a second wedlock; and above All, praised the empress's maternal love. 'She could not too much give her approbation Unto an empress, who preferr'd young men Whose age, and what was better still, whose nation And climate, stopp'd all scandal (now and then):-- At home it might have given her some vexation; But where thermometers sunk down to ten, Or five, or one, or zero, she could never Believe that virtue thaw'd before the river.' O for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise! Oh for trumps of cherubim! Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim, Drew quiet consolation through its hint, When she no more could read the pious print. She was no hypocrite at least, poor soul, But went to heaven in as sincere a way As any body on the elected roll, Which portions out upon the judgment day Heaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll, Such as the conqueror William did repay His knights with, lotting others' properties Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees. I can't complain, whose ancestors are there, Erneis, Radulphus--eight-and-forty manors (If that my memory doth not greatly err) Were their reward for following Billy's banners: And though I can't help thinking 't was scarce fair To strip the Saxons of their hydes, like tanners; Yet as they founded churches with the produce, You 'll deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use. The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times He felt like other plants called sensitive, Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes, Save such as Southey can afford to give. Perhaps he long'd in bitter frosts for climes In which the Neva's ice would cease to live Before May-day: perhaps, despite his duty, In royalty's vast arms he sigh d for beauty: Perhaps--but, sans perhaps, we need not seek For causes young or old: the canker-worm Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek, As well as further drain the wither'd form: Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week His bills in, and however we may storm, They must be paid: though six days smoothly run, The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun. I don't know how it was, but he grew sick: The empress was alarm'd, and her physician (The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition Which augur'd of the dead, however quick Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition; At which the whole court was extremely troubled, The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines doubled. Low were the whispers, manifold the rumours: Some said he had been poison'd by Potemkin; Others talk'd learnedly of certain tumours, Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin; Some said 't was a concoction of the humours, Which with the blood too readily will claim kin; Others again were ready to maintain, ''T was only the fatigue of last campaign.' But here is one prescription out of many: 'Sodae sulphat. 3vj. 3fs. Mannae optim. Aq. fervent. f. 3ifs. 3ij. tinct. Sennae Haustus' (And here the surgeon came and cupp'd him) 'Rx Pulv Com gr. iij. Ipecacuanhae' (With more beside if Juan had not stopp'd 'em). 'Bolus Potassae Sulphuret. sumendus, Et haustus ter in die capiendus.' This is the way physicians mend or end us, Secundum artem: but although we sneer In health--when ill, we call them to attend us, Without the least propensity to jeer: While that 'hiatus maxime deflendus' To be fill'd up by spade or mattock's near, Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy. Juan demurr'd at this first notice to Quit; and though death had threaten'd an ejection, His youth and constitution bore him through, And sent the doctors in a new direction. But still his state was delicate: the hue Of health but flicker'd with a faint reflection Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to gravel The faculty--who said that he must travel. The climate was too cold, they said, for him, Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim, Who did not like at first to lose her minion: But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim, And drooping like an eagle's with clipt pinion, She then resolved to send him on a mission, But in a style becoming his condition. There was just then a kind of a discussion, A sort of treaty or negotiation Between the British cabinet and Russian, Maintain'd with all the due prevarication With which great states such things are apt to push on; Something about the Baltic's navigation, Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis, Which Britons deem their 'uti possidetis.' So Catherine, who had a handsome way Of fitting out her favourites, conferr'd This secret charge on Juan, to display At once her royal splendour, and reward His services. He kiss'd hands the next day, Received instructions how to play his card, Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honours, Which show'd what great discernment was the donor's. But she was lucky, and luck 's all. Your queens Are generally prosperous in reigning; Which puzzles us to know what Fortune means. But to continue: though her years were waning Her climacteric teased her like her teens; And though her dignity brook'd no complaining, So much did Juan's setting off distress her, She could not find at first a fit successor. But time, the comforter, will come at last; And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that number Of candidates requesting to be placed, Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber:-- Not that she meant to fix again in haste, Nor did she find the quantity encumber, But always choosing with deliberation, Kept the place open for their emulation. While this high post of honour 's in abeyance, For one or two days, reader, we request You 'll mount with our young hero the conveyance Which wafted him from Petersburgh: the best Barouche, which had the glory to display once The fair czarina's autocratic crest, When, a new lphigene, she went to Tauris, Was given to her favourite, and now bore his. A bull-dog, and a bullfinch, and an ermine, All private favourites of Don Juan;--for (Let deeper sages the true cause determine) He had a kind of inclination, or Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin, Live animals: an old maid of threescore For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display'd, Although he was not old, nor even a maid;-- The animals aforesaid occupied Their station: there were valets, secretaries, In other vehicles; but at his side Sat little Leila, who survived the parries He made 'gainst Cossacque sabres, in the wide Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse varies Her note, she don't forget the infant girl Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl Poor little thing! She was as fair as docile, And with that gentle, serious character, As rare in living beings as a fossile Man, 'midst thy mouldy mammoths, 'grand Cuvier!' Ill fitted was her ignorance to jostle With this o'erwhelming world, where all must err: But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore. Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. I cannot tell exactly what it was; He was not yet quite old enough to prove Parental feelings, and the other class, Call'd brotherly affection, could not move His bosom,--for he never had a sister: Ah! if he had, how much he would have miss'd her! And still less was it sensual; for besides That he was not an ancient debauchee (Who like sour fruit, to stir their veins' salt tides, As acids rouse a dormant alkali), Although ('t will happen as our planet guides) His youth was not the chastest that might be, There was the purest Platonism at bottom Of all his feelings--only he forgot 'em. Just now there was no peril of temptation; He loved the infant orphan he had saved, As patriots (now and then) may love a nation; His pride, too, felt that she was not enslaved Owing to him;--as also her salvation Through his means and the church's might be paved. But one thing 's odd, which here must be inserted, The little Turk refused to be converted. 'T was strange enough she should retain the impression Through such a scene of change, and dread, and slaughter; But though three bishops told her the transgression, She show'd a great dislike to holy water: She also had no passion for confession; Perhaps she had nothing to confess:--no matter, Whate'er the cause, the church made little of it-- She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet. In fact, the only Christian she could bear Was Juan; whom she seem'd to have selected In place of what her home and friends once were. He naturally loved what he protected: And thus they form'd a rather curious pair, A guardian green in years, a ward connected In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender; And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender. They journey'd on through Poland and through Warsaw, Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron: Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw Which gave her dukes the graceless name of 'Biron.' 'T is the same landscape which the modern Mars saw, Who march'd to Moscow, led by Fame, the siren! To lose by one month's frost some twenty years Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers. Let this not seem an anti-climax:--'Oh! My guard! my old guard exclaim'd!' exclaim'd that god of day. Think of the Thunderer's falling down below Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh! Alas, that glory should be chill'd by snow! But should we wish to warm us on our way Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's flame. From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper, And Konigsberg the capital, whose vaunt, Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper, Has lately been the great Professor Kant. Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper About philosophy, pursued his jaunt To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions Have princes who spur more than their postilions. And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like, Until he reach'd the castellated Rhine:-- Ye glorious Gothic scenes! how much ye strike All phantasies, not even excepting mine; A grey wall, a green ruin, rusty pike, Make my soul pass the equinoctial line Between the present and past worlds, and hover Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over. But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, Which Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre Of the good feudal times forever gone, On which I have not time just now to lecture. From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne, A city which presents to the inspector Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, The greatest number flesh hath ever known. From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluys, That water-land of Dutchmen and of ditches, Where juniper expresses its best juice, The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches. Senates and sages have condemn'd its use-- But to deny the mob a cordial, which is Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel, Good government has left them, seems but cruel. Here he embark'd, and with a flowing sail Went bounding for the island of the free, Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale; High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in the sea, And sea-sick passengers turn'd somewhat pale; But Juan, season'd, as he well might be, By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs Which pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of the cliffs. At length they rose, like a white wall along The blue sea's border; and I Don Juan felt-- What even young strangers feel a little strong At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt-- A kind of pride that he should be among Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly dealt Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole, And made the very billows pay them toll. I 've no great cause to love that spot of earth, Which holds what might have been the noblest nation; But though I owe it little but my birth, I feel a mix'd regret and veneration For its decaying fame and former worth. Seven years (the usual term of transportation) Of absence lay one's old resentments level, When a man's country 's going to the devil. Alas! could she but fully, truly, know How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd: How eager all the earth is for the blow Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword; How all the nations deem her their worst foe, That worse than worst of foes, the once adored False friend, who held out freedom to mankind, And now would chain them, to the very mind:-- Would she be proud, or boast herself the free, Who is but first of slaves? The nations are In prison,--but the gaoler, what is he? No less a victim to the bolt and bar. Is the poor privilege to turn the key Upon the captive, freedom? He 's as far From the enjoyment of the earth and air Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear. Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties, Thy cliffs, dear Dover! harbour, and hotel; Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties; Thy waiters running mucks at every bell; Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties To those who upon land or water dwell; And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed, Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted. Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique, And rich in rubles, diamonds, cash, and credit, Who did not limit much his bills per week, Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it (His Maggior Duomo, a smart, subtle Greek, Before him summ'd the awful scroll and read it); But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny, Is free, the respiration's worth the money. On with the horses! Off to Canterbury! Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash through puddle; Hurrah! how swiftly speeds the post so merry! Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle Along the road, as if they went to bury Their fare; and also pause besides, to fuddle With 'schnapps'--sad dogs! whom 'Hundsfot,' or 'Verflucter,' Affect no more than lightning a conductor. Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits, Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry, As going at full speed--no matter where its Direction be, so 't is but in a hurry, And merely for the sake of its own merits; For the less cause there is for all this flurry, The greater is the pleasure in arriving At the great end of travel--which is driving. They saw at Canterbury the cathedral; Black Edward's helm, and Becket's bloody stone, Were pointed out as usual by the bedral, In the same quaint, uninterested tone:-- There 's glory again for you, gentle reader! All Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, Half-solved into these sodas or magnesias; Which form that bitter draught, the human species. The effect on Juan was of course sublime: He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw That casque, which never stoop'd except to Time. Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe, Who died in the then great attempt to climb O'er kings, who now at least must talk of law Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed, And ask'd why such a structure had been raised: And being told it was 'God's house,' she said He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how He suffer'd Infidels in his homestead, The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low His holy temples in the lands which bred The True Believers:--and her infant brow Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine. O! oh! through meadows managed like a garden, A paradise of hops and high production; For after years of travel by a bard in Countries of greater heat, but lesser suction, A green field is a sight which makes him pardon The absence of that more sublime construction, Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices, Glaciers, volcanos, oranges, and ices. And when I think upon a pot of beer-- But I won't weep!--and so drive on, postilions! As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, Juan admired these highways of free millions; A country in all senses the most dear To foreigner or native, save some silly ones, Who 'kick against the pricks' just at this juncture, And for their pains get only a fresh puncture. What a delightful thing 's a turnpike road! So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving. Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god Had told his son to satisfy his craving With the York mail;--but onward as we roll, 'Surgit amari aliquid'--the toll Alas, how deeply painful is all payment! Take lives, take wives, take aught except men's purses: As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment, Such is the shortest way to general curses. They hate a murderer much less than a claimant On that sweet ore which every body nurses;-- Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket. So said the Florentine: ye monarchs, hearken To your instructor. Juan now was borne, Just as the day began to wane and darken, O'er the high hill, which looks with pride or scorn Toward the great city.--Ye who have a spark in Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn According as you take things well or ill;-- Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill! The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space Which well beseem'd the 'Devil's drawing-room,' As some have qualified that wondrous place: But Juan felt, though not approaching home, As one who, though he were not of the race, Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother, Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t' other. A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown On a fool's head--and there is London Town! But Juan saw not this: each wreath of smoke Appear'd to him but as the magic vapour Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper): The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper, Were nothing but the natural atmosphere, Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. He paused--and so will I; as doth a crew Before they give their broadside. By and by, My gentle countrymen, we will renew Our old acquaintance; and at least I 'll try To tell you truths you will not take as true, Because they are so;--a male Mrs. Fry, With a soft besom will I sweep your halls, And brush a web or two from off the walls. O Mrs. Fry! Why go to Newgate? Why Preach to poor rogues? And wherefore not begin With Carlton, or with other houses? Try Your head at harden'd and imperial sin. To mend the people 's an absurdity, A jargon, a mere philanthropic din, Unless you make their betters better:--Fy! I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry. Teach them the decencies of good threescore; Cure them of tours, hussar and highland dresses; Tell them that youth once gone returns no more, That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses; Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore, Too dull even for the dullest of excesses, The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal, A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all. Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late, On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated, To set up vain pretence of being great, 'T is not so to be good; and be it stated, The worthiest kings have ever loved least state; And tell them--But you won't, and I have prated Just now enough; but by and by I 'll prattle Like Roland's horn in Roncesvalles' battle. [Illustration: Canto 11] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

In Russland wird Juan zu einem gebildeten russischen Höfling und wird dabei auch ein wenig verschwenderisch. Er lebt "in Eile / Von Verschwendung, und Hast, und Glanz, und Lack, und Glitzer". Er schreibt seinen Verwandten in Spanien über seine derzeitige Situation. Sie antworten prompt und sind von seinem Glück beeindruckt. Einige von ihnen bereiten sich darauf vor, nach Russland auszuwandern. Seine Mutter schreibt ihm, dass sie wieder geheiratet hat und Juan nun einen kleinen Bruder hat. Sie gibt ihm viele gute Ratschläge, wie er sich in Russland verhalten soll. Das Leben in Russland gefällt Juan allerdings nicht mehr. Er wird krank. Die Ärzte können die genaue Ursache seiner Krankheit nicht feststellen und empfehlen einen Klimawechsel. Zu dieser Zeit ist die Kaiserin Katharina in Verhandlungen mit den Engländern und beschließt, dass Juan diese übernehmen soll. Mit seiner Schützlingin Leila und einem Gefolge von Bediensteten und Sekretären macht er sich auf den Weg durch Europa, und passiert Polen, Deutschland und Holland. Schließlich kommt die Gruppe in London an. Ihre Ankunft in England ist eine Einladung an Byron, einige beißende Bemerkungen über seine Heimat zu machen, dessen Söhne "die halbe Erde metzeln und die andere drangsalieren". Er beendet das Gesangskapitel mit dem Versprechen, seinen Landsleuten unangenehme Wahrheiten über sie selbst zu erzählen, die sie jedoch nicht glauben werden.

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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: Scaena Secunda. Gaunt tritt ein, gefolgt von der Herzogin von Gloucester. Gaunt: Ach, der Teil von Gloucesters Blut, drängt mich mehr als deine Ausbrüche, gegen die Mörder seines Lebens anzugehen. Aber da die Korrektur in den Händen liegt, die den Fehler verursachten, den wir nicht korrigieren können, geben wir unseren Streit dem Willen des Himmels hin, der, wenn er die Stunde auf der Erde reif sieht, heiße Rache über die Köpfe der Übeltäter wird herrschen lassen. Dut. Hat die Brüderlichkeit keinen schärferen Ansporn in dir? Hat die Liebe in deinem alten Blut kein lebendiges Feuer? Edward's sieben Söhne (von denen du selbst einer bist) waren wie sieben Gefäße seines heiligen Blutes, oder sieben schöne Zweige, die aus einer Wurzel wachsen: Einige dieser sieben sind durch den Lauf der Natur verdorrt, einige dieser Zweige wurden durch das Schicksal abgeschnitten: Aber Thomas, mein lieber Lord, mein Leben, mein Gloucester, ein Gefäß voll Edwards heiligem Blut, ein blühender Zweig seiner königlichen Wurzel, ist gesplittert und all die kostbare Flüssigkeit zerstört; ist gerodet und seine sommerlichen Blätter sind alle verwelkt, durch die Hand des Neids und die blutige Axt des Mordes. Ah, Gaunt! Sein Blut war das deine, das Bett, der Schoß, das Metall, die Selbstformung, die dich geformt hat, hatte ihn zu einem Mann gemacht: und obwohl du lebst und atmest, bist du doch durch ihn getötet: du stimmst dem Tod deines Vaters in gewisser Weise zu, indem du siehst, wie dein unglücklicher Bruder stirbt, der das Vorbild des Lebens deines Vaters war. Nenn es nicht Geduld, Gaunt, es ist Verzweiflung, dass du deinen Bruder erlaubst, geschlachtet zu werden, du zeigst dem nackten Weg zu deinem eigenen Leben, indem du dem brutalen Mord zeigst, wie er dich schlachten kann: Was in gewöhnlichen Menschen Geduld genannt wird, ist in edlen Herzen blasse, kalte Feigheit: Was soll ich sagen, um dein eigenes Leben zu schützen, der beste Weg ist, den Tod meines Gloucesters zu rächen. Gaunt: Der Himmel ist der Streitgrund: für den Himmel substituiert sein stellvertretender Salböldeputierter, hat seinen Tod verursacht, der, wenn er unrechtmäßig geschah, lass den Himmel Rache nehmen: denn ich kann niemals einen wütenden Arm gegen seinen Diener erheben. Dut: Wo also (ach, wo kann ich mich beklagen? Gau: Zum Himmel, der Verteidiger der Witwen. Dut: Dann werde ich es tun: Lebwohl, alter Gaunt. Du gehst nach Coventry, um unseren Cousin Herford und den grausamen Mowbray kämpfen zu sehen: Oh, räche meines Mannes Unrecht mit Herfords Speer, damit er in Mowbrays Brust eindringen kann: Oder wenn das Unglück die erste Runde verfehlt, mögen Mowbrays Sünden in seiner Brust so schwer lasten, dass sie den Schaum seines Pferdes brechen lassen, und den Reiter kopfüber in die Arena werfen, einen feigen Verräter gegen meinen Cousin Herford: Lebwohl, alter Gaunt, die Frau deines einstigen Bruders endet mit ihrer Gefährtin Trauer ihr Leben. Gaunt: Schwester, Lebwohl: Ich muss nach Coventry, so viel Glück begleite dich, wie mit mir geht. Dut: Doch noch ein Wort: Trauer haftet dort, wo sie fällt, nicht mit leerer Hohlheit, sondern mit Gewicht: Ich verabschiede mich, bevor ich angefangen habe, denn der Schmerz endet nicht, wenn es vorüber zu sein scheint. Grüße meinen Bruder Edmund York von mir. Sieh, das ist alles: Nein, geh nicht so schnell, obwohl das alles ist, geh nicht so schnell, ich werde mich an mehr erinnern. Sag ihm, Oh, was soll ich sagen? So schnell wie möglich besuche mich in Plashie. Weh, und was wird der gute alte York dort sehen außer leeren Zimmern und unmöblierten Wänden, unbelebten Büros, unbetretenen Steinen? Und was wird er zur Begrüßung hören, außer meinem Stöhnen? Deshalb grüße ihn, lass ihn nicht dorthin kommen, um überall nach Trauer zu suchen: Verlassen, verlassen werde ich von hier fortgehen und sterben, der letzte Abschied von dir, eröffnet meine weinenden Augen. Abgang. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

John von Gaunt beklagt die Tatsache, dass sein Sohn einen neuen Konflikt über den Tod des Herzogs von Gloucester beginnt. Die Herzogin von Gloucester stimmt seinen Gedanken nicht zu und sagt stattdessen, dass der Tod ihres Mannes gerächt werden sollte. Ohnmächtig, in staatliche Angelegenheiten einzugreifen, wünscht sich die Herzogin, dass Mowbray sofort während des Duells mit Bolingbroke getötet wird. Gaunt informiert sie, dass er nach Coventry reisen muss, wo der Kampf stattfinden wird, aber dass sie zu Gott beten soll, damit sie ihre Rache erhält.

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.

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 XVI KENNICOTT was heavily pleased by her Christmas presents, and he gave her a diamond bar-pin. But she could not persuade herself that he was much interested in the rites of the morning, in the tree she had decorated, the three stockings she had hung, the ribbons and gilt seals and hidden messages. He said only: "Nice way to fix things, all right. What do you say we go down to Jack Elder's and have a game of five hundred this afternoon?" She remembered her father's Christmas fantasies: the sacred old rag doll at the top of the tree, the score of cheap presents, the punch and carols, the roast chestnuts by the fire, and the gravity with which the judge opened the children's scrawly notes and took cognizance of demands for sled-rides, for opinions upon the existence of Santa Claus. She remembered him reading out a long indictment of himself for being a sentimentalist, against the peace and dignity of the State of Minnesota. She remembered his thin legs twinkling before their sled---- She muttered unsteadily, "Must run up and put on my shoes--slippers so cold." In the not very romantic solitude of the locked bathroom she sat on the slippery edge of the tub and wept. II Kennicott had five hobbies: medicine, land-investment, Carol, motoring, and hunting. It is not certain in what order he preferred them. Solid though his enthusiasms were in the matter of medicine--his admiration of this city surgeon, his condemnation of that for tricky ways of persuading country practitioners to bring in surgical patients, his indignation about fee-splitting, his pride in a new X-ray apparatus--none of these beatified him as did motoring. He nursed his two-year-old Buick even in winter, when it was stored in the stable-garage behind the house. He filled the grease-cups, varnished a fender, removed from beneath the back seat the debris of gloves, copper washers, crumpled maps, dust, and greasy rags. Winter noons he wandered out and stared owlishly at the car. He became excited over a fabulous "trip we might take next summer." He galloped to the station, brought home railway maps, and traced motor-routes from Gopher Prairie to Winnipeg or Des Moines or Grand Marais, thinking aloud and expecting her to be effusive about such academic questions as "Now I wonder if we could stop at Baraboo and break the jump from La Crosse to Chicago?" To him motoring was a faith not to be questioned, a high-church cult, with electric sparks for candles, and piston-rings possessing the sanctity of altar-vessels. His liturgy was composed of intoned and metrical road-comments: "They say there's a pretty good hike from Duluth to International Falls." Hunting was equally a devotion, full of metaphysical concepts veiled from Carol. All winter he read sporting-catalogues, and thought about remarkable past shots: "'Member that time when I got two ducks on a long chance, just at sunset?" At least once a month he drew his favorite repeating shotgun, his "pump gun," from its wrapper of greased canton flannel; he oiled the trigger, and spent silent ecstatic moments aiming at the ceiling. Sunday mornings Carol heard him trudging up to the attic and there, an hour later, she found him turning over boots, wooden duck-decoys, lunch-boxes, or reflectively squinting at old shells, rubbing their brass caps with his sleeve and shaking his head as he thought about their uselessness. He kept the loading-tools he had used as a boy: a capper for shot-gun shells, a mold for lead bullets. When once, in a housewifely frenzy for getting rid of things, she raged, "Why don't you give these away?" he solemnly defended them, "Well, you can't tell; they might come in handy some day." She flushed. She wondered if he was thinking of the child they would have when, as he put it, they were "sure they could afford one." Mysteriously aching, nebulously sad, she slipped away, half-convinced but only half-convinced that it was horrible and unnatural, this postponement of release of mother-affection, this sacrifice to her opinionation and to his cautious desire for prosperity. "But it would be worse if he were like Sam Clark--insisted on having children," she considered; then, "If Will were the Prince, wouldn't I DEMAND his child?" Kennicott's land-deals were both financial advancement and favorite game. Driving through the country, he noticed which farms had good crops; he heard the news about the restless farmer who was "thinking about selling out here and pulling his freight for Alberta." He asked the veterinarian about the value of different breeds of stock; he inquired of Lyman Cass whether or not Einar Gyseldson really had had a yield of forty bushels of wheat to the acre. He was always consulting Julius Flickerbaugh, who handled more real estate than law, and more law than justice. He studied township maps, and read notices of auctions. Thus he was able to buy a quarter-section of land for one hundred and fifty dollars an acre, and to sell it in a year or two, after installing a cement floor in the barn and running water in the house, for one hundred and eighty or even two hundred. He spoke of these details to Sam Clark . . . rather often. In all his games, cars and guns and land, he expected Carol to take an interest. But he did not give her the facts which might have created interest. He talked only of the obvious and tedious aspects; never of his aspirations in finance, nor of the mechanical principles of motors. This month of romance she was eager to understand his hobbies. She shivered in the garage while he spent half an hour in deciding whether to put alcohol or patent non-freezing liquid into the radiator, or to drain out the water entirely. "Or no, then I wouldn't want to take her out if it turned warm--still, of course, I could fill the radiator again--wouldn't take so awful long--just take a few pails of water--still, if it turned cold on me again before I drained it----Course there's some people that put in kerosene, but they say it rots the hose-connections and----Where did I put that lug-wrench?" It was at this point that she gave up being a motorist and retired to the house. In their new intimacy he was more communicative about his practise; he informed her, with the invariable warning not to tell, that Mrs. Sunderquist had another baby coming, that the "hired girl at Howland's was in trouble." But when she asked technical questions he did not know how to answer; when she inquired, "Exactly what is the method of taking out the tonsils?" he yawned, "Tonsilectomy? Why you just----If there's pus, you operate. Just take 'em out. Seen the newspaper? What the devil did Bea do with it?" She did not try again. III They had gone to the "movies." The movies were almost as vital to Kennicott and the other solid citizens of Gopher Prairie as land-speculation and guns and automobiles. The feature film portrayed a brave young Yankee who conquered a South American republic. He turned the natives from their barbarous habits of singing and laughing to the vigorous sanity, the Pep and Punch and Go, of the North; he taught them to work in factories, to wear Klassy Kollege Klothes, and to shout, "Oh, you baby doll, watch me gather in the mazuma." He changed nature itself. A mountain which had borne nothing but lilies and cedars and loafing clouds was by his Hustle so inspirited that it broke out in long wooden sheds, and piles of iron ore to be converted into steamers to carry iron ore to be converted into steamers to carry iron ore. The intellectual tension induced by the master film was relieved by a livelier, more lyric and less philosophical drama: Mack Schnarken and the Bathing Suit Babes in a comedy of manners entitled "Right on the Coco." Mr. Schnarken was at various high moments a cook, a life-guard, a burlesque actor, and a sculptor. There was a hotel hallway up which policemen charged, only to be stunned by plaster busts hurled upon them from the innumerous doors. If the plot lacked lucidity, the dual motif of legs and pie was clear and sure. Bathing and modeling were equally sound occasions for legs; the wedding-scene was but an approach to the thunderous climax when Mr. Schnarken slipped a piece of custard pie into the clergyman's rear pocket. The audience in the Rosebud Movie Palace squealed and wiped their eyes; they scrambled under the seats for overshoes, mittens, and mufflers, while the screen announced that next week Mr. Schnarken might be seen in a new, riproaring, extra-special superfeature of the Clean Comedy Corporation entitled, "Under Mollie's Bed." "I'm glad," said Carol to Kennicott as they stooped before the northwest gale which was torturing the barren street, "that this is a moral country. We don't allow any of these beastly frank novels." "Yump. Vice Society and Postal Department won't stand for them. The American people don't like filth." "Yes. It's fine. I'm glad we have such dainty romances as 'Right on the Coco' instead." "Say what in heck do you think you're trying to do? Kid me?" He was silent. She awaited his anger. She meditated upon his gutter patois, the Boeotian dialect characteristic of Gopher Prairie. He laughed puzzlingly. When they came into the glow of the house he laughed again. He condescended: "I've got to hand it to you. You're consistent, all right. I'd of thought that after getting this look-in at a lot of good decent farmers, you'd get over this high-art stuff, but you hang right on." "Well----" To herself: "He takes advantage of my trying to be good." "Tell you, Carrie: There's just three classes of people: folks that haven't got any ideas at all; and cranks that kick about everything; and Regular Guys, the fellows with sticktuitiveness, that boost and get the world's work done." "Then I'm probably a crank." She smiled negligently. "No. I won't admit it. You do like to talk, but at a show-down you'd prefer Sam Clark to any damn long-haired artist." "Oh--well----" "Oh well!" mockingly. "My, we're just going to change everything, aren't we! Going to tell fellows that have been making movies for ten years how to direct 'em; and tell architects how to build towns; and make the magazines publish nothing but a lot of highbrow stories about old maids, and about wives that don't know what they want. Oh, we're a terror! . . . Come on now, Carrie; come out of it; wake up! You've got a fine nerve, kicking about a movie because it shows a few legs! Why, you're always touting these Greek dancers, or whatever they are, that don't even wear a shimmy!" "But, dear, the trouble with that film--it wasn't that it got in so many legs, but that it giggled coyly and promised to show more of them, and then didn't keep the promise. It was Peeping Tom's idea of humor." "I don't get you. Look here now----" She lay awake, while he rumbled with sleep "I must go on. My 'crank ideas;' he calls them. I thought that adoring him, watching him operate, would be enough. It isn't. Not after the first thrill. "I don't want to hurt him. But I must go on. "It isn't enough, to stand by while he fills an automobile radiator and chucks me bits of information. "If I stood by and admired him long enough, I would be content. I would become a 'nice little woman.' The Village Virus. Already----I'm not reading anything. I haven't touched the piano for a week. I'm letting the days drown in worship of 'a good deal, ten plunks more per acre.' I won't! I won't succumb! "How? I've failed at everything: the Thanatopsis, parties, pioneers, city hall, Guy and Vida. But----It doesn't MATTER! I'm not trying to 'reform the town' now. I'm not trying to organize Browning Clubs, and sit in clean white kids yearning up at lecturers with ribbony eyeglasses. I am trying to save my soul. "Will Kennicott, asleep there, trusting me, thinking he holds me. And I'm leaving him. All of me left him when he laughed at me. It wasn't enough for him that I admired him; I must change myself and grow like him. He takes advantage. No more. It's finished. I will go on." IV Her violin lay on top of the upright piano. She picked it up. Since she had last touched it the dried strings had snapped, and upon it lay a gold and crimson cigar-band. V She longed to see Guy Pollock, for the confirming of the brethren in the faith. But Kennicott's dominance was heavy upon her. She could not determine whether she was checked by fear or him, or by inertia--by dislike of the emotional labor of the "scenes" which would be involved in asserting independence. She was like the revolutionist at fifty: not afraid of death, but bored by the probability of bad steaks and bad breaths and sitting up all night on windy barricades. The second evening after the movies she impulsively summoned Vida Sherwin and Guy to the house for pop-corn and cider. In the living-room Vida and Kennicott debated "the value of manual training in grades below the eighth," while Carol sat beside Guy at the dining table, buttering pop-corn. She was quickened by the speculation in his eyes. She murmured: "Guy, do you want to help me?" "My dear! How?" "I don't know!" He waited. "I think I want you to help me find out what has made the darkness of the women. Gray darkness and shadowy trees. We're all in it, ten million women, young married women with good prosperous husbands, and business women in linen collars, and grandmothers that gad out to teas, and wives of under-paid miners, and farmwives who really like to make butter and go to church. What is it we want--and need? Will Kennicott there would say that we need lots of children and hard work. But it isn't that. There's the same discontent in women with eight children and one more coming--always one more coming! And you find it in stenographers and wives who scrub, just as much as in girl college-graduates who wonder how they can escape their kind parents. What do we want?" "Essentially, I think, you are like myself, Carol; you want to go back to an age of tranquillity and charming manners. You want to enthrone good taste again." "Just good taste? Fastidious people? Oh--no! I believe all of us want the same things--we're all together, the industrial workers and the women and the farmers and the negro race and the Asiatic colonies, and even a few of the Respectables. It's all the same revolt, in all the classes that have waited and taken advice. I think perhaps we want a more conscious life. We're tired of drudging and sleeping and dying. We're tired of seeing just a few people able to be individualists. We're tired of always deferring hope till the next generation. We're tired of hearing the politicians and priests and cautious reformers (and the husbands!) coax us, 'Be calm! Be patient! Wait! We have the plans for a Utopia already made; just give us a bit more time and we'll produce it; trust us; we're wiser than you.' For ten thousand years they've said that. We want our Utopia NOW--and we're going to try our hands at it. All we want is--everything for all of us! For every housewife and every longshoreman and every Hindu nationalist and every teacher. We want everything. We shatn't get it. So we shatn't ever be content----" She wondered why he was wincing. He broke in: "See here, my dear, I certainly hope you don't class yourself with a lot of trouble-making labor-leaders! Democracy is all right theoretically, and I'll admit there are industrial injustices, but I'd rather have them than see the world reduced to a dead level of mediocrity. I refuse to believe that you have anything in common with a lot of laboring men rowing for bigger wages so that they can buy wretched flivvers and hideous player-pianos and----" At this second, in Buenos Ayres, a newspaper editor broke his routine of being bored by exchanges to assert, "Any injustice is better than seeing the world reduced to a gray level of scientific dullness." At this second a clerk standing at the bar of a New York saloon stopped milling his secret fear of his nagging office-manager long enough to growl at the chauffeur beside him, "Aw, you socialists make me sick! I'm an individualist. I ain't going to be nagged by no bureaus and take orders off labor-leaders. And mean to say a hobo's as good as you and me?" At this second Carol realized that for all Guy's love of dead elegances his timidity was as depressing to her as the bulkiness of Sam Clark. She realized that he was not a mystery, as she had excitedly believed; not a romantic messenger from the World Outside on whom she could count for escape. He belonged to Gopher Prairie, absolutely. She was snatched back from a dream of far countries, and found herself on Main Street. He was completing his protest, "You don't want to be mixed up in all this orgy of meaningless discontent?" She soothed him. "No, I don't. I'm not heroic. I'm scared by all the fighting that's going on in the world. I want nobility and adventure, but perhaps I want still more to curl on the hearth with some one I love." "Would you----" He did not finish it. He picked up a handful of pop-corn, let it run through his fingers, looked at her wistfully. With the loneliness of one who has put away a possible love Carol saw that he was a stranger. She saw that he had never been anything but a frame on which she had hung shining garments. If she had let him diffidently make love to her, it was not because she cared, but because she did not care, because it did not matter. She smiled at him with the exasperating tactfulness of a woman checking a flirtation; a smile like an airy pat on the arm. She sighed, "You're a dear to let me tell you my imaginary troubles." She bounced up, and trilled, "Shall we take the pop-corn in to them now?" Guy looked after her desolately. While she teased Vida and Kennicott she was repeating, "I must go on." VI Miles Bjornstam, the pariah "Red Swede," had brought his circular saw and portable gasoline engine to the house, to cut the cords of poplar for the kitchen range. Kennicott had given the order; Carol knew nothing of it till she heard the ringing of the saw, and glanced out to see Bjornstam, in black leather jacket and enormous ragged purple mittens, pressing sticks against the whirling blade, and flinging the stove-lengths to one side. The red irritable motor kept up a red irritable "tip-tip-tip-tip-tip-tip." The whine of the saw rose till it simulated the shriek of a fire-alarm whistle at night, but always at the end it gave a lively metallic clang, and in the stillness she heard the flump of the cut stick falling on the pile. She threw a motor robe over her, ran out. Bjornstam welcomed her, "Well, well, well! Here's old Miles, fresh as ever. Well say, that's all right; he ain't even begun to be cheeky yet; next summer he's going to take you out on his horse-trading trip, clear into Idaho." "Yes, and I may go!" "How's tricks? Crazy about the town yet?" "No, but I probably shall be, some day." "Don't let 'em get you. Kick 'em in the face!" He shouted at her while he worked. The pile of stove-wood grew astonishingly. The pale bark of the poplar sticks was mottled with lichens of sage-green and dusty gray; the newly sawed ends were fresh-colored, with the agreeable roughness of a woolen muffler. To the sterile winter air the wood gave a scent of March sap. Kennicott telephoned that he was going into the country. Bjornstam had not finished his work at noon, and she invited him to have dinner with Bea in the kitchen. She wished that she were independent enough to dine with these her guests. She considered their friendliness, she sneered at "social distinctions," she raged at her own taboos--and she continued to regard them as retainers and herself as a lady. She sat in the dining-room and listened through the door to Bjornstam's booming and Bea's giggles. She was the more absurd to herself in that, after the rite of dining alone, she could go out to the kitchen, lean against the sink, and talk to them. They were attracted to each other; a Swedish Othello and Desdemona, more useful and amiable than their prototypes. Bjornstam told his scapes: selling horses in a Montana mining-camp, breaking a log-jam, being impertinent to a "two-fisted" millionaire lumberman. Bea gurgled "Oh my!" and kept his coffee cup filled. He took a long time to finish the wood. He had frequently to go into the kitchen to get warm. Carol heard him confiding to Bea, "You're a darn nice Swede girl. I guess if I had a woman like you I wouldn't be such a sorehead. Gosh, your kitchen is clean; makes an old bach feel sloppy. Say, that's nice hair you got. Huh? Me fresh? Saaaay, girl, if I ever do get fresh, you'll know it. Why, I could pick you up with one finger, and hold you in the air long enough to read Robert J. Ingersoll clean through. Ingersoll? Oh, he's a religious writer. Sure. You'd like him fine." When he drove off he waved to Bea; and Carol, lonely at the window above, was envious of their pastoral. "And I----But I will go on." Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Zu Weihnachten findet sich Carol weinend wieder und vermisst ihren Vater, obwohl er schon seit über einem Jahrzehnt tot ist. Ihr wird bewusst, dass ihre Weihnachten mit Will niemals wie diejenigen sein werden, mit denen sie aufgewachsen ist. Carol bemüht sich nun mehr darum, die Dinge zu schätzen, die Will liebt, einschließlich seines Autos und seiner landwirtschaftlichen Spekulationen. Doch Will ist nicht besonders gut darin, Carol die Informationen zu liefern, die sie bräuchte, um sie zu würdigen. Carol gibt schließlich auf und zieht sich in ihr langweiliges, einsames Leben zurück. Sie streitet weiterhin mit Will darüber, Gopher Prairie zu einem erfüllenderen Ort zum Leben zu machen. Er argumentiert, dass es allen außer ihr gefällt. Carol vertraut sich erneut Guy Pollock an, um Hilfe beim Leben in Gopher Prairie zu erhalten. Es stellt sich heraus, dass er nicht viel für sie tun kann, da er gelernt hat, die Dinge so anzunehmen, wie sie sind. Eines Tages, während Will unterwegs ist, lädt Carol Miles Bjornstam ein, mit ihrer Magd Bea in ihrer Küche zu Abend zu essen. Carol isst in einem anderen Raum, weil das als angemessen gilt. Miles und Bea verstehen sich wirklich gut und Carol ist neidisch auf ihre Verbindung.

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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. Chapter: The carrier's horse was the laziest horse in the world, I should hope, and shuffled along, with his head down, as if he liked to keep people waiting to whom the packages were directed. I fancied, indeed, that he sometimes chuckled audibly over this reflection, but the carrier said he was only troubled with a cough. The carrier had a way of keeping his head down, like his horse, and of drooping sleepily forward as he drove, with one of his arms on each of his knees. I say 'drove', but it struck me that the cart would have gone to Yarmouth quite as well without him, for the horse did all that; and as to conversation, he had no idea of it but whistling. Peggotty had a basket of refreshments on her knee, which would have lasted us out handsomely, if we had been going to London by the same conveyance. We ate a good deal, and slept a good deal. Peggotty always went to sleep with her chin upon the handle of the basket, her hold of which never relaxed; and I could not have believed unless I had heard her do it, that one defenceless woman could have snored so much. We made so many deviations up and down lanes, and were such a long time delivering a bedstead at a public-house, and calling at other places, that I was quite tired, and very glad, when we saw Yarmouth. It looked rather spongy and soppy, I thought, as I carried my eye over the great dull waste that lay across the river; and I could not help wondering, if the world were really as round as my geography book said, how any part of it came to be so flat. But I reflected that Yarmouth might be situated at one of the poles; which would account for it. As we drew a little nearer, and saw the whole adjacent prospect lying a straight low line under the sky, I hinted to Peggotty that a mound or so might have improved it; and also that if the land had been a little more separated from the sea, and the town and the tide had not been quite so much mixed up, like toast and water, it would have been nicer. But Peggotty said, with greater emphasis than usual, that we must take things as we found them, and that, for her part, she was proud to call herself a Yarmouth Bloater. When we got into the street (which was strange enough to me) and smelt the fish, and pitch, and oakum, and tar, and saw the sailors walking about, and the carts jingling up and down over the stones, I felt that I had done so busy a place an injustice; and said as much to Peggotty, who heard my expressions of delight with great complacency, and told me it was well known (I suppose to those who had the good fortune to be born Bloaters) that Yarmouth was, upon the whole, the finest place in the universe. 'Here's my Am!' screamed Peggotty, 'growed out of knowledge!' He was waiting for us, in fact, at the public-house; and asked me how I found myself, like an old acquaintance. I did not feel, at first, that I knew him as well as he knew me, because he had never come to our house since the night I was born, and naturally he had the advantage of me. But our intimacy was much advanced by his taking me on his back to carry me home. He was, now, a huge, strong fellow of six feet high, broad in proportion, and round-shouldered; but with a simpering boy's face and curly light hair that gave him quite a sheepish look. He was dressed in a canvas jacket, and a pair of such very stiff trousers that they would have stood quite as well alone, without any legs in them. And you couldn't so properly have said he wore a hat, as that he was covered in a-top, like an old building, with something pitchy. Ham carrying me on his back and a small box of ours under his arm, and Peggotty carrying another small box of ours, we turned down lanes bestrewn with bits of chips and little hillocks of sand, and went past gas-works, rope-walks, boat-builders' yards, shipwrights' yards, ship-breakers' yards, caulkers' yards, riggers' lofts, smiths' forges, and a great litter of such places, until we came out upon the dull waste I had already seen at a distance; when Ham said, 'Yon's our house, Mas'r Davy!' I looked in all directions, as far as I could stare over the wilderness, and away at the sea, and away at the river, but no house could I make out. There was a black barge, or some other kind of superannuated boat, not far off, high and dry on the ground, with an iron funnel sticking out of it for a chimney and smoking very cosily; but nothing else in the way of a habitation that was visible to me. 'That's not it?' said I. 'That ship-looking thing?' 'That's it, Mas'r Davy,' returned Ham. If it had been Aladdin's palace, roc's egg and all, I suppose I could not have been more charmed with the romantic idea of living in it. There was a delightful door cut in the side, and it was roofed in, and there were little windows in it; but the wonderful charm of it was, that it was a real boat which had no doubt been upon the water hundreds of times, and which had never been intended to be lived in, on dry land. That was the captivation of it to me. If it had ever been meant to be lived in, I might have thought it small, or inconvenient, or lonely; but never having been designed for any such use, it became a perfect abode. It was beautifully clean inside, and as tidy as possible. There was a table, and a Dutch clock, and a chest of drawers, and on the chest of drawers there was a tea-tray with a painting on it of a lady with a parasol, taking a walk with a military-looking child who was trundling a hoop. The tray was kept from tumbling down, by a bible; and the tray, if it had tumbled down, would have smashed a quantity of cups and saucers and a teapot that were grouped around the book. On the walls there were some common coloured pictures, framed and glazed, of scripture subjects; such as I have never seen since in the hands of pedlars, without seeing the whole interior of Peggotty's brother's house again, at one view. Abraham in red going to sacrifice Isaac in blue, and Daniel in yellow cast into a den of green lions, were the most prominent of these. Over the little mantelshelf, was a picture of the 'Sarah Jane' lugger, built at Sunderland, with a real little wooden stern stuck on to it; a work of art, combining composition with carpentry, which I considered to be one of the most enviable possessions that the world could afford. There were some hooks in the beams of the ceiling, the use of which I did not divine then; and some lockers and boxes and conveniences of that sort, which served for seats and eked out the chairs. All this I saw in the first glance after I crossed the threshold--child-like, according to my theory--and then Peggotty opened a little door and showed me my bedroom. It was the completest and most desirable bedroom ever seen--in the stern of the vessel; with a little window, where the rudder used to go through; a little looking-glass, just the right height for me, nailed against the wall, and framed with oyster-shells; a little bed, which there was just room enough to get into; and a nosegay of seaweed in a blue mug on the table. The walls were whitewashed as white as milk, and the patchwork counterpane made my eyes quite ache with its brightness. One thing I particularly noticed in this delightful house, was the smell of fish; which was so searching, that when I took out my pocket-handkerchief to wipe my nose, I found it smelt exactly as if it had wrapped up a lobster. On my imparting this discovery in confidence to Peggotty, she informed me that her brother dealt in lobsters, crabs, and crawfish; and I afterwards found that a heap of these creatures, in a state of wonderful conglomeration with one another, and never leaving off pinching whatever they laid hold of, were usually to be found in a little wooden outhouse where the pots and kettles were kept. We were welcomed by a very civil woman in a white apron, whom I had seen curtseying at the door when I was on Ham's back, about a quarter of a mile off. Likewise by a most beautiful little girl (or I thought her so) with a necklace of blue beads on, who wouldn't let me kiss her when I offered to, but ran away and hid herself. By and by, when we had dined in a sumptuous manner off boiled dabs, melted butter, and potatoes, with a chop for me, a hairy man with a very good-natured face came home. As he called Peggotty 'Lass', and gave her a hearty smack on the cheek, I had no doubt, from the general propriety of her conduct, that he was her brother; and so he turned out--being presently introduced to me as Mr. Peggotty, the master of the house. 'Glad to see you, sir,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'You'll find us rough, sir, but you'll find us ready.' I thanked him, and replied that I was sure I should be happy in such a delightful place. 'How's your Ma, sir?' said Mr. Peggotty. 'Did you leave her pretty jolly?' I gave Mr. Peggotty to understand that she was as jolly as I could wish, and that she desired her compliments--which was a polite fiction on my part. 'I'm much obleeged to her, I'm sure,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'Well, sir, if you can make out here, fur a fortnut, 'long wi' her,' nodding at his sister, 'and Ham, and little Em'ly, we shall be proud of your company.' Having done the honours of his house in this hospitable manner, Mr. Peggotty went out to wash himself in a kettleful of hot water, remarking that 'cold would never get his muck off'. He soon returned, greatly improved in appearance; but so rubicund, that I couldn't help thinking his face had this in common with the lobsters, crabs, and crawfish,--that it went into the hot water very black, and came out very red. After tea, when the door was shut and all was made snug (the nights being cold and misty now), it seemed to me the most delicious retreat that the imagination of man could conceive. To hear the wind getting up out at sea, to know that the fog was creeping over the desolate flat outside, and to look at the fire, and think that there was no house near but this one, and this one a boat, was like enchantment. Little Em'ly had overcome her shyness, and was sitting by my side upon the lowest and least of the lockers, which was just large enough for us two, and just fitted into the chimney corner. Mrs. Peggotty with the white apron, was knitting on the opposite side of the fire. Peggotty at her needlework was as much at home with St. Paul's and the bit of wax-candle, as if they had never known any other roof. Ham, who had been giving me my first lesson in all-fours, was trying to recollect a scheme of telling fortunes with the dirty cards, and was printing off fishy impressions of his thumb on all the cards he turned. Mr. Peggotty was smoking his pipe. I felt it was a time for conversation and confidence. 'Mr. Peggotty!' says I. 'Sir,' says he. 'Did you give your son the name of Ham, because you lived in a sort of ark?' Mr. Peggotty seemed to think it a deep idea, but answered: 'No, sir. I never giv him no name.' 'Who gave him that name, then?' said I, putting question number two of the catechism to Mr. Peggotty. 'Why, sir, his father giv it him,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'I thought you were his father!' 'My brother Joe was his father,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'Dead, Mr. Peggotty?' I hinted, after a respectful pause. 'Drowndead,' said Mr. Peggotty. I was very much surprised that Mr. Peggotty was not Ham's father, and began to wonder whether I was mistaken about his relationship to anybody else there. I was so curious to know, that I made up my mind to have it out with Mr. Peggotty. 'Little Em'ly,' I said, glancing at her. 'She is your daughter, isn't she, Mr. Peggotty?' 'No, sir. My brother-in-law, Tom, was her father.' I couldn't help it. '--Dead, Mr. Peggotty?' I hinted, after another respectful silence. 'Drowndead,' said Mr. Peggotty. I felt the difficulty of resuming the subject, but had not got to the bottom of it yet, and must get to the bottom somehow. So I said: 'Haven't you ANY children, Mr. Peggotty?' 'No, master,' he answered with a short laugh. 'I'm a bacheldore.' 'A bachelor!' I said, astonished. 'Why, who's that, Mr. Peggotty?' pointing to the person in the apron who was knitting. 'That's Missis Gummidge,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'Gummidge, Mr. Peggotty?' But at this point Peggotty--I mean my own peculiar Peggotty--made such impressive motions to me not to ask any more questions, that I could only sit and look at all the silent company, until it was time to go to bed. Then, in the privacy of my own little cabin, she informed me that Ham and Em'ly were an orphan nephew and niece, whom my host had at different times adopted in their childhood, when they were left destitute: and that Mrs. Gummidge was the widow of his partner in a boat, who had died very poor. He was but a poor man himself, said Peggotty, but as good as gold and as true as steel--those were her similes. The only subject, she informed me, on which he ever showed a violent temper or swore an oath, was this generosity of his; and if it were ever referred to, by any one of them, he struck the table a heavy blow with his right hand (had split it on one such occasion), and swore a dreadful oath that he would be 'Gormed' if he didn't cut and run for good, if it was ever mentioned again. It appeared, in answer to my inquiries, that nobody had the least idea of the etymology of this terrible verb passive to be gormed; but that they all regarded it as constituting a most solemn imprecation. I was very sensible of my entertainer's goodness, and listened to the women's going to bed in another little crib like mine at the opposite end of the boat, and to him and Ham hanging up two hammocks for themselves on the hooks I had noticed in the roof, in a very luxurious state of mind, enhanced by my being sleepy. As slumber gradually stole upon me, I heard the wind howling out at sea and coming on across the flat so fiercely, that I had a lazy apprehension of the great deep rising in the night. But I bethought myself that I was in a boat, after all; and that a man like Mr. Peggotty was not a bad person to have on board if anything did happen. Nothing happened, however, worse than morning. Almost as soon as it shone upon the oyster-shell frame of my mirror I was out of bed, and out with little Em'ly, picking up stones upon the beach. 'You're quite a sailor, I suppose?' I said to Em'ly. I don't know that I supposed anything of the kind, but I felt it an act of gallantry to say something; and a shining sail close to us made such a pretty little image of itself, at the moment, in her bright eye, that it came into my head to say this. 'No,' replied Em'ly, shaking her head, 'I'm afraid of the sea.' 'Afraid!' I said, with a becoming air of boldness, and looking very big at the mighty ocean. 'I an't!' 'Ah! but it's cruel,' said Em'ly. 'I have seen it very cruel to some of our men. I have seen it tear a boat as big as our house, all to pieces.' 'I hope it wasn't the boat that--' 'That father was drownded in?' said Em'ly. 'No. Not that one, I never see that boat.' 'Nor him?' I asked her. Little Em'ly shook her head. 'Not to remember!' Here was a coincidence! I immediately went into an explanation how I had never seen my own father; and how my mother and I had always lived by ourselves in the happiest state imaginable, and lived so then, and always meant to live so; and how my father's grave was in the churchyard near our house, and shaded by a tree, beneath the boughs of which I had walked and heard the birds sing many a pleasant morning. But there were some differences between Em'ly's orphanhood and mine, it appeared. She had lost her mother before her father; and where her father's grave was no one knew, except that it was somewhere in the depths of the sea. 'Besides,' said Em'ly, as she looked about for shells and pebbles, 'your father was a gentleman and your mother is a lady; and my father was a fisherman and my mother was a fisherman's daughter, and my uncle Dan is a fisherman.' 'Dan is Mr. Peggotty, is he?' said I. 'Uncle Dan--yonder,' answered Em'ly, nodding at the boat-house. 'Yes. I mean him. He must be very good, I should think?' 'Good?' said Em'ly. 'If I was ever to be a lady, I'd give him a sky-blue coat with diamond buttons, nankeen trousers, a red velvet waistcoat, a cocked hat, a large gold watch, a silver pipe, and a box of money.' I said I had no doubt that Mr. Peggotty well deserved these treasures. I must acknowledge that I felt it difficult to picture him quite at his ease in the raiment proposed for him by his grateful little niece, and that I was particularly doubtful of the policy of the cocked hat; but I kept these sentiments to myself. Little Em'ly had stopped and looked up at the sky in her enumeration of these articles, as if they were a glorious vision. We went on again, picking up shells and pebbles. 'You would like to be a lady?' I said. Emily looked at me, and laughed and nodded 'yes'. 'I should like it very much. We would all be gentlefolks together, then. Me, and uncle, and Ham, and Mrs. Gummidge. We wouldn't mind then, when there comes stormy weather.---Not for our own sakes, I mean. We would for the poor fishermen's, to be sure, and we'd help 'em with money when they come to any hurt.' This seemed to me to be a very satisfactory and therefore not at all improbable picture. I expressed my pleasure in the contemplation of it, and little Em'ly was emboldened to say, shyly, 'Don't you think you are afraid of the sea, now?' It was quiet enough to reassure me, but I have no doubt if I had seen a moderately large wave come tumbling in, I should have taken to my heels, with an awful recollection of her drowned relations. However, I said 'No,' and I added, 'You don't seem to be either, though you say you are,'--for she was walking much too near the brink of a sort of old jetty or wooden causeway we had strolled upon, and I was afraid of her falling over. 'I'm not afraid in this way,' said little Em'ly. 'But I wake when it blows, and tremble to think of Uncle Dan and Ham and believe I hear 'em crying out for help. That's why I should like so much to be a lady. But I'm not afraid in this way. Not a bit. Look here!' She started from my side, and ran along a jagged timber which protruded from the place we stood upon, and overhung the deep water at some height, without the least defence. The incident is so impressed on my remembrance, that if I were a draughtsman I could draw its form here, I dare say, accurately as it was that day, and little Em'ly springing forward to her destruction (as it appeared to me), with a look that I have never forgotten, directed far out to sea. The light, bold, fluttering little figure turned and came back safe to me, and I soon laughed at my fears, and at the cry I had uttered; fruitlessly in any case, for there was no one near. But there have been times since, in my manhood, many times there have been, when I have thought, Is it possible, among the possibilities of hidden things, that in the sudden rashness of the child and her wild look so far off, there was any merciful attraction of her into danger, any tempting her towards him permitted on the part of her dead father, that her life might have a chance of ending that day? There has been a time since when I have wondered whether, if the life before her could have been revealed to me at a glance, and so revealed as that a child could fully comprehend it, and if her preservation could have depended on a motion of my hand, I ought to have held it up to save her. There has been a time since--I do not say it lasted long, but it has been--when I have asked myself the question, would it have been better for little Em'ly to have had the waters close above her head that morning in my sight; and when I have answered Yes, it would have been. This may be premature. I have set it down too soon, perhaps. But let it stand. We strolled a long way, and loaded ourselves with things that we thought curious, and put some stranded starfish carefully back into the water--I hardly know enough of the race at this moment to be quite certain whether they had reason to feel obliged to us for doing so, or the reverse--and then made our way home to Mr. Peggotty's dwelling. We stopped under the lee of the lobster-outhouse to exchange an innocent kiss, and went in to breakfast glowing with health and pleasure. 'Like two young mavishes,' Mr. Peggotty said. I knew this meant, in our local dialect, like two young thrushes, and received it as a compliment. Of course I was in love with little Em'ly. I am sure I loved that baby quite as truly, quite as tenderly, with greater purity and more disinterestedness, than can enter into the best love of a later time of life, high and ennobling as it is. I am sure my fancy raised up something round that blue-eyed mite of a child, which etherealized, and made a very angel of her. If, any sunny forenoon, she had spread a little pair of wings and flown away before my eyes, I don't think I should have regarded it as much more than I had had reason to expect. We used to walk about that dim old flat at Yarmouth in a loving manner, hours and hours. The days sported by us, as if Time had not grown up himself yet, but were a child too, and always at play. I told Em'ly I adored her, and that unless she confessed she adored me I should be reduced to the necessity of killing myself with a sword. She said she did, and I have no doubt she did. As to any sense of inequality, or youthfulness, or other difficulty in our way, little Em'ly and I had no such trouble, because we had no future. We made no more provision for growing older, than we did for growing younger. We were the admiration of Mrs. Gummidge and Peggotty, who used to whisper of an evening when we sat, lovingly, on our little locker side by side, 'Lor! wasn't it beautiful!' Mr. Peggotty smiled at us from behind his pipe, and Ham grinned all the evening and did nothing else. They had something of the sort of pleasure in us, I suppose, that they might have had in a pretty toy, or a pocket model of the Colosseum. I soon found out that Mrs. Gummidge did not always make herself so agreeable as she might have been expected to do, under the circumstances of her residence with Mr. Peggotty. Mrs. Gummidge's was rather a fretful disposition, and she whimpered more sometimes than was comfortable for other parties in so small an establishment. I was very sorry for her; but there were moments when it would have been more agreeable, I thought, if Mrs. Gummidge had had a convenient apartment of her own to retire to, and had stopped there until her spirits revived. Mr. Peggotty went occasionally to a public-house called The Willing Mind. I discovered this, by his being out on the second or third evening of our visit, and by Mrs. Gummidge's looking up at the Dutch clock, between eight and nine, and saying he was there, and that, what was more, she had known in the morning he would go there. Mrs. Gummidge had been in a low state all day, and had burst into tears in the forenoon, when the fire smoked. 'I am a lone lorn creetur',' were Mrs. Gummidge's words, when that unpleasant occurrence took place, 'and everythink goes contrary with me.' 'Oh, it'll soon leave off,' said Peggotty--I again mean our Peggotty--'and besides, you know, it's not more disagreeable to you than to us.' 'I feel it more,' said Mrs. Gummidge. It was a very cold day, with cutting blasts of wind. Mrs. Gummidge's peculiar corner of the fireside seemed to me to be the warmest and snuggest in the place, as her chair was certainly the easiest, but it didn't suit her that day at all. She was constantly complaining of the cold, and of its occasioning a visitation in her back which she called 'the creeps'. At last she shed tears on that subject, and said again that she was 'a lone lorn creetur' and everythink went contrary with her'. 'It is certainly very cold,' said Peggotty. 'Everybody must feel it so.' 'I feel it more than other people,' said Mrs. Gummidge. So at dinner; when Mrs. Gummidge was always helped immediately after me, to whom the preference was given as a visitor of distinction. The fish were small and bony, and the potatoes were a little burnt. We all acknowledged that we felt this something of a disappointment; but Mrs. Gummidge said she felt it more than we did, and shed tears again, and made that former declaration with great bitterness. Accordingly, when Mr. Peggotty came home about nine o'clock, this unfortunate Mrs. Gummidge was knitting in her corner, in a very wretched and miserable condition. Peggotty had been working cheerfully. Ham had been patching up a great pair of waterboots; and I, with little Em'ly by my side, had been reading to them. Mrs. Gummidge had never made any other remark than a forlorn sigh, and had never raised her eyes since tea. 'Well, Mates,' said Mr. Peggotty, taking his seat, 'and how are you?' We all said something, or looked something, to welcome him, except Mrs. Gummidge, who only shook her head over her knitting. 'What's amiss?' said Mr. Peggotty, with a clap of his hands. 'Cheer up, old Mawther!' (Mr. Peggotty meant old girl.) Mrs. Gummidge did not appear to be able to cheer up. She took out an old black silk handkerchief and wiped her eyes; but instead of putting it in her pocket, kept it out, and wiped them again, and still kept it out, ready for use. 'What's amiss, dame?' said Mr. Peggotty. 'Nothing,' returned Mrs. Gummidge. 'You've come from The Willing Mind, Dan'l?' 'Why yes, I've took a short spell at The Willing Mind tonight,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'I'm sorry I should drive you there,' said Mrs. Gummidge. 'Drive! I don't want no driving,' returned Mr. Peggotty with an honest laugh. 'I only go too ready.' 'Very ready,' said Mrs. Gummidge, shaking her head, and wiping her eyes. 'Yes, yes, very ready. I am sorry it should be along of me that you're so ready.' 'Along o' you! It an't along o' you!' said Mr. Peggotty. 'Don't ye believe a bit on it.' 'Yes, yes, it is,' cried Mrs. Gummidge. 'I know what I am. I know that I am a lone lorn creetur', and not only that everythink goes contrary with me, but that I go contrary with everybody. Yes, yes. I feel more than other people do, and I show it more. It's my misfortun'.' I really couldn't help thinking, as I sat taking in all this, that the misfortune extended to some other members of that family besides Mrs. Gummidge. But Mr. Peggotty made no such retort, only answering with another entreaty to Mrs. Gummidge to cheer up. 'I an't what I could wish myself to be,' said Mrs. Gummidge. 'I am far from it. I know what I am. My troubles has made me contrary. I feel my troubles, and they make me contrary. I wish I didn't feel 'em, but I do. I wish I could be hardened to 'em, but I an't. I make the house uncomfortable. I don't wonder at it. I've made your sister so all day, and Master Davy.' Here I was suddenly melted, and roared out, 'No, you haven't, Mrs. Gummidge,' in great mental distress. 'It's far from right that I should do it,' said Mrs. Gummidge. 'It an't a fit return. I had better go into the house and die. I am a lone lorn creetur', and had much better not make myself contrary here. If thinks must go contrary with me, and I must go contrary myself, let me go contrary in my parish. Dan'l, I'd better go into the house, and die and be a riddance!' Mrs. Gummidge retired with these words, and betook herself to bed. When she was gone, Mr. Peggotty, who had not exhibited a trace of any feeling but the profoundest sympathy, looked round upon us, and nodding his head with a lively expression of that sentiment still animating his face, said in a whisper: 'She's been thinking of the old 'un!' I did not quite understand what old one Mrs. Gummidge was supposed to have fixed her mind upon, until Peggotty, on seeing me to bed, explained that it was the late Mr. Gummidge; and that her brother always took that for a received truth on such occasions, and that it always had a moving effect upon him. Some time after he was in his hammock that night, I heard him myself repeat to Ham, 'Poor thing! She's been thinking of the old 'un!' And whenever Mrs. Gummidge was overcome in a similar manner during the remainder of our stay (which happened some few times), he always said the same thing in extenuation of the circumstance, and always with the tenderest commiseration. So the fortnight slipped away, varied by nothing but the variation of the tide, which altered Mr. Peggotty's times of going out and coming in, and altered Ham's engagements also. When the latter was unemployed, he sometimes walked with us to show us the boats and ships, and once or twice he took us for a row. I don't know why one slight set of impressions should be more particularly associated with a place than another, though I believe this obtains with most people, in reference especially to the associations of their childhood. I never hear the name, or read the name, of Yarmouth, but I am reminded of a certain Sunday morning on the beach, the bells ringing for church, little Em'ly leaning on my shoulder, Ham lazily dropping stones into the water, and the sun, away at sea, just breaking through the heavy mist, and showing us the ships, like their own shadows. At last the day came for going home. I bore up against the separation from Mr. Peggotty and Mrs. Gummidge, but my agony of mind at leaving little Em'ly was piercing. We went arm-in-arm to the public-house where the carrier put up, and I promised, on the road, to write to her. (I redeemed that promise afterwards, in characters larger than those in which apartments are usually announced in manuscript, as being to let.) We were greatly overcome at parting; and if ever, in my life, I have had a void made in my heart, I had one made that day. Now, all the time I had been on my visit, I had been ungrateful to my home again, and had thought little or nothing about it. But I was no sooner turned towards it, than my reproachful young conscience seemed to point that way with a ready finger; and I felt, all the more for the sinking of my spirits, that it was my nest, and that my mother was my comforter and friend. This gained upon me as we went along; so that the nearer we drew, the more familiar the objects became that we passed, the more excited I was to get there, and to run into her arms. But Peggotty, instead of sharing in those transports, tried to check them (though very kindly), and looked confused and out of sorts. Blunderstone Rookery would come, however, in spite of her, when the carrier's horse pleased--and did. How well I recollect it, on a cold grey afternoon, with a dull sky, threatening rain! The door opened, and I looked, half laughing and half crying in my pleasant agitation, for my mother. It was not she, but a strange servant. 'Why, Peggotty!' I said, ruefully, 'isn't she come home?' 'Yes, yes, Master Davy,' said Peggotty. 'She's come home. Wait a bit, Master Davy, and I'll--I'll tell you something.' Between her agitation, and her natural awkwardness in getting out of the cart, Peggotty was making a most extraordinary festoon of herself, but I felt too blank and strange to tell her so. When she had got down, she took me by the hand; led me, wondering, into the kitchen; and shut the door. 'Peggotty!' said I, quite frightened. 'What's the matter?' 'Nothing's the matter, bless you, Master Davy dear!' she answered, assuming an air of sprightliness. 'Something's the matter, I'm sure. Where's mama?' 'Where's mama, Master Davy?' repeated Peggotty. 'Yes. Why hasn't she come out to the gate, and what have we come in here for? Oh, Peggotty!' My eyes were full, and I felt as if I were going to tumble down. 'Bless the precious boy!' cried Peggotty, taking hold of me. 'What is it? Speak, my pet!' 'Not dead, too! Oh, she's not dead, Peggotty?' Peggotty cried out No! with an astonishing volume of voice; and then sat down, and began to pant, and said I had given her a turn. I gave her a hug to take away the turn, or to give her another turn in the right direction, and then stood before her, looking at her in anxious inquiry. 'You see, dear, I should have told you before now,' said Peggotty, 'but I hadn't an opportunity. I ought to have made it, perhaps, but I couldn't azackly'--that was always the substitute for exactly, in Peggotty's militia of words--'bring my mind to it.' 'Go on, Peggotty,' said I, more frightened than before. 'Master Davy,' said Peggotty, untying her bonnet with a shaking hand, and speaking in a breathless sort of way. 'What do you think? You have got a Pa!' I trembled, and turned white. Something--I don't know what, or how--connected with the grave in the churchyard, and the raising of the dead, seemed to strike me like an unwholesome wind. 'A new one,' said Peggotty. 'A new one?' I repeated. Peggotty gave a gasp, as if she were swallowing something that was very hard, and, putting out her hand, said: 'Come and see him.' 'I don't want to see him.' --'And your mama,' said Peggotty. I ceased to draw back, and we went straight to the best parlour, where she left me. On one side of the fire, sat my mother; on the other, Mr. Murdstone. My mother dropped her work, and arose hurriedly, but timidly I thought. 'Now, Clara my dear,' said Mr. Murdstone. 'Recollect! control yourself, always control yourself! Davy boy, how do you do?' I gave him my hand. After a moment of suspense, I went and kissed my mother: she kissed me, patted me gently on the shoulder, and sat down again to her work. I could not look at her, I could not look at him, I knew quite well that he was looking at us both; and I turned to the window and looked out there, at some shrubs that were drooping their heads in the cold. As soon as I could creep away, I crept upstairs. My old dear bedroom was changed, and I was to lie a long way off. I rambled downstairs to find anything that was like itself, so altered it all seemed; and roamed into the yard. I very soon started back from there, for the empty dog-kennel was filled up with a great dog--deep mouthed and black-haired like Him--and he was very angry at the sight of me, and sprang out to get at me. If the room to which my bed was removed were a sentient thing that could give evidence, I might appeal to it at this day--who sleeps there now, I wonder!--to bear witness for me what a heavy heart I carried to it. I went up there, hearing the dog in the yard bark after me all the way while I climbed the stairs; and, looking as blank and strange upon the room as the room looked upon me, sat down with my small hands crossed, and thought. I thought of the oddest things. Of the shape of the room, of the cracks in the ceiling, of the paper on the walls, of the flaws in the window-glass making ripples and dimples on the prospect, of the washing-stand being rickety on its three legs, and having a discontented something about it, which reminded me of Mrs. Gummidge under the influence of the old one. I was crying all the time, but, except that I was conscious of being cold and dejected, I am sure I never thought why I cried. At last in my desolation I began to consider that I was dreadfully in love with little Em'ly, and had been torn away from her to come here where no one seemed to want me, or to care about me, half as much as she did. This made such a very miserable piece of business of it, that I rolled myself up in a corner of the counterpane, and cried myself to sleep. I was awoke by somebody saying 'Here he is!' and uncovering my hot head. My mother and Peggotty had come to look for me, and it was one of them who had done it. 'Davy,' said my mother. 'What's the matter?' I thought it was very strange that she should ask me, and answered, 'Nothing.' I turned over on my face, I recollect, to hide my trembling lip, which answered her with greater truth. 'Davy,' said my mother. 'Davy, my child!' I dare say no words she could have uttered would have affected me so much, then, as her calling me her child. I hid my tears in the bedclothes, and pressed her from me with my hand, when she would have raised me up. 'This is your doing, Peggotty, you cruel thing!' said my mother. 'I have no doubt at all about it. How can you reconcile it to your conscience, I wonder, to prejudice my own boy against me, or against anybody who is dear to me? What do you mean by it, Peggotty?' Poor Peggotty lifted up her hands and eyes, and only answered, in a sort of paraphrase of the grace I usually repeated after dinner, 'Lord forgive you, Mrs. Copperfield, and for what you have said this minute, may you never be truly sorry!' 'It's enough to distract me,' cried my mother. 'In my honeymoon, too, when my most inveterate enemy might relent, one would think, and not envy me a little peace of mind and happiness. Davy, you naughty boy! Peggotty, you savage creature! Oh, dear me!' cried my mother, turning from one of us to the other, in her pettish wilful manner, 'what a troublesome world this is, when one has the most right to expect it to be as agreeable as possible!' I felt the touch of a hand that I knew was neither hers nor Peggotty's, and slipped to my feet at the bed-side. It was Mr. Murdstone's hand, and he kept it on my arm as he said: 'What's this? Clara, my love, have you forgotten?--Firmness, my dear!' 'I am very sorry, Edward,' said my mother. 'I meant to be very good, but I am so uncomfortable.' 'Indeed!' he answered. 'That's a bad hearing, so soon, Clara.' 'I say it's very hard I should be made so now,' returned my mother, pouting; 'and it is--very hard--isn't it?' He drew her to him, whispered in her ear, and kissed her. I knew as well, when I saw my mother's head lean down upon his shoulder, and her arm touch his neck--I knew as well that he could mould her pliant nature into any form he chose, as I know, now, that he did it. 'Go you below, my love,' said Mr. Murdstone. 'David and I will come down, together. My friend,' turning a darkening face on Peggotty, when he had watched my mother out, and dismissed her with a nod and a smile; 'do you know your mistress's name?' 'She has been my mistress a long time, sir,' answered Peggotty, 'I ought to know it.' 'That's true,' he answered. 'But I thought I heard you, as I came upstairs, address her by a name that is not hers. She has taken mine, you know. Will you remember that?' Peggotty, with some uneasy glances at me, curtseyed herself out of the room without replying; seeing, I suppose, that she was expected to go, and had no excuse for remaining. When we two were left alone, he shut the door, and sitting on a chair, and holding me standing before him, looked steadily into my eyes. I felt my own attracted, no less steadily, to his. As I recall our being opposed thus, face to face, I seem again to hear my heart beat fast and high. 'David,' he said, making his lips thin, by pressing them together, 'if I have an obstinate horse or dog to deal with, what do you think I do?' 'I don't know.' 'I beat him.' I had answered in a kind of breathless whisper, but I felt, in my silence, that my breath was shorter now. 'I make him wince, and smart. I say to myself, "I'll conquer that fellow"; and if it were to cost him all the blood he had, I should do it. What is that upon your face?' 'Dirt,' I said. He knew it was the mark of tears as well as I. But if he had asked the question twenty times, each time with twenty blows, I believe my baby heart would have burst before I would have told him so. 'You have a good deal of intelligence for a little fellow,' he said, with a grave smile that belonged to him, 'and you understood me very well, I see. Wash that face, sir, and come down with me.' He pointed to the washing-stand, which I had made out to be like Mrs. Gummidge, and motioned me with his head to obey him directly. I had little doubt then, and I have less doubt now, that he would have knocked me down without the least compunction, if I had hesitated. 'Clara, my dear,' he said, when I had done his bidding, and he walked me into the parlour, with his hand still on my arm; 'you will not be made uncomfortable any more, I hope. We shall soon improve our youthful humours.' God help me, I might have been improved for my whole life, I might have been made another creature perhaps, for life, by a kind word at that season. A word of encouragement and explanation, of pity for my childish ignorance, of welcome home, of reassurance to me that it was home, might have made me dutiful to him in my heart henceforth, instead of in my hypocritical outside, and might have made me respect instead of hate him. I thought my mother was sorry to see me standing in the room so scared and strange, and that, presently, when I stole to a chair, she followed me with her eyes more sorrowfully still--missing, perhaps, some freedom in my childish tread--but the word was not spoken, and the time for it was gone. We dined alone, we three together. He seemed to be very fond of my mother--I am afraid I liked him none the better for that--and she was very fond of him. I gathered from what they said, that an elder sister of his was coming to stay with them, and that she was expected that evening. I am not certain whether I found out then, or afterwards, that, without being actively concerned in any business, he had some share in, or some annual charge upon the profits of, a wine-merchant's house in London, with which his family had been connected from his great-grandfather's time, and in which his sister had a similar interest; but I may mention it in this place, whether or no. After dinner, when we were sitting by the fire, and I was meditating an escape to Peggotty without having the hardihood to slip away, lest it should offend the master of the house, a coach drove up to the garden-gate and he went out to receive the visitor. My mother followed him. I was timidly following her, when she turned round at the parlour door, in the dusk, and taking me in her embrace as she had been used to do, whispered me to love my new father and be obedient to him. She did this hurriedly and secretly, as if it were wrong, but tenderly; and, putting out her hand behind her, held mine in it, until we came near to where he was standing in the garden, where she let mine go, and drew hers through his arm. It was Miss Murdstone who was arrived, and a gloomy-looking lady she was; dark, like her brother, whom she greatly resembled in face and voice; and with very heavy eyebrows, nearly meeting over her large nose, as if, being disabled by the wrongs of her sex from wearing whiskers, she had carried them to that account. She brought with her two uncompromising hard black boxes, with her initials on the lids in hard brass nails. When she paid the coachman she took her money out of a hard steel purse, and she kept the purse in a very jail of a bag which hung upon her arm by a heavy chain, and shut up like a bite. I had never, at that time, seen such a metallic lady altogether as Miss Murdstone was. She was brought into the parlour with many tokens of welcome, and there formally recognized my mother as a new and near relation. Then she looked at me, and said: 'Is that your boy, sister-in-law?' My mother acknowledged me. 'Generally speaking,' said Miss Murdstone, 'I don't like boys. How d'ye do, boy?' Under these encouraging circumstances, I replied that I was very well, and that I hoped she was the same; with such an indifferent grace, that Miss Murdstone disposed of me in two words: 'Wants manner!' Having uttered which, with great distinctness, she begged the favour of being shown to her room, which became to me from that time forth a place of awe and dread, wherein the two black boxes were never seen open or known to be left unlocked, and where (for I peeped in once or twice when she was out) numerous little steel fetters and rivets, with which Miss Murdstone embellished herself when she was dressed, generally hung upon the looking-glass in formidable array. As well as I could make out, she had come for good, and had no intention of ever going again. She began to 'help' my mother next morning, and was in and out of the store-closet all day, putting things to rights, and making havoc in the old arrangements. Almost the first remarkable thing I observed in Miss Murdstone was, her being constantly haunted by a suspicion that the servants had a man secreted somewhere on the premises. Under the influence of this delusion, she dived into the coal-cellar at the most untimely hours, and scarcely ever opened the door of a dark cupboard without clapping it to again, in the belief that she had got him. Though there was nothing very airy about Miss Murdstone, she was a perfect Lark in point of getting up. She was up (and, as I believe to this hour, looking for that man) before anybody in the house was stirring. Peggotty gave it as her opinion that she even slept with one eye open; but I could not concur in this idea; for I tried it myself after hearing the suggestion thrown out, and found it couldn't be done. On the very first morning after her arrival she was up and ringing her bell at cock-crow. When my mother came down to breakfast and was going to make the tea, Miss Murdstone gave her a kind of peck on the cheek, which was her nearest approach to a kiss, and said: 'Now, Clara, my dear, I am come here, you know, to relieve you of all the trouble I can. You're much too pretty and thoughtless'--my mother blushed but laughed, and seemed not to dislike this character--'to have any duties imposed upon you that can be undertaken by me. If you'll be so good as give me your keys, my dear, I'll attend to all this sort of thing in future.' From that time, Miss Murdstone kept the keys in her own little jail all day, and under her pillow all night, and my mother had no more to do with them than I had. My mother did not suffer her authority to pass from her without a shadow of protest. One night when Miss Murdstone had been developing certain household plans to her brother, of which he signified his approbation, my mother suddenly began to cry, and said she thought she might have been consulted. 'Clara!' said Mr. Murdstone sternly. 'Clara! I wonder at you.' 'Oh, it's very well to say you wonder, Edward!' cried my mother, 'and it's very well for you to talk about firmness, but you wouldn't like it yourself.' Firmness, I may observe, was the grand quality on which both Mr. and Miss Murdstone took their stand. However I might have expressed my comprehension of it at that time, if I had been called upon, I nevertheless did clearly comprehend in my own way, that it was another name for tyranny; and for a certain gloomy, arrogant, devil's humour, that was in them both. The creed, as I should state it now, was this. Mr. Murdstone was firm; nobody in his world was to be so firm as Mr. Murdstone; nobody else in his world was to be firm at all, for everybody was to be bent to his firmness. Miss Murdstone was an exception. She might be firm, but only by relationship, and in an inferior and tributary degree. My mother was another exception. She might be firm, and must be; but only in bearing their firmness, and firmly believing there was no other firmness upon earth. 'It's very hard,' said my mother, 'that in my own house--' 'My own house?' repeated Mr. Murdstone. 'Clara!' 'OUR own house, I mean,' faltered my mother, evidently frightened--'I hope you must know what I mean, Edward--it's very hard that in YOUR own house I may not have a word to say about domestic matters. I am sure I managed very well before we were married. There's evidence,' said my mother, sobbing; 'ask Peggotty if I didn't do very well when I wasn't interfered with!' 'Edward,' said Miss Murdstone, 'let there be an end of this. I go tomorrow.' 'Jane Murdstone,' said her brother, 'be silent! How dare you to insinuate that you don't know my character better than your words imply?' 'I am sure,' my poor mother went on, at a grievous disadvantage, and with many tears, 'I don't want anybody to go. I should be very miserable and unhappy if anybody was to go. I don't ask much. I am not unreasonable. I only want to be consulted sometimes. I am very much obliged to anybody who assists me, and I only want to be consulted as a mere form, sometimes. I thought you were pleased, once, with my being a little inexperienced and girlish, Edward--I am sure you said so--but you seem to hate me for it now, you are so severe.' 'Edward,' said Miss Murdstone, again, 'let there be an end of this. I go tomorrow.' 'Jane Murdstone,' thundered Mr. Murdstone. 'Will you be silent? How dare you?' Miss Murdstone made a jail-delivery of her pocket-handkerchief, and held it before her eyes. 'Clara,' he continued, looking at my mother, 'you surprise me! You astound me! Yes, I had a satisfaction in the thought of marrying an inexperienced and artless person, and forming her character, and infusing into it some amount of that firmness and decision of which it stood in need. But when Jane Murdstone is kind enough to come to my assistance in this endeavour, and to assume, for my sake, a condition something like a housekeeper's, and when she meets with a base return--' 'Oh, pray, pray, Edward,' cried my mother, 'don't accuse me of being ungrateful. I am sure I am not ungrateful. No one ever said I was before. I have many faults, but not that. Oh, don't, my dear!' 'When Jane Murdstone meets, I say,' he went on, after waiting until my mother was silent, 'with a base return, that feeling of mine is chilled and altered.' 'Don't, my love, say that!' implored my mother very piteously. 'Oh, don't, Edward! I can't bear to hear it. Whatever I am, I am affectionate. I know I am affectionate. I wouldn't say it, if I wasn't sure that I am. Ask Peggotty. I am sure she'll tell you I'm affectionate.' 'There is no extent of mere weakness, Clara,' said Mr. Murdstone in reply, 'that can have the least weight with me. You lose breath.' 'Pray let us be friends,' said my mother, 'I couldn't live under coldness or unkindness. I am so sorry. I have a great many defects, I know, and it's very good of you, Edward, with your strength of mind, to endeavour to correct them for me. Jane, I don't object to anything. I should be quite broken-hearted if you thought of leaving--' My mother was too much overcome to go on. 'Jane Murdstone,' said Mr. Murdstone to his sister, 'any harsh words between us are, I hope, uncommon. It is not my fault that so unusual an occurrence has taken place tonight. I was betrayed into it by another. Nor is it your fault. You were betrayed into it by another. Let us both try to forget it. And as this,' he added, after these magnanimous words, 'is not a fit scene for the boy--David, go to bed!' I could hardly find the door, through the tears that stood in my eyes. I was so sorry for my mother's distress; but I groped my way out, and groped my way up to my room in the dark, without even having the heart to say good night to Peggotty, or to get a candle from her. When her coming up to look for me, an hour or so afterwards, awoke me, she said that my mother had gone to bed poorly, and that Mr. and Miss Murdstone were sitting alone. Going down next morning rather earlier than usual, I paused outside the parlour door, on hearing my mother's voice. She was very earnestly and humbly entreating Miss Murdstone's pardon, which that lady granted, and a perfect reconciliation took place. I never knew my mother afterwards to give an opinion on any matter, without first appealing to Miss Murdstone, or without having first ascertained by some sure means, what Miss Murdstone's opinion was; and I never saw Miss Murdstone, when out of temper (she was infirm that way), move her hand towards her bag as if she were going to take out the keys and offer to resign them to my mother, without seeing that my mother was in a terrible fright. The gloomy taint that was in the Murdstone blood, darkened the Murdstone religion, which was austere and wrathful. I have thought, since, that its assuming that character was a necessary consequence of Mr. Murdstone's firmness, which wouldn't allow him to let anybody off from the utmost weight of the severest penalties he could find any excuse for. Be this as it may, I well remember the tremendous visages with which we used to go to church, and the changed air of the place. Again, the dreaded Sunday comes round, and I file into the old pew first, like a guarded captive brought to a condemned service. Again, Miss Murdstone, in a black velvet gown, that looks as if it had been made out of a pall, follows close upon me; then my mother; then her husband. There is no Peggotty now, as in the old time. Again, I listen to Miss Murdstone mumbling the responses, and emphasizing all the dread words with a cruel relish. Again, I see her dark eyes roll round the church when she says 'miserable sinners', as if she were calling all the congregation names. Again, I catch rare glimpses of my mother, moving her lips timidly between the two, with one of them muttering at each ear like low thunder. Again, I wonder with a sudden fear whether it is likely that our good old clergyman can be wrong, and Mr. and Miss Murdstone right, and that all the angels in Heaven can be destroying angels. Again, if I move a finger or relax a muscle of my face, Miss Murdstone pokes me with her prayer-book, and makes my side ache. Yes, and again, as we walk home, I note some neighbours looking at my mother and at me, and whispering. Again, as the three go on arm-in-arm, and I linger behind alone, I follow some of those looks, and wonder if my mother's step be really not so light as I have seen it, and if the gaiety of her beauty be really almost worried away. Again, I wonder whether any of the neighbours call to mind, as I do, how we used to walk home together, she and I; and I wonder stupidly about that, all the dreary dismal day. There had been some talk on occasions of my going to boarding-school. Mr. and Miss Murdstone had originated it, and my mother had of course agreed with them. Nothing, however, was concluded on the subject yet. In the meantime, I learnt lessons at home. Shall I ever forget those lessons! They were presided over nominally by my mother, but really by Mr. Murdstone and his sister, who were always present, and found them a favourable occasion for giving my mother lessons in that miscalled firmness, which was the bane of both our lives. I believe I was kept at home for that purpose. I had been apt enough to learn, and willing enough, when my mother and I had lived alone together. I can faintly remember learning the alphabet at her knee. To this day, when I look upon the fat black letters in the primer, the puzzling novelty of their shapes, and the easy good-nature of O and Q and S, seem to present themselves again before me as they used to do. But they recall no feeling of disgust or reluctance. On the contrary, I seem to have walked along a path of flowers as far as the crocodile-book, and to have been cheered by the gentleness of my mother's voice and manner all the way. But these solemn lessons which succeeded those, I remember as the death-blow of my peace, and a grievous daily drudgery and misery. They were very long, very numerous, very hard--perfectly unintelligible, some of them, to me--and I was generally as much bewildered by them as I believe my poor mother was herself. Let me remember how it used to be, and bring one morning back again. I come into the second-best parlour after breakfast, with my books, and an exercise-book, and a slate. My mother is ready for me at her writing-desk, but not half so ready as Mr. Murdstone in his easy-chair by the window (though he pretends to be reading a book), or as Miss Murdstone, sitting near my mother stringing steel beads. The very sight of these two has such an influence over me, that I begin to feel the words I have been at infinite pains to get into my head, all sliding away, and going I don't know where. I wonder where they do go, by the by? I hand the first book to my mother. Perhaps it is a grammar, perhaps a history, or geography. I take a last drowning look at the page as I give it into her hand, and start off aloud at a racing pace while I have got it fresh. I trip over a word. Mr. Murdstone looks up. I trip over another word. Miss Murdstone looks up. I redden, tumble over half-a-dozen words, and stop. I think my mother would show me the book if she dared, but she does not dare, and she says softly: 'Oh, Davy, Davy!' 'Now, Clara,' says Mr. Murdstone, 'be firm with the boy. Don't say, "Oh, Davy, Davy!" That's childish. He knows his lesson, or he does not know it.' 'He does NOT know it,' Miss Murdstone interposes awfully. 'I am really afraid he does not,' says my mother. 'Then, you see, Clara,' returns Miss Murdstone, 'you should just give him the book back, and make him know it.' 'Yes, certainly,' says my mother; 'that is what I intend to do, my dear Jane. Now, Davy, try once more, and don't be stupid.' I obey the first clause of the injunction by trying once more, but am not so successful with the second, for I am very stupid. I tumble down before I get to the old place, at a point where I was all right before, and stop to think. But I can't think about the lesson. I think of the number of yards of net in Miss Murdstone's cap, or of the price of Mr. Murdstone's dressing-gown, or any such ridiculous problem that I have no business with, and don't want to have anything at all to do with. Mr. Murdstone makes a movement of impatience which I have been expecting for a long time. Miss Murdstone does the same. My mother glances submissively at them, shuts the book, and lays it by as an arrear to be worked out when my other tasks are done. There is a pile of these arrears very soon, and it swells like a rolling snowball. The bigger it gets, the more stupid I get. The case is so hopeless, and I feel that I am wallowing in such a bog of nonsense, that I give up all idea of getting out, and abandon myself to my fate. The despairing way in which my mother and I look at each other, as I blunder on, is truly melancholy. But the greatest effect in these miserable lessons is when my mother (thinking nobody is observing her) tries to give me the cue by the motion of her lips. At that instant, Miss Murdstone, who has been lying in wait for nothing else all along, says in a deep warning voice: 'Clara!' My mother starts, colours, and smiles faintly. Mr. Murdstone comes out of his chair, takes the book, throws it at me or boxes my ears with it, and turns me out of the room by the shoulders. Even when the lessons are done, the worst is yet to happen, in the shape of an appalling sum. This is invented for me, and delivered to me orally by Mr. Murdstone, and begins, 'If I go into a cheesemonger's shop, and buy five thousand double-Gloucester cheeses at fourpence-halfpenny each, present payment'--at which I see Miss Murdstone secretly overjoyed. I pore over these cheeses without any result or enlightenment until dinner-time, when, having made a Mulatto of myself by getting the dirt of the slate into the pores of my skin, I have a slice of bread to help me out with the cheeses, and am considered in disgrace for the rest of the evening. It seems to me, at this distance of time, as if my unfortunate studies generally took this course. I could have done very well if I had been without the Murdstones; but the influence of the Murdstones upon me was like the fascination of two snakes on a wretched young bird. Even when I did get through the morning with tolerable credit, there was not much gained but dinner; for Miss Murdstone never could endure to see me untasked, and if I rashly made any show of being unemployed, called her brother's attention to me by saying, 'Clara, my dear, there's nothing like work--give your boy an exercise'; which caused me to be clapped down to some new labour, there and then. As to any recreation with other children of my age, I had very little of that; for the gloomy theology of the Murdstones made all children out to be a swarm of little vipers (though there WAS a child once set in the midst of the Disciples), and held that they contaminated one another. The natural result of this treatment, continued, I suppose, for some six months or more, was to make me sullen, dull, and dogged. I was not made the less so by my sense of being daily more and more shut out and alienated from my mother. I believe I should have been almost stupefied but for one circumstance. It was this. My father had left a small collection of books in a little room upstairs, to which I had access (for it adjoined my own) and which nobody else in our house ever troubled. From that blessed little room, Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, Humphrey Clinker, Tom Jones, the Vicar of Wakefield, Don Quixote, Gil Blas, and Robinson Crusoe, came out, a glorious host, to keep me company. They kept alive my fancy, and my hope of something beyond that place and time,--they, and the Arabian Nights, and the Tales of the Genii,--and did me no harm; for whatever harm was in some of them was not there for me; I knew nothing of it. It is astonishing to me now, how I found time, in the midst of my porings and blunderings over heavier themes, to read those books as I did. It is curious to me how I could ever have consoled myself under my small troubles (which were great troubles to me), by impersonating my favourite characters in them--as I did--and by putting Mr. and Miss Murdstone into all the bad ones--which I did too. I have been Tom Jones (a child's Tom Jones, a harmless creature) for a week together. I have sustained my own idea of Roderick Random for a month at a stretch, I verily believe. I had a greedy relish for a few volumes of Voyages and Travels--I forget what, now--that were on those shelves; and for days and days I can remember to have gone about my region of our house, armed with the centre-piece out of an old set of boot-trees--the perfect realization of Captain Somebody, of the Royal British Navy, in danger of being beset by savages, and resolved to sell his life at a great price. The Captain never lost dignity, from having his ears boxed with the Latin Grammar. I did; but the Captain was a Captain and a hero, in despite of all the grammars of all the languages in the world, dead or alive. This was my only and my constant comfort. When I think of it, the picture always rises in my mind, of a summer evening, the boys at play in the churchyard, and I sitting on my bed, reading as if for life. Every barn in the neighbourhood, every stone in the church, and every foot of the churchyard, had some association of its own, in my mind, connected with these books, and stood for some locality made famous in them. I have seen Tom Pipes go climbing up the church-steeple; I have watched Strap, with the knapsack on his back, stopping to rest himself upon the wicket-gate; and I know that Commodore Trunnion held that club with Mr. Pickle, in the parlour of our little village alehouse. The reader now understands, as well as I do, what I was when I came to that point of my youthful history to which I am now coming again. One morning when I went into the parlour with my books, I found my mother looking anxious, Miss Murdstone looking firm, and Mr. Murdstone binding something round the bottom of a cane--a lithe and limber cane, which he left off binding when I came in, and poised and switched in the air. 'I tell you, Clara,' said Mr. Murdstone, 'I have been often flogged myself.' 'To be sure; of course,' said Miss Murdstone. 'Certainly, my dear Jane,' faltered my mother, meekly. 'But--but do you think it did Edward good?' 'Do you think it did Edward harm, Clara?' asked Mr. Murdstone, gravely. 'That's the point,' said his sister. To this my mother returned, 'Certainly, my dear Jane,' and said no more. I felt apprehensive that I was personally interested in this dialogue, and sought Mr. Murdstone's eye as it lighted on mine. 'Now, David,' he said--and I saw that cast again as he said it--'you must be far more careful today than usual.' He gave the cane another poise, and another switch; and having finished his preparation of it, laid it down beside him, with an impressive look, and took up his book. This was a good freshener to my presence of mind, as a beginning. I felt the words of my lessons slipping off, not one by one, or line by line, but by the entire page; I tried to lay hold of them; but they seemed, if I may so express it, to have put skates on, and to skim away from me with a smoothness there was no checking. We began badly, and went on worse. I had come in with an idea of distinguishing myself rather, conceiving that I was very well prepared; but it turned out to be quite a mistake. Book after book was added to the heap of failures, Miss Murdstone being firmly watchful of us all the time. And when we came at last to the five thousand cheeses (canes he made it that day, I remember), my mother burst out crying. 'Clara!' said Miss Murdstone, in her warning voice. 'I am not quite well, my dear Jane, I think,' said my mother. I saw him wink, solemnly, at his sister, as he rose and said, taking up the cane: 'Why, Jane, we can hardly expect Clara to bear, with perfect firmness, the worry and torment that David has occasioned her today. That would be stoical. Clara is greatly strengthened and improved, but we can hardly expect so much from her. David, you and I will go upstairs, boy.' As he took me out at the door, my mother ran towards us. Miss Murdstone said, 'Clara! are you a perfect fool?' and interfered. I saw my mother stop her ears then, and I heard her crying. He walked me up to my room slowly and gravely--I am certain he had a delight in that formal parade of executing justice--and when we got there, suddenly twisted my head under his arm. 'Mr. Murdstone! Sir!' I cried to him. 'Don't! Pray don't beat me! I have tried to learn, sir, but I can't learn while you and Miss Murdstone are by. I can't indeed!' 'Can't you, indeed, David?' he said. 'We'll try that.' He had my head as in a vice, but I twined round him somehow, and stopped him for a moment, entreating him not to beat me. It was only a moment that I stopped him, for he cut me heavily an instant afterwards, and in the same instant I caught the hand with which he held me in my mouth, between my teeth, and bit it through. It sets my teeth on edge to think of it. He beat me then, as if he would have beaten me to death. Above all the noise we made, I heard them running up the stairs, and crying out--I heard my mother crying out--and Peggotty. Then he was gone; and the door was locked outside; and I was lying, fevered and hot, and torn, and sore, and raging in my puny way, upon the floor. How well I recollect, when I became quiet, what an unnatural stillness seemed to reign through the whole house! How well I remember, when my smart and passion began to cool, how wicked I began to feel! I sat listening for a long while, but there was not a sound. I crawled up from the floor, and saw my face in the glass, so swollen, red, and ugly that it almost frightened me. My stripes were sore and stiff, and made me cry afresh, when I moved; but they were nothing to the guilt I felt. It lay heavier on my breast than if I had been a most atrocious criminal, I dare say. It had begun to grow dark, and I had shut the window (I had been lying, for the most part, with my head upon the sill, by turns crying, dozing, and looking listlessly out), when the key was turned, and Miss Murdstone came in with some bread and meat, and milk. These she put down upon the table without a word, glaring at me the while with exemplary firmness, and then retired, locking the door after her. Long after it was dark I sat there, wondering whether anybody else would come. When this appeared improbable for that night, I undressed, and went to bed; and, there, I began to wonder fearfully what would be done to me. Whether it was a criminal act that I had committed? Whether I should be taken into custody, and sent to prison? Whether I was at all in danger of being hanged? I never shall forget the waking, next morning; the being cheerful and fresh for the first moment, and then the being weighed down by the stale and dismal oppression of remembrance. Miss Murdstone reappeared before I was out of bed; told me, in so many words, that I was free to walk in the garden for half an hour and no longer; and retired, leaving the door open, that I might avail myself of that permission. I did so, and did so every morning of my imprisonment, which lasted five days. If I could have seen my mother alone, I should have gone down on my knees to her and besought her forgiveness; but I saw no one, Miss Murdstone excepted, during the whole time--except at evening prayers in the parlour; to which I was escorted by Miss Murdstone after everybody else was placed; where I was stationed, a young outlaw, all alone by myself near the door; and whence I was solemnly conducted by my jailer, before any one arose from the devotional posture. I only observed that my mother was as far off from me as she could be, and kept her face another way so that I never saw it; and that Mr. Murdstone's hand was bound up in a large linen wrapper. The length of those five days I can convey no idea of to any one. They occupy the place of years in my remembrance. The way in which I listened to all the incidents of the house that made themselves audible to me; the ringing of bells, the opening and shutting of doors, the murmuring of voices, the footsteps on the stairs; to any laughing, whistling, or singing, outside, which seemed more dismal than anything else to me in my solitude and disgrace--the uncertain pace of the hours, especially at night, when I would wake thinking it was morning, and find that the family were not yet gone to bed, and that all the length of night had yet to come--the depressed dreams and nightmares I had--the return of day, noon, afternoon, evening, when the boys played in the churchyard, and I watched them from a distance within the room, being ashamed to show myself at the window lest they should know I was a prisoner--the strange sensation of never hearing myself speak--the fleeting intervals of something like cheerfulness, which came with eating and drinking, and went away with it--the setting in of rain one evening, with a fresh smell, and its coming down faster and faster between me and the church, until it and gathering night seemed to quench me in gloom, and fear, and remorse--all this appears to have gone round and round for years instead of days, it is so vividly and strongly stamped on my remembrance. On the last night of my restraint, I was awakened by hearing my own name spoken in a whisper. I started up in bed, and putting out my arms in the dark, said: 'Is that you, Peggotty?' There was no immediate answer, but presently I heard my name again, in a tone so very mysterious and awful, that I think I should have gone into a fit, if it had not occurred to me that it must have come through the keyhole. I groped my way to the door, and putting my own lips to the keyhole, whispered: 'Is that you, Peggotty dear?' 'Yes, my own precious Davy,' she replied. 'Be as soft as a mouse, or the Cat'll hear us.' I understood this to mean Miss Murdstone, and was sensible of the urgency of the case; her room being close by. 'How's mama, dear Peggotty? Is she very angry with me?' I could hear Peggotty crying softly on her side of the keyhole, as I was doing on mine, before she answered. 'No. Not very.' 'What is going to be done with me, Peggotty dear? Do you know?' 'School. Near London,' was Peggotty's answer. I was obliged to get her to repeat it, for she spoke it the first time quite down my throat, in consequence of my having forgotten to take my mouth away from the keyhole and put my ear there; and though her words tickled me a good deal, I didn't hear them. 'When, Peggotty?' 'Tomorrow.' 'Is that the reason why Miss Murdstone took the clothes out of my drawers?' which she had done, though I have forgotten to mention it. 'Yes,' said Peggotty. 'Box.' 'Shan't I see mama?' 'Yes,' said Peggotty. 'Morning.' Then Peggotty fitted her mouth close to the keyhole, and delivered these words through it with as much feeling and earnestness as a keyhole has ever been the medium of communicating, I will venture to assert: shooting in each broken little sentence in a convulsive little burst of its own. 'Davy, dear. If I ain't been azackly as intimate with you. Lately, as I used to be. It ain't because I don't love you. Just as well and more, my pretty poppet. It's because I thought it better for you. And for someone else besides. Davy, my darling, are you listening? Can you hear?' 'Ye-ye-ye-yes, Peggotty!' I sobbed. 'My own!' said Peggotty, with infinite compassion. 'What I want to say, is. That you must never forget me. For I'll never forget you. And I'll take as much care of your mama, Davy. As ever I took of you. And I won't leave her. The day may come when she'll be glad to lay her poor head. On her stupid, cross old Peggotty's arm again. And I'll write to you, my dear. Though I ain't no scholar. And I'll--I'll--' Peggotty fell to kissing the keyhole, as she couldn't kiss me. 'Thank you, dear Peggotty!' said I. 'Oh, thank you! Thank you! Will you promise me one thing, Peggotty? Will you write and tell Mr. Peggotty and little Em'ly, and Mrs. Gummidge and Ham, that I am not so bad as they might suppose, and that I sent 'em all my love--especially to little Em'ly? Will you, if you please, Peggotty?' The kind soul promised, and we both of us kissed the keyhole with the greatest affection--I patted it with my hand, I recollect, as if it had been her honest face--and parted. From that night there grew up in my breast a feeling for Peggotty which I cannot very well define. She did not replace my mother; no one could do that; but she came into a vacancy in my heart, which closed upon her, and I felt towards her something I have never felt for any other human being. It was a sort of comical affection, too; and yet if she had died, I cannot think what I should have done, or how I should have acted out the tragedy it would have been to me. In the morning Miss Murdstone appeared as usual, and told me I was going to school; which was not altogether such news to me as she supposed. She also informed me that when I was dressed, I was to come downstairs into the parlour, and have my breakfast. There, I found my mother, very pale and with red eyes: into whose arms I ran, and begged her pardon from my suffering soul. 'Oh, Davy!' she said. 'That you could hurt anyone I love! Try to be better, pray to be better! I forgive you; but I am so grieved, Davy, that you should have such bad passions in your heart.' They had persuaded her that I was a wicked fellow, and she was more sorry for that than for my going away. I felt it sorely. I tried to eat my parting breakfast, but my tears dropped upon my bread-and-butter, and trickled into my tea. I saw my mother look at me sometimes, and then glance at the watchful Miss Murdstone, and than look down, or look away. 'Master Copperfield's box there!' said Miss Murdstone, when wheels were heard at the gate. I looked for Peggotty, but it was not she; neither she nor Mr. Murdstone appeared. My former acquaintance, the carrier, was at the door. The box was taken out to his cart, and lifted in. 'Clara!' said Miss Murdstone, in her warning note. 'Ready, my dear Jane,' returned my mother. 'Good-bye, Davy. You are going for your own good. Good-bye, my child. You will come home in the holidays, and be a better boy.' 'Clara!' Miss Murdstone repeated. 'Certainly, my dear Jane,' replied my mother, who was holding me. 'I forgive you, my dear boy. God bless you!' 'Clara!' Miss Murdstone repeated. Miss Murdstone war freundlich genug, mich zum Wagen zu bringen und auf dem Weg zu sagen, dass sie hoffte, dass ich mich bessern würde, bevor ich ein schlechtes Ende erleide. Dann stieg ich in den Wagen ein und das faule Pferd setzte sich in Bewegung. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Ham, der Neffe von Peggotty, der bei Davids Geburt anwesend war, erwartet sie in einem Gasthaus in Yarmouth und führt sie zu dem Wrack eines alten Schiffes, das auf dem Land abgestellt wurde. Es wurde zu einer Art "richtigem Zuhause" renoviert und dort lebt die Familie Peggotty. Obwohl alles stark nach Fisch riecht, ist das Boot sauber und Davids Zimmer ist das "begehrteste Schlafzimmer, das je gesehen wurde". David lernt Mr. Peggotty kennen, einen ledigen Bruder, der das Haus leitet. David ist verwirrt über die Beziehung von Ham und Em'ly ; er erfährt von Peggotty, dass sie beide Waisenkinder von Verwandten sind, die auf See gestorben sind. Am nächsten Morgen spielen David und Em'ly vor dem Frühstück am Strand und Em'ly erzählt ihm von ihrer Angst vor dem Meer, weil es so viele ihrer Verwandten genommen hat. Sie läuft auf einem Balken am Rande des Piers, wo das Wasser am tiefsten ist, und David wird alarmiert, dass sie hineinfallen könnte. Er bemerkt viel später, dass er diese Episode nie vergessen hat, und er fragt sich, ob es nicht besser gewesen wäre, wenn sie jung und unschuldig ertrunken wäre. Sie kehren mit Muscheln, die sie gesammelt haben, vom Strand zurück und tauschen einen unschuldigen Kuss aus, bevor sie essen gehen. David ist sich sicher, dass er verliebt ist. Der Urlaub endet und David und Peggotty kehren mit dem gleichen Beförderungswagen nach Hause zurück. David ist traurig, Yarmouth verlassen zu müssen, aber er freut sich darauf, seine Mutter wiederzusehen. Allerdings wird er nicht von seiner Mutter abgeholt; er wird von einem fremden Diener empfangen und für einen Moment fürchtet David, dass seiner Mutter etwas passiert ist. Peggotty bringt David in die Küche und gesteht, dass sie ihm früher hätte sagen sollen, was passiert ist - Davids Mutter hat wieder geheiratet; David hat einen neuen "Pa". Daraufhin wird er in das Wohnzimmer geführt, um Mr. Murdstone zu treffen. In Kapitel 4 konzentriert sich Dickens auf Davids Unglück. David denkt an das kleine Em'ly und weint sich in den Schlaf. Am Morgen kommen Peggotty und Davids Mutter in sein Zimmer, und seine Mutter beschuldigt Peggotty, den Jungen gegen sie und ihren neuen Ehemann voreingenommen zu haben. Mr. Murdstone erscheint und mahnt seine Frau zur "Standfestigkeit" im Umgang mit David. Er schickt beide Frauen aus dem Zimmer, aber nicht bevor er Peggotty dafür schimpft, ihre Herrin mit ihrem früheren Namen anzusprechen. "Sie hat meinen Namen angenommen", sagt er, "Wirst du das bitte bedenken?" Mr. Murdstone sagt weiter, dass David, wenn sich sein Benehmen nicht bessert, mit einem Riemen geschlagen wird. Nach dem Mittagessen kommt ein Kutschen an; Miss Murdstone, die Schwester von Davids Stiefvater, ist gekommen, um bei der Familie zu bleiben. Sie ist eine ebenso harte und strenge Person wie ihr Bruder und erklärt prompt allen, dass sie keine Jungen mag. Sie stellt fest, dass David offensichtlich eine Erziehung in puncto Manieren braucht, nimmt dann sofort die Haushaltsschlüssel an sich und übernimmt die Verantwortung für die Haushaltsangelegenheiten. Nach und nach beginnen sie und ihr Bruder Davids Mutter einzuschüchtern, bis sie praktisch eine Außenseiterin in ihrem eigenen Zuhause wird. Eines Morgens, als David zum Unterricht kommt, ist Mr. Murdstone bereits da - mit einem Stock, den er "in der Luft schwingt". Als die Stunde schlecht läuft, wird David die Treppe hinaufgeführt und sein Stiefvater schlägt ihn, nicht bevor David die Hand beißt, die ihn füttert . David wird wie ein Gefangener fünf Tage lang in seinem Zimmer eingesperrt und darf nur morgens zum Sport und abends zum Gebet herauskommen. Am fünften Tag schleicht sich Peggotty ins Zimmer und spricht durch das Schlüsselloch mit David und informiert ihn, dass er morgen in eine Schule in der Nähe von London geschickt wird. Am nächsten Morgen wird David mit dem vertrauten Pferdewagen zur Schule geschickt. Seine trauernde Mutter bittet ihn zunächst, "zu beten, dass es besser wird", und dann platzt es aus ihr heraus: "Ich vergebe dir, mein lieber Junge. Gott segne dich!"

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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: Ein Kapitel über einen Vagabunden Wir müssen einen Teil von Mrs. Rebecca Crawleys Biografie mit dieser Leichtigkeit und Feinfühligkeit übergehen, die die Welt verlangt - die moralische Welt, die vielleicht keine besonderen Einwände gegen Laster hat, aber eine unüberwindbare Abneigung hat, wenn Laster beim Namen genannt werden. Es gibt Dinge, die wir in Vanity Fair tun und wissen, obwohl wir nie darüber sprechen: wie die Ahrimanianer den Teufel anbeten, aber nicht über ihn sprechen; und eine höfliche Öffentlichkeit wird genauso wenig eine authentische Beschreibung von Laster ertragen, wie eine wirklich raffinierte englische oder amerikanische Frau es erlauben würde, das Wort "Hosen" in ihrer keuschen Hörweise auszusprechen. Und doch, gnädige Frau, gehen sie beide jeden Tag vor unseren Augen in der Welt herum, ohne uns sehr zu schockieren. Wenn Sie jedes Mal erröten würden, wenn sie vorbeigehen, welche Gesichtsfarbe hätten Sie dann! Es ist nur, wenn ihre bösen Namen gerufen werden, dass Ihre Bescheidenheit Anlass hat, Alarm zu zeigen oder Empörung zu empfinden. Der Wunsch des aktuellen Schriftstellers war es jedoch, all dies in dieser Geschichte gegenwärtig zu sein, um sich dem derzeit herrschenden Trend zu fügen und nur auf das Vorhandensein von Bosheit in einer leichten, leichten und angenehmen Art und Weise hinzuweisen, damit die feinen Gefühle niemandem beleidigt werden. Ich fordere jeden auf, zu sagen, dass unsere Becky, die sicherlich einige Laster hat, nicht in einer völlig gediegenen und harmlosen Weise der Öffentlichkeit präsentiert wurde. Wenn diese Sirene beschrieben wird, singend und lächelnd, lockend und betörend, fragt der Autor mit bescheidener Stolz seine Leser, hat er auch nur einmal die Regeln der Höflichkeit vergessen und den monströsen, abscheulichen Schwanz über Wasser gezeigt? Nein! Diejenigen, die möchten, können unter die hübsch transparenten Wellen schauen und sie sich windend und wirbelnd, teuflisch hässlich und schmierig, klappernd zwischen den Knochen oder sich um Leichen windend sehen; aber über der Wasserlinie frage ich, war nicht alles angemessen, angenehm und geziert, und hat irgendjemand der anhaftenden unmoralischen Wesen in Vanity Fair das Recht, "pfui!" zu rufen? Wenn jedoch die Sirene verschwindet und abtaucht, hinunter zu den Toten, wird das Wasser natürlich trübe über sie, und es ist vergebliche Mühe, neugierig hineinzuschauen. Sie sehen ganz hübsch aus, wenn sie auf einem Felsen sitzen, ihre Harfen zupfen und sich die Haare kämmen und singen und Ihnen zuwinken, damit Sie den Spiegel halten; aber wenn sie in ihr natürliches Element sinken, dann können Sie sich darauf verlassen, dass diese Meerjungfrauen nichts Gutes vorhaben, und es ist am besten, wenn wir die teuflischen, maritimen Kannibalen, die sich an ihren elenden eingelegten Opfern ergötzen und festmachen, nicht genauer betrachten. Und so, wenn Becky aus dem Weg ist, können Sie sicher sein, dass sie nicht besonders gut beschäftigt ist und dass es tatsächlich besser ist, desto weniger über ihre Taten gesagt wird. Wenn wir ein vollständiges Konto ihrer Handlungen während der zwei Jahre geben würden, die auf die Katastrophe in der Curzon Street folgten, könnte es für Leute einen Grund geben zu sagen, dass dieses Buch unangemessen war. Die Handlungen von sehr eitlen, herzlosen, vergnügungssüchtigen Menschen sind sehr oft unangemessen (genau wie viele von Ihren, mein Freund mit dem ernsten Gesicht und dem makellosen Ruf - aber das nur nebenbei); und wie stehen die Handlungen einer Frau ohne Glauben - oder Liebe - oder Charakter da? Und ich neige dazu zu denken, dass es eine Zeit in Mrs. Beckys Leben gab, in der sie nicht von Reue, sondern von einer Art Verzweiflung ergriffen wurde und sich absolut vernachlässigte und nicht einmal um ihren Ruf kümmerte. Diese Niedergeschlagenheit und Erniedrigung fand nicht auf einmal statt. Sie wurde nach ihrer Katastrophe allmählich durch verschiedene Umstände herbeigeführt und nach vielen Bemühungen, aufrecht zu bleiben - wie ein Mann, der über Bord geht und sich an einem Sparren festhält, solange noch Hoffnung besteht und ihn dann wegwirft und untergeht, wenn er merkt, dass das Kämpfen umsonst ist. Sie hielt sich in London auf, während ihr Ehemann Vorbereitungen für seine Abreise zu seinem Regierungssitz traf, und es wird angenommen, dass sie mehr als einen Versuch unternommen hat, ihren Schwager, Sir Pitt Crawley, zu sehen und auf seine Gefühle einzuwirken, für die sie fast gewonnen hatte. Als Sir Pitt und Herr Wenham gerade auf dem Weg ins Unterhaus waren, entdeckte Letzterer Mrs. Rawdon in einem schwarzen Schleier und in der Nähe des Palastes des Parlaments lauernd. Sie verkroch sich, als sich ihre Blicke trafen, und hatte in der Tat keinen Erfolg bei ihren Plänen gegenüber dem Baronet. Wahrscheinlich hat Lady Jane eingegriffen. Ich habe gehört, dass sie ihren Mann mit dem Geist, den sie in diesem Streit gezeigt hat, völlig erstaunt hat und ihre Entschlossenheit, Mrs. Becky zu verleugnen. Aus eigener Initiative lud sie Rawdon ein, in Gaunt Street zu bleiben, bis er nach Coventry Island aufbrach, in der Gewissheit, dass Becky versuchen würde, ihre Türe nicht zu öffnen, wenn er bei ihr war. Und sie sah sich neugierig die Aufschriften aller Briefe an, die für Sir Pitt ankamen, aus Angst, dass er und seine Schwägerin korrespondieren könnten. Nicht dass Rebecca nicht hätte schreiben können, wenn sie es wollte, aber sie versuchte nicht, Pitt in seinem eigenen Haus zu sehen oder an ihn zu schreiben und willigte nach ein oder zwei Versuchen ein, dass die Korrespondenz über ihre ehelichen Differenzen nur von Anwälten geführt werden sollte. Die Tatsache war, dass Pitts Meinung gegen sie vergiftet worden war. Kurz nach dem Unfall von Lord Steyne war Wenham beim Baronet und hatte ihm eine Biografie von Mrs. Becky gegeben, die den Abgeordneten von Queen's Crawley erstaunt hatte. Er wusste alles über sie: wer ihr Vater war, in welchem Jahr ihre Mutter auf der Oper getanzt hatte, was ihre frühere Geschichte war und wie ihr Verhalten während ihres Ehelebens gewesen war - da ich aber keinen Zweifel habe, dass der größte Teil der Geschichte falsch war und von böser Absicht diktiert, wird sie hier nicht wiederholt. Aber Becky hatte einen traurigen, traurigen Ruf in der Einschätzung eines Landgutsbesitzers und Verwandten zurückgelassen, der einmal ziemlich angetan von ihr gewesen war. Die Einkünfte des Gouverneurs von Coventry Island sind nicht groß. Ein Teil davon wurde von Seiner Exzellenz für die Begleichung bestimmter offener Schulden und Verbindlichkeiten beiseite gelegt, und die mit seinem hohen Amt verbundenen Kosten erforderten erhebliche Ausgaben. Schließlich stellte sich heraus, dass er seiner Frau nicht mehr als dreihundert Pfund pro Jahr zur Verfügung stellen konnte, die er anbot, ihr zu zahlen unter der Bedingung, dass sie ihn nie belästigen würde. Andernfalls würden Skandal, Trennung und das Institute of Graduate Legal Studies folgen. Aber es war die Aufgabe von Mr. Wenham, von Lord Steyne, von Rawdon, von jedem - sie aus dem Land zu bekommen und eine äußerst unangenehme Angelegenheit geheimzuhalten. Sie war wahrscheinlich so sehr damit beschäftigt, diese Geschäftsangelegenheiten mit den Anwälten ihres Mannes zu regeln, dass sie vergaß, irgendeine Maßnahme bezüglich ihres Sohnes, des kleinen Rawdon, zu ergreifen, und nicht einmal vorschlug, ihn auch nur einmal zu besuchen. Dieser junge Herr wurde der vollständigen Obhut seiner Tante und seines Onkels überlassen, von denen die Tante schon immer einen großen Teil der Zuneigung des Kindes besessen hatte. Seine Mama schrieb ihm einen ordentlichen Brief aus Boulogne, als sie England verließ, in dem sie ihn bat, auf seine Bücher aufzupassen, und sagte, dass sie eine Reise durch Europa machen würde, bei der sie das Vergnügen hätte, ihm wieder zu schreiben. Aber sie tat es ein Jahr lang nicht und auch nicht, als Sir Pitts einziger, immer Unser geliebtes Becky's erste Flug war nicht sehr weit. Sie ließ sich an der französischen Küste in Boulogne nieder, diesem Zufluchtsort so vieler verbannter englischer Unschuld, und lebte dort in eher vornehmer, verwitweter Manier zusammen mit einer Zimmerdame und ein paar Zimmern in einem Hotel. Sie speiste beim table d'hote, wo die Leute sie sehr angenehm fanden und wo sie ihre Nachbarn mit Geschichten von ihrem Bruder Sir Pitt und ihren großen Londoner Bekanntschaften unterhielt, wobei sie diese leichtfüßige, modische Schlampigkeit nutzte, die bei manchen Menschen von geringer Abstammung so viel Wirkung hat. Sie galt bei vielen von ihnen als wichtige Person, sie gab kleine Teepartys in ihrem Privatzimmer und beteiligte sich an den harmlosen Vergnügungen des Ortes wie z.B. Seebädern, Ausflügen in offenen Kutschen, Spaziergängen am Strand und Theaterbesuchen. Frau Burjoice, die Frau des Druckers, die den Sommer über mit ihrer Familie im Hotel wohnte und der ihr Burjoice samstags und sonntags begegnete, fand sie bezaubernd, bis dieser kleine Schurke von Burjoice anfing, ihr zu viel Aufmerksamkeit zu schenken. Aber in der Geschichte steckte nichts weiter, nur dass Becky immer zugänglich, unkompliziert und gutmütig war – besonders bei Männern. Wie üblich in der Nachsaison machten sich viele Leute ins Ausland auf, und Becky hatte reichlich Gelegenheit herauszufinden, was die "Gesellschaft" von ihrem Verhalten hielt, je nach dem Verhalten ihrer Bekannten aus der großen Londoner Welt. Eines Tages traf sie auf Lady Partlet und ihre Töchter, als sie bescheiden auf der Mole von Boulogne spazierte und die Klippen von Albion in der Ferne über das tiefblaue Meer leuchten sah. Lady Partlet versammelte ihre Töchter um sich und zog sich von der Mole zurück und warf armen kleinen Becky wilde Blicke zu, die dort allein stand. An einem anderen Tag kam das Schiff an. Es hatte frisch geblasen, und es passte immer zu Beckys Humor, die komischen, verweinten Gesichter der Leute zu sehen, die aus dem Boot kamen. An diesem Tag war auch Lady Slingstone an Bord. Ihre Ladyship war äußerst krank in ihrer Kutsche gewesen und sehr erschöpft und kaum in der Lage, die Planke von Schiff zum Pier hochzulaufen. Aber all ihre Energie sammelte sich sofort, als sie Becky schelmisch unter einem rosa Hut lächeln sah und ihr einen verächtlichen Blick zuwarf, der die meisten Frauen zum Schrumpfen gebracht hätte, und sie ging ganz ungestützt ins Zollhaus hinein. Becky lachte nur: aber ich glaube nicht, dass sie es mochte. Sie fühlte sich allein, ganz allein, und die weit entfernten schimmernden Klippen Englands waren für sie unpassierbar. Das Verhalten der Männer hatte ebenfalls irgendeine Veränderung durchgemacht. Grinstone zeigte seine Zähne und lachte ihr ins Gesicht mit einer Vertrautheit, die unangenehm war. Der kleine Bob Suckling, der ihr noch vor drei Monaten tief ergeben war und einen Kilometer im Regen gegangen wäre, um nach ihrem Wagen in der Schlange am Gaunt House Ausschau zu halten, sprach eines Tages beim Spaziergang auf der Mole mit Fitzoof von der Leibgarde (dem Sohn von Lord Heehaw). Der kleine Bobby nickte ihr über die Schulter zu, ohne den Hut abzunehmen, und setzte sein Gespräch mit dem Erben von Heehaw fort. Tom Raikes versuchte mit einer Zigarre im Mund in ihr Wohnzimmer im Hotel zu spazieren, aber sie schloss die Tür vor ihm ab und hätte sie verschlossen, wenn nicht noch seine Finger dazwischen gewesen wären. Sie begann sich sehr einsam zu fühlen. "Wenn ER hier gewesen wäre", sagte sie, "hätten diese Feiglinge es nie gewagt, mich zu beleidigen." Sie dachte mit großer Traurigkeit und vielleicht auch Sehnsucht an "ihn" – an seine ehrliche, dumme, beständige Freundlichkeit und Treue; seinen ununterbrochenen Gehorsam, seinen guten Humor, seine Tapferkeit und seinen Mut. Wahrscheinlich weinte sie, denn sie war besonders lebhaft und hatte ein wenig zusätzliches Rouge aufgetragen, als sie hinunter zum Abendessen kam. Jetzt trug sie regelmäßig Rouge auf, und - und ihre Dienstmagd besorgte Cognac für sie, zusätzlich zu dem, was auf der Hotelrechnung stand. Vielleicht waren die Beleidigungen der Männer für sie jedoch nicht so unerträglich wie das Mitgefühl bestimmter Frauen. Mrs. Crackenbury und Mrs. Washington White kamen auf ihrem Weg in die Schweiz durch Boulogne. Die Gruppe wurde von Oberst Horner, dem jungen Beaumoris und selbstverständlich dem alten Crackenbury und Mrs. Whites kleinem Mädchen begleitet. SIE meideten sie nicht. Sie kicherten, schnatterten, tratschten, bekundeten Anteil, trösteten und nahmen sie unter ihre Fittiche, bis sie vor Wut fast wahnsinnig wurde. Von IHNEN bevormundet zu werden! dachte sie, als sie simpernd davon ging, nachdem sie sie geküsst hatten. Und sie hörte Beaumoriss Lachen auf der Treppe und wusste ganz genau, wie sie seine Fröhlichkeit interpretieren sollte. Nach diesem Besuch erhielt Becky, die ihre Wochenabrechnungen bezahlt hatte, Becky, die sich gegenüber allen im Haus angenehm gemacht hatte, die Hoteldame angelächelt hatte, den Bediensteten "Monsieur" genannt hatte und die Zimmermädchen mit Höflichkeit und Entschuldigungen bezahlt hatte, was das Geld betraf, das Becky nie in großer Menge hatte, diese Becky also erhielt eine Kündigung vom Vermieter. Jemand hatte ihm gesagt, dass sie eine Person sei, die es nicht wert sei, in seinem Hotel zu sein, wo englische Damen nicht mit ihr zusammen sitzen würden. Und sie war gezwungen, in eine Wohnung zu fliehen, in der die Traurigkeit und Einsamkeit sie am meisten belasteten. Trotz dieser Rückschläge hielt sie durch und versuchte, sich einen guten Ruf zu machen und dem Klatsch zu trotzen. Sie ging sehr regelmäßig zur Kirche und sang lauter als alle anderen dort. Sie setzte sich für die Witwen der ertrunkenen Fischer ein und lieferte Arbeiten und Zeichnungen für die Quashyboo-Mission ab; sie meldete sich für die Assembly [gemütliches Beisammensein] an und WOLLTE nicht Walzer tanzen. Mit einem Wort: Sie tat alles, was anständig war, und deshalb betrachten wir diesen Teil ihrer Karriere mit mehr Zuneigung als die späteren Teile ihrer Geschichte, die nicht so angenehm sind. Sie sah, wie die Leute sie mieden, lächelte aber dennoch aufopfernd zu ihnen, man konnte nie anhand ihres Gesichtsausdrucks erahnen, welche Demütigungen sie innerlich ertrug. Ihre Geschichte war letztendlich ein Rätsel. Die Parteien waren unterschiedlicher Meinung über sie. Einige Leute, die sich die Mühe machten, sich damit zu beschäftigen, sagten, sie sei die Verbrecherin, während andere schworen, sie sei unschuldig wie ein Lamm und ihr abscheulicher Ehemann sei schuld. Sie konnte viele Menschen davon überzeugen, indem sie in Tränen ausbrach, wenn es um ihren Jungen ging, und den wahnsinnigsten Kummer zeigte, wenn sein Name genannt wurde oder sie jemanden sah, der ihm ähnlich sah. Sie gewann auf diese Weise das Herz der guten Frau Alderney, die eher die Königin von British Boulogne war und die meisten Abendessen und Bälle aller dort ansässigen Menschen gab, indem sie weinte, als Master Alderney von Dr. Swishtails Schule kam, um seine Ferien bei seiner Mutter zu verbringen. "Er und ihr Rawdon waren im gleichen Alter und so ähnlich", sagte Becky mit erstickter Stimme; in Wirklichkeit betrug der Unterschied im Alter der beiden Jungen fünf Jahre, und sie glichen einander nicht mehr als mein verehrter Leser und ich meinem bescheidenen Diener. Als Wenham, als er auf dem Weg nach Kissingen war, um sich Lord Steyne anzuschließen, diesbezüglich Frau Alderney aufklärte und ihr erzählte, dass er viel besser in der Lage sei, über den kleinen Rawdon zu sprechen als seine Mama, die ihn offensichtlich nicht mochte und niemals sah; dass er dreizehn Jahre alt sei Es gab Mrs. Newbright, die sie für einige Zeit in Anspruch nahm, angezogen von der Süße ihres Gesangs in der Kirche und von ihren richtigen Ansichten zu ernsten Themen, über die Mrs. Becky in früheren Zeiten, in Queen's Crawley, eine gute Portion Anleitung erhalten hatte. Nun, sie nahm nicht nur Traktate, sondern sie las sie auch. Sie nähte Flanellunterröcke für die Quashyboos, Baumwoll-Mützen für die Kokosnuss-Indianer, bemalte Handaufleger zur Bekehrung des Papstes und der Juden, besuchte mittwochs Mr. Rowls und donnertags Mr. Huggleton, dazu zwei Sonntagsgottesdienste in der Kirche, neben Mr. Bawler, dem Darbyiten am Abend, und alles vergeblich. Mrs. Newbright hatte Anlass zur Korrespondenz mit der Gräfin von Southdown bezüglich des Wärmestiftsfonds für die Fidschi-Insulaner (für das Management dieser bewundernswerten Wohltätigkeitsorganisation bildeten beide Damen einen Teil eines weiblichen Ausschusses) und nachdem sie ihre "liebe Freundin" Mrs. Rawdon Crawley erwähnt hatte, schrieb die Witwe Gräfin einen solch detaillierten Brief über Becky, mit Informationen, Hinweisen, Fakten, Lügen und allgemeiner Verdammung, dass die Intimität zwischen Mrs. Newbright und Mrs. Crawley schlagartig endete und die gesamte ernsthafte Gesellschaft von Tours, wo dieses Unglück stattfand, sich sofort von der Sünderin abwandte. Diejenigen, die die britischen Kolonien im Ausland kennen, wissen, dass wir unseren Stolz, unsere Pillen, Vorurteile, Harvey-Soßen, Cayennepfeffer und unsere anderen Hinterbliebenen mit uns bringen und überall dort, wo wir uns niederlassen, ein kleines Großbritannien errichten. Von einer Kolonie zur anderen flüchtete Becky unruhig. Von Boulogne nach Dieppe, von Dieppe nach Caen, von Caen nach Tours - sie versuchte mit aller Kraft, anständig zu sein, doch leider wurde sie eines Tages immer entlarvt und von den wahren Schmarotzern aus dem Käfig gepickt. Mrs. Hook Eagles nahm sie an einem dieser Orte auf - eine Frau ohne Makel in ihrem Charakter und einem Haus im Portman Square. Sie war im Hotel in Dieppe abgestiegen, wohin Becky geflohen war, und sie lernten sich zuerst auf See kennen, wo sie zusammen schwammen, und anschließend am Tisch d'hôte des Hotels. Mrs. Eagles hatte von dem Skandal um Steyne gehört - wer hatte es nicht? - aber nach einem Gespräch mit Becky erklärte sie, dass Mrs. Crawley ein Engel war, ihr Ehemann ein Raufbold, Lord Steyne ein charakterloser Schurke, wie jeder wusste, und der gesamte Vorwurf gegen Mrs. Crawley eine infame und böse Verschwörung von diesem Schurken Wenham war. "Wenn Sie ein Mann mit etwas Ehrgefühl wären, Mr. Eagles, würden Sie dem Schurken das nächste Mal, wenn Sie ihn im Club sehen, eine Ohrfeige verpassen", sagte sie zu ihrem Ehemann. Aber Eagles war nur ein ruhiger alter Herr, der Ehemann von Mrs. Eagles, mit einer Vorliebe für Geologie und nicht groß genug, um die Ohren einer anderen Person zu erreichen. Die Eagles unterstützten dann Mrs. Rawdon, nahmen sie mit zu sich nach Paris, gerieten mit der Frau des Botschafters in Streit, weil diese ihre Schützlinge nicht empfangen wollte, und taten alles in ihrer Macht Stehende, um Becky auf den Pfaden der Tugend und des guten Rufes zu halten. Becky war anfangs sehr anständig und ordentlich, aber das Leben der eintönigen Tugend wurde ihr schon bald völlig langweilig. Es war jeden Tag die gleiche Routine, die gleiche Langeweile und Bequemlichkeit, die gleiche Fahrt über den dummen Bois de Boulogne, die gleiche Gesellschaft am Abend, die gleiche Predigt von Blair an einem Sonntagabend - immer wieder wurde die gleiche Oper aufgeführt; Becky langweilte sich zu Tode, als zum Glück für sie der junge Mr. Eagles aus Cambridge kam und seine Mutter, als sie den Eindruck sah, den ihre kleine Freundin auf ihn machte, Becky umgehend entließ. Dann versuchte sie mit einer Freundin zusammenzuleben; dann gerieten die beiden Parteien des Haushalts in Streit und gerieten in Schulden. Dann entschloss sie sich zu einem Leben in einem Pensionat und wohnte eine Zeit lang in diesem bekannten Anwesen, das von Madame de Saint Amour in der Rue Royale in Paris geführt wurde, wo sie ihre Anmut und bezaubernde Art auf die abgehalfterten Dandys und vertrockneten Schönheiten ausübte, die die Salons ihrer Vermieterin frequentierten. Becky liebte die Gesellschaft und konnte, ganz wie ein Opiumabhängiger ohne seinen Stoff, nicht ohne sie existieren; zu dieser Zeit war sie glücklich in ihrem pensionatsähnlichen Leben. "Die Frauen hier sind genauso amüsant wie die in Mayfair", erzählte sie einem alten Londoner Freund, der ihr begegnete, "nur sind ihre Kleider nicht ganz so neu. Die Männer tragen gereinigte Handschuhe und sind sicherlich schurkische Schufte, aber sie sind nicht schlimmer als Jack Dieses und Tom Jenes. Die Hausherrin ist ein wenig vulgär, aber ich glaube nicht, dass sie so vulgär ist wie Lady ------" und hier nannte sie den Namen einer führenden Modekönigin, den ich eher sterben würde, als ihn preiszugeben. Tatsächlich konnte man, wenn man Madames de Saint Amour Zimmer abends erleuchtet sah, Männer mit Orden und Bändern an den Écartétischen und die Frauen in einiger Entfernung, sich eine Weile in guter Gesellschaft wähnen und meinen, dass Madame eine echte Gräfin war. Viele Leute dachten so und Becky war für eine Weile eine der spritzigsten Damen in den Salons der Gräfin. Aber es ist wahrscheinlich, dass ihre alten Gläubiger von 1815 sie aufspürten und veranlassten, Paris zu verlassen, denn die arme kleine Frau war gezwungen, die Stadt ziemlich plötzlich zu verlassen und ging dann nach Brüssel. Wie gut sie sich an den Ort erinnerte! Sie grinste, als sie zum kleinen Zwischengeschoss hinaufblickte, das sie bewohnt hatte, und dachte an die Bareacres-Familie, die nach Pferden und Flucht schrie, als ihr Wagen im Torbogen des Hotels stand. Sie fuhr nach Waterloo und Laeken, wo George Osbornes Denkmal sie sehr beeindruckte. Sie machte eine kleine Skizze davon. "Dieser arme Amor!" sagte sie, "wie schrecklich verliebt er in mich war und wie dumm er war! Ich frage mich, ob die kleine Emmy noch am Leben ist. Sie war ein gutes kleines Geschöpf und ihr dicker Bruder. Ich habe noch immer sein lustiges dickleibiges Bild in meinen Papieren. Sie waren einfache nette Leute." In Brüssel kam Becky auf Empfehlung von Madame de Saint Amour bei ihrer Freundin, Madame la Comtesse de Borodino, der Witwe von Napoleons General, dem berühmten Grafen de Borodino, an, der von dem verstorbenen Helden nichts anderes als ein Tisch d'hôte und einen Écartétisch hatte. Zweitklassige Dandys und Schürzenjäger, Witwen, die immer irgendwelche Rechtsstreitigkeiten haben, und sehr einfache Engländer, die sich einbilden, "kontinentale Gesellschaft" in diesen Häusern zu erleben, gaben ihr Geld aus oder aßen ihre Mahlzeiten bei Madame de Borodino. Die tapferen jungen Kerle spendierten der Ges Unsere kleine Wanderin machte sich also auf, ihr Zelt in verschiedenen Städten Europas aufzuschlagen, so ruhelos wie Ulysses oder Bampfylde Moore Carew. Ihr Hang zur Respektlosigkeit wurde immer bemerkenswerter. Sie wurde bald eine perfekte Bohemienne, die mit Leuten umherstreifte, bei deren Anblick einem das Haar zu Berge stand. Es gibt keine bedeutende Stadt in Europa, die nicht ihre kleine Kolonie englischer Ganoven hätte - Männer, deren Namen Mr. Hemp, der Offizier, regelmäßig im Gerichtssaal vorliest -, oft junge Gentlemen aus sehr guten Familien, nur dass diese sie abstreiten; Stammgäste in Billardräumen und Zigarettenstuben, Stammkunden bei ausländischen Rennen und Glücksspieltischen. Sie befüllen die Schuldgefängnisse - sie trinken und prahlen - sie kämpfen und streiten - sie hauten ab, ohne zu zahlen - sie duellieren sich mit französischen und deutschen Offizieren - sie betrügen Mr. Spooney beim Écarté-Spiel - sie ergaunern das Geld und fahren in prächtigen Droschkys nach Baden - sie versuchen ihre unfehlbare Martingale und lauern mit leeren Taschen an den Tischen herum, schlecht gekleidete Raufbolde, mittellose Tunichtgute, bis sie einen jüdischen Bankier mit einem Scheingeschäft betrügen können, oder wieder einen anderen Mr. Spooney ausrauben. Die Wechselhaftigkeit von Pracht und Elend, die diese Leute durchleben, ist sehr eigenartig anzuschauen. Ihr Leben muss sehr aufregend sein. Becky - muss man es zugeben? - nahm an diesem Leben teil und tat es keineswegs ungern. Sie zog von Stadt zu Stadt zwischen diesen Bohemiens umher. Die glückliche Mrs. Rawdon war an jedem Spieltisch in Deutschland bekannt. Sie und Madame de Cruchecassee lebten zusammen in Florenz. Es wird gesagt, dass sie aus München verwiesen wurde, und mein Freund Mr. Frederick Pigeon behauptet, dass sie in ihrem Haus in Lausanne bei einem Abendessen betäubt wurde und dabei achthundert Pfund an Major Loder und den ehrenwerten Mr. Deuceace verlor. Wie wir sehen können, müssen wir etwas über Beckys Biographie berichten, aber von diesem Teil ist vielleicht weniger zu sagen umso besser. Man sagt, dass Mrs. Crawley, wenn es ihr besonders schlecht ging, hier und da Konzerte gab und Musikunterricht gab. Es gab eine Madame de Raudon, die sicherlich eine matinée musicale in Wildbad gab, begleitet von Herrn Spoff, dem ersten Pianisten des Hospodar von Wallachia, und mein kleiner Freund Mr. Eaves, der jeden kannte und überall gereist war, behauptete immer, dass er 1830 in Straßburg war, als eine gewisse Madame Rebecque zum ersten Mal im Bühnenstück "Dame Blanche" auftrat und eine wütende Auseinandersetzung im Theater auslöste. Sie wurde vom Publikum ausgepfiffen, teilweise wegen ihrer eigenen Unfähigkeit, aber hauptsächlich wegen des unüberlegten Mitgefühls einiger Personen im Parkett (wo die Offiziere der Garnison Zutritt hatten). Und Eaves war sicher, dass diese bedauernswerte Debütantin niemand anderes als Mrs. Rawdon Crawley war. In der Tat war sie auf dieser Erde nicht besser als ein Landstreicher. Wenn sie Geld hatte, spielte sie; wenn sie es verspielt hatte, musste sie sich über Wasser halten; wer weiß wie oder auf welche Weise sie es schaffte? Es wird gesagt, dass sie einmal in St. Petersburg gesehen wurde, aber von der Polizei aus der Hauptstadt verwiesen wurde, so dass in dem Bericht, dass sie später ein russischer Spion in Toplitz und Wien war, keine Möglichkeit besteht, dass dies wahr ist. Mir wurde sogar gesagt, dass sie in Paris einen Verwandten ihrer selbst entdeckte, niemand geringeres als ihre leibliche Großmutter, die zwar kein Montmorenci war, sondern eine hässliche alte Türöffnerin in einem Theater an den Boulevards. Das Treffen zwischen ihnen, von dem, wie anderswo angedeutet wird, andere Personen erfahren zu haben scheinen, muss ein sehr ergreifendes Gespräch gewesen sein. Der vorliegende Historiker kann keine genauen Einzelheiten über dieses Ereignis geben. Es geschah einmal in Rom, dass das halbjährliche Gehalt von Mrs. de Rawdon gerade bei dem Hauptbankier der Stadt eingezahlt worden war, und da jeder, der ein Guthaben von über fünfhundert Scudi hatte, zu den Bällen eingeladen wurde, die dieser Merchant Prince im Winter veranstaltete, erhielt Becky die Ehre einer Einladung und erschien bei einer der prächtigen Abendveranstaltungen des Prince und der Princess Polonia. Die Prinzessin entstammte der Familie Pompili, die in direkter Linie vom zweiten König von Rom abstammte, und Egeria aus dem Hause Olympus, während der Großvater des Prinzen, Alessandro Polonia, Waschbälle, Essenzen, Tabak und Taschentücher verkaufte, Botengänge für Herren erledigte und Geld in geringem Umfang verlieh. Die gesamte große Gesellschaft Roms strömte in seine Salons - Prinzen, Herzoge, Botschafter, Künstler, Geiger, Monsignores, junge Bären mit ihren Anführern - jede Rangklasse und Gesellschaftsschicht war vertreten. Seine Säle erstrahlten im Licht und Prunk; sie waren prachtvoll mit vergoldeten Rahmen (die Gemälde enthielten) und zweifelhaften Antiquitäten geschmückt; über dem Dach, den Türen und Paneelen des Hauses sowie über den großen samtenen Baldachinen, die für Päpste und Kaiser bereitstanden, leuchteten die enorme goldene Krone und das Wappen des fürstlichen Besitzers, ein goldener Pilz auf rotem Grund (in der Farbe der Taschentücher, die er verkaufte), sowie der silberne Brunnen der Familie Pompili. So gelang es Becky, die mit dem Reisebus aus Florenz gekommen war und bescheiden in einer Herberge wohnte, eine Einladung zu Prince Polonias Veranstaltung zu bekommen, und ihre Magd kleidete sie ungewöhnlich sorgfältig, und sie ging mit Major Loder dorthin, mit dem sie zu dieser Zeit zufällig reiste - (demselben Mann, der im nächsten Jahr Prinz Ravoli in Neapel erschoss und von Sir John Buckskin ausgepeitscht wurde, weil er zusätzlich zu den Königen, die er beim Écarté-Spiel benutzte, vier weitere in seinem Hut trug) - und das Paar betrat die Räume gemeinsam, und Becky sah viele alte Bekannte, an die sie sich in glücklicheren Zeiten erinnerte, als sie noch nicht unschuldig war, aber noch nicht aufgeflogen. Major Loder kannte viele Ausländer, schlau aussehende bärtige Männer mit schmutzigen gestreiften Bändern an der Knopfloch, mit nur sehr wenig sichtbarer Wäsche; es fiel jedoch auf, dass seine Landsleute den Major mieden. Auch Becky kannte hier und da einige Damen - französische Witwen, zweifelhafte italienische Gräfinnen, deren Ehemänner ihnen übel mitgespielt hatten - igitt - was sollen wir sagen, wir, die wir uns in manchen der besten Gesellschaften Vanity Fairs bewegt haben, über diesen Abschaum und die Schlacke von Schurken? Wenn wir spielen, dann sollten wir mit sauberen Karten spielen und nicht mit diesem schmutzigen Haufen. Aber jeder Mann, der Teil der unzähligen Reisearmee war, hat diese marodierenden Unregelmäßigkeiten gesehen, die wie Nym und Pistol an der Haupttruppe hängenbleiben, die Farben des Königs tragen und mit seiner Provision prahlen, aber für sich selbst plündern und gelegentlich am Wegesrand gehängt werden. Nun hing sie also am Arm von Major Loder, und sie gingen gemeinsam durch die Räume und tranken eine große Menge Champagner am Büfett, wo sich die Le Als Becky das vertraute und berühmte Gesicht sah, erschien ihr Major Loder plötzlich äußerst vulgär, und dieser abscheuliche Captain Rook roch nach Tabak! In einem Augenblick nahm sie ihre vornehme Dame wieder an und versuchte auszusehen und sich so zu fühlen, als wäre sie wieder in May Fair. "Diese Frau sieht dumm und missgestimmt aus", dachte sie. "Ich bin sicher, sie kann ihn nicht unterhalten. Nein, er muss sich von ihr langweilen - er war es bei mir nie." Hundert solcher berührenden Hoffnungen, Ängste und Erinnerungen pochten in ihrem kleinen Herzen, als sie mit ihren strahlendsten Augen (der Rouge, die sie bis zu den Lidern trug, ließ sie funkeln) zu dem großen Edelmann hinsah. Lord Steyne pflegte an einem Abend im Star and Garter ebenfalls seine vornehmste Haltung anzunehmen und wie ein großer Prinz zu wirken, so wie er einer war. Becky bewunderte ihn, wie er prächtig, locker, erhaben und vornehm lächelte. Ah, mein Gott, was für ein angenehmer Begleiter er doch war, was für ein brillanter Witz, was für eine reiche Gesprächsvielfalt, was für eine großartige Haltung! - Und sie hatte das gegen Major Loder eingetauscht, der nach Zigarren und Brandy roch, und Captain Rook mit seinen Witzen über Pferde und sein Boxerjargon, und dergleichen. "Ich frage mich, ob er mich erkennt", dachte sie. Lord Steyne unterhielt sich und lachte gerade mit einer großartigen und berühmten Dame an seiner Seite, als er aufblickte und Becky sah. Als sich ihre Blicke trafen, geriet sie in Aufregung, und sie legte das beste Lächeln auf, das sie aufbringen konnte, und verbeugte sich ein wenig scheu und flehend. Er starrte eine Minute lang entgeistert auf sie, so wie Macbeth beim Anblick von Banquos plötzlicher Erscheinung auf seinem Ballabend staunen mochte, und blieb mit offenem Mund auf sie starren, als der schreckliche Major Loder sie wegzog. "Kommen Sie, gehen wir in den Speiseraum, Frau R.", so der Herr. "Der Anblick dieser Edelleute, wie sie schlemmen, hat mich auch hungerig gemacht. Lass uns gehen und den Champagner des alten Herren probieren." Becky dachte, der Major hatte schon viel zu viel getrunken. Am nächsten Tag ging sie auf den Pincio-Hügel spazieren - dem Hyde Park der römischen Faulenzer - möglicherweise in der Hoffnung, Lord Steyne noch einmal zu sehen. Aber sie traf dort eine andere Bekanntschaft: es war Herr Fiche, der Vertraute seines Lordschaft, der freundschaftlich nickend auf sie zukam und einen Finger an seinen Hut legte. "Ich wusste, dass Madame hier ist", sagte er. "Ich bin ihr vom Hotel aus gefolgt. Ich habe einen Ratschlag für Madame." "Vom Marquis von Steyne?", fragte Becky und versuchte so viel Würde aufrechtzuerhalten, wie sie konnte, und war nicht wenig aufgeregt von Hoffnung und Erwartung. "Nein", sagte der Diener, "er ist von mir. Rom ist sehr ungesund." "Nicht zu dieser Jahreszeit, Monsieur Fiche - nicht vor Ostern." "Ich sage Madame, es ist jetzt ungesund. Für manche Menschen gibt es immer Malaria. Dieser verfluchte Wind aus den Sümpfen tötet das ganze Jahr über viele Menschen. Schau, Madame Crawley, du warst immer ein gutes Kind, und ich habe ein Interesse an dir, Ehrenwort. Sei gewarnt. Geh weg aus Rom, sage ich dir - oder du wirst krank und sterben." Becky lachte, wenn auch wütend. "Was? Möchte er die arme kleine Ich ermorden?", sagte sie. "Wie romantisch! Trägt mein Lord Mörder für Boten und Stilettos in den Kutschen? Bah! Ich werde bleiben, wenn auch nur um ihn zu ärgern. Ich habe Leute, die mich verteidigen werden, solange ich hier bin." Nun war es Monsieur Fiches to turn zu lachen. "Verteidigen?", sagte er. "Und von wem? Dem Major, dem Captain, irgendwelchen dieser Spieler, die Madame kennen, die ihr für hundert Louis das Leben nehmen würden. Wir wissen Dinge über Major Loder (er ist kein Major, genauso wenig wie ich ein Lord Marquis bin), die ihn in die Galeere oder noch Schlimmeres bringen würden. Wir wissen alles und haben überall Freunde. Wir wissen, wen du in Paris getroffen hast und welche Beziehungen du dort gefunden hast. Ja, Madame kann starren, aber wir wissen es. Wie kam es, dass kein Minister auf dem Kontinent Madame empfing? Sie hat jemanden beleidigt, der niemals vergibt - dessen Wut sich verstärkte, als er dich sah. Er war wie ein Verrückter, als er gestern Abend nach Hause kam. Madame de Belladonna machte ihm eine Szene wegen dir und ließ in einer ihrer Wutausbrüche alles raus." "Oh, war es Madame de Belladonna?", sagte Becky erleichtert über die eben erhaltenen Informationen. "Nein, sie ist nicht wichtig, sie ist immer eifersüchtig. Ich sage dir, es war Monseigneur. Du hast unrecht getan, dich ihm zu zeigen. Und wenn du hier bleibst, wirst du es bereuen. Merk dir meine Worte. Geh. Hier ist die Kutsche meines Lords", und er packte Beckys Arm und lief eine Allee des Gartens hinunter, während Lord Steynes Barouche, geschmückt mit heraldischen Symbolen, auf der Allee dahinbrauste, getragen von den fast unbezahlbaren Pferden, und Madame de Belladonna lümmelte auf den Kissen, dunkel, mürrisch und blühend, ein King Charles Spaniel auf ihrem Schoß, ein weißer Sonnenschirm über ihrem Kopf und der alte Steyne mit einer leichenhaften Gesichtsfarbe und gräßlichen Augen neben ihr ausgestreckt. Hass, Zorn oder Begierde ließen ihre Augen jetzt und dann noch aufleuchten, aber im Allgemeinen gaben sie kein Licht ab und schienen müde davon, auf eine Welt hinauszuschauen, von der fast alle Freude und aller bester Anblick für den abgelebten, bösen alten Mann an Attraktivität verloren hatten. "Monseigneur hat den Schock von damals nie verkraftet, niemals", flüsterte Monsieur Fiche Frau Crawley zu, als die Kutsche vorbeiflitze, und sie hinter den Buschwerk hervorlugte, das sie verbarg. "Das war zumindest eine Erleichterung", dachte Becky. Ob mein Lord tatsächlich mörderische Absichten gegenüber Mrs. Becky hatte, wie Monsieur Fiche sagte (seit Monseigneurs Tod ist er in sein Heimatland zurückgekehrt, wo er hoch angesehen lebt und von seinem Prinzen den Titel Baron Ficci erworben hat), und sein Diener sich weigerte, etwas mit Mord zu tun zu haben, oder ob er einfach den Auftrag hatte, Mrs. Crawley aus einer Stadt zu vertreiben, in der sein Lordship den Winter verbringen wollte und ihr Anblick überaus unangenehm sein würde, ist eine Tatsache, die niemals festgestellt wurde. Aber die Drohung hatte ihre Wirkung auf die kleine Frau, und sie versuchte nicht länger, sich in die Nähe ihres alten Gönners zu drängen. Jeder kennt das melancholische Ende dieses Edelmanns, das sich vor zwei Monaten in Neapel ereignete, nach der französischen Revolution von 1830; als der hochwohlgeborene George Gustavus, Marquis von Steyne, Graf von Gaunt und Gaunt Castle, in der Peerage von Irland, Viscount Hellborough, Baron Pitchley und Grillsby, ein Ritter des höchsten Ordens des Distelordens Spaniens, Ritter des russischen Sankt-Nikolaus-Ordens ersten Grades, des türkischen Halbmonds und First Lord der Pulverbuchtkammer und Leiter der Hinteren Treppe, des Regiments Gaunt oder des eigenen Regents-Regiments der Miliz, Verwalter des British Museum, Älterer Bruder des Trinity House, Gouverneur der White Friars und Doktor der kanonischen Sein Testament wurde stark angefochten, und es wurde versucht, von Madame de Belladonna den berühmten Juwel namens "Judenauge"-Diamant zu erzwingen, den sein Lord immer an seinem Zeigefinger trug und von dem behauptet wurde, dass sie ihn nach seinem betrauerten Ableben daraus entfernte. Aber sein vertraulicher Freund und Begleiter, Monsieur Fiche, bewies, dass der Ring der besagten Madame de Belladonna zwei Tage vor dem Tod des Marquis überreicht worden war, genauso wie die Banknoten, Juwelen, Neapolitanischen und Französischen Anleihen usw., die in seinem Sekretär gefunden wurden und von seinen Erben von dieser verletzten Frau beansprucht wurden. Könnten Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

Was genau hat Becky die ganze Zeit gemacht? Der Erzähler würde uns wirklich gerne auf den neuesten Stand mit ihr bringen, aber nun ja, ihre Taten sind nicht wirklich angemessen für eine höfliche Unterhaltung. Der Erzähler stellt einen nun berühmten Vergleich zwischen Becky und den Sirenen der griechischen Mythologie an. Sicher, sie sitzt wirklich hübsch auf einem Felsen und singt, aber nur solange man nicht zu tief unter das Wasser schaut, um ihren monströsen Schwanz und das Gemetzel und die Leichen ihrer verschlungenen Opfer zu sehen. Nimm das, Becky! Im Rahmen der Höflichkeit erfahren wir, dass Becky in ganz Europa unterwegs war und kleine Kolonien von Briten aufsuchte, um unter ihnen zu leben. Ihr Leben ist jetzt ein wiederkehrender Kreislauf. Sie findet Menschen, freundet sich mit ihnen an, erzählt ihnen ihre Version der Ereignisse, sie glauben ihr und mögen sie, und dann passiert eines von zwei Dingen. Entweder langweilt sie sich mit dem normalen, repetitiven, täglichen Leben oder einer der neuen Freunde erfährt etwas aus London über ihre Vergangenheit, oder das eigentliche Abkommen mit Lord Steyne oder etwas anderes. Dann zieht sie weiter an einen anderen Ort. Es ist ein Kreislauf, aber auch eine Abwärtsspirale. Ihr sozialer Status und der Status ihrer Freunde werden immer niedriger. Sie fängt an, mehr zu trinken und zu spielen. Immer auf der Suche nach Nervenkitzel, braucht Becky jetzt einen ständig höheren Grad an Aufregung. Schließlich sinkt sie tief genug, um auf die Bühne zu gehen und als Sängerin zu arbeiten. Aber leider ist ihre Stimme zu diesem Zeitpunkt durch den Alkohol und das harte Leben ruiniert worden. Schließlich der Tropfen, der das Fass zum Überlaufen bringt. Eines Tages in Italien schafft es Becky irgendwie, eine Einladung zu einem schicken Fest zu bekommen, und wer ist dort... Lord Steyne! Becky lächelt ihn an und erinnert sich plötzlich an ihre frühere Herrlichkeit. Er sieht sie und verliert seine, ahem, Beherrschung. Am nächsten Tag macht sie einen Spaziergang im modischen Viertel der Stadt, um ihn zu sehen, wird aber stattdessen von seinem Diener abgefangen. Der Mann sagt Becky, dass sie krank wird und stirbt, wenn sie in Italien bleibt. Steyne ist immer noch wütend über das, was passiert ist, und wird ihr niemals vergeben. Becky bekommt Angst und verlässt die Stadt. Kurz danach erleidet Steyne jedoch eine Reihe von Anfällen und stirbt. Seine Erben und Geliebten kämpfen um sein Erbe und Vermögen.

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.

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. Elsinore. A passage in the Castle. Enter Hamlet. Ham. Safely stow'd. Gentlemen. (within) Hamlet! Lord Hamlet! Ham. But soft! What noise? Who calls on Hamlet? O, here they come. Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Ros. What have you done, my lord, with the dead body? Ham. Compounded it with dust, whereto 'tis kin. Ros. Tell us where 'tis, that we may take it thence And bear it to the chapel. Ham. Do not believe it. Ros. Believe what? Ham. That I can keep your counsel, and not mine own. Besides, to be demanded of a sponge, what replication should be made by the son of a king? Ros. Take you me for a sponge, my lord? Ham. Ay, sir; that soaks up the King's countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the King best service in the end. He keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouth'd, to be last swallowed. When he needs what you have glean'd, it is but squeezing you and, sponge, you shall be dry again. Ros. I understand you not, my lord. Ham. I am glad of it. A knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear. Ros. My lord, you must tell us where the body is and go with us to the King. Ham. The body is with the King, but the King is not with the body. The King is a thing- Guil. A thing, my lord? Ham. Of nothing. Bring me to him. Hide fox, and all after. Exeunt. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

In einem anderen Raum des Schlosses versteckt Hamlet den Körper von Polonius. Anschließend begrüßt er Rosencrantz und Guildenstern, die auf der Suche nach ihm sind. Er ist erneut erfüllt von Verachtung für die Unehrlichkeit seiner Kindheitsfreunde und weigert sich, ihre Fragen zu beantworten. Er sagt ihnen einfach nur, dass er den Körper von Polonius mit Staub "vermengt" hat. Dann verspottet er sie offen als Schwämme, bereit, "das Ansehen des Königs, seine Belohnungen, seine Autoritäten" aufzusaugen. Er warnt sie davor, dass Claudius sie ausquetschen wird, wenn er sie nicht mehr braucht. Hamlet verrät ihnen nicht, wo er den toten Körper versteckt hat, aber er stimmt zu, sich mit dem König zu treffen.

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.

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! [MRS. ELVSTED, in passing, exchanges slight salutations with the gentlemen in the inner room, then goes up to the table and gives HEDDA her hand. EILERT LOVBORG has risen. He and MRS. ELVSTED greet each other with a silent nod. MRS. ELVSTED. Ought I to go in and talk to your husband for a moment? HEDDA. Oh, not at all. Leave those two alone. They will soon be going. MRS. ELVSTED. Are they going out? HEDDA. Yes, to a supper-party. MRS. ELVSTED. [Quickly, to LOVBORG.] Not you? LOVBORG. No. HEDDA. Mr. Lovborg remains with us. MRS. ELVSTED. [Takes a chair and is about to seat herself at his side.] Oh, how nice it is here! HEDDA. No, thank you, my little Thea! Not there! You'll be good enough to come over here to me. I will sit between you. MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, just as you please. [She goes round the table and seats herself on the sofa on HEDDA'S right. LOVBORG re-seats himself on his chair. LOVBORG. [After a short pause, to HEDDA.] Is not she lovely to look at? HEDDA. [Lightly stroking her hair.] Only to look at! LOVBORG. Yes. For we two--she and I--we are two real comrades. We have absolute faith in each other; so we can sit and talk with perfect frankness-- HEDDA. Not round about, Mr. Lovborg? LOVBORG. Well-- MRS. ELVSTED. [Softly clinging close to HEDDA.] Oh, how happy I am, Hedda! For only think, he says I have inspired him too. HEDDA. [Looks at her with a smile.] Ah! Does he say that, dear? LOVBORG. And then she is so brave, Mrs. Tesman! MRS. ELVSTED. Good heavens--am I brave? LOVBORG. Exceedingly--where your comrade is concerned. HEDDA. Exceedingly--where your comrade is concerned. HEDDA. Ah, yes--courage! If one only had that! LOVBORG. What then? What do you mean? HEDDA. Then life would perhaps be liveable, after all. [With a sudden change of tone.] But now, my dearest Thea, you really must have a glass of cold punch. MRS. ELVSTED. No, thanks--I never take anything of that kind. HEDDA. Well then, you, Mr. Lovborg. LOVBORG. Nor I, thank you. MRS. ELVSTED. No, he doesn't either. HEDDA. [Looks fixedly at him.] But if I say you shall? LOVBORG. It would be of no use. HEDDA. [Laughing.] Then I, poor creature, have no sort of power over you? LOVBORG. Not in that respect. HEDDA. But seriously, I think you ought to--for your own sake. MRS. ELVSTED. Why, Hedda--! LOVBORG. How so? HEDDA. Or rather on account of other people. LOVBORG. Indeed? HEDDA. Otherwise people might be apt to suspect that--in your heart of hearts--you did not feel quite secure--quite confident in yourself. MRS. ELVSTED. [Softly.] Oh please, Hedda--! LOVBORG. People may suspect what they like--for the present. MRS. ELVSTED. [Joyfully.] Yes, let them! HEDDA. I saw it plainly in Judge Brack's face a moment ago. LOVBORG. What did you see? HEDDA. His contemptuous smile, when you dared not go with them into the inner room. LOVBORG. Dared not? Of course I preferred to stop here and talk to you. MRS. ELVSTED. What could be more natural, Hedda? HEDDA. But the Judge could not guess that. And I say, too, the way he smiled and glanced at Tesman when you dared not accept his invitation to this wretched little supper-party of his. LOVBORG. Dared not! Do you say I dared not? HEDDA. _I_ don't say so. But that was how Judge Brack understood it. LOVBORG. Well, let him. HEDDA. Then you are not going with them? LOVBORG. I will stay here with you and Thea. MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, Hedda--how can you doubt that? HEDDA. [Smiles and nods approvingly to LOVBORG.] Firm as a rock! Faithful to your principles, now and for ever! Ah, that is how a man should be! [Turns to MRS. ELVSTED and caresses her.] Well now, what did I tell you, when you came to us this morning in such a state of distraction-- LOVBORG. [Surprised.] Distraction! MRS. ELVSTED. [Terrified.] Hedda--oh Hedda--! HEDDA. You can see for yourself! You haven't the slightest reason to be in such mortal terror-- [Interrupting herself.] There! Now we can all three enjoy ourselves! LOVBORG. [Who has given a start.] Ah--what is all this, Mrs. Tesman? MRS. ELVSTED. Oh my God, Hedda! What are you saying? What are you doing? HEDDA. Don't get excited! That horrid Judge Brack is sitting watching you. LOVBORG. So she was in mortal terror! On my account! MRS. ELVSTED. [Softly and piteously.] Oh, Hedda--now you have ruined everything! LOVBORG. [Looks fixedly at her for a moment. His face is distorted.] So that was my comrade's frank confidence in me? MRS. ELVSTED. [Imploringly.] Oh, my dearest friend--only let me tell you-- LOVBORG. [Takes one of the glasses of punch, raises it to his lips, and says in a low, husky voice.] Your health, Thea! [He empties the glass, puts it down, and takes the second. MRS. ELVSTED. [Softly.] Oh, Hedda, Hedda--how could you do this? HEDDA. _I_ do it? _I_? Are you crazy? LOVBORG. Here's to your health too, Mrs. Tesman. Thanks for the truth. Hurrah for the truth! [He empties the glass and is about to re-fill it. HEDDA. [Lays her hand on his arm.] Come, come--no more for the present. Remember you are going out to supper. MRS. ELVSTED. No, no, no! HEDDA. Hush! They are sitting watching you. LOVBORG. [Putting down the glass.] Now, Thea--tell me the truth-- MRS. ELVSTED. Yes. LOVBORG. Did your husband know that you had come after me? MRS. ELVSTED. [Wringing her hands.] Oh, Hedda--do you hear what his is asking? LOVBORG. Was it arranged between you and him that you were to come to town and look after me? Perhaps it was the Sheriff himself that urged you to come? Aha, my dear--no doubt he wanted my help in his office! Or was it at the card-table that he missed me? MRS. ELVSTED. [Softly, in agony.] Oh, Lovborg, Lovborg--! LOVBORG. [Seizes a glass and is on the point of filling it.] Here's a glass for the old Sheriff too! HEDDA. [Preventing him.] No more just now. Remember, you have to read your manuscript to Tesman. LOVBORG. [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 passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Herr Brack nähert sich dem Haus der Tesmans - aber von hinten. Das Publikum entdeckt schnell, dass er Hedda einen recht heimlichen Besuch abstattet - die im Übrigen immer noch mit den Pistolen ihres Vaters übt. Der Grund für Bracks Besuch ist etwas unklar, da er und Hedda sich nach Heddas Klagen, einsam und gelangweilt zu sein, in ein flirtendes Gespräch verwickeln. Sie beschwert sich auch über ihre Ehe mit Tesman und gibt zu, dass sie den Akademiker nur geheiratet hat, weil er bereit war, sie zu unterstützen - und weil keiner ihrer "anderen galanten Freunde" zu dieser Zeit dazu bereit war. Tesman kommt mit zahlreichen wissenschaftlichen Veröffentlichungen nach Hause, darunter Lovborgs Buch. Während Tesman sich mit seinen neuen Büchern beschäftigt, spricht Hedda weiter über ihre Ehe und erzählt Brack, dass sie Tesman aus Impulsivität und Bequemlichkeit geheiratet hat und nicht aus Liebe. Sie weist auch Bracks Vorschlag zurück, dass sie jemals Kinder für Tesman bekommen wird. Schließlich trifft Ejlert Lovborg im Haus der Tesmans ein. Lovborg verharmlost bescheiden sein neues Buch als bloßen Auftakt zu einer wirklichen Arbeit, in die er viel von sich selbst investieren werde - und kündigt möglicherweise nicht ganz so bescheiden an, dass er nicht mit Tesman um die Universitätsstelle konkurrieren werde, sondern stattdessen "heller strahlen" und sich einen hohen Ruf erarbeiten werde. Während Tesman und Brack sich im Nebenraum erfrischen, sprechen Hedda und Lovborg über ihre Ehe mit Tesman. Lovborg kann sich nicht vorstellen, warum Hedda sich mit diesem unambitionierten und langweiligen Akademiker zufrieden gibt. Er fragt sie, ob sie vielleicht auch nie Liebe für ihn empfunden habe. Hedda weicht dieser Frage aus und gibt stattdessen an, dass sie die private Gemeinsamkeit genossen habe, die sie und Lovborg einst miteinander geteilt hatten, ohne dass es jemand bemerkt hätte. Lovborg glaubt, dass die beiden eine "gemeinsame Lebenslust" teilten. Frau Elvsted kommt und Hedda versucht, sie dazu zu bringen, mit Lovborg zu trinken. Beide sind widerstrebend. Hedda hält jedoch daran fest und deutet an, dass sie beide nicht besonders selbstbewusst auftreten und zu sehr damit beschäftigt sind, was andere von ihnen denken würden, wenn man sie zusammen beim Trinken sehen würde. Sie erzählt Lovborg auch von Frau Elvsteds Besuch zuvor an diesem Tag "in einem solchen Zustand der Verzweiflung." Diese Entwicklung hat eine aufwühlende Wirkung auf beide Parteien: Lovborg ist darüber aufgebracht, dass ihn jemand für weniger frei halten könnte, zu tun, was er will, und auch darüber, dass Frau Elvsted "Todesangst" wegen ihm gehabt haben könnte; und Frau Elvsted ist darüber aufgebracht, dass Hedda die Situation so manipuliert. Schließlich gelingt es Hedda jedoch, Lovborg nicht nur zum Trinken zu überreden, sondern auch seine Meinung zu ändern und an Bracks Junggesellenabschied an diesem Abend teilzunehmen. Er verspricht, danach zurückzukommen, um Frau Elvsted nach Hause zu begleiten. Tesman lässt Hedda wissen, dass er nicht so früh nach Hause zurückkehren wird wie Lovborg; Hedda reagiert auf diese Ankündigung mit völliger Gleichgültigkeit. Als die Männer gehen, reflektiert Hedda mit Frau Elvsted über ihre Motivation, sich so zu verhalten: "Einmal in meinem Leben möchte ich das Gefühl haben, dass ich über ein menschliches Schicksal bestimme."

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.

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 WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT PHILEAS FOGG GAINED NOTHING BY HIS TOUR AROUND THE WORLD, UNLESS IT WERE HAPPINESS Yes; Phileas Fogg in person. The reader will remember that at five minutes past eight in the evening--about five and twenty hours after the arrival of the travellers in London--Passepartout had been sent by his master to engage the services of the Reverend Samuel Wilson in a certain marriage ceremony, which was to take place the next day. Passepartout went on his errand enchanted. He soon reached the clergyman's house, but found him not at home. Passepartout waited a good twenty minutes, and when he left the reverend gentleman, it was thirty-five minutes past eight. But in what a state he was! With his hair in disorder, and without his hat, he ran along the street as never man was seen to run before, overturning passers-by, rushing over the sidewalk like a waterspout. In three minutes he was in Saville Row again, and staggered back into Mr. Fogg's room. He could not speak. "What is the matter?" asked Mr. Fogg. "My master!" gasped Passepartout--"marriage--impossible--" "Impossible?" "Impossible--for to-morrow." "Why so?" "Because to-morrow--is Sunday!" "Monday," replied Mr. Fogg. "No--to-day is Saturday." "Saturday? Impossible!" "Yes, yes, yes, yes!" cried Passepartout. "You have made a mistake of one day! We arrived twenty-four hours ahead of time; but there are only ten minutes left!" Passepartout had seized his master by the collar, and was dragging him along with irresistible force. Phileas Fogg, thus kidnapped, without having time to think, left his house, jumped into a cab, promised a hundred pounds to the cabman, and, having run over two dogs and overturned five carriages, reached the Reform Club. The clock indicated a quarter before nine when he appeared in the great saloon. Phileas Fogg had accomplished the journey round the world in eighty days! Phileas Fogg had won his wager of twenty thousand pounds! How was it that a man so exact and fastidious could have made this error of a day? How came he to think that he had arrived in London on Saturday, the twenty-first day of December, when it was really Friday, the twentieth, the seventy-ninth day only from his departure? The cause of the error is very simple. Phileas Fogg had, without suspecting it, gained one day on his journey, and this merely because he had travelled constantly eastward; he would, on the contrary, have lost a day had he gone in the opposite direction, that is, westward. In journeying eastward he had gone towards the sun, and the days therefore diminished for him as many times four minutes as he crossed degrees in this direction. There are three hundred and sixty degrees on the circumference of the earth; and these three hundred and sixty degrees, multiplied by four minutes, gives precisely twenty-four hours--that is, the day unconsciously gained. In other words, while Phileas Fogg, going eastward, saw the sun pass the meridian eighty times, his friends in London only saw it pass the meridian seventy-nine times. This is why they awaited him at the Reform Club on Saturday, and not Sunday, as Mr. Fogg thought. And Passepartout's famous family watch, which had always kept London time, would have betrayed this fact, if it had marked the days as well as the hours and the minutes! Phileas Fogg, then, had won the twenty thousand pounds; but, as he had spent nearly nineteen thousand on the way, the pecuniary gain was small. His object was, however, to be victorious, and not to win money. He divided the one thousand pounds that remained between Passepartout and the unfortunate Fix, against whom he cherished no grudge. He deducted, however, from Passepartout's share the cost of the gas which had burned in his room for nineteen hundred and twenty hours, for the sake of regularity. That evening, Mr. Fogg, as tranquil and phlegmatic as ever, said to Aouda: "Is our marriage still agreeable to you?" "Mr. Fogg," replied she, "it is for me to ask that question. You were ruined, but now you are rich again." "Pardon me, madam; my fortune belongs to you. If you had not suggested our marriage, my servant would not have gone to the Reverend Samuel Wilson's, I should not have been apprised of my error, and--" "Dear Mr. Fogg!" said the young woman. "Dear Aouda!" replied Phileas Fogg. It need not be said that the marriage took place forty-eight hours after, and that Passepartout, glowing and dazzling, gave the bride away. Had he not saved her, and was he not entitled to this honour? The next day, as soon as it was light, Passepartout rapped vigorously at his master's door. Mr. Fogg opened it, and asked, "What's the matter, Passepartout?" "What is it, sir? Why, I've just this instant found out--" "What?" "That we might have made the tour of the world in only seventy-eight days." "No doubt," returned Mr. Fogg, "by not crossing India. But if I had not crossed India, I should not have saved Aouda; she would not have been my wife, and--" Mr. Fogg quietly shut the door. Phileas Fogg had won his wager, and had made his journey around the world in eighty days. To do this he had employed every means of conveyance--steamers, railways, carriages, yachts, trading-vessels, sledges, elephants. The eccentric gentleman had throughout displayed all his marvellous qualities of coolness and exactitude. But what then? What had he really gained by all this trouble? What had he brought back from this long and weary journey? Nothing, say you? Perhaps so; nothing but a charming woman, who, strange as it may appear, made him the happiest of men! Truly, would you not for less than that make the tour around the world? Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

In diesem Kapitel wird erklärt, wie es Phileas Fogg gelang, pünktlich im Reform Club anzukommen. Wir werden in die Zeit zurückversetzt, als Passepartout gebeten wird, die Hochzeit von Fogg und Aouda zu arrangieren. Als er den Geistlichen treffen geht, erkennt er, dass die Hochzeit nicht am nächsten Tag stattfinden kann, weil es ein Sonntag ist. Es ist nicht ein Montag, wie Fogg, Aouda und Passepartout denken. Sie erfahren, dass sie sich um einen Tag geirrt haben und dass sie London zwanzig Stunden vor der Zeit erreicht haben. Passepartout rennt zu seinem Meister und zieht ihn aus dem Haus, um ihn rechtzeitig zum Club zu schicken. Fogg schafft es, den Club zur vereinbarten Zeit zu erreichen. Dann wird uns erklärt, wie der Fehler um einen Tag entstanden ist. Es hatte damit zu tun, dass Fogg auf seiner Reise nach Osten Zeit gewonnen hatte. Fogg hat jedoch nicht mehr viel Geld übrig. Die tausend Pfund, die übrig geblieben waren, teilte er zwischen Passepartout und Fix auf. Einen Tag nach der Hochzeit erzählt Passepartout aufgeregt Fogg, dass sie um die Welt gereist wären in 78 Tagen, wenn sie nicht durch Indien gereist wären. Aber Fogg antwortet, dass er dann Aouda nicht getroffen und sie nicht seine Frau geworden wäre. Verne erzählt am Ende, dass Fogg etwas Wichtigeres als Geld gewonnen hatte, indem er um die Welt gereist war. Er hatte eine bezaubernde Frau gewonnen, die ihn zum glücklichsten Mann machte.

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.

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: [ACRES, as just dressed, and DAVID.] ACRES Indeed, David--do you think I become it so? DAVID You are quite another creature, believe me, master, by the mass! an' we've any luck we shall see the Devon mon kerony in all the print-shops in Bath! ACRES Dress does make a difference, David. DAVID 'Tis all in all, I think.--Difference! why, an' you were to go now to Clod-Hall, I am certain the old lady wouldn't know you: Master Butler wouldn't believe his own eyes, and Mrs. Pickle would cry, Lard presarve me! our dairy-maid would come giggling to the door, and I warrant Dolly Tester, your honour's favourite, would blush like my waistcoat.--Oons! I'll hold a gallon, there ain't a dog in the house but would bark, and I question whether Phillis would wag a hair of her tail! ACRES Ay, David, there's nothing like polishing. DAVID So I says of your honour's boots; but the boy never heeds me! ACRES But, David, has Mr. De-la-grace been here? I must rub up my balancing, and chasing, and boring. DAVID I'll call again, sir. ACRES Do--and see if there are any letters for me at the post-office. DAVID I will.--By the mass, I can't help looking at your head!--if I hadn't been by at the cooking, I wish I may die if I should have known the dish again myself! [Exit.] ACRES [Practising a dancing-step.] Sink, slide--coupee.--Confound the first inventors of cotillions! say I--they are as bad as algebra to us country gentlemen--I can walk a minuet easy enough when I am forced!--and I have been accounted a good stick in a country-dance.--Odds jigs and tabors! I never valued your cross-over to couple--figure in--right and left--and I'd foot it with e'er a captain in the county!--but these outlandish heathen allemandes and cotillions are quite beyond me!--I shall never prosper at 'em, that's sure--mine are true-born English legs--they don't understand their curst French lingo!--their _pas_ this, and _pas_ that, and _pas_ t'other!--damn me! my feet don't like to be called paws! no, 'tis certain I have most Antigallican toes! [Enter SERVANT.] SERVANT Here is Sir Lucius O'Trigger to wait on you, sir. ACRES Show him in. [Exit SERVANT.] [Enter Sir LUCIUS O'TRIGGER.] Sir LUCIUS Mr. Acres, I am delighted to embrace you. ACRES My dear Sir Lucius, I kiss your hands. Sir LUCIUS Pray, my friend, what has brought you so suddenly to Bath? ACRES Faith! I have followed Cupid's Jack-a-lantern, and find myself in a quagmire at last.--In short, I have been very ill used, Sir Lucius.--I don't choose to mention names, but look on me as on a very ill-used gentleman. Sir LUCIUS Pray what is the case?--I ask no names. ACRES Mark me, Sir Lucius, I fall as deep as need be in love with a young lady--her friends take my part--I follow her to Bath--send word of my arrival; and receive answer, that the lady is to be otherwise disposed of.--This, Sir Lucius, I call being ill-used. Sir LUCIUS Very ill, upon my conscience.--Pray, can you divine the cause of it? ACRES Why, there's the matter; she has another lover, one Beverley, who, I am told, is now in Bath.--Odds slanders and lies! he must be at the bottom of it. Sir LUCIUS A rival in the case, is there?--and you think he has supplanted you unfairly? ACRES Unfairly! to be sure he has. He never could have done it fairly. Sir LUCIUS Then sure you know what is to be done! ACRES Not I, upon my soul! Sir LUCIUS We wear no swords here, but you understand me. ACRES What! fight him! Sir LUCIUS Ay, to be sure: what can I mean else? ACRES But he has given me no provocation. Sir LUCIUS Now, I think he has given you the greatest provocation in the world. Can a man commit a more heinous offence against another than to fall in love with the same woman? Oh, by my soul! it is the most unpardonable breach of friendship. ACRES Breach of friendship! ay, ay; but I have no acquaintance with this man. I never saw him in my life. Sir LUCIUS That's no argument at all--he has the less right then to take such a liberty. ACRES Gad, that's true--I grow full of anger, Sir Lucius!--I fire apace! Odds hilts and blades! I find a man may have a deal of valour in him, and not know it! But couldn't I contrive to have a little right of my side? Sir LUCIUS What the devil signifies right, when your honour is concerned? Do you think Achilles, or my little Alexander the Great, ever inquired where the right lay? No, by my soul, they drew their broad-swords, and left the lazy sons of peace to settle the justice of it. ACRES Your words are a grenadier's march to my heart! I believe courage must be catching! I certainly do feel a kind of valour rising as it were--a kind of courage, as I may say.--Odds flints, pans, and triggers! I'll challenge him directly. Sir LUCIUS Ah, my little friend, if I had Blunderbuss Hall here, I could show you a range of ancestry, in the O'Trigger line, that would furnish the new room; every one of whom had killed his man!--For though the mansion-house and dirty acres have slipped through my fingers, I thank heaven our honour and the family-pictures are as fresh as ever. ACRES O, Sir Lucius! I have had ancestors too!--every man of 'em colonel or captain in the militia!--Odds balls and barrels! say no more--I'm braced for it. The thunder of your words has soured the milk of human kindness in my breast;--Zounds! as the man in the play says, _I could do such deeds!_ Sir LUCIUS Come, come, there must be no passion at all in the case--these things should always be done civilly. ACRES I must be in a passion, Sir Lucius--I must be in a rage.--Dear Sir Lucius, let me be in a rage, if you love me. Come, here's pen and paper.--[Sits down to write.] I would the ink were red!--Indite, I say, indite!--How shall I begin? Odds bullets and blades! I'll write a good bold hand, however. Sir LUCIUS Pray compose yourself. ACRES Come--now, shall I begin with an oath? Do, Sir Lucius, let me begin with a damme. Sir LUCIUS Pho! pho! do the thing decently, and like a Christian. Begin now--_Sir ----_ ACRES That's too civil by half. Sir LUCIUS _To prevent the confusion that might arise----_ ACRES Well---- Sir LUCIUS _From our both addressing the same lady----_ ACRES Ay, there's the reason--_same_ lady--well---- Sir LUCIUS _I shall expect the honour of your company----_ ACRES Zounds! I'm not asking him to dinner. Sir LUCIUS Pray be easy. ACRES Well, then, _honour of your company----_ Sir LUCIUS _To settle our pretensions----_ ACRES Well. Sir LUCIUS Let me see, ay, King's-Mead-Fields will do--_in King's-Mead-Fields._ ACRES So, that's done--Well, I'll fold it up presently; my own crest--a hand and dagger shall be the seal. Sir LUCIUS You see now this little explanation will put a stop at once to all confusion or misunderstanding that might arise between you. ACRES Ay, we fight to prevent any misunderstanding. Sir LUCIUS Nun, ich lasse dich alleine, um deine eigene Zeit zu regeln. Beherzige meinen Rat und entscheide dich heute Abend, wenn du kannst. Dann lass das Schlimmste kommen, es wird morgen aus deinem Kopf sein. ACRES Sehr wahr. Sir LUCIUS Also werde ich nichts von dir sehen, außer vielleicht per Brief, bis heute Abend. Ich würde mir die Ehre erweisen, deine Nachricht zu überbringen, aber, um dir ein Geheimnis zu verraten, glaube ich, dass ich ein ähnliches Problem in meinen Händen haben werde. Hier ist ein fröhlicher Kapitän, der vor kurzem über mich und mein Land gescherzt hat, und ich möchte nur auf den Herrn stoßen, um ihn herauszufordern. ACRES Bei meiner Tapferkeit, ich würde dich gerne zuerst kämpfen sehen! Zum Teufel! Ich würde dich gerne sehen, wie du ihn tötest, selbst wenn es nur eine kleine Lektion ist. Sir LUCIUS Ich werde sehr stolz darauf sein, dich zu unterweisen. Nun gut, vorerst... aber denke daran, wenn du deinem Gegner begegnest, handle alles in einer milden und angenehmen Art und Weise. Lass deine Tapferkeit genauso scharf sein, aber gleichzeitig so poliert wie dein Schwert. [Beide gehen getrennte Wege.] Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

Acres' Unterkunft. Acres ist dort mit David, seinem Diener. Sie diskutieren darüber, dass Acres kürzlich seinen Kleidungsstil geändert hat, um nach jahrelangem Landleben anspruchsvoller und städtischer zu wirken. Acres spricht dann darüber, wie er gerne im ländlichen Stil tanzt, als sie von der Ankunft von Lucius O'Trigger unterbrochen werden. Lucius kommt herein und begrüßt Acres und fragt, was ihn nach Bath gebracht hat. Acres erzählt ihm, dass er in eine Frau verliebt ist, ohne ihren Namen zu nennen. Er erzählt Lucius, dass er einen Rivalen namens Beverley hat, der ebenfalls in die Frau verliebt ist. Lucius ermutigt Acres, gegen Beverley zu kämpfen, aber Acres besteht darauf, ".er hat mir keine Provokation gegeben." Lucius insistiert darauf, dass allein die Tatsache, dass sie dieselbe Frau lieben, genug Provokation ist, und beginnt, in Acres einige Feindseligkeit zu schüren, der entschlossen ist, Beverley zu einem Duell herauszufordern. Er wird leidenschaftlich und setzt sich hin, um einen Brief zu schreiben. In dem Brief ruft er Beverley zu den King's-Mead-Feldern. Bevor er geht, erzählt Lucius Acres, dass er auch einen Rivalen hat, gegen den er kämpfen möchte.

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.

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 obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

Babbitt fährt zu Paul Rieslings Hotelzimmer in Chicago. Nach einem kleinen Streit mit dem Mann an der Rezeption bekommt Babbitt einen Schlüssel für Pauls Zimmer und geht hinein, um auf ihn zu warten. Stunden später taucht Paul auf. Er und Babbitt geraten in einen Streit, bei dem Babbitt Paul dafür tadelte, ein unmoralischer Mann zu sein und seine Frau zu betrügen. Nachdem sie sich beruhigt haben, bittet Paul Babbitt, ihm einen Gefallen zu tun, indem er zu Zilla lügt und sagt, dass er Paul in Akron, Ohio gesehen hat, wo er angeblich sein sollte. Als er an diesem Abend mit dem Taxi nach Hause fährt, kommen Babbitt Tränen in die Augen. Als er zu Hause ankommt, besucht er Zilla persönlich, um ihr zu sagen, wie schön es war, Paul in Akron zu treffen. Zilla glaubt ihm jedoch nicht vollständig. Sie weiß, dass Paul eine Affäre mit einer Frau in Chicago hat. Babbitt schimpft jedoch mit ihr, immer so hart zu Paul zu sein. Als Paul aus Chicago zurückkehrt, scheint Zilla wie ausgewechselt. Sie ist insgesamt viel netter zu ihm. Aber Paul erzählt Babbitt bald darauf, dass es für Zilla zu spät ist, jetzt nett zu sein. Er ist fest entschlossen, von ihr wegzukommen. Auf welche Weise auch immer.

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.

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 Insufficiency of the Present Confederation to Preserve the Union For the Independent Journal. Saturday, December 1, 1787 HAMILTON To the People of the State of New York. IN THE course of the preceding papers, I have endeavored, my fellow citizens, to place before you, in a clear and convincing light, the importance of Union to your political safety and happiness. I have unfolded to you a complication of dangers to which you would be exposed, should you permit that sacred knot which binds the people of America together be severed or dissolved by ambition or by avarice, by jealousy or by misrepresentation. In the sequel of the inquiry through which I propose to accompany you, the truths intended to be inculcated will receive further confirmation from facts and arguments hitherto unnoticed. If the road over which you will still have to pass should in some places appear to you tedious or irksome, you will recollect that you are in quest of information on a subject the most momentous which can engage the attention of a free people, that the field through which you have to travel is in itself spacious, and that the difficulties of the journey have been unnecessarily increased by the mazes with which sophistry has beset the way. It will be my aim to remove the obstacles from your progress in as compendious a manner as it can be done, without sacrificing utility to despatch. In pursuance of the plan which I have laid down for the discussion of the subject, the point next in order to be examined is the "insufficiency of the present Confederation to the preservation of the Union." It may perhaps be asked what need there is of reasoning or proof to illustrate a position which is not either controverted or doubted, to which the understandings and feelings of all classes of men assent, and which in substance is admitted by the opponents as well as by the friends of the new Constitution. It must in truth be acknowledged that, however these may differ in other respects, they in general appear to harmonize in this sentiment, at least, that there are material imperfections in our national system, and that something is necessary to be done to rescue us from impending anarchy. The facts that support this opinion are no longer objects of speculation. They have forced themselves upon the sensibility of the people at large, and have at length extorted from those, whose mistaken policy has had the principal share in precipitating the extremity at which we are arrived, a reluctant confession of the reality of those defects in the scheme of our federal government, which have been long pointed out and regretted by the intelligent friends of the Union. We may indeed with propriety be said to have reached almost the last stage of national humiliation. There is scarcely anything that can wound the pride or degrade the character of an independent nation which we do not experience. Are there engagements to the performance of which we are held by every tie respectable among men? These are the subjects of constant and unblushing violation. Do we owe debts to foreigners and to our own citizens contracted in a time of imminent peril for the preservation of our political existence? These remain without any proper or satisfactory provision for their discharge. Have we valuable territories and important posts in the possession of a foreign power which, by express stipulations, ought long since to have been surrendered? These are still retained, to the prejudice of our interests, not less than of our rights. Are we in a condition to resent or to repel the aggression? We have neither troops, nor treasury, nor government.(1) Are we even in a condition to remonstrate with dignity? The just imputations on our own faith, in respect to the same treaty, ought first to be removed. Are we entitled by nature and compact to a free participation in the navigation of the Mississippi? Spain excludes us from it. Is public credit an indispensable resource in time of public danger? We seem to have abandoned its cause as desperate and irretrievable. Is commerce of importance to national wealth? Ours is at the lowest point of declension. Is respectability in the eyes of foreign powers a safeguard against foreign encroachments? The imbecility of our government even forbids them to treat with us. Our ambassadors abroad are the mere pageants of mimic sovereignty. Is a violent and unnatural decrease in the value of land a symptom of national distress? The price of improved land in most parts of the country is much lower than can be accounted for by the quantity of waste land at market, and can only be fully explained by that want of private and public confidence, which are so alarmingly prevalent among all ranks, and which have a direct tendency to depreciate property of every kind. Is private credit the friend and patron of industry? That most useful kind which relates to borrowing and lending is reduced within the narrowest limits, and this still more from an opinion of insecurity than from the scarcity of money. To shorten an enumeration of particulars which can afford neither pleasure nor instruction, it may in general be demanded, what indication is there of national disorder, poverty, and insignificance that could befall a community so peculiarly blessed with natural advantages as we are, which does not form a part of the dark catalogue of our public misfortunes? This is the melancholy situation to which we have been brought by those very maxims and councils which would now deter us from adopting the proposed Constitution; and which, not content with having conducted us to the brink of a precipice, seem resolved to plunge us into the abyss that awaits us below. Here, my countrymen, impelled by every motive that ought to influence an enlightened people, let us make a firm stand for our safety, our tranquillity, our dignity, our reputation. Let us at last break the fatal charm which has too long seduced us from the paths of felicity and prosperity. It is true, as has been before observed that facts, too stubborn to be resisted, have produced a species of general assent to the abstract proposition that there exist material defects in our national system; but the usefulness of the concession, on the part of the old adversaries of federal measures, is destroyed by a strenuous opposition to a remedy, upon the only principles that can give it a chance of success. While they admit that the government of the United States is destitute of energy, they contend against conferring upon it those powers which are requisite to supply that energy. They seem still to aim at things repugnant and irreconcilable; at an augmentation of federal authority, without a diminution of State authority; at sovereignty in the Union, and complete independence in the members. They still, in fine, seem to cherish with blind devotion the political monster of an imperium in imperio. This renders a full display of the principal defects of the Confederation necessary, in order to show that the evils we experience do not proceed from minute or partial imperfections, but from fundamental errors in the structure of the building, which cannot be amended otherwise than by an alteration in the first principles and main pillars of the fabric. The great and radical vice in the construction of the existing Confederation is in the principle of LEGISLATION for STATES or GOVERNMENTS, in their CORPORATE or COLLECTIVE CAPACITIES, and as contradistinguished from the INDIVIDUALS of which they consist. Though this principle does not run through all the powers delegated to the Union, yet it pervades and governs those on which the efficacy of the rest depends. Except as to the rule of appointment, the United States has an indefinite discretion to make requisitions for men and money; but they have no authority to raise either, by regulations extending to the individual citizens of America. The consequence of this is, that though in theory their resolutions concerning those objects are laws, constitutionally binding on the members of the Union, yet in practice they are mere recommendations which the States observe or disregard at their option. It is a singular instance of the capriciousness of the human mind, that after all the admonitions we have had from experience on this head, there should still be found men who object to the new Constitution, for deviating from a principle which has been found the bane of the old, and which is in itself evidently incompatible with the idea of GOVERNMENT; a principle, in short, which, if it is to be executed at all, must substitute the violent and sanguinary agency of the sword to the mild influence of the magistracy. There is nothing absurd or impracticable in the idea of a league or alliance between independent nations for certain defined purposes precisely stated in a treaty regulating all the details of time, place, circumstance, and quantity; leaving nothing to future discretion; and depending for its execution on the good faith of the parties. Compacts of this kind exist among all civilized nations, subject to the usual vicissitudes of peace and war, of observance and non-observance, as the interests or passions of the contracting powers dictate. In the early part of the present century there was an epidemical rage in Europe for this species of compacts, from which the politicians of the times fondly hoped for benefits which were never realized. With a view to establishing the equilibrium of power and the peace of that part of the world, all the resources of negotiation were exhausted, and triple and quadruple alliances were formed; but they were scarcely formed before they were broken, giving an instructive but afflicting lesson to mankind, how little dependence is to be placed on treaties which have no other sanction than the obligations of good faith, and which oppose general considerations of peace and justice to the impulse of any immediate interest or passion. If the particular States in this country are disposed to stand in a similar relation to each other, and to drop the project of a general DISCRETIONARY SUPERINTENDENCE, the scheme would indeed be pernicious, and would entail upon us all the mischiefs which have been enumerated under the first head; but it would have the merit of being, at least, consistent and practicable Abandoning all views towards a confederate government, this would bring us to a simple alliance offensive and defensive; and would place us in a situation to be alternate friends and enemies of each other, as our mutual jealousies and rivalships, nourished by the intrigues of foreign nations, should prescribe to us. But if we are unwilling to be placed in this perilous situation; if we still will adhere to the design of a national government, or, which is the same thing, of a superintending power, under the direction of a common council, we must resolve to incorporate into our plan those ingredients which may be considered as forming the characteristic difference between a league and a government; we must extend the authority of the Union to the persons of the citizens,--the only proper objects of government. Government implies the power of making laws. It is essential to the idea of a law, that it be attended with a sanction; or, in other words, a penalty or punishment for disobedience. If there be no penalty annexed to disobedience, the resolutions or commands which pretend to be laws will, in fact, amount to nothing more than advice or recommendation. This penalty, whatever it may be, can only be inflicted in two ways: by the agency of the courts and ministers of justice, or by military force; by the COERCION of the magistracy, or by the COERCION of arms. The first kind can evidently apply only to men; the last kind must of necessity, be employed against bodies politic, or communities, or States. It is evident that there is no process of a court by which the observance of the laws can, in the last resort, be enforced. Sentences may be denounced against them for violations of their duty; but these sentences can only be carried into execution by the sword. In an association where the general authority is confined to the collective bodies of the communities, that compose it, every breach of the laws must involve a state of war; and military execution must become the only instrument of civil obedience. Such a state of things can certainly not deserve the name of government, nor would any prudent man choose to commit his happiness to it. There was a time when we were told that breaches, by the States, of the regulations of the federal authority were not to be expected; that a sense of common interest would preside over the conduct of the respective members, and would beget a full compliance with all the constitutional requisitions of the Union. This language, at the present day, would appear as wild as a great part of what we now hear from the same quarter will be thought, when we shall have received further lessons from that best oracle of wisdom, experience. It at all times betrayed an ignorance of the true springs by which human conduct is actuated, and belied the original inducements to the establishment of civil power. Why has government been instituted at all? Because the passions of men will not conform to the dictates of reason and justice, without constraint. Has it been found that bodies of men act with more rectitude or greater disinterestedness than individuals? The contrary of this has been inferred by all accurate observers of the conduct of mankind; and the inference is founded upon obvious reasons. Regard to reputation has a less active influence, when the infamy of a bad action is to be divided among a number than when it is to fall singly upon one. A spirit of faction, which is apt to mingle its poison in the deliberations of all bodies of men, will often hurry the persons of whom they are composed into improprieties and excesses, for which they would blush in a private capacity. In addition to all this, there is, in the nature of sovereign power, an impatience of control, that disposes those who are invested with the exercise of it, to look with an evil eye upon all external attempts to restrain or direct its operations. From this spirit it happens, that in every political association which is formed upon the principle of uniting in a common interest a number of lesser sovereignties, there will be found a kind of eccentric tendency in the subordinate or inferior orbs, by the operation of which there will be a perpetual effort in each to fly off from the common centre. This tendency is not difficult to be accounted for. It has its origin in the love of power. Power controlled or abridged is almost always the rival and enemy of that power by which it is controlled or abridged. This simple proposition will teach us how little reason there is to expect, that the persons intrusted with the administration of the affairs of the particular members of a confederacy will at all times be ready, with perfect good-humor, and an unbiased regard to the public weal, to execute the resolutions or decrees of the general authority. The reverse of this results from the constitution of human nature. If, therefore, the measures of the Confederacy cannot be executed without the intervention of the particular administrations, there will be little prospect of their being executed at all. The rulers of the respective members, whether they have a constitutional right to do it or not, will undertake to judge of the propriety of the measures themselves. They will consider the conformity of the thing proposed or required to their immediate interests or aims; the momentary conveniences or inconveniences that would attend its adoption. All this will be done; and in a spirit of interested and suspicious scrutiny, without that knowledge of national circumstances and reasons of state, which is essential to a right judgment, and with that strong predilection in favor of local objects, which can hardly fail to mislead the decision. The same process must be repeated in every member of which the body is constituted; and the execution of the plans, framed by the councils of the whole, will always fluctuate on the discretion of the ill-informed and prejudiced opinion of every part. Those who have been conversant in the proceedings of popular assemblies; who have seen how difficult it often is, where there is no exterior pressure of circumstances, to bring them to harmonious resolutions on important points, will readily conceive how impossible it must be to induce a number of such assemblies, deliberating at a distance from each other, at different times, and under different impressions, long to co-operate in the same views and pursuits. In our case, the concurrence of thirteen distinct sovereign wills is requisite, under the Confederation, to the complete execution of every important measure that proceeds from the Union. It has happened as was to have been foreseen. The measures of the Union have not been executed; the delinquencies of the States have, step by step, matured themselves to an extreme, which has, at length, arrested all the wheels of the national government, and brought them to an awful stand. Congress at this time scarcely possess the means of keeping up the forms of administration, till the States can have time to agree upon a more substantial substitute for the present shadow of a federal government. Things did not come to this desperate extremity at once. The causes which have been specified produced at first only unequal and disproportionate degrees of compliance with the requisitions of the Union. The greater deficiencies of some States furnished the pretext of example and the temptation of interest to the complying, or to the least delinquent States. Why should we do more in proportion than those who are embarked with us in the same political voyage? Why should we consent to bear more than our proper share of the common burden? These were suggestions which human selfishness could not withstand, and which even speculative men, who looked forward to remote consequences, could not, without hesitation, combat. Each State, yielding to the persuasive voice of immediate interest or convenience, has successively withdrawn its support, till the frail and tottering edifice seems ready to fall upon our heads, and to crush us beneath its ruins. PUBLIUS 1. "I mean for the Union." Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

Hamilton beginnt damit, den Menschen zu sagen, dass er in den vorherigen Papieren versucht hat, sie von der Bedeutung der Union für die "politische Sicherheit und Glückseligkeit" zu überzeugen. In diesem Aufsatz ändert er das Thema auf die "Unzulänglichkeit der gegenwärtigen Konföderation zur Erhaltung der Union." Er argumentiert, dass die Mehrheit der Menschen zustimmt, dass die gegenwärtige Regierungsform letztendlich zu einer "bevorstehenden Anarchie" führen wird. Er führt fort, dass die Vereinigten Staaten aufgrund hoher Schulden, Gebiete im Besitz einer ausländischen Macht, eines Mangels an Militär, eines Mangels an Geld, mangelnder Schifffahrt auf dem Mississippi, mangelndem Handel, mangelndem Respekt durch ausländische Mächte, Wertverlust von Eigentum und mangelnder Kreditverfügbarkeit die "letzte Stufe der nationalen Demütigung" erreicht haben. Kurz gesagt, aufgrund von "nationalem Unordnung, Armut und Bedeutungslosigkeit." Hamilton fordert, dass das Land fest für Sicherheit, Ruhe, Würde und Ansehen eintritt. Er greift die Befürworter des Bundesartikels an und behauptet, dass sie zwar zugeben, dass die Regierung kraftlos sei, sie aber dagegen sind, "ihr die notwendigen Befugnisse zur Stärkung zu übertragen". Stattdessen wollen sie etwas, das unmöglich ist, nämlich eine Stärkung der Bundesrechte, ohne die Rechte der Bundesstaaten zu verringern. Für Hamilton besteht das größte Problem in der bestehenden Regierung im Grundsatz der Gesetzgebung für die Bundesstaaten in kollektiver Weise, was mehrere Souveräne schafft. Unter dieser Situation werden die Gesetze der Nation, obwohl verfassungsgemäß bindend, nur zu Vorschlägen, denen die Staaten folgen oder nicht folgen können. Während er nichts gegen Verträge zwischen Staaten hat, wie sie in der ganzen Welt existieren, ist er aufgrund seiner Erfahrungen der Meinung, dass man wenig Vertrauen in solche Vereinbarungen setzen kann. Er glaubt, dass die Staaten des Landes eine ähnliche Beziehung zueinander haben könnten und es zwar nicht ideal, aber "konsistent und praktikabel" wäre. Wenn jedoch immer noch ein Verlangen nach einer nationalen Regierung besteht, muss sie andere Merkmale als ein Bündnis von Regierungen aufweisen: wir müssen "die Autorität der Union auf die Personen der Bürger ausdehnen, die einzigen geeigneten Objekte der Regierung". Allein die Vorstellung einer Regierung impliziert die Macht, Gesetze zu erlassen, und diese Gesetze müssen eine Konsequenz, eine Strafe, enthalten, die von der Armee oder dem Gericht angewandt wird. Da unter den Artikeln der Konföderation kein System existiert, das das Gesetz ordnungsgemäß durchführt, ist die Regierung nutzlos. Für Hamilton wurde die Regierung geschaffen, weil die Leidenschaften der Männer nicht mit den "Forderungen von Vernunft und Gerechtigkeit" in Einklang stehen und Gruppen von Männern intelligenter handeln als Einzelpersonen allein. Hamilton vermutet, dass dies daran liegt, dass der Ruf einen weniger aktiven Einfluss hat. Außerdem glaubt er, dass die Menschen aufgrund der Natur der souveränen Macht besessen von ihrer eigenen Macht werden. Eine Versammlung vieler souveräner Mächte, wie bei den Artikeln der Konföderation, schafft daher Probleme, weil die Liebe zur Macht dazu führt, dass Menschen nicht kompromissbereit sind. Die Geschäfte der Regierung können unter diesem System nicht durchgeführt werden und nationale Interessen werden den individuellen Wünschen und Bedürfnissen untergeordnet. Abschließend greift Alexander Hamilton die Artikel der Konföderation speziell als Scheitern an, weil das System dazu bestimmt war zu scheitern. Es geschah nicht alles auf einmal, sondern allmählich, bis die Dinge zu einem "Stand-All" geworden sind, bei dem jeder "der überzeugenden Stimme des unmittelbaren Interesses und der Bequemlichkeit weicht, bis das schwache und wankende Gebäude bereit zu sein scheint, auf unsere Köpfe zu stürzen und uns unter seinen Trümmern zu begraben".

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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. Chapter: S' doaks was son of Yelth the wise-- Chief of the Raven clan. Itswoot the Bear had him in care To make him a medicine-man. He was quick and quicker to learn-- Bold and bolder to dare: He danced the dread Kloo-Kwallie Dance To tickle Itswoot the Bear! Oregon Legend Kim flung himself whole-heartedly upon the next turn of the wheel. He would be a Sahib again for a while. In that idea, so soon as he had reached the broad road under Simla Town Hall, he cast about for one to impress. A Hindu child, some ten years old, squatted under a lamp-post. 'Where is Mr Lurgan's house?' demanded Kim. 'I do not understand English,' was the answer, and Kim shifted his speech accordingly. 'I will show.' Together they set off through the mysterious dusk, full of the noises of a city below the hillside, and the breath of a cool wind in deodar-crowned Jakko, shouldering the stars. The house-lights, scattered on every level, made, as it were, a double firmament. Some were fixed, others belonged to the 'rickshaws of the careless, open-spoken English folk, going out to dinner. 'It is here,' said Kim's guide, and halted in a veranda flush with the main road. No door stayed them, but a curtain of beaded reeds that split up the lamplight beyond. 'He is come,' said the boy, in a voice little louder than a sigh, and vanished. Kim felt sure that the boy had been posted to guide him from the first, but, putting a bold face on it, parted the curtain. A black-bearded man, with a green shade over his eyes, sat at a table, and, one by one, with short, white hands, picked up globules of light from a tray before him, threaded them on a glancing silken string, and hummed to himself the while. Kim was conscious that beyond the circle of light the room was full of things that smelt like all the temples of all the East. A whiff of musk, a puff of sandal-wood, and a breath of sickly jessamine-oil caught his opened nostrils. 'I am here,' said Kim at last, speaking in the vernacular: the smells made him forget that he was to be a Sahib. 'Seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one,' the man counted to himself, stringing pearl after pearl so quickly that Kim could scarcely follow his fingers. He slid off the green shade and looked fixedly at Kim for a full half-minute. The pupils of the eye dilated and closed to pin-pricks, as if at will. There was a fakir by the Taksali Gate who had just this gift and made money by it, especially when cursing silly women. Kim stared with interest. His disreputable friend could further twitch his ears, almost like a goat, and Kim was disappointed that this new man could not imitate him. 'Do not be afraid,' said Lurgan Sahib suddenly. 'Why should I fear?' 'Thou wilt sleep here tonight, and stay with me till it is time to go again to Nucklao. It is an order.' 'It is an order,' Kim repeated. 'But where shall I sleep?' 'Here, in this room.' Lurgan Sahib waved his hand towards the darkness behind him. 'So be it,' said Kim composedly. 'Now?' He nodded and held the lamp above his head. As the light swept them, there leaped out from the walls a collection of Tibetan devil-dance masks, hanging above the fiend-embroidered draperies of those ghastly functions--horned masks, scowling masks, and masks of idiotic terror. In a corner, a Japanese warrior, mailed and plumed, menaced him with a halberd, and a score of lances and khandas and kuttars gave back the unsteady gleam. But what interested Kim more than all these things--he had seen devil-dance masks at the Lahore Museum--was a glimpse of the soft-eyed Hindu child who had left him in the doorway, sitting cross-legged under the table of pearls with a little smile on his scarlet lips. 'I think that Lurgan Sahib wishes to make me afraid. And I am sure that that devil's brat below the table wishes to see me afraid. 'This place,' he said aloud, 'is like a Wonder House. Where is my bed?' Lurgan Sahib pointed to a native quilt in a corner by the loathsome masks, picked up the lamp, and left the room black. 'Was that Lurgan Sahib?' Kim asked as he cuddled down. No answer. He could hear the Hindu boy breathing, however, and, guided by the sound, crawled across the floor, and cuffed into the darkness, crying: 'Give answer, devil! Is this the way to lie to a Sahib?' From the darkness he fancied he could hear the echo of a chuckle. It could not be his soft-fleshed companion, because he was weeping. So Kim lifted up his voice and called aloud: 'Lurgan Sahib! O Lurgan Sahib! Is it an order that thy servant does not speak to me?' 'It is an order.' The voice came from behind him and he started. 'Very good. But remember,' he muttered, as he resought the quilt, 'I will beat thee in the morning. I do not love Hindus.' That was no cheerful night; the room being overfull of voices and music. Kim was waked twice by someone calling his name. The second time he set out in search, and ended by bruising his nose against a box that certainly spoke with a human tongue, but in no sort of human accent. It seemed to end in a tin trumpet and to be joined by wires to a smaller box on the floor--so far, at least, as he could judge by touch. And the voice, very hard and whirring, came out of the trumpet. Kim rubbed his nose and grew furious, thinking, as usual, in Hindi. 'This with a beggar from the bazar might be good, but--I am a Sahib and the son of a Sahib and, which is twice as much more beside, a student of Nucklao. Yess' (here he turned to English), 'a boy of St Xavier's. Damn Mr Lurgan's eyes!--It is some sort of machinery like a sewing-machine. Oh, it is a great cheek of him--we are not frightened that way at Lucknow--No!' Then in Hindi: 'But what does he gain? He is only a trader--I am in his shop. But Creighton Sahib is a Colonel--and I think Creighton Sahib gave orders that it should be done. How I will beat that Hindu in the morning! What is this?' The trumpet-box was pouring out a string of the most elaborate abuse that even Kim had ever heard, in a high uninterested voice, that for a moment lifted the short hairs of his neck. When the vile thing drew breath, Kim was reassured by the soft, sewing-machine-like whirr. 'Chup! [Be still]' he cried, and again he heard a chuckle that decided him. 'Chup--or I break your head.' The box took no heed. Kim wrenched at the tin trumpet and something lifted with a click. He had evidently raised a lid. If there were a devil inside, now was its time, for--he sniffed--thus did the sewing-machines of the bazar smell. He would clean that shaitan. He slipped off his jacket, and plunged it into the box's mouth. Something long and round bent under the pressure, there was a whirr and the voice stopped--as voices must if you ram a thrice-doubled coat on to the wax cylinder and into the works of an expensive phonograph. Kim finished his slumbers with a serene mind. In the morning he was aware of Lurgan Sahib looking down on him. 'Oah!' said Kim, firmly resolved to cling to his Sahib-dom. 'There was a box in the night that gave me bad talk. So I stopped it. Was it your box?' The man held out his hand. 'Shake hands, O'Hara,' he said. 'Yes, it was my box. I keep such things because my friends the Rajahs like them. That one is broken, but it was cheap at the price. Yes, my friends, the Kings, are very fond of toys--and so am I sometimes.' Kim looked him over out of the corners of his eyes. He was a Sahib in that he wore Sahib's clothes; the accent of his Urdu, the intonation of his English, showed that he was anything but a Sahib. He seemed to understand what moved in Kim's mind ere the boy opened his mouth, and he took no pains to explain himself as did Father Victor or the Lucknow masters. Sweetest of all--he treated Kim as an equal on the Asiatic side. 'I am sorry you cannot beat my boy this morning. He says he will kill you with a knife or poison. He is jealous, so I have put him in the corner and I shall not speak to him today. He has just tried to kill me. You must help me with the breakfast. He is almost too jealous to trust, just now.' Now a genuine imported Sahib from England would have made a great to-do over this tale. Lurgan Sahib stated it as simply as Mahbub Ali was used to record his little affairs in the North. The back veranda of the shop was built out over the sheer hillside, and they looked down into their neighbours' chimney-pots, as is the custom of Simla. But even more than the purely Persian meal cooked by Lurgan Sahib with his own hands, the shop fascinated Kim. The Lahore Museum was larger, but here were more wonders--ghost-daggers and prayer-wheels from Tibet; turquoise and raw amber necklaces; green jade bangles; curiously packed incense-sticks in jars crusted over with raw garnets; the devil-masks of overnight and a wall full of peacock-blue draperies; gilt figures of Buddha, and little portable lacquer altars; Russian samovars with turquoises on the lid; egg-shell china sets in quaint octagonal cane boxes; yellow ivory crucifixes--from Japan of all places in the world, so Lurgan Sahib said; carpets in dusty bales, smelling atrociously, pushed back behind torn and rotten screens of geometrical work; Persian water-jugs for the hands after meals; dull copper incense-burners neither Chinese nor Persian, with friezes of fantastic devils running round them; tarnished silver belts that knotted like raw hide; hairpins of jade, ivory, and plasma; arms of all sorts and kinds, and a thousand other oddments were cased, or piled, or merely thrown into the room, leaving a clear space only round the rickety deal table, where Lurgan Sahib worked. 'Those things are nothing,' said his host, following Kim's glance. 'I buy them because they are pretty, and sometimes I sell--if I like the buyer's look. My work is on the table--some of it.' It blazed in the morning light--all red and blue and green flashes, picked out with the vicious blue-white spurt of a diamond here and there. Kim opened his eyes. 'Oh, they are quite well, those stones. It will not hurt them to take the sun. Besides, they are cheap. But with sick stones it is very different.' He piled Kim's plate anew. 'There is no one but me can doctor a sick pearl and re-blue turquoises. I grant you opals--any fool can cure an opal--but for a sick pearl there is only me. Suppose I were to die! Then there would be no one ... Oh no! You cannot do anything with jewels. It will be quite enough if you understand a little about the Turquoise--some day.' He moved to the end of the veranda to refill the heavy, porous clay water-jug from the filter. 'Do you want drink?' Kim nodded. Lurgan Sahib, fifteen feet off, laid one hand on the jar. Next instant, it stood at Kim's elbow, full to within half an inch of the brim--the white cloth only showing, by a small wrinkle, where it had slid into place. 'Wah!' said Kim in most utter amazement. 'That is magic.' Lurgan Sahib's smile showed that the compliment had gone home. 'Throw it back.' 'It will break.' 'I say, throw it back.' Kim pitched it at random. It fell short and crashed into fifty pieces, while the water dripped through the rough veranda boarding. 'I said it would break.' 'All one. Look at it. Look at the largest piece.' That lay with a sparkle of water in its curve, as it were a star on the floor. Kim looked intently. Lurgan Sahib laid one hand gently on the nape of his neck, stroked it twice or thrice, and whispered: 'Look! It shall come to life again, piece by piece. First the big piece shall join itself to two others on the right and the left--on the right and the left. Look!' To save his life, Kim could not have turned his head. The light touch held him as in a vice, and his blood tingled pleasantly through him. There was one large piece of the jar where there had been three, and above them the shadowy outline of the entire vessel. He could see the veranda through it, but it was thickening and darkening with each beat of his pulse. Yet the jar--how slowly the thoughts came!--the jar had been smashed before his eyes. Another wave of prickling fire raced down his neck, as Lurgan Sahib moved his hand. 'Look! It is coming into shape,' said Lurgan Sahib. So far Kim had been thinking in Hindi, but a tremor came on him, and with an effort like that of a swimmer before sharks, who hurls himself half out of the water, his mind leaped up from a darkness that was swallowing it and took refuge in--the multiplication-table in English! 'Look! It is coming into shape,' whispered Lurgan Sahib. The jar had been smashed--yess, smashed--not the native word, he would not think of that--but smashed--into fifty pieces, and twice three was six, and thrice three was nine, and four times three was twelve. He clung desperately to the repetition. The shadow-outline of the jar cleared like a mist after rubbing eyes. There were the broken shards; there was the spilt water drying in the sun, and through the cracks of the veranda showed, all ribbed, the white house-wall below--and thrice twelve was thirty-six! 'Look! Is it coming into shape?' asked Lurgan Sahib. 'But it is smashed--smashed,' he gasped--Lurgan Sahib had been muttering softly for the last half-minute. Kim wrenched his head aside. 'Look! Dekho! It is there as it was there.' 'It is there as it was there,' said Lurgan, watching Kim closely while the boy rubbed his neck. 'But you are the first of many who has ever seen it so.' He wiped his broad forehead. 'Was that more magic?' Kim asked suspiciously. The tingle had gone from his veins; he felt unusually wide awake. 'No, that was not magic. It was only to see if there was--a flaw in a jewel. Sometimes very fine jewels will fly all to pieces if a man holds them in his hand, and knows the proper way. That is why one must be careful before one sets them. Tell me, did you see the shape of the pot?' 'For a little time. It began to grow like a flower from the ground.' 'And then what did you do? I mean, how did you think?' 'Oah! I knew it was broken, and so, I think, that was what I thought--and it was broken.' 'Hm! Has anyone ever done that same sort of magic to you before?' 'If it was,' said Kim 'do you think I should let it again? I should run away.' 'And now you are not afraid--eh?' 'Not now.' Lurgan Sahib looked at him more closely than ever. 'I shall ask Mahbub Ali--not now, but some day later,' he muttered. 'I am pleased with you--yes; and I am pleased with you--no. You are the first that ever saved himself. I wish I knew what it was that ... But you are right. You should not tell that--not even to me.' He turned into the dusky gloom of the shop, and sat down at the table, rubbing his hands softly. A small, husky sob came from behind a pile of carpets. It was the Hindu child obediently facing towards the wall. His thin shoulders worked with grief. 'Ah! He is jealous, so jealous. I wonder if he will try to poison me again in my breakfast, and make me cook it twice. 'Kubbee--kubbee nahin [Never--never. No!]', came the broken answer. 'And whether he will kill this other boy?' 'Kubbee--kubbee nahin.' 'What do you think he will do?' He turned suddenly on Kim. 'Oah! I do not know. Let him go, perhaps. Why did he want to poison you?' 'Because he is so fond of me. Suppose you were fond of someone, and you saw someone come, and the man you were fond of was more pleased with him than he was with you, what would you do?' Kim thought. Lurgan repeated the sentence slowly in the vernacular. 'I should not poison that man,' said Kim reflectively, 'but I should beat that boy--if that boy was fond of my man. But first, I would ask that boy if it were true.' 'Ah! He thinks everyone must be fond of me.' 'Then I think he is a fool.' 'Hearest thou?' said Lurgan Sahib to the shaking shoulders. 'The Sahib's son thinks thou art a little fool. Come out, and next time thy heart is troubled, do not try white arsenic quite so openly. Surely the Devil Dasim was lord of our table-cloth that day! It might have made me ill, child, and then a stranger would have guarded the jewels. Come!' The child, heavy-eyed with much weeping, crept out from behind the bale and flung himself passionately at Lurgan Sahib's feet, with an extravagance of remorse that impressed even Kim. 'I will look into the ink-pools--I will faithfully guard the jewels! Oh, my Father and my Mother, send him away!' He indicated Kim with a backward jerk of his bare heel. 'Not yet--not yet. In a little while he will go away again. But now he is at school--at a new madrissah--and thou shalt be his teacher. Play the Play of the Jewels against him. I will keep tally.' The child dried his tears at once, and dashed to the back of the shop, whence he returned with a copper tray. 'Give me!' he said to Lurgan Sahib. 'Let them come from thy hand, for he may say that I knew them before.' 'Gently--gently,' the man replied, and from a drawer under the table dealt a half-handful of clattering trifles into the tray. 'Now,' said the child, waving an old newspaper. 'Look on them as long as thou wilt, stranger. Count and, if need be, handle. One look is enough for me.' He turned his back proudly. 'But what is the game?' 'When thou hast counted and handled and art sure that thou canst remember them all, I cover them with this paper, and thou must tell over the tally to Lurgan Sahib. I will write mine.' 'Oah!' The instinct of competition waked in his breast. He bent over the tray. There were but fifteen stones on it. 'That is easy,' he said after a minute. The child slipped the paper over the winking jewels and scribbled in a native account-book. 'There are under that paper five blue stones--one big, one smaller, and three small,' said Kim, all in haste. 'There are four green stones, and one with a hole in it; there is one yellow stone that I can see through, and one like a pipe-stem. There are two red stones, and--and--I made the count fifteen, but two I have forgotten. No! Give me time. One was of ivory, little and brownish; and--and--give me time...' 'One--two'--Lurgan Sahib counted him out up to ten. Kim shook his head. 'Hear my count!' the child burst in, trilling with laughter. 'First, are two flawed sapphires--one of two ruttees and one of four as I should judge. The four-ruttee sapphire is chipped at the edge. There is one Turkestan turquoise, plain with black veins, and there are two inscribed--one with a Name of God in gilt, and the other being cracked across, for it came out of an old ring, I cannot read. We have now all five blue stones. Four flawed emeralds there are, but one is drilled in two places, and one is a little carven-' 'Their weights?' said Lurgan Sahib impassively. 'Three--five--five--and four ruttees as I judge it. There is one piece of old greenish pipe amber, and a cut topaz from Europe. There is one ruby of Burma, of two ruttees, without a flaw, and there is a balas-ruby, flawed, of two ruttees. There is a carved ivory from China representing a rat sucking an egg; and there is last--ah ha!--a ball of crystal as big as a bean set on a gold leaf.' He clapped his hands at the close. 'He is thy master,' said Lurgan Sahib, smiling. 'Huh! He knew the names of the stones,' said Kim, flushing. 'Try again! With common things such as he and I both know.' They heaped the tray again with odds and ends gathered from the shop, and even the kitchen, and every time the child won, till Kim marvelled. 'Bind my eyes--let me feel once with my fingers, and even then I will leave thee opened-eyed behind,' he challenged. Kim stamped with vexation when the lad made his boast good. 'If it were men--or horses,' he said, 'I could do better. This playing with tweezers and knives and scissors is too little.' 'Learn first--teach later,' said Lurgan Sahib. 'Is he thy master?' 'Truly. But how is it done?' 'By doing it many times over till it is done perfectly--for it is worth doing.' The Hindu boy, in highest feather, actually patted Kim on the back. 'Do not despair,' he said. 'I myself will teach thee.' 'And I will see that thou art well taught,' said Lurgan Sahib, still speaking in the vernacular, 'for except my boy here--it was foolish of him to buy so much white arsenic when, if he had asked, I could have given it--except my boy here I have not in a long time met with one better worth teaching. And there are ten days more ere thou canst return to Lucknao where they teach nothing--at the long price. We shall, I think, be friends.' They were a most mad ten days, but Kim enjoyed himself too much to reflect on their craziness. In the morning they played the Jewel Game--sometimes with veritable stones, sometimes with piles of swords and daggers, sometimes with photo-graphs of natives. Through the afternoons he and the Hindu boy would mount guard in the shop, sitting dumb behind a carpet-bale or a screen and watching Mr Lurgan's many and very curious visitors. There were small Rajahs, escorts coughing in the veranda, who came to buy curiosities--such as phonographs and mechanical toys. There were ladies in search of necklaces, and men, it seemed to Kim--but his mind may have been vitiated by early training--in search of the ladies; natives from independent and feudatory Courts whose ostensible business was the repair of broken necklaces--rivers of light poured out upon the table--but whose true end seemed to be to raise money for angry Maharanees or young Rajahs. There were Babus to whom Lurgan Sahib talked with austerity and authority, but at the end of each interview he gave them money in coined silver and currency notes. There were occasional gatherings of long-coated theatrical natives who discussed metaphysics in English and Bengali, to Mr Lurgan's great edification. He was always interested in religions. At the end of the day, Kim and the Hindu boy--whose name varied at Lurgan's pleasure--were expected to give a detailed account of all that they had seen and heard--their view of each man's character, as shown in his face, talk, and manner, and their notions of his real errand. After dinner, Lurgan Sahib's fancy turned more to what might be called dressing-up, in which game he took a most informing interest. He could paint faces to a marvel; with a brush-dab here and a line there changing them past recognition. The shop was full of all manner of dresses and turbans, and Kim was apparelled variously as a young Mohammedan of good family, an oilman, and once--which was a joyous evening--as the son of an Oudh landholder in the fullest of full dress. Lurgan Sahib had a hawk's eye to detect the least flaw in the make-up; and lying on a worn teak-wood couch, would explain by the half-hour together how such and such a caste talked, or walked, or coughed, or spat, or sneezed, and, since 'hows' matter little in this world, the 'why' of everything. The Hindu child played this game clumsily. That little mind, keen as an icicle where tally of jewels was concerned, could not temper itself to enter another's soul; but a demon in Kim woke up and sang with joy as he put on the changing dresses, and changed speech and gesture therewith. Carried away by enthusiasm, he volunteered to show Lurgan Sahib one evening how the disciples of a certain caste of fakir, old Lahore acquaintances, begged doles by the roadside; and what sort of language he would use to an Englishman, to a Punjabi farmer going to a fair, and to a woman without a veil. Lurgan Sahib laughed immensely, and begged Kim to stay as he was, immobile for half an hour--cross-legged, ash-smeared, and wild-eyed, in the back room. At the end of that time entered a hulking, obese Babu whose stockinged legs shook with fat, and Kim opened on him with a shower of wayside chaff. Lurgan Sahib--this annoyed Kim--watched the Babu and not the play. 'I think,' said the Babu heavily, lighting a cigarette, 'I am of opeenion that it is most extraordinary and effeecient performance. Except that you had told me I should have opined that--that--that you were pulling my legs. How soon can he become approximately effeecient chain-man? Because then I shall indent for him.' 'That is what he must learn at Lucknow.' 'Then order him to be jolly-dam'-quick. Good-night, Lurgan.' The Babu swung out with the gait of a bogged cow. When they were telling over the day's list of visitors, Lurgan Sahib asked Kim who he thought the man might be. 'God knows!' said Kim cheerily. The tone might almost have deceived Mahbub Ali, but it failed entirely with the healer of sick pearls. 'That is true. God, He knows; but I wish to know what you think.' Kim glanced sideways at his companion, whose eye had a way of compelling truth. 'I--I think he will want me when I come from the school, but'--confidentially, as Lurgan Sahib nodded approval--'I do not understand how he can wear many dresses and talk many tongues.' 'Thou wilt understand many things later. He is a writer of tales for a certain Colonel. His honour is great only in Simla, and it is noticeable that he has no name, but only a number and a letter--that is a custom among us.' 'And is there a price upon his head too--as upon Mah--all the others?' 'Not yet; but if a boy rose up who is now sitting here and went--look, the door is open!--as far as a certain house with a red-painted veranda, behind that which was the old theatre in the Lower Bazar, and whispered through the shutters: "Hurree Chunder Mookerjee bore the bad news of last month", that boy might take away a belt full of rupees.' 'How many?' said Kim promptly. 'Five hundred--a thousand--as many as he might ask for.' 'Good. And for how long might such a boy live after the news was told?' He smiled merrily at Lurgan's Sahib's very beard. 'Ah! That is to be well thought of. Perhaps if he were very clever, he might live out the day--but not the night. By no means the night.' 'Then what is the Babu's pay if so much is put upon his head?' 'Eighty--perhaps a hundred--perhaps a hundred and fifty rupees; but the pay is the least part of the work. From time to time, God causes men to be born--and thou art one of them--who have a lust to go abroad at the risk of their lives and discover news--today it may be of far-off things, tomorrow of some hidden mountain, and the next day of some near-by men who have done a foolishness against the State. These souls are very few; and of these few, not more than ten are of the best. Among these ten I count the Babu, and that is curious. How great, therefore, and desirable must be a business that brazens the heart of a Bengali!' 'True. But the days go slowly for me. I am yet a boy, and it is only within two months I learned to write Angrezi. Even now I cannot read it well. And there are yet years and years and long years before I can be even a chain-man.' 'Have patience, Friend of all the World'--Kim started at the title. 'Would I had a few of the years that so irk thee. I have proved thee in several small ways. This will not be forgotten when I make my report to the Colonel Sahib.' Then, changing suddenly into English with a deep laugh: 'By Jove! O'Hara, I think there is a great deal in you; but you must not become proud and you must not talk. You must go back to Lucknow and be a good little boy and mind your book, as the English say, and perhaps, next holidays if you care, you can come back to me!' Kim's face fell. 'Oh, I mean if you like. I know where you want to go.' Four days later a seat was booked for Kim and his small trunk at the rear of a Kalka tonga. His companion was the whale-like Babu, who, with a fringed shawl wrapped round his head, and his fat openwork-stockinged left leg tucked under him, shivered and grunted in the morning chill. 'How comes it that this man is one of us?' thought Kim considering the jelly back as they jolted down the road; and the reflection threw him into most pleasant day-dreams. Lurgan Sahib had given him five rupees--a splendid sum--as well as the assurance of his protection if he worked. Unlike Mahbub, Lurgan Sahib had spoken most explicitly of the reward that would follow obedience, and Kim was content. If only, like the Babu, he could enjoy the dignity of a letter and a number--and a price upon his head! Some day he would be all that and more. Some day he might be almost as great as Mahbub Ali! The housetops of his search should be half India; he would follow Kings and Ministers, as in the old days he had followed vakils and lawyers' touts across Lahore city for Mahbub Ali's sake. Meantime, there was the present, and not at all unpleasant, fact of St Xavier's immediately before him. There would be new boys to condescend to, and there would be tales of holiday adventures to hear. Young Martin, son of the tea-planter at Manipur, had boasted that he would go to war, with a rifle, against the head-hunters. That might be, but it was certain young Martin had not been blown half across the forecourt of a Patiala palace by an explosion of fireworks; nor had he... Kim fell to telling himself the story of his own adventures through the last three months. He could paralyse St Xavier's--even the biggest boys who shaved--with the recital, were that permitted. But it was, of course, out of the question. There would be a price upon his head in good time, as Lurgan Sahib had assured him; and if he talked foolishly now, not only would that price never be set, but Colonel Creighton would cast him off--and he would be left to the wrath of Lurgan Sahib and Mahbub Ali--for the short space of life that would remain to him. 'So I should lose Delhi for the sake of a fish,' was his proverbial philosophy. It behoved him to forget his holidays (there would always remain the fun of inventing imaginary adventures) and, as Lurgan Sahib had said, to work. Of all the boys hurrying back to St Xavier's, from Sukkur in the sands to Galle beneath the palms, none was so filled with virtue as Kimball O'Hara, jiggeting down to Umballa behind Hurree Chunder Mookerjee, whose name on the books of one section of the Ethnological Survey was R.17. And if additional spur were needed, the Babu supplied it. After a huge meal at Kalka, he spoke uninterruptedly. Was Kim going to school? Then he, an M A of Calcutta University, would explain the advantages of education. There were marks to be gained by due attention to Latin and Wordsworth's Excursion (all this was Greek to Kim). French, too was vital, and the best was to be picked up in Chandernagore a few miles from Calcutta. Also a man might go far, as he himself had done, by strict attention to plays called Lear and Julius Caesar, both much in demand by examiners. Lear was not so full of historical allusions as Julius Caesar; the book cost four annas, but could be bought second-hand in Bow Bazar for two. Still more important than Wordsworth, or the eminent authors, Burke and Hare, was the art and science of mensuration. A boy who had passed his examination in these branches--for which, by the way, there were no cram-books--could, by merely marching over a country with a compass and a level and a straight eye, carry away a picture of that country which might be sold for large sums in coined silver. But as it was occasionally inexpedient to carry about measuring-chains a boy would do well to know the precise length of his own foot-pace, so that when he was deprived of what Hurree Chunder called adventitious aids' he might still tread his distances. To keep count of thousands of paces, Hurree Chunder's experience had shown him nothing more valuable than a rosary of eighty-one or a hundred and eight beads, for 'it was divisible and sub-divisible into many multiples and sub-multiples'. Through the volleying drifts of English, Kim caught the general trend of the talk, and it interested him very much. Here was a new craft that a man could tuck away in his head and by the look of the large wide world unfolding itself before him, it seemed that the more a man knew the better for him. Said the Babu when he had talked for an hour and a half 'I hope some day to enjoy your offeecial acquaintance. Ad interim, if I may be pardoned that expression, I shall give you this betel-box, which is highly valuable article and cost me two rupees only four years ago.' It was a cheap, heart-shaped brass thing with three compartments for carrying the eternal betel-nut, lime and pan-leaf; but it was filled with little tabloid-bottles. 'That is reward of merit for your performance in character of that holy man. You see, you are so young you think you will last for ever and not take care of your body. It is great nuisance to go sick in the middle of business. I am fond of drugs myself, and they are handy to cure poor people too. These are good Departmental drugs--quinine and so on. I give it you for souvenir. Now good-bye. I have urgent private business here by the roadside.' He slipped out noiselessly as a cat, on the Umballa road, hailed a passing cart and jingled away, while Kim, tongue-tied, twiddled the brass betel-box in his hands. The record of a boy's education interests few save his parents, and, as you know, Kim was an orphan. It is written in the books of St Xavier's in Partibus that a report of Kim's progress was forwarded at the end of each term to Colonel Creighton and to Father Victor, from whose hands duly came the money for his schooling. It is further recorded in the same books that he showed a great aptitude for mathematical studies as well as map-making, and carried away a prize (The Life of Lord Lawrence, tree-calf, two vols., nine rupees, eight annas) for proficiency therein; and the same term played in St Xavier's eleven against the Alighur Mohammedan College, his age being fourteen years and ten months. He was also re-vaccinated (from which we may assume that there had been another epidemic of smallpox at Lucknow) about the same time. Pencil notes on the edge of an old muster-roll record that he was punished several times for 'conversing with improper persons', and it seems that he was once sentenced to heavy pains for 'absenting himself for a day in the company of a street beggar'. That was when he got over the gate and pleaded with the lama through a whole day down the banks of the Gumti to accompany him on the Road next holidays--for one month--for a little week; and the lama set his face as a flint against it, averring that the time had not yet come. Kim's business, said the old man as they ate cakes together, was to get all the wisdom of the Sahibs and then he would see. The Hand of Friendship must in some way have averted the Whip of Calamity, for six weeks later Kim seems to have passed an examination in elementary surveying 'with great credit', his age being fifteen years and eight months. From this date the record is silent. His name does not appear in the year's batch of those who entered for the subordinate Survey of India, but against it stand the words 'removed on appointment.' Several times in those three years, cast up at the Temple of the Tirthankars in Benares the lama, a little thinner and a shade yellower, if that were possible, but gentle and untainted as ever. Sometimes it was from the South that he came--from south of Tuticorin, whence the wonderful fire-boats go to Ceylon where are priests who know Pali; sometimes it was from the wet green West and the thousand cotton-factory chimneys that ring Bombay; and once from the North, where he had doubled back eight hundred miles to talk for a day with the Keeper of the Images in the Wonder House. He would stride to his cell in the cool, cut marble--the priests of the Temple were good to the old man,--wash off the dust of travel, make prayer, and depart for Lucknow, well accustomed now to the way of the rail, in a third-class carriage. Returning, it was noticeable, as his friend the Seeker pointed out to the head-priest, that he ceased for a while to mourn the loss of his River, or to draw wondrous pictures of the Wheel of Life, but preferred to talk of the beauty and wisdom of a certain mysterious chela whom no man of the Temple had ever seen. Yes, he had followed the traces of the Blessed Feet throughout all India. (The Curator has still in his possession a most marvellous account of his wanderings and meditations.) There remained nothing more in life but to find the River of the Arrow. Yet it was shown to him in dreams that it was a matter not to be undertaken with any hope of success unless that seeker had with him the one chela appointed to bring the event to a happy issue, and versed in great wisdom--such wisdom as white-haired Keepers of Images possess. For example (here came out the snuff-gourd, and the kindly Jain priests made haste to be silent): 'Long and long ago, when Devadatta was King of Benares--let all listen to the Tataka!--an elephant was captured for a time by the king's hunters and ere he broke free, beringed with a grievous legiron. This he strove to remove with hate and frenzy in his heart, and hurrying up and down the forests, besought his brother-elephants to wrench it asunder. One by one, with their strong trunks, they tried and failed. At the last they gave it as their opinion that the ring was not to be broken by any bestial power. And in a thicket, new-born, wet with moisture of birth, lay a day-old calf of the herd whose mother had died. The fettered elephant, forgetting his own agony, said: "If I do not help this suckling it will perish under our feet." So he stood above the young thing, making his legs buttresses against the uneasily moving herd; and he begged milk of a virtuous cow, and the calf throve, and the ringed elephant was the calf's guide and defence. Now the days of an elephant--let all listen to the Tataka!--are thirty-five years to his full strength, and through thirty-five Rains the ringed elephant befriended the younger, and all the while the fetter ate into the flesh. 'Then one day the young elephant saw the half-buried iron, and turning to the elder said: "What is this?" "It is even my sorrow," said he who had befriended him. Then that other put out his trunk and in the twinkling of an eyelash abolished the ring, saying: "The appointed time has come." So the virtuous elephant who had waited temperately and done kind acts was relieved, at the appointed time, by the very calf whom he had turned aside to cherish--let all listen to the Tataka! for the Elephant was Ananda, and the Calf that broke the ring was none other than The Lord Himself...' Then he would shake his head benignly, and over the ever-clicking rosary point out how free that elephant-calf was from the sin of pride. He was as humble as a chela who, seeing his master sitting in the dust outside the Gates of Learning, over-leapt the gates (though they were locked) and took his master to his heart in the presence of the proud-stomached city. Rich would be the reward of such a master and such a chela when the time came for them to seek freedom together! So did the lama speak, coming and going across India as softly as a bat. A sharp-tongued old woman in a house among the fruit-trees behind Saharunpore honoured him as the woman honoured the prophet, but his chamber was by no means upon the wall. In an apartment of the forecourt overlooked by cooing doves he would sit, while she laid aside her useless veil and chattered of spirits and fiends of Kulu, of grandchildren unborn, and of the free-tongued brat who had talked to her in the resting-place. Once, too, he strayed alone from the Grand Trunk Road below Umballa to the very village whose priest had tried to drug him; but the kind Heaven that guards lamas sent him at twilight through the crops, absorbed and unsuspicious, to the Rissaldar's door. Here was like to have been a grave misunderstanding, for the old soldier asked him why the Friend of the Stars had gone that way only six days before. 'That may not be,' said the lama. 'He has gone back to his own people.' 'He sat in that corner telling a hundred merry tales five nights ago,' his host insisted. 'True, he vanished somewhat suddenly in the dawn after foolish talk with my granddaughter. He grows apace, but he is the same Friend of the Stars as brought me true word of the war. Have ye parted?' 'Yes--and no,' the lama replied. 'We--we have not altogether parted, but the time is not ripe that we should take the Road together. He acquires wisdom in another place. We must wait.' 'All one--but if it were not the boy how did he come to speak so continually of thee?' 'And what said he?' asked the lama eagerly. 'Sweet words--an hundred thousand--that thou art his father and mother and such all. Pity that he does not take the Qpeen's service. He is fearless.' This news amazed the lama, who did not then know how religiously Kim kept to the contract made with Mahbub Ali, and perforce ratified by Colonel Creighton... 'There is no holding the young pony from the game,' said the horse-dealer when the Colonel pointed out that vagabonding over India in holiday time was absurd. 'If permission be refused to go and come as he chooses, he will make light of the refusal. Then who is to catch him? Colonel Sahib, only once in a thousand years is a horse born so well fitted for the game as this our colt. And we need men.' Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

Kim übernimmt die Rolle des Sahib. Er ruft einen kleinen hinduistischen Jungen am Straßenrand an, um nach dem Weg zu Lurgans Haus zu fragen. Dort angekommen, findet Kim einen Mann mit schwarzem Bart und grünem Schild, der Perlen zählt und auf eine Schnur fädelt. Sein Zimmer ist voller tibetischer Teufelstanzmasken und japanischer Rüstungen. Der schwarzbärtige Mann erzählt Kim, dass er heute Nacht in diesem Zimmer schlafen muss, und Kim bemerkt, dass der schwarzbärtige Mann testen will, ob er sich vor all diesen fremden und ungewohnten Dingen fürchtet. Kim kauert sich in eine Ecke des Zimmers. Er fragt den kleinen hinduistischen Jungen, ob der schwarzbärtige Kerl Lurgan ist. Als der Hinduist nicht antwortet, schlägt Kim ihn. Kim fragt laut, ob der Hinduist angewiesen wurde, nicht mit ihm zu sprechen; Lurgan antwortet unerwartet von hinten, dass ja, er Anweisungen gegeben hat, dass der Junge nicht mit Kim sprechen darf. Also hört Kim vorerst auf den Hinduisten zu schlagen. In dieser Nacht kann Kim nicht schlafen. Er hört immer wieder seinen Namen und dann etwas wie Stimmen. Es stellt sich heraus, dass die Stimmen aus einer Kiste kommen. Kim stopft seine Jacke in die laute Kiste und schläft dann weiter. Am nächsten Morgen schüttelt Lurgan Kims Hand - er scheint beeindruckt von Kims Kreativität, die Kiste zerstört zu haben, die ihn gestört hat. Lurgan erzählt Kim auch, dass der kleine hinduistische Junge Kim erstechen oder vergiften möchte und dass er ihn für sein schlechtes Verhalten bestraft hat. Lurgans Laden ist ein erstaunlicher Ort, vollgepackt mit seltsamen Gegenständen wie dem Wunderhaus in Lahore. Aber was Kim wirklich gefällt, wenn er dort Zeit verbringt, ist, dass er und Lurgan ähnlich sind: Lurgan hat auch mehrere Seiten seiner Identität - er spricht absolut fließend Urdu und kulturell scheint er nicht englisch zu sein. Lurgan schiebt ein Glas über den Tisch zu Kim und bittet ihn, es zurückzuschieben. Kim tut es, und das Glas fällt vom Tisch und zerbricht. Oder - tut es das? Lurgan macht einige echte David Copperfield-ähnliche Sachen, ermutigt Kim, sein Auge auf das Glas zu richten und zu sehen, dass es ganz ist, es wird ganz ... kann er es nicht sehen? Während Kim hinsieht, kann er fast die schattenhafte Umrisse des Glases sehen, aber er sagt sich immer wieder, dass es zerbrochen sein muss, egal was passiert. Und schließlich stimmt Lurgan zu, dass ja, es zerbrochen ist. Lurgan hat versucht, Kim dazu zu bringen, das zu glauben, was er weiß, dass es nicht wahr ist - dass das Glas immer noch ganz ist - und Kim hat sich gegen seinen Vorschlag gewehrt. Lurgan sagt Kim, dass er der einzige in Lurgans Erfahrung ist, der dies alleine gemacht hat, ohne jegliches Training. Lurgan wendet sich an den hinduistischen Jungen, der schwört, dass er weder Lurgan noch Kim vergiften wird, bittet aber Lurgan, Kim wegzuschicken. Es stellt sich heraus, dass der hinduistische Junge tief eifersüchtig ist, weil es scheint, dass Lurgan Kim bevorzugt. Lurgan beruhigt den Jungen und sagt ihm, dass er als Kims Lehrer im Spiel der Juwelen fungieren kann. Lurgan legt etwa fünfzehn verschiedene Steine auf ein Tablett. Er bittet die Jungen, sich zu merken, was sie über die Steine wissen, und dann bedeckt er sie. Kim stolpert und vergisst, aber der hinduistische Junge erinnert sich perfekt an alle. Sie spielen immer wieder Rematches, aber der Hinduist gewinnt jedes Mal. Schließlich bietet er großzügig an, Kim beizubringen, wie er sich verbessern kann. Also verbringt Kim die nächsten zehn Tage damit, eine Art Version des Spiels Memory zu spielen. Lurgan lässt Kim und den hinduistischen Jungen auch zuschauen, während er eine Vielzahl von Menschen in seinem Laden unterhält - er will, dass sie gut darin werden, Charaktere anhand ihres Aussehens zu beurteilen. Und Kim zeigt auch seine Fähigkeiten in Verkleidung und Nachahmung, die Lurgan tief beeindrucken. Lurgan stellt Kim dem Babu vor, einem indischen Mann, der ebenfalls als Spion für die Regierung arbeitet. Der Babu ist sehr fett und scheint weder über die Sprachkenntnisse noch über die Intelligenz von Lurgan oder Mahbub Ali zu verfügen - Kim hat keine Ahnung, wie jemand so offensichtliches wie der Babu auch ein Geheimagent sein kann. Kim kehrt voller Pläne für seine Zukunft als Spion nach St. Xavier's zurück. Der Babu begleitet ihn nach Lucknow und sie essen zusammen. Der Babu gibt Kim selbstgefällige Ratschläge über die Art der Ausbildung, die Kim bekommen sollte. Der Babu schenkt Kim eine Schachtel, gefüllt mit einer Anzahl von Pillenflaschen, die Kim verwenden kann, wenn er sich jemals als reisender Medikamentenverkäufer ausgeben muss. Während Kim weiterhin in der Schule ist, hat auch der Lama sein Leben gelebt. Der Lama ist zu allen heiligen Stätten in Indien gereist, die mit dem Buddhismus zu tun haben, und die einzige Suche, die ihm noch bleibt, ist die nach dem Fluss des Pfeils. Aber das kann er erst tun, wenn er seinen Schüler zurückhat. Er erzählt allen in den Klöstern, die er besucht, von diesem berühmten Schüler. In einem Jain-Tempel erzählt der Lama ein Gleichnis über einen von Jägern gefangenen Elefanten. Dieser Elefant befreit sich, aber er hat immer noch einen eisernen Ring an seinem Bein. Der Elefant ist voller Wut und Hass - der Ring verletzt ihn, aber keiner seiner Artgenossen kann ihn abnehmen. Er vergisst seinen Schmerz nur, wenn er einen neugeborenen Elefanten sieht, dessen Mutter gerade gestorben ist. Der Elefant erkennt, dass er diesem neugeborenen Elefanten helfen muss, also geht er los, um Milch für ihn zu finden. Seit fünfunddreißig Jahren beißt sich dieser eiserne Ring in das Bein des Elefanten, aber es stört ihn nicht, weil er damit beschäftigt ist, diesen jüngeren Elefanten zu erziehen. Als der jüngere Elefant erwachsen wird, sieht er den im Bein seines Freundes vergrabenen Eisenring; er legt seinen Rüssel auf den Eisenring und der Ring springt auf. Also lautet die Moral der Geschichte, dass der ältere Elefant auf Erleichterung gewartet hat und gute Dinge mit seinem Leben gemacht hat, daher wurde er letztendlich von dem Elefantenbaby befreit, das er gerettet hatte. Der Lama hört von dem alten Soldaten in der Nähe der Grand Trunk Road, dass es Kim gut geht und dass er erwachsen wird; er glaubt, dass die beiden zusammen auf die Straße zurückkehren werden, wenn die Zeit reif ist.

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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: Es war eine wunderbar schöne Sache, dieses hohe Schloss ganz für mich zu haben und mich wie Robinson Crusoe zu fühlen, der sich in seine Festung zurückgezogen und die Leiter hochgezogen hatte. Es war eine wunderbar schöne Sache, mit dem Schlüssel meines Hauses in der Tasche durch die Stadt zu gehen und zu wissen, dass ich jeden Kerl nach Hause bitten konnte und sicher sein konnte, dass es niemandem unbequem war, außer mir selbst. Es war eine wunderbar schöne Sache, mich selbst hinein- und hinauszulassen, ohne mit jemandem ein Wort zu wechseln, und wenn ich Mrs. Crupp aus den Tiefen der Erde heraus läuten wollte, um sie zu mir zu holen - und wenn sie bereit war zu kommen. All dies, sage ich, war wunderbar schön; aber ich muss auch sagen, dass es Zeiten gab, in denen es sehr düster war. Es war schön am Morgen, besonders an den schönen Morgen. Bei Tageslicht sah es nach einem sehr frischen, freien Leben aus: bei Sonnenlicht noch frischer und freier. Aber mit dem Verlauf des Tages schien auch das Leben abzunehmen. Ich weiß nicht wie es kam; es sah selten gut bei Kerzenlicht aus. Dann wollte ich jemanden zum Reden haben. Ich vermisste Agnes. Ich fand eine gewaltige Leere anstelle dieses lächelnden Behälters meines Vertrauens. Mrs. Crupp schien sehr weit weg zu sein. Ich dachte an meinen Vorgänger, der an Trinken und Rauchen gestorben war; und ich hätte gewünscht, er wäre so nett gewesen, zu leben und mich nicht mit seinem Tod zu belästigen. Nach zwei Tagen und Nächten fühlte ich mich, als ob ich ein Jahr lang dort gelebt hätte, und doch war ich nicht eine Stunde älter und wurde genauso von meiner Jugend geplagt wie zuvor. Da Steerforth noch nicht auftauchte und ich befürchtete, dass er krank sein müsse, verließ ich früh am dritten Tag das Commons und ging nach Highgate. Mrs. Steerforth war sehr froh, mich zu sehen, und sagte, er sei mit einem seiner Oxford-Freunde zu einem anderen Freund gefahren, der in der Nähe von St. Albans lebt, aber sie erwartete, dass er morgen zurückkehren würde. Ich mochte ihn so sehr, dass ich fast eifersüchtig auf seine Oxford-Freunde war. Als sie mich drängte, zum Abendessen zu bleiben, blieb ich und wir sprachen den ganzen Tag nur über ihn. Ich erzählte ihr, wie sehr die Leute ihn in Yarmouth mochten und was für ein herrlicher Begleiter er gewesen war. Miss Dartle war voller Andeutungen und mysteriöser Fragen, aber sie interessierte sich sehr für alles, was wir dort unternommen hatten, und sagte immer wieder: "Ist das wirklich so?" und so weiter, dass sie alles aus mir herausbekam, was sie wissen wollte. Ihr Aussehen entsprach genau dem, was ich beschrieben habe, als ich sie zum ersten Mal sah, aber die Gesellschaft der beiden Damen war so angenehm und so natürlich für mich, dass ich mich ein wenig in sie verliebte. Ich konnte nicht anders, als mehrmals im Laufe des Abends und besonders auf dem Nachhauseweg zu denken, was für eine schöne Gesellschaft sie in der Buckingham Street sein würde. Ich trank meinen Kaffee und aß mein Brötchen am Morgen, bevor ich zum Commons ging - und ich kann an dieser Stelle bemerken, dass es erstaunlich ist, wie viel Kaffee Mrs. Crupp benutzte und wie schwach er war - als Steerforth selbst herein kam, zu meiner grenzenlosen Freude. "Mein lieber Steerforth", rief ich aus, "ich dachte schon, ich würde dich nie wiedersehen!" "Ich wurde mit Waffengewalt weggebracht", sagte Steerforth, "gleich am Morgen nach meiner Rückkehr. Du alter Junggeselle hast es hier schön!" Ich führte ihn stolz durch das Anwesen, und vergaß dabei auch die Speisekammer nicht, und er lobte es sehr. "Ich sage dir, Alter", fügte er hinzu, "ich werde dieses Haus ganz wie ein Stadthaus einrichten, es sei denn, du kündigst mir." Das war eine Freude zu hören. Ich sagte ihm, wenn er darauf warten würde, müsste er bis zum Jüngsten Tag warten. "Aber du wirst Frühstück bekommen!" sagte ich und griff nach dem Zugschnur. "Und Mrs. Crupp wird dir frischen Kaffee machen, und ich werde dir Speck in einem holländischen Bratofen toasten, den ich habe." "Nein, nein!" sagte Steerforth. "Läute nicht an! Das kann ich nicht! Ich gehe zum Frühstück mit einem dieser Kerle, die im Piazza Hotel in Covent Garden sind." "Aber du kommst doch zum Abendessen zurück?" sagte ich. "Ich kann nicht, beim besten Willen. Nichts würde mir besser gefallen, aber ich muss bei diesen beiden Typen bleiben. Morgen früh fahren wir alle drei zusammen." "Dann bring sie zum Abendessen hierher", erwiderte ich. "Glaubst du, sie würden kommen?" "Oh! Die würden schnell genug kommen", sagte Steerforth, "aber wir würden dir nur Umstände machen. Es wäre besser, wenn du irgendwo mit uns essen kommst." Dem stimmte ich keinesfalls zu, denn mir kam der Gedanke, dass ich eigentlich ein kleines Einweihungsfest haben sollte, und dass es dafür keine bessere Gelegenheit geben konnte. Ich war stolz auf meine Zimmer, nachdem er sie genehmigt hatte, und brannte vor Verlangen, ihre besten Eigenschaften zu entfalten. Ich ließ ihm also fest zusichern, im Namen seiner beiden Freunde, und wir vereinbarten sechs Uhr als Essenszeit. Als er weg war, läutete ich nach Mrs. Crupp und teilte ihr meinen verzweifelten Plan mit. Mrs. Crupp sagte zuerst natürlich, dass es allgemein bekannt war, dass sie nicht darauf warten konnte, aber sie kannte einen geschickten jungen Mann, der sich vielleicht dazu überreden ließe und dessen Preis fünf Schilling betragen würde, und was auch immer mir recht war. Ich sagte, natürlich hatten wir ihn. Dann sagte Mrs. Crupp, es sei klar, dass sie nicht an zwei Orten gleichzeitig sein könne (was ich für vernünftig hielt), und dass "ein junges Mädchen" in der Speisekammer mit einer Zimmerkerze, das niemals aufhörte, Teller zu waschen, unverzichtbar wäre. Ich fragte, welche Kosten mit diesem jungen Mädchen verbunden wären, und Mrs. Crupp sagte, sie vermute, dass achtzehn Pence nichts für mich wären. Ich sagte, das würde mich weder ruinieren noch retten. Ich sagte, das sei erledigt. Dann sagte Mrs. Crupp: "Jetzt geht es weiter mit dem Abendessen." Es war ein bemerkenswertes Beispiel für mangelnde Voraussicht auf Seiten des Eisenwarenhändlers, der den Küchenkamin von Mrs. Crupp gebaut hatte, dass er nichts anderes als Koteletts und Kartoffelbrei kochen konnte. Was einen Fischtopf betraf, sagte Mrs. Crupp, naja! Sollte ich nicht kommen und mir den Herd ansehen? Sie könne nicht fairer sein als das. Sollte ich kommen und mir das ansehen? Da ich nicht viel klüger geworden wäre, wenn ich es mir angesehen hätte, lehnte ich ab und sagte: "Egal, kein Fisch." Aber Mrs. Crupp sagte: "Sag das nicht. Austern sind erhältlich, warum also nicht?" Also war das geklärt. Dann sagte Mrs. Crupp, was sie empfehlen würde. Ein Paar heiß geröstete Hühner aus dem Konditorladen; eine Schüssel geschmortes Rindfleisch mit Gemüse aus dem Konditorladen; zwei kleine Eckstücke, wie eine Pastete und eine Schüssel Nieren, ebenfalls aus dem Konditorladen; eine Torte und (wenn ich wollte) "Ich sagte: 'Es ist keine schlechte Situation' und die Zimmer sind wirklich geräumig." "Ich hoffe, ihr habt beide Appetit mitgebracht?" sagte Steerforth. "Auf Ehre," erwiderte Markham, "die Stadt scheint appetitanregend zu sein. Man ist den ganzen Tag hungrig. Man isst ständig." Am Anfang war ich ein wenig verlegen und fühlte mich viel zu jung, um den Vorsitz zu führen, also ließ ich Steerforth den Platz am Kopf des Tisches einnehmen, als das Abendessen verkündet wurde, und setzte mich ihm gegenüber. Alles war sehr gut, wir sparten nicht beim Wein, und er bemühte sich so brillant, dass es keine Pause in unserer Feierlichkeit gab. Während des Abendessens war ich nicht ganz so gute Gesellschaft, wie ich hätte sein sollen, denn mein Stuhl war gegenüber der Tür und meine Aufmerksamkeit wurde abgelenkt, indem ich bemerkte, dass der geschickte junge Mann oft aus dem Raum ging und dass sein Schatten sofort danach an der Wand des Eingangs erschien, mit einer Flasche am Mund. Die "junge Frau" bereitete mir ebenfalls etwas Unbehagen, nicht so sehr durch das Vernachlässigen des Abwaschens der Teller, sondern dadurch, dass sie sie zerbrach. Denn aufgrund ihrer neugierigen Veranlagung, und da sie sich nicht (wie ihr ausdrücklicher Befehl lautete) auf die Speisekammer beschränken konnte, spähte sie ständig zu uns herüber und bildete sich ständig ein, erwischt zu werden. In diesem Glauben zog sie sich mehrmals auf die Teller zurück (mit denen sie sorgfältig den Boden gepflastert hatte) und verursachte eine Menge Zerstörung. Dies waren jedoch kleine Einschränkungen, die leicht vergessen waren, als das Tischtuch abgeräumt und das Dessert auf den Tisch gestellt wurde. Zu diesem Zeitpunkt wurde festgestellt, dass der geschickte junge Mann sprachlos war. Ich gab ihm private Anweisungen, sich in die Gesellschaft von Mrs. Crupp zu begeben und die "junge Frau" ebenfalls in den Keller zu bringen, und ergab mich dem Genuss. Ich begann überschwänglich fröhlich und guter Dinge zu sein; allerlei halbvergessene Dinge, über die man sprechen konnte, strömten mir in den Sinn und veranlassten mich, in einer sehr ungewöhnlichen Weise zu schwadronieren. Ich lachte laut über meine eigenen Witze und über die der anderen; rief Steerforth zur Ordnung, weil er den Wein nicht weiterreichte; vereinbarte mehrere Termine, nach Oxford zu gehen; kündigte an, dass ich einmal wöchentlich ein Abendessen genau wie dieses veranstalten wolle, bis auf weiteres; und nahm so viel Tabak aus Graingers Schachtel, dass ich in die Speisekammer gehen musste und dort zehn Minuten lang niesen musste. Ich fuhr fort, den Wein schneller und schneller weiterzureichen und immer wieder aufzuspringen, um mit einem Korkenzieher Wein zu öffnen, lange bevor welcher benötigt wurde. Ich schlug Steerforth's Wohl vor. Ich sagte, er sei mein liebster Freund, der Beschützer meiner Kindheit und der Begleiter meiner Blütezeit. Ich sagte, ich freue mich, sein Wohl vorzuschlagen. Ich sagte, ich wäre ihm mehr Verpflichtungen schuldig, als ich je zurückzahlen könnte, und halte ihn in höherer Bewunderung, als ich jemals ausdrücken könnte. Zum Schluss sagte ich: "Steerforth, ich gebe dir! Gott segne ihn! Hurra!" Wir gaben ihm drei Mal drei und noch eins und ein Gutes zum Abschluss. Beim Rundgang um den Tisch brach ich mein Glas, als ich versuchte, ihm die Hand zu schütteln, und ich sagte (in zwei Worten): "Steerforth - du bist der Leitstern meines Lebens." Ich fuhr fort, indem ich plötzlich feststellte, dass jemand in der Mitte eines Liedes war. Markham war der Sänger und er sang "Wenn das Herz eines Mannes von Sorgen niedergedrückt ist". Er sagte, nachdem er es gesungen hätte, würde er uns "Frauen" geben. Dagegen hatte ich Einwände und konnte es nicht erlauben. Ich sagte, es sei keine respektvolle Art, den Toast zu machen, und ich würde nie erlauben, dass dieser Toast in meinem Haus anders als als "Die Damen!" getrunken wird. Ich war sehr erregt, hauptsächlich, glaube ich, weil ich sah, wie Steerforth und Grainger über mich lachten - oder über ihn - oder über uns beide. Er sagte, dass ein Mann nicht vorgeschrieben bekommen dürfe. Ich sagte, dass ein Mann es dürfe. Er sagte, dass ein Mann nicht beleidigt werden dürfe. Da sagte ich ihm, dass er dort recht hatte - niemals unter meinem Dach, wo die Laren heilig waren und das Gastrecht vorrangig war. Er sagte, es sei keine Erniedrigung für die Würde eines Mannes zuzugeben, dass ich ein fürchterlich guter Kerl sei. Ich schlug sofort sein Wohl vor. Jemand rauchte. Wir alle rauchten. Ich rauchte und versuchte, ein aufsteigendes Zittern zu unterdrücken. Steerforth hatte eine Rede über mich gehalten, bei der ich fast zu Tränen gerührt war. Ich bedankte mich und hoffte, dass die Anwesenden morgen und übermorgen mit mir zu Abend essen würden, jeweils um fünf Uhr, damit wir die Freuden von Gespräch und Gesellschaft an einem langen Abend genießen könnten. Ich fühlte mich dazu verpflichtet, eine Person vorzuschlagen. Ich würde ihnen meine Tante geben. Miss Betsey Trotwood, die Beste ihres Geschlechts! Jemand lehnte aus dem Fenster meines Schlafzimmers und erfrischte seine Stirn an dem kühlen Stein der Brüstung und spürte die Luft auf seinem Gesicht. Das war ich. Ich adressierte mich selbst als 'Copperfield' und sagte: 'Warum hast du versucht zu rauchen? Du hättest wissen müssen, dass du es nicht kannst.' Jetzt betrachtete jemand unsicher sein Gesicht in dem Spiegel. Das war auch ich. Ich war sehr blass im Spiegel, meine Augen hatten einen leeren Ausdruck und meine Haare - nur meine Haare, sonst nichts - sahen betrunken aus. Jemand sagte zu mir: 'Lass uns ins Theater gehen, Copperfield!' Vor mir war kein Schlafzimmer, sondern wieder der klingelnde Tisch mit Gläsern, die Lampe, Grainger rechts von mir, Markham links von mir und Steerforth gegenüber - alle in einem Nebel sitzend und weit entfernt. Das Theater? Natürlich. Genau das Richtige. Los geht's! Aber sie müssen mich entschuldigen, wenn ich jeden erst hinausgehen sehe und die Lampe ausschalte - für den Fall eines Brandes. Aufgrund einer gewissen Verwirrung in der Dunkelheit war die Tür weg. Ich tastete nach ihr in den Vorhängen des Fensters, als Steerforth lachend meinen Arm nahm und mich hinausführte. Wir gingen die Treppe hinunter, einer nach dem anderen. In der Nähe des unteren Endes stürzte jemand und rollte hinunter. Jemand anderes sagte, es sei Copperfield gewesen. Über die falsche Meldung war ich verärgert, bis ich mich im Gang auf dem Rücken liegend wiederfand und anfing zu glauben, dass doch etwas daran sein musste. Eine sehr neblige Nacht mit großen Ringen um die Straßenlaternen! Es wurde unklar darüber gesprochen, ob es nass sei. Ich hielt es für frostig. Steerforth klopfte mir unter einer Laterne den Staub ab und gab meinem Hut eine Form, den jemand auf die ungewöhnlichste Weise hervorbrachte, denn ich hatte ihn zuvor nicht aufgehabt. Steerforth sagte dann: 'Du bist in Ordnung, Copperfield, oder?' und ich antwortete ihm: 'Niemals besser.' Ein Mann, der in Auf ihre Aufforderung hin versuchte ich, es zu reparieren und etwas von dem zu hören, was dort vor sich ging, aber vergeblich. Ich sah sie nach einer Weile wieder an und sah, wie sie sich in ihre Ecke zurückzog und ihre behandschuhte Hand an die Stirn legte. "Agnes!", sagte ich. "Ich habe Angst, dass es dir nicht gut geht." "Ja, ja. Achte nicht auf mich, Trotwood", erwiderte sie. "Hör zu! Gehst du bald weg?" "Gehst du bald weg?", wiederholte ich. "Ja." Ich hatte die dumme Absicht zu antworten, dass ich warten würde, um sie nach unten zu begleiten. Ich nehme an, dass ich es irgendwie ausgedrückt habe; denn nachdem sie mich eine Weile aufmerksam betrachtet hatte, schien sie es zu verstehen und antwortete leise: "Ich weiß, du wirst tun, was ich dich bitte, wenn ich dir sage, dass es mir sehr wichtig ist. Geh jetzt weg, Trotwood, meinetwegen, und bitte deine Freunde, dich nach Hause zu bringen." Sie hatte mich bis zu diesem Zeitpunkt soweit beeinflusst, dass ich, obwohl ich wütend auf sie war, mich schämte und mit einem kurzen "Goori!" (das eigentlich "Gute Nacht!" bedeuten sollte) aufstand und ging. Sie folgten und ich trat sofort aus der Zimmertür in mein Schlafzimmer, wo nur Steerforth bei mir war, mir half, mich auszuziehen, und wo ich ihm abwechselnd erzählte, dass Agnes meine Schwester war und ihn anflehte, den Korkenzieher zu bringen, damit ich noch eine Flasche Wein öffnen könnte. Wie jemand in meinem Bett lag und dies alles immer wieder über Kreuz in einem fiebrigen Traum sagte und tat - das Bett war ein schwankendes Meer, das niemals still stand! Wie, als dieser jemand langsam in mir selbst zur Ruhe kam, begann ich auszutrocknen und mich zu fühlen, als ob meine äußere Haut eine harte Holzplatte wäre; meine Zunge der Boden eines leeren Wasserkessels, mit langem Dienst bedeckt und über einem langsamen Feuer brennend; die Handflächen, heiße Metallplatten, die keine Eis kühlen konnte! Aber die geistige Qual, das Bedauern und die Scham, die ich am nächsten Tag verspürte! Mein Entsetzen darüber, tausend Vergehen begangen zu haben, die ich vergessen hatte und die niemals gesühnt werden könnten - meine Erinnerung an diesen unauslöschlichen Blick, den mir Agnes zugeworfen hatte - die qualvolle Unmöglichkeit, mit ihr in Kontakt zu treten, ohne zu wissen, Bestie, die ich war, wie sie nach London gekommen war oder wo sie wohnte - mein Ekel vor dem bloßen Anblick des Raumes, in dem das Gelage stattgefunden hatte - mein pochender Kopf - der Geruch von Rauch, der Anblick von Gläsern - die Unmöglichkeit, hinauszugehen oder auch nur aufzustehen! Oh, was für ein Tag das war! Oh, was für ein Abend, als ich mich an meinem Feuer zu einer Schüssel Hammelbrühe setzte, die von oben bis unten mit Fett verziert war und dachte, dass ich dem Schicksal meines Vorgängers folgen würde und sowohl seine düstere Geschichte als auch seine Kammern übernehmen würde und halb dazu geneigt war, express nach Dover zu rennen und alles zu offenbaren! Was für ein Abend, als Frau Crupp hereinkam, um die Brühenschüssel wegzunehmen, und eine Niere auf einem Käseteller als die einzigen Überreste vom gestrigen Festmahl präsentierte, und ich wirklich versucht war, mich auf ihre Nankeen-Brust zu werfen und in aufrichtiger Reue zu sagen: "Oh, Frau Crupp, Frau Crupp, achten Sie nicht auf die Reste! Es geht mir sehr schlecht!" - nur dass ich selbst in dieser Situation zweifelte, ob Frau Crupp wirklich die Art von Frau war, der man vertrauen konnte! Kannst du eine adäquate Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

Meine erste Entkräftung. David ist glücklich mit seinem neuen unabhängigen Leben, aber er vermisst Agnes. Er fragt sich, warum Steerforth ihn nicht besucht hat, und geht deshalb zum Haus von Mrs. Steerforth, um nachzufragen. Steerforth ist auf Besuch bei Freunden, aber Mrs. Steerforth und Rosa Dartle unterhalten David, indem sie ständig das Lob auf Steerforth singen. Schließlich kommt Steerforth an, und David lädt ihn und seine Freunde zu seiner Unterkunft zu einer Party ein. David gibt sich die größte Mühe, ein üppiges Angebot an Essen und Getränken bereitzustellen. Die Gäste kommen, und alle essen zu Abend. David raucht und wird das erste Mal betrunken, und dann, weil er sich schlecht fühlt, geht er mit seinen Gästen ins Theater. Dort trifft er Agnes, die ihm rät, nach Hause zu gehen. Er tut das, und Steerforth bringt ihn ins Bett.

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.

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 XI Who rears the bloody hand? SAYERS Emily remained in her chamber, on the following morning, without receiving any notice from Montoni, or seeing a human being, except the armed men, who sometimes passed on the terrace below. Having tasted no food since the dinner of the preceding day, extreme faintness made her feel the necessity of quitting the asylum of her apartment to obtain refreshment, and she was also very anxious to procure liberty for Annette. Willing, however, to defer venturing forth, as long as possible, and considering, whether she should apply to Montoni, or to the compassion of some other person, her excessive anxiety concerning her aunt, at length, overcame her abhorrence of his presence, and she determined to go to him, and to entreat, that he would suffer her to see Madame Montoni. Meanwhile, it was too certain, from the absence of Annette, that some accident had befallen Ludovico, and that she was still in confinement; Emily, therefore, resolved also to visit the chamber, where she had spoken to her, on the preceding night, and, if the poor girl was yet there, to inform Montoni of her situation. It was near noon, before she ventured from her apartment, and went first to the south gallery, whither she passed without meeting a single person, or hearing a sound, except, now and then, the echo of a distant footstep. It was unnecessary to call Annette, whose lamentations were audible upon the first approach to the gallery, and who, bewailing her own and Ludovico's fate, told Emily, that she should certainly be starved to death, if she was not let out immediately. Emily replied, that she was going to beg her release of Montoni; but the terrors of hunger now yielded to those of the Signor, and, when Emily left her, she was loudly entreating, that her place of refuge might be concealed from him. As Emily drew near the great hall, the sounds she heard and the people she met in the passages renewed her alarm. The latter, however, were peaceable, and did not interrupt her, though they looked earnestly at her, as she passed, and sometimes spoke. On crossing the hall towards the cedar room, where Montoni usually sat, she perceived, on the pavement, fragments of swords, some tattered garments stained with blood, and almost expected to have seen among them a dead body; but from such a spectacle she was, at present, spared. As she approached the room, the sound of several voices issued from within, and a dread of appearing before many strangers, as well as of irritating Montoni by such an intrusion, made her pause and falter from her purpose. She looked up through the long arcades of the hall, in search of a servant, who might bear a message, but no one appeared, and the urgency of what she had to request made her still linger near the door. The voices within were not in contention, though she distinguished those of several of the guests of the preceding day; but still her resolution failed, whenever she would have tapped at the door, and she had determined to walk in the hall, till some person should appear, who might call Montoni from the room, when, as she turned from the door, it was suddenly opened by himself. Emily trembled, and was confused, while he almost started with surprise, and all the terrors of his countenance unfolded themselves. She forgot all she would have said, and neither enquired for her aunt, or entreated for Annette, but stood silent and embarrassed. After closing the door he reproved her for a meanness, of which she had not been guilty, and sternly questioned her what she had overheard; an accusation, which revived her recollection so far, that she assured him she had not come thither with an intention to listen to his conversation, but to entreat his compassion for her aunt, and for Annette. Montoni seemed to doubt this assertion, for he regarded her with a scrutinizing look; and the doubt evidently arose from no trifling interest. Emily then further explained herself, and concluded with entreating him to inform her, where her aunt was placed, and to permit, that she might visit her; but he looked upon her only with a malignant smile, which instantaneously confirmed her worst fears for her aunt, and, at that moment, she had not courage to renew her entreaties. 'For Annette,' said he,--'if you go to Carlo, he will release the girl; the foolish fellow, who shut her up, died yesterday.' Emily shuddered.--'But my aunt, Signor'--said she, 'O tell me of my aunt!' 'She is taken care of,' replied Montoni hastily, 'I have no time to answer idle questions.' He would have passed on, but Emily, in a voice of agony, that could not be wholly resisted, conjured him to tell her, where Madame Montoni was; while he paused, and she anxiously watched his countenance, a trumpet sounded, and, in the next moment, she heard the heavy gates of the portal open, and then the clattering of horses' hoofs in the court, with the confusion of many voices. She stood for a moment hesitating whether she should follow Montoni, who, at the sound of the trumpet, had passed through the hall, and, turning her eyes whence it came, she saw through the door, that opened beyond a long perspective of arches into the courts, a party of horsemen, whom she judged, as well as the distance and her embarrassment would allow, to be the same she had seen depart, a few days before. But she staid not to scrutinize, for, when the trumpet sounded again, the chevaliers rushed out of the cedar room, and men came running into the hall from every quarter of the castle. Emily once more hurried for shelter to her own apartment. Thither she was still pursued by images of horror. She re-considered Montoni's manner and words, when he had spoken of his wife, and they served only to confirm her most terrible suspicions. Tears refused any longer to relieve her distress, and she had sat for a considerable time absorbed in thought, when a knocking at the chamber door aroused her, on opening which she found old Carlo. 'Dear young lady,' said he, 'I have been so flurried, I never once thought of you till just now. I have brought you some fruit and wine, and I am sure you must stand in need of them by this time.' 'Thank you, Carlo,' said Emily, 'this is very good of you Did the Signor remind you of me?' 'No, Signora,' replied Carlo, 'his excellenza has business enough on his hands.' Emily then renewed her enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, but Carlo had been employed at the other end of the castle, during the time, that she was removed, and he had heard nothing since, concerning her. While he spoke, Emily looked steadily at him, for she scarcely knew whether he was really ignorant, or concealed his knowledge of the truth from a fear of offending his master. To several questions, concerning the contentions of yesterday, he gave very limited answers; but told, that the disputes were now amicably settled, and that the Signor believed himself to have been mistaken in his suspicions of his guests. 'The fighting was about that, Signora,' said Carlo; 'but I trust I shall never see such another day in this castle, though strange things are about to be done.' On her enquiring his meaning, 'Ah, Signora!' added he, 'it is not for me to betray secrets, or tell all I think, but time will tell.' She then desired him to release Annette, and, having described the chamber in which the poor girl was confined, he promised to obey her immediately, and was departing, when she remembered to ask who were the persons just arrived. Her late conjecture was right; it was Verezzi, with his party. Her spirits were somewhat soothed by this short conversation with Carlo; for, in her present circumstances, it afforded some comfort to hear the accents of compassion, and to meet the look of sympathy. An hour passed before Annette appeared, who then came weeping and sobbing. 'O Ludovico--Ludovico!' cried she. 'My poor Annette!' said Emily, and made her sit down. 'Who could have foreseen this, ma'amselle? O miserable, wretched, day--that ever I should live to see it!' and she continued to moan and lament, till Emily thought it necessary to check her excess of grief. 'We are continually losing dear friends by death,' said she, with a sigh, that came from her heart. 'We must submit to the will of Heaven--our tears, alas! cannot recall the dead!' Annette took the handkerchief from her face. 'You will meet Ludovico in a better world, I hope,' added Emily. 'Yes--yes,--ma'amselle,' sobbed Annette, 'but I hope I shall meet him again in this--though he is so wounded!' 'Wounded!' exclaimed Emily, 'does he live?' 'Yes, ma'am, but--but he has a terrible wound, and could not come to let me out. They thought him dead, at first, and he has not been rightly himself, till within this hour.' 'Well, Annette, I rejoice to hear he lives.' 'Lives! Holy Saints! why he will not die, surely!' Emily said she hoped not, but this expression of hope Annette thought implied fear, and her own increased in proportion, as Emily endeavoured to encourage her. To enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, she could give no satisfactory answers. 'I quite forgot to ask among the servants, ma'amselle,' said she, 'for I could think of nobody but poor Ludovico.' Annette's grief was now somewhat assuaged, and Emily sent her to make enquiries, concerning her lady, of whom, however, she could obtain no intelligence, some of the people she spoke with being really ignorant of her fate, and others having probably received orders to conceal it. This day passed with Emily in continued grief and anxiety for her aunt; but she was unmolested by any notice from Montoni; and, now that Annette was liberated, she obtained food, without exposing herself to danger, or impertinence. Two following days passed in the same manner, unmarked by any occurrence, during which she obtained no information of Madame Montoni. On the evening of the second, having dismissed Annette, and retired to bed, her mind became haunted by the most dismal images, such as her long anxiety, concerning her aunt, suggested; and, unable to forget herself, for a moment, or to vanquish the phantoms, that tormented her, she rose from her bed, and went to one of the casements of her chamber, to breathe a freer air. All without was silent and dark, unless that could be called light, which was only the faint glimmer of the stars, shewing imperfectly the outline of the mountains, the western towers of the castle and the ramparts below, where a solitary sentinel was pacing. What an image of repose did this scene present! The fierce and terrible passions, too, which so often agitated the inhabitants of this edifice, seemed now hushed in sleep;--those mysterious workings, that rouse the elements of man's nature into tempest--were calm. Emily's heart was not so; but her sufferings, though deep, partook of the gentle character of her mind. Hers was a silent anguish, weeping, yet enduring; not the wild energy of passion, inflaming imagination, bearing down the barriers of reason and living in a world of its own. The air refreshed her, and she continued at the casement, looking on the shadowy scene, over which the planets burned with a clear light, amid the deep blue aether, as they silently moved in their destined course. She remembered how often she had gazed on them with her dear father, how often he had pointed out their way in the heavens, and explained their laws; and these reflections led to others, which, in an almost equal degree, awakened her grief and astonishment. They brought a retrospect of all the strange and mournful events, which had occurred since she lived in peace with her parents. And to Emily, who had been so tenderly educated, so tenderly loved, who once knew only goodness and happiness--to her, the late events and her present situation--in a foreign land--in a remote castle--surrounded by vice and violence--seemed more like the visions of a distempered imagination, than the circumstances of truth. She wept to think of what her parents would have suffered, could they have foreseen the events of her future life. While she raised her streaming eyes to heaven, she observed the same planet, which she had seen in Languedoc, on the night, preceding her father's death, rise above the eastern towers of the castle, while she remembered the conversation, which has passed, concerning the probable state of departed souls; remembered, also, the solemn music she had heard, and to which the tenderness of her spirits had, in spite of her reason, given a superstitious meaning. At these recollections she wept again, and continued musing, when suddenly the notes of sweet music passed on the air. A superstitious dread stole over her; she stood listening, for some moments, in trembling expectation, and then endeavoured to re-collect her thoughts, and to reason herself into composure; but human reason cannot establish her laws on subjects, lost in the obscurity of imagination, any more than the eye can ascertain the form of objects, that only glimmer through the dimness of night. Her surprise, on hearing such soothing and delicious sounds, was, at least, justifiable; for it was long--very long, since she had listened to any thing like melody. The fierce trumpet and the shrill fife were the only instruments she had heard, since her arrival at Udolpho. When her mind was somewhat more composed, she tried to ascertain from what quarter the sounds proceeded, and thought they came from below; but whether from a room of the castle, or from the terrace, she could not with certainty judge. Fear and surprise now yielded to the enchantment of a strain, that floated on the silent night, with the most soft and melancholy sweetness. Suddenly, it seemed removed to a distance, trembled faintly, and then entirely ceased. She continued to listen, sunk in that pleasing repose, which soft music leaves on the mind--but it came no more. Upon this strange circumstance her thoughts were long engaged, for strange it certainly was to hear music at midnight, when every inhabitant of the castle had long since retired to rest, and in a place, where nothing like harmony had been heard before, probably, for many years. Long-suffering had made her spirits peculiarly sensible to terror, and liable to be affected by the illusions of superstition.--It now seemed to her, as if her dead father had spoken to her in that strain, to inspire her with comfort and confidence, on the subject, which had then occupied her mind. Yet reason told her, that this was a wild conjecture, and she was inclined to dismiss it; but, with the inconsistency so natural, when imagination guides the thoughts, she then wavered towards a belief as wild. She remembered the singular event, connected with the castle, which had given it into the possession of its present owner; and, when she considered the mysterious manner, in which its late possessor had disappeared, and that she had never since been heard of, her mind was impressed with an high degree of solemn awe; so that, though there appeared no clue to connect that event with the late music, she was inclined fancifully to think they had some relation to each other. At this conjecture, a sudden chillness ran through her frame; she looked fearfully upon the duskiness of her chamber, and the dead silence, that prevailed there, heightened to her fancy its gloomy aspect. At length, she left the casement, but her steps faltered, as she approached the bed, and she stopped and looked round. The single lamp, that burned in her spacious chamber, was expiring; for a moment, she shrunk from the darkness beyond; and then, ashamed of the weakness, which, however, she could not wholly conquer, went forward to the bed, where her mind did not soon know the soothings of sleep. She still mused on the late occurrence, and looked with anxiety to the next night, when, at the same hour, she determined to watch whether the music returned. 'If those sounds were human,' said she, 'I shall probably hear them again.' Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

Em wacht von einem kleinen Nickerchen auf und entscheidet sich endlich, Montoni danach zu fragen, ob er Annette aus dem Zimmer lässt. Nett von ihr, dass sie es so eilig hat. Sie sieht Überreste des Kampfes überall verstreut. Em trifft Montoni im Flur. Er befürchtet, dass sie etwas gehört hat, was er gesagt hat, verspricht aber, Annette aus dem Zimmer zu holen. Als Annette endlich herauskommt, ist sie wegen Ludovico sehr aufgewühlt. Es scheint, er habe eine beinahe tödliche Verletzung erlitten. Em gibt sich ihrer Lieblingsgewohnheit hin, als sie in der Ferne seltsame Musik hört. Sie ist tatsächlich tröstlich für das arme Mädchen, das an ihren geliebten verstorbenen Vater erinnert wird.

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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. Chapter: Yesterday afternoon set in misty and cold. I had half a mind to spend it by my study fire, instead of wading through heath and mud to Wuthering Heights. On coming up from dinner, however, (N.B.--I dine between twelve and one o'clock; the housekeeper, a matronly lady, taken as a fixture along with the house, could not, or would not, comprehend my request that I might be served at five)--on mounting the stairs with this lazy intention, and stepping into the room, I saw a servant-girl on her knees surrounded by brushes and coal-scuttles, and raising an infernal dust as she extinguished the flames with heaps of cinders. This spectacle drove me back immediately; I took my hat, and, after a four-miles' walk, arrived at Heathcliff's garden-gate just in time to escape the first feathery flakes of a snow-shower. On that bleak hill-top the earth was hard with a black frost, and the air made me shiver through every limb. Being unable to remove the chain, I jumped over, and, running up the flagged causeway bordered with straggling gooseberry-bushes, knocked vainly for admittance, till my knuckles tingled and the dogs howled. 'Wretched inmates!' I ejaculated, mentally, 'you deserve perpetual isolation from your species for your churlish inhospitality. At least, I would not keep my doors barred in the day-time. I don't care--I will get in!' So resolved, I grasped the latch and shook it vehemently. Vinegar-faced Joseph projected his head from a round window of the barn. 'What are ye for?' he shouted. 'T' maister's down i' t' fowld. Go round by th' end o' t' laith, if ye went to spake to him.' 'Is there nobody inside to open the door?' I hallooed, responsively. 'There's nobbut t' missis; and shoo'll not oppen 't an ye mak' yer flaysome dins till neeght.' 'Why? Cannot you tell her whom I am, eh, Joseph?' 'Nor-ne me! I'll hae no hend wi't,' muttered the head, vanishing. The snow began to drive thickly. I seized the handle to essay another trial; when a young man without coat, and shouldering a pitchfork, appeared in the yard behind. He hailed me to follow him, and, after marching through a wash-house, and a paved area containing a coal-shed, pump, and pigeon-cot, we at length arrived in the huge, warm, cheerful apartment where I was formerly received. It glowed delightfully in the radiance of an immense fire, compounded of coal, peat, and wood; and near the table, laid for a plentiful evening meal, I was pleased to observe the 'missis,' an individual whose existence I had never previously suspected. I bowed and waited, thinking she would bid me take a seat. She looked at me, leaning back in her chair, and remained motionless and mute. 'Rough weather!' I remarked. 'I'm afraid, Mrs. Heathcliff, the door must bear the consequence of your servants' leisure attendance: I had hard work to make them hear me.' She never opened her mouth. I stared--she stared also: at any rate, she kept her eyes on me in a cool, regardless manner, exceedingly embarrassing and disagreeable. 'Sit down,' said the young man, gruffly. 'He'll be in soon.' I obeyed; and hemmed, and called the villain Juno, who deigned, at this second interview, to move the extreme tip of her tail, in token of owning my acquaintance. 'A beautiful animal!' I commenced again. 'Do you intend parting with the little ones, madam?' 'They are not mine,' said the amiable hostess, more repellingly than Heathcliff himself could have replied. 'Ah, your favourites are among these?' I continued, turning to an obscure cushion full of something like cats. 'A strange choice of favourites!' she observed scornfully. Unluckily, it was a heap of dead rabbits. I hemmed once more, and drew closer to the hearth, repeating my comment on the wildness of the evening. 'You should not have come out,' she said, rising and reaching from the chimney-piece two of the painted canisters. Her position before was sheltered from the light; now, I had a distinct view of her whole figure and countenance. She was slender, and apparently scarcely past girlhood: an admirable form, and the most exquisite little face that I have ever had the pleasure of beholding; small features, very fair; flaxen ringlets, or rather golden, hanging loose on her delicate neck; and eyes, had they been agreeable in expression, that would have been irresistible: fortunately for my susceptible heart, the only sentiment they evinced hovered between scorn and a kind of desperation, singularly unnatural to be detected there. The canisters were almost out of her reach; I made a motion to aid her; she turned upon me as a miser might turn if any one attempted to assist him in counting his gold. 'I don't want your help,' she snapped; 'I can get them for myself.' 'I beg your pardon!' I hastened to reply. 'Were you asked to tea?' she demanded, tying an apron over her neat black frock, and standing with a spoonful of the leaf poised over the pot. 'I shall be glad to have a cup,' I answered. 'Were you asked?' she repeated. 'No,' I said, half smiling. 'You are the proper person to ask me.' She flung the tea back, spoon and all, and resumed her chair in a pet; her forehead corrugated, and her red under-lip pushed out, like a child's ready to cry. Meanwhile, the young man had slung on to his person a decidedly shabby upper garment, and, erecting himself before the blaze, looked down on me from the corner of his eyes, for all the world as if there were some mortal feud unavenged between us. I began to doubt whether he were a servant or not: his dress and speech were both rude, entirely devoid of the superiority observable in Mr. and Mrs. Heathcliff; his thick brown curls were rough and uncultivated, his whiskers encroached bearishly over his cheeks, and his hands were embrowned like those of a common labourer: still his bearing was free, almost haughty, and he showed none of a domestic's assiduity in attending on the lady of the house. In the absence of clear proofs of his condition, I deemed it best to abstain from noticing his curious conduct; and, five minutes afterwards, the entrance of Heathcliff relieved me, in some measure, from my uncomfortable state. 'You see, sir, I am come, according to promise!' I exclaimed, assuming the cheerful; 'and I fear I shall be weather-bound for half an hour, if you can afford me shelter during that space.' 'Half an hour?' he said, shaking the white flakes from his clothes; 'I wonder you should select the thick of a snow-storm to ramble about in. Do you know that you run a risk of being lost in the marshes? People familiar with these moors often miss their road on such evenings; and I can tell you there is no chance of a change at present.' 'Perhaps I can get a guide among your lads, and he might stay at the Grange till morning--could you spare me one?' 'No, I could not.' 'Oh, indeed! Well, then, I must trust to my own sagacity.' 'Umph!' 'Are you going to mak' the tea?' demanded he of the shabby coat, shifting his ferocious gaze from me to the young lady. 'Is _he_ to have any?' she asked, appealing to Heathcliff. 'Get it ready, will you?' was the answer, uttered so savagely that I started. The tone in which the words were said revealed a genuine bad nature. I no longer felt inclined to call Heathcliff a capital fellow. When the preparations were finished, he invited me with--'Now, sir, bring forward your chair.' And we all, including the rustic youth, drew round the table: an austere silence prevailing while we discussed our meal. I thought, if I had caused the cloud, it was my duty to make an effort to dispel it. They could not every day sit so grim and taciturn; and it was impossible, however ill-tempered they might be, that the universal scowl they wore was their every-day countenance. 'It is strange,' I began, in the interval of swallowing one cup of tea and receiving another--'it is strange how custom can mould our tastes and ideas: many could not imagine the existence of happiness in a life of such complete exile from the world as you spend, Mr. Heathcliff; yet, I'll venture to say, that, surrounded by your family, and with your amiable lady as the presiding genius over your home and heart--' 'My amiable lady!' he interrupted, with an almost diabolical sneer on his face. 'Where is she--my amiable lady?' 'Mrs. Heathcliff, your wife, I mean.' 'Well, yes--oh, you would intimate that her spirit has taken the post of ministering angel, and guards the fortunes of Wuthering Heights, even when her body is gone. Is that it?' Perceiving myself in a blunder, I attempted to correct it. I might have seen there was too great a disparity between the ages of the parties to make it likely that they were man and wife. One was about forty: a period of mental vigour at which men seldom cherish the delusion of being married for love by girls: that dream is reserved for the solace of our declining years. The other did not look seventeen. Then it flashed upon me--'The clown at my elbow, who is drinking his tea out of a basin and eating his bread with unwashed hands, may be her husband: Heathcliff junior, of course. Here is the consequence of being buried alive: she has thrown herself away upon that boor from sheer ignorance that better individuals existed! A sad pity--I must beware how I cause her to regret her choice.' The last reflection may seem conceited; it was not. My neighbour struck me as bordering on repulsive; I knew, through experience, that I was tolerably attractive. 'Mrs. Heathcliff is my daughter-in-law,' said Heathcliff, corroborating my surmise. He turned, as he spoke, a peculiar look in her direction: a look of hatred; unless he has a most perverse set of facial muscles that will not, like those of other people, interpret the language of his soul. 'Ah, certainly--I see now: you are the favoured possessor of the beneficent fairy,' I remarked, turning to my neighbour. This was worse than before: the youth grew crimson, and clenched his fist, with every appearance of a meditated assault. But he seemed to recollect himself presently, and smothered the storm in a brutal curse, muttered on my behalf: which, however, I took care not to notice. 'Unhappy in your conjectures, sir,' observed my host; 'we neither of us have the privilege of owning your good fairy; her mate is dead. I said she was my daughter-in-law: therefore, she must have married my son.' 'And this young man is--' 'Not my son, assuredly.' Heathcliff smiled again, as if it were rather too bold a jest to attribute the paternity of that bear to him. 'My name is Hareton Earnshaw,' growled the other; 'and I'd counsel you to respect it!' 'I've shown no disrespect,' was my reply, laughing internally at the dignity with which he announced himself. He fixed his eye on me longer than I cared to return the stare, for fear I might be tempted either to box his ears or render my hilarity audible. I began to feel unmistakably out of place in that pleasant family circle. The dismal spiritual atmosphere overcame, and more than neutralised, the glowing physical comforts round me; and I resolved to be cautious how I ventured under those rafters a third time. The business of eating being concluded, and no one uttering a word of sociable conversation, I approached a window to examine the weather. A sorrowful sight I saw: dark night coming down prematurely, and sky and hills mingled in one bitter whirl of wind and suffocating snow. 'I don't think it possible for me to get home now without a guide,' I could not help exclaiming. 'The roads will be buried already; and, if they were bare, I could scarcely distinguish a foot in advance.' 'Hareton, drive those dozen sheep into the barn porch. They'll be covered if left in the fold all night: and put a plank before them,' said Heathcliff. 'How must I do?' I continued, with rising irritation. There was no reply to my question; and on looking round I saw only Joseph bringing in a pail of porridge for the dogs, and Mrs. Heathcliff leaning over the fire, diverting herself with burning a bundle of matches which had fallen from the chimney-piece as she restored the tea-canister to its place. The former, when he had deposited his burden, took a critical survey of the room, and in cracked tones grated out--'Aw wonder how yah can faishion to stand thear i' idleness un war, when all on 'ems goan out! Bud yah're a nowt, and it's no use talking--yah'll niver mend o'yer ill ways, but goa raight to t' divil, like yer mother afore ye!' I imagined, for a moment, that this piece of eloquence was addressed to me; and, sufficiently enraged, stepped towards the aged rascal with an intention of kicking him out of the door. Mrs. Heathcliff, however, checked me by her answer. 'You scandalous old hypocrite!' she replied. 'Are you not afraid of being carried away bodily, whenever you mention the devil's name? I warn you to refrain from provoking me, or I'll ask your abduction as a special favour! Stop! look here, Joseph,' she continued, taking a long, dark book from a shelf; 'I'll show you how far I've progressed in the Black Art: I shall soon be competent to make a clear house of it. The red cow didn't die by chance; and your rheumatism can hardly be reckoned among providential visitations!' 'Oh, wicked, wicked!' gasped the elder; 'may the Lord deliver us from evil!' 'No, reprobate! you are a castaway--be off, or I'll hurt you seriously! I'll have you all modelled in wax and clay! and the first who passes the limits I fix shall--I'll not say what he shall be done to--but, you'll see! Go, I'm looking at you!' The little witch put a mock malignity into her beautiful eyes, and Joseph, trembling with sincere horror, hurried out, praying, and ejaculating 'wicked' as he went. I thought her conduct must be prompted by a species of dreary fun; and, now that we were alone, I endeavoured to interest her in my distress. 'Mrs. Heathcliff,' I said earnestly, 'you must excuse me for troubling you. I presume, because, with that face, I'm sure you cannot help being good-hearted. Do point out some landmarks by which I may know my way home: I have no more idea how to get there than you would have how to get to London!' 'Take the road you came,' she answered, ensconcing herself in a chair, with a candle, and the long book open before her. 'It is brief advice, but as sound as I can give.' 'Then, if you hear of me being discovered dead in a bog or a pit full of snow, your conscience won't whisper that it is partly your fault?' 'How so? I cannot escort you. They wouldn't let me go to the end of the garden wall.' '_You_! I should be sorry to ask you to cross the threshold, for my convenience, on such a night,' I cried. 'I want you to tell me my way, not to _show_ it: or else to persuade Mr. Heathcliff to give me a guide.' 'Who? There is himself, Earnshaw, Zillah, Joseph and I. Which would you have?' 'Are there no boys at the farm?' 'No; those are all.' 'Then, it follows that I am compelled to stay.' 'That you may settle with your host. I have nothing to do with it.' 'I hope it will be a lesson to you to make no more rash journeys on these hills,' cried Heathcliff's stern voice from the kitchen entrance. 'As to staying here, I don't keep accommodations for visitors: you must share a bed with Hareton or Joseph, if you do.' 'I can sleep on a chair in this room,' I replied. 'No, no! A stranger is a stranger, be he rich or poor: it will not suit me to permit any one the range of the place while I am off guard!' said the unmannerly wretch. With this insult my patience was at an end. I uttered an expression of disgust, and pushed past him into the yard, running against Earnshaw in my haste. It was so dark that I could not see the means of exit; and, as I wandered round, I heard another specimen of their civil behaviour amongst each other. At first the young man appeared about to befriend me. 'I'll go with him as far as the park,' he said. 'You'll go with him to hell!' exclaimed his master, or whatever relation he bore. 'And who is to look after the horses, eh?' 'A man's life is of more consequence than one evening's neglect of the horses: somebody must go,' murmured Mrs. Heathcliff, more kindly than I expected. 'Not at your command!' retorted Hareton. 'If you set store on him, you'd better be quiet.' 'Then I hope his ghost will haunt you; and I hope Mr. Heathcliff will never get another tenant till the Grange is a ruin,' she answered, sharply. 'Hearken, hearken, shoo's cursing on 'em!' muttered Joseph, towards whom I had been steering. He sat within earshot, milking the cows by the light of a lantern, which I seized unceremoniously, and, calling out that I would send it back on the morrow, rushed to the nearest postern. 'Maister, maister, he's staling t' lanthern!' shouted the ancient, pursuing my retreat. 'Hey, Gnasher! Hey, dog! Hey Wolf, holld him, holld him!' On opening the little door, two hairy monsters flew at my throat, bearing me down, and extinguishing the light; while a mingled guffaw from Heathcliff and Hareton put the copestone on my rage and humiliation. Fortunately, the beasts seemed more bent on stretching their paws, and yawning, and flourishing their tails, than devouring me alive; but they would suffer no resurrection, and I was forced to lie till their malignant masters pleased to deliver me: then, hatless and trembling with wrath, I ordered the miscreants to let me out--on their peril to keep me one minute longer--with several incoherent threats of retaliation that, in their indefinite depth of virulency, smacked of King Lear. The vehemence of my agitation brought on a copious bleeding at the nose, and still Heathcliff laughed, and still I scolded. I don't know what would have concluded the scene, had there not been one person at hand rather more rational than myself, and more benevolent than my entertainer. This was Zillah, the stout housewife; who at length issued forth to inquire into the nature of the uproar. She thought that some of them had been laying violent hands on me; and, not daring to attack her master, she turned her vocal artillery against the younger scoundrel. 'Well, Mr. Earnshaw,' she cried, 'I wonder what you'll have agait next? Are we going to murder folk on our very door-stones? I see this house will never do for me--look at t' poor lad, he's fair choking! Wisht, wisht; you mun'n't go on so. Come in, and I'll cure that: there now, hold ye still.' With these words she suddenly splashed a pint of icy water down my neck, and pulled me into the kitchen. Mr. Heathcliff followed, his accidental merriment expiring quickly in his habitual moroseness. I was sick exceedingly, and dizzy, and faint; and thus compelled perforce to accept lodgings under his roof. He told Zillah to give me a glass of brandy, and then passed on to the inner room; while she condoled with me on my sorry predicament, and having obeyed his orders, whereby I was somewhat revived, ushered me to bed. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

Der Tee wird serviert und Lockwood versucht, eine Unterhaltung mit den schlecht gelaunten Leuten zu beginnen, indem er sagt, dass Heathcliff glücklich sein muss, seine Familie um sich zu haben und seine liebenswürdige Dame. Doch Heathcliff unterbricht ihn und fragt, wo seine liebenswürdige Dame ist. Lockwood sagt, dass er seine Ehefrau meint, und Heathcliff sagt ihm, dass sie tot ist. Lockwood bemerkt dann die Unterschiede im Alter zwischen Heathcliff und der jungen Frau und nimmt an, dass sie die Ehefrau des heruntergekommenen, unhöflichen jungen Mannes ist. Er denkt, dass Heathcliff seine Annahme bestätigt, als er sagt, dass sie seine Schwiegertochter ist, aber als er sich an den jungen Mann wendet und sagt, dass sie seine Ehefrau sein muss, sind alle wütend, und Heathcliff sagt, dass keiner von ihnen mit ihr verheiratet ist und dass der junge Mann nicht sein Sohn, sondern Hareton Earnshaw ist. Lockwood fühlt sich völlig fehl am Platz und alle sind sehr trostlos. Lockwood versucht herauszufinden, wie er nach Hause kommen wird, aber niemand will ihm helfen, und schließlich sagt Heathcliff ihm, dass er bei Earnshaw oder Joseph schlafen kann, da er ihm nicht vertraut, im Haus herumzulaufen, während er schläft. Lockwood ist beleidigt und versucht das Haus zu verlassen, läuft dabei aber in Hareton hinein. Sie streiten alle darüber, was sie mit ihm tun sollen. Lockwood kann nicht mehr und als er wegrennt und eine Laterne ergreift, um wegzulaufen und zu sagen, dass er sie am nächsten Tag zurücksenden wird, schreit Joseph, dass er stiehlt und lässt die Hunde auf ihn los. Zillah, die Haushälterin, kommt heraus, schimpft mit Hareton und nimmt Lockwood mit ins Haus, um ihn aufzupäppeln, und sagt ihm, dass sie ihn ins Bett bringen wird.

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.

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. A room in the Garter Inn. [Enter FALSTAFF and PISTOL.] FALSTAFF. I will not lend thee a penny. PISTOL. Why then, the world's mine oyster, Which I with sword will open. I will retort the sum in equipage. FALSTAFF. Not a penny. I have been content, sir, you should lay my countenance to pawn; I have grated upon my good friends for three reprieves for you and your coach-fellow, Nym; or else you had looked through the grate, like a geminy of baboons. I am damned in hell for swearing to gentlemen my friends you were good soldiers and tall fellows; and when Mistress Bridget lost the handle of her fan, I took 't upon mine honour thou hadst it not. PISTOL. Didst not thou share? Hadst thou not fifteen pence? FALSTAFF. Reason, you rogue, reason. Thinkest thou I'll endanger my soul gratis? At a word, hang no more about me, I am no gibbet for you: go: a short knife and a throng!--to your manor of Picht-hatch! go. You'll not bear a letter for me, you rogue!--you stand upon your honour!--Why, thou unconfinable baseness, it is as much as I can do to keep the terms of my honour precise. I, I, I myself sometimes, leaving the fear of God on the left hand, and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am fain to shuffle, to hedge, and to lurch; and yet you, rogue, will ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain looks, your red-lattice phrases, and your bold-beating oaths, under the shelter of your honour! You will not do it, you! PISTOL. I do relent; what wouldst thou more of man? [Enter ROBIN.] ROBIN. Sir, here's a woman would speak with you. FALSTAFF. Let her approach. [Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY.] QUICKLY. Give your worship good morrow. FALSTAFF. Good morrow, good wife. QUICKLY. Not so, an't please your worship. FALSTAFF. Good maid, then. QUICKLY. I'll be sworn; As my mother was, the first hour I was born. FALSTAFF. I do believe the swearer. What with me? QUICKLY. Shall I vouchsafe your worship a word or two? FALSTAFF. Two thousand, fair woman; and I'll vouchsafe thee the hearing. QUICKLY. There is one Mistress Ford, sir,--I pray, come a little nearer this ways:--I myself dwell with Master Doctor Caius. FALSTAFF. Well, on: Mistress Ford, you say,-- QUICKLY. Your worship says very true;--I pray your worship come a little nearer this ways. FALSTAFF. I warrant thee nobody hears--mine own people, mine own people. QUICKLY. Are they so? God bless them, and make them His servants! FALSTAFF. Well: Mistress Ford, what of her? QUICKLY. Why, sir, she's a good creature. Lord, Lord! your worship's a wanton! Well, heaven forgive you, and all of us, I pray. FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford; come, Mistress Ford-- QUICKLY. Marry, this is the short and the long of it. You have brought her into such a canaries as 'tis wonderful: the best courtier of them all, when the court lay at Windsor, could never have brought her to such a canary; yet there has been knights, and lords, and gentlemen, with their coaches; I warrant you, coach after coach, letter after letter, gift after gift; smelling so sweetly,--all musk, and so rushling, I warrant you, in silk and gold; and in such alligant terms; and in such wine and sugar of the best and the fairest, that would have won any woman's heart; and I warrant you, they could never get an eye-wink of her. I had myself twenty angels given me this morning; but I defy all angels, in any such sort, as they say, but in the way of honesty: and, I warrant you, they could never get her so much as sip on a cup with the proudest of them all; and yet there has been earls, nay, which is more, pensioners; but, I warrant you, all is one with her. FALSTAFF. But what says she to me? be brief, my good she-Mercury. QUICKLY. Marry, she hath received your letter; for the which she thanks you a thousand times; and she gives you to notify that her husband will be absence from his house between ten and eleven. FALSTAFF. Ten and eleven? QUICKLY. Ay, forsooth; and then you may come and see the picture, she says, that you wot of: Master Ford, her husband, will be from home. Alas! the sweet woman leads an ill life with him; he's a very jealousy man; she leads a very frampold life with him, good heart. FALSTAFF. Ten and eleven. Woman, commend me to her; I will not fail her. QUICKLY. Why, you say well. But I have another messenger to your worship: Mistress Page hath her hearty commendations to you too; and let me tell you in your ear, she's as fartuous a civil modest wife, and one, I tell you, that will not miss you morning nor evening prayer, as any is in Windsor, whoe'er be the other; and she bade me tell your worship that her husband is seldom from home, but she hopes there will come a time. I never knew a woman so dote upon a man: surely I think you have charms, la! yes, in truth. FALSTAFF. Not I, I assure thee; setting the attraction of my good parts aside, I have no other charms. QUICKLY. Blessing on your heart for 't! FALSTAFF. But, I pray thee, tell me this: has Ford's wife and Page's wife acquainted each other how they love me? QUICKLY. That were a jest indeed! They have not so little grace, I hope: that were a trick indeed! But Mistress Page would desire you to send her your little page, of all loves: her husband has a marvellous infection to the little page; and, truly, Master Page is an honest man. Never a wife in Windsor leads a better life than she does; do what she will, say what she will, take all, pay all, go to bed when she list, rise when she list, all is as she will; and truly she deserves it; for if there be a kind woman in Windsor, she is one. You must send her your page; no remedy. FALSTAFF. Why, I will. QUICKLY. Nay, but do so then; and, look you, he may come and go between you both; and in any case have a nay-word, that you may know one another's mind, and the boy never need to understand any thing; for 'tis not good that children should know any wickedness: old folks, you know, have discretion, as they say, and know the world. FALSTAFF. Fare thee well; commend me to them both. There's my purse; I am yet thy debtor. Boy, go along with this woman.-- [Exeunt MISTRESS QUICKLY and ROBIN.] This news distracts me. PISTOL. This punk is one of Cupid's carriers; Clap on more sails; pursue; up with your fights; Give fire; she is my prize, or ocean whelm them all! [Exit.] FALSTAFF. Say'st thou so, old Jack? go thy ways; I'll make more of thy old body than I have done. Will they yet look after thee? Wilt thou, after the expense of so much money, be now a gainer? Good body, I thank thee. Let them say 'tis grossly done; so it be fairly done, no matter. [Enter BARDOLPH, with a cup of sack.] BARDOLPH. Sir John, there's one Master Brook below would fain speak with you and be acquainted with you: and hath sent your worship a morning's draught of sack. FALSTAFF. Brook is his name? BARDOLPH. Ay, sir. FALSTAFF. Call him in. [Exit BARDOLPH.] Such Brooks are welcome to me, that o'erflow such liquor. Ah, ha! Mistress Ford and Mistress Page, have I encompassed you? Go to; via! [Re-enter BARDOLPH, with FORD disguised.] FORD. Bless you, sir! FALSTAFF. And you, sir; would you speak with me? FORD. I make bold to press with so little preparation upon you. FALSTAFF. You're welcome. What's your will?--Give us leave, drawer. [Exit BARDOLPH.] FORD. Sir, I am a gentleman that have spent much: my name is Brook. FALSTAFF. Good Master Brook, I desire more acquaintance of you. FORD. Good Sir John, I sue for yours: not to charge you; for I must let you understand I think myself in better plight for a lender than you are: the which hath something embold'ned me to this unseasoned intrusion; for they say, if money go before, all ways do lie open. FALSTAFF. Money is a good soldier, sir, and will on. FORD. Troth, and I have a bag of money here troubles me; if you will help to bear it, Sir John, take all, or half, for easing me of the carriage. FALSTAFF. Sir, I know not how I may deserve to be your porter. FORD. I will tell you, sir, if you will give me the hearing. FALSTAFF. Speak, good Master Brook; I shall be glad to be your servant. FORD. Sir, I hear you are a scholar,--I will be brief with you, and you have been a man long known to me, though I had never so good means, as desire, to make myself acquainted with you. I shall discover a thing to you, wherein I must very much lay open mine own imperfection; but, good Sir John, as you have one eye upon my follies, as you hear them unfolded, turn another into the register of your own, that I may pass with a reproof the easier, sith you yourself know how easy is it to be such an offender. FALSTAFF. Very well, sir; proceed. FORD. There is a gentlewoman in this town, her husband's name is Ford. FALSTAFF. Well, sir. FORD. I have long loved her, and, I protest to you, bestowed much on her; followed her with a doting observance; engrossed opportunities to meet her; fee'd every slight occasion that could but niggardly give me sight of her; not only bought many presents to give her, but have given largely to many to know what she would have given; briefly, I have pursued her as love hath pursued me; which hath been on the wing of all occasions. But whatsoever I have merited, either in my mind or in my means, meed, I am sure, I have received none, unless experience be a jewel that I have purchased at an infinite rate, and that hath taught me to say this, Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues; Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues. FALSTAFF. Have you received no promise of satisfaction at her hands? FORD. Never. FALSTAFF. Have you importuned her to such a purpose? FORD. Never. FALSTAFF. Of what quality was your love, then? FORD. Like a fair house built on another man's ground; so that I have lost my edifice by mistaking the place where I erected it. FALSTAFF. To what purpose have you unfolded this to me? FORD. When I have told you that, I have told you all. Some say that though she appear honest to me, yet in other places she enlargeth her mirth so far that there is shrewd construction made of her. Now, Sir John, here is the heart of my purpose: you are a gentleman of excellent breeding, admirable discourse, of great admittance, authentic in your place and person, generally allowed for your many war-like, court-like, and learned preparations. FALSTAFF. O, sir! FORD. Believe it, for you know it. There is money; spend it, spend it; spend more; spend all I have; only give me so much of your time in exchange of it as to lay an amiable siege to the honesty of this Ford's wife: use your art of wooing, win her to consent to you; if any man may, you may as soon as any. FALSTAFF. Would it apply well to the vehemency of your affection, that I should win what you would enjoy? Methinks you prescribe to yourself very preposterously. FORD. O, understand my drift. She dwells so securely on the excellency of her honour that the folly of my soul dares not present itself; she is too bright to be looked against. Now, could I come to her with any detection in my hand, my desires had instance and argument to commend themselves; I could drive her then from the ward of her purity, her reputation, her marriage-vow, and a thousand other her defences, which now are too too strongly embattled against me. What say you to't, Sir John? FALSTAFF. Master Brook, I will first make bold with your money; next, give me your hand; and last, as I am a gentleman, you shall, if you will, enjoy Ford's wife. FORD. O good sir! FALSTAFF. I say you shall. FORD. Want no money, Sir John; you shall want none. FALSTAFF. Want no Mistress Ford, Master Brook; you shall want none. I shall be with her, I may tell you, by her own appointment; even as you came in to me her assistant or go-between parted from me: I say I shall be with her between ten and eleven; for at that time the jealous rascally knave, her husband, will be forth. Come you to me at night; you shall know how I speed. FORD. I am blest in your acquaintance. Do you know Ford, sir? FALSTAFF. Hang him, poor cuckoldly knave! I know him not; yet I wrong him to call him poor; they say the jealous wittolly knave hath masses of money; for the which his wife seems to me well-favoured. I will use her as the key of the cuckoldly rogue's coffer; and there's my harvest-home. FORD. I would you knew Ford, sir, that you might avoid him if you saw him. FALSTAFF. Hang him, mechanical salt-butter rogue! I will stare him out of his wits; I will awe him with my cudgel; it shall hang like a meteor o'er the cuckold's horns. Master Brook, thou shalt know I will predominate over the peasant, and thou shalt lie with his wife. Come to me soon at night. Ford's a knave, and I will aggravate his style; thou, Master Brook, shalt know him for knave and cuckold. Come to me soon at night. [Exit.] FORD. What a damned Epicurean rascal is this! My heart is ready to crack with impatience. Who says this is improvident jealousy? My wife hath sent to him; the hour is fixed; the match is made. Would any man have thought this? See the hell of having a false woman! My bed shall be abused, my coffers ransacked, my reputation gnawn at; and I shall not only receive this villanous wrong, but stand under the adoption of abominable terms, and by him that does me this wrong. Terms! names! Amaimon sounds well; Lucifer, well; Barbason, well; yet they are devils' additions, the names of fiends. But Cuckold! Wittol!--Cuckold! the devil himself hath not such a name. Page is an ass, a secure ass; he will trust his wife; he will not be jealous; I will rather trust a Fleming with my butter, Parson Hugh the Welshman with my cheese, an Irishman with my aqua-vitae bottle, or a thief to walk my ambling gelding, than my wife with herself; then she plots, then she ruminates, then she devises; and what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will break their hearts but they will effect. God be praised for my jealousy! Eleven o'clock the hour. I will prevent this, detect my wife, be revenged on Falstaff, and laugh at Page. I will about it; better three hours too soon than a minute too late. Fie, fie, fie! cuckold! cuckold! cuckold! [Exit.] Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Pistol bettelt Falstaff um ein Darlehen an; schließlich ist er es, der normalerweise die Risiken in ihren kleinen Verbrechen eingeht. Falstaff erinnert den kleineren Partner daran, dass es nur durch seinen, Falstaffs, größeren Einfluss und seine Verbindungen ist, dass Pistol das Scheitern vermeidet. Auf typisch anmaßende Weise fragt Falstaff: "Meinst du, ich werde meine Seele umsonst in Gefahr bringen?" Seine Rechtfertigung für seine krummen Wege erinnert an den Falstaff aus König Heinrich IV., Teil 1: "Ja, manchmal muss ich selbst, indem ich die Furcht vor Gott auf der linken Seite lasse und meine Ehre in der Not verberge, herumschleichen, absichern und betrügen." Mistress Quickly unterbricht mit der erfreulichen Nachricht, dass sowohl Mrs. Page als auch Mrs. Ford in den Gelehrtenritter verliebt sind: "Der beste Höfling von ihnen allen hätte sie, als der Hof in Windsor war, niemals zu einer derartigen Tanzeinlage bringen können." Falstaffs Ego schwillt bei der Vorstellung eines erfolgreichen Eroberungszuges an. Als er sich alleine auf der Bühne liebevoll anspricht, kann man sich die komische Wirkung vorstellen, die entstehen würde, wenn ein großer Ganzkörperspiegel da wäre, in den er schauen könnte: Werden sie dir noch nachschauen? Wirst du, nachdem du so viel Geld ausgegeben hast, nun gewinnen? Guter Kerl, ich danke dir. Sie mögen sagen, es sei grob gemacht; solange es fair gemacht wird, spielt es keine Rolle. " Als "Mr. Brook" verkleidet, bittet Ford Falstaff um Hilfe, um Mrs. Ford zu verführen. Der "Geldbeutel", den er Falstaff vor die Nase hält, reicht aus, um diesen "gentleman von hervorragender Erziehung" von dem Vorhaben zu überzeugen. "Du wirst, wenn du möchtest, Fords Frau genießen", versichert Falstaff "Brook". Falstaff beleidigt dann Ford mit mehreren nicht nötigen Beleidigungen, bevor die Szene endet: "Hängt ihn, ungeschliffener Butter-Rotz!"

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.

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 IV. SZENE I. Eine dunkle Höhle. In der Mitte ein kochender Kessel. [DONNER. Die drei Hexen betreten die Bühne.] ERSTE HEXE. Dreimal hat die gefleckte Katze gemauzt. ZWEITE HEXE. Dreimal; und einmal hat das Igelchen gequiekt. DRITTE HEXE. Harpier ruft: - "Es ist Zeit, es ist Zeit." ERSTE HEXE. Im Kreis um den Kessel gehen; Die vergifteten Eingeweide hineinwerfen. - Kröte, die unter kaltem Stein, Tag und Nacht dreißig-eins Verfaultes Gift schlafend bekommen hat, Koche zuerst in dem verzauberten Topf! ALLE. Doppelte, doppelte, Mühe und Trouble; Feuer, brenne; und Kessel, blase. ZWEITE HEXE. Stückchen von einer sumpfigen Schlange, Koche und backe im Kessel; Augen eines Molches und Zehen eines Frosches, Wolle einer Fledermaus und Zunge eines Hundes, Gabel einer Kröte und Stachel eines Blindwurms, Bein einer Eidechse und Flügel einer Eule, - Für einen Zauber der mächtigen Mühe, Koche und blase wie eine Höllenbrühe. ALLE. Doppelte, doppelte, Mühe und Trouble; Feuer, brenne; und Kessel, blase. DRITTE HEXE. Schuppe eines Drachen, Zahn eines Wolfes, Leichentücher einer Hexe, Magen und Schlund Eines ausgehungerten Meeres-Hais, Wurzel des Schierlings im Dunkeln ausgegraben, Leber eines lästernden Juden, Galle einer Ziege und Zweige einer Eibe, Zerbrochen im Mondfinsternis, Nase eines Türken und Lippen eines Tartaren, Finger eines bei der Geburt erstickten Babys, Geboren in einem Sumpf von einer Hure, - Mach den Brei dick und klumpig: Füge dazu ein Tiger-Kessel hinzu, Für die Zutaten unseres Kessels. ALLE. Doppelte, doppelte, Mühe und Trouble; Feuer, brenne; und Kessel, blase. ZWEITE HEXE. Kühle es mit dem Blut eines Pavians, Dann ist der Zauber stark und gut. [HEKATE betritt die Szene.] HEKATE. Oh, gut gemacht! Ich lobpreise eure Mühen; Jeder soll an den Gewinnen teilhaben. Und nun singt um den Kessel herum, Wie Elfen und Feen im Kreis, Verzaubert alles, was ihr hineinwerft. Lied. Schwarze Geister und weiße, rote Geister und graue; Vereinigt, vereinigt, vereinigt, ihr, die sich vereinigen mögen. [HEKATE geht ab.] ZWEITE HEXE. Durch das Kribbeln meiner Daumen Kommt etwas Böses auf uns zu: - Öffne dich, Schlösser, wer auch immer klopft! [MACBETH betritt die Szene.] MACBETH. Na, was macht ihr, geheimes, schwarzes und nächtliches Pack! Was treibt ihr hier? ALLE. Eine Tat ohne Namen. MACBETH. Ich beschwöre euch, bei dem, was ihr vorgebt, - Wie auch immer ihr es erfahren habt, - antwortet mir: Auch wenn ihr die Winde entfesselt und sie gegen die Kirchen kämpfen lasst; Auch wenn die wüstigen Wellen die Schifffahrt verwirren und verschlingen; Auch wenn das Korn niedergedrückt und Bäume umgerissen werden; Auch wenn Burgen auf die Köpfe ihrer Wächter stürzen; Auch wenn Paläste und Pyramiden ihre Köpfe zu ihren Fundamenten neigen; Auch wenn der Reichtum der Natur alle zusammenstürzt, Bis zur Zerstörung krank wird, - antwortet mir Auf das, was ich euch frage. ERSTE HEXE. Sprich. ZWEITE HEXE. Forder. DRITTE HEXE. Wir werden antworten. ERSTE HEXE. Sag, ob du es lieber aus unseren Mündern hörst, Oder von unseren Meistern? MACBETH. Ruft sie, lasst mich sie sehen. ERSTE HEXE. Gieß das Schweineblut hinein, das ihre neun Würfe gegessen hat; Fett, das vom Galgen des Mörders herunterschwitzte, Werft es ins Feuer. ALLE. Komm, hoch oder niedrig; Zeige uns deine Würde und dein Amt! [DONNER. Eine Erscheinung eines bewaffneten Kopfes erhebt sich.] MACBETH. Sag mir, du unbekannte Macht, - ERSTE HEXE. Er kennt deinen Gedanken: Hör seine Rede, aber sage selbst nichts. ERS MACBETH. Zeit, du antizipierst meine furchtbaren Taten: Der flatterhafte Zweck wird niemals erreicht Wenn die Tat nicht damit einhergeht: ab diesem Moment Sollen die allerersten Impulse meines Herzens Die allerersten Ergebnisse meiner Hand sein. Und selbst jetzt, Um meine Gedanken mit Taten zu krönen, sei es Gedanke und Tat: Die Burg von Macduff werde ich überraschen; Fife erobern; seiner Frau, seinen Kindern und allen unglücklichen Seelen Die ihm in seiner Abstammung folgen, mit dem Schwert zuschlagen. Lasst uns nicht wie Narren prahlen; Dieses Vorhaben werde ich durchführen bevor es sich abkühlt: Aber keine weiteren Anblicke! Wo sind diese Herren? Kommt, führt mich zu ihnen. [Ausgang] SZENE II. Fife. Ein Raum in Macduffs Schloss. [Tritt Lady Macduff, ihr Sohn und Ross auf.] LADY MACDUFF. Was hat er getan, dass er das Land verlassen musste? ROSS. Seid geduldig, Madame. LADY MACDUFF. Er hatte keine: Sein Flucht war Wahnsinn: Wenn unsere Taten dies nicht tun, Machen uns unsere Ängste zu Verrätern. ROSS. Du weißt nicht, Ob es seine Weisheit oder seine Angst war. LADY MACDUFF. Weisheit! Seine Frau zu verlassen, seine Kinder zu verlassen, Seine Residenz und seine Titel, an einem Ort Von dem er selbst flieht? Er liebt uns nicht: Er hat nicht die natürliche Verbundenheit; denn der arme Zaunkönig, Der diminutivste aller Vögel, wird kämpfen, Für ihren Nachwuchs in ihrem Nest, gegen die Eule. Die Ängste überwiegen, die Liebe ist gering; Die Weisheit ist gering, wo die Flucht Gegen jede Vernunft erfolgt. ROSS. Meine liebe Cousine, Ich bitte dich, beherrsche dich; aber was deinen Ehemann betrifft, Er ist edel, weise, urteilsfähig und weiß am besten Die Gezeiten der Zeit. Ich darf nicht weiter sprechen: Aber grausam sind die Zeiten, wenn wir Verräter sind, Und uns selbst nicht erkennen; wenn wir Gerüchten Glauben schenken Vor denen wir Angst haben und doch nicht wissen, wovor wir Angst haben, Aber auf wildem und heftigem Meer treiben Je in alle Richtungen.--Ich nehme Abschied von euch: Es dauert nicht lange, aber ich werde bald wieder hier sein: Die Dinge werden sich zum Besseren ändern oder aber aufsteigen Zu dem Zustand, in dem sie zuvor waren.--Meine hübsche Cousine, Gottes Segen sei mit dir! LADY MACDUFF. Er hat einen Vater, und doch ist er vaterlos. ROSS. Ich bin so sehr ein Narr, wenn ich länger bleibe, Wäre es meine Schande und euer Unbehagen: Ich nehme sogleich Abschied. [Ausgang.] LADY MACDUFF. Sirrah, dein Vater ist tot; Und was wirst du nun tun? Wie wirst du leben? SOHN. Wie Vögel, Mutter. LADY MACDUFF. Was, mit Würmern und Fliegen? SOHN. Mit dem, was ich bekomme, meine ich; und so tun sie es auch. LADY MACDUFF. Armer Vogel! Du würdest nie vor dem Netz oder dem Kleber fürchten, Dem Schlagloch oder der Falle. SOHN. Warum sollte ich, Mutter? Arme Vögel werden nicht gefangen. Mein Vater ist nicht tot, trotz allem, was du sagst. LADY MACDUFF. Doch, er ist tot: Wie wirst du dann einen Vater haben? SOHN. Nun, wie wirst du dann einen Ehemann haben? LADY MACDUFF. Nun, ich kann mir zwanzig auf dem Markt kaufen. SOHN. Dann wirst du sie wieder verkaufen. LADY MACDUFF. Du sprichst mit deinem ganzen Verstand; und doch, in Wahrheit, Mit genug Verstand für dich. SOHN. War mein Vater ein Verräter, Mutter? LADY MACDUFF. Ja, das war er. SOHN. Was ist ein Verräter? LADY MACDUFF. Nun, einer der schwört und lügt. SOHN. Und sind alle Verräter solche Leute? LADY MACDUFF. Jeder, der so handelt, ist ein Verräter und muss gehängt werden. SOHN. Müssen dann alle gehängt werden, die schwören und lügen? LADY MACDUFF. Jeder einzelne. SOHN. Wer soll sie denn hängen? LADY MACDUFF. Warum, die ehrlichen Männer. SOHN. Dann sind die Lügner und Schwörer Narren: Denn es gibt genug Lügner Und Schwörer, um die ehrlichen Männer zu schlagen und sie aufzuhängen. LADY MACDUFF. Nun, Gott helfe dir, du armer Affe! Aber wie wirst du dann einen Vater haben? SOHN. Wenn er tot wäre, würdest du um ihn weinen: Wenn du es nicht tun würdest, wäre es ein gutes Zeichen, dass ich schnell einen neuen Vater bekommen würde. LADY MACDUFF. Armer Schwätzer, wie du redest! [Tritt ein Eilbote auf.] EILBOTE. Gott segne Euch, schöne Dame! Ihr kennt mich Nicht, obwohl ich Euch ehrenvoll kenne. Ich vermute, es nähert sich Euch Gefahr: Wenn Ihr den Rat eines einfachen Mannes annehmen wollt, Bleibt nicht hier; geht mit Euren Kleinen weg. Euch so zu erschrecken, ich bin zu wild; Euch Schlimmeres anzutun, wäre grausam, Was Euch zu nahe gehen würde. Der Himmel schütze Euch! Ich darf nicht länger bleiben. [Ausgang.] LADY MACDUFF. Wohin soll ich fliehen? Ich habe nichts Böses getan. Aber mir fällt ein, dass ich in dieser weltlichen Welt bin; wo Böses zu tun oft lobenswert ist; manchmal wird es gefährlicher Leichtsinn genannt: warum also, seufze ich dann weibliche Verteidigung, um zu sagen, dass ich nichts Böses getan habe? Wo sind diese Gestalten? [Treten Mörder auf.] ERSTER MÖRDER. Wo ist dein Ehemann? LADY MACDUFF. Ich hoffe, dass er sich in keinem solch entweihten Ort befindet, wo du ihn finden könntest. ERSTER MÖRDER. Er ist ein Verräter. SOHN. Du lügst, du hariger Schuft! ERSTER MÖRDER. Was, du Ei! [Sticht ihn nieder.] Junges Gefolge der Treulosigkeit! SOHN. Er hat mich getötet, Mutter: Lauf weg, ich bitte dich! [Stirbt. Lady Macduff verlässt die Szene, ruft nach Mord, und wird von den Mördern verfolgt.] SZENE III. England. Vor dem Palast des Königs. [Tritt Malcolm auf, zusammen mit Macduff.] MACBETH. Lassen Sie uns einen einsamen Ort suchen und dort Unsere traurigen Herzen ausweinen. MACDUFF. Lass uns stattdessen Das tödliche Schwert festhalten und wie gute Männer Unser gefallenes Vaterland umarmen: Jeden neuen Morgen Heulen neue Witwen; neue Waisen schreien; neue Trauerfälle Schlagen den Himmel ins Gesicht, dass es widerhallt Als ob es mit Schottland mitempfindet und herausbrüllt Wie ein Klagelaut. MACBETH. Was ich glaube, werde ich beklagen; Was ich weiß, glauben; und was ich korrigieren kann, Wenn ich die Zeit finde, werde ich als Freund tun. Was du gesagt hast, könnte vielleicht so sein. Dieser Tyrann, dessen alleiniger Name unsere Zungen versengt, Wurde einst für ehrlich gehalten: Du hast ihn gut geliebt; Er hat dich noch nicht berührt. Ich bin jung; aber etwas Verdienst du von ihm durch mich; MALCOLM. Ich meine mich selbst: In mir kenne ich alle Einzelheiten der Lasterhaftigkeit so tief verwurzelt, dass, wenn sie enthüllt werden, der dunkle Macbeth wie reiner Schnee erscheinen wird. Die arme Gesellschaft wird ihn wie ein Lamm betrachten im Vergleich zu meinen grenzenlosen Schäden. MACDUFF. Nicht in den Legionen der abscheulichen Hölle kann ein noch verfluchterer Teufel auftauchen, um Macbeth noch zu übertreffen. MALCOLM. Ich gebe zu, dass er blutrünstig, verschwenderisch, habgierig, falsch, betrügerisch, plötzlich, boshaft und von jeder Sünde berührt ist, die einen Namen hat. Aber es gibt keine Grenzen in meiner Wollust. Eure Frauen, eure Töchter, eure Mütter und eure Dienstmädchen könnten nicht den Wasserspeicher meiner Begierde füllen. Alle Hindernisse und Zurückhaltungen, die meine Lust einschränken könnten, würden ich überwinden, besser Macbeth als jemand wie ich, der herrscht. MACDUFF. Grenzenlose Maßlosigkeit ist eine Tyrannei der Natur. Sie hat den glücklichen Thron vorzeitig entleert und das Ende vieler Könige herbeigeführt. Aber fürchte dich noch nicht, das zu übernehmen, was dir gehört. Du kannst deine Freuden in einem großen Überfluss genießen und trotzdem kalt erscheinen, wann immer du es möchtest. Wir haben genug willige Damen; da kann es keinen Geier in dir geben, der so viele verschlingt, wie sich der Größe widmen werden, wenn sie es zu spüren bekommen. MALCOLM. Damit wächst eine unstillbare Gier in meiner am schlechtesten zusammengesetzten Zuneigung. Wenn ich König wäre, würde ich die Adligen ihrer Ländereien berauben, ihre Juwelen und Häuser begehren. Und je mehr ich besitzen würde, desto mehr würde es meinen Hunger anfachen. Ich würde ungerechte Streitigkeiten gegen die Guten und Treuen schüren und sie für Reichtum zerstören. MACDUFF. Diese Habsucht dringt tiefer und wächst mit einer noch gefährlicheren Wurzel als die Lust, die im Sommer so zu sein scheint. Und sie ist das Schwert unserer getöteten Könige. Aber fürchte dich nicht. Schottland hat genug, um deinen Willen zu erfüllen, nur mit dem, was dir zusteht. All das ist tragbar, zusammen mit anderen Vorzügen. MALCOLM. Aber ich habe keine. Die Anmut, die dem König zusteht, wie Gerechtigkeit, Wahrhaftigkeit, Mäßigung, Beständigkeit, Großzügigkeit, Ausdauer, Barmherzigkeit, Demut, Hingabe, Geduld, Mut und Tapferkeit, konnte ich nie genießen. Ich habe keinen Geschmack dafür. Aber ich bin reich an einer Vielzahl von Sünden. Wenn ich Macht hätte, würde ich den süßen Nektar der Eintracht in die Hölle gießen, den universalen Frieden stören und jede Einheit auf Erden zerstören. MACDUFF. Oh, Schottland, Schottland! MALCOLM. Wenn solch einer dazu geeignet ist, zu regieren, dann spreche. Ich bin, wie ich gesprochen habe. MACDUFF. Dazu geeignet zu regieren? Nein, nicht einmal zum Überleben geeignet! Oh, elendes Land, mit einem untitelhaften, blutigen Tyrannen, wann wirst du wieder gesunde Tage sehen, wenn der wahre Erbe deines Thrones durch sein eigenes Verbot verflucht ist und seine Nachkommenschaft verflucht? Dein königlicher Vater war ein hochheiliger König, die Königin, die dich gebar, war öfter auf den Knien als auf den Füßen und starb jeden Tag, an dem sie lebte. Lebe wohl! Diese Übel, die du dir selbst zufügst, haben mich aus Schottland vertrieben. Oh, meine Hoffnung endet hier. MALCOLM. Macduff, diese edle Leidenschaft, Kind der Aufrichtigkeit, hat aus meiner Seele die dunklen Bedenken gewischt, meine Gedanken mit deiner guten Wahrheit und Ehre versöhnt. Der teuflische Macbeth hat mit vielen dieser Tricks versucht, mich in seine Gewalt zu bringen, aber meine bescheidene Weisheit hält mich von übermäßigem Vertrauen ab. Aber Gott über uns richte zwischen dir und mir! Denn gerade jetzt stelle ich mich unter deine Anleitung und widerrufe meine eigenen Selbstabwertungen. Ich schwöre ab von den und den Vorwürfen, die ich gegen mich selbst erhoben habe. Sie sind Fremde für meine Natur. Frauen sind mir unbekannt, ich habe niemals einen Meineid abgelegt, mir fehlte es selten an dem, was mir gehörte. Ich habe niemals meine Treue gebrochen. Ich würde den Teufel nicht verraten, und ich liebe die Wahrheit nicht weniger als das Leben. Mein erster betrügerischer Anspruch war gegen mich selbst gerichtet. Wessen ich wirklich bin, liegt in deiner Hand und in der meiner armen Heimat. Wohin auch immer du gehst, vor deiner Ankunft war der alte Siward bereits mit zehntausend kampfbereiten Männern unterwegs. Jetzt gehen wir zusammen und das Glück möge auf unserer gerechten Seite sein! Warum bist du still? MACDUFF. Solch willkommene und unwillkommene Dinge gleichzeitig zu hören, ist schwer zu vereinen. [Ein Arzt tritt auf.] MALCOLM. Nun gut, später mehr. Kommt der König heraus, bitte? ARZT. Ja, mein Herr. Es gibt eine Gruppe von elenden Seelen, die auf seine Heilung warten. Ihre Krankheit zeigt die große Kraft der Medizin. Aber durch seine Berührung hat der Himmel ihm solche Heiligkeit verliehen, dass sie sich sofort bessern. MALCOLM. Ich danke Ihnen, Arzt. [Der Arzt geht ab.] MACDUFF. Was meint er mit der Krankheit? MALCOLM. Sie nennen es "das Übel". Es ist eine erstaunliche Sache bei diesem guten König, die ich seit meiner Anwesenheit in England oft gesehen habe. Wie er den Himmel um seine Heilung anfleht, davon weiß nur er am besten. Aber die Menschen, die er besucht hat, sind geschwollen und voller Geschwüre und erregen Mitleid. Ihre Verzweiflung ist ein Fall für die Chirurgie, die allein nicht helfen kann. Er hängt ihnen ein goldenes Amulett um den Hals und betet für sie. Und es wird gesagt, dass er den kommenden Königen den Segen der Heilung hinterlässt. Neben dieser seltsamen Gabe hat er auch eine göttliche Gabe der Weissagung und viele Segnungen umgeben seinen Thron, die von seiner Gnade sprechen. MACDUFF. Sieh, wer kommt da? MALCOLM. Mein Landsmann, aber ich kenne ihn nicht. [Ross tritt auf.] MACDUFF. Mein stets sanfter Cousin, willkommen hierhin. MALCOLM. Jetzt kenne ich ihn. Gott sei Dank, dass die Mittel, die uns zu Fremden machen, bald verschwinden! ROSS. Ja, mein Herr. MACDUFF. Steht Schottland da, wo es stand? ROSS. Ach, das arme Land! Es ist fast erschrocken, sich selbst zu erkennen. Man kann es nicht mehr "Mutterland" nennen, sondern unsere Grabstätte, wo nichts außer Leere herrscht. Wo nichts, außer dem, der nichts weiß, je ein Lächeln gesehen hat. Wo Seufzer, Stöhnen und Schreie, die die Luft zerreissen, zwar gemacht, aber nicht beachtet werden. Wo gewaltsamer Kummer wie eine moderne Ekstase wirkt und kaum fragt, wer um den Toten trauert. Wo das Leben guter Menschen endet, bevor die Blumen in ihren Haaren verwelken, sie sterben, bevor sie sterben. MACDUFF. Oh, zu genaue und doch zu wahre Beschreibung! MALCOLM. ROSS. Frau, Kinder, Diener, alles, was man finden konnte. MACDUFF. Und ich muss von dort weg sein! Meine Frau auch getötet? ROSS. Das habe ich gesagt. MALCOLM. Sei getröstet: Lass uns Medizin aus unserer großen Rache machen, um diesen tödlichen Kummer zu heilen. MACDUFF. Er hat keine Kinder. - Meine süßen Kleinen? Sagtet ihr alle? - O Höllenfalken! - Alle? Was, alle meine süßen Küken und ihre Mutter mit einem Schlag? MALCOLM. Bestreite es wie ein Mann. MACDUFF. Das werde ich tun; Aber ich muss es auch als ein Mann empfinden: Ich kann mich nicht anders erinnern, dass das für mich am wertvollsten war. Hat der Himmel hingesehen, und wollte nicht ihre Seite ergreifen? Sündhafter Macduff, sie wurden alle für dich niedergeschlagen! Nichts, was ich bin, nicht wegen ihrer eigenen Verdienste, sondern wegen meiner, fiel Schlacht auf ihre Seelen. Der Himmel ruhe sie nun aus! MALCOLM. Dies sei der Wetzstein deines Schwertes. Lass den Kummer in Zorn verwandeln; betäube nicht das Herz, entfache es. MACDUFF. Oh, ich könnte die Frau spielen mit meinem Auge, und Prahler mit meiner Zunge! - Aber, sanfte Himmel, verkürze alle Unterbrechungen; von Angesicht zu Angesicht bringe du diesen Dämon Schottlands und mich; Setze ihn in die Reichweite meines Schwerts; wenn er entkommt, möge ihm der Himmel vergeben! MALCOLM. Diese Melodie ist männlich. Komm, gehen wir zum König; unsere Macht ist bereit; Unser Mangel ist nichts als unsere Erlaubnis: Macbeth ist bereit zum Erschüttern, und die höheren Mächte legen ihre Instrumente an. Nimm an, was du kannst; Die Nacht ist lang, die niemals den Tag findet. [Rausgehen.] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Die Hexen umkreisen einen Hexenkessel und mischen darin verschiedene groteske Zutaten, während sie singen: "Doppelt, doppelt Kummer und Plage, Feuer brennt, und Kessel brodelt". Hekate erscheint, sie singen alle zusammen und Hekate geht wieder. Dann tritt Macbeth ein und fordert Antworten auf seine drängenden Fragen zur Zukunft. Die Hexen vollenden ihren Zauber und rufen eine Reihe von Erscheinungen herbei. Die erste ist ein bewaffneter Kopf, der Macbeth warnt, sich vor dem Thane of Fife in Acht zu nehmen. Die zweite Erscheinung ist ein blutiges Kind, das ihm sagt, dass "kein von einer Frau Geborener Macbeth schaden wird". Diese Nachricht stärkt Macbeths Geist. Die dritte Erscheinung ist ein gekröntes Kind mit einem Baum in der Hand, das sagt, dass "Macbeth niemals besiegt wird, bis der große Birnam Wood gegen ihn auf den hohen Dunsinan Hill kommt". Das ermutigt Macbeth noch mehr, da er weiß, dass sich ein Wald nicht bewegen kann. Macbeth stellt seine letzte Frage: Werden Banquos Kinder jemals Schottland regieren? Der Hexenkessel sinkt und ein seltsamer Klang ist zu hören. Die Hexen zeigen Macbeth nun eine Prozession von Königen, deren achter einen Spiegel in seiner Hand hält, gefolgt von Banquo. Als Banquo auf diese Königsreihe zeigt, erkennt Macbeth, dass sie tatsächlich seine Familiengeschichte sind. Nachdem die Hexen tanzen und verschwinden, tritt Lennox mit der Nachricht auf, dass Macduff nach England geflohen ist. Macbeth beschließt, dass er von nun an unverzüglich nach seinen Ambitionen handeln wird: Der erste Schritt wird sein, Fife zu ergreifen und Macduffs Frau und Kinder zu töten. Szene 2, Akt 4 In Fife besucht Ross Lady Macduff, die sich um ihre eigene Sicherheit fürchtet, da ihr Mann geflohen ist. Er beruhigt sie, indem er ihr sagt, dass ihr Mann nur das getan hat, was richtig und notwendig war. Nachdem er gegangen ist, führt Lady Macduff ihren Sohn in ein Gespräch über seinen abwesenden Vater ein. Der kleine Junge zeigt Weisheit weit über sein Alter hinaus. Ein Bote unterbricht sie mit einer Warnung, sofort aus dem Haus zu fliehen. Doch bevor Lady Macduff entkommen kann, greifen Mörder das Haus an und töten alle, einschließlich Lady Macduff und ihrem Sohn. Szene 3, Akt 4 Macduff trifft am englischen Hof ein und trifft dort auf Malcolm. Malcolm, der sich an das fehlgeleitete Vertrauen seines Vaters in Macbeth erinnert, beschließt, Macduff zu testen: Er gesteht, dass er ein gieriger, lüsterner und sündhafter Mann ist, der Macbeth im Vergleich wie einen Engel aussehen lässt. Macduff verzweifelt und sagt, dass er Schottland für immer verlassen wird, wenn dies der Fall ist, da es anscheinend keinen Mann gibt, der es verdient, es zu regieren. Als Malcolm dies hört, ist er von Macduffs Güte überzeugt und gibt zu, dass er ihn nur getestet hat; er hat keine dieser Fehler, zu denen er gerade gestanden hat. Tatsächlich behauptet er, dass er das erste Mal lügt, als er dieses falsche Geständnis gegenüber Macduff macht. Dann verkündet er, dass Siward eine Armee von zehntausend Männern versammelt hat und bereit ist, nach Schottland zu marschieren. Ein Bote erscheint und teilt den Männern mit, dass der König von England naht, begleitet von einer Menschenmenge von Kranken und verzweifelten Menschen, die wollen, dass der König sie heilt. Der König, laut Malcolm, hat die Gabe, Menschen allein durch das Auflegen seiner Hände zu heilen. Ross trifft aus Schottland ein und berichtet, dass das Land in einem Chaos ist. Als Macduff fragt, wie es seiner Frau und den Kindern geht, antwortet Ross zunächst, dass sie "in Frieden" sind. Auf weiteres Drängen berichtet er die Geschichte ihres Todes. Macduff ist sprachlos vor Entsetzen und Malcolm drängt ihn, seine Trauer durch Rache an Macbeth zu heilen. Macduff ist von Schuld und Trauer über die Morde überwältigt, die geschahen, während er abwesend war. Erneut drängt Malcolm ihn, seinen Schmerz zu nutzen und Rache zu suchen. Alle drei Männer verlassen, um sich auf die Schlacht vorzubereiten.

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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. Chapter: New York, November Dear Marmee and Beth, I'm going to write you a regular volume, for I've got heaps to tell, though I'm not a fine young lady traveling on the continent. When I lost sight of Father's dear old face, I felt a trifle blue, and might have shed a briny drop or two, if an Irish lady with four small children, all crying more or less, hadn't diverted my mind, for I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat every time they opened their mouths to roar. Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I cleared up likewise and enjoyed my journey with all my heart. Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once, even in that big house full of strangers. She gave me a funny little sky parlor--all she had, but there is a stove in it, and a nice table in a sunny window, so I can sit here and write whenever I like. A fine view and a church tower opposite atone for the many stairs, and I took a fancy to my den on the spot. The nursery, where I am to teach and sew, is a pleasant room next Mrs. Kirke's private parlor, and the two little girls are pretty children, rather spoiled, I fancy, but they took to me after telling them The Seven Bad Pigs, and I've no doubt I shall make a model governess. I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to the great table, and for the present I do, for I am bashful, though no one will believe it. "Now, my dear, make yourself at home," said Mrs. K. in her motherly way, "I'm on the drive from morning to night, as you may suppose with such a family, but a great anxiety will be off my mind if I know the children are safe with you. My rooms are always open to you, and your own shall be as comfortable as I can make it. There are some pleasant people in the house if you feel sociable, and your evenings are always free. Come to me if anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can. There's the tea bell, I must run and change my cap." And off she bustled, leaving me to settle myself in my new nest. As I went downstairs soon after, I saw something I liked. The flights are very long in this tall house, and as I stood waiting at the head of the third one for a little servant girl to lumber up, I saw a gentleman come along behind her, take the heavy hod of coal out of her hand, carry it all the way up, put it down at a door near by, and walk away, saying, with a kind nod and a foreign accent, "It goes better so. The little back is too young to haf such heaviness." Wasn't it good of him? I like such things, for as Father says, trifles show character. When I mentioned it to Mrs. K., that evening, she laughed, and said, "That must have been Professor Bhaer, he's always doing things of that sort." Mrs. K. told me he was from Berlin, very learned and good, but poor as a church mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and two little orphan nephews whom he is educating here, according to the wishes of his sister, who married an American. Not a very romantic story, but it interested me, and I was glad to hear that Mrs. K. lends him her parlor for some of his scholars. There is a glass door between it and the nursery, and I mean to peep at him, and then I'll tell you how he looks. He's almost forty, so it's no harm, Marmee. After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I attacked the big workbasket, and had a quiet evening chatting with my new friend. I shall keep a journal-letter, and send it once a week, so goodnight, and more tomorrow. Tuesday Eve Had a lively time in my seminary this morning, for the children acted like Sancho, and at one time I really thought I should shake them all round. Some good angel inspired me to try gymnastics, and I kept it up till they were glad to sit down and keep still. After luncheon, the girl took them out for a walk, and I went to my needlework like little Mabel 'with a willing mind'. I was thanking my stars that I'd learned to make nice buttonholes, when the parlor door opened and shut, and someone began to hum, Kennst Du Das Land, like a big bumblebee. It was dreadfully improper, I know, but I couldn't resist the temptation, and lifting one end of the curtain before the glass door, I peeped in. Professor Bhaer was there, and while he arranged his books, I took a good look at him. A regular German--rather stout, with brown hair tumbled all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one's ears good, after our sharp or slipshod American gabble. His clothes were rusty, his hands were large, and he hadn't a really handsome feature in his face, except his beautiful teeth, yet I liked him, for he had a fine head, his linen was very nice, and he looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were off his coat and there was a patch on one shoe. He looked sober in spite of his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him like an old friend. Then he smiled, and when a tap came at the door, called out in a loud, brisk tone, "Herein!" I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of a child carrying a big book, and stopped, to see what was going on. "Me wants me Bhaer," said the mite, slamming down her book and running to meet him. "Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer. Come, then, and take a goot hug from him, my Tina," said the Professor, catching her up with a laugh, and holding her so high over his head that she had to stoop her little face to kiss him. "Now me mus tuddy my lessin," went on the funny little thing. So he put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she had brought, and gave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled away, turning a leaf now and then, and passing her little fat finger down the page, as if finding a word, so soberly that I nearly betrayed myself by a laugh, while Mr. Bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair with a fatherly look that made me think she must be his own, though she looked more French than German. Another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me back to my work, and there I virtuously remained through all the noise and gabbling that went on next door. One of the girls kept laughing affectedly, and saying, "Now Professor," in a coquettish tone, and the other pronounced her German with an accent that must have made it hard for him to keep sober. Both seemed to try his patience sorely, for more than once I heard him say emphatically, "No, no, it is not so, you haf not attend to what I say," and once there was a loud rap, as if he struck the table with his book, followed by the despairing exclamation, "Prut! It all goes bad this day." Poor man, I pitied him, and when the girls were gone, took just one more peep to see if he survived it. He seemed to have thrown himself back in his chair, tired out, and sat there with his eyes shut till the clock struck two, when he jumped up, put his books in his pocket, as if ready for another lesson, and taking little Tina who had fallen asleep on the sofa in his arms, he carried her quietly away. I fancy he has a hard life of it. Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn't go down to the five o'clock dinner, and feeling a little bit homesick, I thought I would, just to see what sort of people are under the same roof with me. So I made myself respectable and tried to slip in behind Mrs. Kirke, but as she is short and I'm tall, my efforts at concealment were rather a failure. She gave me a seat by her, and after my face cooled off, I plucked up courage and looked about me. The long table was full, and every one intent on getting their dinner, the gentlemen especially, who seemed to be eating on time, for they bolted in every sense of the word, vanishing as soon as they were done. There was the usual assortment of young men absorbed in themselves, young couples absorbed in each other, married ladies in their babies, and old gentlemen in politics. I don't think I shall care to have much to do with any of them, except one sweetfaced maiden lady, who looks as if she had something in her. Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor, shouting answers to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf old gentleman on one side, and talking philosophy with a Frenchman on the other. If Amy had been here, she'd have turned her back on him forever because, sad to relate, he had a great appetite, and shoveled in his dinner in a manner which would have horrified 'her ladyship'. I didn't mind, for I like 'to see folks eat with a relish', as Hannah says, and the poor man must have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day. As I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men were settling their hats before the hall mirror, and I heard one say low to the other, "Who's the new party?" "Governess, or something of that sort." "What the deuce is she at our table for?" "Friend of the old lady's." "Handsome head, but no style." "Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on." I felt angry at first, and then I didn't care, for a governess is as good as a clerk, and I've got sense, if I haven't style, which is more than some people have, judging from the remarks of the elegant beings who clattered away, smoking like bad chimneys. I hate ordinary people! Thursday Yesterday was a quiet day spent in teaching, sewing, and writing in my little room, which is very cozy, with a light and fire. I picked up a few bits of news and was introduced to the Professor. It seems that Tina is the child of the Frenchwoman who does the fine ironing in the laundry here. The little thing has lost her heart to Mr. Bhaer, and follows him about the house like a dog whenever he is at home, which delights him, as he is very fond of children, though a 'bacheldore'. Kitty and Minnie Kirke likewise regard him with affection, and tell all sorts of stories about the plays he invents, the presents he brings, and the splendid tales he tells. The younger men quiz him, it seems, call him Old Fritz, Lager Beer, Ursa Major, and make all manner of jokes on his name. But he enjoys it like a boy, Mrs. Kirke says, and takes it so good-naturedly that they all like him in spite of his foreign ways. The maiden lady is a Miss Norton, rich, cultivated, and kind. She spoke to me at dinner today (for I went to table again, it's such fun to watch people), and asked me to come and see her at her room. She has fine books and pictures, knows interesting persons, and seems friendly, so I shall make myself agreeable, for I do want to get into good society, only it isn't the same sort that Amy likes. I was in our parlor last evening when Mr. Bhaer came in with some newspapers for Mrs. Kirke. She wasn't there, but Minnie, who is a little old woman, introduced me very prettily. "This is Mamma's friend, Miss March." "Yes, and she's jolly and we like her lots," added Kitty, who is an 'enfant terrible'. We both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction and the blunt addition were rather a comical contrast. "Ah, yes, I hear these naughty ones go to vex you, Mees Marsch. If so again, call at me and I come," he said, with a threatening frown that delighted the little wretches. I promised I would, and he departed, but it seems as if I was doomed to see a good deal of him, for today as I passed his door on my way out, by accident I knocked against it with my umbrella. It flew open, and there he stood in his dressing gown, with a big blue sock on one hand and a darning needle in the other. He didn't seem at all ashamed of it, for when I explained and hurried on, he waved his hand, sock and all, saying in his loud, cheerful way... "You haf a fine day to make your walk. Bon voyage, Mademoiselle." I laughed all the way downstairs, but it was a little pathetic, also to think of the poor man having to mend his own clothes. The German gentlemen embroider, I know, but darning hose is another thing and not so pretty. Saturday Nothing has happened to write about, except a call on Miss Norton, who has a room full of pretty things, and who was very charming, for she showed me all her treasures, and asked me if I would sometimes go with her to lectures and concerts, as her escort, if I enjoyed them. She put it as a favor, but I'm sure Mrs. Kirke has told her about us, and she does it out of kindness to me. I'm as proud as Lucifer, but such favors from such people don't burden me, and I accepted gratefully. When I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the parlor that I looked in, and there was Mr. Bhaer down on his hands and knees, with Tina on his back, Kitty leading him with a jump rope, and Minnie feeding two small boys with seedcakes, as they roared and ramped in cages built of chairs. "We are playing nargerie," explained Kitty. "Dis is mine effalunt!" added Tina, holding on by the Professor's hair. "Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon, when Franz and Emil come, doesn't she, Mr. Bhaer?" said Minnie. The 'effalunt' sat up, looking as much in earnest as any of them, and said soberly to me, "I gif you my wort it is so, if we make too large a noise you shall say Hush! to us, and we go more softly." I promised to do so, but left the door open and enjoyed the fun as much as they did, for a more glorious frolic I never witnessed. They played tag and soldiers, danced and sang, and when it began to grow dark they all piled onto the sofa about the Professor, while he told charming fairy stories of the storks on the chimney tops, and the little 'koblods', who ride the snowflakes as they fall. I wish Americans were as simple and natural as Germans, don't you? I'm so fond of writing, I should go spinning on forever if motives of economy didn't stop me, for though I've used thin paper and written fine, I tremble to think of the stamps this long letter will need. Pray forward Amy's as soon as you can spare them. My small news will sound very flat after her splendors, but you will like them, I know. Is Teddy studying so hard that he can't find time to write to his friends? Take good care of him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the babies, and give heaps of love to everyone. From your faithful Jo. P.S. On reading over my letter, it strikes me as rather Bhaery, but I am always interested in odd people, and I really had nothing else to write about. Bless you! DECEMBER My Precious Betsey, As this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, I direct it to you, for it may amuse you, and give you some idea of my goings on, for though quiet, they are rather amusing, for which, oh, be joyful! After what Amy would call Herculaneum efforts, in the way of mental and moral agriculture, my young ideas begin to shoot and my little twigs to bend as I could wish. They are not so interesting to me as Tina and the boys, but I do my duty by them, and they are fond of me. Franz and Emil are jolly little lads, quite after my own heart, for the mixture of German and American spirit in them produces a constant state of effervescence. Saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether spent in the house or out, for on pleasant days they all go to walk, like a seminary, with the Professor and myself to keep order, and then such fun! We are very good friends now, and I've begun to take lessons. I really couldn't help it, and it all came about in such a droll way that I must tell you. To begin at the beginning, Mrs. Kirke called to me one day as I passed Mr. Bhaer's room where she was rummaging. "Did you ever see such a den, my dear? Just come and help me put these books to rights, for I've turned everything upside down, trying to discover what he has done with the six new handkerchiefs I gave him not long ago." I went in, and while we worked I looked about me, for it was 'a den' to be sure. Books and papers everywhere, a broken meerschaum, and an old flute over the mantlepiece as if done with, a ragged bird without any tail chirped on one window seat, and a box of white mice adorned the other. Half-finished boats and bits of string lay among the manuscripts. Dirty little boots stood drying before the fire, and traces of the dearly beloved boys, for whom he makes a slave of himself, were to be seen all over the room. After a grand rummage three of the missing articles were found, one over the bird cage, one covered with ink, and a third burned brown, having been used as a holder. "Such a man!" laughed good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the relics in the rag bag. "I suppose the others are torn up to rig ships, bandage cut fingers, or make kite tails. It's dreadful, but I can't scold him. He's so absent-minded and goodnatured, he lets those boys ride over him roughshod. I agreed to do his washing and mending, but he forgets to give out his things and I forget to look them over, so he comes to a sad pass sometimes." "Let me mend them," said I. "I don't mind it, and he needn't know. I'd like to, he's so kind to me about bringing my letters and lending books." So I have got his things in order, and knit heels into two pairs of the socks, for they were boggled out of shape with his queer darns. Nothing was said, and I hoped he wouldn't find it out, but one day last week he caught me at it. Hearing the lessons he gives to others has interested and amused me so much that I took a fancy to learn, for Tina runs in and out, leaving the door open, and I can hear. I had been sitting near this door, finishing off the last sock, and trying to understand what he said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I am. The girl had gone, and I thought he had also, it was so still, and I was busily gabbling over a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most absurd way, when a little crow made me look up, and there was Mr. Bhaer looking and laughing quietly, while he made signs to Tina not to betray him. "So!" he said, as I stopped and stared like a goose, "you peep at me, I peep at you, and this is not bad, but see, I am not pleasanting when I say, haf you a wish for German?" "Yes, but you are too busy. I am too stupid to learn," I blundered out, as red as a peony. "Prut! We will make the time, and we fail not to find the sense. At efening I shall gif a little lesson with much gladness, for look you, Mees Marsch, I haf this debt to pay." And he pointed to my work 'Yes,' they say to one another, these so kind ladies, 'he is a stupid old fellow, he will see not what we do, he will never observe that his sock heels go not in holes any more, he will think his buttons grow out new when they fall, and believe that strings make theirselves.' "Ah! But I haf an eye, and I see much. I haf a heart, and I feel thanks for this. Come, a little lesson then and now, or--no more good fairy works for me and mine." Of course I couldn't say anything after that, and as it really is a splendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we began. I took four lessons, and then I stuck fast in a grammatical bog. The Professor was very patient with me, but it must have been torment to him, and now and then he'd look at me with such an expression of mild despair that it was a toss-up with me whether to laugh or cry. I tried both ways, and when it came to a sniff or utter mortification and woe, he just threw the grammar on to the floor and marched out of the room. I felt myself disgraced and deserted forever, but didn't blame him a particle, and was scrambling my papers together, meaning to rush upstairs and shake myself hard, when in he came, as brisk and beaming as if I'd covered myself in glory. "Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these pleasant little _marchen_ together, and dig no more in that dry book, that goes in the corner for making us trouble." He spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Anderson's fairy tales so invitingly before me, that I was more ashamed than ever, and went at my lesson in a neck-or-nothing style that seemed to amuse him immensely. I forgot my bashfulness, and pegged away (no other word will express it) with all my might, tumbling over long words, pronouncing according to inspiration of the minute, and doing my very best. When I finished reading my first page, and stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and cried out in his hearty way, "Das ist gut! Now we go well! My turn. I do him in German, gif me your ear." And away he went, rumbling out the words with his strong voice and a relish which was good to see as well as hear. Fortunately the story was _The Constant Tin Soldier_, which is droll, you know, so I could laugh, and I did, though I didn't understand half he read, for I couldn't help it, he was so earnest, I so excited, and the whole thing so comical. After that we got on better, and now I read my lessons pretty well, for this way of studying suits me, and I can see that the grammar gets tucked into the tales and poetry as one gives pills in jelly. I like it very much, and he doesn't seem tired of it yet, which is very good of him, isn't it? I mean to give him something on Christmas, for I dare not offer money. Tell me something nice, Marmee. I'm glad Laurie seems so happy and busy, that he has given up smoking and lets his hair grow. You see Beth manages him better than I did. I'm not jealous, dear, do your best, only don't make a saint of him. I'm afraid I couldn't like him without a spice of human naughtiness. Read him bits of my letters. I haven't time to write much, and that will do just as well. Thank Heaven Beth continues so comfortable. JANUARY A Happy New Year to you all, my dearest family, which of course includes Mr. L. and a young man by the name of Teddy. I can't tell you how much I enjoyed your Christmas bundle, for I didn't get it till night and had given up hoping. Your letter came in the morning, but you said nothing about a parcel, meaning it for a surprise, so I was disappointed, for I'd had a 'kind of feeling' that you wouldn't forget me. I felt a little low in my mind as I sat up in my room after tea, and when the big, muddy, battered-looking bundle was brought to me, I just hugged it and pranced. It was so homey and refreshing that I sat down on the floor and read and looked and ate and laughed and cried, in my usual absurd way. The things were just what I wanted, and all the better for being made instead of bought. Beth's new 'ink bib' was capital, and Hannah's box of hard gingerbread will be a treasure. I'll be sure and wear the nice flannels you sent, Marmee, and read carefully the books Father has marked. Thank you all, heaps and heaps! Speaking of books reminds me that I'm getting rich in that line, for on New Year's Day Mr. Bhaer gave me a fine Shakespeare. It is one he values much, and I've often admired it, set up in the place of honor with his German Bible, Plato, Homer, and Milton, so you may imagine how I felt when he brought it down, without its cover, and showed me my own name in it, "from my friend Friedrich Bhaer". "You say often you wish a library. Here I gif you one, for between these lids (he meant covers) is many books in one. Read him well, and he will help you much, for the study of character in this book will help you to read it in the world and paint it with your pen." I thanked him as well as I could, and talk now about 'my library', as if I had a hundred books. I never knew how much there was in Shakespeare before, but then I never had a Bhaer to explain it to me. Now don't laugh at his horrid name. It isn't pronounced either Bear or Beer, as people will say it, but something between the two, as only Germans can give it. I'm glad you both like what I tell you about him, and hope you will know him some day. Mother would admire his warm heart, Father his wise head. I admire both, and feel rich in my new 'friend Friedrich Bhaer'. Not having much money, or knowing what he'd like, I got several little things, and put them about the room, where he would find them unexpectedly. They were useful, pretty, or funny, a new standish on his table, a little vase for his flower, he always has one, or a bit of green in a glass, to keep him fresh, he says, and a holder for his blower, so that he needn't burn up what Amy calls 'mouchoirs'. I made it like those Beth invented, a big butterfly with a fat body, and black and yellow wings, worsted feelers, and bead eyes. It took his fancy immensely, and he put it on his mantlepiece as an article of virtue, so it was rather a failure after all. Poor as he is, he didn't forget a servant or a child in the house, and not a soul here, from the French laundrywoman to Miss Norton forgot him. I was so glad of that. They got up a masquerade, and had a gay time New Year's Eve. I didn't mean to go down, having no dress. But at the last minute, Mrs. Kirke remembered some old brocades, and Miss Norton lent me lace and feathers. So I dressed up as Mrs. Malaprop, and sailed in with a mask on. No one knew me, for I disguised my voice, and no one dreamed of the silent, haughty Miss March (for they think I am very stiff and cool, most of them, and so I am to whippersnappers) could dance and dress, and burst out into a 'nice derangement of epitaphs, like an allegory on the banks of the Nile'. I enjoyed it very much, and when we unmasked it was fun to see them stare at me. I heard one of the young men tell another that he knew I'd been an actress, in fact, he thought he remembered seeing me at one of the minor theaters. Meg will relish that joke. Mr. Bhaer was Nick Bottom, and Tina was Titania, a perfect little fairy in his arms. To see them dance was 'quite a landscape', to use a Teddyism. I had a very happy New Year, after all, and when I thought it over in my room, I felt as if I was getting on a little in spite of my many failures, for I'm cheerful all the time now, work with a will, and take more interest in other people than I used to, which is satisfactory. Bless you all! Ever your loving... Jo Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

Jo schreibt eine Reihe von Briefen, in denen sie über ihre Aktivitäten in New York berichtet. Sie freundet sich mit Frau Norton an, einer alten Jungfer, die ihr hilft, sich zurechtzufinden und sie oft zum Abendessen im Familienstil in das große, wohnungsähnliche Pensionat einlädt. Die wichtigste Person, die sie trifft, ist Professor Bhaer (später Fritz genannt), der mehreren Kindern Deutsch beibringt. Er ist unattraktiv und hat einige ungehobelte Manieren, aber Jo mag ihn wegen seines guten Wesens und seiner Liebe zu den Kindern. Sie und Frau Kirke nähen ein wenig für ihn, weil sie ihn bedauern, wenn sie ihn dabei sehen, wie er seine eigenen Socken stopft. Herr Bhaer besteht darauf, Jo die Gefälligkeit zu erwidern, indem er ihr Deutsch beibringt. Nach den ersten vier Unterrichtsstunden ist Jo jedoch hoffnungslos verwirrt von der Grammatik. Schließlich wirft Herr Bhaer das Grammatikbuch beiseite und unterrichtet Jo, indem er deutsche Märchen mit ihr liest, eine Methode, die ihr viel besser zu liegen scheint. Jo beginnt sich für andere Menschen zu interessieren und mit Eifer zu arbeiten. Sie nimmt an einem Maskenball an Silvester teil, bei dem einige hochnäsige junge Männer glauben, sie sei eine "Schauspielerin". Professor Bhaer schenkt Jo zu Weihnachten eine Anthologie von Shakespeares Werken.

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.

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. Benedikt tritt alleine auf. Bene. Junge Junge. Signior Bene. In meinem Kämmerchen liegt ein Buch, bring es mir hierher in den Obstgarten Junge. Ich bin schon hier, Herr. Betritt den Garten. Bene. Das weiß ich, aber ich möchte, dass du weggehst und wieder hierherkommst. Es verwundert mich sehr, dass ein Mann, der sieht, wie dumm ein anderer Mann ist, wenn er sein Verhalten der Liebe widmet, nachdem er über solch oberflächliche Torheiten anderer gelacht hat, zum Objekt seines eigenen Spottes wird, indem er sich verliebt, und ein solcher Mann ist Claudio. Ich habe erlebt, dass er keine Musik außer Trommel und Pfeife mochte, und jetzt hört er lieber Trommel und Flöte: Ich habe erlebt, dass er zehn Meilen zu Fuss gegangen ist, um eine gute Rüstung zu sehen, und jetzt wird er zehn Nächte wach liegen und die Mode eines neuen Wamses schnitzen: Er pflegte direkt und zielgerichtet zu sprechen (wie ein anständiger Mann und Soldat), und jetzt ist er zur Orthografie geworden, seine Worte sind ein sehr fantastisches Festmahl, so viele seltsame Gerichte: Kann ich auch so verwandelt werden und mit diesen Augen sehen? Ich kann es nicht sagen, ich glaube nicht: Ich will keinen Eid darauf ablegen, aber die Liebe kann mich in eine Auster verwandeln, aber ich schwöre, bis er eine Auster aus mir gemacht hat, wird er mich niemals zu solch einem Narren machen: Eine Frau ist schön, aber mir geht es gut: Eine andere ist klug, aber mir geht es gut: Eine andere tugendhaft, aber mir geht es gut: Aber bis alle Anmut in einer Frau ist, wird keine Frau in meine Gnade kommen: Reich soll sie sein, das ist sicher: klug, oder ich will keine: tugendhaft, oder ich werde sie niemals schätzen: schön, oder ich werde sie niemals anschauen: sanftmütig, oder komme mir nicht nahe: edel, oder nicht für einen Engel: von guter Redekunst: ein ausgezeichneter Musiker, und ihre Haare sollen die Farbe haben, die Gott gefällt. Hah! Der Prinz und Monsieur Liebe, ich werde mich im Laubwerk verstecken. Der Prinz, Leonato, Claudio und Jack Wilson treten auf. Prinz. Kommen wir, wollen wir diese Musik hören? Claud. Ja, mein guter Lord: Wie still der Abend ist, ganz in Stille, um die Harmonie zu ehren. Prinz. Siehst du, wo Benedikt sich versteckt hat? Claud. Oh, sehr gut, mein Lord: Die Musik ist vorbei, Jetzt werden wir den Fuchs mit einem Billig-Drink beköstigen. Prinz. Komm, Balthasar, wir wollen dieses Lied noch einmal hören. Balth. Oh, mein guter Lord, verurteilen Sie nicht so eine schlechte Stimme, Beschmutzen Sie die Musik nicht mehr als einmal. Prinz. Es ist immer noch Zeugnis für Exzellenz, Die Musik nicht mehr als einmal beschmutzen. Prinz. Es ist immer noch Zeugnis für Exzellenz, Um ein fremdes Gesicht in seine eigene Vollkommenheit zu setzen, Ich bitte dich, singe und mich nicht mehr umwerben. Balth. Weil du vom Werben sprichst, werde ich singen, Da viele Verehrer beginnen ihre Werbung, An eine, die er für nicht würdig hält, dennoch wirbt er, Doch wird er schwören, dass er liebt. Prinz. Nein, bitte komm, Oder wenn du eine längere Diskussion führen willst, Tu es in Noten. Balth. Merkt euch das vor meinen Noten, Es gibt keine Note von mir, die der Erwähnung wert ist. Prinz. Warum spricht er so seltsam von Noten, Noten, in der Tat, und nichts. Bene. Nun, himmlische Luft, jetzt ist seine Seele verzückt, ist es nicht seltsam, dass Schafssehnen Seelen aus den Körpern ziehen sollten? Nun gut, ein Horn für mein Geld, wenn alles getan ist. Das Lied. Seufzt nicht mehr, meine Damen, seufzt nicht mehr, Männer waren immer Täuscher, Ein Fuß im Meer und einer an Land, Niemals einer Sache treu. Dann seufzt nicht so, sondern lasst sie gehen, Und sei fröhlich und hübsch, Verwandling all deine Klänge des Kummer In Hey Nony Nony. Singt keine Lieder mehr, singt keine mehr, Von so traurigen und schweren Bürden, Der Betrug der Männer war immer so, Seitdem der Sommer zum ersten Mal grün war, Dann seufze nicht so, usw. Prinz. Wahrhaftig ein gutes Lied. Balth. Und ein schlechter Sänger, mein Lord. Prinz. Ha, nein, nein, wahrhaftig, du singst gut genug für eine Notlösung. Ben. Hätte er ein Hund sein sollen, der so heulen sollte, hätten sie ihn gehängt, und ich bete zu Gott, dass seine schlechte Stimme kein Unglück verheißt. Ich hätte genauso lieber den Nachtraben gehört, was für eine Pest auch immer danach kommen mag. Prinz. Ja, wirklich, hörst du, Balthasar? Ich bitte dich, besorg uns ausgezeichnete Musik, denn morgen Abend möchten wir sie am Fenster von Lady Heroes Zimmer haben. Balth. So gut ich kann, mein Lord. Balthasar geht ab. Prinz. Tu das, lebwohl. Komm her, Leonato, was sagtest du mir heute, dass deine Nichte Beatrice in Signior Benedikt verliebt ist? Clau. Oh ja, weiter spionieren, weiter spionieren, das Biest sitzt. Ich hätte niemals gedacht, dass diese Dame irgendeinen Mann lieben würde. Leon. Nein, ich auch nicht, aber am erstaunlichsten ist es, dass sie sich so sehr in Signior Benedikt verliebt hat, den sie in ihrem gesamten Verhalten immer abgelehnt zu haben schien. Bene. Ist das möglich? Weht der Wind in diese Richtung? Leo. Bei meinem Wort, mein Lord, ich kann nicht sagen, was ich davon halten soll, aber dass sie ihn mit einer wilden Zuneigung liebt, geht über den unendlichen Raum des Denkens hinaus. Prinz. Vielleicht tut sie nur so. Claud. Ja, sehr wahrscheinlich. Leon. Oh Gott! Tut sie nur so? Niemand hat je so überzeugend Leidenschaft vorgetäuscht, wie sie es zeigt. Prinz. Welche Anzeichen von Leidenschaft zeigt sie? Clau. Lockt sie den Haken gut, dieser Fisch wird zubeißen. Leon. Welche Anzeichen, mein Herr? Sie sitzt, ihr habt gehört, wie meine Tochter es euch erzählt hat. Claud. Das hat sie in der Tat. Prinz. Wie, wie bitte? Du erstaunst mich, ich hätte gedacht, ihr Geist wäre gegen alle Angriffe der Zuneigung unverwundbar. Leon. Ich hätte geschworen, dass er es war, mein Herr, vor allem gegenüber Benedikt. Bene. Ich würde dies für einen Scherz halten, aber der weißbärtige Kerl sagt es: ein Schurkentum kann sich nicht sicher in solcher Achtung verstecken. Claud. Es hat ihn angesteckt, haltet ihn hoch. Prinz. Hat sie Benedikt ihre Zuneigung offenbart? Leonato. Nein, und sie schwört, dass sie es nie tun wird, das ist ihre Qual. Claud. Es ist wirklich wahr, so sagt es eure Tochter: Soll ich, sagt sie, die ihn so oft mit Verachtung konfrontiert hat, ihm schreiben, dass ich ihn liebe? Leon. Das sagt sie jetzt, als sie anfängt, ihm zu schreiben, denn sie wird zwanzigmal in einer Nacht aufstehen, und dort wird Clau: Zu welchem Zweck? Er würde sich nur darüber lustig machen und die arme Dame noch mehr quälen. Prinz: Und er sollte es tun, es wäre eine Wohltat, ihn aufzuhängen. Sie ist eine ausgezeichnete, süße Dame und (ohne jeden Verdacht) tugendhaft. Claudio: Und sie ist überaus klug. Prinz: In allem, außer darin, Benedikt zu lieben. Leonato: Oh mein Herr, Weisheit und Blut bekämpfen sich in einem so zarten Körper. Wir haben zehn Beweise zu einem, dass das Blut den Sieg davonträgt. Es tut mir leid für sie, wie ich guten Grund habe, ihr Onkel und ihr Vormund zu sein. Prinz: Ich wünschte, sie hätte diese Schwärmerei auf mich gerichtet. Ich hätte alle anderen Rücksichten abgeschafft und sie zur Hälfte zu mir selbst gemacht. Sagt Benedikt davon und hört, was er dazu sagen wird. Leonato: Wäre das gut, denkt ihr? Claudio: Hero denkt sicher, dass sie sterben wird. Denn sie sagt, sie werde sterben, wenn er sie nicht liebt, und sie wird sterben, bevor sie ihre Liebe offenbart, und sie wird sterben, wenn er um sie wirbt, bevor sie auch nur einen Atemzug ihrer gewohnten Bosheit aufgeben würde. Prinz: Sie handelt richtig, wenn sie ihre Liebe zart anbietet. Es ist sehr wahrscheinlich, dass er sie verachtet, denn der Mann (wie ihr alle wisst) hat einen verachtenswerten Charakter. Claudio: Er ist ein sehr passender Mann. Prinz: Tatsächlich hat er ein gutes äußeres Glück. Claudio: Bei Gott, und meiner Meinung nach auch sehr klug. Prinz: Tatsächlich zeigt er einige Funken von Verstand. Leonato: Und ich halte ihn für einen Tapferen. Prinz: Wie Hector, versichere ich euch, und in der Bewältigung von Streitigkeiten kann man sehen, dass er klug ist, denn entweder vermeidet er sie mit großer Umsicht oder er nimmt sie mit christlicher Furcht an. Leonato: Wenn er Gott fürchtet, muss er notwendigerweise Frieden bewahren. Wenn er den Frieden bricht, sollte er mit Furcht und Zittern in einen Streit geraten. Prinz: Und das wird er auch tun, denn der Mann fürchtet Gott, auch wenn es nicht den Anschein hat, durch einige der Witze, die er reißt. Nun, es tut mir leid für deine Nichte, sollen wir Benedikt aufsuchen und ihm von ihrer Liebe erzählen? Claudio: Sag es ihm niemals, mein Herr, lass sie es mit gutem Rat ausleben. Leonato: Das ist unmöglich, sie kann eher ihr Herz verschleißen. Prinz: Nun, wir werden weiter darüber von deiner Tochter hören, lasst es in der Zwischenzeit abkühlen. Ich liebe Benedikt sehr und ich wünschte, er würde sich bescheiden prüfen, um zu sehen, wie unwürdig er ist, eine so gute Dame zu haben. Leonato: Mein Herr, wollen Sie spazieren gehen? Das Essen ist fertig. Claudio: Wenn er nicht an ihr rasend wird, werde ich nie mehr meinem Vertrauen trauen. Prinz: Lasst dieselbe Falle für sie ausgebreitet werden, und eure Tochter und ihre Zofe sollen sie tragen. Das Spiel wird sein, wenn sie sich gegenseitig in ihrem Schwärmen bestätigen, und es gibt nichts in dieser Hinsicht, das ist die Szene, die ich sehen möchte, die einfach nur eine stumme Show sein wird. Lassen Sie uns sie schicken, um ihn zum Essen zu rufen. Abgang. Benedikt: Das kann kein Trick sein, das Gespräch war ernsthaft. Sie haben die Wahrheit von Hero, sie scheinen die Dame zu bemitleiden. Es scheint, als ob ihre Gefühle voller Ernsthaftigkeit sind. Mich lieben? Nun, das muss erwidert werden. Ich höre, wie ich kritisiert werde, sie sagen, ich würde mich stolz verhalten, wenn ich die Liebe von ihr bemerke. Sie sagen auch, dass sie lieber sterben würde, als irgendwelche Anzeichen von Zuneigung zu zeigen. Ich habe nie daran gedacht zu heiraten. Ich darf nicht stolz erscheinen. Glücklich sind diejenigen, die ihre Verleumdungen hören und sie verbessern können. Sie sagen, die Dame ist schön, das ist wahr, ich kann es bezeugen. Und tugendhaft, das ist sie auch, ich kann es nicht verurteilen. Und klug, aber mich zu lieben, das ist keine Ergänzung zu ihrer Klugheit und kein großes Argument für ihre Dummheit. Denn ich werde schrecklich in sie verliebt sein. Ich habe vielleicht einige lustige Witze und Überbleibsel des Verstandes, die auf mich geworfen werden, weil ich so lange gegen die Ehe gewettert habe. Aber ändert sich nicht die Lust? Ein Mann liebt das Essen in seiner Jugend, das er im Alter nicht mehr ertragen kann. Können Witze und Sätze und diese Gehirngeschosse einen Mann von der Bahn seines Humors abbringen? Nein, die Welt muss bevölkert werden. Als ich sagte, ich würde ein Junggeselle sterben, dachte ich nicht, dass ich bis zu meiner Hochzeit leben würde. Hier kommt Beatrice. Bei Gott, sie ist eine schöne Dame. Ich sehe einige Anzeichen von Liebe in ihr. Beatrice: Gegen meinen Willen wurde ich geschickt, um dir mitzuteilen, dass das Essen fertig ist. Benedikt: Schöne Beatrice, ich danke dir für deine Mühe. Beatrice: Ich habe für diese Dankbarkeit nicht mehr getan, als du dich bemühst, mir zu danken. Wenn es schmerzhaft gewesen wäre, wäre ich nicht gekommen. Benedikt: Du freust dich also über die Botschaft. Beatrice: Ja, genauso viel wie du an der Spitze eines Messers und an einem Kehlkopf über ein Rabenjunges schlemmst. Du hast keinen Appetit, Signore, lebe wohl. Abgang. Benedikt: Ah, widerwillig wurde ich geschickt, um dir zu sagen, dass das Essen bereit ist. Da ist eine doppelte Bedeutung darin. Ich habe keine größeren Mühen für diese Dankbarkeit aufgebracht als du, um mir zu danken. Das bedeutet so viel wie: Alle Anstrengungen, die ich für dich unternehme, sind so einfach wie Dankbarkeit. Wenn ich kein Mitleid mit ihr habe, bin ich ein Schurke. Wenn ich sie nicht liebe, bin ich ein Jude. Ich werde ihr Bild holen gehen. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Inzwischen ist der Earl auf der Burg Warkworth in Northumberland inmitten eines intensiven Gesprächs mit seiner Frau, Lady Northumberland, und seiner Schwiegertochter, Lady Percy. Northumberland bittet seine Frau und Schwiegertochter sanft, ihn nicht wegen seiner Angelegenheiten zu belästigen. Er hat schon genug Sorgen, wie es ist. Lady Northumberland gibt auf und verspricht, ihre Meinung für sich zu behalten. Northumberland sagt, sein Ansehen steht auf dem Spiel und sie solle ihn etwas Nachsicht haben lassen. Dann erfahren wir, worüber das Trio gestritten hat. Lady Percy, Hotspurs Witwe, sagt Northumberland, dass er verrückt ist, wenn er gegen den König in den Kampf zieht, und es ist ihr egal, ob er den anderen rebellischen Anführern sein Wort gegeben hat. Dann erinnert sie ihn daran, dass er offensichtlich kein Problem hatte, sein Wort gegenüber seinem Sohn zu brechen, als er nicht beim letzten Kampf erschien, bei dem Hotspur getötet wurde. Lady Percy legt weiterhin Schuldgefühle auf und sagt, dass Hotspur darauf vertraute, dass sein Vater ihn unterstützt und Verstärkung bringt, aber Northumberland ließ ihn im Stich. Es ist alles Northumberlands Schuld, dass Hotspur getötet wurde. Lady Percy stellt sich vor, dass sie in diesem Moment in Hotspurs Armen wäre, wenn nur Northumberland sein Wort gehalten und Verstärkung nach Shrewsbury gebracht hätte. Northumberland ist völlig beschämt. Lady Northumberland schließt sich an und schlägt vor, dass ihr Mann nach Schottland fliehen sollte, bis die Rebellen die Kontrolle über die Situation haben. Wenn alles sicher ist, kann Northumberland nach England zurückkommen. Lady Percy stimmt zu, dass ihr Schwiegervater zurückkommen und den Rebellen zusätzliche Unterstützung bieten kann, wenn es sicherer ist. Dann erinnert sie ihn daran, dass es seine Schuld ist, dass sie eine Witwe ist. Northumberland sagt, es ist schwer für ihn, sich zu entscheiden, stimmt aber schließlich zu, nach Schottland zu fliehen, bis die Rebellen ihn um Hilfe bitten.

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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. Chapter: Modesty! Sacred offspring of sensibility and reason! true delicacy of mind! may I unblamed presume to investigate thy nature, and trace to its covert the mild charm, that mellowing each harsh feature of a character, renders what would otherwise only inspire cold admiration--lovely! Thou that smoothest the wrinkles of wisdom, and softenest the tone of the more sublime virtues till they all melt into humanity! thou that spreadest the ethereal cloud that surrounding love heightens every beauty, it half shades, breathing those coy sweets that steal into the heart, and charm the senses--modulate for me the language of persuasive reason, till I rouse my sex from the flowery bed, on which they supinely sleep life away! In speaking of the association of our ideas, I have noticed two distinct modes; and in defining modesty, it appears to me equally proper to discriminate that purity of mind, which is the effect of chastity, from a simplicity of character that leads us to form a just opinion of ourselves, equally distant from vanity or presumption, though by no means incompatible with a lofty consciousness of our own dignity. Modesty in the latter signification of the term, is that soberness of mind which teaches a man not to think more highly of himself than he ought to think, and should be distinguished from humility, because humility is a kind of self-abasement. A modest man often conceives a great plan, and tenaciously adheres to it, conscious of his own strength, till success gives it a sanction that determines its character. Milton was not arrogant when he suffered a suggestion of judgment to escape him that proved a prophesy; nor was General Washington when he accepted of the command of the American forces. The latter has always been characterized as a modest man; but had he been merely humble, he would probably have shrunk back irresolute, afraid of trusting to himself the direction of an enterprise on which so much depended. A modest man is steady, an humble man timid, and a vain one presumptuous; this is the judgment, which the observation of many characters, has led me to form. Jesus Christ was modest, Moses was humble, and Peter vain. Thus discriminating modesty from humility in one case, I do not mean to confound it with bashfulness in the other. Bashfulness, in fact, is so distinct from modesty, that the most bashful lass, or raw country lout, often becomes the most impudent; for their bashfulness being merely the instinctive timidity of ignorance, custom soon changes it into assurance.* (*Footnote. "Such is the country-maiden's fright, When first a red-coat is in sight; Behind the door she hides her face, Next time at distance eyes the lace: She now can all his terrors stand, Nor from his squeeze withdraws her hand, She plays familiar in his arms, And every soldier hath his charms; >From tent to tent she spreads her flame; For custom conquers fear and shame.") The shameless behaviour of the prostitutes who infest the streets of London, raising alternate emotions of pity and disgust, may serve to illustrate this remark. They trample on virgin bashfulness with a sort of bravado, and glorying in their shame, become more audaciously lewd than men, however depraved, to whom the sexual quality has not been gratuitously granted, ever appear to be. But these poor ignorant wretches never had any modesty to lose, when they consigned themselves to infamy; for modesty is a virtue not a quality. No, they were only bashful, shame-faced innocents; and losing their innocence, their shame-facedness was rudely brushed off; a virtue would have left some vestiges in the mind, had it been sacrificed to passion, to make us respect the grand ruin. Purity of mind, or that genuine delicacy, which is the only virtuous support of chastity, is near a-kin to that refinement of humanity, which never resides in any but cultivated minds. It is something nobler than innocence; it is the delicacy of reflection, and not the coyness of ignorance. The reserve of reason, which like habitual cleanliness, is seldom seen in any great degree, unless the soul is active, may easily be distinguished from rustic shyness or wanton skittishness; and so far from being incompatible with knowledge, it is its fairest fruit. What a gross idea of modesty had the writer of the following remark! "The lady who asked the question whether women may be instructed in the modern system of botany, consistently with female delicacy?" was accused of ridiculous prudery: nevertheless, if she had proposed the question to me, I should certainly have answered--They cannot." Thus is the fair book of knowledge to be shut with an everlasting seal! On reading similar passages I have reverentially lifted up my eyes and heart to Him who liveth for ever and ever, and said, O my Father, hast Thou by the very constitution of her nature forbid Thy child to seek Thee in the fair forms of truth? And, can her soul be sullied by the knowledge that awfully calls her to Thee? I have then philosophically pursued these reflections till I inferred, that those women who have most improved their reason must have the most modesty --though a dignified sedateness of deportment may have succeeded the playful, bewitching bashfulness of youth.* (*Footnote. Modesty, is the graceful calm virtue of maturity; bashfulness, the charm of vivacious youth.) And thus have I argued. To render chastity the virtue from which unsophisticated modesty will naturally flow, the attention should be called away from employments, which only exercise the sensibility; and the heart made to beat time to humanity, rather than to throb with love. The woman who has dedicated a considerable portion of her time to pursuits purely intellectual, and whose affections have been exercised by humane plans of usefulness, must have more purity of mind, as a natural consequence, than the ignorant beings whose time and thoughts have been occupied by gay pleasures or schemes to conquer hearts. The regulation of the behaviour is not modesty, though those who study rules of decorum, are, in general termed modest women. Make the heart clean, let it expand and feel for all that is human, instead of being narrowed by selfish passions; and let the mind frequently contemplate subjects that exercise the understanding, without heating the imagination, and artless modesty will give the finishing touches to the picture. She who can discern the dawn of immortality, in the streaks that shoot athwart the misty night of ignorance, promising a clearer day, will respect, as a sacred temple, the body that enshrines such an improvable soul. True love, likewise, spreads this kind of mysterious sanctity round the beloved object, making the lover most modest when in her presence. So reserved is affection, that, receiving or returning personal endearments, it wishes, not only to shun the human eye, as a kind of profanation; but to diffuse an encircling cloudy obscurity to shut out even the saucy sparkling sunbeams. Yet, that affection does not deserve the epithet of chaste which does not receive a sublime gloom of tender melancholy, that allows the mind for a moment to stand still and enjoy the present satisfaction, when a consciousness of the Divine presence is felt--for this must ever be the food of joy! As I have always been fond of tracing to its source in nature any prevailing custom, I have frequently thought that it was a sentiment of affection for whatever had touched the person of an absent or lost friend, which gave birth to that respect for relics, so much abused by selfish priests. Devotion, or love, may be allowed to hallow the garments as well as the person; for the lover must want fancy, who has not a sort of sacred respect for the glove or slipper of his mistress. He could not confound them with vulgar things of the same kind. This fine sentiment, perhaps, would not bear to be analyzed by the experimental philosopher--but of such stuff is human rapture made up!-- A shadowy phantom glides before us, obscuring every other object; yet when the soft cloud is grasped, the form melts into common air, leaving a solitary void, or sweet perfume, stolen from the violet, that memory long holds dear. But, I have tripped unawares on fairy ground, feeling the balmy gale of spring stealing on me, though November frowns. As a sex, women are more chaste than men, and as modesty is the effect of chastity, they may deserve to have this virtue ascribed to them in rather an appropriated sense; yet, I must be allowed to add an hesitating if:-- for I doubt, whether chastity will produce modesty, though it may propriety of conduct, when it is merely a respect for the opinion of the world, and when coquetry and the lovelorn tales of novelists employ the thoughts. Nay, from experience, and reason, I should be lead to expect to meet with more modesty amongst men than women, simply because men exercise their understandings more than women. But, with respect to propriety of behaviour, excepting one class of females, women have evidently the advantage. What can be more disgusting than that impudent dross of gallantry, thought so manly, which makes many men stare insultingly at every female they meet? Is this respect for the sex? This loose behaviour shows such habitual depravity, such weakness of mind, that it is vain to expect much public or private virtue, till both men and women grow more modest--till men, curbing a sensual fondness for the sex, or an affectation of manly assurance, more properly speaking, impudence, treat each other with respect--unless appetite or passion gives the tone, peculiar to it, to their behaviour. I mean even personal respect--the modest respect of humanity, and fellow-feeling; not the libidinous mockery of gallantry, nor the insolent condescension of protectorship. To carry the observation still further, modesty must heartily disclaim, and refuse to dwell with that debauchery of mind, which leads a man coolly to bring forward, without a blush, indecent allusions, or obscene witticisms, in the presence of a fellow creature; women are now out of the question, for then it is brutality. Respect for man, as man is the foundation of every noble sentiment. How much more modest is the libertine who obeys the call of appetite or fancy, than the lewd joker who sets the table in a roar. This is one of the many instances in which the sexual distinction respecting modesty has proved fatal to virtue and happiness. It is, however, carried still further, and woman, weak woman! made by her education the slave of sensibility, is required, on the most trying occasions, to resist that sensibility. "Can any thing," says Knox, be more absurd than keeping women in a state of ignorance, and yet so vehemently to insist on their resisting temptation? Thus when virtue or honour make it proper to check a passion, the burden is thrown on the weaker shoulders, contrary to reason and true modesty, which, at least, should render the self-denial mutual, to say nothing of the generosity of bravery, supposed to be a manly virtue. In the same strain runs Rousseau's and Dr. Gregory's advice respecting modesty, strangely miscalled! for they both desire a wife to leave it in doubt, whether sensibility or weakness led her to her husband's arms. The woman is immodest who can let the shadow of such a doubt remain on her husband's mind a moment. But to state the subject in a different light. The want of modesty, which I principally deplore as subversive of morality, arises from the state of warfare so strenuously supported by voluptuous men as the very essence of modesty, though, in fact, its bane; because it is a refinement on sensual desire, that men fall into who have not sufficient virtue to relish the innocent pleasures of love. A man of delicacy carries his notions of modesty still further, for neither weakness nor sensibility will gratify him--he looks for affection. Again; men boast of their triumphs over women, what do they boast of? Truly the creature of sensibility was surprised by her sensibility into folly--into vice;* and the dreadful reckoning falls heavily on her own weak head, when reason wakes. For where art thou to find comfort, forlorn and disconsolate one? He who ought to have directed thy reason, and supported thy weakness, has betrayed thee! In a dream of passion thou consentedst to wander through flowery lawns, and heedlessly stepping over the precipice to which thy guide, instead of guarding, lured thee, thou startest from thy dream only to face a sneering, frowning world, and to find thyself alone in a waste, for he that triumphed in thy weakness is now pursuing new conquests; but for thee--there is no redemption on this side the grave! And what resource hast thou in an enervated mind to raise a sinking heart? (*Footnote. The poor moth fluttering round a candle, burns its wings.) But, if the sexes be really to live in a state of warfare, if nature has pointed it out, let men act nobly, or let pride whisper to them, that the victory is mean when they merely vanquish sensibility. The real conquest is that over affection not taken by surprise--when, like Heloisa, a woman gives up all the world, deliberately, for love. I do not now consider the wisdom or virtue of such a sacrifice, I only contend that it was a sacrifice to affection, and not merely to sensibility, though she had her share. And I must be allowed to call her a modest woman, before I dismiss this part of the subject, by saying, that till men are more chaste, women will be immodest. Where, indeed, could modest women find husbands from whom they would not continually turn with disgust? Modesty must be equally cultivated by both sexes, or it will ever remain a sickly hot-house plant, whilst the affectation of it, the fig leaf borrowed by wantonness, may give a zest to voluptuous enjoyments.) Men will probably still insist that woman ought to have more modesty than man; but it is not dispassionate reasoners who will most earnestly oppose my opinion. No, they are the men of fancy, the favourites of the sex, who outwardly respect, and inwardly despise the weak creatures whom they thus sport with. They cannot submit to resign the highest sensual gratification, nor even to relish the epicurism of virtue--self-denial. To take another view of the subject, confining my remarks to women. The ridiculous falsities which are told to children, from mistaken notions of modesty, tend very early to inflame their imaginations and set their little minds to work, respecting subjects, which nature never intended they should think of, till the body arrived at some degree of maturity; then the passions naturally begin to take place of the senses, as instruments to unfold the understanding, and form the moral character. In nurseries, and boarding schools, I fear, girls are first spoiled; particularly in the latter. A number of girls sleep in the same room, and wash together. And, though I should be sorry to contaminate an innocent creature's mind by instilling false delicacy, or those indecent prudish notions, which early cautions respecting the other sex naturally engender, I should be very anxious to prevent their acquiring indelicate, or immodest habits; and as many girls have learned very indelicate tricks, from ignorant servants, the mixing them thus indiscriminately together, is very improper. To say the truth, women are, in general, too familiar with each other, which leads to that gross degree of familiarity that so frequently renders the marriage state unhappy. Why in the name of decency are sisters, female intimates, or ladies and their waiting women, to be so grossly familiar as to forget the respect which one human creature owes to another? That squeamish delicacy which shrinks from the most disgusting offices when affection or humanity lead us to watch at a sick pillow, is despicable. But, why women in health should be more familiar with each other than men are, when they boast of their superiour delicacy, is a solecism in manners which I could never solve. In order to preserve health and beauty, I should earnestly recommend frequent ablutions, to dignify my advice that it may not offend the fastidious ear; and, by example, girls ought to be taught to wash and dress alone, without any distinction of rank; and if custom should make them require some little assistance, let them not require it till that part of the business is over which ought never to be done before a fellow-creature; because it is an insult to the majesty of human nature. Not on the score of modesty, but decency; for the care which some modest women take, making at the same time a display of that care, not to let their legs be seen, is as childish as immodest.* (*Footnote. I remember to have met with a sentence, in a book of education that made me smile. "It would be needless to caution you against putting your hand, by chance, under your neck-handkerchief; for a modest woman never did so!") I could proceed still further, till I animadverted on some still more indelicate customs, which men never fall into. Secrets are told--where silence ought to reign; and that regard to cleanliness, which some religious sects have, perhaps, carried too far, especially the Essenes, amongst the Jews, by making that an insult to God which is only an insult to humanity, is violated in a brutal manner. How can DELICATE women obtrude on notice that part of the animal economy, which is so very disgusting? And is it not very rational to conclude, that the women who have not been taught to respect the human nature of their own sex, in these particulars, will not long respect the mere difference of sex, in their husbands? After their maidenish bashfulness is once lost, I, in fact, have generally observed, that women fall into old habits; and treat their husbands as they did their sisters or female acquaintance. Besides, women from necessity, because their minds are not cultivated, have recourse very often, to what I familiarly term bodily wit; and their intimacies are of the same kind. In short, with respect to both mind and body, they are too intimate. That decent personal reserve, which is the foundation of dignity of character, must be kept up between women, or their minds will never gain strength or modesty. On this account also, I object to many females being shut up together in nurseries, schools, or convents. I cannot recollect without indignation, the jokes and hoiden tricks, which knots of young women indulged themselves in, when in my youth accident threw me, an awkward rustic, in their way. They were almost on a par with the double meanings, which shake the convivial table when the glass has circulated freely. But it is vain to attempt to keep the heart pure, unless the head is furnished with ideas, and set to work to compare them, in order, to acquire judgment, by generalizing simple ones; and modesty by making the understanding damp the sensibility. It may be thought that I lay too great a stress on personal reserve; but it is ever the hand-maid of modesty. So that were I to name the graces that ought to adorn beauty, I should instantly exclaim, cleanliness, neatness, and personal reserve. It is obvious, I suppose, that the reserve I mean, has nothing sexual in it, and that I think it EQUALLY necessary in both sexes. So necessary indeed, is that reserve and cleanliness which indolent women too often neglect, that I will venture to affirm, that when two or three women live in the same house, the one will be most respected by the male part of the family, who reside with them, leaving love entirely out of the question, who pays this kind of habitual respect to her person. When domestic friends meet in a morning, there will naturally prevail an affectionate seriousness, especially, if each look forward to the discharge of daily duties; and it may be reckoned fanciful, but this sentiment has frequently risen spontaneously in my mind. I have been pleased after breathing the sweet bracing morning air, to see the same kind of freshness in the countenances I particularly loved; I was glad to see them braced, as it were, for the day, and ready to run their course with the sun. The greetings of affection in the morning are by these means more respectful, than the familiar tenderness which frequently prolongs the evening talk. Nay, I have often felt hurt, not to say disgusted, when a friend has appeared, whom I parted with full dressed the evening before, with her clothes huddled on, because she chose to indulge herself in bed till the last moment. Domestic affection can only be kept alive by these neglected attentions; yet if men and women took half as much pains to dress habitually neat, as they do to ornament, or rather to disfigure their persons, much would be done towards the attainment of purity of mind. But women only dress to gratify men of gallantry; for the lover is always best pleased with the simple garb that sits close to the shape. There is an impertinence in ornaments that rebuffs affection; because love always clings round the idea of home. As a sex, women are habitually indolent; and every thing tends to make them so. I do not forget the starts of activity which sensibility produces; but as these flights of feeling only increase the evil, they are not to be confounded with the slow, orderly walk of reason. So great, in reality, is their mental and bodily indolence, that till their body be strengthened and their understanding enlarged by active exertions, there is little reason to expect that modesty will take place of bashfulness. They may find it prudent to assume its semblance; but the fair veil will only be worn on gala days. Perhaps there is not a virtue that mixes so kindly with every other as modesty. It is the pale moon-beam that renders more interesting every virtue it softens, giving mild grandeur to the contracted horizon. Nothing can be more beautiful than the poetical fiction, which makes Diana with her silver crescent, the goddess of chastity. I have sometimes thought, that wandering with sedate step in some lonely recess, a modest dame of antiquity must have felt a glow of conscious dignity, when, after contemplating the soft shadowy landscape, she has invited with placid fervour the mild reflection of her sister's beams to turn to her chaste bosom. A Christian has still nobler motives to incite her to preserve her chastity and acquire modesty, for her body has been called the Temple of the living God; of that God who requires more than modesty of mien. His eye searcheth the heart; and let her remember, that if she hopeth to find favour in the sight of purity itself, her chastity must be founded on modesty, and not on worldly prudence; or verily a good reputation will be her only reward; for that awful intercourse, that sacred communion, which virtue establishes between man and his Maker, must give rise to the wish of being pure as he is pure! After the foregoing remarks, it is almost superfluous to add, that I consider all those feminine airs of maturity, which succeed bashfulness, to which truth is sacrificed, to secure the heart of a husband, or rather to force him to be still a lover when nature would, had she not been interrupted in her operations, have made love give place to friendship, as immodest. The tenderness which a man will feel for the mother of his children is an excellent substitute for the ardour of unsatisfied passion; but to prolong that ardour it is indelicate, not to say immodest, for women to feign an unnatural coldness of constitution. Women as well as men ought to have the common appetites and passions of their nature, they are only brutal when unchecked by reason: but the obligation to check them is the duty of mankind, not a sexual duty. Nature, in these respects, may safely be left to herself; let women only acquire knowledge and humanity, and love will teach them modesty. There is no need of falsehoods, disgusting as futile, for studied rules of behaviour only impose on shallow observers; a man of sense soon sees through, and despises the affectation. The behaviour of young people, to each other, as men and women, is the last thing that should be thought of in education. In fact, behaviour in most circumstances is now so much thought of, that simplicity of character is rarely to be seen; yet, if men were only anxious to cultivate each virtue, and let it take root firmly in the mind, the grace resulting from it, its natural exteriour mark, would soon strip affectation of its flaunting plumes; because, fallacious as unstable, is the conduct that is not founded upon truth! (Footnote. The behaviour of many newly married women has often disgusted me. They seem anxious never to let their husbands forget the privilege of marriage, and to find no pleasure in his society unless he is acting the lover. Short, indeed, must be the reign of love, when the flame is thus constantly blown up, without its receiving any solid fuel.) Wollt ihr, meine Schwestern, wirklich Bescheidenheit besitzen, müsst ihr bedenken, dass der Besitz von Tugend jeglicher Art unvereinbar ist mit Unwissenheit und Eitelkeit! Ihr müsst diese Nüchternheit des Geistes erlangen, die sich allein durch das Ausüben von Pflichten und das Streben nach Wissen inspirieren lässt, oder ihr werdet weiterhin in einer unsicheren abhängigen Situation bleiben und nur geliebt werden, solange ihr schön seid! Das gesenkte Auge, die rosige Röte, die zurückhaltende Anmut sind alle zur richtigen Zeit angemessen; aber Bescheidenheit, als Kind der Vernunft, kann nicht lange bestehen, wenn sie von Sensibilität begleitet wird, die nicht durch Reflexion gemildert wird. Außerdem, wenn Liebe, selbst unschuldige Liebe, die einzige Beschäftigung eures Lebens ist, werden eure Herzen zu weich sein, um Bescheidenheit jenen ruhigen Rückzugsort zu bieten, wo sie gerne eng mit der Menschlichkeit vereint ist. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Was wäre ein Buch über die Rechte der Frauen ohne ein Kapitel über Bescheidenheit? Zu Wollstonecrafts Zeit war Bescheidenheit eine der größten Qualitäten, die eine Frau haben konnte, da die Gesellschaft Frauen mochte, die schweigen, wenn Männer sprechen. Wollstonecraft war damit jedoch nicht besonders zufrieden. Zunächst denkt Wollstonecraft, dass es einen großen Unterschied zwischen einer Person gibt, die sich bescheiden verhält, und einer Person, die sich wirklich demütig vor Gott fühlt und ein realistisches Verständnis ihrer eigenen Grenzen hat. Leider wird nur die erste Art Frauen gelehrt. Jede Frau, die ihr Leben den intellektuellen Bestrebungen statt den sinnlichen widmet, wird automatisch einen reinen Geist haben als andere Frauen. Dieser reine Geist wird sie in Wollstonecrafts Augen auch zu einer moralisch besseren Person machen. Ein großer Teil davon, Frauen angemessen bescheiden zu machen, besteht darin, Männer dazu zu bringen, aufhören, sie ständig anzumachen. Ständiges Flirten pusht das Ego von Frauen nach oben, und Männer tun das nur, weil sie nach Sex suchen. Wollstonecraft denkt auch, dass junge Frauen schlechte Angewohnheiten aus Kindergärten und Internaten bekommen, wo sie mit anderen Frauen in denselben Zimmern schlafen und sich waschen. Manchmal mischen sich Frauen aus der Mittel- und Oberschicht mit Frauen aus unteren Schichten, und die Frauen aus den unteren Schichten stecken diese "besseren" Frauen mit schlechten Angewohnheiten an. Im Allgemeinen findet Wollstonecraft, dass junge Frauen untereinander ein wenig zu "vertraut" und offen umgehen, wenn keine Eltern in der Nähe sind. Wollstonecrafts ultimativer Standpunkt hier ist, dass es keine menschliche Eigenschaft gibt, auf die sich Frauen mehr konzentrieren sollten als Männer. Die moralische Tugend hat kein Geschlecht, und wenn Frauen Bescheidenheit lernen müssen, dann Männer auch.

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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. Chapter: Mr. Ellis was vaguely uncomfortable. In the first excitement following the discovery of the crime, he had given his bit of evidence, and had shared the universal indignation against the murderer. When public feeling took definite shape in the intention to lynch the prisoner, Ellis felt a sudden sense of responsibility growing upon himself. When he learned, an hour later, that it was proposed to burn the negro, his part in the affair assumed a still graver aspect; for his had been the final word to fix the prisoner's guilt. Ellis did not believe in lynch law. He had argued against it, more than once, in private conversation, and had written several editorials against the practice, while in charge of the Morning Chronicle during Major Carteret's absence. A young man, however, and merely representing another, he had not set up as a reformer, taking rather the view that this summary method of punishing crime, with all its possibilities of error, to say nothing of the resulting disrespect of the law and contempt for the time-honored methods of establishing guilt, was a mere temporary symptom of the unrest caused by the unsettled relations of the two races at the South. There had never before been any special need for any vigorous opposition to lynch law, so far as the community was concerned, for there had not been a lynching in Wellington since Ellis had come there, eight years before, from a smaller town, to seek a place for himself in the world of action. Twenty years before, indeed, there had been wild doings, during the brief Ku-Klux outbreak, but that was before Ellis's time,--or at least when he was but a child. He had come of a Quaker family,--the modified Quakers of the South,--and while sharing in a general way the Southern prejudice against the negro, his prejudices had been tempered by the peaceful tenets of his father's sect. His father had been a Whig, and a non-slaveholder; and while he had gone with the South in the civil war so far as a man of peace could go, he had not done so for love of slavery. As the day wore on, Ellis's personal responsibility for the intended _auto-da-fe_ bore more heavily upon him. Suppose he had been wrong? He had seen the accused negro; he had recognized him by his clothes, his whiskers, his spectacles, and his walk; but he had also seen another man, who resembled Sandy so closely that but for the difference in their clothes, he was forced to acknowledge, he could not have told them apart. Had he not seen the first man, he would have sworn with even greater confidence that the second was Sandy. There had been, he recalled, about one of the men--he had not been then nor was he now able to tell which--something vaguely familiar, and yet seemingly discordant to whichever of the two it was, or, as it seemed to him now, to any man of that race. His mind reverted to the place where he had last seen Sandy, and then a sudden wave of illumination swept over him, and filled him with a thrill of horror. The cakewalk,--the dancing,--the speech,--they were not Sandy's at all, nor any negro's! It was a white man who had stood in the light of the street lamp, so that the casual passer-by might see and recognize in him old Mr. Delamere's servant. The scheme was a dastardly one, and worthy of a heart that was something worse than weak and vicious. Ellis resolved that the negro should not, if he could prevent it, die for another's crime; but what proof had he himself to offer in support of his theory? Then again, if he denounced Tom Delamere as the murderer, it would involve, in all probability, the destruction of his own hopes with regard to Clara. Of course she could not marry Delamere after the disclosure,--the disgraceful episode at the club would have been enough to make that reasonably certain; it had put a nail in Delamere's coffin, but this crime had driven it in to the head and clinched it. On the other hand, would Miss Pemberton ever speak again to the man who had been the instrument of bringing disgrace upon the family? Spies, detectives, police officers, may be useful citizens, but they are rarely pleasant company for other people. We fee the executioner, but we do not touch his bloody hand. We might feel a certain tragic admiration for Brutus condemning his sons to death, but we would scarcely invite Brutus to dinner after the event. It would harrow our feelings too much. Perhaps, thought Ellis, there might be a way out of the dilemma. It might be possible to save this innocent negro without, for the time being, involving Delamere. He believed that murder will out, but it need not be through his initiative. He determined to go to the jail and interview the prisoner, who might give such an account of himself as would establish his innocence beyond a doubt. If so, Ellis would exert himself to stem the tide of popular fury. If, as a last resort, he could save Sandy only by denouncing Delamere, he would do his duty, let it cost him what it might. The gravity of his errand was not lessened by what he saw and heard on the way to the jail. The anger of the people was at a white heat. A white woman had been assaulted and murdered by a brutal negro. Neither advanced age, nor high social standing, had been able to protect her from the ferocity of a black savage. Her sex, which should have been her shield and buckler, had made her an easy mark for the villainy of a black brute. To take the time to try him would be a criminal waste of public money. To hang him would be too slight a punishment for so dastardly a crime. An example must be made. Already the preparations were under way for the impending execution. A T-rail from the railroad yard had been procured, and men were burying it in the square before the jail. Others were bringing chains, and a load of pine wood was piled in convenient proximity. Some enterprising individual had begun the erection of seats from which, for a pecuniary consideration, the spectacle might be the more easily and comfortably viewed. Ellis was stopped once or twice by persons of his acquaintance. From one he learned that the railroads would run excursions from the neighboring towns in order to bring spectators to the scene; from another that the burning was to take place early in the evening, so that the children might not be kept up beyond their usual bedtime. In one group that he passed he heard several young men discussing the question of which portions of the negro's body they would prefer for souvenirs. Ellis shuddered and hastened forward. Whatever was to be done must be done quickly, or it would be too late. He saw that already it would require a strong case in favor of the accused to overcome the popular verdict. Going up the steps of the jail, he met Mr. Delamere, who was just coming out, after a fruitless interview with Sandy. "Mr. Ellis," said the old gentleman, who seemed greatly agitated, "this is monstrous!" "It is indeed, sir!" returned the younger man. "I mean to stop it if I can. The negro did not kill Mrs. Ochiltree." Mr. Delamere looked at Ellis keenly, and, as Ellis recalled afterwards, there was death in his eyes. Unable to draw a syllable from Sandy, he had found his servant's silence more eloquent than words. Ellis felt a presentiment that this affair, however it might terminate, would be fatal to this fine old man, whom the city could ill spare, in spite of his age and infirmities. "Mr. Ellis," asked Mr. Delamere, in a voice which trembled with ill-suppressed emotion, "do you know who killed her?" Ellis felt a surging pity for his old friend; but every step that he had taken toward the jail had confirmed and strengthened his own resolution that this contemplated crime, which he dimly felt to be far more atrocious than that of which Sandy was accused, in that it involved a whole community rather than one vicious man, should be stopped at any cost. Deplorable enough had the negro been guilty, it became, in view of his certain innocence, an unspeakable horror, which for all time would cover the city with infamy. "Mr. Delamere," he replied, looking the elder man squarely in the eyes, "I think I do,--and I am very sorry." "And who was it, Mr. Ellis?" He put the question hopelessly, as though the answer were a foregone conclusion. "I do not wish to say at present," replied Ellis, with a remorseful pang, "unless it becomes absolutely necessary, to save the negro's life. Accusations are dangerous,--as this case proves,--unless the proof, be certain." For a moment it seemed as though Mr. Delamere would collapse upon the spot. Rallying almost instantly, however, he took the arm which Ellis involuntarily offered, and said with an effort:-- "Mr. Ellis, you are a gentleman whom it is an honor to know. If you have time, I wish you would go with me to my house,--I can hardly trust myself alone,--and thence to the Chronicle office. This thing shall be stopped, and you will help me stop it." It required but a few minutes to cover the half mile that lay between the prison and Mr. Delamere's residence. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Herr Ellis wird unbehaglich bei dem Gedanken, dass Sandy gelyncht wird. Es war seine Aussage, die Sandy ins Gefängnis brachte und nun drohte, ihn zum Tode zu verurteilen. Ellis ist gegen Lynchjustiz und er schrieb mehrmals dagegen in der Morning Chronicle. Obwohl er im Süden aufgewachsen ist, war er nie ein Befürworter von Sklaverei oder Gewalt. Mit Annäherung des Abends fühlt er sich immer verantwortlicher für "das beabsichtigte Auto-da-fé" und ist sich immer unsicherer, was er tatsächlich gesehen hat. Als er an die letzte Zeit denkt, als er Sandy beim Kuchenlauf gesehen hat, erkennt er, dass er in Wirklichkeit einen weißen Mann sah, der sich als Schwarzer ausgab. Er weiß, dass es Tom Delamere ist. Seine erste Sorge ist, dass er, wenn er Tom Delamere als Mörder benennt, alle Chancen bei Clara verlieren wird. Obwohl er das Richtige tun wird, wird es nicht mit Liebe belohnt werden. Wir könnten eine gewisse tragische Bewunderung für Brutus empfinden, der seine Söhne zum Tode verurteilt, aber wir würden Brutus kaum nach dem Ereignis zum Essen einladen. Er entscheidet sich, ins Gefängnis zu gehen und gegen die Hinrichtung zu protestieren, Tom als Mörder zu benennen, nur wenn es Sandys Leben retten wird. Als er geht, sieht er die Vorbereitungen für die Verbrennung. Ein Feuergrube und ein Pfahl wurden im Zentrum der Stadt errichtet. Tribünen wurden aufgestellt und die Verbrennung wurde früh am Abend festgesetzt, "damit die Kinder nicht über ihre übliche Schlafenszeit hinaus wachbleiben müssen". Ellis hört einige junge Männer dabei zu, wie sie darüber sprechen, welche Körperteile sie als Souvenirs aufbewahren werden. Als er das Gefängnisgebäude erreicht, trifft er auf den alten Mr. Delamere. Ellis erzählt ihm, dass er vorhat Sandy zu retten, aber dass er den Mörder noch nicht benennen wird. Er merkt, dass diese Angelegenheit das Ende von Mr. Delamere sein wird.

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.

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 day after Commencement I moved my books and desk upstairs, to an empty room where I should be undisturbed, and I fell to studying in earnest. I worked off a year's trigonometry that summer, and began Virgil alone. Morning after morning I used to pace up and down my sunny little room, looking off at the distant river bluffs and the roll of the blond pastures between, scanning the AEneid aloud and committing long passages to memory. Sometimes in the evening Mrs. Harling called to me as I passed her gate, and asked me to come in and let her play for me. She was lonely for Charley, she said, and liked to have a boy about. Whenever my grandparents had misgivings, and began to wonder whether I was not too young to go off to college alone, Mrs. Harling took up my cause vigorously. Grandfather had such respect for her judgment that I knew he would not go against her. I had only one holiday that summer. It was in July. I met Antonia downtown on Saturday afternoon, and learned that she and Tiny and Lena were going to the river next day with Anna Hansen--the elder was all in bloom now, and Anna wanted to make elder-blow wine. "Anna's to drive us down in the Marshalls' delivery wagon, and we'll take a nice lunch and have a picnic. Just us; nobody else. Could n't you happen along, Jim? It would be like old times." I considered a moment. "Maybe I can, if I won't be in the way." On Sunday morning I rose early and got out of Black Hawk while the dew was still heavy on the long meadow grasses. It was the high season for summer flowers. The pink bee-bush stood tall along the sandy roadsides, and the cone-flowers and rose mallow grew everywhere. Across the wire fence, in the long grass, I saw a clump of flaming orange-colored milkweed, rare in that part of the State. I left the road and went around through a stretch of pasture that was always cropped short in summer, where the gaillardia came up year after year and matted over the ground with the deep, velvety red that is in Bokhara carpets. The country was empty and solitary except for the larks that Sunday morning, and it seemed to lift itself up to me and to come very close. The river was running strong for midsummer; heavy rains to the west of us had kept it full. I crossed the bridge and went upstream along the wooded shore to a pleasant dressing-room I knew among the dogwood bushes, all overgrown with wild grapevines. I began to undress for a swim. The girls would not be along yet. For the first time it occurred to me that I would be homesick for that river after I left it. The sandbars, with their clean white beaches and their little groves of willows and cottonwood seedlings, were a sort of No Man's Land, little newly-created worlds that belonged to the Black Hawk boys. Charley Harling and I had hunted through these woods, fished from the fallen logs, until I knew every inch of the river shores and had a friendly feeling for every bar and shallow. After my swim, while I was playing about indolently in the water, I heard the sound of hoofs and wheels on the bridge. I struck downstream and shouted, as the open spring wagon came into view on the middle span. They stopped the horse, and the two girls in the bottom of the cart stood up, steadying themselves by the shoulders of the two in front, so that they could see me better. They were charming up there, huddled together in the cart and peering down at me like curious deer when they come out of the thicket to drink. I found bottom near the bridge and stood up, waving to them. "How pretty you look!" I called. "So do you!" they shouted altogether, and broke into peals of laughter. Anna Hansen shook the reins and they drove on, while I zigzagged back to my inlet and clambered up behind an overhanging elm. I dried myself in the sun, and dressed slowly, reluctant to leave that green enclosure where the sunlight flickered so bright through the grapevine leaves and the woodpecker hammered away in the crooked elm that trailed out over the water. As I went along the road back to the bridge I kept picking off little pieces of scaly chalk from the dried water gullies, and breaking them up in my hands. When I came upon the Marshalls' delivery horse, tied in the shade, the girls had already taken their baskets and gone down the east road which wound through the sand and scrub. I could hear them calling to each other. The elder bushes did not grow back in the shady ravines between the bluffs, but in the hot, sandy bottoms along the stream, where their roots were always in moisture and their tops in the sun. The blossoms were unusually luxuriant and beautiful that summer. I followed a cattle path through the thick underbrush until I came to a slope that fell away abruptly to the water's edge. A great chunk of the shore had been bitten out by some spring freshet, and the scar was masked by elder bushes, growing down to the water in flowery terraces. I did not touch them. I was overcome by content and drowsiness and by the warm silence about me. There was no sound but the high, sing-song buzz of wild bees and the sunny gurgle of the water underneath. I peeped over the edge of the bank to see the little stream that made the noise; it flowed along perfectly clear over the sand and gravel, cut off from the muddy main current by a long sandbar. Down there, on the lower shelf of the bank, I saw Antonia, seated alone under the pagoda-like elders. She looked up when she heard me, and smiled, but I saw that she had been crying. I slid down into the soft sand beside her and asked her what was the matter. "It makes me homesick, Jimmy, this flower, this smell," she said softly. "We have this flower very much at home, in the old country. It always grew in our yard and my papa had a green bench and a table under the bushes. In summer, when they were in bloom, he used to sit there with his friend that played the trombone. When I was little I used to go down there to hear them talk--beautiful talk, like what I never hear in this country." "What did they talk about?" I asked her. She sighed and shook her head. "Oh, I don't know! About music, and the woods, and about God, and when they were young." She turned to me suddenly and looked into my eyes. "You think, Jimmy, that maybe my father's spirit can go back to those old places?" I told her about the feeling of her father's presence I had on that winter day when my grandparents had gone over to see his dead body and I was left alone in the house. I said I felt sure then that he was on his way back to his own country, and that even now, when I passed his grave, I always thought of him as being among the woods and fields that were so dear to him. Antonia had the most trusting, responsive eyes in the world; love and credulousness seemed to look out of them with open faces. "Why did n't you ever tell me that before? It makes me feel more sure for him." After a while she said: "You know, Jim, my father was different from my mother. He did not have to marry my mother, and all his brothers quarreled with him because he did. I used to hear the old people at home whisper about it. They said he could have paid my mother money, and not married her. But he was older than she was, and he was too kind to treat her like that. He lived in his mother's house, and she was a poor girl come in to do the work. After my father married her, my grandmother never let my mother come into her house again. When I went to my grandmother's funeral was the only time I was ever in my grandmother's house. Don't that seem strange?" While she talked, I lay back in the hot sand and looked up at the blue sky between the flat bouquets of elder. I could hear the bees humming and singing, but they stayed up in the sun above the flowers and did not come down into the shadow of the leaves. Antonia seemed to me that day exactly like the little girl who used to come to our house with Mr. Shimerda. "Some day, Tony, I am going over to your country, and I am going to the little town where you lived. Do you remember all about it?" "Jim," she said earnestly, "if I was put down there in the middle of the night, I could find my way all over that little town; and along the river to the next town, where my grandmother lived. My feet remember all the little paths through the woods, and where the big roots stick out to trip you. I ain't never forgot my own country." There was a crackling in the branches above us, and Lena Lingard peered down over the edge of the bank. "You lazy things!" she cried. "All this elder, and you two lying there! Did n't you hear us calling you?" Almost as flushed as she had been in my dream, she leaned over the edge of the bank and began to demolish our flowery pagoda. I had never seen her so energetic; she was panting with zeal, and the perspiration stood in drops on her short, yielding upper lip. I sprang to my feet and ran up the bank. It was noon now, and so hot that the dogwoods and scrub-oaks began to turn up the silvery under-side of their leaves, and all the foliage looked soft and wilted. I carried the lunch-basket to the top of one of the chalk bluffs, where even on the calmest days there was always a breeze. The flat-topped, twisted little oaks threw light shadows on the grass. Below us we could see the windings of the river, and Black Hawk, grouped among its trees, and, beyond, the rolling country, swelling gently until it met the sky. We could recognize familiar farmhouses and windmills. Each of the girls pointed out to me the direction in which her father's farm lay, and told me how many acres were in wheat that year and how many in corn. "My old folks," said Tiny Soderball, "have put in twenty acres of rye. They get it ground at the mill, and it makes nice bread. It seems like my mother ain't been so homesick, ever since father's raised rye flour for her." "It must have been a trial for our mothers," said Lena, "coming out here and having to do everything different. My mother had always lived in town. She says she started behind in farm-work, and never has caught up." "Yes, a new country's hard on the old ones, sometimes," said Anna thoughtfully. "My grandmother's getting feeble now, and her mind wanders. She's forgot about this country, and thinks she's at home in Norway. She keeps asking mother to take her down to the waterside and the fish market. She craves fish all the time. Whenever I go home I take her canned salmon and mackerel." "Mercy, it's hot!" Lena yawned. She was supine under a little oak, resting after the fury of her elder-hunting, and had taken off the high-heeled slippers she had been silly enough to wear. "Come here, Jim. You never got the sand out of your hair." She began to draw her fingers slowly through my hair. Antonia pushed her away. "You'll never get it out like that," she said sharply. She gave my head a rough touzling and finished me off with something like a box on the ear. "Lena, you ought n't to try to wear those slippers any more. They're too small for your feet. You'd better give them to me for Yulka." "All right," said Lena good-naturedly, tucking her white stockings under her skirt. "You get all Yulka's things, don't you? I wish father did n't have such bad luck with his farm machinery; then I could buy more things for my sisters. I'm going to get Mary a new coat this fall, if the sulky plough's never paid for!" Tiny asked her why she did n't wait until after Christmas, when coats would be cheaper. "What do you think of poor me?" she added; "with six at home, younger than I am? And they all think I'm rich, because when I go back to the country I'm dressed so fine!" She shrugged her shoulders. "But, you know, my weakness is playthings. I like to buy them playthings better than what they need." "I know how that is," said Anna. "When we first came here, and I was little, we were too poor to buy toys. I never got over the loss of a doll somebody gave me before we left Norway. A boy on the boat broke her, and I still hate him for it." "I guess after you got here you had plenty of live dolls to nurse, like me!" Lena remarked cynically. "Yes, the babies came along pretty fast, to be sure. But I never minded. I was fond of them all. The youngest one, that we did n't any of us want, is the one we love best now." Lena sighed. "Oh, the babies are all right; if only they don't come in winter. Ours nearly always did. I don't see how mother stood it. I tell you what girls," she sat up with sudden energy; "I'm going to get my mother out of that old sod house where she's lived so many years. The men will never do it. Johnnie, that's my oldest brother, he's wanting to get married now, and build a house for his girl instead of his mother. Mrs. Thomas says she thinks I can move to some other town pretty soon, and go into business for myself. If I don't get into business, I'll maybe marry a rich gambler." "That would be a poor way to get on," said Anna sarcastically. "I wish I could teach school, like Selma Kronn. Just think! She'll be the first Scandinavian girl to get a position in the High School. We ought to be proud of her." Selma was a studious girl, who had not much tolerance for giddy things like Tiny and Lena; but they always spoke of her with admiration. Tiny moved about restlessly, fanning herself with her straw hat. "If I was smart like her, I'd be at my books day and night. But she was born smart--and look how her father's trained her! He was something high up in the old country." "So was my mother's father," murmured Lena, "but that's all the good it does us! My father's father was smart, too, but he was wild. He married a Lapp. I guess that's what's the matter with me; they say Lapp blood will out." "A real Lapp, Lena?" I exclaimed. "The kind that wear skins?" "I don't know if she wore skins, but she was a Lapp all right, and his folks felt dreadful about it. He was sent up north on some Government job he had, and fell in with her. He would marry her." "But I thought Lapland women were fat and ugly, and had squint eyes, like Chinese?" I objected. "I don't know, maybe. There must be something mighty taking about the Lapp girls, though; mother says the Norwegians up north are always afraid their boys will run after them." In the afternoon, when the heat was less oppressive, we had a lively game of "Pussy Wants a Corner," on the flat bluff-top, with the little trees for bases. Lena was Pussy so often that she finally said she would n't play any more. We threw ourselves down on the grass, out of breath. "Jim," Antonia said dreamily, "I want you to tell the girls about how the Spanish first came here, like you and Charley Harling used to talk about. I've tried to tell them, but I leave out so much." They sat under a little oak, Tony resting against the trunk and the other girls leaning against her and each other, and listened to the little I was able to tell them about Coronado and his search for the Seven Golden Cities. At school we were taught that he had not got so far north as Nebraska, but had given up his quest and turned back somewhere in Kansas. But Charley Harling and I had a strong belief that he had been along this very river. A farmer in the county north of ours, when he was breaking sod, had turned up a metal stirrup of fine workmanship, and a sword with a Spanish inscription on the blade. He lent these relics to Mr. Harling, who brought them home with him. Charley and I scoured them, and they were on exhibition in the Harling office all summer. Father Kelly, the priest, had found the name of the Spanish maker on the sword, and an abbreviation that stood for the city of Cordova. "And that I saw with my own eyes," Antonia put in triumphantly. "So Jim and Charley were right, and the teachers were wrong!" The girls began to wonder among themselves. Why had the Spaniards come so far? What must this country have been like, then? Why had Coronado never gone back to Spain, to his riches and his castles and his king? I could n't tell them. I only knew the school books said he "died in the wilderness, of a broken heart." "More than him has done that," said Antonia sadly, and the girls murmured assent. We sat looking off across the country, watching the sun go down. The curly grass about us was on fire now. The bark of the oaks turned red as copper. There was a shimmer of gold on the brown river. Out in the stream the sandbars glittered like glass, and the light trembled in the willow thickets as if little flames were leaping among them. The breeze sank to stillness. In the ravine a ringdove mourned plaintively, and somewhere off in the bushes an owl hooted. The girls sat listless, leaning against each other. The long fingers of the sun touched their foreheads. Presently we saw a curious thing: There were no clouds, the sun was going down in a limpid, gold-washed sky. Just as the lower edge of the red disc rested on the high fields against the horizon, a great black figure suddenly appeared on the face of the sun. We sprang to our feet, straining our eyes toward it. In a moment we realized what it was. On some upland farm, a plough had been left standing in the field. The sun was sinking just behind it. Magnified across the distance by the horizontal light, it stood out against the sun, was exactly contained within the circle of the disc; the handles, the tongue, the share--black against the molten red. There it was, heroic in size, a picture writing on the sun. Even while we whispered about it, our vision disappeared; the ball dropped and dropped until the red tip went beneath the earth. The fields below us were dark, the sky was growing pale, and that forgotten plough had sunk back to its own littleness somewhere on the prairie. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Nach der Abschlussfeier fängt Jim an, Latein ernsthaft für das College zu studieren. Nur einmal im Sommer nimmt er sich eine Pause, um mit den eingestellten Mädchen Holunder zu pflücken. Als er als Erster am Fluss ankommt und schwimmen geht, realisiert er, dass er Black Hawk und das Land vermissen wird. Die Mädchen kommen an, als er noch im Wasser ist, und er macht sich allmählich auf den Weg zu ihnen. Er nähert sich Antonia, die alleine ist, und findet sie weinend vor, weil eine bestimmte Art von Blume Heimweh in ihr hervorruft. Als sie fragt, ob er denkt, dass ihr Vater wieder im alten Land ist, erzählt Jim ihr, wie er den Geist ihres Vaters im Haus gespürt hat, als er starb, und Antonia fühlt sich besser. Sie erzählt ihm, wie ihr Vater ehrenhaft ihre Mutter geheiratet hat, die eine Dienerin war, als sie schwanger wurde, und wie die Familie ihres Vaters ihnen beiden nie vergeben hat. Jim ist froh, weil Antonia genauso scheint wie damals, als er sie zum ersten Mal traf, und er erzählt ihr, dass er ihr Heimatland eines Tages besuchen wird. Lena erscheint, sieht so aus wie in Jims sexuellen Träumen, und er springt auf, um ihr beim Holunderpflücken zu helfen. Am heißen Nachmittag setzen sie sich alle zusammen und reden. Antonia wird genervt, als Lena sich flirtend gegenüber Jim verhält. Die Mädchen diskutieren, wie schwierig es für ältere Erwachsene ist, den Übergang in ein neues Land zu schaffen, und wie schwierig es ist, das älteste Kind zu sein, wenn immer mehr Babys kommen. Sie spielen ein Spiel namens "Pussy Wants a Corner", und dann erzählt Jim ihnen, wie der spanische Entdecker Coronado bis nach Black Hawk gekommen ist. Als sie still dasitzen, verschwinden die Wolken, und plötzlich sehen sie eine entfernte schwarze Gestalt am Horizont. Sie springen auf, um zu sehen, was es ist, und merken, dass jemand eine Pfluge im Feld stehen gelassen hat, und sie sieht gegen den Sonnenuntergang geschmolzen rot und leuchtend aus. Das Bild dauert nur einen Moment, da die Sonne weiter untergeht.

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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. Chapter: MR. IRWINE returned from Stoniton in a post-chaise that night, and the first words Carroll said to him, as he entered the house, were, that Squire Donnithorne was dead--found dead in his bed at ten o'clock that morning--and that Mrs. Irwine desired him to say she should be awake when Mr. Irwine came home, and she begged him not to go to bed without seeing her. "Well, Dauphin," Mrs. Irwine said, as her son entered her room, "you're come at last. So the old gentleman's fidgetiness and low spirits, which made him send for Arthur in that sudden way, really meant something. I suppose Carroll has told you that Donnithorne was found dead in his bed this morning. You will believe my prognostications another time, though I daresay I shan't live to prognosticate anything but my own death." "What have they done about Arthur?" said Mr. Irwine. "Sent a messenger to await him at Liverpool?" "Yes, Ralph was gone before the news was brought to us. Dear Arthur, I shall live now to see him master at the Chase, and making good times on the estate, like a generous-hearted fellow as he is. He'll be as happy as a king now." Mr. Irwine could not help giving a slight groan: he was worn with anxiety and exertion, and his mother's light words were almost intolerable. "What are you so dismal about, Dauphin? Is there any bad news? Or are you thinking of the danger for Arthur in crossing that frightful Irish Channel at this time of year?" "No, Mother, I'm not thinking of that; but I'm not prepared to rejoice just now." "You've been worried by this law business that you've been to Stoniton about. What in the world is it, that you can't tell me?" "You will know by and by, mother. It would not be right for me to tell you at present. Good-night: you'll sleep now you have no longer anything to listen for." Mr. Irwine gave up his intention of sending a letter to meet Arthur, since it would not now hasten his return: the news of his grandfather's death would bring him as soon as he could possibly come. He could go to bed now and get some needful rest, before the time came for the morning's heavy duty of carrying his sickening news to the Hall Farm and to Adam's home. Adam himself was not come back from Stoniton, for though he shrank from seeing Hetty, he could not bear to go to a distance from her again. "It's no use, sir," he said to the rector, "it's no use for me to go back. I can't go to work again while she's here, and I couldn't bear the sight o' the things and folks round home. I'll take a bit of a room here, where I can see the prison walls, and perhaps I shall get, in time, to bear seeing her." Adam had not been shaken in his belief that Hetty was innocent of the crime she was charged with, for Mr. Irwine, feeling that the belief in her guilt would be a crushing addition to Adam's load, had kept from him the facts which left no hope in his own mind. There was not any reason for thrusting the whole burden on Adam at once, and Mr. Irwine, at parting, only said, "If the evidence should tell too strongly against her, Adam, we may still hope for a pardon. Her youth and other circumstances will be a plea for her." "Ah, and it's right people should know how she was tempted into the wrong way," said Adam, with bitter earnestness. "It's right they should know it was a fine gentleman made love to her, and turned her head wi' notions. You'll remember, sir, you've promised to tell my mother, and Seth, and the people at the farm, who it was as led her wrong, else they'll think harder of her than she deserves. You'll be doing her a hurt by sparing him, and I hold him the guiltiest before God, let her ha' done what she may. If you spare him, I'll expose him!" "I think your demand is just, Adam," said Mr. Irwine, "but when you are calmer, you will judge Arthur more mercifully. I say nothing now, only that his punishment is in other hands than ours." Mr. Irwine felt it hard upon him that he should have to tell of Arthur's sad part in the story of sin and sorrow--he who cared for Arthur with fatherly affection, who had cared for him with fatherly pride. But he saw clearly that the secret must be known before long, even apart from Adam's determination, since it was scarcely to be supposed that Hetty would persist to the end in her obstinate silence. He made up his mind to withhold nothing from the Poysers, but to tell them the worst at once, for there was no time to rob the tidings of their suddenness. Hetty's trial must come on at the Lent assizes, and they were to be held at Stoniton the next week. It was scarcely to be hoped that Martin Poyser could escape the pain of being called as a witness, and it was better he should know everything as long beforehand as possible. Before ten o'clock on Thursday morning the home at the Hall Farm was a house of mourning for a misfortune felt to be worse than death. The sense of family dishonour was too keen even in the kind-hearted Martin Poyser the younger to leave room for any compassion towards Hetty. He and his father were simple-minded farmers, proud of their untarnished character, proud that they came of a family which had held up its head and paid its way as far back as its name was in the parish register; and Hetty had brought disgrace on them all--disgrace that could never be wiped out. That was the all-conquering feeling in the mind both of father and son--the scorching sense of disgrace, which neutralised all other sensibility--and Mr. Irwine was struck with surprise to observe that Mrs. Poyser was less severe than her husband. We are often startled by the severity of mild people on exceptional occasions; the reason is, that mild people are most liable to be under the yoke of traditional impressions. "I'm willing to pay any money as is wanted towards trying to bring her off," said Martin the younger when Mr. Irwine was gone, while the old grandfather was crying in the opposite chair, "but I'll not go nigh her, nor ever see her again, by my own will. She's made our bread bitter to us for all our lives to come, an' we shall ne'er hold up our heads i' this parish nor i' any other. The parson talks o' folks pitying us: it's poor amends pity 'ull make us." "Pity?" said the grandfather, sharply. "I ne'er wanted folks's pity i' MY life afore...an' I mun begin to be looked down on now, an' me turned seventy-two last St. Thomas's, an' all th' underbearers and pall-bearers as I'n picked for my funeral are i' this parish and the next to 't....It's o' no use now...I mun be ta'en to the grave by strangers." "Don't fret so, father," said Mrs. Poyser, who had spoken very little, being almost overawed by her husband's unusual hardness and decision. "You'll have your children wi' you; an' there's the lads and the little un 'ull grow up in a new parish as well as i' th' old un." "Ah, there's no staying i' this country for us now," said Mr. Poyser, and the hard tears trickled slowly down his round cheeks. "We thought it 'ud be bad luck if the old squire gave us notice this Lady day, but I must gi' notice myself now, an' see if there can anybody be got to come an' take to the crops as I'n put i' the ground; for I wonna stay upo' that man's land a day longer nor I'm forced to't. An' me, as thought him such a good upright young man, as I should be glad when he come to be our landlord. I'll ne'er lift my hat to him again, nor sit i' the same church wi' him...a man as has brought shame on respectable folks...an' pretended to be such a friend t' everybody....Poor Adam there...a fine friend he's been t' Adam, making speeches an' talking so fine, an' all the while poisoning the lad's life, as it's much if he can stay i' this country any more nor we can." "An' you t' ha' to go into court, and own you're akin t' her," said the old man. "Why, they'll cast it up to the little un, as isn't four 'ear old, some day--they'll cast it up t' her as she'd a cousin tried at the 'sizes for murder." "It'll be their own wickedness, then," said Mrs. Poyser, with a sob in her voice. "But there's One above 'ull take care o' the innicent child, else it's but little truth they tell us at church. It'll be harder nor ever to die an' leave the little uns, an' nobody to be a mother to 'em." "We'd better ha' sent for Dinah, if we'd known where she is," said Mr. Poyser; "but Adam said she'd left no direction where she'd be at Leeds." "Why, she'd be wi' that woman as was a friend t' her Aunt Judith," said Mrs. Poyser, comforted a little by this suggestion of her husband. "I've often heard Dinah talk of her, but I can't remember what name she called her by. But there's Seth Bede; he's like enough to know, for she's a preaching woman as the Methodists think a deal on." "I'll send to Seth," said Mr. Poyser. "I'll send Alick to tell him to come, or else to send up word o' the woman's name, an' thee canst write a letter ready to send off to Treddles'on as soon as we can make out a direction." "It's poor work writing letters when you want folks to come to you i' trouble," said Mrs. Poyser. "Happen it'll be ever so long on the road, an' never reach her at last." Before Alick arrived with the message, Lisbeth's thoughts too had already flown to Dinah, and she had said to Seth, "Eh, there's no comfort for us i' this world any more, wi'out thee couldst get Dinah Morris to come to us, as she did when my old man died. I'd like her to come in an' take me by th' hand again, an' talk to me. She'd tell me the rights on't, belike--she'd happen know some good i' all this trouble an' heart-break comin' upo' that poor lad, as ne'er done a bit o' wrong in's life, but war better nor anybody else's son, pick the country round. Eh, my lad...Adam, my poor lad!" "Thee wouldstna like me to leave thee, to go and fetch Dinah?" said Seth, as his mother sobbed and rocked herself to and fro. "Fetch her?" said Lisbeth, looking up and pausing from her grief, like a crying child who hears some promise of consolation. "Why, what place is't she's at, do they say?" "It's a good way off, mother--Leeds, a big town. But I could be back in three days, if thee couldst spare me." "Nay, nay, I canna spare thee. Thee must go an' see thy brother, an' bring me word what he's a-doin'. Mester Irwine said he'd come an' tell me, but I canna make out so well what it means when he tells me. Thee must go thysen, sin' Adam wonna let me go to him. Write a letter to Dinah canstna? Thee't fond enough o' writin' when nobody wants thee." "I'm not sure where she'd be i' that big town," said Seth. "If I'd gone myself, I could ha' found out by asking the members o' the Society. But perhaps if I put Sarah Williamson, Methodist preacher, Leeds, o' th' outside, it might get to her; for most like she'd be wi' Sarah Williamson." Alick came now with the message, and Seth, finding that Mrs. Poyser was writing to Dinah, gave up the intention of writing himself; but he went to the Hall Farm to tell them all he could suggest about the address of the letter, and warn them that there might be some delay in the delivery, from his not knowing an exact direction. On leaving Lisbeth, Mr. Irwine had gone to Jonathan Burge, who had also a claim to be acquainted with what was likely to keep Adam away from business for some time; and before six o'clock that evening there were few people in Broxton and Hayslope who had not heard the sad news. Mr. Irwine had not mentioned Arthur's name to Burge, and yet the story of his conduct towards Hetty, with all the dark shadows cast upon it by its terrible consequences, was presently as well known as that his grandfather was dead, and that he was come into the estate. For Martin Poyser felt no motive to keep silence towards the one or two neighbours who ventured to come and shake him sorrowfully by the hand on the first day of his trouble; and Carroll, who kept his ears open to all that passed at the rectory, had framed an inferential version of the story, and found early opportunities of communicating it. One of those neighbours who came to Martin Poyser and shook him by the hand without speaking for some minutes was Bartle Massey. He had shut up his school, and was on his way to the rectory, where he arrived about half-past seven in the evening, and, sending his duty to Mr. Irwine, begged pardon for troubling him at that hour, but had something particular on his mind. He was shown into the study, where Mr. Irwine soon joined him. "Well, Bartle?" said Mr. Irwine, putting out his hand. That was not his usual way of saluting the schoolmaster, but trouble makes us treat all who feel with us very much alike. "Sit down." "You know what I'm come about as well as I do, sir, I daresay," said Bartle. "You wish to know the truth about the sad news that has reached you...about Hetty Sorrel?" "Nay, sir, what I wish to know is about Adam Bede. I understand you left him at Stoniton, and I beg the favour of you to tell me what's the state of the poor lad's mind, and what he means to do. For as for that bit o' pink-and-white they've taken the trouble to put in jail, I don't value her a rotten nut--not a rotten nut--only for the harm or good that may come out of her to an honest man--a lad I've set such store by--trusted to, that he'd make my bit o' knowledge go a good way in the world....Why, sir, he's the only scholar I've had in this stupid country that ever had the will or the head-piece for mathematics. If he hadn't had so much hard work to do, poor fellow, he might have gone into the higher branches, and then this might never have happened--might never have happened." Bartle was heated by the exertion of walking fast in an agitated frame of mind, and was not able to check himself on this first occasion of venting his feelings. But he paused now to rub his moist forehead, and probably his moist eyes also. "You'll excuse me, sir," he said, when this pause had given him time to reflect, "for running on in this way about my own feelings, like that foolish dog of mine howling in a storm, when there's nobody wants to listen to me. I came to hear you speak, not to talk myself--if you'll take the trouble to tell me what the poor lad's doing." "Don't put yourself under any restraint, Bartle," said Mr. Irwine. "The fact is, I'm very much in the same condition as you just now; I've a great deal that's painful on my mind, and I find it hard work to be quite silent about my own feelings and only attend to others. I share your concern for Adam, though he is not the only one whose sufferings I care for in this affair. He intends to remain at Stoniton till after the trial: it will come on probably a week to-morrow. He has taken a room there, and I encouraged him to do so, because I think it better he should be away from his own home at present; and, poor fellow, he still believes Hetty is innocent--he wants to summon up courage to see her if he can; he is unwilling to leave the spot where she is." "Do you think the creatur's guilty, then?" said Bartle. "Do you think they'll hang her?" "I'm afraid it will go hard with her. The evidence is very strong. And one bad symptom is that she denies everything--denies that she has had a child in the face of the most positive evidence. I saw her myself, and she was obstinately silent to me; she shrank up like a frightened animal when she saw me. I was never so shocked in my life as at the change in her. But I trust that, in the worst case, we may obtain a pardon for the sake of the innocent who are involved." "Stuff and nonsense!" said Bartle, forgetting in his irritation to whom he was speaking. "I beg your pardon, sir, I mean it's stuff and nonsense for the innocent to care about her being hanged. For my own part, I think the sooner such women are put out o' the world the better; and the men that help 'em to do mischief had better go along with 'em for that matter. What good will you do by keeping such vermin alive, eating the victual that 'ud feed rational beings? But if Adam's fool enough to care about it, I don't want him to suffer more than's needful....Is he very much cut up, poor fellow?" Bartle added, taking out his spectacles and putting them on, as if they would assist his imagination. "Yes, I'm afraid the grief cuts very deep," said Mr. Irwine. "He looks terribly shattered, and a certain violence came over him now and then yesterday, which made me wish I could have remained near him. But I shall go to Stoniton again to-morrow, and I have confidence enough in the strength of Adam's principle to trust that he will be able to endure the worst without being driven to anything rash." Mr. Irwine, who was involuntarily uttering his own thoughts rather than addressing Bartle Massey in the last sentence, had in his mind the possibility that the spirit of vengeance to-wards Arthur, which was the form Adam's anguish was continually taking, might make him seek an encounter that was likely to end more fatally than the one in the Grove. This possibility heightened the anxiety with which he looked forward to Arthur's arrival. But Bartle thought Mr. Irwine was referring to suicide, and his face wore a new alarm. "I'll tell you what I have in my head, sir," he said, "and I hope you'll approve of it. I'm going to shut up my school--if the scholars come, they must go back again, that's all--and I shall go to Stoniton and look after Adam till this business is over. I'll pretend I'm come to look on at the assizes; he can't object to that. What do you think about it, sir?" "Well," said Mr. Irwine, rather hesitatingly, "there would be some real advantages in that...and I honour you for your friendship towards him, Bartle. But...you must be careful what you say to him, you know. I'm afraid you have too little fellow-feeling in what you consider his weakness about Hetty." "Trust to me, sir--trust to me. I know what you mean. I've been a fool myself in my time, but that's between you and me. I shan't thrust myself on him only keep my eye on him, and see that he gets some good food, and put in a word here and there." "Then," said Mr. Irwine, reassured a little as to Bartle's discretion, "I think you'll be doing a good deed; and it will be well for you to let Adam's mother and brother know that you're going." "Yes, sir, yes," said Bartle, rising, and taking off his spectacles, "I'll do that, I'll do that; though the mother's a whimpering thing--I don't like to come within earshot of her; however, she's a straight-backed, clean woman, none of your slatterns. I wish you good-bye, sir, and thank you for the time you've spared me. You're everybody's friend in this business--everybody's friend. It's a heavy weight you've got on your shoulders." "Good-bye, Bartle, till we meet at Stoniton, as I daresay we shall." Bartle hurried away from the rectory, evading Carroll's conversational advances, and saying in an exasperated tone to Vixen, whose short legs pattered beside him on the gravel, "Now, I shall be obliged to take you with me, you good-for-nothing woman. You'd go fretting yourself to death if I left you--you know you would, and perhaps get snapped up by some tramp. And you'll be running into bad company, I expect, putting your nose in every hole and corner where you've no business! But if you do anything disgraceful, I'll disown you--mind that, madam, mind that!" Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Herr Irwine kehrt an diesem Abend aus Stoniton nach Hause zurück. Sein Butler teilt ihm mit, dass der alte Gutsherr gestorben ist. Frau Irwine freut sich, dass Arthur zurückkehrt, aber der Pfarrer kann nur stöhnen. Adam hat ein Zimmer in der Nähe des Gefängnisses genommen, überzeugt davon, dass Hetty unschuldig ist. Herr Irwine findet es schrecklich, dass er der Stadt von den Vergehen eines Jungen erzählen muss, den er wie einen Sohn liebt. Er erzählt es den Poysers, die der Meinung sind, dass es einen unwiderruflichen Makel auf ihre Ehre wirft. Herr Poyser sagt, er werde das Geld für Anwälte geben, aber er weigert sich, sie wiederzusehen. Er fügt hinzu, dass sie wegen der Schande die Stadt verlassen müssen. Sie wollen nach Dinah schicken, aber niemand kennt die Adresse der Frau, bei der sie in Leeds untergekommen ist. Die Familie beschließt, Seth zu schicken, der sicher ihren Namen kennt. Lisbeth wünscht sich auch, dass Dinah da ist. Seth nennt den Poysers die Adresse nach bestem Wissen. Bis zum Einbruch der Nacht kennt die ganze Stadt die Nachricht. Bartle Massey kommt, um Herrn Poyser für ein paar Minuten die Hand zu schütteln und geht dann zu Herrn Irwine, um zu erfahren, wie es Adam geht. Der Pfarrer sagt, dass es für Hetty schlecht aussieht, die sogar bestritten hat, ein Kind zu haben, obwohl starke Beweise dafür vorliegen. Bartle sagt, dass es ihm egal ist, ob die Frau gehängt wird oder nicht, er sorgt sich nur um Adam. Herr Irwine befürchtet, dass er Arthur gewaltsam konfrontieren wird. Bartle bietet an, in Stoniton nach Adam zu schauen und Adams Familie darüber zu informieren. Auf dem Weg nach draußen sagt er seiner Hündin, dass er sie verstoßen wird, wenn sie etwas Schändliches tut.

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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. Chapter: _11 October, Evening._--Jonathan Harker has asked me to note this, as he says he is hardly equal to the task, and he wants an exact record kept. I think that none of us were surprised when we were asked to see Mrs. Harker a little before the time of sunset. We have of late come to understand that sunrise and sunset are to her times of peculiar freedom; when her old self can be manifest without any controlling force subduing or restraining her, or inciting her to action. This mood or condition begins some half hour or more before actual sunrise or sunset, and lasts till either the sun is high, or whilst the clouds are still aglow with the rays streaming above the horizon. At first there is a sort of negative condition, as if some tie were loosened, and then the absolute freedom quickly follows; when, however, the freedom ceases the change-back or relapse comes quickly, preceded only by a spell of warning silence. To-night, when we met, she was somewhat constrained, and bore all the signs of an internal struggle. I put it down myself to her making a violent effort at the earliest instant she could do so. A very few minutes, however, gave her complete control of herself; then, motioning her husband to sit beside her on the sofa where she was half reclining, she made the rest of us bring chairs up close. Taking her husband's hand in hers began:-- "We are all here together in freedom, for perhaps the last time! I know, dear; I know that you will always be with me to the end." This was to her husband whose hand had, as we could see, tightened upon hers. "In the morning we go out upon our task, and God alone knows what may be in store for any of us. You are going to be so good to me as to take me with you. I know that all that brave earnest men can do for a poor weak woman, whose soul perhaps is lost--no, no, not yet, but is at any rate at stake--you will do. But you must remember that I am not as you are. There is a poison in my blood, in my soul, which may destroy me; which must destroy me, unless some relief comes to us. Oh, my friends, you know as well as I do, that my soul is at stake; and though I know there is one way out for me, you must not and I must not take it!" She looked appealingly to us all in turn, beginning and ending with her husband. "What is that way?" asked Van Helsing in a hoarse voice. "What is that way, which we must not--may not--take?" "That I may die now, either by my own hand or that of another, before the greater evil is entirely wrought. I know, and you know, that were I once dead you could and would set free my immortal spirit, even as you did my poor Lucy's. Were death, or the fear of death, the only thing that stood in the way I would not shrink to die here, now, amidst the friends who love me. But death is not all. I cannot believe that to die in such a case, when there is hope before us and a bitter task to be done, is God's will. Therefore, I, on my part, give up here the certainty of eternal rest, and go out into the dark where may be the blackest things that the world or the nether world holds!" We were all silent, for we knew instinctively that this was only a prelude. The faces of the others were set and Harker's grew ashen grey; perhaps he guessed better than any of us what was coming. She continued:-- "This is what I can give into the hotch-pot." I could not but note the quaint legal phrase which she used in such a place, and with all seriousness. "What will each of you give? Your lives I know," she went on quickly, "that is easy for brave men. Your lives are God's, and you can give them back to Him; but what will you give to me?" She looked again questioningly, but this time avoided her husband's face. Quincey seemed to understand; he nodded, and her face lit up. "Then I shall tell you plainly what I want, for there must be no doubtful matter in this connection between us now. You must promise me, one and all--even you, my beloved husband--that, should the time come, you will kill me." "What is that time?" The voice was Quincey's, but it was low and strained. "When you shall be convinced that I am so changed that it is better that I die that I may live. When I am thus dead in the flesh, then you will, without a moment's delay, drive a stake through me and cut off my head; or do whatever else may be wanting to give me rest!" Quincey was the first to rise after the pause. He knelt down before her and taking her hand in his said solemnly:-- "I'm only a rough fellow, who hasn't, perhaps, lived as a man should to win such a distinction, but I swear to you by all that I hold sacred and dear that, should the time ever come, I shall not flinch from the duty that you have set us. And I promise you, too, that I shall make all certain, for if I am only doubtful I shall take it that the time has come!" "My true friend!" was all she could say amid her fast-falling tears, as, bending over, she kissed his hand. "I swear the same, my dear Madam Mina!" said Van Helsing. "And I!" said Lord Godalming, each of them in turn kneeling to her to take the oath. I followed, myself. Then her husband turned to her wan-eyed and with a greenish pallor which subdued the snowy whiteness of his hair, and asked:-- "And must I, too, make such a promise, oh, my wife?" "You too, my dearest," she said, with infinite yearning of pity in her voice and eyes. "You must not shrink. You are nearest and dearest and all the world to me; our souls are knit into one, for all life and all time. Think, dear, that there have been times when brave men have killed their wives and their womenkind, to keep them from falling into the hands of the enemy. Their hands did not falter any the more because those that they loved implored them to slay them. It is men's duty towards those whom they love, in such times of sore trial! And oh, my dear, if it is to be that I must meet death at any hand, let it be at the hand of him that loves me best. Dr. Van Helsing, I have not forgotten your mercy in poor Lucy's case to him who loved"--she stopped with a flying blush, and changed her phrase--"to him who had best right to give her peace. If that time shall come again, I look to you to make it a happy memory of my husband's life that it was his loving hand which set me free from the awful thrall upon me." "Again I swear!" came the Professor's resonant voice. Mrs. Harker smiled, positively smiled, as with a sigh of relief she leaned back and said:-- "And now one word of warning, a warning which you must never forget: this time, if it ever come, may come quickly and unexpectedly, and in such case you must lose no time in using your opportunity. At such a time I myself might be--nay! if the time ever comes, _shall be_--leagued with your enemy against you." "One more request;" she became very solemn as she said this, "it is not vital and necessary like the other, but I want you to do one thing for me, if you will." We all acquiesced, but no one spoke; there was no need to speak:-- "I want you to read the Burial Service." She was interrupted by a deep groan from her husband; taking his hand in hers, she held it over her heart, and continued: "You must read it over me some day. Whatever may be the issue of all this fearful state of things, it will be a sweet thought to all or some of us. You, my dearest, will I hope read it, for then it will be in your voice in my memory for ever--come what may!" "But oh, my dear one," he pleaded, "death is afar off from you." "Nay," she said, holding up a warning hand. "I am deeper in death at this moment than if the weight of an earthly grave lay heavy upon me!" "Oh, my wife, must I read it?" he said, before he began. "It would comfort me, my husband!" was all she said; and he began to read when she had got the book ready. "How can I--how could any one--tell of that strange scene, its solemnity, its gloom, its sadness, its horror; and, withal, its sweetness. Even a sceptic, who can see nothing but a travesty of bitter truth in anything holy or emotional, would have been melted to the heart had he seen that little group of loving and devoted friends kneeling round that stricken and sorrowing lady; or heard the tender passion of her husband's voice, as in tones so broken with emotion that often he had to pause, he read the simple and beautiful service from the Burial of the Dead. I--I cannot go on--words--and--v-voice--f-fail m-me!" * * * * * She was right in her instinct. Strange as it all was, bizarre as it may hereafter seem even to us who felt its potent influence at the time, it comforted us much; and the silence, which showed Mrs. Harker's coming relapse from her freedom of soul, did not seem so full of despair to any of us as we had dreaded. _Jonathan Harker's Journal._ _15 October, Varna._--We left Charing Cross on the morning of the 12th, got to Paris the same night, and took the places secured for us in the Orient Express. We travelled night and day, arriving here at about five o'clock. Lord Godalming went to the Consulate to see if any telegram had arrived for him, whilst the rest of us came on to this hotel--"the Odessus." The journey may have had incidents; I was, however, too eager to get on, to care for them. Until the _Czarina Catherine_ comes into port there will be no interest for me in anything in the wide world. Thank God! Mina is well, and looks to be getting stronger; her colour is coming back. She sleeps a great deal; throughout the journey she slept nearly all the time. Before sunrise and sunset, however, she is very wakeful and alert; and it has become a habit for Van Helsing to hypnotise her at such times. At first, some effort was needed, and he had to make many passes; but now, she seems to yield at once, as if by habit, and scarcely any action is needed. He seems to have power at these particular moments to simply will, and her thoughts obey him. He always asks her what she can see and hear. She answers to the first:-- "Nothing; all is dark." And to the second:-- "I can hear the waves lapping against the ship, and the water rushing by. Canvas and cordage strain and masts and yards creak. The wind is high--I can hear it in the shrouds, and the bow throws back the foam." It is evident that the _Czarina Catherine_ is still at sea, hastening on her way to Varna. Lord Godalming has just returned. He had four telegrams, one each day since we started, and all to the same effect: that the _Czarina Catherine_ had not been reported to Lloyd's from anywhere. He had arranged before leaving London that his agent should send him every day a telegram saying if the ship had been reported. He was to have a message even if she were not reported, so that he might be sure that there was a watch being kept at the other end of the wire. We had dinner and went to bed early. To-morrow we are to see the Vice-Consul, and to arrange, if we can, about getting on board the ship as soon as she arrives. Van Helsing says that our chance will be to get on the boat between sunrise and sunset. The Count, even if he takes the form of a bat, cannot cross the running water of his own volition, and so cannot leave the ship. As he dare not change to man's form without suspicion--which he evidently wishes to avoid--he must remain in the box. If, then, we can come on board after sunrise, he is at our mercy; for we can open the box and make sure of him, as we did of poor Lucy, before he wakes. What mercy he shall get from us will not count for much. We think that we shall not have much trouble with officials or the seamen. Thank God! this is the country where bribery can do anything, and we are well supplied with money. We have only to make sure that the ship cannot come into port between sunset and sunrise without our being warned, and we shall be safe. Judge Moneybag will settle this case, I think! * * * * * _16 October._--Mina's report still the same: lapping waves and rushing water, darkness and favouring winds. We are evidently in good time, and when we hear of the _Czarina Catherine_ we shall be ready. As she must pass the Dardanelles we are sure to have some report. * * * * * _17 October._--Everything is pretty well fixed now, I think, to welcome the Count on his return from his tour. Godalming told the shippers that he fancied that the box sent aboard might contain something stolen from a friend of his, and got a half consent that he might open it at his own risk. The owner gave him a paper telling the Captain to give him every facility in doing whatever he chose on board the ship, and also a similar authorisation to his agent at Varna. We have seen the agent, who was much impressed with Godalming's kindly manner to him, and we are all satisfied that whatever he can do to aid our wishes will be done. We have already arranged what to do in case we get the box open. If the Count is there, Van Helsing and Seward will cut off his head at once and drive a stake through his heart. Morris and Godalming and I shall prevent interference, even if we have to use the arms which we shall have ready. The Professor says that if we can so treat the Count's body, it will soon after fall into dust. In such case there would be no evidence against us, in case any suspicion of murder were aroused. But even if it were not, we should stand or fall by our act, and perhaps some day this very script may be evidence to come between some of us and a rope. For myself, I should take the chance only too thankfully if it were to come. We mean to leave no stone unturned to carry out our intent. We have arranged with certain officials that the instant the _Czarina Catherine_ is seen, we are to be informed by a special messenger. * * * * * _24 October._--A whole week of waiting. Daily telegrams to Godalming, but only the same story: "Not yet reported." Mina's morning and evening hypnotic answer is unvaried: lapping waves, rushing water, and creaking masts. _Telegram, October 24th._ _Rufus Smith, Lloyd's, London, to Lord Godalming, care of H. B. M. Vice-Consul, Varna._ "_Czarina Catherine_ reported this morning from Dardanelles." _Dr. Seward's Diary._ _25 October._--How I miss my phonograph! To write diary with a pen is irksome to me; but Van Helsing says I must. We were all wild with excitement yesterday when Godalming got his telegram from Lloyd's. I know now what men feel in battle when the call to action is heard. Mrs. Harker, alone of our party, did not show any signs of emotion. After all, it is not strange that she did not; for we took special care not to let her know anything about it, and we all tried not to show any excitement when we were in her presence. In old days she would, I am sure, have noticed, no matter how we might have tried to conceal it; but in this way she is greatly changed during the past three weeks. The lethargy grows upon her, and though she seems strong and well, and is getting back some of her colour, Van Helsing and I are not satisfied. We talk of her often; we have not, however, said a word to the others. It would break poor Harker's heart--certainly his nerve--if he knew that we had even a suspicion on the subject. Van Helsing examines, he tells me, her teeth very carefully, whilst she is in the hypnotic condition, for he says that so long as they do not begin to sharpen there is no active danger of a change in her. If this change should come, it would be necessary to take steps!... We both know what those steps would have to be, though we do not mention our thoughts to each other. We should neither of us shrink from the task--awful though it be to contemplate. "Euthanasia" is an excellent and a comforting word! I am grateful to whoever invented it. It is only about 24 hours' sail from the Dardanelles to here, at the rate the _Czarina Catherine_ has come from London. She should therefore arrive some time in the morning; but as she cannot possibly get in before then, we are all about to retire early. We shall get up at one o'clock, so as to be ready. * * * * * _25 October, Noon_.--No news yet of the ship's arrival. Mrs. Harker's hypnotic report this morning was the same as usual, so it is possible that we may get news at any moment. We men are all in a fever of excitement, except Harker, who is calm; his hands are cold as ice, and an hour ago I found him whetting the edge of the great Ghoorka knife which he now always carries with him. It will be a bad lookout for the Count if the edge of that "Kukri" ever touches his throat, driven by that stern, ice-cold hand! Van Helsing and I were a little alarmed about Mrs. Harker to-day. About noon she got into a sort of lethargy which we did not like; although we kept silence to the others, we were neither of us happy about it. She had been restless all the morning, so that we were at first glad to know that she was sleeping. When, however, her husband mentioned casually that she was sleeping so soundly that he could not wake her, we went to her room to see for ourselves. She was breathing naturally and looked so well and peaceful that we agreed that the sleep was better for her than anything else. Poor girl, she has so much to forget that it is no wonder that sleep, if it brings oblivion to her, does her good. * * * * * _Later._--Our opinion was justified, for when after a refreshing sleep of some hours she woke up, she seemed brighter and better than she had been for days. At sunset she made the usual hypnotic report. Wherever he may be in the Black Sea, the Count is hurrying to his destination. To his doom, I trust! * * * * * _26 October._--Another day and no tidings of the _Czarina Catherine_. She ought to be here by now. That she is still journeying _somewhere_ is apparent, for Mrs. Harker's hypnotic report at sunrise was still the same. It is possible that the vessel may be lying by, at times, for fog; some of the steamers which came in last evening reported patches of fog both to north and south of the port. We must continue our watching, as the ship may now be signalled any moment. * * * * * _27 October, Noon._--Most strange; no news yet of the ship we wait for. Mrs. Harker reported last night and this morning as usual: "lapping waves and rushing water," though she added that "the waves were very faint." The telegrams from London have been the same: "no further report." Van Helsing is terribly anxious, and told me just now that he fears the Count is escaping us. He added significantly:-- "I did not like that lethargy of Madam Mina's. Souls and memories can do strange things during trance." I was about to ask him more, but Harker just then came in, and he held up a warning hand. We must try to-night at sunset to make her speak more fully when in her hypnotic state. * * * * * _28 October._--Telegram. _Rufus Smith, London, to Lord Godalming, care H. B. M. Vice Consul, Varna._ "_Czarina Catherine_ reported entering Galatz at one o'clock to-day." _Dr. Seward's Diary._ _28 October._--When the telegram came announcing the arrival in Galatz I do not think it was such a shock to any of us as might have been expected. True, we did not know whence, or how, or when, the bolt would come; but I think we all expected that something strange would happen. The delay of arrival at Varna made us individually satisfied that things would not be just as we had expected; we only waited to learn where the change would occur. None the less, however, was it a surprise. I suppose that nature works on such a hopeful basis that we believe against ourselves that things will be as they ought to be, not as we should know that they will be. Transcendentalism is a beacon to the angels, even if it be a will-o'-the-wisp to man. It was an odd experience and we all took it differently. Van Helsing raised his hand over his head for a moment, as though in remonstrance with the Almighty; but he said not a word, and in a few seconds stood up with his face sternly set. Lord Godalming grew very pale, and sat breathing heavily. I was myself half stunned and looked in wonder at one after another. Quincey Morris tightened his belt with that quick movement which I knew so well; in our old wandering days it meant "action." Mrs. Harker grew ghastly white, so that the scar on her forehead seemed to burn, but she folded her hands meekly and looked up in prayer. Harker smiled--actually smiled--the dark, bitter smile of one who is without hope; but at the same time his action belied his words, for his hands instinctively sought the hilt of the great Kukri knife and rested there. "When does the next train start for Galatz?" said Van Helsing to us generally. "At 6:30 to-morrow morning!" We all started, for the answer came from Mrs. Harker. "How on earth do you know?" said Art. "You forget--or perhaps you do not know, though Jonathan does and so does Dr. Van Helsing--that I am the train fiend. At home in Exeter I always used to make up the time-tables, so as to be helpful to my husband. I found it so useful sometimes, that I always make a study of the time-tables now. I knew that if anything were to take us to Castle Dracula we should go by Galatz, or at any rate through Bucharest, so I learned the times very carefully. Unhappily there are not many to learn, as the only train to-morrow leaves as I say." "Wonderful woman!" murmured the Professor. "Can't we get a special?" asked Lord Godalming. Van Helsing shook his head: "I fear not. This land is very different from yours or mine; even if we did have a special, it would probably not arrive as soon as our regular train. Moreover, we have something to prepare. We must think. Now let us organize. You, friend Arthur, go to the train and get the tickets and arrange that all be ready for us to go in the morning. Do you, friend Jonathan, go to the agent of the ship and get from him letters to the agent in Galatz, with authority to make search the ship just as it was here. Morris Quincey, you see the Vice-Consul, and get his aid with his fellow in Galatz and all he can do to make our way smooth, so that no times be lost when over the Danube. John will stay with Madam Mina and me, and we shall consult. For so if time be long you may be delayed; and it will not matter when the sun set, since I am here with Madam to make report." "And I," said Mrs. Harker brightly, and more like her old self than she had been for many a long day, "shall try to be of use in all ways, and shall think and write for you as I used to do. Something is shifting from me in some strange way, and I feel freer than I have been of late!" The three younger men looked happier at the moment as they seemed to realise the significance of her words; but Van Helsing and I, turning to each other, met each a grave and troubled glance. We said nothing at the time, however. When the three men had gone out to their tasks Van Helsing asked Mrs. Harker to look up the copy of the diaries and find him the part of Harker's journal at the Castle. She went away to get it; when the door was shut upon her he said to me:-- "We mean the same! speak out!" "There is some change. It is a hope that makes me sick, for it may deceive us." "Quite so. Do you know why I asked her to get the manuscript?" "No!" said I, "unless it was to get an opportunity of seeing me alone." "You are in part right, friend John, but only in part. I want to tell you something. And oh, my friend, I am taking a great--a terrible--risk; but I believe it is right. In the moment when Madam Mina said those words that arrest both our understanding, an inspiration came to me. In the trance of three days ago the Count sent her his spirit to read her mind; or more like he took her to see him in his earth-box in the ship with water rushing, just as it go free at rise and set of sun. He learn then that we are here; for she have more to tell in her open life with eyes to see and ears to hear than he, shut, as he is, in his coffin-box. Now he make his most effort to escape us. At present he want her not. "He is sure with his so great knowledge that she will come at his call; but he cut her off--take her, as he can do, out of his own power, that so she come not to him. Ah! there I have hope that our man-brains that have been of man so long and that have not lost the grace of God, will come higher than his child-brain that lie in his tomb for centuries, that grow not yet to our stature, and that do only work selfish and therefore small. Here comes Madam Mina; not a word to her of her trance! She know it not; and it would overwhelm her and make despair just when we want all her hope, all her courage; when most we want all her great brain which is trained like man's brain, but is of sweet woman and have a special power which the Count give her, and which he may not take away altogether--though he think not so. Hush! let me speak, and you shall learn. Oh, John, my friend, we are in awful straits. I fear, as I never feared before. We can only trust the good God. Silence! here she comes!" I thought that the Professor was going to break down and have hysterics, just as he had when Lucy died, but with a great effort he controlled himself and was at perfect nervous poise when Mrs. Harker tripped into the room, bright and happy-looking and, in the doing of work, seemingly forgetful of her misery. As she came in, she handed a number of sheets of typewriting to Van Helsing. He looked over them gravely, his face brightening up as he read. Then holding the pages between his finger and thumb he said:-- "Friend John, to you with so much of experience already--and you, too, dear Madam Mina, that are young--here is a lesson: do not fear ever to think. A half-thought has been buzzing often in my brain, but I fear to let him loose his wings. Here now, with more knowledge, I go back to where that half-thought come from and I find that he be no half-thought at all; that be a whole thought, though so young that he is not yet strong to use his little wings. Nay, like the "Ugly Duck" of my friend Hans Andersen, he be no duck-thought at all, but a big swan-thought that sail nobly on big wings, when the time come for him to try them. See I read here what Jonathan have written:-- "That other of his race who, in a later age, again and again, brought his forces over The Great River into Turkey Land; who, when he was beaten back, came again, and again, and again, though he had to come alone from the bloody field where his troops were being slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph." "What does this tell us? Not much? no! The Count's child-thought see nothing; therefore he speak so free. Your man-thought see nothing; my man-thought see nothing, till just now. No! But there comes another word from some one who speak without thought because she, too, know not what it mean--what it _might_ mean. Just as there are elements which rest, yet when in nature's course they move on their way and they touch--then pouf! and there comes a flash of light, heaven wide, that blind and kill and destroy some; but that show up all earth below for leagues and leagues. Is it not so? Well, I shall explain. To begin, have you ever study the philosophy of crime? 'Yes' and 'No.' You, John, yes; for it is a study of insanity. You, no, Madam Mina; for crime touch you not--not but once. Still, your mind works true, and argues not _a particulari ad universale_. There is this peculiarity in criminals. It is so constant, in all countries and at all times, that even police, who know not much from philosophy, come to know it empirically, that _it is_. That is to be empiric. The criminal always work at one crime--that is the true criminal who seems predestinate to crime, and who will of none other. This criminal has not full man-brain. He is clever and cunning and resourceful; but he be not of man-stature as to brain. He be of child-brain in much. Now this criminal of ours is predestinate to crime also; he, too, have child-brain, and it is of the child to do what he have done. The little bird, the little fish, the little animal learn not by principle, but empirically; and when he learn to do, then there is to him the ground to start from to do more. '_Dos pou sto_,' said Archimedes. 'Give me a fulcrum, and I shall move the world!' To do once, is the fulcrum whereby child-brain become man-brain; and until he have the purpose to do more, he continue to do the same again every time, just as he have done before! Oh, my dear, I see that your eyes are opened, and that to you the lightning flash show all the leagues," for Mrs. Harker began to clap her hands and her eyes sparkled. He went on:-- "Now you shall speak. Tell us two dry men of science what you see with those so bright eyes." He took her hand and held it whilst she spoke. His finger and thumb closed on her pulse, as I thought instinctively and unconsciously, as she spoke:-- "The Count is a criminal and of criminal type. Nordau and Lombroso would so classify him, and _qua_ criminal he is of imperfectly formed mind. Thus, in a difficulty he has to seek resource in habit. His past is a clue, and the one page of it that we know--and that from his own lips--tells that once before, when in what Mr. Morris would call a 'tight place,' he went back to his own country from the land he had tried to invade, and thence, without losing purpose, prepared himself for a new effort. He came again better equipped for his work; and won. So he came to London to invade a new land. He was beaten, and when all hope of success was lost, and his existence in danger, he fled back over the sea to his home; just as formerly he had fled back over the Danube from Turkey Land." "Good, good! oh, you so clever lady!" said Van Helsing, enthusiastically, as he stooped and kissed her hand. A moment later he said to me, as calmly as though we had been having a sick-room consultation:-- "Seventy-two only; and in all this excitement. I have hope." Turning to her again, he said with keen expectation:-- "But go on. Go on! there is more to tell if you will. Be not afraid; John and I know. I do in any case, and shall tell you if you are right. Speak, without fear!" "I will try to; but you will forgive me if I seem egotistical." "Nay! fear not, you must be egotist, for it is of you that we think." "Then, as he is criminal he is selfish; and as his intellect is small and his action is based on selfishness, he confines himself to one purpose. That purpose is remorseless. As he fled back over the Danube, leaving his forces to be cut to pieces, so now he is intent on being safe, careless of all. So his own selfishness frees my soul somewhat from the terrible power which he acquired over me on that dreadful night. I felt it! Oh, I felt it! Thank God, for His great mercy! My soul is freer than it has been since that awful hour; and all that haunts me is a fear lest in some trance or dream he may have used my knowledge for his ends." The Professor stood up:-- "He has so used your mind; and by it he has left us here in Varna, whilst the ship that carried him rushed through enveloping fog up to Galatz, where, doubtless, he had made preparation for escaping from us. But his child-mind only saw so far; and it may be that, as ever is in God's Providence, the very thing that the evil-doer most reckoned on for his selfish good, turns out to be his chiefest harm. The hunter is taken in his own snare, as the great Psalmist says. For now that he think he is free from every trace of us all, and that he has escaped us with so many hours to him, then his selfish child-brain will whisper him to sleep. He think, too, that as he cut himself off from knowing your mind, there can be no knowledge of him to you; there is where he fail! That terrible baptism of blood which he give you makes you free to go to him in spirit, as you have as yet done in your times of freedom, when the sun rise and set. At such times you go by my volition and not by his; and this power to good of you and others, as you have won from your suffering at his hands. This is now all the more precious that he know it not, and to guard himself have even cut himself off from his knowledge of our where. We, however, are not selfish, and we believe that God is with us through all this blackness, and these many dark hours. We shall follow him; and we shall not flinch; even if we peril ourselves that we become like him. Friend John, this has been a great hour; and it have done much to advance us on our way. You must be scribe and write him all down, so that when the others return from their work you can give it to them; then they shall know as we do." And so I have written it whilst we wait their return, and Mrs. Harker has written with her typewriter all since she brought the MS. to us. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Am 11. Oktober, laut Dr. Sewards Tagebuch, bittet Jonathan Dr. Seward, Minas Gesundheitszustand zu überprüfen. Mina fleht sie an, sie zu zerstören, falls sie sich vollständig verändert. Erfüllt von Emotionen, aber berührt von ihrem Mut, stimmen die Männer zu. Am 15. Oktober, laut Jonathans Tagebuch, verlassen sie Charring Cross am 12., kommen in der Nacht in Paris an, besteigen den Orient Express und erreichen Varna. Mina wird hypnotisiert. Dracula ist immer noch auf See. Die Männer bereiten all ihre Waffen vor, besonders Jonathan, der sein Kukri-Messer schärft. Draculas Schiff ist verspätet. Die Männer setzen sich hin und diskutieren Draculas Psyche.

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.

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 GEBURTENHAUS IVY HOUSE, HACKNEY Dieses Krankenhaus dient der Unterbringung junger Mütter, die ihre unehelichen Kinder zur Welt bringen. Es ist ein bescheidenes Gebäude mit fünfundzwanzig Betten, obwohl ich denke, dass noch ein paar weitere arrangiert werden können. Dass es seinen Zweck gut erfüllt, bis das bereits erwähnte große Geburtshaus gebaut wird, zeigt sich daran, dass im Jahr 1900 hier 286 Babys geboren wurden (von denen nur fünfundzwanzig nichtehelich waren) und keine Mutter zu Schaden kam. Allerdings starben dreißig Babys, was die verantwortliche Beamtin etwas hoch fand, aber auf die Tatsache zurückzuführen ist, dass in diesem bestimmten Jahr eine große Anzahl der Geburten vorzeitig war. Im Jahr 1908 wurden 270 Kinder geboren, von denen zwölf starben, sechs davon waren Frühgeburten. Die Fälle stammen aus London und anderen Städten, in denen die Heilsarmee tätig ist. In der Regel wenden sie sich selbst, ihre Verwandten und Freunde oder vielleicht der Vater des Kindes an die Army, um in ihrer Not Hilfe zu erhalten, wodurch zweifellos viele Kindermorde und einige Selbstmorde verhindert werden. Die von der Einrichtung für diese Geburten in Rechnung gestellte Gebühr richtet sich nach der Zahlungsfähigkeit der Patientin. Viele zahlen überhaupt nichts. Von denen, die zahlen, beträgt der durchschnittlich erhaltene Betrag 10 Shilling pro Woche, im Gegenzug erhalten sie medizinische Betreuung, Verpflegung, Pflege und alles andere, was sie in ihrem Zustand benötigen. Ich besuchte das Krankenhaus und sah diese unglücklichen Mütter im Bett liegen, jede von ihnen mit ihrem Säugling in einer Wiege neben sich. Obwohl ihre unmittelbare Prüfung vorbei war, sahen diese armen Mädchen sehr traurig aus. "Sie wissen, dass ihr Leben ruiniert ist", sagte die verantwortliche Dame. Die meisten von ihnen waren ziemlich jung, manche erst fünfzehn, und die meisten unter zwanzig. Das wurde mir erklärt, ist in der Regel auf die Unwissenheit der Fakten des Lebens zurückzuführen, in der Mädchen durch ihre Eltern oder andere für ihre Ausbildung Verantwortliche gehalten werden. Im vergangenen Jahr gab es eine Mutter im Alter von dreizehn Jahren in diesem Krankenhaus. Ein Mädchen, das besonders traurig schien, hatte Zwillinge neben sich liegen. In der Hoffnung, sie aufzuheitern, bemerkte ich, dass es schöne Babys seien, woraufhin sie ihr Gesicht unter den Bettdecken versteckte. "Sprechen Sie nicht darüber", sagte die Offizierin und zog mich weg. "Dieses Kind hat fast seine Augen ausgeheult, als man ihm gesagt hat, dass es zwei sind. Sie sehen, es ist schon schwer genug für diese armen Mütter, eines zu behalten, aber wenn es zwei sind -!" Ich fragte, ob die Mehrheit dieser unglücklichen jungen Frauen wirklich versuche, ihre Kinder zu versorgen. Die Antwort war, dass die meisten von ihnen sehr hart versuchten und all ihr Geld dafür verwenden würden, sich sogar von absoluten Notwendigkeiten zu enthalten. Nur wenige von ihnen geraten nach ihrem ersten Fehler erneut in Schwierigkeiten, da sie ihre Lektion gelernt haben. Außerdem bemüht sich die Heilsarmee während ihres Aufenthalts im Krankenhaus und danach, bestimmte moralische Lehren zu vermitteln und somit ihre Arbeit vorbeugend sowie heilend zu gestalten. Es werden viele Dienststellen für eine große Anzahl dieser Mädchen gefunden, meistens dort, wo nur eine Dienerin beschäftigt wird, damit sie nicht von anderen gehänselt werden, falls diese ihr Geheimnis herausfinden sollten. Dies wird in der Regel jedoch der Hausherrin anvertraut. Der durchschnittliche Lohn, den sie erhalten, beträgt etwa 18 Pfund pro Jahr. Da es sie 13 Pfund oder 5 Schilling pro Woche kostet, ein Kind zu versorgen (ohne Berücksichtigung seiner Kleidung), ist der Kampf sehr schwer, es sei denn, die Army kann den Vater finden und ihn dazu bringen, zum Unterhalt seines Kindes beizutragen, sei es freiwillig oder durch eine Vaterschaftsklage. Mir wurde mitgeteilt, dass viele dieser Väter als Gentlemen angesehen werden, aber wenn es um die Zahlungen geht, zeigen sie, dass sie wenig Recht auf diese Beschreibung haben. Natürlich ist es bei Männern niedereren Standes noch schwieriger, das Geld einzutreiben. Ich kann hinzufügen, dass meine eigene langjährige Erfahrung als Richter diese Aussage bestätigt. Es ist erstaunlich, mit welcher Gemeinheit, List und sogar Meineid ein Mann manchmal versucht, um so wenig wie 1 Schilling 6 Pence pro Woche zu vermeiden, um den Unterhalt seines eigenen Kindes zu zahlen. Oft ist die Verteidigungslinie ein grausamer Versuch, den Charakter der Mutter zu diffamieren, selbst wenn der Ankläger sehr wohl weiß, dass keinerlei Grund für die Anschuldigung besteht und dass nur er selbst für den Fall verantwortlich ist, dass die Frau gestürzt ist. Außerdem werden viele solcher Männer weglaufen und sich in einem anderen Teil des Landes verstecken, um der Erfüllung ihrer gerechten Verpflichtungen zu entgehen. In Verbindung mit diesem Geburtshaus hat die Heilsarmee eine Ausbildungsschule für Geburtshelferinnen und Krankenschwestern, von denen alle die Prüfung des Zentralen Geburtshilfeausschusses bestehen müssen, bevor sie praktizieren dürfen. Einige der Studentinnen arbeiten nach ihrer Qualifikation weiterhin für die Army in ihrer Krankenhausabteilung, andere in der Slum-Abteilung und einige gehen im Dienst anderer Gesellschaften ins Ausland. Die Gebühren für diesen vier Monate dauernden Kurs in Geburtshilfe variieren je nach den Umständen. Die Army verlangt von den Studentinnen, die Mitglied anderer Gesellschaften sind oder beabsichtigen, ihnen zu dienen, den vollen Betrag von achtzehn Guineen. Diejenigen, die beabsichtigen, mit medizinischen Missionaren im Ausland zu arbeiten, müssen fünfzehn Guineen bezahlen, und diejenigen, die Mitglieder der Heilsarmee sind oder beabsichtigen, der Army in dieser Abteilung zu dienen, zahlen nichts, es sei denn, sie entscheiden sich am Ende ihres Kurses, die Armee zu verlassen. Bei der letzten Prüfung bestanden von vierzehn Studentinnen, die von dieser Einrichtung geschickt wurden, dreizehn den erforderlichen Test. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Sarah trifft ihre Mutter Ada zum Mittagessen. Ada, eine misstrauische und harte Frau, entlockt schnell die Geschichte von Sarahs Romanze mit Billy. Sie warnt dann ihre Tochter davor, dass jedentes achte Kondom mit einem Loch versehen ist, und behauptet weiterhin, dass, wenn Sarah Sex mit ihren Verehrern hat, sie niemals heiraten werden. Ada wünscht sich, dass ihre Tochter an einem Ort arbeitet, wo sie die Möglichkeit hat, Männer kennenzulernen, nicht in der Munitionsfabrik, die ihre Haut immer gelber werden lässt. Adas größter Wunsch für Sarah ist es, einen Mann mit einem stabilen Einkommen zu heiraten; wenn der Mann nach ihrer Heirat stirbt und sie ein Erbe hat, umso besser. In Adas Vorstellung sind Männer Raubtiere und Frauen abhängig. Ada glaubt nicht daran, dass Männer und Frauen sich lieben können; Sarah findet diese Lebenseinstellung sehr deprimierend. Am Ende des Essens warnt Ada Sarah davor, dass Billy nur an Sex interessiert ist, und rät ihrer Tochter zur Vorsicht. Sassoon trifft sich mit Graves und sie diskutieren über seine baldige Rückkehr nach Frankreich. Ihr Gespräch ist kühl; es scheint, als ob eine Distanz zwischen ihnen entstanden ist. Graves sagt Sassoon, dass er sich Sorgen um ihn macht, weil Sassoon nicht mehr über die Zukunft nachdenkt. Der Leutnant bezieht sich indessen auf die steigenden Todesraten und sagt Graves, dass er, wenn er wirklich Mut hätte, nicht so "nachsichtig" wäre, wie er es ist. Beleidigt beruft sich Graves auf einen Ehrenkodex, in dem das Halten seines Wortes höchste Priorität hat, und erinnert Sassoon an die Versprechen, die er bei seiner Einberufung gemacht hat. Nach ihrem Streit informiert Graves Sassoon darüber, dass Peter, ein Junge, den Graves sehr mochte, festgenommen wurde, weil er vor den Kasernen Prostituierte angesprochen hat, und zu Dr. Rivers zur Behandlung geschickt wird. Graves erzählt weiterhin, dass er seit dem Vorfall angefangen hat, eine Frau zu schreiben, um seine Aufmerksamkeit auf "normalere" Beziehungen zu lenken. Graves beteuert, dass er nicht homosexuell ist und auch niemals war, "nicht mal in Gedanken". Sassoon ist von diesem unerwarteten Geständnis überrascht. Sarah geht nachts in der Munitionsfabrik arbeiten und unterhält sich mit ihren Kolleginnen, während sie darauf warten, einzutreten. Die Frauen machen Scherze über all die homosexuellen Männer in der Armee auf eine etwas vulgäre Art und Weise. Als Sarah sich umschaut, bemerkt sie, dass diese Frauen nicht menschlich aussehen: Die Fabrik hat ihre Haut gelb gefärbt und jedem von ihnen eine Krone aus frizzy Kupferhaar verliehen. Sie fragt nach dem Verbleib ihrer Freundin Betty und erfährt, dass Betty versucht hat, sich mit einem Kleiderbügel selbst abzutreiben und dabei versehentlich ihre Blase durchstochen hat. Betty musste ins Krankenhaus gebracht werden, wo ein abschätziger Arzt ihr eine Standpauke hielt. Dr. Rivers beendet an diesem Abend seine Runden mit Sassoon, der darauf brennt zu hören, ob das Kriegsministerium zustimmt, ihn nach Frankreich zurückzuschicken. Nachdem der Psychologe erklärt hat, dass er keine Antwort erhalten hat, erwähnt Sassoon die Geschichte von Graves über Peter und seine Ablehnung seiner Homosexualität. Der Leutnant gesteht, dass er dachte, dass die sozialen Einstellungen gegenüber homosexuellen Männern sich verbessert hätten. Dr. Rivers stimmt dem zu, glaubt aber, dass während eines Krieges Männer dazu ermutigt werden, äußerst enge und brüderliche Beziehungen im Kampf zu entwickeln; die Intimität dieser Beziehungen macht viele Männer nervös. Daher ist übertriebene Ablehnung von Homosexualität eine Möglichkeit für Soldaten, eine deutliche Trennung zwischen den Bindungen des Krieges und der romantischen Liebe zwischen Männern zu schaffen. Der Psychologe warnt Sassoon davor, sein Privatleben öffentlich zu machen, da dies zu schwerer Verfolgung führen könnte. Sassoon antwortet, dass er seine Überzeugungen oder Begehren nicht unterdrücken möchte. Dr. Rivers vergleicht ihn grob mit Don Quixote und sagt ihm, er solle erwachsen werden.

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.

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 she-wolf who had first caught the sound of men's voices and the whining of the sled-dogs; and it was the she-wolf who was first to spring away from the cornered man in his circle of dying flame. The pack had been loath to forego the kill it had hunted down, and it lingered for several minutes, making sure of the sounds, and then it, too, sprang away on the trail made by the she-wolf. Running at the forefront of the pack was a large grey wolf--one of its several leaders. It was he who directed the pack's course on the heels of the she-wolf. It was he who snarled warningly at the younger members of the pack or slashed at them with his fangs when they ambitiously tried to pass him. And it was he who increased the pace when he sighted the she-wolf, now trotting slowly across the snow. She dropped in alongside by him, as though it were her appointed position, and took the pace of the pack. He did not snarl at her, nor show his teeth, when any leap of hers chanced to put her in advance of him. On the contrary, he seemed kindly disposed toward her--too kindly to suit her, for he was prone to run near to her, and when he ran too near it was she who snarled and showed her teeth. Nor was she above slashing his shoulder sharply on occasion. At such times he betrayed no anger. He merely sprang to the side and ran stiffly ahead for several awkward leaps, in carriage and conduct resembling an abashed country swain. This was his one trouble in the running of the pack; but she had other troubles. On her other side ran a gaunt old wolf, grizzled and marked with the scars of many battles. He ran always on her right side. The fact that he had but one eye, and that the left eye, might account for this. He, also, was addicted to crowding her, to veering toward her till his scarred muzzle touched her body, or shoulder, or neck. As with the running mate on the left, she repelled these attentions with her teeth; but when both bestowed their attentions at the same time she was roughly jostled, being compelled, with quick snaps to either side, to drive both lovers away and at the same time to maintain her forward leap with the pack and see the way of her feet before her. At such times her running mates flashed their teeth and growled threateningly across at each other. They might have fought, but even wooing and its rivalry waited upon the more pressing hunger-need of the pack. After each repulse, when the old wolf sheered abruptly away from the sharp-toothed object of his desire, he shouldered against a young three- year-old that ran on his blind right side. This young wolf had attained his full size; and, considering the weak and famished condition of the pack, he possessed more than the average vigour and spirit. Nevertheless, he ran with his head even with the shoulder of his one-eyed elder. When he ventured to run abreast of the older wolf (which was seldom), a snarl and a snap sent him back even with the shoulder again. Sometimes, however, he dropped cautiously and slowly behind and edged in between the old leader and the she-wolf. This was doubly resented, even triply resented. When she snarled her displeasure, the old leader would whirl on the three-year-old. Sometimes she whirled with him. And sometimes the young leader on the left whirled, too. At such times, confronted by three sets of savage teeth, the young wolf stopped precipitately, throwing himself back on his haunches, with fore- legs stiff, mouth menacing, and mane bristling. This confusion in the front of the moving pack always caused confusion in the rear. The wolves behind collided with the young wolf and expressed their displeasure by administering sharp nips on his hind-legs and flanks. He was laying up trouble for himself, for lack of food and short tempers went together; but with the boundless faith of youth he persisted in repeating the manoeuvre every little while, though it never succeeded in gaining anything for him but discomfiture. Had there been food, love-making and fighting would have gone on apace, and the pack-formation would have been broken up. But the situation of the pack was desperate. It was lean with long-standing hunger. It ran below its ordinary speed. At the rear limped the weak members, the very young and the very old. At the front were the strongest. Yet all were more like skeletons than full-bodied wolves. Nevertheless, with the exception of the ones that limped, the movements of the animals were effortless and tireless. Their stringy muscles seemed founts of inexhaustible energy. Behind every steel-like contraction of a muscle, lay another steel-like contraction, and another, and another, apparently without end. They ran many miles that day. They ran through the night. And the next day found them still running. They were running over the surface of a world frozen and dead. No life stirred. They alone moved through the vast inertness. They alone were alive, and they sought for other things that were alive in order that they might devour them and continue to live. They crossed low divides and ranged a dozen small streams in a lower-lying country before their quest was rewarded. Then they came upon moose. It was a big bull they first found. Here was meat and life, and it was guarded by no mysterious fires nor flying missiles of flame. Splay hoofs and palmated antlers they knew, and they flung their customary patience and caution to the wind. It was a brief fight and fierce. The big bull was beset on every side. He ripped them open or split their skulls with shrewdly driven blows of his great hoofs. He crushed them and broke them on his large horns. He stamped them into the snow under him in the wallowing struggle. But he was foredoomed, and he went down with the she-wolf tearing savagely at his throat, and with other teeth fixed everywhere upon him, devouring him alive, before ever his last struggles ceased or his last damage had been wrought. There was food in plenty. The bull weighed over eight hundred pounds--fully twenty pounds of meat per mouth for the forty-odd wolves of the pack. But if they could fast prodigiously, they could feed prodigiously, and soon a few scattered bones were all that remained of the splendid live brute that had faced the pack a few hours before. There was now much resting and sleeping. With full stomachs, bickering and quarrelling began among the younger males, and this continued through the few days that followed before the breaking-up of the pack. The famine was over. The wolves were now in the country of game, and though they still hunted in pack, they hunted more cautiously, cutting out heavy cows or crippled old bulls from the small moose-herds they ran across. There came a day, in this land of plenty, when the wolf-pack split in half and went in different directions. The she-wolf, the young leader on her left, and the one-eyed elder on her right, led their half of the pack down to the Mackenzie River and across into the lake country to the east. Each day this remnant of the pack dwindled. Two by two, male and female, the wolves were deserting. Occasionally a solitary male was driven out by the sharp teeth of his rivals. In the end there remained only four: the she-wolf, the young leader, the one-eyed one, and the ambitious three- year-old. The she-wolf had by now developed a ferocious temper. Her three suitors all bore the marks of her teeth. Yet they never replied in kind, never defended themselves against her. They turned their shoulders to her most savage slashes, and with wagging tails and mincing steps strove to placate her wrath. But if they were all mildness toward her, they were all fierceness toward one another. The three-year-old grew too ambitious in his fierceness. He caught the one-eyed elder on his blind side and ripped his ear into ribbons. Though the grizzled old fellow could see only on one side, against the youth and vigour of the other he brought into play the wisdom of long years of experience. His lost eye and his scarred muzzle bore evidence to the nature of his experience. He had survived too many battles to be in doubt for a moment about what to do. The battle began fairly, but it did not end fairly. There was no telling what the outcome would have been, for the third wolf joined the elder, and together, old leader and young leader, they attacked the ambitious three-year-old and proceeded to destroy him. He was beset on either side by the merciless fangs of his erstwhile comrades. Forgotten were the days they had hunted together, the game they had pulled down, the famine they had suffered. That business was a thing of the past. The business of love was at hand--ever a sterner and crueller business than that of food-getting. And in the meanwhile, the she-wolf, the cause of it all, sat down contentedly on her haunches and watched. She was even pleased. This was her day--and it came not often--when manes bristled, and fang smote fang or ripped and tore the yielding flesh, all for the possession of her. And in the business of love the three-year-old, who had made this his first adventure upon it, yielded up his life. On either side of his body stood his two rivals. They were gazing at the she-wolf, who sat smiling in the snow. But the elder leader was wise, very wise, in love even as in battle. The younger leader turned his head to lick a wound on his shoulder. The curve of his neck was turned toward his rival. With his one eye the elder saw the opportunity. He darted in low and closed with his fangs. It was a long, ripping slash, and deep as well. His teeth, in passing, burst the wall of the great vein of the throat. Then he leaped clear. The young leader snarled terribly, but his snarl broke midmost into a tickling cough. Bleeding and coughing, already stricken, he sprang at the elder and fought while life faded from him, his legs going weak beneath him, the light of day dulling on his eyes, his blows and springs falling shorter and shorter. And all the while the she-wolf sat on her haunches and smiled. She was made glad in vague ways by the battle, for this was the love-making of the Wild, the sex-tragedy of the natural world that was tragedy only to those that died. To those that survived it was not tragedy, but realisation and achievement. When the young leader lay in the snow and moved no more, One Eye stalked over to the she-wolf. His carriage was one of mingled triumph and caution. He was plainly expectant of a rebuff, and he was just as plainly surprised when her teeth did not flash out at him in anger. For the first time she met him with a kindly manner. She sniffed noses with him, and even condescended to leap about and frisk and play with him in quite puppyish fashion. And he, for all his grey years and sage experience, behaved quite as puppyishly and even a little more foolishly. Forgotten already were the vanquished rivals and the love-tale red-written on the snow. Forgotten, save once, when old One Eye stopped for a moment to lick his stiffening wounds. Then it was that his lips half writhed into a snarl, and the hair of his neck and shoulders involuntarily bristled, while he half crouched for a spring, his claws spasmodically clutching into the snow-surface for firmer footing. But it was all forgotten the next moment, as he sprang after the she-wolf, who was coyly leading him a chase through the woods. After that they ran side by side, like good friends who have come to an understanding. The days passed by, and they kept together, hunting their meat and killing and eating it in common. After a time the she-wolf began to grow restless. She seemed to be searching for something that she could not find. The hollows under fallen trees seemed to attract her, and she spent much time nosing about among the larger snow-piled crevices in the rocks and in the caves of overhanging banks. Old One Eye was not interested at all, but he followed her good-naturedly in her quest, and when her investigations in particular places were unusually protracted, he would lie down and wait until she was ready to go on. They did not remain in one place, but travelled across country until they regained the Mackenzie River, down which they slowly went, leaving it often to hunt game along the small streams that entered it, but always returning to it again. Sometimes they chanced upon other wolves, usually in pairs; but there was no friendliness of intercourse displayed on either side, no gladness at meeting, no desire to return to the pack-formation. Several times they encountered solitary wolves. These were always males, and they were pressingly insistent on joining with One Eye and his mate. This he resented, and when she stood shoulder to shoulder with him, bristling and showing her teeth, the aspiring solitary ones would back off, turn-tail, and continue on their lonely way. One moonlight night, running through the quiet forest, One Eye suddenly halted. His muzzle went up, his tail stiffened, and his nostrils dilated as he scented the air. One foot also he held up, after the manner of a dog. He was not satisfied, and he continued to smell the air, striving to understand the message borne upon it to him. One careless sniff had satisfied his mate, and she trotted on to reassure him. Though he followed her, he was still dubious, and he could not forbear an occasional halt in order more carefully to study the warning. She crept out cautiously on the edge of a large open space in the midst of the trees. For some time she stood alone. Then One Eye, creeping and crawling, every sense on the alert, every hair radiating infinite suspicion, joined her. They stood side by side, watching and listening and smelling. To their ears came the sounds of dogs wrangling and scuffling, the guttural cries of men, the sharper voices of scolding women, and once the shrill and plaintive cry of a child. With the exception of the huge bulks of the skin-lodges, little could be seen save the flames of the fire, broken by the movements of intervening bodies, and the smoke rising slowly on the quiet air. But to their nostrils came the myriad smells of an Indian camp, carrying a story that was largely incomprehensible to One Eye, but every detail of which the she-wolf knew. She was strangely stirred, and sniffed and sniffed with an increasing delight. But old One Eye was doubtful. He betrayed his apprehension, and started tentatively to go. She turned and touched his neck with her muzzle in a reassuring way, then regarded the camp again. A new wistfulness was in her face, but it was not the wistfulness of hunger. She was thrilling to a desire that urged her to go forward, to be in closer to that fire, to be squabbling with the dogs, and to be avoiding and dodging the stumbling feet of men. One Eye moved impatiently beside her; her unrest came back upon her, and she knew again her pressing need to find the thing for which she searched. She turned and trotted back into the forest, to the great relief of One Eye, who trotted a little to the fore until they were well within the shelter of the trees. As they slid along, noiseless as shadows, in the moonlight, they came upon a run-way. Both noses went down to the footprints in the snow. These footprints were very fresh. One Eye ran ahead cautiously, his mate at his heels. The broad pads of their feet were spread wide and in contact with the snow were like velvet. One Eye caught sight of a dim movement of white in the midst of the white. His sliding gait had been deceptively swift, but it was as nothing to the speed at which he now ran. Before him was bounding the faint patch of white he had discovered. They were running along a narrow alley flanked on either side by a growth of young spruce. Through the trees the mouth of the alley could be seen, opening out on a moonlit glade. Old One Eye was rapidly overhauling the fleeing shape of white. Bound by bound he gained. Now he was upon it. One leap more and his teeth would be sinking into it. But that leap was never made. High in the air, and straight up, soared the shape of white, now a struggling snowshoe rabbit that leaped and bounded, executing a fantastic dance there above him in the air and never once returning to earth. One Eye sprang back with a snort of sudden fright, then shrank down to the snow and crouched, snarling threats at this thing of fear he did not understand. But the she-wolf coolly thrust past him. She poised for a moment, then sprang for the dancing rabbit. She, too, soared high, but not so high as the quarry, and her teeth clipped emptily together with a metallic snap. She made another leap, and another. Her mate had slowly relaxed from his crouch and was watching her. He now evinced displeasure at her repeated failures, and himself made a mighty spring upward. His teeth closed upon the rabbit, and he bore it back to earth with him. But at the same time there was a suspicious crackling movement beside him, and his astonished eye saw a young spruce sapling bending down above him to strike him. His jaws let go their grip, and he leaped backward to escape this strange danger, his lips drawn back from his fangs, his throat snarling, every hair bristling with rage and fright. And in that moment the sapling reared its slender length upright and the rabbit soared dancing in the air again. The she-wolf was angry. She sank her fangs into her mate's shoulder in reproof; and he, frightened, unaware of what constituted this new onslaught, struck back ferociously and in still greater fright, ripping down the side of the she-wolf's muzzle. For him to resent such reproof was equally unexpected to her, and she sprang upon him in snarling indignation. Then he discovered his mistake and tried to placate her. But she proceeded to punish him roundly, until he gave over all attempts at placation, and whirled in a circle, his head away from her, his shoulders receiving the punishment of her teeth. In the meantime the rabbit danced above them in the air. The she-wolf sat down in the snow, and old One Eye, now more in fear of his mate than of the mysterious sapling, again sprang for the rabbit. As he sank back with it between his teeth, he kept his eye on the sapling. As before, it followed him back to earth. He crouched down under the impending blow, his hair bristling, but his teeth still keeping tight hold of the rabbit. But the blow did not fall. The sapling remained bent above him. When he moved it moved, and he growled at it through his clenched jaws; when he remained still, it remained still, and he concluded it was safer to continue remaining still. Yet the warm blood of the rabbit tasted good in his mouth. It was his mate who relieved him from the quandary in which he found himself. She took the rabbit from him, and while the sapling swayed and teetered threateningly above her she calmly gnawed off the rabbit's head. At once the sapling shot up, and after that gave no more trouble, remaining in the decorous and perpendicular position in which nature had intended it to grow. Then, between them, the she-wolf and One Eye devoured the game which the mysterious sapling had caught for them. There were other run-ways and alleys where rabbits were hanging in the air, and the wolf-pair prospected them all, the she-wolf leading the way, old One Eye following and observant, learning the method of robbing snares--a knowledge destined to stand him in good stead in the days to come. For two days the she-wolf and One Eye hung about the Indian camp. He was worried and apprehensive, yet the camp lured his mate and she was loath to depart. But when, one morning, the air was rent with the report of a rifle close at hand, and a bullet smashed against a tree trunk several inches from One Eye's head, they hesitated no more, but went off on a long, swinging lope that put quick miles between them and the danger. They did not go far--a couple of days' journey. The she-wolf's need to find the thing for which she searched had now become imperative. She was getting very heavy, and could run but slowly. Once, in the pursuit of a rabbit, which she ordinarily would have caught with ease, she gave over and lay down and rested. One Eye came to her; but when he touched her neck gently with his muzzle she snapped at him with such quick fierceness that he tumbled over backward and cut a ridiculous figure in his effort to escape her teeth. Her temper was now shorter than ever; but he had become more patient than ever and more solicitous. And then she found the thing for which she sought. It was a few miles up a small stream that in the summer time flowed into the Mackenzie, but that then was frozen over and frozen down to its rocky bottom--a dead stream of solid white from source to mouth. The she-wolf was trotting wearily along, her mate well in advance, when she came upon the overhanging, high clay-bank. She turned aside and trotted over to it. The wear and tear of spring storms and melting snows had underwashed the bank and in one place had made a small cave out of a narrow fissure. She paused at the mouth of the cave and looked the wall over carefully. Then, on one side and the other, she ran along the base of the wall to where its abrupt bulk merged from the softer-lined landscape. Returning to the cave, she entered its narrow mouth. For a short three feet she was compelled to crouch, then the walls widened and rose higher in a little round chamber nearly six feet in diameter. The roof barely cleared her head. It was dry and cosey. She inspected it with painstaking care, while One Eye, who had returned, stood in the entrance and patiently watched her. She dropped her head, with her nose to the ground and directed toward a point near to her closely bunched feet, and around this point she circled several times; then, with a tired sigh that was almost a grunt, she curled her body in, relaxed her legs, and dropped down, her head toward the entrance. One Eye, with pointed, interested ears, laughed at her, and beyond, outlined against the white light, she could see the brush of his tail waving good-naturedly. Her own ears, with a snuggling movement, laid their sharp points backward and down against the head for a moment, while her mouth opened and her tongue lolled peaceably out, and in this way she expressed that she was pleased and satisfied. One Eye was hungry. Though he lay down in the entrance and slept, his sleep was fitful. He kept awaking and cocking his ears at the bright world without, where the April sun was blazing across the snow. When he dozed, upon his ears would steal the faint whispers of hidden trickles of running water, and he would rouse and listen intently. The sun had come back, and all the awakening Northland world was calling to him. Life was stirring. The feel of spring was in the air, the feel of growing life under the snow, of sap ascending in the trees, of buds bursting the shackles of the frost. He cast anxious glances at his mate, but she showed no desire to get up. He looked outside, and half a dozen snow-birds fluttered across his field of vision. He started to get up, then looked back to his mate again, and settled down and dozed. A shrill and minute singing stole upon his hearing. Once, and twice, he sleepily brushed his nose with his paw. Then he woke up. There, buzzing in the air at the tip of his nose, was a lone mosquito. It was a full-grown mosquito, one that had lain frozen in a dry log all winter and that had now been thawed out by the sun. He could resist the call of the world no longer. Besides, he was hungry. He crawled over to his mate and tried to persuade her to get up. But she only snarled at him, and he walked out alone into the bright sunshine to find the snow-surface soft under foot and the travelling difficult. He went up the frozen bed of the stream, where the snow, shaded by the trees, was yet hard and crystalline. He was gone eight hours, and he came back through the darkness hungrier than when he had started. He had found game, but he had not caught it. He had broken through the melting snow crust, and wallowed, while the snowshoe rabbits had skimmed along on top lightly as ever. He paused at the mouth of the cave with a sudden shock of suspicion. Faint, strange sounds came from within. They were sounds not made by his mate, and yet they were remotely familiar. He bellied cautiously inside and was met by a warning snarl from the she-wolf. This he received without perturbation, though he obeyed it by keeping his distance; but he remained interested in the other sounds--faint, muffled sobbings and slubberings. His mate warned him irritably away, and he curled up and slept in the entrance. When morning came and a dim light pervaded the lair, he again sought after the source of the remotely familiar sounds. There was a new note in his mate's warning snarl. It was a jealous note, and he was very careful in keeping a respectful distance. Nevertheless, he made out, sheltering between her legs against the length of her body, five strange little bundles of life, very feeble, very helpless, making tiny whimpering noises, with eyes that did not open to the light. He was surprised. It was not the first time in his long and successful life that this thing had happened. It had happened many times, yet each time it was as fresh a surprise as ever to him. His mate looked at him anxiously. Every little while she emitted a low growl, and at times, when it seemed to her he approached too near, the growl shot up in her throat to a sharp snarl. Of her own experience she had no memory of the thing happening; but in her instinct, which was the experience of all the mothers of wolves, there lurked a memory of fathers that had eaten their new-born and helpless progeny. It manifested itself as a fear strong within her, that made her prevent One Eye from more closely inspecting the cubs he had fathered. But there was no danger. Old One Eye was feeling the urge of an impulse, that was, in turn, an instinct that had come down to him from all the fathers of wolves. He did not question it, nor puzzle over it. It was there, in the fibre of his being; and it was the most natural thing in the world that he should obey it by turning his back on his new-born family and by trotting out and away on the meat-trail whereby he lived. Five or six miles from the lair, the stream divided, its forks going off among the mountains at a right angle. Here, leading up the left fork, he came upon a fresh track. He smelled it and found it so recent that he crouched swiftly, and looked in the direction in which it disappeared. Then he turned deliberately and took the right fork. The footprint was much larger than the one his own feet made, and he knew that in the wake of such a trail there was little meat for him. Half a mile up the right fork, his quick ears caught the sound of gnawing teeth. He stalked the quarry and found it to be a porcupine, standing upright against a tree and trying his teeth on the bark. One Eye approached carefully but hopelessly. He knew the breed, though he had never met it so far north before; and never in his long life had porcupine served him for a meal. But he had long since learned that there was such a thing as Chance, or Opportunity, and he continued to draw near. There was never any telling what might happen, for with live things events were somehow always happening differently. The porcupine rolled itself into a ball, radiating long, sharp needles in all directions that defied attack. In his youth One Eye had once sniffed too near a similar, apparently inert ball of quills, and had the tail flick out suddenly in his face. One quill he had carried away in his muzzle, where it had remained for weeks, a rankling flame, until it finally worked out. So he lay down, in a comfortable crouching position, his nose fully a foot away, and out of the line of the tail. Thus he waited, keeping perfectly quiet. There was no telling. Something might happen. The porcupine might unroll. There might be opportunity for a deft and ripping thrust of paw into the tender, unguarded belly. But at the end of half an hour he arose, growled wrathfully at the motionless ball, and trotted on. He had waited too often and futilely in the past for porcupines to unroll, to waste any more time. He continued up the right fork. The day wore along, and nothing rewarded his hunt. The urge of his awakened instinct of fatherhood was strong upon him. He must find meat. In the afternoon he blundered upon a ptarmigan. He came out of a thicket and found himself face to face with the slow-witted bird. It was sitting on a log, not a foot beyond the end of his nose. Each saw the other. The bird made a startled rise, but he struck it with his paw, and smashed it down to earth, then pounced upon it, and caught it in his teeth as it scuttled across the snow trying to rise in the air again. As his teeth crunched through the tender flesh and fragile bones, he began naturally to eat. Then he remembered, and, turning on the back- track, started for home, carrying the ptarmigan in his mouth. A mile above the forks, running velvet-footed as was his custom, a gliding shadow that cautiously prospected each new vista of the trail, he came upon later imprints of the large tracks he had discovered in the early morning. As the track led his way, he followed, prepared to meet the maker of it at every turn of the stream. He slid his head around a corner of rock, where began an unusually large bend in the stream, and his quick eyes made out something that sent him crouching swiftly down. It was the maker of the track, a large female lynx. She was crouching as he had crouched once that day, in front of her the tight-rolled ball of quills. If he had been a gliding shadow before, he now became the ghost of such a shadow, as he crept and circled around, and came up well to leeward of the silent, motionless pair. He lay down in the snow, depositing the ptarmigan beside him, and with eyes peering through the needles of a low-growing spruce he watched the play of life before him--the waiting lynx and the waiting porcupine, each intent on life; and, such was the curiousness of the game, the way of life for one lay in the eating of the other, and the way of life for the other lay in being not eaten. While old One Eye, the wolf crouching in the covert, played his part, too, in the game, waiting for some strange freak of Chance, that might help him on the meat-trail which was his way of life. Half an hour passed, an hour; and nothing happened. The ball of quills might have been a stone for all it moved; the lynx might have been frozen to marble; and old One Eye might have been dead. Yet all three animals were keyed to a tenseness of living that was almost painful, and scarcely ever would it come to them to be more alive than they were then in their seeming petrifaction. One Eye moved slightly and peered forth with increased eagerness. Something was happening. The porcupine had at last decided that its enemy had gone away. Slowly, cautiously, it was unrolling its ball of impregnable armour. It was agitated by no tremor of anticipation. Slowly, slowly, the bristling ball straightened out and lengthened. One Eye watching, felt a sudden moistness in his mouth and a drooling of saliva, involuntary, excited by the living meat that was spreading itself like a repast before him. Not quite entirely had the porcupine unrolled when it discovered its enemy. In that instant the lynx struck. The blow was like a flash of light. The paw, with rigid claws curving like talons, shot under the tender belly and came back with a swift ripping movement. Had the porcupine been entirely unrolled, or had it not discovered its enemy a fraction of a second before the blow was struck, the paw would have escaped unscathed; but a side-flick of the tail sank sharp quills into it as it was withdrawn. Everything had happened at once--the blow, the counter-blow, the squeal of agony from the porcupine, the big cat's squall of sudden hurt and astonishment. One Eye half arose in his excitement, his ears up, his tail straight out and quivering behind him. The lynx's bad temper got the best of her. She sprang savagely at the thing that had hurt her. But the porcupine, squealing and grunting, with disrupted anatomy trying feebly to roll up into its ball-protection, flicked out its tail again, and again the big cat squalled with hurt and astonishment. Then she fell to backing away and sneezing, her nose bristling with quills like a monstrous pin-cushion. She brushed her nose with her paws, trying to dislodge the fiery darts, thrust it into the snow, and rubbed it against twigs and branches, and all the time leaping about, ahead, sidewise, up and down, in a frenzy of pain and fright. She sneezed continually, and her stub of a tail was doing its best toward lashing about by giving quick, violent jerks. She quit her antics, and quieted down for a long minute. One Eye watched. And even he could not repress a start and an involuntary bristling of hair along his back when she suddenly leaped, without warning, straight up in the air, at the same time emitting a long and most terrible squall. Then she sprang away, up the trail, squalling with every leap she made. It was not until her racket had faded away in the distance and died out that One Eye ventured forth. He walked as delicately as though all the snow were carpeted with porcupine quills, erect and ready to pierce the soft pads of his feet. The porcupine met his approach with a furious squealing and a clashing of its long teeth. It had managed to roll up in a ball again, but it was not quite the old compact ball; its muscles were too much torn for that. It had been ripped almost in half, and was still bleeding profusely. One Eye scooped out mouthfuls of the blood-soaked snow, and chewed and tasted and swallowed. This served as a relish, and his hunger increased mightily; but he was too old in the world to forget his caution. He waited. He lay down and waited, while the porcupine grated its teeth and uttered grunts and sobs and occasional sharp little squeals. In a little while, One Eye noticed that the quills were drooping and that a great quivering had set up. The quivering came to an end suddenly. There was a final defiant clash of the long teeth. Then all the quills drooped quite down, and the body relaxed and moved no more. With a nervous, shrinking paw, One Eye stretched out the porcupine to its full length and turned it over on its back. Nothing had happened. It was surely dead. He studied it intently for a moment, then took a careful grip with his teeth and started off down the stream, partly carrying, partly dragging the porcupine, with head turned to the side so as to avoid stepping on the prickly mass. He recollected something, dropped the burden, and trotted back to where he had left the ptarmigan. He did not hesitate a moment. He knew clearly what was to be done, and this he did by promptly eating the ptarmigan. Then he returned and took up his burden. When he dragged the result of his day's hunt into the cave, the she-wolf inspected it, turned her muzzle to him, and lightly licked him on the neck. But the next instant she was warning him away from the cubs with a snarl that was less harsh than usual and that was more apologetic than menacing. Her instinctive fear of the father of her progeny was toning down. He was behaving as a wolf-father should, and manifesting no unholy desire to devour the young lives she had brought into the world. He was different from his brothers and sisters. Their hair already betrayed the reddish hue inherited from their mother, the she-wolf; while he alone, in this particular, took after his father. He was the one little grey cub of the litter. He had bred true to the straight wolf- stock--in fact, he had bred true to old One Eye himself, physically, with but a single exception, and that was he had two eyes to his father's one. The grey cub's eyes had not been open long, yet already he could see with steady clearness. And while his eyes were still closed, he had felt, tasted, and smelled. He knew his two brothers and his two sisters very well. He had begun to romp with them in a feeble, awkward way, and even to squabble, his little throat vibrating with a queer rasping noise (the forerunner of the growl), as he worked himself into a passion. And long before his eyes had opened he had learned by touch, taste, and smell to know his mother--a fount of warmth and liquid food and tenderness. She possessed a gentle, caressing tongue that soothed him when it passed over his soft little body, and that impelled him to snuggle close against her and to doze off to sleep. Most of the first month of his life had been passed thus in sleeping; but now he could see quite well, and he stayed awake for longer periods of time, and he was coming to learn his world quite well. His world was gloomy; but he did not know that, for he knew no other world. It was dim- lighted; but his eyes had never had to adjust themselves to any other light. His world was very small. Its limits were the walls of the lair; but as he had no knowledge of the wide world outside, he was never oppressed by the narrow confines of his existence. But he had early discovered that one wall of his world was different from the rest. This was the mouth of the cave and the source of light. He had discovered that it was different from the other walls long before he had any thoughts of his own, any conscious volitions. It had been an irresistible attraction before ever his eyes opened and looked upon it. The light from it had beat upon his sealed lids, and the eyes and the optic nerves had pulsated to little, sparklike flashes, warm-coloured and strangely pleasing. The life of his body, and of every fibre of his body, the life that was the very substance of his body and that was apart from his own personal life, had yearned toward this light and urged his body toward it in the same way that the cunning chemistry of a plant urges it toward the sun. Always, in the beginning, before his conscious life dawned, he had crawled toward the mouth of the cave. And in this his brothers and sisters were one with him. Never, in that period, did any of them crawl toward the dark corners of the back-wall. The light drew them as if they were plants; the chemistry of the life that composed them demanded the light as a necessity of being; and their little puppet-bodies crawled blindly and chemically, like the tendrils of a vine. Later on, when each developed individuality and became personally conscious of impulsions and desires, the attraction of the light increased. They were always crawling and sprawling toward it, and being driven back from it by their mother. It was in this way that the grey cub learned other attributes of his mother than the soft, soothing tongue. In his insistent crawling toward the light, he discovered in her a nose that with a sharp nudge administered rebuke, and later, a paw, that crushed him down and rolled him over and over with swift, calculating stroke. Thus he learned hurt; and on top of it he learned to avoid hurt, first, by not incurring the risk of it; and second, when he had incurred the risk, by dodging and by retreating. These were conscious actions, and were the results of his first generalisations upon the world. Before that he had recoiled automatically from hurt, as he had crawled automatically toward the light. After that he recoiled from hurt because he _knew_ that it was hurt. He was a fierce little cub. So were his brothers and sisters. It was to be expected. He was a carnivorous animal. He came of a breed of meat- killers and meat-eaters. His father and mother lived wholly upon meat. The milk he had sucked with his first flickering life, was milk transformed directly from meat, and now, at a month old, when his eyes had been open for but a week, he was beginning himself to eat meat--meat half-digested by the she-wolf and disgorged for the five growing cubs that already made too great demand upon her breast. But he was, further, the fiercest of the litter. He could make a louder rasping growl than any of them. His tiny rages were much more terrible than theirs. It was he that first learned the trick of rolling a fellow- cub over with a cunning paw-stroke. And it was he that first gripped another cub by the ear and pulled and tugged and growled through jaws tight-clenched. And certainly it was he that caused the mother the most trouble in keeping her litter from the mouth of the cave. The fascination of the light for the grey cub increased from day to day. He was perpetually departing on yard-long adventures toward the cave's entrance, and as perpetually being driven back. Only he did not know it for an entrance. He did not know anything about entrances--passages whereby one goes from one place to another place. He did not know any other place, much less of a way to get there. So to him the entrance of the cave was a wall--a wall of light. As the sun was to the outside dweller, this wall was to him the sun of his world. It attracted him as a candle attracts a moth. He was always striving to attain it. The life that was so swiftly expanding within him, urged him continually toward the wall of light. The life that was within him knew that it was the one way out, the way he was predestined to tread. But he himself did not know anything about it. He did not know there was any outside at all. There was one strange thing about this wall of light. His father (he had already come to recognise his father as the one other dweller in the world, a creature like his mother, who slept near the light and was a bringer of meat)--his father had a way of walking right into the white far wall and disappearing. The grey cub could not understand this. Though never permitted by his mother to approach that wall, he had approached the other walls, and encountered hard obstruction on the end of his tender nose. This hurt. And after several such adventures, he left the walls alone. Without thinking about it, he accepted this disappearing into the wall as a peculiarity of his father, as milk and half-digested meat were peculiarities of his mother. In fact, the grey cub was not given to thinking--at least, to the kind of thinking customary of men. His brain worked in dim ways. Yet his conclusions were as sharp and distinct as those achieved by men. He had a method of accepting things, without questioning the why and wherefore. In reality, this was the act of classification. He was never disturbed over why a thing happened. How it happened was sufficient for him. Thus, when he had bumped his nose on the back-wall a few times, he accepted that he would not disappear into walls. In the same way he accepted that his father could disappear into walls. But he was not in the least disturbed by desire to find out the reason for the difference between his father and himself. Logic and physics were no part of his mental make- up. Like most creatures of the Wild, he early experienced famine. There came a time when not only did the meat-supply cease, but the milk no longer came from his mother's breast. At first, the cubs whimpered and cried, but for the most part they slept. It was not long before they were reduced to a coma of hunger. There were no more spats and squabbles, no more tiny rages nor attempts at growling; while the adventures toward the far white wall ceased altogether. The cubs slept, while the life that was in them flickered and died down. One Eye was desperate. He ranged far and wide, and slept but little in the lair that had now become cheerless and miserable. The she-wolf, too, left her litter and went out in search of meat. In the first days after the birth of the cubs, One Eye had journeyed several times back to the Indian camp and robbed the rabbit snares; but, with the melting of the snow and the opening of the streams, the Indian camp had moved away, and that source of supply was closed to him. When the grey cub came back to life and again took interest in the far white wall, he found that the population of his world had been reduced. Only one sister remained to him. The rest were gone. As he grew stronger, he found himself compelled to play alone, for the sister no longer lifted her head nor moved about. His little body rounded out with the meat he now ate; but the food had come too late for her. She slept continuously, a tiny skeleton flung round with skin in which the flame flickered lower and lower and at last went out. Then there came a time when the grey cub no longer saw his father appearing and disappearing in the wall nor lying down asleep in the entrance. This had happened at the end of a second and less severe famine. The she-wolf knew why One Eye never came back, but there was no way by which she could tell what she had seen to the grey cub. Hunting herself for meat, up the left fork of the stream where lived the lynx, she had followed a day-old trail of One Eye. And she had found him, or what remained of him, at the end of the trail. There were many signs of the battle that had been fought, and of the lynx's withdrawal to her lair after having won the victory. Before she went away, the she-wolf had found this lair, but the signs told her that the lynx was inside, and she had not dared to venture in. After that, the she-wolf in her hunting avoided the left fork. For she knew that in the lynx's lair was a litter of kittens, and she knew the lynx for a fierce, bad-tempered creature and a terrible fighter. It was all very well for half a dozen wolves to drive a lynx, spitting and bristling, up a tree; but it was quite a different matter for a lone wolf to encounter a lynx--especially when the lynx was known to have a litter of hungry kittens at her back. But the Wild is the Wild, and motherhood is motherhood, at all times fiercely protective whether in the Wild or out of it; and the time was to come when the she-wolf, for her grey cub's sake, would venture the left fork, and the lair in the rocks, and the lynx's wrath. By the time his mother began leaving the cave on hunting expeditions, the cub had learned well the law that forbade his approaching the entrance. Not only had this law been forcibly and many times impressed on him by his mother's nose and paw, but in him the instinct of fear was developing. Never, in his brief cave-life, had he encountered anything of which to be afraid. Yet fear was in him. It had come down to him from a remote ancestry through a thousand thousand lives. It was a heritage he had received directly from One Eye and the she-wolf; but to them, in turn, it had been passed down through all the generations of wolves that had gone before. Fear!--that legacy of the Wild which no animal may escape nor exchange for pottage. So the grey cub knew fear, though he knew not the stuff of which fear was made. Possibly he accepted it as one of the restrictions of life. For he had already learned that there were such restrictions. Hunger he had known; and when he could not appease his hunger he had felt restriction. The hard obstruction of the cave-wall, the sharp nudge of his mother's nose, the smashing stroke of her paw, the hunger unappeased of several famines, had borne in upon him that all was not freedom in the world, that to life there were limitations and restraints. These limitations and restraints were laws. To be obedient to them was to escape hurt and make for happiness. He did not reason the question out in this man fashion. He merely classified the things that hurt and the things that did not hurt. And after such classification he avoided the things that hurt, the restrictions and restraints, in order to enjoy the satisfactions and the remunerations of life. Thus it was that in obedience to the law laid down by his mother, and in obedience to the law of that unknown and nameless thing, fear, he kept away from the mouth of the cave. It remained to him a white wall of light. When his mother was absent, he slept most of the time, while during the intervals that he was awake he kept very quiet, suppressing the whimpering cries that tickled in his throat and strove for noise. Once, lying awake, he heard a strange sound in the white wall. He did not know that it was a wolverine, standing outside, all a-trembling with its own daring, and cautiously scenting out the contents of the cave. The cub knew only that the sniff was strange, a something unclassified, therefore unknown and terrible--for the unknown was one of the chief elements that went into the making of fear. The hair bristled upon the grey cub's back, but it bristled silently. How was he to know that this thing that sniffed was a thing at which to bristle? It was not born of any knowledge of his, yet it was the visible expression of the fear that was in him, and for which, in his own life, there was no accounting. But fear was accompanied by another instinct--that of concealment. The cub was in a frenzy of terror, yet he lay without movement or sound, frozen, petrified into immobility, to all appearances dead. His mother, coming home, growled as she smelt the wolverine's track, and bounded into the cave and licked and nozzled him with undue vehemence of affection. And the cub felt that somehow he had escaped a great hurt. But there were other forces at work in the cub, the greatest of which was growth. Instinct and law demanded of him obedience. But growth demanded disobedience. His mother and fear impelled him to keep away from the white wall. Growth is life, and life is for ever destined to make for light. So there was no damming up the tide of life that was rising within him--rising with every mouthful of meat he swallowed, with every breath he drew. In the end, one day, fear and obedience were swept away by the rush of life, and the cub straddled and sprawled toward the entrance. Unlike any other wall with which he had had experience, this wall seemed to recede from him as he approached. No hard surface collided with the tender little nose he thrust out tentatively before him. The substance of the wall seemed as permeable and yielding as light. And as condition, in his eyes, had the seeming of form, so he entered into what had been wall to him and bathed in the substance that composed it. It was bewildering. He was sprawling through solidity. And ever the light grew brighter. Fear urged him to go back, but growth drove him on. Suddenly he found himself at the mouth of the cave. The wall, inside which he had thought himself, as suddenly leaped back before him to an immeasurable distance. The light had become painfully bright. He was dazzled by it. Likewise he was made dizzy by this abrupt and tremendous extension of space. Automatically, his eyes were adjusting themselves to the brightness, focusing themselves to meet the increased distance of objects. At first, the wall had leaped beyond his vision. He now saw it again; but it had taken upon itself a remarkable remoteness. Also, its appearance had changed. It was now a variegated wall, composed of the trees that fringed the stream, the opposing mountain that towered above the trees, and the sky that out-towered the mountain. A great fear came upon him. This was more of the terrible unknown. He crouched down on the lip of the cave and gazed out on the world. He was very much afraid. Because it was unknown, it was hostile to him. Therefore the hair stood up on end along his back and his lips wrinkled weakly in an attempt at a ferocious and intimidating snarl. Out of his puniness and fright he challenged and menaced the whole wide world. Nothing happened. He continued to gaze, and in his interest he forgot to snarl. Also, he forgot to be afraid. For the time, fear had been routed by growth, while growth had assumed the guise of curiosity. He began to notice near objects--an open portion of the stream that flashed in the sun, the blasted pine-tree that stood at the base of the slope, and the slope itself, that ran right up to him and ceased two feet beneath the lip of the cave on which he crouched. Now the grey cub had lived all his days on a level floor. He had never experienced the hurt of a fall. He did not know what a fall was. So he stepped boldly out upon the air. His hind-legs still rested on the cave- lip, so he fell forward head downward. The earth struck him a harsh blow on the nose that made him yelp. Then he began rolling down the slope, over and over. He was in a panic of terror. The unknown had caught him at last. It had gripped savagely hold of him and was about to wreak upon him some terrific hurt. Growth was now routed by fear, and he ki-yi'd like any frightened puppy. The unknown bore him on he knew not to what frightful hurt, and he yelped and ki-yi'd unceasingly. This was a different proposition from crouching in frozen fear while the unknown lurked just alongside. Now the unknown had caught tight hold of him. Silence would do no good. Besides, it was not fear, but terror, that convulsed him. But the slope grew more gradual, and its base was grass-covered. Here the cub lost momentum. When at last he came to a stop, he gave one last agonised yell and then a long, whimpering wail. Also, and quite as a matter of course, as though in his life he had already made a thousand toilets, he proceeded to lick away the dry clay that soiled him. After that he sat up and gazed about him, as might the first man of the earth who landed upon Mars. The cub had broken through the wall of the world, the unknown had let go its hold of him, and here he was without hurt. But the first man on Mars would have experienced less unfamiliarity than did he. Without any antecedent knowledge, without any warning whatever that such existed, he found himself an explorer in a totally new world. Now that the terrible unknown had let go of him, he forgot that the unknown had any terrors. He was aware only of curiosity in all the things about him. He inspected the grass beneath him, the moss-berry plant just beyond, and the dead trunk of the blasted pine that stood on the edge of an open space among the trees. A squirrel, running around the base of the trunk, came full upon him, and gave him a great fright. He cowered down and snarled. But the squirrel was as badly scared. It ran up the tree, and from a point of safety chattered back savagely. This helped the cub's courage, and though the woodpecker he next encountered gave him a start, he proceeded confidently on his way. Such was his confidence, that when a moose-bird impudently hopped up to him, he reached out at it with a playful paw. The result was a sharp peck on the end of his nose that made him cower down and ki-yi. The noise he made was too much for the moose-bird, who sought safety in flight. But the cub was learning. His misty little mind had already made an unconscious classification. There were live things and things not alive. Also, he must watch out for the live things. The things not alive remained always in one place, but the live things moved about, and there was no telling what they might do. The thing to expect of them was the unexpected, and for this he must be prepared. He travelled very clumsily. He ran into sticks and things. A twig that he thought a long way off, would the next instant hit him on the nose or rake along his ribs. There were inequalities of surface. Sometimes he overstepped and stubbed his nose. Quite as often he understepped and stubbed his feet. Then there were the pebbles and stones that turned under him when he trod upon them; and from them he came to know that the things not alive were not all in the same state of stable equilibrium as was his cave--also, that small things not alive were more liable than large things to fall down or turn over. But with every mishap he was learning. The longer he walked, the better he walked. He was adjusting himself. He was learning to calculate his own muscular movements, to know his physical limitations, to measure distances between objects, and between objects and himself. His was the luck of the beginner. Born to be a hunter of meat (though he did not know it), he blundered upon meat just outside his own cave-door on his first foray into the world. It was by sheer blundering that he chanced upon the shrewdly hidden ptarmigan nest. He fell into it. He had essayed to walk along the trunk of a fallen pine. The rotten bark gave way under his feet, and with a despairing yelp he pitched down the rounded crescent, smashed through the leafage and stalks of a small bush, and in the heart of the bush, on the ground, fetched up in the midst of seven ptarmigan chicks. They made noises, and at first he was frightened at them. Then he perceived that they were very little, and he became bolder. They moved. He placed his paw on one, and its movements were accelerated. This was a source of enjoyment to him. He smelled it. He picked it up in his mouth. It struggled and tickled his tongue. At the same time he was made aware of a sensation of hunger. His jaws closed together. There was a crunching of fragile bones, and warm blood ran in his mouth. The taste of it was good. This was meat, the same as his mother gave him, only it was alive between his teeth and therefore better. So he ate the ptarmigan. Nor did he stop till he had devoured the whole brood. Then he licked his chops in quite the same way his mother did, and began to crawl out of the bush. He encountered a feathered whirlwind. He was confused and blinded by the rush of it and the beat of angry wings. He hid his head between his paws and yelped. The blows increased. The mother ptarmigan was in a fury. Then he became angry. He rose up, snarling, striking out with his paws. He sank his tiny teeth into one of the wings and pulled and tugged sturdily. The ptarmigan struggled against him, showering blows upon him with her free wing. It was his first battle. He was elated. He forgot all about the unknown. He no longer was afraid of anything. He was fighting, tearing at a live thing that was striking at him. Also, this live thing was meat. The lust to kill was on him. He had just destroyed little live things. He would now destroy a big live thing. He was too busy and happy to know that he was happy. He was thrilling and exulting in ways new to him and greater to him than any he had known before. He held on to the wing and growled between his tight-clenched teeth. The ptarmigan dragged him out of the bush. When she turned and tried to drag him back into the bush's shelter, he pulled her away from it and on into the open. And all the time she was making outcry and striking with her free wing, while feathers were flying like a snow-fall. The pitch to which he was aroused was tremendous. All the fighting blood of his breed was up in him and surging through him. This was living, though he did not know it. He was realising his own meaning in the world; he was doing that for which he was made--killing meat and battling to kill it. He was justifying his existence, than which life can do no greater; for life achieves its summit when it does to the uttermost that which it was equipped to do. After a time, the ptarmigan ceased her struggling. He still held her by the wing, and they lay on the ground and looked at each other. He tried to growl threateningly, ferociously. She pecked on his nose, which by now, what of previous adventures was sore. He winced but held on. She pecked him again and again. From wincing he went to whimpering. He tried to back away from her, oblivious to the fact that by his hold on her he dragged her after him. A rain of pecks fell on his ill-used nose. The flood of fight ebbed down in him, and, releasing his prey, he turned tail and scampered on across the open in inglorious retreat. He lay down to rest on the other side of the open, near the edge of the bushes, his tongue lolling out, his chest heaving and panting, his nose still hurting him and causing him to continue his whimper. But as he lay there, suddenly there came to him a feeling as of something terrible impending. The unknown with all its terrors rushed upon him, and he shrank back instinctively into the shelter of the bush. As he did so, a draught of air fanned him, and a large, winged body swept ominously and silently past. A hawk, driving down out of the blue, had barely missed him. While he lay in the bush, recovering from his fright and peering fearfully out, the mother-ptarmigan on the other side of the open space fluttered out of the ravaged nest. It was because of her loss that she paid no attention to the winged bolt of the sky. But the cub saw, and it was a warning and a lesson to him--the swift downward swoop of the hawk, the short skim of its body just above the ground, the strike of its talons in the body of the ptarmigan, the ptarmigan's squawk of agony and fright, and the hawk's rush upward into the blue, carrying the ptarmigan away with it It was a long time before the cub left its shelter. He had learned much. Live things were meat. They were good to eat. Also, live things when they were large enough, could give hurt. It was better to eat small live things like ptarmigan chicks, and to let alone large live things like ptarmigan hens. Nevertheless he felt a little prick of ambition, a sneaking desire to have another battle with that ptarmigan hen--only the hawk had carried her away. Maybe there were other ptarmigan hens. He would go and see. He came down a shelving bank to the stream. He had never seen water before. The footing looked good. There were no inequalities of surface. He stepped boldly out on it; and went down, crying with fear, into the embrace of the unknown. It was cold, and he gasped, breathing quickly. The water rushed into his lungs instead of the air that had always accompanied his act of breathing. The suffocation he experienced was like the pang of death. To him it signified death. He had no conscious knowledge of death, but like every animal of the Wild, he possessed the instinct of death. To him it stood as the greatest of hurts. It was the very essence of the unknown; it was the sum of the terrors of the unknown, the one culminating and unthinkable catastrophe that could happen to him, about which he knew nothing and about which he feared everything. He came to the surface, and the sweet air rushed into his open mouth. He did not go down again. Quite as though it had been a long-established custom of his he struck out with all his legs and began to swim. The near bank was a yard away; but he had come up with his back to it, and the first thing his eyes rested upon was the opposite bank, toward which he immediately began to swim. The stream was a small one, but in the pool it widened out to a score of feet. Midway in the passage, the current picked up the cub and swept him downstream. He was caught in the miniature rapid at the bottom of the pool. Here was little chance for swimming. The quiet water had become suddenly angry. Sometimes he was under, sometimes on top. At all times he was in violent motion, now being turned over or around, and again, being smashed against a rock. And with every rock he struck, he yelped. His progress was a series of yelps, from which might have been adduced the number of rocks he encountered. Below the rapid was a second pool, and here, captured by the eddy, he was gently borne to the bank, and as gently deposited on a bed of gravel. He crawled frantically clear of the water and lay down. He had learned some more about the world. Water was not alive. Yet it moved. Also, it looked as solid as the earth, but was without any solidity at all. His conclusion was that things were not always what they appeared to be. The cub's fear of the unknown was an inherited distrust, and it had now been strengthened by experience. Thenceforth, in the nature of things, he would possess an abiding distrust of appearances. He would have to learn the reality of a thing before he could put his faith into it. One other adventure was destined for him that day. He had recollected that there was such a thing in the world as his mother. And then there came to him a feeling that he wanted her more than all the rest of the things in the world. Not only was his body tired with the adventures it had undergone, but his little brain was equally tired. In all the days he had lived it had not worked so hard as on this one day. Furthermore, he was sleepy. So he started out to look for the cave and his mother, feeling at the same time an overwhelming rush of loneliness and helplessness. He was sprawling along between some bushes, when he heard a sharp intimidating cry. There was a flash of yellow before his eyes. He saw a weasel leaping swiftly away from him. It was a small live thing, and he had no fear. Then, before him, at his feet, he saw an extremely small live thing, only several inches long, a young weasel, that, like himself, had disobediently gone out adventuring. It tried to retreat before him. He turned it over with his paw. It made a queer, grating noise. The next moment the flash of yellow reappeared before his eyes. He heard again the intimidating cry, and at the same instant received a sharp blow on the side of the neck and felt the sharp teeth of the mother-weasel cut into his flesh. While he yelped and ki-yi'd and scrambled backward, he saw the mother- weasel leap upon her young one and disappear with it into the neighbouring thicket. The cut of her teeth in his neck still hurt, but his feelings were hurt more grievously, and he sat down and weakly whimpered. This mother-weasel was so small and so savage. He was yet to learn that for size and weight the weasel was the most ferocious, vindictive, and terrible of all the killers of the Wild. But a portion of this knowledge was quickly to be his. He was still whimpering when the mother-weasel reappeared. She did not rush him, now that her young one was safe. She approached more cautiously, and the cub had full opportunity to observe her lean, snakelike body, and her head, erect, eager, and snake-like itself. Her sharp, menacing cry sent the hair bristling along his back, and he snarled warningly at her. She came closer and closer. There was a leap, swifter than his unpractised sight, and the lean, yellow body disappeared for a moment out of the field of his vision. The next moment she was at his throat, her teeth buried in his hair and flesh. At first he snarled and tried to fight; but he was very young, and this was only his first day in the world, and his snarl became a whimper, his fight a struggle to escape. The weasel never relaxed her hold. She hung on, striving to press down with her teeth to the great vein where his life-blood bubbled. The weasel was a drinker of blood, and it was ever her preference to drink from the throat of life itself. The grey cub would have died, and there would have been no story to write about him, had not the she-wolf come bounding through the bushes. The weasel let go the cub and flashed at the she-wolf's throat, missing, but getting a hold on the jaw instead. The she-wolf flirted her head like the snap of a whip, breaking the weasel's hold and flinging it high in the air. And, still in the air, the she-wolf's jaws closed on the lean, yellow body, and the weasel knew death between the crunching teeth. The cub experienced another access of affection on the part of his mother. Her joy at finding him seemed even greater than his joy at being found. She nozzled him and caressed him and licked the cuts made in him by the weasel's teeth. Then, between them, mother and cub, they ate the blood-drinker, and after that went back to the cave and slept. The cub's development was rapid. He rested for two days, and then ventured forth from the cave again. It was on this adventure that he found the young weasel whose mother he had helped eat, and he saw to it that the young weasel went the way of its mother. But on this trip he did not get lost. When he grew tired, he found his way back to the cave and slept. And every day thereafter found him out and ranging a wider area. He began to get accurate measurement of his strength and his weakness, and to know when to be bold and when to be cautious. He found it expedient to be cautious all the time, except for the rare moments, when, assured of his own intrepidity, he abandoned himself to petty rages and lusts. He was always a little demon of fury when he chanced upon a stray ptarmigan. Never did he fail to respond savagely to the chatter of the squirrel he had first met on the blasted pine. While the sight of a moose-bird almost invariably put him into the wildest of rages; for he never forgot the peck on the nose he had received from the first of that ilk he encountered. But there were times when even a moose-bird failed to affect him, and those were times when he felt himself to be in danger from some other prowling meat hunter. He never forgot the hawk, and its moving shadow always sent him crouching into the nearest thicket. He no longer sprawled and straddled, and already he was developing the gait of his mother, slinking and furtive, apparently without exertion, yet sliding along with a swiftness that was as deceptive as it was imperceptible. In the matter of meat, his luck had been all in the beginning. The seven ptarmigan chicks and the baby weasel represented the sum of his killings. His desire to kill strengthened with the days, and he cherished hungry ambitions for the squirrel that chattered so volubly and always informed all wild creatures that the wolf-cub was approaching. But as birds flew in the air, squirrels could climb trees, and the cub could only try to crawl unobserved upon the squirrel when it was on the ground. The cub entertained a great respect for his mother. She could get meat, and she never failed to bring him his share. Further, she was unafraid of things. It did not occur to him that this fearlessness was founded upon experience and knowledge. Its effect on him was that of an impression of power. His mother represented power; and as he grew older he felt this power in the sharper admonishment of her paw; while the reproving nudge of her nose gave place to the slash of her fangs. For this, likewise, he respected his mother. She compelled obedience from him, and the older he grew the shorter grew her temper. Famine came again, and the cub with clearer consciousness knew once more the bite of hunger. The she-wolf ran herself thin in the quest for meat. She rarely slept any more in the cave, spending most of her time on the meat-trail, and spending it vainly. This famine was not a long one, but it was severe while it lasted. The cub found no more milk in his mother's breast, nor did he get one mouthful of meat for himself. Before, he had hunted in play, for the sheer joyousness of it; now he hunted in deadly earnestness, and found nothing. Yet the failure of it accelerated his development. He studied the habits of the squirrel with greater carefulness, and strove with greater craft to steal upon it and surprise it. He studied the wood-mice and tried to dig them out of their burrows; and he learned much about the ways of moose-birds and woodpeckers. And there came a day when the hawk's shadow did not drive him crouching into the bushes. He had grown stronger and wiser, and more confident. Also, he was desperate. So he sat on his haunches, conspicuously in an open space, and challenged the hawk down out of the sky. For he knew that there, floating in the blue above him, was meat, the meat his stomach yearned after so insistently. But the hawk refused to come down and give battle, and the cub crawled away into a thicket and whimpered his disappointment and hunger. The famine broke. The she-wolf brought home meat. It was strange meat, different from any she had ever brought before. It was a lynx kitten, partly grown, like the cub, but not so large. And it was all for him. His mother had satisfied her hunger elsewhere; though he did not know that it was the rest of the lynx litter that had gone to satisfy her. Nor did he know the desperateness of her deed. He knew only that the velvet- furred kitten was meat, and he ate and waxed happier with every mouthful. A full stomach conduces to inaction, and the cub lay in the cave, sleeping against his mother's side. He was aroused by her snarling. Never had he heard her snarl so terribly. Possibly in her whole life it was the most terrible snarl she ever gave. There was reason for it, and none knew it better than she. A lynx's lair is not despoiled with impunity. In the full glare of the afternoon light, crouching in the entrance of the cave, the cub saw the lynx-mother. The hair rippled up along his back at the sight. Here was fear, and it did not require his instinct to tell him of it. And if sight alone were not sufficient, the cry of rage the intruder gave, beginning with a snarl and rushing abruptly upward into a hoarse screech, was convincing enough in itself. The cub felt the prod of the life that was in him, and stood up and snarled valiantly by his mother's side. But she thrust him ignominiously away and behind her. Because of the low-roofed entrance the lynx could not leap in, and when she made a crawling rush of it the she-wolf sprang upon her and pinned her down. The cub saw little of the battle. There was a tremendous snarling and spitting and screeching. The two animals threshed about, the lynx ripping and tearing with her claws and using her teeth as well, while the she-wolf used her teeth alone. Once, the cub sprang in and sank his teeth into the hind leg of the lynx. He clung on, growling savagely. Though he did not know it, by the weight of his body he clogged the action of the leg and thereby saved his mother much damage. A change in the battle crushed him under both their bodies and wrenched loose his hold. The next moment the two mothers separated, and, before they rushed together again, the lynx lashed out at the cub with a huge fore-paw that ripped his shoulder open to the bone and sent him hurtling sidewise against the wall. Then was added to the uproar the cub's shrill yelp of pain and fright. But the fight lasted so long that he had time to cry himself out and to experience a second burst of courage; and the end of the battle found him again clinging to a hind-leg and furiously growling between his teeth. The lynx was dead. But the she-wolf was very weak and sick. At first she caressed the cub and licked his wounded shoulder; but the blood she had lost had taken with it her strength, and for all of a day and a night she lay by her dead foe's side, without movement, scarcely breathing. For a week she never left the cave, except for water, and then her movements were slow and painful. At the end of that time the lynx was devoured, while the she-wolf's wounds had healed sufficiently to permit her to take the meat-trail again. The cub's shoulder was stiff and sore, and for some time he limped from the terrible slash he had received. But the world now seemed changed. He went about in it with greater confidence, with a feeling of prowess that had not been his in the days before the battle with the lynx. He had looked upon life in a more ferocious aspect; he had fought; he had buried his teeth in the flesh of a foe; and he had survived. And because of all this, he carried himself more boldly, with a touch of defiance that was new in him. He was no longer afraid of minor things, and much of his timidity had vanished, though the unknown never ceased to press upon him with its mysteries and terrors, intangible and ever-menacing. He began to accompany his mother on the meat-trail, and he saw much of the killing of meat and began to play his part in it. And in his own dim way he learned the law of meat. There were two kinds of life--his own kind and the other kind. His own kind included his mother and himself. The other kind included all live things that moved. But the other kind was divided. One portion was what his own kind killed and ate. This portion was composed of the non-killers and the small killers. The other portion killed and ate his own kind, or was killed and eaten by his own kind. And out of this classification arose the law. The aim of life was meat. Life itself was meat. Life lived on life. There were the eaters and the eaten. The law was: EAT OR BE EATEN. He did not formulate the law in clear, set terms and moralise about it. He did not even think the law; he merely lived the law without thinking about it at all. He saw the law operating around him on every side. He had eaten the ptarmigan chicks. The hawk had eaten the ptarmigan-mother. The hawk would also have eaten him. Later, when he had grown more formidable, he wanted to eat the hawk. He had eaten the lynx kitten. The lynx-mother would have eaten him had she not herself been killed and eaten. And so it went. The law was being lived about him by all live things, and he himself was part and parcel of the law. He was a killer. His only food was meat, live meat, that ran away swiftly before him, or flew into the air, or climbed trees, or hid in the ground, or faced him and fought with him, or turned the tables and ran after him. Had the cub thought in man-fashion, he might have epitomised life as a voracious appetite and the world as a place wherein ranged a multitude of appetites, pursuing and being pursued, hunting and being hunted, eating and being eaten, all in blindness and confusion, with violence and disorder, a chaos of gluttony and slaughter, ruled over by chance, merciless, planless, endless. But the cub did not think in man-fashion. He did not look at things with wide vision. He was single-purposed, and entertained but one thought or desire at a time. Besides the law of meat, there were a myriad other and lesser laws for him to learn and obey. The world was filled with surprise. The stir of the life that was in him, the play of his muscles, was an unending happiness. To run down meat was to experience thrills and elations. His rages and battles were pleasures. Terror itself, and the mystery of the unknown, led to his living. And there were easements and satisfactions. To have a full stomach, to doze lazily in the sunshine--such things were remuneration in full for his ardours and toils, while his ardours and tolls were in themselves self-remunerative. They were expressions of life, and life is always happy when it is expressing itself. So the cub had no quarrel with his hostile environment. He was very much alive, very happy, and very proud of himself. PART III Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Der Teil II beginnt, als die Wölfe den Klang der Männerstimmen hören, die Henry retten. Hier wechselt London vollständig den Ton des Buches, da jetzt die Erzählperspektive die der Wölfin ist. Die Wölfe rennen über die "Oberfläche einer gefrorenen und toten Welt", mit einem großen grauen Wolf an der Spitze. Die Wölfin bleibt bei ihm und wird von dem einäugigen "mageren alten Wolf, grizzled und gezeichnet von den Narben vieler Kämpfe" und einem jungen dreijährigen Wolf begleitet. Alle drei männlichen Wölfe machen mehrere Annäherungsversuche bei der Wölfin, die alle mit Knurren oder Zähnen zurückgewiesen werden. Das Wolfsrudel reist tagelang, bevor es einen großen Bullen-Moos findet, der eine dringend benötigte Mahlzeit bietet. Das Rudel bricht nun in zwei Hälften und jeden Tag schrumpft die Gruppe auf nur noch drei Wölfe und die Wölfin. Kämpfe um die Weibchen beginnen, während sie dort sitzt und zufrieden zusieht. One-Eye geht als Sieger hervor und trifft sich spielend mit der Wölfin. Nun rennen sie Seite an Seite, jagen, töten und fressen zusammen. Als sie ein Indianerdorf nähern, wird die Wölfin seltsam erregt, fast wehmütig, aber One-Eye ist besorgt und besteht darauf, dass sie weiterziehen. Die beiden Wölfe durchstreifen nun gemeinsam das Land; jedoch ist die Wölfin emotional unruhig und sucht nach etwas, das sie nicht ganz versteht. Ihr Körper wird langsamer und sie fehlt es an Ausdauer. Schließlich finden sie, wonach sie gesucht hat, eine Höhle in der Nähe eines kleinen Flusses, wo sich die beiden Wölfe niederlassen. One-Eye geht hinaus, um nach Nahrung zu suchen, und als er zurückkehrt, hört er "leise, seltsame Geräusche von innen". Da er dies in seinem Leben schon oft erlebt hat, weiß One-Eye, dass die Wölfin Junge geboren hat. An diesem Punkt übernimmt die Natur und die Mutter wird schützend für die Kleinen, knurrt, knurrt und schnappt nach One-Eye, der instinktiv auf die Jagd nach Nahrung für seine neue Familie geht. "Der Drang seines erwachten Instinkts der Vaterschaft regte sich in ihm. Er musste Fleisch finden." Als er Gefahr von einem Stachelschwein spürt, ist er zufrieden, einen Schneehuhn-Vogel zu fangen. Doch das Schicksal ist mit ihm, und auf dem Rückweg zur Höhle kann er die Beute einer Begegnung zwischen einem Luchs und dem Stachelschwein ernten. Das von One-Eye bereitgestellte Essen lindert die Angst der Wölfin vor dem Vater. Die fünf Wolfsjungen beginnen zu wachsen und sich zu entwickeln, aber der graue Welpe gleicht seinem Vater und ihrem Wolfserbe am meisten. Er ist auch "der wildeste im Wurf". Die Hauptfaszination der Welpen gilt der "Wand des Lichts", wie sein Vater in der Wand des Lichts verschwinden konnte und wie der Klaps seiner Mutter ihn daran hinderte. Dies war auch eine Zeit der Hungersnot, und alle Welpen starben, mit Ausnahme des grauen Welpen, der stärker war als die anderen, ein weiteres Beispiel für Londons wiederkehrendes Thema des Überlebens der Stärksten. Sein Vater erscheint nicht mehr und verschwindet in der "Wand des Lichts" Er hat einen Kampf mit dem Luchs verloren. Die Wölfin ist nun gezwungen, Nahrung für sich selbst und ihren einzigen verbleibenden Welpen zu jagen. Der kleine Welpe, der stärker und abenteuerlustiger geworden ist, ist nicht mehr damit zufrieden, allein in der Höhle zu bleiben, und begibt sich eines Tages auf eigene Faust. Draußen in der Höhle lernt er eine der wichtigsten Lektionen der Natur - die Angst - und kehrt dankbar in seine Höhle zurück. Jeden Tag wagt er sich ein wenig weiter, bis sein Mut ihn schließlich an den Rand eines kleinen Hügels führt, wo er sich wälzt und den Hügel hinunterrollt und so ein großes Abenteuer beginnt. Er wird von einem Eichhörnchen, einem Specht und einem Elsterhuhn erschreckt. "Dazu geboren, ein Jäger von Fleisch zu sein", stolpert er ganz zufällig über ein Nest von Schneehuhn-Küken. Der erste Geschmack von Blut, Knochen und Fleisch gibt ihm große Befriedigung, und er geht zu den Ufern eines kleinen Baches. Dieses Wasser ist neu für den Welpen, und er watet vorsichtig hindurch, bis ihn eine Strömung mitreißt und stromabwärts bringt. Die letzte Lektion, die der Welpe an diesem Tag lernt, ist, dass er seine Mutter wollte und brauchte. "Also begann er nach einer Höhle und seiner Mutter zu suchen, und fühlte dabei eine überwältigende Einsamkeit und Hilflosigkeit." Im nächsten Moment steht das Leben des Welpen auf dem Spiel, als er sich mit einem Wieselweibchen anlegt. Er hätte sein Leben verloren, wenn seine Mutter nicht erschienen wäre und er ist von überwältigender Freude erfüllt. Die Zeit verging und der Welpe wuchs sowohl an Größe als auch an Erfahrung. Aber die Hungersnot kam wieder ins Land und beide Wölfe wurden dünn auf der Jagd nach Nahrung. Als letztes Mittel überfällt die Mutterwölfin das Versteck des Luchses und schmaust von den kleinen Luchskätzchen. Nicht überraschend erscheint die Mutterluchsin am Eingang zur Höhle der Wölfe. Die Wölfin ist dem Luchs nicht gewachsen, bis der graue Welpe einschreitet und den Hinterlauf des Luchses zwischen seinen Zähnen packt. Gemeinsam unterwerfen sie ihren Gegner, aber der Preis ist hoch. Der Welpe hat eine bis auf den Knochen gehende Wunde an seiner Schulter und seine Mutter ist dem Tod nahe. Eine Woche lang können sie ihre Höhle nicht verlassen, aber als sie es tun, ist der Welpe nun mit dem Wissen über das Leben ausgestattet. "Das Leben selbst ist Fleisch. Leben, das auf Leben basiert. Es gab Esser und die Gefressenen. Das Gesetz lautete FRESSEN ODER GEGESSEN WERDEN."

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.

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 progress of Catherine's unhappiness from the events of the evening was as follows. It appeared first in a general dissatisfaction with everybody about her, while she remained in the rooms, which speedily brought on considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home. This, on arriving in Pulteney Street, took the direction of extraordinary hunger, and when that was appeased, changed into an earnest longing to be in bed; such was the extreme point of her distress; for when there she immediately fell into a sound sleep which lasted nine hours, and from which she awoke perfectly revived, in excellent spirits, with fresh hopes and fresh schemes. The first wish of her heart was to improve her acquaintance with Miss Tilney, and almost her first resolution, to seek her for that purpose, in the pump-room at noon. In the pump-room, one so newly arrived in Bath must be met with, and that building she had already found so favourable for the discovery of female excellence, and the completion of female intimacy, so admirably adapted for secret discourses and unlimited confidence, that she was most reasonably encouraged to expect another friend from within its walls. Her plan for the morning thus settled, she sat quietly down to her book after breakfast, resolving to remain in the same place and the same employment till the clock struck one; and from habitude very little incommoded by the remarks and ejaculations of Mrs. Allen, whose vacancy of mind and incapacity for thinking were such, that as she never talked a great deal, so she could never be entirely silent; and, therefore, while she sat at her work, if she lost her needle or broke her thread, if she heard a carriage in the street, or saw a speck upon her gown, she must observe it aloud, whether there were anyone at leisure to answer her or not. At about half past twelve, a remarkably loud rap drew her in haste to the window, and scarcely had she time to inform Catherine of there being two open carriages at the door, in the first only a servant, her brother driving Miss Thorpe in the second, before John Thorpe came running upstairs, calling out, "Well, Miss Morland, here I am. Have you been waiting long? We could not come before; the old devil of a coachmaker was such an eternity finding out a thing fit to be got into, and now it is ten thousand to one but they break down before we are out of the street. How do you do, Mrs. Allen? A famous ball last night, was not it? Come, Miss Morland, be quick, for the others are in a confounded hurry to be off. They want to get their tumble over." "What do you mean?" said Catherine. "Where are you all going to?" "Going to? Why, you have not forgot our engagement! Did not we agree together to take a drive this morning? What a head you have! We are going up Claverton Down." "Something was said about it, I remember," said Catherine, looking at Mrs. Allen for her opinion; "but really I did not expect you." "Not expect me! That's a good one! And what a dust you would have made, if I had not come." Catherine's silent appeal to her friend, meanwhile, was entirely thrown away, for Mrs. Allen, not being at all in the habit of conveying any expression herself by a look, was not aware of its being ever intended by anybody else; and Catherine, whose desire of seeing Miss Tilney again could at that moment bear a short delay in favour of a drive, and who thought there could be no impropriety in her going with Mr. Thorpe, as Isabella was going at the same time with James, was therefore obliged to speak plainer. "Well, ma'am, what do you say to it? Can you spare me for an hour or two? Shall I go?" "Do just as you please, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with the most placid indifference. Catherine took the advice, and ran off to get ready. In a very few minutes she reappeared, having scarcely allowed the two others time enough to get through a few short sentences in her praise, after Thorpe had procured Mrs. Allen's admiration of his gig; and then receiving her friend's parting good wishes, they both hurried downstairs. "My dearest creature," cried Isabella, to whom the duty of friendship immediately called her before she could get into the carriage, "you have been at least three hours getting ready. I was afraid you were ill. What a delightful ball we had last night. I have a thousand things to say to you; but make haste and get in, for I long to be off." Catherine followed her orders and turned away, but not too soon to hear her friend exclaim aloud to James, "What a sweet girl she is! I quite dote on her." "You will not be frightened, Miss Morland," said Thorpe, as he handed her in, "if my horse should dance about a little at first setting off. He will, most likely, give a plunge or two, and perhaps take the rest for a minute; but he will soon know his master. He is full of spirits, playful as can be, but there is no vice in him." Catherine did not think the portrait a very inviting one, but it was too late to retreat, and she was too young to own herself frightened; so, resigning herself to her fate, and trusting to the animal's boasted knowledge of its owner, she sat peaceably down, and saw Thorpe sit down by her. Everything being then arranged, the servant who stood at the horse's head was bid in an important voice "to let him go," and off they went in the quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or a caper, or anything like one. Catherine, delighted at so happy an escape, spoke her pleasure aloud with grateful surprise; and her companion immediately made the matter perfectly simple by assuring her that it was entirely owing to the peculiarly judicious manner in which he had then held the reins, and the singular discernment and dexterity with which he had directed his whip. Catherine, though she could not help wondering that with such perfect command of his horse, he should think it necessary to alarm her with a relation of its tricks, congratulated herself sincerely on being under the care of so excellent a coachman; and perceiving that the animal continued to go on in the same quiet manner, without showing the smallest propensity towards any unpleasant vivacity, and (considering its inevitable pace was ten miles an hour) by no means alarmingly fast, gave herself up to all the enjoyment of air and exercise of the most invigorating kind, in a fine mild day of February, with the consciousness of safety. A silence of several minutes succeeded their first short dialogue; it was broken by Thorpe's saying very abruptly, "Old Allen is as rich as a Jew--is not he?" Catherine did not understand him--and he repeated his question, adding in explanation, "Old Allen, the man you are with." "Oh! Mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich." "And no children at all?" "No--not any." "A famous thing for his next heirs. He is your godfather, is not he?" "My godfather! No." "But you are always very much with them." "Yes, very much." "Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow enough, and has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for nothing. Does he drink his bottle a day now?" "His bottle a day! No. Why should you think of such a thing? He is a very temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last night?" "Lord help you! You women are always thinking of men's being in liquor. Why, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of this--that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would not be half the disorders in the world there are now. It would be a famous good thing for us all." "I cannot believe it." "Oh! Lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There is not the hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to be. Our foggy climate wants help." "And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford." "Oxford! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody drinks there. You would hardly meet with a man who goes beyond his four pints at the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable thing, at the last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared about five pints a head. It was looked upon as something out of the common way. Mine is famous good stuff, to be sure. You would not often meet with anything like it in Oxford--and that may account for it. But this will just give you a notion of the general rate of drinking there." "Yes, it does give a notion," said Catherine warmly, "and that is, that you all drink a great deal more wine than I thought you did. However, I am sure James does not drink so much." This declaration brought on a loud and overpowering reply, of which no part was very distinct, except the frequent exclamations, amounting almost to oaths, which adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it ended, with rather a strengthened belief of there being a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford, and the same happy conviction of her brother's comparative sobriety. Thorpe's ideas then all reverted to the merits of his own equipage, and she was called on to admire the spirit and freedom with which his horse moved along, and the ease which his paces, as well as the excellence of the springs, gave the motion of the carriage. She followed him in all his admiration as well as she could. To go before or beyond him was impossible. His knowledge and her ignorance of the subject, his rapidity of expression, and her diffidence of herself put that out of her power; she could strike out nothing new in commendation, but she readily echoed whatever he chose to assert, and it was finally settled between them without any difficulty that his equipage was altogether the most complete of its kind in England, his carriage the neatest, his horse the best goer, and himself the best coachman. "You do not really think, Mr. Thorpe," said Catherine, venturing after some time to consider the matter as entirely decided, and to offer some little variation on the subject, "that James's gig will break down?" "Break down! Oh! Lord! Did you ever see such a little tittuppy thing in your life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The wheels have been fairly worn out these ten years at least--and as for the body! Upon my soul, you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch. It is the most devilish little rickety business I ever beheld! Thank God! we have got a better. I would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty thousand pounds." "Good heavens!" cried Catherine, quite frightened. "Then pray let us turn back; they will certainly meet with an accident if we go on. Do let us turn back, Mr. Thorpe; stop and speak to my brother, and tell him how very unsafe it is." "Unsafe! Oh, lord! What is there in that? They will only get a roll if it does break down; and there is plenty of dirt; it will be excellent falling. Oh, curse it! The carriage is safe enough, if a man knows how to drive it; a thing of that sort in good hands will last above twenty years after it is fairly worn out. Lord bless you! I would undertake for five pounds to drive it to York and back again, without losing a nail." Catherine listened with astonishment; she knew not how to reconcile two such very different accounts of the same thing; for she had not been brought up to understand the propensities of a rattle, nor to know to how many idle assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity will lead. Her own family were plain, matter-of-fact people who seldom aimed at wit of any kind; her father, at the utmost, being contented with a pun, and her mother with a proverb; they were not in the habit therefore of telling lies to increase their importance, or of asserting at one moment what they would contradict the next. She reflected on the affair for some time in much perplexity, and was more than once on the point of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clearer insight into his real opinion on the subject; but she checked herself, because it appeared to her that he did not excel in giving those clearer insights, in making those things plain which he had before made ambiguous; and, joining to this, the consideration that he would not really suffer his sister and his friend to be exposed to a danger from which he might easily preserve them, she concluded at last that he must know the carriage to be in fact perfectly safe, and therefore would alarm herself no longer. By him the whole matter seemed entirely forgotten; and all the rest of his conversation, or rather talk, began and ended with himself and his own concerns. He told her of horses which he had bought for a trifle and sold for incredible sums; of racing matches, in which his judgment had infallibly foretold the winner; of shooting parties, in which he had killed more birds (though without having one good shot) than all his companions together; and described to her some famous day's sport, with the fox-hounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the dogs had repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in which the boldness of his riding, though it had never endangered his own life for a moment, had been constantly leading others into difficulties, which he calmly concluded had broken the necks of many. Little as Catherine was in the habit of judging for herself, and unfixed as were her general notions of what men ought to be, she could not entirely repress a doubt, while she bore with the effusions of his endless conceit, of his being altogether completely agreeable. It was a bold surmise, for he was Isabella's brother; and she had been assured by James that his manners would recommend him to all her sex; but in spite of this, the extreme weariness of his company, which crept over her before they had been out an hour, and which continued unceasingly to increase till they stopped in Pulteney Street again, induced her, in some small degree, to resist such high authority, and to distrust his powers of giving universal pleasure. When they arrived at Mrs. Allen's door, the astonishment of Isabella was hardly to be expressed, on finding that it was too late in the day for them to attend her friend into the house: "Past three o'clock!" It was inconceivable, incredible, impossible! And she would neither believe her own watch, nor her brother's, nor the servant's; she would believe no assurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland produced his watch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment longer then would have been equally inconceivable, incredible, and impossible; and she could only protest, over and over again, that no two hours and a half had ever gone off so swiftly before, as Catherine was called on to confirm; Catherine could not tell a falsehood even to please Isabella; but the latter was spared the misery of her friend's dissenting voice, by not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings entirely engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to go directly home. It was ages since she had had a moment's conversation with her dearest Catherine; and, though she had such thousands of things to say to her, it appeared as if they were never to be together again; so, with smiles of most exquisite misery, and the laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on. Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of the morning, and was immediately greeted with, "Well, my dear, here you are," a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to dispute; "and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?" "Yes, ma'am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day." "So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going." "You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?" "Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce." "Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?" "Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her." "Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?" "Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted muslin, and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family." "And what did she tell you of them?" "Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else." "Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?" "Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind of people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she and Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large fortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand pounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all the clothes after they came from the warehouse." "Sind Herr und Frau Tilney in Bath?" "Ja, ich glaube schon, aber ich bin nicht ganz sicher. Wenn ich mich richtig erinnere, habe ich eine Vorstellung, dass beide tot sind; zumindest die Mutter ist es; ja, ich bin sicher, dass Mrs. Tilney tot ist, denn Mrs. Hughes hat mir erzählt, dass es eine sehr schöne Perlenkollektion gibt, die Herr Drummond seiner Tochter an ihrem Hochzeitstag gegeben hat und die Miss Tilney jetzt besitzt. Sie wurden für sie beiseite gelegt, als ihre Mutter starb." "Und ist Mr. Tilney, mein Partner, der einzige Sohn?" "Ich kann da nicht ganz sicher sein, mein Lieber; ich habe eine Vorstellung, dass er es ist; aber wie auch immer, er ist ein sehr gutaussehender junger Mann, sagt Mrs. Hughes, und hat gute Aussichten." Catherine erkundigte sich nicht weiter; sie hatte genug gehört, um zu spüren, dass Mrs. Allen keine wirklichen Informationen hatte und dass sie selbst besonders unglücklich war, sowohl Bruder als auch Schwester verpasst zu haben. Hätte sie solch ein Ereignis voraussehen können, so hätte nichts sie dazu bewegen können, mit den anderen hinauszugehen; und wie es war, konnte sie nur ihr Pech beklagen und darüber nachdenken, was sie verloren hatte, bis ihr klar wurde, dass die Fahrt keineswegs sehr angenehm gewesen war und dass John Thorpe selbst ziemlich unsympathisch war. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

Catherine wacht mit der Absicht auf, Eleanor Tilney besser kennenzulernen. Bevor sie jedoch die Möglichkeit dazu hat, kommt John Thorpe bei den Allens an, zusammen mit seiner Schwester Isabella und Catherines Bruder James. Das Trio drängt Catherine, mit ihnen eine Kutschfahrt zu machen - James und Isabella in einer Kutsche und Catherine und John in der anderen. Während der Kutschfahrt versucht Catherine, Johns eigennützigen Monolog abzulenken, scheitert jedoch immer wieder. Sie ist besonders verwirrt über seine Neigung zur Übertreibung. Eine Minute behauptet er, dass James' Kutsche weit unterlegen ist und auseinanderzubrechen droht; die nächste Minute behauptet er, um Catherines Sorge zu beruhigen, dass James' Kutsche für die Fahrt mehr als solide genug sei. Da Catherine von geradlinigen Eltern erzogen wurde, ist sie von Johns Manipulationen genauso verwirrt wie von denen seiner Schwester. Trotz der Zustimmung ihres Bruders zu John entscheidet sie, dass sie John nicht "vollkommen angenehm" findet. Die Gruppe kehrt zu den Allens zurück, und Isabella protestiert, dass ihr Ausflug niemals drei Stunden gedauert haben kann, weil die Zeit so angenehm verflogen ist. Catherine spricht mit Mrs. Allen und erfährt, dass Henrys Vater in der Stadt ist. Catherine beschließt, dass sie, wenn sie gewusst hätte, dass Mrs. Allen auf die Tilneys treffen würde, nicht an der Kutschfahrt teilgenommen hätte.

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.

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: Es war eine lange und düstere Nacht, die sich auf mich legte, heimgesucht von den Geistern vieler Hoffnungen, vieler lieber Erinnerungen, vieler Fehler, vieler vergeblicher Sorgen und Bedauern. Ich verließ England; nicht wissend, damals noch nicht, wie groß der Schock war, den ich zu ertragen hatte. Ich verließ alle, die mir lieb waren, und ging fort; und glaubte, dass ich es ertragen hatte und es vorbei war. Wie ein Mann auf einem Schlachtfeld, der eine tödliche Verletzung erleidet und kaum spürt, dass er getroffen wurde, so hatte auch ich, als ich allein mit meinem ungebändigten Herzen zurückblieb, keine Vorstellung von der Wunde, mit der es zu kämpfen hatte. Das Wissen kam nicht schnell, sondern nach und nach, Korn für Korn. Das trostlose Gefühl, mit dem ich ins Ausland ging, vertiefte und erweiterte sich stündlich. Zuerst war es ein schweres Gefühl des Verlustes und des Kummers, in dem ich wenig anderes erkennen konnte. Unmerklich entwickelte es sich zu einem hoffnungslosen Bewusstsein für all das, was ich verloren hatte - Liebe, Freundschaft, Interessen; für alles, was zerstört worden war - mein erstes Vertrauen, meine erste Zuneigung, das ganze luftige Schloss meines Lebens; für alles, was übrig blieb - ein zerstörter Leerplatz, der weit um mich herum lag, ungebrochen bis zum dunklen Horizont. Wenn mein Kummer egoistisch war, wusste ich es nicht. Ich trauerte um meine kindliche Ehefrau, die aus ihrer blühenden Welt so jung genommen wurde. Ich trauerte um ihn, der die Liebe und Bewunderung von Tausenden hätte gewinnen können, wie er schon vor langer Zeit meine gewonnen hatte. Ich trauerte um das gebrochene Herz, das im stürmischen Meer Ruhe gefunden hatte, und um die wandernden Überreste des einfachen Zuhauses, wo ich als Kind den Nachtwind hatte wehen hören. Aus der angesammelten Traurigkeit, in die ich verfiel, hatte ich schließlich keine Hoffnung mehr, jemals wieder herauszukommen. Ich streifte von Ort zu Ort, überall meine Last mit mir tragend. Ich spürte nun ihr volles Gewicht, und ich erlag ihm, und in meinem Herzen sagte ich mir, dass es niemals leichter werden könnte. Als diese Verzweiflung ihren Höhepunkt erreichte, glaubte ich, dass ich sterben würde. Manchmal dachte ich, ich würde gerne zu Hause sterben; und machte tatsächlich kehrt auf meinem Weg, damit ich dort bald hinkommen könnte. Andere Male ging ich weiter fort - von Stadt zu Stadt -, suchend nach etwas, das ich nicht kannte, und versuchte etwas zurückzulassen, das ich nicht kannte. Es liegt nicht in meiner Macht, die mühsamen Phasen der Geisteszerrüttung, durch die ich gegangen bin, einzeln zurückzuverfolgen. Es gibt Träume, die nur unvollkommen und vage beschrieben werden können; und wenn ich mich zwingen muss, auf diese Zeit meines Lebens zurückzublicken, scheint es, als würde ich an solch einen Traum erinnert. Ich sehe mich selbst zwischen den Neuheiten fremder Städte umhergehen, Paläste, Kathedralen, Tempel, Bilder, Burgen, Gräber, phantastische Straßen - die alten Aufenthaltsorte von Geschichte und Fantasie - wie ein Träumer. Ermattet von allem außer brütender Trauer, war die Nacht, die sich auf mein ungezähmtes Herz senkte. Lass mich daraus aufblicken - wie ich es schließlich getan habe, Gott sei Dank! - und von ihrem langen, traurigen, elenden Traum zur Dämmerung. Viele Monate reiste ich mit dieser immer dunkler werdenden Wolke in meinem Geist. Einige blinden Gründe, die ich hatte, um nicht nach Hause zurückzukehren - Gründe, die damals in mir kämpften, vergeblich, um klarer ausgedrückt zu werden - hielten mich auf meiner Pilgerreise fest. Manchmal war ich ruhelos von Ort zu Ort gezogen, ohne irgendwo anzuhalten; manchmal hatte ich mich lange Zeit an einem Ort aufgehalten. Ich hatte keinen Zweck, keine stärkende Seele in mir, nirgendwo. Ich war in der Schweiz. Ich war aus Italien gekommen, über einen der großen Alpenpässe, und hatte mich seitdem mit einem Führer in den Nebenwegen der Berge umhergetrieben. Falls diese furchterregenden Einsamkeiten zu meinem Herzen gesprochen hatten, wusste ich es nicht. Ich hatte Erhabenheit und Wunder in den furchterregenden Höhen und Abgründen, in den rauschenden Flüssen und den Eis- und Schneewüsten gefunden; aber bis jetzt hatten sie mich nichts anderes gelehrt. An einem Abend vor Sonnenuntergang kam ich in ein Tal, wo ich rasten sollte. Auf meinem Abstieg dorthin entlang des windenden Pfades entlang der Bergseite, von dem aus ich es glitzernd unten sah, verspürte ich glaube ich ein lang ungewohntes Gefühl von Schönheit und Ruhe, einen erweichenden Einfluss, der in meiner Brust sanft erwachte. Ich erinnere mich, dass ich einmal innehielt, mit einer Art von Trauer, die nicht ganz erdrückend war, nicht ganz verzweifelt. Ich erinnere mich fast gehofft zu haben, dass irgendeine bessere Veränderung in mir möglich sei. Ich kam in das Tal, als die Abendsonne auf die entfernten Schneehöhen schien, die es wie ewige Wolken umschlossen. Die Basen der Berge, die die Schlucht bildeten, in der das kleine Dorf lag, waren reich grün; und hoch über dieser sanfteren Vegetation wuchsen dunkle Tannenwälder, die den winterlichen Schneetreiben wie Keile widerstanden und den Lawinen trotzen. Darüber hinaus erstreckten sich Reihe um Reihe von felsigen Steilhängen, grauem Gestein, hellem Eis und glatten Grünflecken von Weideland, die sich allmählich mit dem schneebewölkenden Himmel vereinigten. Hier und da auf der Bergseite waren einsame Holzhütten verstreut, jedes winzige Pünktchen ein Heim, das von den riesigen Höhen so verzwergt wurde, dass es für Spielzeug zu klein schien. So erging es selbst dem Cluster des Dorfes im Tal mit seiner hölzernen Brücke über den Bach, wo der Bach über zerklüftete Felsen floss und durch die Bäume rauschte. In der ruhigen Luft war ein Klang von entferntem Gesang - Hirtenstimmen; aber als eine helle Abendwolke halbwegs entlang der Bergseite schwebte, hätte ich fast geglaubt, er käme von dort und sei keine irdische Musik. Plötzlich sprach mich in dieser Gelassenheit die große Natur an; und tröstete mich, meinen müden Kopf ins Gras zu legen und zu weinen, wie ich seit Dora's Tod noch nicht geweint hatte! Ich hatte gerade einen Briefumschlag gefunden, der auf mich wartete, und war aus dem Dorf gestreift, um sie zu lesen, während mein Abendessen zubereitet wurde. Andere Umschläge hatten mich verfehlt, und ich hatte lange Zeit keinen erhalten. Über eine Zeile oder zwei, um zu sagen, dass es mir gut ging und dass ich an einen solchen Ort gekommen war, hatte ich weder die Stärke noch die Ausdauer gehabt, seitdem ich mein Zuhause verlassen hatte, um einen Brief zu schreiben. Der Umschlag war in meiner Hand. Ich öffnete ihn und las das Geschriebene von Agnes. Sie war glücklich und nützlich, ging voran, wie sie gehofft hatte. Das war alles, was sie mir von sich erzählte. Der Rest bezog sich auf mich. Sie gab mir keinen Rat; sie drängte Die drei Monate waren vergangen, und ich beschloss, noch länger von zu Hause fernzubleiben; mich vorerst in der Schweiz niederzulassen, die mir in Erinnerung an jenen Abend lieb geworden war; meine Feder wieder aufzunehmen; zu arbeiten. Ich begab mich demütig dorthin, wo Agnes mich hingewiesen hatte; ich suchte die Natur auf, nie vergeblich gesucht; und ich ließ das menschliche Interesse, dem ich mich vor Kurzem entzogen hatte, in mein Herz. Es dauerte nicht lange, bis ich im Tal fast so viele Freunde hatte wie in Yarmouth: und als ich, bevor der Winter einbrach, nach Genf reiste und im Frühling zurückkehrte, klangen mir ihre herzlichen Begrüßungen vertraut, obwohl sie nicht auf Englisch ausgesprochen wurden. Ich arbeitete früh und spät, geduldig und hart. Ich schrieb eine Geschichte mit einem Zweck, der sich aus meinen Erfahrungen entwickelte, und schickte sie an Traddles, und er arrangierte eine vorteilhafte Veröffentlichung für mich. Die Nachrichten über meinen wachsenden Ruf erreichten mich allmählich von Reisenden, denen ich zufällig begegnete. Nach etwas Ruhe und Veränderung stürzte ich mich wieder mit meiner alten Leidenschaft in eine neue Fantasie, die mich fest in Besitz nahm. Je weiter ich bei der Ausführung dieser Aufgabe voranschritt, desto mehr fühlte ich sie und setzte meine ganze Energie ein, um sie gut zu machen. Dies war mein drittes Werk der Fiktion. Es war noch nicht halb geschrieben, als mir in einer Ruhepause der Gedanke kam, nach Hause zurückzukehren. Ich hatte mir eine lange Zeit, obwohl ich geduldig studierte und arbeitete, an robuste körperliche Aktivitäten gewöhnt. Meine Gesundheit, die bei meiner Abreise aus England schwer beeinträchtigt war, war vollständig wiederhergestellt. Ich hatte viel gesehen. Ich war in vielen Ländern gewesen, und ich hoffe, dass ich meinen Wissensschatz erweitert hatte. Ich habe nun alles, was ich hier für notwendig halte, von diesem Zeitraum der Abwesenheit wiedererinnert - mit einer Ausnahme. Ich habe es bisher gemacht, ohne die Absicht, meine Gedanken zu unterdrücken; denn wie ich anderswo gesagt habe, ist diese Erzählung mein schriftliches Gedächtnis. Ich habe den mysteriösesten Strom meines Geistes bewusst getrennt gehalten und tue es immer noch. Jetzt trete ich ein. Ich kann das Geheimnis meines eigenen Herzens nicht so genau durchdringen, um zu wissen, wann ich zu denken begann, dass ich meine frühesten und schönsten Hoffnungen auf Agnes gesetzt haben könnte. Ich kann nicht sagen, in welchem Stadium meines Kummers es zum ersten Mal mit dem Gedanken verbunden war, dass ich in meiner eigenwilligen Kindheit den Schatz ihrer Liebe weggeworfen habe. Ich glaube, ich habe vielleicht einen Flüsterton dieser fernen Vorstellung in dem alten unglücklichen Verlust oder unerfüllten Wunsch gehört, von dem ich mir bewusst war. Aber der Gedanke kam mir als ein neuer Vorwurf und neues Bedauern, als ich so traurig und einsam in der Welt zurückgelassen wurde. Wenn ich zu dieser Zeit viel mit ihr zusammen gewesen wäre, hätte ich dies in meiner Verzweiflungsschwäche verraten. Das war es, was ich am Anfang fürchtete, als ich zum ersten Mal dazu gedrängt wurde, England zu verlassen. Ich hätte es nicht ertragen können, auch nur den kleinsten Teil ihrer schwesterlichen Zuneigung zu verlieren; doch in diesem Verrat hätte ich eine bisher unbekannte Zwietracht zwischen uns geschaffen. Ich konnte nicht vergessen, dass das Gefühl, mit dem sie mich jetzt ansah, aus meiner eigenen freien Wahl und meinem eigenen Weg entstanden war. Dass, wenn sie mich jemals mit einer anderen Liebe geliebt hätte - und manchmal dachte ich, dass es Zeiten gab, in denen sie es hätte tun können - ich es weggeworfen hatte. Es war nichts mehr, dass ich mich daran gewöhnt hatte, an sie zu denken, als wir beide noch Kinder waren, als jemanden, der von meinen wilden Fantasien weit entfernt war. Ich hatte meine leidenschaftliche Zärtlichkeit einer anderen Person geschenkt; und was ich hätte tun können, hatte ich nicht getan; und was Agnes für mich war, hatten ihr und ihr eigenes nobles Herz gemacht. Am Anfang der Veränderung, die allmählich in mir gearbeitet hatte, als ich versuchte, mich selbst besser zu verstehen und ein besserer Mensch zu sein, hatte ich durch eine undefinierte Probezeit einen flüchtigen Blick auf eine Zeit geworfen, in der ich vielleicht hoffen konnte, die vergangene, fehlerhafte Vergangenheit auszulöschen und so gesegnet zu sein, sie zu heiraten. Aber mit der Zeit verblasste diese vage Aussicht und wich von mir. Wenn sie damals jemals mich geliebt hätte, würde ich sie umso heiliger halten; in Erinnerung an die Mitteilungen, die ich ihr anvertraut hatte, ihr Wissen über mein abtrünniges Herz, das Opfer, das sie gemacht haben musste, um meine Freundin und Schwester zu sein, und den Sieg, den sie errungen hatte. Wenn sie mich nie geliebt hätte, könnte ich glauben, dass sie mich jetzt lieben würde? Ich hatte immer meine Schwäche im Vergleich zu ihrer Beständigkeit und Tapferkeit gespürt, und jetzt spürte ich sie immer mehr. Was ich ihr auch gewesen sein mochte oder sie mir, wenn ich vor langer Zeit würdiger für sie gewesen wäre, war ich es jetzt nicht, und sie war es nicht. Die Zeit war vorbei. Ich hatte sie verstreichen lassen und sie verdientermaßen verloren. Dass ich in diesen Auseinandersetzungen viel gelitten habe, dass sie mich mit Unzufriedenheit und Reue erfüllt haben und dennoch habe ich ein unterstützendes Gefühl, dass es von mir in Recht und Ehre verlangt wurde, die Gedanken daran abzuwehren, dass ich mich in meiner Hoffnungslosigkeit der lieben Mädchen zuwende, von denen ich mich leichtfertig abgewandt hatte, als sie strahlend und frisch waren - diese Überlegung war der Ursprung jeder meiner Gedanken über sie - all das ist gleichermaßen wahr. Ich habe jetzt keine Mühe mehr, mir selbst zu verheimlichen, dass ich sie liebe, dass ich ihr ergeben bin; aber ich habe mir die Gewissheit nach Hause gebracht, dass es jetzt zu spät ist und dass unsere langbestehende Beziehung ungestört bleiben muss. Ich hatte oft und viel über das nachgedacht, was Dora mir aufgezeigt hatte, was in den Jahren, die uns nicht zu prüfen bestimmt waren, hätte passieren können; ich hatte darüber nachgedacht, wie die Dinge, die niemals geschehen, für uns oft genauso real sind in ihren Auswirkungen wie die, die erreicht werden. Die Jahre, von denen sie sprach, waren jetzt für meine Korrektur Wirklichkeit; und sie wären an einem Tag, vielleicht etwas später gewesen, obwohl wir in unserer frühesten Torheit getrennt waren. Ich versuchte, das, was zwischen Agnes und mir hätte sein können, in eine Möglichkeit zu verwandeln, mich selbst verleugnender, entschlossener und mir meiner selbst, meiner Fehler und Mängel bewusster zu machen. So gelangte ich durch die Überlegung, dass es hätte sein können, zu der Überzeugung, dass es niemals sein könnte. Das waren, zusammen mit ihren Verwirrungen und Unstimmigkeiten, die sich ständig verändernden Treibsände meines Geistes, von meiner Abreise bis zur Rückkehr nach Hause, drei Jahre später. Drei Jahre. Im Ganzen lang, wenn auch kurz, wie sie vergingen. Und das Zuhause war mir sehr lieb, und Agnes auch - aber sie gehörte nicht mir - sie sollte niemals mir gehören. Sie hätte es sein können, aber das war vorbei! Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Abwesenheit. David reist durch Italien und lässt sich in einem Tal in der Schweiz nieder. Er ist von Trauer über den Verlust von Dora, Steerforth und Ham erdrückt. Eines Tages erhält er einen Brief von Agnes. Sie schreibt, dass es ihr gut geht und sie darauf vertraut, dass David sein Leiden zum Guten wenden wird. Er spürt, wie die Traurigkeit von seinem Geist weicht, und erkennt, wie sehr er Agnes liebt, beschließt aber, ein Jahr nach Doras Tod abzuwarten, bevor er irgendwelche Entscheidungen trifft. In der Zwischenzeit wird er versuchen, die gute Person zu werden, die Agnes in ihm sieht. Er findet viele Freunde im Tal und schreibt eine Geschichte, die Traddles veröffentlicht. Seine Gesundheit, die nicht gut war, als er England verließ, wird wiederhergestellt. Er reflektiert, dass er Agnes' Liebe in seiner Jugend töricht verschwendet hat und dass ihm dies während seiner Ehe mit Dora ein Gefühl des Mangels verlieh. Als ihm diese Gedanken zum ersten Mal kommen, fühlt er, dass er eine Chance hat, die Fehler der Vergangenheit wiedergutzumachen und Agnes zu heiraten. Aber im Laufe der Zeit überzeugt er sich selbst, dass es zu spät ist und dass er sie verdientermaßen verloren hat. Nachdem er drei Jahre im Ausland verbracht hat, kehrt David nach England zurück.

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.

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: On a corner a glass-fronted building shed a yellow glare upon the pavements. The open mouth of a saloon called seductively to passengers to enter and annihilate sorrow or create rage. The interior of the place was papered in olive and bronze tints of imitation leather. A shining bar of counterfeit massiveness extended down the side of the room. Behind it a great mahogany-appearing sideboard reached the ceiling. Upon its shelves rested pyramids of shimmering glasses that were never disturbed. Mirrors set in the face of the sideboard multiplied them. Lemons, oranges and paper napkins, arranged with mathematical precision, sat among the glasses. Many-hued decanters of liquor perched at regular intervals on the lower shelves. A nickel-plated cash register occupied a position in the exact centre of the general effect. The elementary senses of it all seemed to be opulence and geometrical accuracy. Across from the bar a smaller counter held a collection of plates upon which swarmed frayed fragments of crackers, slices of boiled ham, dishevelled bits of cheese, and pickles swimming in vinegar. An odor of grasping, begrimed hands and munching mouths pervaded. Pete, in a white jacket, was behind the bar bending expectantly toward a quiet stranger. "A beeh," said the man. Pete drew a foam-topped glassful and set it dripping upon the bar. At this moment the light bamboo doors at the entrance swung open and crashed against the siding. Jimmie and a companion entered. They swaggered unsteadily but belligerently toward the bar and looked at Pete with bleared and blinking eyes. "Gin," said Jimmie. "Gin," said the companion. Pete slid a bottle and two glasses along the bar. He bended his head sideways as he assiduously polished away with a napkin at the gleaming wood. He had a look of watchfulness upon his features. Jimmie and his companion kept their eyes upon the bartender and conversed loudly in tones of contempt. "He's a dindy masher, ain't he, by Gawd?" laughed Jimmie. "Oh, hell, yes," said the companion, sneering widely. "He's great, he is. Git onto deh mug on deh blokie. Dat's enough to make a feller turn hand-springs in 'is sleep." The quiet stranger moved himself and his glass a trifle further away and maintained an attitude of oblivion. "Gee! ain't he hot stuff!" "Git onto his shape! Great Gawd!" "Hey," cried Jimmie, in tones of command. Pete came along slowly, with a sullen dropping of the under lip. "Well," he growled, "what's eatin' yehs?" "Gin," said Jimmie. "Gin," said the companion. As Pete confronted them with the bottle and the glasses, they laughed in his face. Jimmie's companion, evidently overcome with merriment, pointed a grimy forefinger in Pete's direction. "Say, Jimmie," demanded he, "what deh hell is dat behind deh bar?" "Damned if I knows," replied Jimmie. They laughed loudly. Pete put down a bottle with a bang and turned a formidable face toward them. He disclosed his teeth and his shoulders heaved restlessly. "You fellers can't guy me," he said. "Drink yer stuff an' git out an' don' make no trouble." Instantly the laughter faded from the faces of the two men and expressions of offended dignity immediately came. "Who deh hell has said anyt'ing teh you," cried they in the same breath. The quiet stranger looked at the door calculatingly. "Ah, come off," said Pete to the two men. "Don't pick me up for no jay. Drink yer rum an' git out an' don' make no trouble." "Oh, deh hell," airily cried Jimmie. "Oh, deh hell," airily repeated his companion. "We goes when we git ready! See!" continued Jimmie. "Well," said Pete in a threatening voice, "don' make no trouble." Jimmie suddenly leaned forward with his head on one side. He snarled like a wild animal. "Well, what if we does? See?" said he. Dark blood flushed into Pete's face, and he shot a lurid glance at Jimmie. "Well, den we'll see whose deh bes' man, you or me," he said. The quiet stranger moved modestly toward the door. Jimmie began to swell with valor. "Don' pick me up fer no tenderfoot. When yeh tackles me yeh tackles one of deh bes' men in deh city. See? I'm a scrapper, I am. Ain't dat right, Billie?" "Sure, Mike," responded his companion in tones of conviction. "Oh, hell," said Pete, easily. "Go fall on yerself." The two men again began to laugh. "What deh hell is dat talkin'?" cried the companion. "Damned if I knows," replied Jimmie with exaggerated contempt. Pete made a furious gesture. "Git outa here now, an' don' make no trouble. See? Youse fellers er lookin' fer a scrap an' it's damn likely yeh'll fin' one if yeh keeps on shootin' off yer mout's. I know yehs! See? I kin lick better men dan yehs ever saw in yer lifes. Dat's right! See? Don' pick me up fer no stuff er yeh might be jolted out in deh street before yeh knows where yeh is. When I comes from behind dis bar, I t'rows yehs bote inteh deh street. See?" "Oh, hell," cried the two men in chorus. The glare of a panther came into Pete's eyes. "Dat's what I said! Unnerstan'?" He came through a passage at the end of the bar and swelled down upon the two men. They stepped promptly forward and crowded close to him. They bristled like three roosters. They moved their heads pugnaciously and kept their shoulders braced. The nervous muscles about each mouth twitched with a forced smile of mockery. "Well, what deh hell yer goin' teh do?" gritted Jimmie. Pete stepped warily back, waving his hands before him to keep the men from coming too near. "Well, what deh hell yer goin' teh do?" repeated Jimmie's ally. They kept close to him, taunting and leering. They strove to make him attempt the initial blow. "Keep back, now! Don' crowd me," ominously said Pete. Again they chorused in contempt. "Oh, hell!" In a small, tossing group, the three men edged for positions like frigates contemplating battle. "Well, why deh hell don' yeh try teh t'row us out?" cried Jimmie and his ally with copious sneers. The bravery of bull-dogs sat upon the faces of the men. Their clenched fists moved like eager weapons. The allied two jostled the bartender's elbows, glaring at him with feverish eyes and forcing him toward the wall. Suddenly Pete swore redly. The flash of action gleamed from his eyes. He threw back his arm and aimed a tremendous, lightning-like blow at Jimmie's face. His foot swung a step forward and the weight of his body was behind his fist. Jimmie ducked his head, Bowery-like, with the quickness of a cat. The fierce, answering blows of him and his ally crushed on Pete's bowed head. The quiet stranger vanished. The arms of the combatants whirled in the air like flails. The faces of the men, at first flushed to flame-colored anger, now began to fade to the pallor of warriors in the blood and heat of a battle. Their lips curled back and stretched tightly over the gums in ghoul-like grins. Through their white, gripped teeth struggled hoarse whisperings of oaths. Their eyes glittered with murderous fire. Jeder Kopf war zwischen den Schultern seines Besitzers zusammengedrängt und die Arme schwangen mit einer wunderbaren Schnelligkeit hin und her. Die Füße kratzten mit einem lauten Kratzgeräusch über den gesandeten Boden. Schläge hinterließen blutrote Flecken auf blasser Haut. Die Flüche der ersten Viertelminute des Kampfes verstummten. Die Atemzüge der Kämpfer kamen keuchend von den Lippen und die drei Brüste waren angestrengt und wogend. Pete stieß gelegentlich niedrige und mühsame Zischlaute aus, die wie ein Tötungswunsch klangen. Jimmie's Verbündeter plapperte manchmal wie ein verwundeter Wahnsinniger. Jimmie war still und kämpfte mit dem Gesicht eines Opferpriesters. Die Wut der Angst leuchtete in allen ihren Augen und ihre blutroten Fäuste wirbelten. In einem wackeligen Moment traf ein Schlag von Pete's Hand den Verbündeten und er stürzte zu Boden. Er wand sich sofort auf die Beine und griff nach dem Bierglas des ruhigen Fremden an der Bar und schleuderte es auf Pete's Kopf. Hoch an der Wand explodierte es wie eine Bombe, spritzende Splitter flogen in alle Richtungen. Dann fanden Wurfgeschosse den Weg in die Hand jedes Mannes. Der Ort schien bislang frei von Dingen zum Werfen gewesen zu sein, aber plötzlich flogen Glas und Flaschen durch die Luft. Sie wurden Punkt für Punkt auf taumelnde Köpfe geworfen. Die Pyramide glitzernder Gläser, die nie gestört worden war, verwandelte sich in Kaskaden, als schwere Flaschen hineingeworfen wurden. Spiegel zerbarsten zu nichts. Die drei schäumenden Kreaturen auf dem Boden begruben sich in einem Blutrausch. Hinter den Geschossen und Fäusten folgten einige unbekannte Gebete, vielleicht für den Tod. Der ruhige Fremde hatte sich in atemberaubender Weise auf dem Gehweg ausgebreitet. Ein Lachen lief die Straße hinunter für eine halbe Straßenlänge. "Dey've trowed a bloke inteh deh street." Leute hörten das Geräusch von zersplitterndem Glas und schabenden Füßen in der Kneipe und kamen angerannt. Eine kleine Gruppe, die sich bückte, um unter den Bambustüren hindurchzuschauen, beobachtete das Zersplittern von Glas und drei Paar gewalttätige Beine verwandelten sich innerhalb eines Augenblicks in eine Menschenmenge. Ein Polizist kam auf dem Bürgersteig heran und sprang durch die Türen in die Kneipe. Die Menschenmenge beugte sich vor und strömte in gespannter Sorge hinein, um zu sehen. Jimmie sah als Erster die herannahende Unterbrechung. Im Stehen hatte er dieselbe Achtung vor einem Polizisten, wie er sie auf seinem LKW für eine Feuerwehr hatte. Er schrie und rannte zur Seitentür. Der Polizist machte einen gewaltigen Schritt nach vorne, Knüppel in der Hand. Mit einem umfassenden Schwung seines langen Schlagstocks schleuderte er den Verbündeten zu Boden und zwang Pete in eine Ecke. Mit seiner freien Hand versuchte er wütend, Jimmies Mantelschöße zu greifen. Dann gewann er sein Gleichgewicht zurück und hielt inne. "Nun, nun, ihr seid ein Paar Bilder. Was zum Teufel habt ihr angestellt?" Jimmie, mit einem blutüberströmten Gesicht, entkam die Straße hinauf und wurde auf kurze Distanz von einigen der gesetzestreuen oder aufgeregten Individuen der Menge verfolgt. Später, von einer sicher dunklen Ecke aus, sah er den Polizisten, den Verbündeten und den Barkeeper aus der Kneipe kommen. Pete schloss die Türen ab und folgte dann der Menschenmenge, die den Polizisten und seine Begleitung umgab, die den Gehweg hinuntergingen. Auf den ersten Gedanken hin wollte Jimmie, dessen Herz vor Kampfeshitze pochte, verzweifelt zur Rettung seines Freundes eilen, aber er hielt inne. "Was zum Teufel?", fragte er sich selbst. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

An einer Ecke steht eine Bar. Drinnen ist sie voller falscher Möbel. Spiegel zieren die Wände und Gläser stehen ordentlich auf dem Sideboard gestapelt. "Ein Geruch nach gierigen, schwarzen Händen und schmatzenden Mündern lag in der Luft." Pete ist der Barkeeper. Er gibt einem Gast ein Getränk und wischt dann die Theke ab. Plötzlich kommen Jimmie und ein Begleiter durch die Tür und fangen an, sich über Pete lustig zu machen. Sie bestellen Getränke und machen weiterhin Späße über Pete. Pete versucht, sie zum Schweigen zu bringen, aber sie machen ununterbrochen weiter. Schließlich geht er um die Bar herum und nimmt eine kämpferische Haltung ein. Die Männer umkreisen sich für eine gefühlte Ewigkeit und schließlich wirft Pete einen Schlag, den Jimmie ausweicht. Sie kämpfen erbittert für eine lange Zeit und plötzlich nimmt jemand eine Flasche auf und wirft sie. Sie fangen alle an, Glas aufeinander zu werfen. Draußen auf der Straße sammeln sich Leute, als sie das zerbrechende Glas hören. Polizisten kommen an und betreten die Bar. Jimmie rennt zur Seitentür und entkommt gerade noch, als der Polizist seinen Begleiter überwältigt und Pete gegen die Wand schleudert. Draußen an der Eingangstür der Gasse sieht Jimmie, wie der Polizist Pete und seinen Begleiter abführt. Er überlegt einen Moment lang, seinem Begleiter zur Hilfe zu eilen, entscheidet sich dann aber: "Ach, was zum Teufel?"

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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. Chapter: BOOK I Arms, and the man I sing, who, forc'd by fate, And haughty Juno's unrelenting hate, Expell'd and exil'd, left the Trojan shore. Long labors, both by sea and land, he bore, And in the doubtful war, before he won The Latian realm, and built the destin'd town; His banish'd gods restor'd to rites divine, And settled sure succession in his line, From whence the race of Alban fathers come, And the long glories of majestic Rome. O Muse! the causes and the crimes relate; What goddess was provok'd, and whence her hate; For what offense the Queen of Heav'n began To persecute so brave, so just a man; Involv'd his anxious life in endless cares, Expos'd to wants, and hurried into wars! Can heav'nly minds such high resentment show, Or exercise their spite in human woe? Against the Tiber's mouth, but far away, An ancient town was seated on the sea; A Tyrian colony; the people made Stout for the war, and studious of their trade: Carthage the name; belov'd by Juno more Than her own Argos, or the Samian shore. Here stood her chariot; here, if Heav'n were kind, The seat of awful empire she design'd. Yet she had heard an ancient rumor fly, (Long cited by the people of the sky,) That times to come should see the Trojan race Her Carthage ruin, and her tow'rs deface; Nor thus confin'd, the yoke of sov'reign sway Should on the necks of all the nations lay. She ponder'd this, and fear'd it was in fate; Nor could forget the war she wag'd of late For conqu'ring Greece against the Trojan state. Besides, long causes working in her mind, And secret seeds of envy, lay behind; Deep graven in her heart the doom remain'd Of partial Paris, and her form disdain'd; The grace bestow'd on ravish'd Ganymed, Electra's glories, and her injur'd bed. Each was a cause alone; and all combin'd To kindle vengeance in her haughty mind. For this, far distant from the Latian coast She drove the remnants of the Trojan host; And sev'n long years th' unhappy wand'ring train Were toss'd by storms, and scatter'd thro' the main. Such time, such toil, requir'd the Roman name, Such length of labor for so vast a frame. Now scarce the Trojan fleet, with sails and oars, Had left behind the fair Sicilian shores, Ent'ring with cheerful shouts the wat'ry reign, And plowing frothy furrows in the main; When, lab'ring still with endless discontent, The Queen of Heav'n did thus her fury vent: "Then am I vanquish'd? must I yield?" said she, "And must the Trojans reign in Italy? So Fate will have it, and Jove adds his force; Nor can my pow'r divert their happy course. Could angry Pallas, with revengeful spleen, The Grecian navy burn, and drown the men? She, for the fault of one offending foe, The bolts of Jove himself presum'd to throw: With whirlwinds from beneath she toss'd the ship, And bare expos'd the bosom of the deep; Then, as an eagle gripes the trembling game, The wretch, yet hissing with her father's flame, She strongly seiz'd, and with a burning wound Transfix'd, and naked, on a rock she bound. But I, who walk in awful state above, The majesty of heav'n, the sister wife of Jove, For length of years my fruitless force employ Against the thin remains of ruin'd Troy! What nations now to Juno's pow'r will pray, Or off'rings on my slighted altars lay?" Thus rag'd the goddess; and, with fury fraught. The restless regions of the storms she sought, Where, in a spacious cave of living stone, The tyrant Aeolus, from his airy throne, With pow'r imperial curbs the struggling winds, And sounding tempests in dark prisons binds. This way and that th' impatient captives tend, And, pressing for release, the mountains rend. High in his hall th' undaunted monarch stands, And shakes his scepter, and their rage commands; Which did he not, their unresisted sway Would sweep the world before them in their way; Earth, air, and seas thro' empty space would roll, And heav'n would fly before the driving soul. In fear of this, the Father of the Gods Confin'd their fury to those dark abodes, And lock'd 'em safe within, oppress'd with mountain loads; Impos'd a king, with arbitrary sway, To loose their fetters, or their force allay. To whom the suppliant queen her pray'rs address'd, And thus the tenor of her suit express'd: "O Aeolus! for to thee the King of Heav'n The pow'r of tempests and of winds has giv'n; Thy force alone their fury can restrain, And smooth the waves, or swell the troubled main- A race of wand'ring slaves, abhorr'd by me, With prosp'rous passage cut the Tuscan sea; To fruitful Italy their course they steer, And for their vanquish'd gods design new temples there. Raise all thy winds; with night involve the skies; Sink or disperse my fatal enemies. Twice sev'n, the charming daughters of the main, Around my person wait, and bear my train: Succeed my wish, and second my design; The fairest, Deiopeia, shall be thine, And make thee father of a happy line." To this the god: "'T is yours, O queen, to will The work which duty binds me to fulfil. These airy kingdoms, and this wide command, Are all the presents of your bounteous hand: Yours is my sov'reign's grace; and, as your guest, I sit with gods at their celestial feast; Raise tempests at your pleasure, or subdue; Dispose of empire, which I hold from you." He said, and hurl'd against the mountain side His quiv'ring spear, and all the god applied. The raging winds rush thro' the hollow wound, And dance aloft in air, and skim along the ground; Then, settling on the sea, the surges sweep, Raise liquid mountains, and disclose the deep. South, East, and West with mix'd confusion roar, And roll the foaming billows to the shore. The cables crack; the sailors' fearful cries Ascend; and sable night involves the skies; And heav'n itself is ravish'd from their eyes. Loud peals of thunder from the poles ensue; Then flashing fires the transient light renew; The face of things a frightful image bears, And present death in various forms appears. Struck with unusual fright, the Trojan chief, With lifted hands and eyes, invokes relief; And, "Thrice and four times happy those," he cried, "That under Ilian walls before their parents died! Tydides, bravest of the Grecian train! Why could not I by that strong arm be slain, And lie by noble Hector on the plain, Or great Sarpedon, in those bloody fields Where Simois rolls the bodies and the shields Of heroes, whose dismember'd hands yet bear The dart aloft, and clench the pointed spear!" Thus while the pious prince his fate bewails, Fierce Boreas drove against his flying sails, And rent the sheets; the raging billows rise, And mount the tossing vessels to the skies: Nor can the shiv'ring oars sustain the blow; The galley gives her side, and turns her prow; While those astern, descending down the steep, Thro' gaping waves behold the boiling deep. Three ships were hurried by the southern blast, And on the secret shelves with fury cast. Those hidden rocks th' Ausonian sailors knew: They call'd them Altars, when they rose in view, And show'd their spacious backs above the flood. Three more fierce Eurus, in his angry mood, Dash'd on the shallows of the moving sand, And in mid ocean left them moor'd aland. Orontes' bark, that bore the Lycian crew, (A horrid sight!) ev'n in the hero's view, From stem to stern by waves was overborne: The trembling pilot, from his rudder torn, Was headlong hurl'd; thrice round the ship was toss'd, Then bulg'd at once, and in the deep was lost; And here and there above the waves were seen Arms, pictures, precious goods, and floating men. The stoutest vessel to the storm gave way, And suck'd thro' loosen'd planks the rushing sea. Ilioneus was her chief: Alethes old, Achates faithful, Abas young and bold, Endur'd not less; their ships, with gaping seams, Admit the deluge of the briny streams. Meantime imperial Neptune heard the sound Of raging billows breaking on the ground. Displeas'd, and fearing for his wat'ry reign, He rear'd his awful head above the main, Serene in majesty; then roll'd his eyes Around the space of earth, and seas, and skies. He saw the Trojan fleet dispers'd, distress'd, By stormy winds and wintry heav'n oppress'd. Full well the god his sister's envy knew, And what her aims and what her arts pursue. He summon'd Eurus and the western blast, And first an angry glance on both he cast; Then thus rebuk'd: "Audacious winds! from whence This bold attempt, this rebel insolence? Is it for you to ravage seas and land, Unauthoriz'd by my supreme command? To raise such mountains on the troubled main? Whom I- but first 't is fit the billows to restrain; And then you shall be taught obedience to my reign. Hence! to your lord my royal mandate bear- The realms of ocean and the fields of air Are mine, not his. By fatal lot to me The liquid empire fell, and trident of the sea. His pow'r to hollow caverns is confin'd: There let him reign, the jailer of the wind, With hoarse commands his breathing subjects call, And boast and bluster in his empty hall." He spoke; and, while he spoke, he smooth'd the sea, Dispell'd the darkness, and restor'd the day. Cymothoe, Triton, and the sea-green train Of beauteous nymphs, the daughters of the main, Clear from the rocks the vessels with their hands: The god himself with ready trident stands, And opes the deep, and spreads the moving sands; Then heaves them off the shoals. Where'er he guides His finny coursers and in triumph rides, The waves unruffle and the sea subsides. As, when in tumults rise th' ignoble crowd, Mad are their motions, and their tongues are loud; And stones and brands in rattling volleys fly, And all the rustic arms that fury can supply: If then some grave and pious man appear, They hush their noise, and lend a list'ning ear; He soothes with sober words their angry mood, And quenches their innate desire of blood: So, when the Father of the Flood appears, And o'er the seas his sov'reign trident rears, Their fury falls: he skims the liquid plains, High on his chariot, and, with loosen'd reins, Majestic moves along, and awful peace maintains. The weary Trojans ply their shatter'd oars To nearest land, and make the Libyan shores. Within a long recess there lies a bay: An island shades it from the rolling sea, And forms a port secure for ships to ride; Broke by the jutting land, on either side, In double streams the briny waters glide. Betwixt two rows of rocks a sylvan scene Appears above, and groves for ever green: A grot is form'd beneath, with mossy seats, To rest the Nereids, and exclude the heats. Down thro' the crannies of the living walls The crystal streams descend in murm'ring falls: No haulsers need to bind the vessels here, Nor bearded anchors; for no storms they fear. Sev'n ships within this happy harbor meet, The thin remainders of the scatter'd fleet. The Trojans, worn with toils, and spent with woes, Leap on the welcome land, and seek their wish'd repose. First, good Achates, with repeated strokes Of clashing flints, their hidden fire provokes: Short flame succeeds; a bed of wither'd leaves The dying sparkles in their fall receives: Caught into life, in fiery fumes they rise, And, fed with stronger food, invade the skies. The Trojans, dropping wet, or stand around The cheerful blaze, or lie along the ground: Some dry their corn, infected with the brine, Then grind with marbles, and prepare to dine. Aeneas climbs the mountain's airy brow, And takes a prospect of the seas below, If Capys thence, or Antheus he could spy, Or see the streamers of Caicus fly. No vessels were in view; but, on the plain, Three beamy stags command a lordly train Of branching heads: the more ignoble throng Attend their stately steps, and slowly graze along. He stood; and, while secure they fed below, He took the quiver and the trusty bow Achates us'd to bear: the leaders first He laid along, and then the vulgar pierc'd; Nor ceas'd his arrows, till the shady plain Sev'n mighty bodies with their blood distain. For the sev'n ships he made an equal share, And to the port return'd, triumphant from the war. The jars of gen'rous wine (Acestes' gift, When his Trinacrian shores the navy left) He set abroach, and for the feast prepar'd, In equal portions with the ven'son shar'd. Thus while he dealt it round, the pious chief With cheerful words allay'd the common grief: "Endure, and conquer! Jove will soon dispose To future good our past and present woes. With me, the rocks of Scylla you have tried; Th' inhuman Cyclops and his den defied. What greater ills hereafter can you bear? Resume your courage and dismiss your care, An hour will come, with pleasure to relate Your sorrows past, as benefits of Fate. Thro' various hazards and events, we move To Latium and the realms foredoom'd by Jove. Call'd to the seat (the promise of the skies) Where Trojan kingdoms once again may rise, Endure the hardships of your present state; Live, and reserve yourselves for better fate." These words he spoke, but spoke not from his heart; His outward smiles conceal'd his inward smart. The jolly crew, unmindful of the past, The quarry share, their plenteous dinner haste. Some strip the skin; some portion out the spoil; The limbs, yet trembling, in the caldrons boil; Some on the fire the reeking entrails broil. Stretch'd on the grassy turf, at ease they dine, Restore their strength with meat, and cheer their souls with wine. Their hunger thus appeas'd, their care attends The doubtful fortune of their absent friends: Alternate hopes and fears their minds possess, Whether to deem 'em dead, or in distress. Above the rest, Aeneas mourns the fate Of brave Orontes, and th' uncertain state Of Gyas, Lycus, and of Amycus. The day, but not their sorrows, ended thus. When, from aloft, almighty Jove surveys Earth, air, and shores, and navigable seas, At length on Libyan realms he fix'd his eyes- Whom, pond'ring thus on human miseries, When Venus saw, she with a lowly look, Not free from tears, her heav'nly sire bespoke: "O King of Gods and Men! whose awful hand Disperses thunder on the seas and land, Disposing all with absolute command; How could my pious son thy pow'r incense? Or what, alas! is vanish'd Troy's offense? Our hope of Italy not only lost, On various seas by various tempests toss'd, But shut from ev'ry shore, and barr'd from ev'ry coast. You promis'd once, a progeny divine Of Romans, rising from the Trojan line, In after times should hold the world in awe, And to the land and ocean give the law. How is your doom revers'd, which eas'd my care When Troy was ruin'd in that cruel war? Then fates to fates I could oppose; but now, When Fortune still pursues her former blow, What can I hope? What worse can still succeed? What end of labors has your will decreed? Antenor, from the midst of Grecian hosts, Could pass secure, and pierce th' Illyrian coasts, Where, rolling down the steep, Timavus raves And thro' nine channels disembogues his waves. At length he founded Padua's happy seat, And gave his Trojans a secure retreat; There fix'd their arms, and there renew'd their name, And there in quiet rules, and crown'd with fame. But we, descended from your sacred line, Entitled to your heav'n and rites divine, Are banish'd earth; and, for the wrath of one, Remov'd from Latium and the promis'd throne. Are these our scepters? these our due rewards? And is it thus that Jove his plighted faith regards?" To whom the Father of th' immortal race, Smiling with that serene indulgent face, With which he drives the clouds and clears the skies, First gave a holy kiss; then thus replies: "Daughter, dismiss thy fears; to thy desire The fates of thine are fix'd, and stand entire. Thou shalt behold thy wish'd Lavinian walls; And, ripe for heav'n, when fate Aeneas calls, Then shalt thou bear him up, sublime, to me: No councils have revers'd my firm decree. And, lest new fears disturb thy happy state, Know, I have search'd the mystic rolls of Fate: Thy son (nor is th' appointed season far) In Italy shall wage successful war, Shall tame fierce nations in the bloody field, And sov'reign laws impose, and cities build, Till, after ev'ry foe subdued, the sun Thrice thro' the signs his annual race shall run: This is his time prefix'd. Ascanius then, Now call'd Iulus, shall begin his reign. He thirty rolling years the crown shall wear, Then from Lavinium shall the seat transfer, And, with hard labor, Alba Longa build. The throne with his succession shall be fill'd Three hundred circuits more: then shall be seen Ilia the fair, a priestess and a queen, Who, full of Mars, in time, with kindly throes, Shall at a birth two goodly boys disclose. The royal babes a tawny wolf shall drain: Then Romulus his grandsire's throne shall gain, Of martial tow'rs the founder shall become, The people Romans call, the city Rome. To them no bounds of empire I assign, Nor term of years to their immortal line. Ev'n haughty Juno, who, with endless broils, Earth, seas, and heav'n, and Jove himself turmoils; At length aton'd, her friendly pow'r shall join, To cherish and advance the Trojan line. The subject world shall Rome's dominion own, And, prostrate, shall adore the nation of the gown. An age is ripening in revolving fate When Troy shall overturn the Grecian state, And sweet revenge her conqu'ring sons shall call, To crush the people that conspir'd her fall. Then Caesar from the Julian stock shall rise, Whose empire ocean, and whose fame the skies Alone shall bound; whom, fraught with eastern spoils, Our heav'n, the just reward of human toils, Securely shall repay with rites divine; And incense shall ascend before his sacred shrine. Then dire debate and impious war shall cease, And the stern age be soften'd into peace: Then banish'd Faith shall once again return, And Vestal fires in hallow'd temples burn; And Remus with Quirinus shall sustain The righteous laws, and fraud and force restrain. Janus himself before his fane shall wait, And keep the dreadful issues of his gate, With bolts and iron bars: within remains Imprison'd Fury, bound in brazen chains; High on a trophy rais'd, of useless arms, He sits, and threats the world with vain alarms." He said, and sent Cyllenius with command To free the ports, and ope the Punic land To Trojan guests; lest, ignorant of fate, The queen might force them from her town and state. Down from the steep of heav'n Cyllenius flies, And cleaves with all his wings the yielding skies. Soon on the Libyan shore descends the god, Performs his message, and displays his rod: The surly murmurs of the people cease; And, as the fates requir'd, they give the peace: The queen herself suspends the rigid laws, The Trojans pities, and protects their cause. Meantime, in shades of night Aeneas lies: Care seiz'd his soul, and sleep forsook his eyes. But, when the sun restor'd the cheerful day, He rose, the coast and country to survey, Anxious and eager to discover more. It look'd a wild uncultivated shore; But, whether humankind, or beasts alone Possess'd the new-found region, was unknown. Beneath a ledge of rocks his fleet he hides: Tall trees surround the mountain's shady sides; The bending brow above a safe retreat provides. Arm'd with two pointed darts, he leaves his friends, And true Achates on his steps attends. Lo! in the deep recesses of the wood, Before his eyes his goddess mother stood: A huntress in her habit and her mien; Her dress a maid, her air confess'd a queen. Bare were her knees, and knots her garments bind; Loose was her hair, and wanton'd in the wind; Her hand sustain'd a bow; her quiver hung behind. She seem'd a virgin of the Spartan blood: With such array Harpalyce bestrode Her Thracian courser and outstripp'd the rapid flood. "Ho, strangers! have you lately seen," she said, "One of my sisters, like myself array'd, Who cross'd the lawn, or in the forest stray'd? A painted quiver at her back she bore; Varied with spots, a lynx's hide she wore; And at full cry pursued the tusky boar." Thus Venus: thus her son replied again: "None of your sisters have we heard or seen, O virgin! or what other name you bear Above that style- O more than mortal fair! Your voice and mien celestial birth betray! If, as you seem, the sister of the day, Or one at least of chaste Diana's train, Let not an humble suppliant sue in vain; But tell a stranger, long in tempests toss'd, What earth we tread, and who commands the coast? Then on your name shall wretched mortals call, And offer'd victims at your altars fall." "I dare not," she replied, "assume the name Of goddess, or celestial honors claim: For Tyrian virgins bows and quivers bear, And purple buskins o'er their ankles wear. Know, gentle youth, in Libyan lands you are- A people rude in peace, and rough in war. The rising city, which from far you see, Is Carthage, and a Tyrian colony. Phoenician Dido rules the growing state, Who fled from Tyre, to shun her brother's hate. Great were her wrongs, her story full of fate; Which I will sum in short. Sichaeus, known For wealth, and brother to the Punic throne, Possess'd fair Dido's bed; and either heart At once was wounded with an equal dart. Her father gave her, yet a spotless maid; Pygmalion then the Tyrian scepter sway'd: One who condemn'd divine and human laws. Then strife ensued, and cursed gold the cause. The monarch, blinded with desire of wealth, With steel invades his brother's life by stealth; Before the sacred altar made him bleed, And long from her conceal'd the cruel deed. Some tale, some new pretense, he daily coin'd, To soothe his sister, and delude her mind. At length, in dead of night, the ghost appears Of her unhappy lord: the specter stares, And, with erected eyes, his bloody bosom bares. The cruel altars and his fate he tells, And the dire secret of his house reveals, Then warns the widow, with her household gods, To seek a refuge in remote abodes. Last, to support her in so long a way, He shows her where his hidden treasure lay. Admonish'd thus, and seiz'd with mortal fright, The queen provides companions of her flight: They meet, and all combine to leave the state, Who hate the tyrant, or who fear his hate. They seize a fleet, which ready rigg'd they find; Nor is Pygmalion's treasure left behind. The vessels, heavy laden, put to sea With prosp'rous winds; a woman leads the way. I know not, if by stress of weather driv'n, Or was their fatal course dispos'd by Heav'n; At last they landed, where from far your eyes May view the turrets of new Carthage rise; There bought a space of ground, which (Byrsa call'd, From the bull's hide) they first inclos'd, and wall'd. But whence are you? what country claims your birth? What seek you, strangers, on our Libyan earth?" To whom, with sorrow streaming from his eyes, And deeply sighing, thus her son replies: "Could you with patience hear, or I relate, O nymph, the tedious annals of our fate! Thro' such a train of woes if I should run, The day would sooner than the tale be done! From ancient Troy, by force expell'd, we came- If you by chance have heard the Trojan name. On various seas by various tempests toss'd, At length we landed on your Libyan coast. The good Aeneas am I call'd- a name, While Fortune favor'd, not unknown to fame. My household gods, companions of my woes, With pious care I rescued from our foes. To fruitful Italy my course was bent; And from the King of Heav'n is my descent. With twice ten sail I cross'd the Phrygian sea; Fate and my mother goddess led my way. Scarce sev'n, the thin remainders of my fleet, From storms preserv'd, within your harbor meet. Myself distress'd, an exile, and unknown, Debarr'd from Europe, and from Asia thrown, In Libyan desarts wander thus alone." His tender parent could no longer bear; But, interposing, sought to soothe his care. "Whoe'er you are- not unbelov'd by Heav'n, Since on our friendly shore your ships are driv'n- Have courage: to the gods permit the rest, And to the queen expose your just request. Now take this earnest of success, for more: Your scatter'd fleet is join'd upon the shore; The winds are chang'd, your friends from danger free; Or I renounce my skill in augury. Twelve swans behold in beauteous order move, And stoop with closing pinions from above; Whom late the bird of Jove had driv'n along, And thro' the clouds pursued the scatt'ring throng: Now, all united in a goodly team, They skim the ground, and seek the quiet stream. As they, with joy returning, clap their wings, And ride the circuit of the skies in rings; Not otherwise your ships, and ev'ry friend, Already hold the port, or with swift sails descend. No more advice is needful; but pursue The path before you, and the town in view." Thus having said, she turn'd, and made appear Her neck refulgent, and dishevel'd hair, Which, flowing from her shoulders, reach'd the ground. And widely spread ambrosial scents around: In length of train descends her sweeping gown; And, by her graceful walk, the Queen of Love is known. The prince pursued the parting deity With words like these: "Ah! whither do you fly? Unkind and cruel! to deceive your son In borrow'd shapes, and his embrace to shun; Never to bless my sight, but thus unknown; And still to speak in accents not your own." Against the goddess these complaints he made, But took the path, and her commands obey'd. They march, obscure; for Venus kindly shrouds With mists their persons, and involves in clouds, That, thus unseen, their passage none might stay, Or force to tell the causes of their way. This part perform'd, the goddess flies sublime To visit Paphos and her native clime; Where garlands, ever green and ever fair, With vows are offer'd, and with solemn pray'r: A hundred altars in her temple smoke; A thousand bleeding hearts her pow'r invoke. They climb the next ascent, and, looking down, Now at a nearer distance view the town. The prince with wonder sees the stately tow'rs, Which late were huts and shepherds' homely bow'rs, The gates and streets; and hears, from ev'ry part, The noise and busy concourse of the mart. The toiling Tyrians on each other call To ply their labor: some extend the wall; Some build the citadel; the brawny throng Or dig, or push unwieldly stones along. Some for their dwellings choose a spot of ground, Which, first design'd, with ditches they surround. Some laws ordain; and some attend the choice Of holy senates, and elect by voice. Here some design a mole, while others there Lay deep foundations for a theater; From marble quarries mighty columns hew, For ornaments of scenes, and future view. Such is their toil, and such their busy pains, As exercise the bees in flow'ry plains, When winter past, and summer scarce begun, Invites them forth to labor in the sun; Some lead their youth abroad, while some condense Their liquid store, and some in cells dispense; Some at the gate stand ready to receive The golden burthen, and their friends relieve; All with united force, combine to drive The lazy drones from the laborious hive: With envy stung, they view each other's deeds; The fragrant work with diligence proceeds. "Thrice happy you, whose walls already rise!" Aeneas said, and view'd, with lifted eyes, Their lofty tow'rs; then, entiring at the gate, Conceal'd in clouds (prodigious to relate) He mix'd, unmark'd, among the busy throng, Borne by the tide, and pass'd unseen along. Full in the center of the town there stood, Thick set with trees, a venerable wood. The Tyrians, landing near this holy ground, And digging here, a prosp'rous omen found: From under earth a courser's head they drew, Their growth and future fortune to foreshew. This fated sign their foundress Juno gave, Of a soil fruitful, and a people brave. Sidonian Dido here with solemn state Did Juno's temple build, and consecrate, Enrich'd with gifts, and with a golden shrine; But more the goddess made the place divine. On brazen steps the marble threshold rose, And brazen plates the cedar beams inclose: The rafters are with brazen cov'rings crown'd; The lofty doors on brazen hinges sound. What first Aeneas this place beheld, Reviv'd his courage, and his fear expell'd. For while, expecting there the queen, he rais'd His wond'ring eyes, and round the temple gaz'd, Admir'd the fortune of the rising town, The striving artists, and their arts' renown; He saw, in order painted on the wall, Whatever did unhappy Troy befall: The wars that fame around the world had blown, All to the life, and ev'ry leader known. There Agamemnon, Priam here, he spies, And fierce Achilles, who both kings defies. He stopp'd, and weeping said: "O friend! ev'n here The monuments of Trojan woes appear! Our known disasters fill ev'n foreign lands: See there, where old unhappy Priam stands! Ev'n the mute walls relate the warrior's fame, And Trojan griefs the Tyrians' pity claim." He said (his tears a ready passage find), Devouring what he saw so well design'd, And with an empty picture fed his mind: For there he saw the fainting Grecians yield, And here the trembling Trojans quit the field, Pursued by fierce Achilles thro' the plain, On his high chariot driving o'er the slain. The tents of Rhesus next his grief renew, By their white sails betray'd to nightly view; And wakeful Diomede, whose cruel sword The sentries slew, nor spar'd their slumb'ring lord, Then took the fiery steeds, ere yet the food Of Troy they taste, or drink the Xanthian flood. Elsewhere he saw where Troilus defied Achilles, and unequal combat tried; Then, where the boy disarm'd, with loosen'd reins, Was by his horses hurried o'er the plains, Hung by the neck and hair, and dragg'd around: The hostile spear, yet sticking in his wound, With tracks of blood inscrib'd the dusty ground. Meantime the Trojan dames, oppress'd with woe, To Pallas' fane in long procession go, In hopes to reconcile their heav'nly foe. They weep, they beat their breasts, they rend their hair, And rich embroider'd vests for presents bear; But the stern goddess stands unmov'd with pray'r. Thrice round the Trojan walls Achilles drew The corpse of Hector, whom in fight he slew. Here Priam sues; and there, for sums of gold, The lifeless body of his son is sold. So sad an object, and so well express'd, Drew sighs and groans from the griev'd hero's breast, To see the figure of his lifeless friend, And his old sire his helpless hand extend. Himself he saw amidst the Grecian train, Mix'd in the bloody battle on the plain; And swarthy Memnon in his arms he knew, His pompous ensigns, and his Indian crew. Penthisilea there, with haughty grace, Leads to the wars an Amazonian race: In their right hands a pointed dart they wield; The left, for ward, sustains the lunar shield. Athwart her breast a golden belt she throws, Amidst the press alone provokes a thousand foes, And dares her maiden arms to manly force oppose. Thus while the Trojan prince employs his eyes, Fix'd on the walls with wonder and surprise, The beauteous Dido, with a num'rous train And pomp of guards, ascends the sacred fane. Such on Eurotas' banks, or Cynthus' height, Diana seems; and so she charms the sight, When in the dance the graceful goddess leads The choir of nymphs, and overtops their heads: Known by her quiver, and her lofty mien, She walks majestic, and she looks their queen; Latona sees her shine above the rest, And feeds with secret joy her silent breast. Such Dido was; with such becoming state, Amidst the crowd, she walks serenely great. Their labor to her future sway she speeds, And passing with a gracious glance proceeds; Then mounts the throne, high plac'd before the shrine: In crowds around, the swarming people join. She takes petitions, and dispenses laws, Hears and determines ev'ry private cause; Their tasks in equal portions she divides, And, where unequal, there by lots decides. Another way by chance Aeneas bends His eyes, and unexpected sees his friends, Antheus, Sergestus grave, Cloanthus strong, And at their backs a mighty Trojan throng, Whom late the tempest on the billows toss'd, And widely scatter'd on another coast. The prince, unseen, surpris'd with wonder stands, And longs, with joyful haste, to join their hands; But, doubtful of the wish'd event, he stays, And from the hollow cloud his friends surveys, Impatient till they told their present state, And where they left their ships, and what their fate, And why they came, and what was their request; For these were sent, commission'd by the rest, To sue for leave to land their sickly men, And gain admission to the gracious queen. Ent'ring, with cries they fill'd the holy fane; Then thus, with lowly voice, Ilioneus began: "O queen! indulg'd by favor of the gods To found an empire in these new abodes, To build a town, with statutes to restrain The wild inhabitants beneath thy reign, We wretched Trojans, toss'd on ev'ry shore, From sea to sea, thy clemency implore. Forbid the fires our shipping to deface! Receive th' unhappy fugitives to grace, And spare the remnant of a pious race! We come not with design of wasteful prey, To drive the country, force the swains away: Nor such our strength, nor such is our desire; The vanquish'd dare not to such thoughts aspire. A land there is, Hesperia nam'd of old; The soil is fruitful, and the men are bold- Th' Oenotrians held it once- by common fame Now call'd Italia, from the leader's name. To that sweet region was our voyage bent, When winds and ev'ry warring element Disturb'd our course, and, far from sight of land, Cast our torn vessels on the moving sand: The sea came on; the South, with mighty roar, Dispers'd and dash'd the rest upon the rocky shore. Those few you see escap'd the Storm, and fear, Unless you interpose, a shipwreck here. What men, what monsters, what inhuman race, What laws, what barb'rous customs of the place, Shut up a desart shore to drowning men, And drive us to the cruel seas again? If our hard fortune no compassion draws, Nor hospitable rights, nor human laws, The gods are just, and will revenge our cause. Aeneas was our prince: a juster lord, Or nobler warrior, never drew a sword; Observant of the right, religious of his word. If yet he lives, and draws this vital air, Nor we, his friends, of safety shall despair; Nor you, great queen, these offices repent, Which he will equal, and perhaps augment. We want not cities, nor Sicilian coasts, Where King Acestes Trojan lineage boasts. Permit our ships a shelter on your shores, Refitted from your woods with planks and oars, That, if our prince be safe, we may renew Our destin'd course, and Italy pursue. But if, O best of men, the Fates ordain That thou art swallow'd in the Libyan main, And if our young Iulus be no more, Dismiss our navy from your friendly shore, That we to good Acestes may return, And with our friends our common losses mourn." Thus spoke Ilioneus: the Trojan crew With cries and clamors his request renew. The modest queen a while, with downcast eyes, Ponder'd the speech; then briefly thus replies: "Trojans, dismiss your fears; my cruel fate, And doubts attending an unsettled state, Force me to guard my coast from foreign foes. Who has not heard the story of your woes, The name and fortune of your native place, The fame and valor of the Phrygian race? We Tyrians are not so devoid of sense, Nor so remote from Phoebus' influence. Whether to Latian shores your course is bent, Or, driv'n by tempests from your first intent, You seek the good Acestes' government, Your men shall be receiv'd, your fleet repair'd, And sail, with ships of convoy for your guard: Or, would you stay, and join your friendly pow'rs To raise and to defend the Tyrian tow'rs, My wealth, my city, and myself are yours. And would to Heav'n, the Storm, you felt, would bring On Carthaginian coasts your wand'ring king. My people shall, by my command, explore The ports and creeks of ev'ry winding shore, And towns, and wilds, and shady woods, in quest Of so renown'd and so desir'd a guest." Rais'd in his mind the Trojan hero stood, And long'd to break from out his ambient cloud: Achates found it, and thus urg'd his way: "From whence, O goddess-born, this long delay? What more can you desire, your welcome sure, Your fleet in safety, and your friends secure? One only wants; and him we saw in vain Oppose the Storm, and swallow'd in the main. Orontes in his fate our forfeit paid; The rest agrees with what your mother said." Scarce had he spoken, when the cloud gave way, The mists flew upward and dissolv'd in day. The Trojan chief appear'd in open sight, August in visage, and serenely bright. His mother goddess, with her hands divine, Had form'd his curling locks, and made his temples shine, And giv'n his rolling eyes a sparkling grace, And breath'd a youthful vigor on his face; Like polish'd ivory, beauteous to behold, Or Parian marble, when enchas'd in gold: Thus radiant from the circling cloud he broke, And thus with manly modesty he spoke: "He whom you seek am I; by tempests toss'd, And sav'd from shipwreck on your Libyan coast; Presenting, gracious queen, before your throne, A prince that owes his life to you alone. Fair majesty, the refuge and redress Of those whom fate pursues, and wants oppress, You, who your pious offices employ To save the relics of abandon'd Troy; Receive the shipwreck'd on your friendly shore, With hospitable rites relieve the poor; Associate in your town a wand'ring train, And strangers in your palace entertain: What thanks can wretched fugitives return, Who, scatter'd thro' the world, in exile mourn? The gods, if gods to goodness are inclin'd; If acts of mercy touch their heav'nly mind, And, more than all the gods, your gen'rous heart. Conscious of worth, requite its own desert! In you this age is happy, and this earth, And parents more than mortal gave you birth. While rolling rivers into seas shall run, And round the space of heav'n the radiant sun; While trees the mountain tops with shades supply, Your honor, name, and praise shall never die. Whate'er abode my fortune has assign'd, Your image shall be present in my mind." Thus having said, he turn'd with pious haste, And joyful his expecting friends embrac'd: With his right hand Ilioneus was grac'd, Serestus with his left; then to his breast Cloanthus and the noble Gyas press'd; And so by turns descended to the rest. The Tyrian queen stood fix'd upon his face, Pleas'd with his motions, ravish'd with his grace; Admir'd his fortunes, more admir'd the man; Then recollected stood, and thus began: "What fate, O goddess-born; what angry pow'rs Have cast you shipwrack'd on our barren shores? Are you the great Aeneas, known to fame, Who from celestial seed your lineage claim? The same Aeneas whom fair Venus bore To fam'd Anchises on th' Idaean shore? It calls into my mind, tho' then a child, When Teucer came, from Salamis exil'd, And sought my father's aid, to be restor'd: My father Belus then with fire and sword Invaded Cyprus, made the region bare, And, conqu'ring, finish'd the successful war. From him the Trojan siege I understood, The Grecian chiefs, and your illustrious blood. Your foe himself the Dardan valor prais'd, And his own ancestry from Trojans rais'd. Enter, my noble guest, and you shall find, If not a costly welcome, yet a kind: For I myself, like you, have been distress'd, Till Heav'n afforded me this place of rest; Like you, an alien in a land unknown, I learn to pity woes so like my own." She said, and to the palace led her guest; Then offer'd incense, and proclaim'd a feast. Nor yet less careful for her absent friends, Twice ten fat oxen to the ships she sends; Besides a hundred boars, a hundred lambs, With bleating cries, attend their milky dams; And jars of gen'rous wine and spacious bowls She gives, to cheer the sailors' drooping souls. Now purple hangings clothe the palace walls, And sumptuous feasts are made in splendid halls: On Tyrian carpets, richly wrought, they dine; With loads of massy plate the sideboards shine, And antique vases, all of gold emboss'd (The gold itself inferior to the cost), Of curious work, where on the sides were seen The fights and figures of illustrious men, From their first founder to the present queen. The good Aeneas, paternal care Iulus' absence could no longer bear, Dispatch'd Achates to the ships in haste, To give a glad relation of the past, And, fraught with precious gifts, to bring the boy, Snatch'd from the ruins of unhappy Troy: A robe of tissue, stiff with golden wire; An upper vest, once Helen's rich attire, From Argos by the fam'd adultress brought, With golden flow'rs and winding foliage wrought, Her mother Leda's present, when she came To ruin Troy and set the world on flame; The scepter Priam's eldest daughter bore, Her orient necklace, and the crown she wore Of double texture, glorious to behold, One order set with gems, and one with gold. Instructed thus, the wise Achates goes, And in his diligence his duty shows. But Venus, anxious for her son's affairs, New counsels tries, and new designs prepares: That Cupid should assume the shape and face Of sweet Ascanius, and the sprightly grace; Should bring the presents, in her nephew's stead, And in Eliza's veins the gentle poison shed: For much she fear'd the Tyrians, double-tongued, And knew the town to Juno's care belong'd. These thoughts by night her golden slumbers broke, And thus alarm'd, to winged Love she spoke: "My son, my strength, whose mighty pow'r alone Controls the Thund'rer on his awful throne, To thee thy much-afflicted mother flies, And on thy succor and thy faith relies. Thou know'st, my son, how Jove's revengeful wife, By force and fraud, attempts thy brother's life; And often hast thou mourn'd with me his pains. Him Dido now with blandishment detains; But I suspect the town where Juno reigns. For this 't is needful to prevent her art, And fire with love the proud Phoenician's heart: A love so violent, so strong, so sure, As neither age can change, nor art can cure. How this may be perform'd, now take my mind: Ascanius by his father is design'd To come, with presents laden, from the port, To gratify the queen, and gain the court. I mean to plunge the boy in pleasing sleep, And, ravish'd, in Idalian bow'rs to keep, Or high Cythera, that the sweet deceit May pass unseen, and none prevent the cheat. Take thou his form and shape. I beg the grace But only for a night's revolving space: Thyself a boy, assume a boy's dissembled face; That when, amidst the fervor of the feast, The Tyrian hugs and fonds thee on her breast, And with sweet kisses in her arms constrains, Thou may'st infuse thy venom in her veins." The God of Love obeys, and sets aside His bow and quiver, and his plumy pride; He walks Iulus in his mother's sight, And in the sweet resemblance takes delight. The goddess then to young Ascanius flies, And in a pleasing slumber seals his eyes: Lull'd in her lap, amidst a train of Loves, She gently bears him to her blissful groves, Then with a wreath of myrtle crowns his head, And softly lays him on a flow'ry bed. Cupid meantime assum'd his form and face, Foll'wing Achates with a shorter pace, And brought the gifts. The queen already sate Amidst the Trojan lords, in shining state, High on a golden bed: her princely guest Was next her side; in order sate the rest. Then canisters with bread are heap'd on high; Th' attendants water for their hands supply, And, having wash'd, with silken towels dry. Next fifty handmaids in long order bore The censers, and with fumes the gods adore: Then youths, and virgins twice as many, join To place the dishes, and to serve the wine. The Tyrian train, admitted to the feast, Approach, and on the painted couches rest. All on the Trojan gifts with wonder gaze, But view the beauteous boy with more amaze, His rosy-color'd cheeks, his radiant eyes, His motions, voice, and shape, and all the god's disguise; Nor pass unprais'd the vest and veil divine, Which wand'ring foliage and rich flow'rs entwine. But, far above the rest, the royal dame, (Already doom'd to love's disastrous flame,) With eyes insatiate, and tumultuous joy, Beholds the presents, and admires the boy. The guileful god about the hero long, With children's play, and false embraces, hung; Then sought the queen: she took him to her arms With greedy pleasure, and devour'd his charms. Unhappy Dido little thought what guest, How dire a god, she drew so near her breast; But he, not mindless of his mother's pray'r, Works in the pliant bosom of the fair, And molds her heart anew, and blots her former care. The dead is to the living love resign'd; And all Aeneas enters in her mind. Now, when the rage of hunger was appeas'd, The meat remov'd, and ev'ry guest was pleas'd, The golden bowls with sparkling wine are crown'd, And thro' the palace cheerful cries resound. From gilded roofs depending lamps display Nocturnal beams, that emulate the day. A golden bowl, that shone with gems divine, The queen commanded to be crown'd with wine: The bowl that Belus us'd, and all the Tyrian line. Then, silence thro' the hall proclaim'd, she spoke: "O hospitable Jove! we thus invoke, With solemn rites, thy sacred name and pow'r; Bless to both nations this auspicious hour! So may the Trojan and the Tyrian line In lasting concord from this day combine. Thou, Bacchus, god of joys and friendly cheer, And gracious Juno, both be present here! And you, my lords of Tyre, your vows address To Heav'n with mine, to ratify the peace." The goblet then she took, with nectar crown'd (Sprinkling the first libations on the ground,) And rais'd it to her mouth with sober grace; Then, sipping, offer'd to the next in place. 'T was Bitias whom she call'd, a thirsty soul; He took challenge, and embrac'd the bowl, With pleasure swill'd the gold, nor ceas'd to draw, Till he the bottom of the brimmer saw. The goblet goes around: Iopas brought His golden lyre, and sung what ancient Atlas taught: The various labors of the wand'ring moon, And whence proceed th' eclipses of the sun; Th' original of men and beasts; and whence The rains arise, and fires their warmth dispense, And fix'd and erring stars dispose their influence; What shakes the solid earth; what cause delays The summer nights and shortens winter days. With peals of shouts the Tyrians praise the song: Those peals are echo'd by the Trojan throng. Th' unhappy queen with talk prolong'd the night, And drank large draughts of love with vast delight; Of Priam much enquir'd, of Hector more; Then ask'd what arms the swarthy Memnon wore, What troops he landed on the Trojan shore; The steeds of Diomede varied the discourse, And fierce Achilles, with his matchless force; At length, as fate and her ill stars requir'd, To hear the series of the war desir'd. "Relate at large, my godlike guest," she said, "The Grecian stratagems, the town betray'd: The fatal issue of so long a war, Your flight, your wand'rings, and your woes, declare; For, since on ev'ry sea, on ev'ry coast, Your men have been distress'd, your navy toss'd, Sev'n times the sun has either tropic view'd, The winter banish'd, and the spring renew'd." Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Ich singe vom Krieg und einem Mann im Krieg... Er kam durch das Schicksal nach Italien. Virgil eröffnet sein episches Gedicht, indem er sein Thema erklärt, "Krieg und ein Mann im Krieg", und eine Muse oder Göttin der Inspiration bittet, den Zorn der Königin der Götter, Juno, zu erklären. Der Mann, von dem die Rede ist, ist Aeneas, der die Ruinen seiner Heimatstadt Troja flieht, die im Krieg mit Achilles und den Griechen verwüstet wurde. Die überlebenden Trojaner begleiten Aeneas auf einer gefährlichen Reise, um sich in Italien eine neue Heimat aufzubauen, doch sie müssen sich mit der rachsüchtigen Juno auseinandersetzen. Juno hegt Groll gegen Aeneas, weil Karthago ihre Lieblingsstadt ist und eine Prophezeiung besagt, dass das von den Trojanern abstammende Volk eines Tages Karthago zerstören wird. Juno hegt eine dauerhafte Abneigung gegen Troja, weil ein anderer Trojaner, Paris, in einem göttlichen Schönheitswettbewerb Junos Rivalin Venus zur Schönsten erklärte. Juno ruft Aeolus, den Gott der Winde, an und befiehlt ihm, einen gewaltigen Sturm über Aeneas zu bringen, als er südlich von Sizilien nach einem freundlichen Hafen sucht. Aeolus gehorcht und entfesselt einen heftigen Sturm über die erschöpften Trojaner. Aeneas beobachtet mit Entsetzen, wie der Sturm näherkommt. Wind und Wellen peitschen die Schiffe, bringen sie vom Kurs ab und zerstreuen sie. Als sich der Sturm intensiviert, spürt Neptun, der Gott des Meeres, die Anwesenheit des Sturms in seinem Hoheitsgebiet. Er sagt den Winden, dass Aeolus seine Kompetenzen überschritten hat, und beruhigt die Gewässer, gerade als Aeneas' Flotte dem Untergang geweiht scheint. Sieben Schiffe bleiben übrig, und sie steuern auf das nächste Land in Sichtweite zu: die Küste von Libyen. Als sie das Ufer erreichen, erinnert ein erschöpfter und besorgter Aeneas seine Gefährten vor dem Aufbruch zur Nahrungsbeschaffung an frühere, noch tödlichere Widrigkeiten, die sie überstanden haben, und an das Schicksalsende, auf das sie hinarbeiten. Inzwischen beobachtet Aeneas' Mutter Venus auf dem Olymp, dem Sitz der Götter, das Leid der Trojaner und fleht Jupiter, den König der Götter, an, ihr Leiden zu beenden. Jupiter versichert ihr, dass Aeneas irgendwann seine versprochene Heimat in Italien finden wird und dass zwei von Aeneas' Nachkommen, Romulus und Remus, das mächtigste Reich der Welt gründen werden. Jupiter schickt einen Gott zu den Menschen von Karthago hinab, um sicherzustellen, dass sie sich gastfreundlich gegenüber den Trojanern verhalten. Aeneas ist sich der göttlichen Machenschaften, die seinen Kurs bestimmen, nicht bewusst. Während er im Wald ist, erscheint Venus in Verkleidung vor ihm und erzählt, wie Dido zur Königin von Karthago wurde. Didos reicher Ehemann, Sychaeus, der mit ihr in Tyrus lebte, wurde für sein Gold von ihrem Bruder Pygmalion ermordet. Sychaeus erschien Dido als Geist und riet ihr, Tyrus mit denen zu verlassen, die den Tyrannen Pygmalion ablehnten. Sie floh, und die ausgewanderten Phönizier ließen sich über dem Meer in Libyen nieder. Sie gründeten Karthago, das zu einer mächtigen Stadt geworden ist. Venus rät Aeneas, in die Stadt zu gehen und mit der Königin zu sprechen, die ihn willkommen heißen wird. Aeneas und sein Freund Achates nähern sich Karthago, gehüllt in eine Wolke, die Venus beschwört, um zu verhindern, dass sie gesehen werden. Am Stadtrand treffen sie auf ein Heiligtum für Juno und sind erstaunt, als sie ein großes Wandgemälde sehen, das die Ereignisse des Trojanischen Krieges zeigt. Ihr Erstaunen steigert sich, als sie in Didos Hof vielen ihrer Kameraden begegnen, die im Sturm verloren und verstreut waren und von Dido um Hilfe beim Wiederaufbau ihrer Flotte bitten. Dido gewährt ihren Wunsch gerne und sagt, dass sie ihren Anführer gerne treffen würde. Achates bemerkt, dass er und Aeneas offensichtlich die Wahrheit über ihre herzliche Aufnahme gesagt bekommen haben, und Aeneas tritt aus der Wolke heraus. Dido ist von Ehrfurcht erfüllt und erfreut, den berühmten Helden zu sehen. Sie lädt die trojanischen Anführer ein, mit ihr in ihrem Palast zu speisen. Venus macht sich Sorgen, dass Juno die Phönizier gegen ihren Sohn aufhetzen wird. Sie schickt einen weiteren ihrer Söhne, Cupid, den Gott der Liebe, der die Gestalt von Aeneas' Sohn Ascanius annimmt. Unter dieser Verkleidung entflammt Cupid das Herz der Königin mit Leidenschaft für Aeneas. Mit Liebe in den Augen bittet Dido Aeneas, ihr die Geschichte seiner Abenteuer während des Krieges und der sieben Jahre seit dem Verlassen Trojas zu erzählen.

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.

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 XV Sweet is the breath of vernal shower, The bees' collected treasures sweet, Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet The still, small voice of gratitude. GRAY On the following day, the arrival of her friend revived the drooping Emily, and La Vallee became once more the scene of social kindness and of elegant hospitality. Illness and the terror she had suffered had stolen from Blanche much of her sprightliness, but all her affectionate simplicity remained, and, though she appeared less blooming, she was not less engaging than before. The unfortunate adventure on the Pyrenees had made the Count very anxious to reach home, and, after little more than a week's stay at La Vallee, Emily prepared to set out with her friends for Languedoc, assigning the care of her house, during her absence, to Theresa. On the evening, preceding her departure, this old servant brought again the ring of Valancourt, and, with tears, entreated her mistress to receive it, for that she had neither seen, or heard of M. Valancourt, since the night when he delivered it to her. As she said this, her countenance expressed more alarm, than she dared to utter; but Emily, checking her own propensity to fear, considered, that he had probably returned to the residence of his brother, and, again refusing to accept the ring, bade Theresa preserve it, till she saw him, which, with extreme reluctance, she promised to do. On the following day, Count De Villefort, with Emily and the Lady Blanche, left La Vallee, and, on the ensuing evening, arrived at the Chateau-le-Blanc, where the Countess, Henri, and M. Du Pont, whom Emily was surprised to find there, received them with much joy and congratulation. She was concerned to observe, that the Count still encouraged the hopes of his friend, whose countenance declared, that his affection had suffered no abatement from absence; and was much distressed, when, on the second evening after her arrival, the Count, having withdrawn her from the Lady Blanche, with whom she was walking, renewed the subject of M. Du Pont's hopes. The mildness, with which she listened to his intercessions at first, deceiving him, as to her sentiments, he began to believe, that, her affection for Valancourt being overcome, she was, at length, disposed to think favourably of M. Du Pont; and, when she afterwards convinced him of his mistake, he ventured, in the earnestness of his wish to promote what he considered to be the happiness of two persons, whom he so much esteemed, gently to remonstrate with her, on thus suffering an ill-placed affection to poison the happiness of her most valuable years. Observing her silence and the deep dejection of her countenance, he concluded with saying, 'I will not say more now, but I will still believe, my dear Mademoiselle St. Aubert, that you will not always reject a person, so truly estimable as my friend Du Pont.' He spared her the pain of replying, by leaving her; and she strolled on, somewhat displeased with the Count for having persevered to plead for a suit, which she had repeatedly rejected, and lost amidst the melancholy recollections, which this topic had revived, till she had insensibly reached the borders of the woods, that screened the monastery of St. Clair, when, perceiving how far she had wandered, she determined to extend her walk a little farther, and to enquire about the abbess and some of her friends among the nuns. Though the evening was now drawing to a close, she accepted the invitation of the friar, who opened the gate, and, anxious to meet some of her old acquaintances, proceeded towards the convent parlour. As she crossed the lawn, that sloped from the front of the monastery towards the sea, she was struck with the picture of repose, exhibited by some monks, sitting in the cloisters, which extended under the brow of the woods, that crowned this eminence; where, as they meditated, at this twilight hour, holy subjects, they sometimes suffered their attention to be relieved by the scene before them, nor thought it profane to look at nature, now that it had exchanged the brilliant colours of day for the sober hue of evening. Before the cloisters, however, spread an ancient chesnut, whose ample branches were designed to screen the full magnificence of a scene, that might tempt the wish to worldly pleasures; but still, beneath the dark and spreading foliage, gleamed a wide extent of ocean, and many a passing sail; while, to the right and left, thick woods were seen stretching along the winding shores. So much as this had been admitted, perhaps, to give to the secluded votary an image of the dangers and vicissitudes of life, and to console him, now that he had renounced its pleasures, by the certainty of having escaped its evils. As Emily walked pensively along, considering how much suffering she might have escaped, had she become a votaress of the order, and remained in this retirement from the time of her father's death, the vesper-bell struck up, and the monks retired slowly toward the chapel, while she, pursuing her way, entered the great hall, where an unusual silence seemed to reign. The parlour too, which opened from it, she found vacant, but, as the evening bell was sounding, she believed the nuns had withdrawn into the chapel, and sat down to rest, for a moment, before she returned to the chateau, where, however, the increasing gloom made her now anxious to be. Not many minutes had elapsed, before a nun, entering in haste, enquired for the abbess, and was retiring, without recollecting Emily, when she made herself known, and then learned, that a mass was going to be performed for the soul of sister Agnes, who had been declining, for some time, and who was now believed to be dying. Of her sufferings the sister gave a melancholy account, and of the horrors, into which she had frequently started, but which had now yielded to a dejection so gloomy, that neither the prayers, in which she was joined by the sisterhood, or the assurances of her confessor, had power to recall her from it, or to cheer her mind even with a momentary gleam of comfort. To this relation Emily listened with extreme concern, and, recollecting the frenzied manners and the expressions of horror, which she had herself witnessed of Agnes, together with the history, that sister Frances had communicated, her compassion was heightened to a very painful degree. As the evening was already far advanced, Emily did not now desire to see her, or to join in the mass, and, after leaving many kind remembrances with the nun, for her old friends, she quitted the monastery, and returned over the cliffs towards the chateau, meditating upon what she had just heard, till, at length she forced her mind upon less interesting subjects. The wind was high, and as she drew near the chateau, she often paused to listen to its awful sound, as it swept over the billows, that beat below, or groaned along the surrounding woods; and, while she rested on a cliff at a short distance from the chateau, and looked upon the wide waters, seen dimly beneath the last shade of twilight, she thought of the following address: TO THE WINDS Viewless, through heaven's vast vault your course ye steer, Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go! Mysterious pow'rs! I hear ye murmur low, Till swells your loud gust on my startled ear, And, awful! seems to say--some God is near! I love to list your midnight voices float In the dread storm, that o'er the ocean rolls, And, while their charm the angry wave controuls, Mix with its sullen roar, and sink remote. Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note, The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail, A sweeter note oft swells while sleeps the gale! But soon, ye sightless pow'rs! your rest is o'er, Solemn and slow, ye rise upon the air, Speak in the shrouds, and bid the sea-boy fear, And the faint-warbled dirge--is heard no more! Oh! then I deprecate your awful reign! The loud lament yet bear not on your breath! Bear not the crash of bark far on the main, Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain, The crew's dread chorus sinking into death! Oh! give not these, ye pow'rs! I ask alone, As rapt I climb these dark romantic steeps, The elemental war, the billow's moan; I ask the still, sweet tear, that listening Fancy weeps! Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Mann, der Graf de Villeforte gibt wirklich alles, um Em zu überzeugen, sich für Du Pont zu entscheiden. Hör auf, fetch passieren zu lassen, Graf. Nachdem sie eine Weile in La Vallee abgehangen haben, lädt der Graf Em ein, zurück nach Chateau-le-Blanc zu kommen. Ja, diese reichen Leute hüpfen wirklich ziemlich oft zwischen den Häusern hin und her. Dort angekommen, geht Em natürlich direkt zu ihrem Lieblingsplatz: dem Kloster. Es ist ein bisschen chaotisch im Nonnenkloster. Schwester Agnes steht offenbar vor dem Tod. Em möchte Schwester Agnes nicht unbedingt sterben sehen, also kehrt sie nach Hause zurück. Em hält an, um ein kleines Gedicht über die Winde am Schloss zu schreiben. Kommst du wieder in poetische Stimmung?

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.

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: II. THE MARKET-PLACE. The grass-plot before the jail, in Prison Lane, on a certain summer morning, not less than two centuries ago, was occupied by a pretty large number of the inhabitants of Boston; all with their eyes intently fastened on the iron-clamped oaken door. Amongst any other population, or at a later period in the history of New England, the grim rigidity that petrified the bearded physiognomies of these good people would have augured some awful business in hand. It could have betokened nothing short of the anticipated execution of some noted culprit, on whom the sentence of a legal tribunal had but confirmed the verdict of public sentiment. But, in that early severity of the Puritan character, an inference of this kind could not so indubitably be drawn. It might be that a sluggish bond-servant, or an undutiful child, whom his parents had given over to the civil authority, was to be corrected at the whipping-post. It might be, that an Antinomian, a Quaker, or other heterodox religionist was to be scourged out of the town, or an idle and vagrant Indian, whom the white man's fire-water had made riotous about the streets, was to be driven with stripes into the shadow of the forest. It might be, too, that a witch, like old Mistress Hibbins, the bitter-tempered widow of the magistrate, was to die upon the gallows. In either case, there was very much the same solemnity of demeanor on the part of the spectators; as befitted a people amongst whom religion and law were almost identical, and in whose character both were so thoroughly interfused, that the mildest and the severest acts of public discipline were alike made venerable and awful. Meagre, indeed, and cold was the sympathy that a transgressor might look for, from such bystanders, at the scaffold. On the other hand, a penalty, which, in our days, would infer a degree of mocking infamy and ridicule, might then be invested with almost as stern a dignity as the punishment of death itself. It was a circumstance to be noted, on the summer morning when our story begins its course, that the women, of whom there were several in the crowd, appeared to take a peculiar interest in whatever penal infliction might be expected to ensue. The age had not so much refinement, that any sense of impropriety restrained the wearers of petticoat and farthingale from stepping forth into the public ways, and wedging their not unsubstantial persons, if occasion were, into the throng nearest to the scaffold at an execution. Morally, as well as materially, there was a coarser fibre in those wives and maidens of old English birth and breeding, than in their fair descendants, separated from them by a series of six or seven generations; for, throughout that chain of ancestry, every successive mother has transmitted to her child a fainter bloom, a more delicate and briefer beauty, and a slighter physical frame, if not a character of less force and solidity, than her own. The women who were now standing about the prison-door stood within less than half a century of the period when the man-like Elizabeth had been the not altogether unsuitable representative of the sex. They were her countrywomen; and the beef and ale of their native land, with a moral diet not a whit more refined, entered largely into their composition. The bright morning sun, therefore, shone on broad shoulders and well-developed busts, and on round and ruddy cheeks, that had ripened in the far-off island, and had hardly yet grown paler or thinner in the atmosphere of New England. There was, moreover, a boldness and rotundity of speech among these matrons, as most of them seemed to be, that would startle us at the present day, whether in respect to its purport or its volume of tone. "Goodwives," said a hard-featured dame of fifty, "I'll tell ye a piece of my mind. It would be greatly for the public behoof, if we women, being of mature age and church-members in good repute, should have the handling of such malefactresses as this Hester Prynne. What think ye, gossips? If the hussy stood up for judgment before us five, that are now here in a knot together, would she come off with such a sentence as the worshipful magistrates have awarded? Marry, I trow not!" "People say," said another, "that the Reverend Master Dimmesdale, her godly pastor, takes it very grievously to heart that such a scandal should have come upon his congregation." "The magistrates are God-fearing gentlemen, but merciful overmuch,--that is a truth," added a third autumnal matron. "At the very least, they should have put the brand of a hot iron on Hester Prynne's forehead. Madam Hester would have winced at that, I warrant me. But she,--the naughty baggage,--little will she care what they put upon the bodice of her gown! Why, look you, she may cover it with a brooch, or such like heathenish adornment, and so walk the streets as brave as ever!" "Ah, but," interposed, more softly, a young wife, holding a child by the hand, "let her cover the mark as she will, the pang of it will be always in her heart." [Illustration: The Gossips] "What do we talk of marks and brands, whether on the bodice of her gown, or the flesh of her forehead?" cried another female, the ugliest as well as the most pitiless of these self-constituted judges. "This woman has brought shame upon us all, and ought to die. Is there not law for it? Truly, there is, both in the Scripture and the statute-book. Then let the magistrates, who have made it of no effect, thank themselves if their own wives and daughters go astray!" "Mercy on us, goodwife," exclaimed a man in the crowd, "is there no virtue in woman, save what springs from a wholesome fear of the gallows? That is the hardest word yet! Hush, now, gossips! for the lock is turning in the prison-door, and here comes Mistress Prynne herself." The door of the jail being flung open from within, there appeared, in the first place, like a black shadow emerging into sunshine, the grim and grisly presence of the town-beadle, with a sword by his side, and his staff of office in his hand. This personage prefigured and represented in his aspect the whole dismal severity of the Puritanic code of law, which it was his business to administer in its final and closest application to the offender. Stretching forth the official staff in his left hand, he laid his right upon the shoulder of a young woman, whom he thus drew forward; until, on the threshold of the prison-door, she repelled him, by an action marked with natural dignity and force of character, and stepped into the open air, as if by her own free will. She bore in her arms a child, a baby of some three months old, who winked and turned aside its little face from the too vivid light of day; because its existence, heretofore, had brought it acquainted only with the gray twilight of a dungeon, or other darksome apartment of the prison. When the young woman--the mother of this child--stood fully revealed before the crowd, it seemed to be her first impulse to clasp the infant closely to her bosom; not so much by an impulse of motherly affection, as that she might thereby conceal a certain token, which was wrought or fastened into her dress. In a moment, however, wisely judging that one token of her shame would but poorly serve to hide another, she took the baby on her arm, and, with a burning blush, and yet a haughty smile, and a glance that would not be abashed, looked around at her towns-people and neighbors. On the breast of her gown, in fine red cloth, surrounded with an elaborate embroidery and fantastic flourishes of gold-thread, appeared the letter A. It was so artistically done, and with so much fertility and gorgeous luxuriance of fancy, that it had all the effect of a last and fitting decoration to the apparel which she wore; and which was of a splendor in accordance with the taste of the age, but greatly beyond what was allowed by the sumptuary regulations of the colony. The young woman was tall, with a figure of perfect elegance on a large scale. She had dark and abundant hair, so glossy that it threw off the sunshine with a gleam, and a face which, besides being beautiful from regularity of feature and richness of complexion, had the impressiveness belonging to a marked brow and deep black eyes. She was lady-like, too, after the manner of the feminine gentility of those days; characterized by a certain state and dignity, rather than by the delicate, evanescent, and indescribable grace, which is now recognized as its indication. And never had Hester Prynne appeared more lady-like, in the antique interpretation of the term, than as she issued from the prison. Those who had before known her, and had expected to behold her dimmed and obscured by a disastrous cloud, were astonished, and even startled, to perceive how her beauty shone out, and made a halo of the misfortune and ignominy in which she was enveloped. It may be true, that, to a sensitive observer, there was something exquisitely painful in it. Her attire, which, indeed, she had wrought for the occasion, in prison, and had modelled much after her own fancy, seemed to express the attitude of her spirit, the desperate recklessness of her mood, by its wild and picturesque peculiarity. But the point which drew all eyes, and, as it were, transfigured the wearer,--so that both men and women, who had been familiarly acquainted with Hester Prynne, were now impressed as if they beheld her for the first time,--was that SCARLET LETTER, so fantastically embroidered and illuminated upon her bosom. It had the effect of a spell, taking her out of the ordinary relations with humanity, and enclosing her in a sphere by herself. "She hath good skill at her needle, that's certain," remarked one of her female spectators; "but did ever a woman, before this brazen hussy, contrive such a way of showing it! Why, gossips, what is it but to laugh in the faces of our godly magistrates, and make a pride out of what they, worthy gentlemen, meant for a punishment?" "It were well," muttered the most iron-visaged of the old dames, "if we stripped Madam Hester's rich gown off her dainty shoulders; and as for the red letter, which she hath stitched so curiously, I'll bestow a rag of mine own rheumatic flannel, to make a fitter one!" "O, peace, neighbors, peace!" whispered their youngest companion; "do not let her hear you! Not a stitch in that embroidered letter but she has felt it in her heart." The grim beadle now made a gesture with his staff. "Make way, good people, make way, in the King's name!" cried he. "Open a passage; and, I promise ye, Mistress Prynne shall be set where man, woman, and child may have a fair sight of her brave apparel, from this time till an hour past meridian. A blessing on the righteous Colony of the Massachusetts, where iniquity is dragged out into the sunshine! Come along, Madam Hester, and show your scarlet letter in the market-place!" A lane was forthwith opened through the crowd of spectators. Preceded by the beadle, and attended by an irregular procession of stern-browed men and unkindly visaged women, Hester Prynne set forth towards the place appointed for her punishment. A crowd of eager and curious school-boys, understanding little of the matter in hand, except that it gave them a half-holiday, ran before her progress, turning their heads continually to stare into her face, and at the winking baby in her arms, and at the ignominious letter on her breast. It was no great distance, in those days, from the prison-door to the market-place. Measured by the prisoner's experience, however, it might be reckoned a journey of some length; for, haughty as her demeanor was, she perchance underwent an agony from every footstep of those that thronged to see her, as if her heart had been flung into the street for them all to spurn and trample upon. In our nature, however, there is a provision, alike marvellous and merciful, that the sufferer should never know the intensity of what he endures by its present torture, but chiefly by the pang that rankles after it. With almost a serene deportment, therefore, Hester Prynne passed through this portion of her ordeal, and came to a sort of scaffold, at the western extremity of the market-place. It stood nearly beneath the eaves of Boston's earliest church, and appeared to be a fixture there. In fact, this scaffold constituted a portion of a penal machine, which now, for two or three generations past, has been merely historical and traditionary among us, but was held, in the old time, to be as effectual an agent, in the promotion of good citizenship, as ever was the guillotine among the terrorists of France. It was, in short, the platform of the pillory; and above it rose the framework of that instrument of discipline, so fashioned as to confine the human head in its tight grasp, and thus hold it up to the public gaze. The very ideal of ignominy was embodied and made manifest in this contrivance of wood and iron. There can be no outrage, methinks, against our common nature,--whatever be the delinquencies of the individual,--no outrage more flagrant than to forbid the culprit to hide his face for shame; as it was the essence of this punishment to do. In Hester Prynne's instance, however, as not unfrequently in other cases, her sentence bore, that she should stand a certain time upon the platform, but without undergoing that gripe about the neck and confinement of the head, the proneness to which was the most devilish characteristic of this ugly engine. Knowing well her part, she ascended a flight of wooden steps, and was thus displayed to the surrounding multitude, at about the height of a man's shoulders above the street. Had there been a Papist among the crowd of Puritans, he might have seen in this beautiful woman, so picturesque in her attire and mien, and with the infant at her bosom, an object to remind him of the image of Divine Maternity, which so many illustrious painters have vied with one another to represent; something which should remind him, indeed, but only by contrast, of that sacred image of sinless motherhood, whose infant was to redeem the world. Here, there was the taint of deepest sin in the most sacred quality of human life, working such effect, that the world was only the darker for this woman's beauty, and the more lost for the infant that she had borne. The scene was not without a mixture of awe, such as must always invest the spectacle of guilt and shame in a fellow-creature, before society shall have grown corrupt enough to smile, instead of shuddering, at it. The witnesses of Hester Prynne's disgrace had not yet passed beyond their simplicity. They were stern enough to look upon her death, had that been the sentence, without a murmur at its severity, but had none of the heartlessness of another social state, which would find only a theme for jest in an exhibition like the present. Even had there been a disposition to turn the matter into ridicule, it must have been repressed and overpowered by the solemn presence of men no less dignified than the Governor, and several of his counsellors, a judge, a general, and the ministers of the town; all of whom sat or stood in a balcony of the meeting-house, looking down upon the platform. When such personages could constitute a part of the spectacle, without risking the majesty or reverence of rank and office, it was safely to be inferred that the infliction of a legal sentence would have an earnest and effectual meaning. Accordingly, the crowd was sombre and grave. The unhappy culprit sustained herself as best a woman might, under the heavy weight of a thousand unrelenting eyes, all fastened upon her, and concentrated at her bosom. It was almost intolerable to be borne. Of an impulsive and passionate nature, she had fortified herself to encounter the stings and venomous stabs of public contumely, wreaking itself in every variety of insult; but there was a quality so much more terrible in the solemn mood of the popular mind, that she longed rather to behold all those rigid countenances contorted with scornful merriment, and herself the object. Had a roar of laughter burst from the multitude,--each man, each woman, each little shrill-voiced child, contributing their individual parts,--Hester Prynne might have repaid them all with a bitter and disdainful smile. But, under the leaden infliction which it was her doom to endure, she felt, at moments, as if she must needs shriek out with the full power of her lungs, and cast herself from the scaffold down upon the ground, or else go mad at once. Yet there were intervals when the whole scene, in which she was the most conspicuous object, seemed to vanish from her eyes, or, at least, glimmered indistinctly before them, like a mass of imperfectly shaped and spectral images. Her mind, and especially her memory, was preternaturally active, and kept bringing up other scenes than this roughly hewn street of a little town, on the edge of the Western wilderness; other faces than were lowering upon her from beneath the brims of those steeple-crowned hats. Reminiscences the most trifling and immaterial, passages of infancy and school-days, sports, childish quarrels, and the little domestic traits of her maiden years, came swarming back upon her, intermingled with recollections of whatever was gravest in her subsequent life; one picture precisely as vivid as another; as if all were of similar importance, or all alike a play. Possibly, it was an instinctive device of her spirit, to relieve itself, by the exhibition of these phantasmagoric forms, from the cruel weight and hardness of the reality. Be that as it might, the scaffold of the pillory was a point of view that revealed to Hester Prynne the entire track along which she had been treading, since her happy infancy. Standing on that miserable eminence, she saw again her native village, in Old England, and her paternal home; a decayed house of gray stone, with a poverty-stricken aspect, but retaining a half-obliterated shield of arms over the portal, in token of antique gentility. She saw her father's face, with its bald brow, and reverend white beard, that flowed over the old-fashioned Elizabethan ruff; her mother's, too, with the look of heedful and anxious love which it always wore in her remembrance, and which, even since her death, had so often laid the impediment of a gentle remonstrance in her daughter's pathway. She saw her own face, glowing with girlish beauty, and illuminating all the interior of the dusky mirror in which she had been wont to gaze at it. There she beheld another countenance, of a man well stricken in years, a pale, thin, scholar-like visage, with eyes dim and bleared by the lamplight that had served them to pore over many ponderous books. Yet those same bleared optics had a strange, penetrating power, when it was their owner's purpose to read the human soul. This figure of the study and the cloister, as Hester Prynne's womanly fancy failed not to recall, was slightly deformed, with the left shoulder a trifle higher than the right. Next rose before her, in memory's picture-gallery, the intricate and narrow thoroughfares, the tall, gray houses, the huge cathedrals, and the public edifices, ancient in date and quaint in architecture, of a Continental city; where a new life had awaited her, still in connection with the misshapen scholar; a new life, but feeding itself on time-worn materials, like a tuft of green moss on a crumbling wall. Lastly, in lieu of these shifting scenes, came back the rude market-place of the Puritan settlement, with all the towns-people assembled and levelling their stern regards at Hester Prynne,--yes, at herself,--who stood on the scaffold of the pillory, an infant on her arm, and the letter A, in scarlet, fantastically embroidered with gold-thread, upon her bosom! [Illustration: "Standing on the Miserable Eminence"] Could it be true? She clutched the child so fiercely to her breast, that it sent forth a cry; she turned her eyes downward at the scarlet letter, and even touched it with her finger, to assure herself that the infant and the shame were real. Yes!--these were her realities,--all else had vanished! [Illustration] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Ooh, jetzt ist es Zeit für eine Beschreibung der feierlichen Art und Weise, wie Puritaner jedes Strafverfahren beobachten, angefangen von der Exekution eines hartgesottenen Verbrechers bis hin zur Züchtigung eines Kindes, alles "feierliche Haltung" und "karg...und kalt". Das stimmt: falls du deinen Eltern widersprichst, anstatt dass dir dein Smartphone weggenommen wird, wirst du ausgepeitscht. Öffentlich. Die Tratschmädchen der Stadt tratschen, während sie auf Hester Prynnes Bestrafung warten. Eine sagt, Hester hätte hingerichtet werden sollen. Eine andere sagt, Hesters Strafe sei viel zu mild - nur ein Buchstabe A auf der Brust ihres Kleides, der leicht verdeckt werden könne. Und dann gibt es die Dritte, die alle zurechtweist und sagt, dass sie sicher ist, dass Hester Prynne die Markierung jeden Tag spüren werde. Als Hester Prynne mit ihrer dreimonatigen Tochter im Arm in der Tür des Gefängnisses erscheint, sind die Frauen ernsthaft verärgert. Der Buchstabe A ist zwar auf ihrer Brust, aber sie hat ihn sticken lassen, so dass er tatsächlich schön geworden ist. Die Stadtbewohner denken, sie verspottet sie und ihre Strafe. Doch da sagt dieselbe Frau, die sie zuvor zurechtgewiesen hatte: sie ist sicher, dass Hester jeden Stich der Nadel in ihrem Herzen gespürt hat. Nun geht der Spaß los. Hester geht in die Mitte der Stadt, wo sie in den Pranger gestellt wird. Während sie dort steht, denkt sie an ihre Mutter, ihren Vater und einen namenlosen Gelehrten und erkennt, dass ihr scharlachrotes A sie immer als Außenseiterin kennzeichnen wird. Sie drückt ihr kleines Baby so fest, dass es anfängt zu weinen, was SYMBOLISCH sein dürfte.

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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. Chapter: VI. Hundreds of People The quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet street-corner not far from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the waves of four months had rolled over the trial for treason, and carried it, as to the public interest and memory, far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis Lorry walked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he lived, on his way to dine with the Doctor. After several relapses into business-absorption, Mr. Lorry had become the Doctor's friend, and the quiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life. On this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards Soho, early in the afternoon, for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because, on fine Sundays, he often walked out, before dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie; secondly, because, on unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with them as the family friend, talking, reading, looking out of window, and generally getting through the day; thirdly, because he happened to have his own little shrewd doubts to solve, and knew how the ways of the Doctor's household pointed to that time as a likely time for solving them. A quainter corner than the corner where the Doctor lived, was not to be found in London. There was no way through it, and the front windows of the Doctor's lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista of street that had a congenial air of retirement on it. There were few buildings then, north of the Oxford-road, and forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers grew, and the hawthorn blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a consequence, country airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom, instead of languishing into the parish like stray paupers without a settlement; and there was many a good south wall, not far off, on which the peaches ripened in their season. The summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the earlier part of the day; but, when the streets grew hot, the corner was in shadow, though not in shadow so remote but that you could see beyond it into a glare of brightness. It was a cool spot, staid but cheerful, a wonderful place for echoes, and a very harbour from the raging streets. There ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an anchorage, and there was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large stiff house, where several callings purported to be pursued by day, but whereof little was audible any day, and which was shunned by all of them at night. In a building at the back, attainable by a courtyard where a plane-tree rustled its green leaves, church-organs claimed to be made, and silver to be chased, and likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant who had a golden arm starting out of the wall of the front hall--as if he had beaten himself precious, and menaced a similar conversion of all visitors. Very little of these trades, or of a lonely lodger rumoured to live up-stairs, or of a dim coach-trimming maker asserted to have a counting-house below, was ever heard or seen. Occasionally, a stray workman putting his coat on, traversed the hall, or a stranger peered about there, or a distant clink was heard across the courtyard, or a thump from the golden giant. These, however, were only the exceptions required to prove the rule that the sparrows in the plane-tree behind the house, and the echoes in the corner before it, had their own way from Sunday morning unto Saturday night. Doctor Manette received such patients here as his old reputation, and its revival in the floating whispers of his story, brought him. His scientific knowledge, and his vigilance and skill in conducting ingenious experiments, brought him otherwise into moderate request, and he earned as much as he wanted. These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry's knowledge, thoughts, and notice, when he rang the door-bell of the tranquil house in the corner, on the fine Sunday afternoon. "Doctor Manette at home?" Expected home. "Miss Lucie at home?" Expected home. "Miss Pross at home?" Possibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for handmaid to anticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission or denial of the fact. "As I am at home myself," said Mr. Lorry, "I'll go upstairs." Although the Doctor's daughter had known nothing of the country of her birth, she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to make much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most agreeable characteristics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off by so many little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy, that its effect was delightful. The disposition of everything in the rooms, from the largest object to the least; the arrangement of colours, the elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift in trifles, by delicate hands, clear eyes, and good sense; were at once so pleasant in themselves, and so expressive of their originator, that, as Mr. Lorry stood looking about him, the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him, with something of that peculiar expression which he knew so well by this time, whether he approved? There were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by which they communicated being put open that the air might pass freely through them all, Mr. Lorry, smilingly observant of that fanciful resemblance which he detected all around him, walked from one to another. The first was the best room, and in it were Lucie's birds, and flowers, and books, and desk, and work-table, and box of water-colours; the second was the Doctor's consulting-room, used also as the dining-room; the third, changingly speckled by the rustle of the plane-tree in the yard, was the Doctor's bedroom, and there, in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker's bench and tray of tools, much as it had stood on the fifth floor of the dismal house by the wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint Antoine in Paris. "I wonder," said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, "that he keeps that reminder of his sufferings about him!" "And why wonder at that?" was the abrupt inquiry that made him start. It proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose acquaintance he had first made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and had since improved. "I should have thought--" Mr. Lorry began. "Pooh! You'd have thought!" said Miss Pross; and Mr. Lorry left off. "How do you do?" inquired that lady then--sharply, and yet as if to express that she bore him no malice. "I am pretty well, I thank you," answered Mr. Lorry, with meekness; "how are you?" "Nothing to boast of," said Miss Pross. "Indeed?" "Ah! indeed!" said Miss Pross. "I am very much put out about my Ladybird." "Indeed?" "For gracious sake say something else besides 'indeed,' or you'll fidget me to death," said Miss Pross: whose character (dissociated from stature) was shortness. "Really, then?" said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment. "Really, is bad enough," returned Miss Pross, "but better. Yes, I am very much put out." "May I ask the cause?" "I don't want dozens of people who are not at all worthy of Ladybird, to come here looking after her," said Miss Pross. "_Do_ dozens come for that purpose?" "Hundreds," said Miss Pross. It was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people before her time and since) that whenever her original proposition was questioned, she exaggerated it. "Dear me!" said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think of. "I have lived with the darling--or the darling has lived with me, and paid me for it; which she certainly should never have done, you may take your affidavit, if I could have afforded to keep either myself or her for nothing--since she was ten years old. And it's really very hard," said Miss Pross. Not seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry shook his head; using that important part of himself as a sort of fairy cloak that would fit anything. "All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy of the pet, are always turning up," said Miss Pross. "When you began it--" "_I_ began it, Miss Pross?" "Didn't you? Who brought her father to life?" "Oh! If _that_ was beginning it--" said Mr. Lorry. "It wasn't ending it, I suppose? I say, when you began it, it was hard enough; not that I have any fault to find with Doctor Manette, except that he is not worthy of such a daughter, which is no imputation on him, for it was not to be expected that anybody should be, under any circumstances. But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds and multitudes of people turning up after him (I could have forgiven him), to take Ladybird's affections away from me." Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also knew her by this time to be, beneath the service of her eccentricity, one of those unselfish creatures--found only among women--who will, for pure love and admiration, bind themselves willing slaves, to youth when they have lost it, to beauty that they never had, to accomplishments that they were never fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that never shone upon their own sombre lives. He knew enough of the world to know that there is nothing in it better than the faithful service of the heart; so rendered and so free from any mercenary taint, he had such an exalted respect for it, that in the retributive arrangements made by his own mind--we all make such arrangements, more or less--he stationed Miss Pross much nearer to the lower Angels than many ladies immeasurably better got up both by Nature and Art, who had balances at Tellson's. "There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of Ladybird," said Miss Pross; "and that was my brother Solomon, if he hadn't made a mistake in life." Here again: Mr. Lorry's inquiries into Miss Pross's personal history had established the fact that her brother Solomon was a heartless scoundrel who had stripped her of everything she possessed, as a stake to speculate with, and had abandoned her in her poverty for evermore, with no touch of compunction. Miss Pross's fidelity of belief in Solomon (deducting a mere trifle for this slight mistake) was quite a serious matter with Mr. Lorry, and had its weight in his good opinion of her. "As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both people of business," he said, when they had got back to the drawing-room and had sat down there in friendly relations, "let me ask you--does the Doctor, in talking with Lucie, never refer to the shoemaking time, yet?" "Never." "And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him?" "Ah!" returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. "But I don't say he don't refer to it within himself." "Do you believe that he thinks of it much?" "I do," said Miss Pross. "Do you imagine--" Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss Pross took him up short with: "Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all." "I stand corrected; do you suppose--you go so far as to suppose, sometimes?" "Now and then," said Miss Pross. "Do you suppose," Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing twinkle in his bright eye, as it looked kindly at her, "that Doctor Manette has any theory of his own, preserved through all those years, relative to the cause of his being so oppressed; perhaps, even to the name of his oppressor?" "I don't suppose anything about it but what Ladybird tells me." "And that is--?" "That she thinks he has." "Now don't be angry at my asking all these questions; because I am a mere dull man of business, and you are a woman of business." "Dull?" Miss Pross inquired, with placidity. Rather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry replied, "No, no, no. Surely not. To return to business:--Is it not remarkable that Doctor Manette, unquestionably innocent of any crime as we are all well assured he is, should never touch upon that question? I will not say with me, though he had business relations with me many years ago, and we are now intimate; I will say with the fair daughter to whom he is so devotedly attached, and who is so devotedly attached to him? Believe me, Miss Pross, I don't approach the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of zealous interest." "Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad's the best, you'll tell me," said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of the apology, "he is afraid of the whole subject." "Afraid?" "It's plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It's a dreadful remembrance. Besides that, his loss of himself grew out of it. Not knowing how he lost himself, or how he recovered himself, he may never feel certain of not losing himself again. That alone wouldn't make the subject pleasant, I should think." It was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for. "True," said he, "and fearful to reflect upon. Yet, a doubt lurks in my mind, Miss Pross, whether it is good for Doctor Manette to have that suppression always shut up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness it sometimes causes me that has led me to our present confidence." "Can't be helped," said Miss Pross, shaking her head. "Touch that string, and he instantly changes for the worse. Better leave it alone. In short, must leave it alone, like or no like. Sometimes, he gets up in the dead of the night, and will be heard, by us overhead there, walking up and down, walking up and down, in his room. Ladybird has learnt to know then that his mind is walking up and down, walking up and down, in his old prison. She hurries to him, and they go on together, walking up and down, walking up and down, until he is composed. But he never says a word of the true reason of his restlessness, to her, and she finds it best not to hint at it to him. In silence they go walking up and down together, walking up and down together, till her love and company have brought him to himself." Notwithstanding Miss Pross's denial of her own imagination, there was a perception of the pain of being monotonously haunted by one sad idea, in her repetition of the phrase, walking up and down, which testified to her possessing such a thing. The corner has been mentioned as a wonderful corner for echoes; it had begun to echo so resoundingly to the tread of coming feet, that it seemed as though the very mention of that weary pacing to and fro had set it going. "Here they are!" said Miss Pross, rising to break up the conference; "and now we shall have hundreds of people pretty soon!" It was such a curious corner in its acoustical properties, such a peculiar Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the open window, looking for the father and daughter whose steps he heard, he fancied they would never approach. Not only would the echoes die away, as though the steps had gone; but, echoes of other steps that never came would be heard in their stead, and would die away for good when they seemed close at hand. However, father and daughter did at last appear, and Miss Pross was ready at the street door to receive them. Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, and grim, taking off her darling's bonnet when she came up-stairs, and touching it up with the ends of her handkerchief, and blowing the dust off it, and folding her mantle ready for laying by, and smoothing her rich hair with as much pride as she could possibly have taken in her own hair if she had been the vainest and handsomest of women. Her darling was a pleasant sight too, embracing her and thanking her, and protesting against her taking so much trouble for her--which last she only dared to do playfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, would have retired to her own chamber and cried. The Doctor was a pleasant sight too, looking on at them, and telling Miss Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in accents and with eyes that had as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and would have had more if it were possible. Mr. Lorry was a pleasant sight too, beaming at all this in his little wig, and thanking his bachelor stars for having lighted him in his declining years to a Home. But, no Hundreds of people came to see the sights, and Mr. Lorry looked in vain for the fulfilment of Miss Pross's prediction. Dinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the arrangements of the little household, Miss Pross took charge of the lower regions, and always acquitted herself marvellously. Her dinners, of a very modest quality, were so well cooked and so well served, and so neat in their contrivances, half English and half French, that nothing could be better. Miss Pross's friendship being of the thoroughly practical kind, she had ravaged Soho and the adjacent provinces, in search of impoverished French, who, tempted by shillings and half-crowns, would impart culinary mysteries to her. From these decayed sons and daughters of Gaul, she had acquired such wonderful arts, that the woman and girl who formed the staff of domestics regarded her as quite a Sorceress, or Cinderella's Godmother: who would send out for a fowl, a rabbit, a vegetable or two from the garden, and change them into anything she pleased. On Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor's table, but on other days persisted in taking her meals at unknown periods, either in the lower regions, or in her own room on the second floor--a blue chamber, to which no one but her Ladybird ever gained admittance. On this occasion, Miss Pross, responding to Ladybird's pleasant face and pleasant efforts to please her, unbent exceedingly; so the dinner was very pleasant, too. It was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie proposed that the wine should be carried out under the plane-tree, and they should sit there in the air. As everything turned upon her, and revolved about her, they went out under the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down for the special benefit of Mr. Lorry. She had installed herself, some time before, as Mr. Lorry's cup-bearer; and while they sat under the plane-tree, talking, she kept his glass replenished. Mysterious backs and ends of houses peeped at them as they talked, and the plane-tree whispered to them in its own way above their heads. Still, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. Mr. Darnay presented himself while they were sitting under the plane-tree, but he was only One. Doctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. But, Miss Pross suddenly became afflicted with a twitching in the head and body, and retired into the house. She was not unfrequently the victim of this disorder, and she called it, in familiar conversation, "a fit of the jerks." The Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially young. The resemblance between him and Lucie was very strong at such times, and as they sat side by side, she leaning on his shoulder, and he resting his arm on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to trace the likeness. He had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with unusual vivacity. "Pray, Doctor Manette," said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the plane-tree--and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand, which happened to be the old buildings of London--"have you seen much of the Tower?" "Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We have seen enough of it, to know that it teems with interest; little more." "_I_ have been there, as you remember," said Darnay, with a smile, though reddening a little angrily, "in another character, and not in a character that gives facilities for seeing much of it. They told me a curious thing when I was there." "What was that?" Lucie asked. "In making some alterations, the workmen came upon an old dungeon, which had been, for many years, built up and forgotten. Every stone of its inner wall was covered by inscriptions which had been carved by prisoners--dates, names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone in an angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone to execution, had cut as his last work, three letters. They were done with some very poor instrument, and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand. At first, they were read as D. I. C.; but, on being more carefully examined, the last letter was found to be G. There was no record or legend of any prisoner with those initials, and many fruitless guesses were made what the name could have been. At length, it was suggested that the letters were not initials, but the complete word, DIG. The floor was examined very carefully under the inscription, and, in the earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving, were found the ashes of a paper, mingled with the ashes of a small leathern case or bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be read, but he had written something, and hidden it away to keep it from the gaoler." "My father," exclaimed Lucie, "you are ill!" He had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His manner and his look quite terrified them all. "No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and they made me start. We had better go in." He recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was really falling in large drops, and he showed the back of his hand with rain-drops on it. But, he said not a single word in reference to the discovery that had been told of, and, as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. Lorry either detected, or fancied it detected, on his face, as it turned towards Charles Darnay, the same singular look that had been upon it when it turned towards him in the passages of the Court House. He recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry had doubts of his business eye. The arm of the golden giant in the hall was not more steady than he was, when he stopped under it to remark to them that he was not yet proof against slight surprises (if he ever would be), and that the rain had startled him. Tea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit of the jerks upon her, and yet no Hundreds of people. Mr. Carton had lounged in, but he made only Two. The night was so very sultry, that although they sat with doors and windows open, they were overpowered by heat. When the tea-table was done with, they all moved to one of the windows, and looked out into the heavy twilight. Lucie sat by her father; Darnay sat beside her; Carton leaned against a window. The curtains were long and white, and some of the thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner, caught them up to the ceiling, and waved them like spectral wings. "The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few," said Doctor Manette. "It comes slowly." "It comes surely," said Carton. They spoke low, as people watching and waiting mostly do; as people in a dark room, watching and waiting for Lightning, always do. There was a great hurry in the streets of people speeding away to get shelter before the storm broke; the wonderful corner for echoes resounded with the echoes of footsteps coming and going, yet not a footstep was there. "A multitude of people, and yet a solitude!" said Darnay, when they had listened for a while. "Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?" asked Lucie. "Sometimes, I have sat here of an evening, until I have fancied--but even the shade of a foolish fancy makes me shudder to-night, when all is so black and solemn--" "Let us shudder too. We may know what it is." "It will seem nothing to you. Such whims are only impressive as we originate them, I think; they are not to be communicated. I have sometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made the echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming by-and-bye into our lives." "There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if that be so," Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way. The footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them became more and more rapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed with the tread of feet; some, as it seemed, under the windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some coming, some going, some breaking off, some stopping altogether; all in the distant streets, and not one within sight. "Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, Miss Manette, or are we to divide them among us?" "I don't know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a foolish fancy, but you asked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, I have been alone, and then I have imagined them the footsteps of the people who are to come into my life, and my father's." "I take them into mine!" said Carton. "_I_ ask no questions and make no stipulations. There is a great crowd bearing down upon us, Miss Manette, and I see them--by the Lightning." He added the last words, after there had been a vivid flash which had shown him lounging in the window. "And I hear them!" he added again, after a peal of thunder. "Here they come, fast, fierce, and furious!" It was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it stopped him, for no voice could be heard in it. A memorable storm of thunder and lightning broke with that sweep of water, and there was not a moment's interval in crash, and fire, and rain, until after the moon rose at midnight. The great bell of Saint Paul's was striking one in the cleared air, when Mr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-booted and bearing a lantern, set forth on his return-passage to Clerkenwell. There were solitary patches of road on the way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful of foot-pads, always retained Jerry for this service: though it was usually performed a good two hours earlier. "What a night it has been! Almost a night, Jerry," said Mr. Lorry, "to bring the dead out of their graves." "I never see the night myself, master--nor yet I don't expect to--what would do that," answered Jerry. "Good night, Mr. Carton," said the man of business. "Good night, Mr. Darnay. Shall we ever see such a night again, together!" Perhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its rush and roar, bearing down upon them, too. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Dr. Manette lebt in einer ruhigen Straßenecke in der Nähe des Soho Square. Eines Sonntags, vier Monate nach Darnays Gerichtsverhandlung, geht Herr Lorry zu ihm zum Essen. Der Arzt, der wiederhergestellt ist und wieder gesund ist, verdient jetzt gutes Geld, indem er Patienten behandelt und raffinierte Experimente durchführt. Herr Lorry bemerkt, dass der Doktor die Schusterbank und den Werkzeugkasten hat. Er fragt sich laut, warum der Doktor solch eine schmerzhafte Erinnerung behalten möchte. Er wird von Miss Pross, der Krankenschwester, unterbrochen, die findet, dass es völlig in Ordnung ist, dass er es tut. Miss Pross ist aufgebracht, weil Hunderte von Verehrern jeden Tag zu Besuch bei Lucie kommen. Sie ist eine sehr eifersüchtige Frau, die dazu neigt, zu übertreiben. Sie ist auch absolut und selbstlos Lucie Manette ergeben. Als Herr Darnay nach dem Mittagessen ankommt, ist Miss Pross sichtlich aufgebracht und geht ins Haus. Die Manettes empfangen ihn jedoch herzlich. Darnay erzählt ihnen eine Geschichte, die er gehört hat, als er im Tower of London eingesperrt war. Einige Arbeiter waren angeblich auf einen alten Kerker gestoßen, der lange nicht benutzt worden war, mit den Namen von Gefangenen, die in die Wände geschnitzt waren. Als sie unter einem Eckstein gruben, auf dem ein unglücklicher Gefangener das Wort "graben" eingegraben hatte, fanden sie die Asche eines Papiers zusammen mit der Asche einer Ledertasche. All diese Geschichte von Kerker und Gefangenen beunruhigt Dr. Manette. Es fängt an zu regnen und sie gehen vom Hof ins Haus. Drinnen serviert Miss Pross, die immer noch aufgebracht ist, Tee, genau in dem Moment kommt Mr. Carton herein. Er hält sich abseits und wirkt mürrisch. Lucie, während sie aus dem Fenster schaut, hat eine Vorahnung, dass die Schritte vor dem Haus darauf hindeuten, dass irgendwann Menschen in ihr Leben treten werden. Mr. Carton fügt seiner eigenen Vorahnung hinzu, indem er bemerkt, dass er auch eine große Menschenmenge auf die gesamte Gruppe zukommen sieht, auf eine bedrohliche Art und Weise.

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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. Chapter: "Jo! Jo! Where are you?" cried Meg at the foot of the garret stairs. "Here!" answered a husky voice from above, and, running up, Meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the Heir of Redclyffe, wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. This was Jo's favorite refuge, and here she loved to retire with half a dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a pet rat who lived near by and didn't mind her a particle. As Meg appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her cheeks and waited to hear the news. "Such fun! Only see! A regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for tomorrow night!" cried Meg, waving the precious paper and then proceeding to read it with girlish delight. "'Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at a little dance on New Year's Eve.' Marmee is willing we should go, now what shall we wear?" "What's the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our poplins, because we haven't got anything else?" answered Jo with her mouth full. "If I only had a silk!" sighed Meg. "Mother says I may when I'm eighteen perhaps, but two years is an everlasting time to wait." "I'm sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us. Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine. Whatever shall I do? The burn shows badly, and I can't take any out." "You must sit still all you can and keep your back out of sight. The front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and my gloves will do, though they aren't as nice as I'd like." "Mine are spoiled with lemonade, and I can't get any new ones, so I shall have to go without," said Jo, who never troubled herself much about dress. "You must have gloves, or I won't go," cried Meg decidedly. "Gloves are more important than anything else. You can't dance without them, and if you don't I should be so mortified." "Then I'll stay still. I don't care much for company dancing. It's no fun to go sailing round. I like to fly about and cut capers." "You can't ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are so careless. She said when you spoiled the others that she shouldn't get you any more this winter. Can't you make them do?" "I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained they are. That's all I can do. No! I'll tell you how we can manage, each wear one good one and carry a bad one. Don't you see?" "Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove dreadfully," began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her. "Then I'll go without. I don't care what people say!" cried Jo, taking up her book. "You may have it, you may! Only don't stain it, and do behave nicely. Don't put your hands behind you, or stare, or say 'Christopher Columbus!' will you?" "Don't worry about me. I'll be as prim as I can and not get into any scrapes, if I can help it. Now go and answer your note, and let me finish this splendid story." So Meg went away to 'accept with thanks', look over her dress, and sing blithely as she did up her one real lace frill, while Jo finished her story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble. On New Year's Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger girls played dressing maids and the two elder were absorbed in the all-important business of 'getting ready for the party'. Simple as the toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burned hair pervaded the house. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs. "Ought they to smoke like that?" asked Beth from her perch on the bed. "It's the dampness drying," replied Jo. "What a queer smell! It's like burned feathers," observed Amy, smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air. "There, now I'll take off the papers and you'll see a cloud of little ringlets," said Jo, putting down the tongs. She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the hair came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser laid a row of little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim. "Oh, oh, oh! What have you done? I'm spoiled! I can't go! My hair, oh, my hair!" wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her forehead. "Just my luck! You shouldn't have asked me to do it. I always spoil everything. I'm so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I've made a mess," groaned poor Jo, regarding the little black pancakes with tears of regret. "It isn't spoiled. Just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion. I've seen many girls do it so," said Amy consolingly. "Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I'd let my hair alone," cried Meg petulantly. "So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out again," said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep. After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the united exertions of the entire family Jo's hair was got up and her dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits, Meg's in silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin. Jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect "quite easy and fine". Meg's high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt her, though she would not own it, and Jo's nineteen hairpins all seemed stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable, but, dear me, let us be elegant or die. "Have a good time, dearies!" said Mrs. March, as the sisters went daintily down the walk. "Don't eat much supper, and come away at eleven when I send Hannah for you." As the gate clashed behind them, a voice cried from a window... "Girls, girls! Have you you both got nice pocket handkerchiefs?" "Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers," cried Jo, adding with a laugh as they went on, "I do believe Marmee would ask that if we were all running away from an earthquake." "It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief," replied Meg, who had a good many little 'aristocratic tastes' of her own. "Now don't forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash right? And does my hair look very bad?" said Meg, as she turned from the glass in Mrs. Gardiner's dressing room after a prolonged prink. "I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind me by a wink, will you?" returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and her head a hasty brush. "No, winking isn't ladylike. I'll lift my eyebrows if any thing is wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulder straight, and take short steps, and don't shake hands if you are introduced to anyone. It isn't the thing." "How do you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn't that music gay?" Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties, and informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to them. Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly and handed them over to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew Sallie and was at her ease very soon, but Jo, who didn't care much for girls or girlish gossip, stood about, with her back carefully against the wall, and felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower garden. Half a dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of the room, and she longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the joys of her life. She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to her, and one by one the group dwindled away till she was left alone. She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burned breadth would show, so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing began. Meg was asked at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so briskly that none would have guessed the pain their wearer suffered smilingly. Jo saw a big red headed youth approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess, intending to peep and enjoy herself in peace. Unfortunately, another bashful person had chosen the same refuge, for, as the curtain fell behind her, she found herself face to face with the 'Laurence boy'. "Dear me, I didn't know anyone was here!" stammered Jo, preparing to back out as speedily as she had bounced in. But the boy laughed and said pleasantly, though he looked a little startled, "Don't mind me, stay if you like." "Shan't I disturb you?" "Not a bit. I only came here because I don't know many people and felt rather strange at first, you know." "So did I. Don't go away, please, unless you'd rather." The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to be polite and easy, "I think I've had the pleasure of seeing you before. You live near us, don't you?" "Next door." And he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo's prim manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted about cricket when he brought the cat home. That put Jo at her ease and she laughed too, as she said, in her heartiest way, "We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas present." "Grandpa sent it." "But you put it into his head, didn't you, now?" "How is your cat, Miss March?" asked the boy, trying to look sober while his black eyes shone with fun. "Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence. But I am not Miss March, I'm only Jo," returned the young lady. "I'm not Mr. Laurence, I'm only Laurie." "Laurie Laurence, what an odd name." "My first name is Theodore, but I don't like it, for the fellows called me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead." "I hate my name, too, so sentimental! I wish every one would say Jo instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?" "I thrashed 'em." "I can't thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it." And Jo resigned herself with a sigh. "Don't you like to dance, Miss Jo?" asked Laurie, looking as if he thought the name suited her. "I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and everyone is lively. In a place like this I'm sure to upset something, tread on people's toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief and let Meg sail about. Don't you dance?" "Sometimes. You see I've been abroad a good many years, and haven't been into company enough yet to know how you do things here." "Abroad!" cried Jo. "Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly to hear people describe their travels." Laurie didn't seem to know where to begin, but Jo's eager questions soon set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in Vevay, where the boys never wore hats and had a fleet of boats on the lake, and for holiday fun went on walking trips about Switzerland with their teachers. "Don't I wish I'd been there!" cried Jo. "Did you go to Paris?" "We spent last winter there." "Can you talk French?" "We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevay." "Do say some! I can read it, but can't pronounce." "Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?" "How nicely you do it! Let me see ... you said, 'Who is the young lady in the pretty slippers', didn't you?" "Oui, mademoiselle." "It's my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is pretty?" "Yes, she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and quiet, and dances like a lady." Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticized and chatted till they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie's bashfulness soon wore off, for Jo's gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his ease, and Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten and nobody lifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the 'Laurence boy' better than ever and took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him to the girls, for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys were almost unknown creatures to them. "Curly black hair, brown skin, big black eyes, handsome nose, fine teeth, small hands and feet, taller than I am, very polite, for a boy, and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?" It was on the tip of Jo's tongue to ask, but she checked herself in time and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a round-about way. "I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away at your books, no, I mean studying hard." And Jo blushed at the dreadful 'pegging' which had escaped her. Laurie smiled but didn't seem shocked, and answered with a shrug. "Not for a year or two. I won't go before seventeen, anyway." "Aren't you but fifteen?" asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she had imagined seventeen already. "Sixteen, next month." "How I wish I was going to college! You don't look as if you liked it." "I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don't like the way fellows do either, in this country." "What do you like?" "To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way." Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was, but his black brows looked rather threatening as he knit them, so she changed the subject by saying, as her foot kept time, "That's a splendid polka! Why don't you go and try it?" "If you will come too," he answered, with a gallant little bow. "I can't, for I told Meg I wouldn't, because..." There Jo stopped, and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh. "Because, what?" "You won't tell?" "Never!" "Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my frocks, and I scorched this one, and though it's nicely mended, it shows, and Meg told me to keep still so no one would see it. You may laugh, if you want to. It is funny, I know." But Laurie didn't laugh. He only looked down a minute, and the expression of his face puzzled Jo when he said very gently, "Never mind that. I'll tell you how we can manage. There's a long hall out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come." Jo thanked him and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves when she saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore. The hall was empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well, and taught her the German step, which delighted Jo, being full of swing and spring. When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get their breath, and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students' festival at Heidelberg when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, where she found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale. "I've sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned and gave me a sad wrench. It aches so, I can hardly stand, and I don't know how I'm ever going to get home," she said, rocking to and fro in pain. "I knew you'd hurt your feet with those silly shoes. I'm sorry. But I don't see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all night," answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke. "I can't have a carriage without its costing ever so much. I dare say I can't get one at all, for most people come in their own, and it's a long way to the stable, and no one to send." "I'll go." "No, indeed! It's past nine, and dark as Egypt. I can't stop here, for the house is full. Sallie has some girls staying with her. I'll rest till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can." "I'll ask Laurie. He will go," said Jo, looking relieved as the idea occurred to her. "Mercy, no! Don't ask or tell anyone. Get me my rubbers, and put these slippers with our things. I can't dance anymore, but as soon as supper is over, watch for Hannah and tell me the minute she comes." "They are going out to supper now. I'll stay with you. I'd rather." "No, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee. I'm so tired I can't stir." So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering away to the dining room, which she found after going into a china closet, and opening the door of a room where old Mr. Gardiner was taking a little private refreshment. Making a dart at the table, she secured the coffee, which she immediately spilled, thereby making the front of her dress as bad as the back. "Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!" exclaimed Jo, finishing Meg's glove by scrubbing her gown with it. "Can I help you?" said a friendly voice. And there was Laurie, with a full cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other. "I was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired, and someone shook me, and here I am in a nice state," answered Jo, glancing dismally from the stained skirt to the coffee-colored glove. "Too bad! I was looking for someone to give this to. May I take it to your sister?" "Oh, thank you! I'll show you where she is. I don't offer to take it myself, for I should only get into another scrape if I did." Jo led the way, and as if used to waiting on ladies, Laurie drew up a little table, brought a second installment of coffee and ice for Jo, and was so obliging that even particular Meg pronounced him a 'nice boy'. They had a merry time over the bonbons and mottoes, and were in the midst of a quiet game of _Buzz_, with two or three other young people who had strayed in, when Hannah appeared. Meg forgot her foot and rose so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of Jo, with an exclamation of pain. "Hush! Don't say anything," she whispered, adding aloud, "It's nothing. I turned my foot a little, that's all," and limped upstairs to put her things on. Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits' end, till she decided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down and, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It happened to be a hired waiter who knew nothing about the neighborhood and Jo was looking round for help when Laurie, who had heard what she said, came up and offered his grandfather's carriage, which had just come for him, he said. "It's so early! You can't mean to go yet?" began Jo, looking relieved but hesitating to accept the offer. "I always go early, I do, truly! Please let me take you home. It's all on my way, you know, and it rains, they say." That settled it, and telling him of Meg's mishap, Jo gratefully accepted and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party. Hannah hated rain as much as a cat does so she made no trouble, and they rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive and elegant. Laurie went on the box so Meg could keep her foot up, and the girls talked over their party in freedom. "I had a capital time. Did you?" asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and making herself comfortable. "Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie's friend, Annie Moffat, took a fancy to me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her when Sallie does. She is going in the spring when the opera comes, and it will be perfectly splendid, if Mother only lets me go," answered Meg, cheering up at the thought. "I saw you dancing with the red headed man I ran away from. Was he nice?" "Oh, very! His hair is auburn, not red, and he was very polite, and I had a delicious redowa with him." "He looked like a grasshopper in a fit when he did the new step. Laurie and I couldn't help laughing. Did you hear us?" "No, but it was very rude. What were you about all that time, hidden away there?" Jo told her adventures, and by the time she had finished they were at home. With many thanks, they said good night and crept in, hoping to disturb no one, but the instant their door creaked, two little nightcaps bobbed up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried out... "Tell about the party! Tell about the party!" With what Meg called 'a great want of manners' Jo had saved some bonbons for the little girls, and they soon subsided, after hearing the most thrilling events of the evening. "I declare, it really seems like being a fine young lady, to come home from the party in a carriage and sit in my dressing gown with a maid to wait on me," said Meg, as Jo bound up her foot with arnica and brushed her hair. "I don't believe fine young ladies enjoy themselves a bit more than we do, in spite of our burned hair, old gowns, one glove apiece and tight slippers that sprain our ankles when we are silly enough to wear them." And I think Jo was quite right. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Meg und Jo waren zu einem Tanz und einer Party bei den Gardiners eingeladen. Sie machten sich Gedanken darüber, was sie anziehen sollten, und Meg erklärte der draufgängerischen Jo die Regeln der Anstand. Die Lockenstäbe verbrannten Megs Haare, aber die Mädchen gingen trotzdem zur Party. Meg tanzte und unterhielt sich, während Jo neben der Wand stand. Als sie dachte, dass jemand sie zum Tanzen auffordern würde, schlüpfte sie in eine verhängte Nische. Bereits in der Nische versteckt war ein junger Mann, der mit seinem Großvater neben den Marchs wohnte. Er stellte sich ihr als Laurie vor, obwohl sein eigentlicher Name Theodore war. Die beiden sprachen eine Weile miteinander und tanzten schließlich im Saal, damit man Jos Kleid, das nicht in bestem Zustand war, nicht sah. Meg fand sie dort. Meg hatte sich beim Tanzen in ihren hochhackigen Schuhen den Knöchel verstaucht, und sie mussten einen Weg finden, um von der Party nach Hause zu kommen, da sie eigentlich vorhatten zu Fuß zu gehen. Während Jo über eine Lösung nachdachte, traf sie erneut auf Laurie und erzählte ihm von ihrem Dilemma. Er bot ihnen die Nutzung seines eigenen Kutschen an, die gerade angekommen war, und Jo nahm dankbar an. Mit ihrem Begleiter, Hannah, verließen Jo und Meg die Party.

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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. Chapter: Candide, driven from terrestrial paradise, walked a long while without knowing where, weeping, raising his eyes to heaven, turning them often towards the most magnificent of castles which imprisoned the purest of noble young ladies. He lay down to sleep without supper, in the middle of a field between two furrows. The snow fell in large flakes. Next day Candide, all benumbed, dragged himself towards the neighbouring town which was called Waldberghofftrarbk-dikdorff, having no money, dying of hunger and fatigue, he stopped sorrowfully at the door of an inn. Two men dressed in blue observed him. "Comrade," said one, "here is a well-built young fellow, and of proper height." They went up to Candide and very civilly invited him to dinner. "Gentlemen," replied Candide, with a most engaging modesty, "you do me great honour, but I have not wherewithal to pay my share." "Oh, sir," said one of the blues to him, "people of your appearance and of your merit never pay anything: are you not five feet five inches high?" "Yes, sir, that is my height," answered he, making a low bow. "Come, sir, seat yourself; not only will we pay your reckoning, but we will never suffer such a man as you to want money; men are only born to assist one another." "You are right," said Candide; "this is what I was always taught by Mr. Pangloss, and I see plainly that all is for the best." They begged of him to accept a few crowns. He took them, and wished to give them his note; they refused; they seated themselves at table. "Love you not deeply?" "Oh yes," answered he; "I deeply love Miss Cunegonde." "No," said one of the gentlemen, "we ask you if you do not deeply love the King of the Bulgarians?" "Not at all," said he; "for I have never seen him." "What! he is the best of kings, and we must drink his health." "Oh! very willingly, gentlemen," and he drank. "That is enough," they tell him. "Now you are the help, the support, the defender, the hero of the Bulgarians. Your fortune is made, and your glory is assured." Instantly they fettered him, and carried him away to the regiment. There he was made to wheel about to the right, and to the left, to draw his rammer, to return his rammer, to present, to fire, to march, and they gave him thirty blows with a cudgel. The next day he did his exercise a little less badly, and he received but twenty blows. The day following they gave him only ten, and he was regarded by his comrades as a prodigy. Candide, all stupefied, could not yet very well realise how he was a hero. He resolved one fine day in spring to go for a walk, marching straight before him, believing that it was a privilege of the human as well as of the animal species to make use of their legs as they pleased. He had advanced two leagues when he was overtaken by four others, heroes of six feet, who bound him and carried him to a dungeon. He was asked which he would like the best, to be whipped six-and-thirty times through all the regiment, or to receive at once twelve balls of lead in his brain. He vainly said that human will is free, and that he chose neither the one nor the other. He was forced to make a choice; he determined, in virtue of that gift of God called liberty, to run the gauntlet six-and-thirty times. He bore this twice. The regiment was composed of two thousand men; that composed for him four thousand strokes, which laid bare all his muscles and nerves, from the nape of his neck quite down to his rump. As they were going to proceed to a third whipping, Candide, able to bear no more, begged as a favour that they would be so good as to shoot him. He obtained this favour; they bandaged his eyes, and bade him kneel down. The King of the Bulgarians passed at this moment and ascertained the nature of the crime. As he had great talent, he understood from all that he learnt of Candide that he was a young metaphysician, extremely ignorant of the things of this world, and he accorded him his pardon with a clemency which will bring him praise in all the journals, and throughout all ages. An able surgeon cured Candide in three weeks by means of emollients taught by Dioscorides. He had already a little skin, and was able to march when the King of the Bulgarians gave battle to the King of the Abares. There was never anything so gallant, so spruce, so brilliant, and so well disposed as the two armies. Trumpets, fifes, hautboys, drums, and cannon made music such as Hell itself had never heard. The cannons first of all laid flat about six thousand men on each side; the muskets swept away from this best of worlds nine or ten thousand ruffians who infested its surface. The bayonet was also a _sufficient reason_ for the death of several thousands. The whole might amount to thirty thousand souls. Candide, who trembled like a philosopher, hid himself as well as he could during this heroic butchery. At length, while the two kings were causing Te Deum to be sung each in his own camp, Candide resolved to go and reason elsewhere on effects and causes. He passed over heaps of dead and dying, and first reached a neighbouring village; it was in cinders, it was an Abare village which the Bulgarians had burnt according to the laws of war. Here, old men covered with wounds, beheld their wives, hugging their children to their bloody breasts, massacred before their faces; there, their daughters, disembowelled and breathing their last after having satisfied the natural wants of Bulgarian heroes; while others, half burnt in the flames, begged to be despatched. The earth was strewed with brains, arms, and legs. Candide fled quickly to another village; it belonged to the Bulgarians; and the Abarian heroes had treated it in the same way. Candide, walking always over palpitating limbs or across ruins, arrived at last beyond the seat of war, with a few provisions in his knapsack, and Miss Cunegonde always in his heart. His provisions failed him when he arrived in Holland; but having heard that everybody was rich in that country, and that they were Christians, he did not doubt but he should meet with the same treatment from them as he had met with in the Baron's castle, before Miss Cunegonde's bright eyes were the cause of his expulsion thence. He asked alms of several grave-looking people, who all answered him, that if he continued to follow this trade they would confine him to the house of correction, where he should be taught to get a living. The next he addressed was a man who had been haranguing a large assembly for a whole hour on the subject of charity. But the orator, looking askew, said: "What are you doing here? Are you for the good cause?" "There can be no effect without a cause," modestly answered Candide; "the whole is necessarily concatenated and arranged for the best. It was necessary for me to have been banished from the presence of Miss Cunegonde, to have afterwards run the gauntlet, and now it is necessary I should beg my bread until I learn to earn it; all this cannot be otherwise." "My friend," said the orator to him, "do you believe the Pope to be Anti-Christ?" "I have not heard it," answered Candide; "but whether he be, or whether he be not, I want bread." "Thou dost not deserve to eat," said the other. "Begone, rogue; begone, wretch; do not come near me again." The orator's wife, putting her head out of the window, and spying a man that doubted whether the Pope was Anti-Christ, poured over him a full.... Oh, heavens! to what excess does religious zeal carry the ladies. A man who had never been christened, a good Anabaptist, named James, beheld the cruel and ignominious treatment shown to one of his brethren, an unfeathered biped with a rational soul, he took him home, cleaned him, gave him bread and beer, presented him with two florins, and even wished to teach him the manufacture of Persian stuffs which they make in Holland. Candide, almost prostrating himself before him, cried: "Master Pangloss has well said that all is for the best in this world, for I am infinitely more touched by your extreme generosity than with the inhumanity of that gentleman in the black coat and his lady." Am nächsten Tag traf er während seines Spaziergangs einen Bettler, der mit Schuppen bedeckt war, dessen Augen krank waren, dessen Nasenspitze abgefressen war, dessen Mund entstellt war, dessen Zähne schwarz waren, der in seiner Kehle erstickte, von einem heftigen Husten gequält wurde und bei jedem Versuch einen Zahn ausspuckte. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Candide befand sich nun in einem Zustand des Elends, als er sich im eisigen Kältegefühl zur benachbarten Stadt schleifte. Fast verhungert und erschöpft vor Hunger und Müdigkeit, sprachen ihn vor der Tür einer Herberge zwei Uniformierte an. Merkwürdigerweise boten sie ihm an, ihm Essen zu kaufen und ihm Geld zu geben, einfach weil er eine Körpergröße von fünf Fuß fünf hatte. "Männer sind dazu da, einander zu helfen", erklärte einer von ihnen, und Candide war gerührt und erfreut, diese Bestätigung von Doktor Pangloss' Lehre zu hören. Sie brachten den Jungen dazu, auf die Gesundheit des bulgarischen Königs zu trinken, und verkündeten dann, dass er ein Soldat in der Armee des Königs sei – ein Held, dessen Ruhm und Glück gesichert seien. Candide befand sich nun in einem Zustand des Elends, als er sich im eisigen Kältegefühl zur benachbarten Stadt schleifte. Fast verhungert und erschöpft vor Hunger und Müdigkeit, sprachen ihn vor der Tür einer Herberge zwei Uniformierte an. Merkwürdigerweise boten sie ihm an, ihm Essen zu kaufen und ihm Geld zu geben, einfach weil er eine Körpergröße von fünf Fuß fünf hatte. "Männer sind dazu da, einander zu helfen", erklärte einer von ihnen, und Candide war gerührt und erfreut, diese Bestätigung von Doktor Pangloss' Lehre zu hören. Sie brachten den Jungen dazu, auf die Gesundheit des bulgarischen Königs zu trinken, und verkündeten dann, dass er ein Soldat in der Armee des Königs sei – ein Held, dessen Ruhm und Glück gesichert seien. Für jemanden mit solch einer Ehre war die Behandlung, die Candide erfuhr, recht schockierend. Man legte ihm Eisen an und brachte ihn zum Regiment, wo er endlosen Übungen unterzogen und fast zu Tode geprügelt wurde. Eines Tages lief er weg, aber bevor er viele Meilen zurückgelegt hatte, überholten ihn vier seiner "Mitkameraden", fesselten ihn und steckten ihn in einen Kerker. Als man ihm die Wahl ließ, entschied er sich verständlicherweise dafür, vom gesamten Regiment gnadenlos sechsunddreißig Mal geschlagen zu werden, anstatt erschossen zu werden. Wie Voltaire die Strafe beschrieb, hätte der unerfahrene Jugendliche weiser agiert, wenn er den Tod akzeptiert hätte. Doch gerade als es schien, als könne er nicht überleben, erschien der König der Bulgaren, erkundigte sich und gewährte Candide eine Begnadigung. Drei Wochen später konnte der wiederhergestellte Jüngling seinen Kameraden in den Krieg gegen die Abarier beitreten. Im dritten Kapitel beschrieb Voltaire die "Herrlichkeiten" des Krieges – die gut ausgebildeten Truppen, die Marschmusik und die "heldenhafte" Schlächterei, vor der sich Candide so gut er konnte versteckte. Während beide Könige ihre Te Deums singen ließen, entschied er, dass die Zeit reif sei, um anderswo über Ursache und Wirkung zu reflektieren. Er bahnte sich seinen Weg über Haufen von toten und sterbenden Männern, bevor er ein Abarierdorf erreichte. Es lag in Ruinen, da es gemäß den Regeln des Völkerrechts niedergebrannt worden war. Candide sah aus erster Hand, wie die Schrecken des Krieges auf unschuldigen Zivilisten lasten konnten. Frauen, Kinder, alte Männer – keiner war entkommen. Candide floh in ein anderes Dorf, das sich als bulgarisch erwies, und stellte fest, dass auch dieses und die Bewohner die gleiche Behandlung erlitten hatten. Schließlich entkam er dem Kriegsschauplatz. Niemals vergaß er Mademoiselle Cunégonde. Als er Holland erreichte, glaubte er optimistisch, dass er ebenso gut behandelt würde wie einst in Westfalen, denn waren nicht die Holländer Christen? Doch der hungrige Jugendliche fand wenig Wohltätigkeit. Ein Einheimischer drohte ihm mit Gefängnis, als er um Almosen bat; ein anderer, ein militant Protestanter, schalt ihn, als er nicht die erwartete Antwort in Bezug auf den Papst gab. Es blieb einem Täufer – einem Mann, der noch nicht einmal getauft worden war – vorbehalten, die Rolle des barmherzigen Samariters zu spielen. Seine Großzügigkeit und Güte bekräftigten in Candide den Glauben an die Weisheit von Doktor Pangloss: Alles muss in dieser bestmöglichen Welt zum Guten sein. An diesem Punkt der Handlung traf Candide einen Bettler, der von Geschwüren bedeckt war. Die Augen des Bettlers waren leblos und die Spitze seiner Nase war von Krankheit weggefressen worden. Sein Mund war verzerrt und er wurde von einem heftigen Husten gepeinigt. Bei jedem Krampf spuckte er einen Zahn aus.

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.

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: Ich überspringe alles, was in der Schule passiert ist, bis mein Geburtstag im März kam. Bis auf die Tatsache, dass Steerforth bewundernswerter war als je zuvor, erinnere ich mich an nichts. Er würde gegen Ende des Halbjahres, wenn nicht früher, weggehen und in meinen Augen noch mutiger und unabhängiger sein als zuvor, und daher noch charmantener sein; aber darüber hinaus erinnere ich mich an nichts. Die große Erinnerung, mit der diese Zeit in meinem Gedächtnis markiert ist, scheint alle kleineren Erinnerungen verschlungen zu haben und existiert allein. Es fällt mir sogar schwer zu glauben, dass zwischen meiner Rückkehr nach Salem House und dem Eintreffen dieses Geburtstags volle zwei Monate vergangen waren. Ich kann nur verstehen, dass es so war, weil ich weiß, dass es so gewesen sein muss; sonst wäre ich überzeugt, dass es keinen Abstand gab und dass eine Gelegenheit die andere sofort abgelöst hätte. Wie gut erinnere ich mich an den Tag! Ich rieche den Nebel, der über dem Ort hing; ich sehe den Reif, gespenstisch, in ihm; ich spüre mein eisiges Haar klamm auf meiner Wange fallen; ich schaue auf die schwach beleuchtete Schulzimmerperspektive, hier und da von einer flackernden Kerze erleuchtet, am nebligen Morgen, und den Atem der Jungen, der in der rohen Kälte raucht und sich um ihre Finger bläst, während sie mit den Füßen auf den Boden tippen. Es war nach dem Frühstück und wir waren vom Spielplatz hereingerufen worden, als Mr. Sharp hereintrat und sagte: 'David Copperfield soll ins Wohnzimmer gehen.' Ich erwartete einen Korb von Peggotty und freute mich über die Anweisung. Einige der Jungen um mich herum meldeten ihren Anspruch darauf, bei der Verteilung der guten Dinge nicht vergessen zu werden, als ich mit großer Eile meinen Platz verließ. 'Geh nicht so schnell, David', sagte Mr. Sharp. 'Es ist noch genug Zeit, mein Junge, geh nicht so schnell.' Ich wäre vielleicht überrascht gewesen von der Gefühlstönung, in der er sprach, wenn ich darüber nachgedacht hätte; aber ich dachte nicht daran, bis später. Ich lief eilig ins Wohnzimmer und dort fand ich Mr. Creakle, der an seinem Frühstück mit dem Stock und einer Zeitung vor ihm saß, und Mrs. Creakle mit einem geöffneten Brief in der Hand. Aber kein Korb. 'David Copperfield', sagte Mrs. Creakle und führte mich zu einem Sofa und setzte sich neben mich. 'Ich möchte ganz besonders mit dir sprechen. Ich habe etwas mit dir zu besprechen, mein Kind.' Mr. Creakle, auf den ich natürlich blickte, schüttelte den Kopf, ohne mich anzuschauen, und stopfte ein Seufzen mit einem sehr großen Stück Buttertoast weg. 'Du bist noch zu jung, um zu wissen, wie sehr sich die Welt jeden Tag verändert', sagte Mrs. Creakle, 'und wie die Menschen darin vergehen. Aber wir alle müssen es lernen, David; einige von uns, wenn wir jung sind, einige von uns, wenn wir alt sind, einige von uns zu jeder Zeit in unserem Leben.' Ich schaute sie ernst an. 'Als du am Ende der Ferien von zu Hause weggegangen bist', sagte Mrs. Creakle nach einer Pause, 'waren sie alle wohlauf?' Nach einer anderen Pause: 'War deine Mama wohlauf?' Ich zitterte, ohne genau zu wissen warum, und schaute sie immer noch ernst an, ohne zu versuchen zu antworten. 'Weil', sagte sie, 'ich muss dir leider mitteilen, dass ich heute Morgen gehört habe, dass deine Mama sehr krank ist.' Ein Nebel stieg zwischen Mrs. Creakle und mir auf und ihre Gestalt schien einen Moment darin zu verschwimmen. Dann fühlte ich die brennenden Tränen über mein Gesicht laufen und es war ruhig. 'Sie ist sehr gefährlich krank', fügte sie hinzu. Ich wusste jetzt Bescheid. 'Sie ist gestorben.' Es war nicht nötig, mir das zu sagen. Ich hatte bereits einen verzweifelten Schrei ausgestoßen und fühlte mich wie ein Waise in der weiten Welt. Sie war sehr freundlich zu mir. Sie behielt mich den ganzen Tag dort und ließ mich manchmal allein; und ich weinte und erschöpfte mich, schlief ein und wachte weinend wieder auf. Als ich nicht mehr weinen konnte, fing ich an nachzudenken; und dann war die Last auf meiner Brust am schwersten, und mein Kummer war ein dumpfer Schmerz, für den es keine Linderung gab. Und doch waren meine Gedanken belanglos; nicht darauf bedacht, die Katastrophe, die mein Herz belastete, zu erfassen, sondern nutzlos in der Nähe herumzuspielen. Ich dachte an unser Haus, das verschlossen und still war. Ich dachte an das kleine Baby, das, wie Mrs. Creakle sagte, seit einiger Zeit verkümmert war und von dem sie glaubten, dass es auch sterben würde. Ich dachte an das Grab meines Vaters auf dem Friedhof bei unserem Haus und an meine Mutter, die dort unter dem Baum lag, den ich so gut kannte. Alleine gelassen, stand ich auf einem Stuhl und schaute in den Spiegel, um zu sehen, wie rot meine Augen waren und wie traurig mein Gesicht aussah. Nach einigen Stunden überlegte ich, ob meine Tränen jetzt wirklich schwer zu fließen waren, wie es schien, und was, in Verbindung mit meinem Verlust, mir am meisten zu denken geben würde, wenn ich mich dem Zuhause näherte - denn ich ging nach Hause zur Beerdigung. Mir wurde bewusst, dass ich mich unter den anderen Jungen in gewisser Weise erhaben fühlte und dass ich in meiner Trauer wichtig war. Wenn je ein Kind mit ehrlichem Kummer geschlagen war, dann war ich es. Aber ich erinnere mich, dass dieses Gefühl der Wichtigkeit mir eine Art Zufriedenheit bereitete, als ich an diesem Nachmittag auf dem Spielplatz spazierte, während die Jungen in der Schule waren. Als ich sie aus den Fenstern herausgucken sah, als sie zu ihren Klassenräumen gingen, fühlte ich mich ausgezeichnet und sah melancholischer aus und ging langsamer. Als die Schule vorbei war und sie herauskamen und zu mir sprachen, fand ich es gut, nicht stolz auf jemanden von ihnen zu sein und genau dieselbe Beachtung wie zuvor jedem von ihnen zu schenken. Ich sollte am nächsten Abend nach Hause gehen, nicht mit der Post, sondern mit dem schweren Nachtkutscher, der Bauer genannt wurde und hauptsächlich von Leuten aus der Gegend benutzt wurde, die kurze mittlere Entfernungen auf der Straße zurücklegten. An diesem Abend erzählten wir keine Geschichten und Traddles bestand darauf, mir sein Kissen auszuleihen. Ich weiß nicht, was er gedacht hat, dass es mir gut tun würde, denn ich hatte meins dabei: aber das war alles, was er hatte, der arme Kerl, außer einem Blatt Briefpapier voller Skelette, und das gab er mir zum Abschied, als Beruhigung für meine Sorgen und als Beitrag zu meinem Seelenfrieden. Ich verließ Salem House am nächsten Nachmittag. Damals ahnte ich nicht, dass ich es für immer verlassen würde. Wir fuhren die ganze Nacht sehr langsam und kamen erst um neun oder zehn Uhr morgens in Yarmouth an. Ich schaute nach Mr. Barkis, aber er war nicht da; anstelle seiner kam ein dicker, kurzatmiger, fröhlich aussehender alter Mann in Schwarz, mit rostigen kleinen Schleifen an den Knien seiner Beinkleider, schwarzen Strümpfen und einem breitkrempigen Hut, pustend ans Fenster des Kutschers und sagte: 'Meister Copperfield?' 'Ja, Sir.' 'Würdet Ihr mir gefälligst folgen, junger Herr', sagte er und öffnete die Tür, 'und ich werde "Nun ja, meine Liebe, ich weiß nicht, wie es ist", antwortete er und überlegte. "Ich bin eher so." "Du bist so ein bequemer Mann, siehst du", sagte Minnie. "Du nimmst die Dinge so gelassen." "Nichts bringt es, sie anders anzugehen, meine Liebe", sagte Mr. Omer. "Nein, wirklich nicht", erwiderte seine Tochter. "Wir sind alle ziemlich froh hier, Gott sei Dank! Nicht wahr, Vater?" "Ich hoffe, meine Liebe", sagte Mr. Omer. "Da ich jetzt wieder Luft bekommen habe, denke ich, ich werde diesen jungen Gelehrten vermessen. Würden Sie in den Laden gehen, Master Copperfield?" Ich ging Mr. Omer voraus, auf seine Bitte hin, und nachdem er mir eine Rolle Stoff gezeigt hatte, von dem er sagte, er sei extra super und für alles außer Eltern zu good für Trauerkleidung, nahm er meine verschiedenen Maße und notierte sie in einem Buch. Während er sie aufschrieb, machte er mich auf seinen Warenbestand aufmerksam und auf gewisse Modetrends, die er sagte, seien "gerade in Mode gekommen", sowie auf gewisse andere Modetrends, die er sagte, seien "gerade aus der Mode gekommen". "Und durch so etwas verlieren wir oft ein kleines Vermögen", sagte Mr. Omer. "Aber Moden sind wie Menschen. Sie kommen, niemand weiß wann, warum oder wie; und sie gehen, niemand weiß wann, warum oder wie. Alles ist wie das Leben, meiner Meinung nach, wenn man es von diesem Standpunkt aus betrachtet." Ich war zu traurig, um die Frage zu diskutieren, die möglicherweise unter allen Umständen schwierig für mich gewesen wäre, und Mr. Omer nahm mich mit Mühe zurück ins Wohnzimmer. Dort rief er eine kleine Treppe hinter einer Tür hinunter: "Bring den Tee und das Butterbrot hoch!" Nach einiger Zeit, während der ich mich umsah, nachdachte und dem Sticken im Raum und der Melodie, die über den Hof gehämmert wurde, lauschte, erschien ein Tablett mit Tee und Butterbrot und stellte sich als für mich heraus. "Ich kenne dich schon lange, mein junger Freund", sagte Mr. Omer, nachdem er mich einige Minuten beobachtet hatte, in denen ich beim Frühstück nicht viel Eindruck gemacht hatte, da die schwarzen Dinge meinen Appetit verdarben. "Haben Sie, Herr?" "Dein ganzes Leben lang", sagte Mr. Omer. "Ich könnte fast sagen, bevor du überhaupt geboren wurdest. Ich kannte deinen Vater schon, bevor du auf die Welt kamst. Er war fünf Fuß neun Zoll und er liegt in fünfundzwanzig Fuß Erde." "Rat-tat-tat, Rat-tat-tat, Rat-tat-tat," über den Hof. "Er liegt in fünfundzwanzig Fuß Erde, wenn er nicht noch tiefer liegt", sagte Mr. Omer freundlich. "Das war entweder sein Wunsch oder ihre Anweisung, ich erinnere mich nicht." "Wissen Sie, wie es meinem kleinen Bruder geht, Sir?" fragte ich. Mr. Omer schüttelte den Kopf. "Rat-tat-tat, Rat-tat-tat, Rat-tat-tat." "Er liegt in den Armen seiner Mutter", sagte er. "Oh, der arme kleine Kerl! Ist er tot?" "Denk nicht mehr daran, als du musst", sagte Mr. Omer. "Ja. Das Baby ist tot." Bei dieser Nachricht brachen meine Wunden erneut auf. Ich ließ das kaum berührte Frühstück stehen, ging und legte meinen Kopf auf einen anderen Tisch in einer Ecke des kleinen Raums, den Minnie hastig aufräumte, damit ich die Trauerkleidung, die dort mit meinen Tränen lag, nicht beschmutzte. Sie war ein hübsches, gutherziges Mädchen und strich mir sanft mit einer weichen, liebevollen Berührung das Haar aus den Augen; aber sie war sehr fröhlich, weil sie ihre Arbeit fast beendet hatte und rechtzeitig fertig war, und sie war so anders als ich! Bald hörte die Melodie auf und ein gutaussehender junger Mann kam über den Hof in den Raum. Er hatte einen Hammer in der Hand und seinen Mund voller kleiner Nägel, die er herausnehmen musste, bevor er sprechen konnte. "Nun, Joram!" sagte Mr. Omer. "Wie geht's voran?" "Alles in Ordnung", sagte Joram. "Erledigt, Sir." Minnie errötete ein wenig und die beiden anderen Mädchen lächelten einander an. "Was? Ihr habt gestern Nacht bei Kerzenlicht daran gearbeitet, als ich im Verein war? Habt ihr das getan?", sagte Mr. Omer und kneifte ein Auge zu. "Ja", sagte Joram. "Wie Sie gesagt haben, könnten wir eine kleine Reise daraus machen und zusammen hingehen, wenn es erledigt wäre, Minnie und ich - und Sie." "Oh! Ich dachte, ihr würdet mich ganz außen vorlassen", sagte Mr. Omer und lachte, bis er hustete. "Da Sie so freundlich waren zu sagen, dass" - der junge Mann setzte fort - "warum bin ich dann voller Eifer ans Werk gegangen, sehen Sie. Möchten Sie meine Meinung dazu hören?" "Ich werde sie hören", sagte Mr. Omer, erhob sich. "Mein Lieber"; und er blieb stehen und wandte sich mir zu: "Möchtest du deine -" "Nein, Vater", wollte Minnie dazwischenreden. "Ich dachte, es könnte angenehm sein, meine Liebe", sagte Mr. Omer. "Aber vielleicht hast du recht." Ich kann nicht sagen, wie ich wusste, dass es der Sarg meiner lieben, lieben Mutter war, den sie sich anschauten. Ich hatte noch nie einen gefertigt gehört; ich hatte noch nie einen gesehen, soweit ich weiß - aber mir kam in den Sinn, was das Geräusch bedeutete, während es passierte; und als der junge Mann hereinkam, wusste ich sicher, was er getan hatte. Die Arbeit war nun beendet. Die beiden Mädchen, deren Namen ich nicht gehört hatte, bürsteten die Fäden und Schnipsel von ihren Kleidern, gingen in den Laden, um dort Ordnung zu schaffen und auf Kunden zu warten. Minnie blieb zurück, um das, was sie gemacht hatten, zusammenzufalten und in zwei Körbe zu packen. Dabei kniete sie und summte eine lebendige Melodie vor sich hin. Joram, von dem ich keinen Zweifel hatte, dass er ihr Liebhaber war, kam herein und stahl ihr einen Kuss, während sie beschäftigt war (es schien ihm nichts auszumachen, dass ich da war) und sagte, ihr Vater sei gegangen, um den Wagen zu holen, und er müsse sich beeilen und sich zurechtmachen. Dann ging er wieder hinaus, und sie steckte ihre Fingerhut und Schere in die Tasche und steckte eine mit schwarzer Schnur eingefädelte Nadel ordentlich in den Ausschnitt ihres Kleides und zog sich elegant ihre Oberbekleidung an einem kleinen Spiegel hinter der Tür an, in dem ich die Reflektion ihres zufriedenen Gesichts sah. All das beobachtete ich, während ich am Tisch in der Ecke saß, den Kopf auf die Hand gelehnt, und meine Gedanken um ganz andere Dinge kreisten. Das Gespann kam bald auf die Vorderseite des Ladens, und nachdem die Körbe zuerst eingeladen worden waren, wurde ich als Nächstes hineingesetzt, gefolgt von den dreien. Ich erinnere mich daran, dass es eine Art halber Wagen, halber Klaviertransporter war, in einer düsteren Farbe lackiert und von einem schwarzen Pferd mit langem Schwanz gezogen. Es war genug Platz für uns alle. Ich glaube nicht, dass ich jemals zuvor in meinem Leben ein so seltsames Gefühl hatte (jetzt bin ich vielleicht weiser), als bei ihnen zu sein, mich daran zu erinnern, womit sie beschäftigt gewesen waren, und sie die Fahrt genießen zu sehen. Ich war nicht w Herr Murdstone beachtete mich nicht, als ich in das Wohnzimmer ging, wo er saß, sondern saß am Kamin und weinte leise, während er in seinem Ohrensessel nachdachte. Miss Murdstone, die beschäftigt an ihrem Schreibtisch saß, der mit Briefen und Papieren bedeckt war, reichte mir ihre kalten Fingernägel und fragte mich mit eisigem Flüstern, ob ich für meine Trauer gemessen worden sei. Ich antwortete: "Ja." "Und deine Hemden", sagte Miss Murdstone, "hast du sie nach Hause gebracht?" "Ja, Ma'am. Ich habe all meine Kleidung mit nach Hause gebracht." Das war der einzige Trost, den ihre Standhaftigkeit mir gab. Ich zweifle nicht daran, dass sie eine besondere Freude daran hatte, das zu präsentieren, was sie ihre Selbstbeherrschung, Standhaftigkeit, ihren klaren Verstand und den ganzen diabolischen Katalog ihrer unsympathischen Eigenschaften nannte, an solch einem Anlass. Sie war besonders stolz auf ihr Geschäftstalent und zeigte es jetzt, indem sie alles auf Papier brachte und von nichts bewegt wurde. Den Rest des Tages und von morgens bis abends danach saß sie an diesem Schreibtisch und kratzte unerschütterlich mit einer harten Feder und sprach mit jedem im gleichen ruhigen Flüsterton; sie entspannte nie einen Muskel ihres Gesichts, milderte nie den Ton ihrer Stimme und erschien nie mit einem Stückchen ihrer Kleidung in Unordnung. Ihr Bruder nahm manchmal ein Buch, las es aber meiner Ansicht nach nie. Er würde es öffnen und sich ansehen, als ob er darin lesen würde, würde aber eine ganze Stunde verbringen, ohne die Seite umzublättern, und es dann weglegen und im Raum auf und ab gehen. Ich pflegte mit gefalteten Händen dazusitzen und ihn beobachten, seine Schritte Stunde um Stunde zählen. Er sprach sehr selten mit ihr und nie mit mir. Er schien das einzige unruhige Ding zu sein, außer den Uhren, im ganzen bewegungslosen Haus. In diesen Tagen vor der Beerdigung sah ich Peggotty nur wenig, außer dass ich sie immer in der Nähe des Zimmers fand, in dem meine Mutter und ihr Baby lagen, wenn ich die Treppe rauf oder runter ging, und außer dass sie jeden Abend zu mir kam und an meinem Bett saß, während ich einschlief. Einen Tag oder zwei vor der Beerdigung - ich glaube, es war einen Tag oder zwei vorher, bin mir aber bewusst, dass ich in meiner Erinnerung an diese schwere Zeit durcheinander bin, ohne etwas zu haben, das ihren Fortschritt kennzeichnet - führte sie mich in das Zimmer. Ich erinnere mich nur daran, dass unter irgendeinem weißen Bezug auf dem Bett, umgeben von schöner Sauberkeit und Frische, anscheinend die feierliche Stille lag, die im ganzen Haus herrschte; und als sie die Decke vorsichtig zurücklegen wollte, rief ich: "Oh nein! Oh nein!" und hielt ihre Hand fest. Wenn die Beerdigung gestern gewesen wäre, könnte ich mich nicht besser daran erinnern. Die Luft im besten Wohnzimmer, als ich durch die Tür hineinging, der gute Zustand des Feuers, das Leuchten des Weins in den Karaffen, die Muster auf den Gläsern und Tellern, der schwache süße Geruch von Kuchen, der Duft von Miss Murdstones Kleidung und unsere schwarzen Kleider. Herr Chillip ist im Raum und kommt zu mir, um mit mir zu sprechen. "Und wie geht es Master David?" sagt er freundlich. Das kann ich ihm nicht genau sagen. Ich gebe ihm meine Hand, die er festhält. "Lieber Himmel!", sagt Herr Chillip, demütig lächelnd, mit etwas Glänzendem in den Augen. "Unsere kleinen Freunde wachsen um uns herum. Sie wachsen außerhalb unseres Wissens, Ma'am?" Das sagt er zu Miss Murdstone, die nicht antwortet. "Es gibt hier eine große Verbesserung, Ma'am?" sagt Herr Chillip. Miss Murdstone antwortet nur mit einem Stirnrunzeln und einer förmlichen Verbeugung: Herr Chillip, verunsichert, geht in eine Ecke, behält mich bei sich und öffnet seinen Mund nicht mehr. Ich bemerke das, weil ich alles bemerke, was passiert, nicht weil es mich interessiert oder weil ich mich seit meiner Rückkehr um mich selbst gekümmert habe. Und jetzt beginnt die Glocke zu läuten und Herr Omer und ein anderer kommen, um uns fertig zu machen. Wie Peggotty mir früher einmal erzählte, wurden die Begleiter meines Vaters zum selben Grab im selben Raum fertiggemacht. Da sind Herr Murdstone, unser Nachbar Herr Grayper, Herr Chillip und ich. Als wir zur Tür hinausgehen, sind die Träger mit ihrer Last im Garten und sie gehen vor uns den Weg hinunter, an den Ulmen vorbei, durch das Tor und auf den Friedhof, wo ich so oft die Vögel an einem Sommermorgen singen hörte. Wir stehen um das Grab herum. Der Tag scheint mir anders als jeder andere Tag, und das Licht ist nicht von derselben Farbe - es ist von einer traurigeren Farbe. Jetzt herrscht eine feierliche Stille, die wir mit dem, was in der Erde ruht, mitgebracht haben; und während wir mit bloßem Kopf stehen, höre ich die Stimme des Geistlichen, die fern in der freien Luft ertönt und dennoch deutlich und vernehmlich sagt: "Ich bin die Auferstehung und das Leben, spricht der Herr!" Dann höre ich schluchzen; und während ich abseits von den Umstehenden stehe, sehe ich den guten und treuen Diener, den ich von allen Menschen auf der Erde am meisten liebe und von dem mein kindliches Herz sicher ist, dass der Herr eines Tages zu ihm sagen wird: "Gut gemacht." Es gibt viele Gesichter in der kleinen Menschenmenge, die ich kenne; Gesichter, die ich in der Kirche kannte, als mein Geist immer dort wanderte; Gesichter, die meine Mutter zum ersten Mal sahen, als sie in ihrer jugendlichen Blüte ins Dorf kam. Ich achte nicht auf sie - ich achte auf nichts außer meinem Kummer - und doch sehe und erkenne ich sie alle; und selbst im Hintergrund, weit weg, sehe ich Minnie zuschauen und ihr Auge auf ihre Geliebten werfen, die neben mir sind. Es ist vorbei und die Erde wird eingefüllt und wir wenden uns zum Gehen. Vor uns steht unser Haus, so hübsch und unverändert, so mit meiner Vorstellung von der jungen Idee dessen, was vergangen ist, verbunden, dass all mein Kummer nichts gegen den Kummer ist, den es hervorruft. Aber sie nehmen mich mit, und Herr Chillip spricht mit mir; und als wir nach Hause kommen, hält er mir etwas Wasser an die Lippen; und als ich um Erlaubnis bitte, in mein Zimmer zu gehen, entlässt er mich mit der Sanftmut einer Frau. All das, sage ich, ist das Ereignis von gestern. Ereignisse späteren Datums haben mich ans Ufer getragen, wo alle vergessenen Dinge wiedererscheinen werden, aber dieses steht wie ein hoher Felsen im Ozean. Ich wusste, dass Peggotty zu mir in mein Zimmer kommen würde. Die Sabbatstille der Zeit (der Tag war so wie ein Sonntag! Das habe ich vergessen) passte zu uns beiden. Sie setzte sich neben mich auf mein kleines Bett; und nahm meine Hand, und legte sie manchmal an ihre Lippen und streichelte sie manchmal mit ihrer, so wie sie meinen kleinen Bruder trösten könnte, erzählte mir auf ihre Art alles, was sie über das Geschehene zu erzählen hatte. "Sie war lange Zeit nicht gut", sagte Peggotty. "Sie war unsicher in ihrem Verstand und nicht glücklich. Als ihr Baby geboren wurde, dachte ich zuer "Ich habe sie danach nie verlassen," sagte Peggotty. "Sie sprach oft mit ihnen unten, denn sie liebte sie; sie konnte es nicht ertragen, niemanden zu lieben, der bei ihr war, aber wenn sie von ihrem Bett weggingen, wandte sie sich immer mir zu, als ob nur bei Peggotty Ruhe wäre, und schlief nie auf andere Weise ein. "In der letzten Nacht, am Abend, hat sie mich geküsst und sagte: "Wenn mein Baby auch sterben sollte, Peggotty, lass sie ihn mir in die Arme legen und uns zusammen begraben." (Es wurde getan; denn das arme Lamm lebte nur einen Tag länger als sie.) "Lass meinen liebsten Jungen mit uns zu unserem Ruheplatz gehen", sagte sie, "und sag ihm, dass seine Mutter, als sie hier lag, ihn nicht einmal, sondern tausendmal gesegnet hat."' Eine weitere Pause folgte und eine weitere sanfte Berührung auf meiner Hand. "Es war ziemlich spät in der Nacht", sagte Peggotty, "als sie mich um etwas zu trinken bat; und als sie es genommen hatte, gab sie mir ein geduldiges Lächeln, die Liebe! So wunderschön! "Es war Tag geworden und die Sonne ging auf, als sie zu mir sagte, wie freundlich und rücksichtsvoll Mr. Copperfield immer zu ihr gewesen sei und wie er mit ihr ausgehalten und ihr gesagt habe, wenn sie an sich zweifelte, dass ein liebendes Herz besser und stärker sei als Weisheit und dass er ein glücklicher Mann in ihrem sei. "Peggotty, meine Liebe", sagte sie dann, "leg mich näher zu dir", denn sie war sehr schwach. "Lege deinen guten Arm unter meinen Nacken", sagte sie, "und drehe mich zu dir, denn dein Gesicht entfernt sich immer weiter und ich möchte es nah haben." Ich habe es so gemacht, wie sie es gefragt hat; und oh Davy! Die Zeit war gekommen, als meine ersten Abschiedsworte an dich wahr waren - als sie froh war, ihren armen Kopf auf den Arm ihrer dummen, alten Peggotty zu legen - und sie starb wie ein Kind, das eingeschlafen war!" So endete Peggottys Erzählung. Vom Moment des Wissens um den Tod meiner Mutter war die Vorstellung von ihr, wie sie zuletzt gewesen war, von mir verschwunden. Ich erinnerte mich von diesem Augenblick an sie nur noch als die junge Mutter meiner frühesten Eindrücke, die es gewohnt war, ihre hellen Locken um ihren Finger zu wickeln und mit mir in der Abenddämmerung im Salon zu tanzen. Was Peggotty mir jetzt erzählt hatte, brachte mich so weit weg von der späteren Zeit, dass es das frühere Bild in meinem Kopf verankerte. Es mag seltsam sein, aber es ist wahr. Mit ihrem Tod kehrte sie auf sanfte und ungestörte Weise in ihre Jugend zurück und löschte alles andere aus. Die Mutter, die im Grab lag, war die Mutter meiner Kindheit. Das kleine Wesen in ihren Armen war ich selbst, wie ich einst war, für immer auf ihrem Schoß zum Schweigen gebracht. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Ich habe einen denkwürdigen Geburtstag. Während des nächsten Schulsemesters wird David ins Zimmer von Mr. Creakle gerufen, wo Mrs. Creakle ihm die Nachricht überbringt, dass seine Mutter gestorben ist und dass das Baby wahrscheinlich auch sterben wird. Er wird nach Hause geschickt, um an ihrer Beerdigung teilzunehmen, und von Mr. Omer, dem Bestatter, abgeholt. Mr. Omer bringt David in seinen Laden, wo David Mr. Omers Tochter Minnie und ihren Freund Mr. Joram trifft. Mr. Omer nimmt David Maß für seinen Traueranzug. Mr. Joram fertigt den Sarg von Davids Mutter an, und David sitzt da, lauscht dem Klang der eingeschlagenen Nägel und wundert sich über die Fröhlichkeit der Familie. Mr. Omer bringt David nach Hause, wo er Mr. Murdstone in stummer Trauer und Miss Murdstone an ihrem Schreibtisch beschäftigt vorfindet. Keiner der beiden zeigt Interesse an David. Nur Peggotty, die einen Großteil der Zeit über Claras Körper wacht, kommt zu ihm und setzt sich neben ihn, bevor er einschläft. Nach der Beerdigung erzählt Peggotty David, dass Clara schon seit einiger Zeit unglücklich und krank war und nach der Geburt des Babys schwächer wurde. Clara starb und segnete David, während sie ihren Kopf auf Peggottys Arm hatte. Das Baby starb einen Tag später und wurde mit seiner Mutter beerdigt.

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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. Chapter: I. A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE. "Oh! 't is hard, 't is hard to be working The whole of the live-long day, When all the neighbours about one Are off to their jaunts and play. "There's Richard he carries his baby, And Mary takes little Jane, And lovingly they'll be wandering Through fields and briery lane." --MANCHESTER SONG. There are some fields near Manchester, well known to the inhabitants as "Green Heys Fields," through which runs a public footpath to a little village about two miles distant. In spite of these fields being flat, and low, nay, in spite of the want of wood (the great and usual recommendation of level tracts of land), there is a charm about them which strikes even the inhabitant of a mountainous district, who sees and feels the effect of contrast in these commonplace but thoroughly rural fields, with the busy, bustling manufacturing town he left but half-an-hour ago. Here and there an old black and white farmhouse, with its rambling outbuildings, speaks of other times and other occupations than those which now absorb the population of the neighbourhood. Here in their seasons may be seen the country business of haymaking, ploughing, etc., which are such pleasant mysteries for townspeople to watch: and here the artisan, deafened with noise of tongues and engines, may come to listen awhile to the delicious sounds of rural life: the lowing of cattle, the milkmaid's call, the clatter and cackle of poultry in the farmyards. You cannot wonder, then, that these fields are popular places of resort at every holiday time; and you would not wonder, if you could see, or I properly describe, the charm of one particular stile, that it should be, on such occasions, a crowded halting place. Close by it is a deep, clear pond, reflecting in its dark green depths the shadowy trees that bend over it to exclude the sun. The only place where its banks are shelving is on the side next to a rambling farmyard, belonging to one of those old world, gabled, black and white houses I named above, overlooking the field through which the public footpath leads. The porch of this farmhouse is covered by a rose-tree; and the little garden surrounding it is crowded with a medley of old-fashioned herbs and flowers, planted long ago, when the garden was the only druggist's shop within reach, and allowed to grow in scrambling and wild luxuriance--roses, lavender, sage, balm (for tea), rosemary, pinks and wallflowers, onions and jessamine, in most republican and indiscriminate order. This farmhouse and garden are within a hundred yards of the stile of which I spoke, leading from the large pasture field into a smaller one, divided by a hedge of hawthorn and blackthorn; and near this stile, on the further side, there runs a tale that primroses may often be found, and occasionally the blue sweet violet on the grassy hedge bank. I do not know whether it was on a holiday granted by the masters, or a holiday seized in right of Nature and her beautiful spring time by the workmen, but one afternoon (now ten or a dozen years ago) these fields were much thronged. It was an early May evening--the April of the poets; for heavy showers had fallen all the morning, and the round, soft, white clouds which were blown by a west wind over the dark blue sky, were sometimes varied by one blacker and more threatening. The softness of the day tempted forth the young green leaves, which almost visibly fluttered into life; and the willows, which that morning had had only a brown reflection in the water below, were now of that tender grey-green which blends so delicately with the spring harmony of colours. Groups of merry and somewhat loud-talking girls, whose ages might range from twelve to twenty, came by with a buoyant step. They were most of them factory girls, and wore the usual out-of-doors dress of that particular class of maidens; namely, a shawl, which at midday or in fine weather was allowed to be merely a shawl, but towards evening, if the day was chilly, became a sort of Spanish mantilla or Scotch plaid, and was brought over the head and hung loosely down, or was pinned under the chin in no unpicturesque fashion. Their faces were not remarkable for beauty; indeed, they were below the average, with one or two exceptions; they had dark hair, neatly and classically arranged, dark eyes, but sallow complexions and irregular features. The only thing to strike a passer-by was an acuteness and intelligence of countenance, which has often been noticed in a manufacturing population. There were also numbers of boys, or rather young men, rambling among these fields, ready to bandy jokes with any one, and particularly ready to enter into conversation with the girls, who, however, held themselves aloof, not in a shy, but rather in an independent way, assuming an indifferent manner to the noisy wit or obstreperous compliments of the lads. Here and there came a sober, quiet couple, either whispering lovers, or husband and wife, as the case might be; and if the latter, they were seldom unencumbered by an infant, carried for the most part by the father, while occasionally even three or four little toddlers had been carried or dragged thus far, in order that the whole family might enjoy the delicious May afternoon together. Some time in the course of that afternoon, two working men met with friendly greeting at the stile so often named. One was a thorough specimen of a Manchester man; born of factory workers, and himself bred up in youth, and living in manhood, among the mills. He was below the middle size and slightly made; there was almost a stunted look about him; and his wan, colourless face gave you the idea, that in his childhood he had suffered from the scanty living consequent upon bad times and improvident habits. His features were strongly marked, though not irregular, and their expression was extreme earnestness; resolute either for good or evil, a sort of latent stern enthusiasm. At the time of which I write, the good predominated over the bad in the countenance, and he was one from whom a stranger would have asked a favour with tolerable faith that it would be granted. He was accompanied by his wife, who might, without exaggeration, have been called a lovely woman, although now her face was swollen with crying, and often hidden behind her apron. She had the fresh beauty of the agricultural districts; and somewhat of the deficiency of sense in her countenance, which is likewise characteristic of the rural inhabitants in comparison with the natives of the manufacturing towns. She was far advanced in pregnancy, which perhaps occasioned the overpowering and hysterical nature of her grief. The friend whom they met was more handsome and less sensible-looking than the man I have just described; he seemed hearty and hopeful, and although his age was greater, yet there was far more of youth's buoyancy in his appearance. He was tenderly carrying a baby in arms, while his wife, a delicate, fragile-looking woman, limping in her gait, bore another of the same age; little, feeble twins, inheriting the frail appearance of their mother. The last-mentioned man was the first to speak, while a sudden look of sympathy dimmed his gladsome face. "Well, John, how goes it with you?" and in a lower voice, he added, "Any news of Esther yet?" Meanwhile the wives greeted each other like old friends, the soft and plaintive voice of the mother of the twins seeming to call forth only fresh sobs from Mrs. Barton. "Come, women," said John Barton, "you've both walked far enough. My Mary expects to have her bed in three weeks; and as for you, Mrs. Wilson, you know you are but a cranky sort of a body at the best of times." This was said so kindly, that no offence could be taken. "Sit you down here; the grass is well nigh dry by this time; and you're neither of you nesh* folk about taking cold. Stay," he added, with some tenderness, "here's my pocket-handkerchief to spread under you to save the gowns women always think so much on; and now, Mrs. Wilson, give me the baby, I may as well carry him, while you talk and comfort my wife; poor thing, she takes on sadly about Esther." *Nesh; Anglo-Saxon, nesc, tender. These arrangements were soon completed; the two women sat down on the blue cotton handkerchiefs of their husbands, and the latter, each carrying a baby, set off for a further walk; but as soon as Barton had turned his back upon his wife, his countenance fell back into an expression of gloom. "Then you've heard nothing of Esther, poor lass?" asked Wilson. "No, nor shan't, as I take it. My mind is, she's gone off with somebody. My wife frets and thinks she's drowned herself, but I tell her, folks don't care to put on their best clothes to drown themselves; and Mrs. Bradshaw (where she lodged, you know) says the last time she set eyes on her was last Tuesday, when she came downstairs, dressed in her Sunday gown, and with a new ribbon in her bonnet, and gloves on her hands, like the lady she was so fond of thinking herself." "She was as pretty a creature as ever the sun shone on." "Ay, she was a farrantly* lass; more's the pity now," added Barton, with a sigh. "You see them Buckinghamshire people as comes to work here has quite a different look with them to us Manchester folk. You'll not see among the Manchester wenches such fresh rosy cheeks, or such black lashes to grey eyes (making them look like black), as my wife and Esther had. I never seed two such pretty women for sisters; never. Not but what beauty is a sad snare. Here was Esther so puffed up, that there was no holding her in. Her spirit was always up, if I spoke ever so little in the way of advice to her; my wife spoiled her, it is true, for you see she was so much older than Esther, she was more like a mother to her, doing everything for her." *Farrantly; comely, pleasant-looking. "I wonder she ever left you," observed his friend. "That's the worst of factory work for girls. They can earn so much when work is plenty, that they can maintain themselves anyhow. My Mary shall never work in a factory, that I'm determined on. You see Esther spent her money in dress, thinking to set off her pretty face; and got to come home so late at night, that at last I told her my mind; my missis thinks I spoke crossly, but I meant right, for I loved Esther, if it was only for Mary's sake. Says I, 'Esther, I see what you'll end at with your artificials, and your fly-away veils, and stopping out when honest women are in their beds: you'll be a street-walker, Esther, and then, don't you go to think I'll have you darken my door, though my wife is your sister?' So says she, 'Don't trouble yourself, John, I'll pack up and be off now, for I'll never stay to hear myself called as you call me.' She flushed up like a turkey-cock, and I thought fire would come out of her eyes; but when she saw Mary cry (for Mary can't abide words in a house), she went and kissed her, and said she was not so bad as I thought her. So we talked more friendly, for, as I said, I liked the lass well enough, and her pretty looks, and her cheery ways. But she said (and at that time I thought there was sense in what she said) we should be much better friends if she went into lodgings, and only came to see us now and then." "Then you still were friendly. Folks said you'd cast her off, and said you'd never speak to her again." "Folks always make one a deal worse than one is," said John Barton testily. "She came many a time to our house after she left off living with us. Last Sunday se'nnight--no! it was this very last Sunday, she came to drink a cup of tea with Mary; and that was the last time we set eyes on her." "Was she any ways different in her manner?" asked Wilson. "Well, I don't know. I have thought several times since, that she was a bit quieter, and more womanly-like; more gentle, and more blushing, and not so riotous and noisy. She comes in towards four o'clock, when afternoon church was loosing, and she goes and hangs her bonnet up on the old nail we used to call hers, while she lived with us. I remember thinking what a pretty lass she was, as she sat on a low stool by Mary, who was rocking herself, and in rather a poor way. She laughed and cried by turns, but all so softly and gently, like a child, that I couldn't find in my heart to scold her, especially as Mary was fretting already. One thing I do remember I did say, and pretty sharply too. She took our little Mary by the waist and"-- "Thou must leave off calling her 'little' Mary, she's growing up into as fine a lass as one can see on a summer's day; more of her mother's stock than thine," interrupted Wilson. "Well, well, I call her 'little' because her mother's name is Mary. But, as I was saying, she takes Mary in a coaxing sort of way, and 'Mary,' says she, 'what should you think if I sent for you some day and made a lady of you?' So I could not stand such talk as that to my girl, and I said, 'Thou'd best not put that nonsense i' the girl's head I can tell thee; I'd rather see her earning her bread by the sweat of brow, as the Bible tells her she should do, ay, though she never got butter to her bread, than be like a do-nothing lady, worrying shopmen all morning, and screeching at her pianny all afternoon, and going to bed without having done a good turn to any one of God's creatures but herself.'" "Thou never could abide the gentlefolk," said Wilson, half amused at his friend's vehemence. "And what good have they ever done me that I should like them?" asked Barton, the latent fire lighting up his eye: and bursting forth he continued, "If I am sick do they come and nurse me? If my child lies dying (as poor Tom lay, with his white wan lips quivering, for want of better food than I could give him), does the rich man bring the wine or broth that might save his life? If I am out of work for weeks in the bad times, and winter comes, with black frost, and keen east wind, and there is no coal for the grate, and no clothes for the bed, and the thin bones are seen through the ragged clothes, does the rich man share his plenty with me, as he ought to do, if his religion wasn't a humbug? When I lie on my death-bed and Mary (bless her!) stands fretting, as I know she will fret," and here his voice faltered a little, "will a rich lady come and take her to her own home if need be, till she can look round, and see what best to do? No, I tell you it's the poor, and the poor only, as does such things for the poor. Don't think to come over me with th' old tale, that the rich know nothing of the trials of the poor; I say, if they don't know, they ought to know. We're their slaves as long as we can work; we pile up their fortunes with the sweat of our brows, and yet we are to live as separate as if we were in two worlds; ay, as separate as Dives and Lazarus, with a great gulf betwixt us: but I know who was best off then," and he wound up his speech with a low chuckle that had no mirth in it. "Well, neighbour," said Wilson, "all that may be very true, but what I want to know now is about Esther--when did you last hear of her?" "Why, she took leave of us that Sunday night in a very loving way, kissing both wife Mary, and daughter Mary (if I must not call her 'little'), and shaking hands with me; but all in a cheerful sort of manner, so we thought nothing about her kisses and shakes. But on Wednesday night comes Mrs. Bradshaw's son with Esther's box, and presently Mrs. Bradshaw follows with the key; and when we began to talk, we found Esther told her she was coming back to live with us, and would pay her week's money for not giving notice; and on Tuesday night she carried off a little bundle (her best clothes were on her back, as I said before) and told Mrs. Bradshaw not to hurry herself about the big box, but bring it when she had time. So, of course, she thought she should find Esther with us; and when she told her story, my missis set up such a screech, and fell down in a dead swoon. Mary ran up with water for her mother, and I thought so much about my wife, I did not seem to care at all for Esther. But the next day I asked all the neighbours (both our own and Bradshaw's) and they'd none of 'em heard or seen nothing of her. I even went to a policeman, a good enough sort of man, but a fellow I'd never spoken to before because of his livery, and I asks him if his 'cuteness could find anything out for us. So I believe he asks other policemen; and one on 'em had seen a wench, like our Esther, walking very quickly, with a bundle under her arm, on Tuesday night, toward eight o'clock, and get into a hackney coach, near Hulme Church, and we don't know th' number, and can't trace it no further. I'm sorry enough for the girl, for bad's come over her, one way or another, but I'm sorrier for my wife. She loved her next to me and Mary, and she's never been the same body since poor Tom's death. However, let's go back to them; your old woman may have done her good." As they walked homewards with a brisker pace, Wilson expressed a wish that they still were the near neighbours they once had been. "Still our Alice lives in the cellar under No. 14, in Barber Street, and if you'd only speak the word she'd be with you in five minutes to keep your wife company when she's lonesome. Though I'm Alice's brother, and perhaps ought not to say it, I will say there's none more ready to help with heart or hand than she is. Though she may have done a hard day's wash, there's not a child ill within the street, but Alice goes to offer to sit up, and does sit up, too, though may be she's to be at her work by six next morning." "She's a poor woman, and can feel for the poor, Wilson," was Barton's reply; and then he added, "Thank you kindly for your offer, and mayhap I may trouble her to be a bit with my wife, for while I'm at work, and Mary's at school, I know she frets above a bit. See, there's Mary!" and the father's eye brightened, as in the distance, among a group of girls, he spied his only daughter, a bonny lass of thirteen or so, who came bounding along to meet and to greet her father, in a manner that showed that the stern-looking man had a tender nature within. The two men had crossed the last stile, while Mary loitered behind to gather some buds of the coming hawthorn, when an overgrown lad came past her, and snatched a kiss, exclaiming, "For old acquaintance sake, Mary." "Take that for old acquaintance sake, then," said the girl, blushing rosy red, more with anger than shame, as she slapped his face. The tones of her voice called back her father and his friend, and the aggressor proved to be the eldest son of the latter, the senior by eighteen years of his little brothers. "Here, children, instead o' kissing and quarrelling, do ye each take a baby, for if Wilson's arms be like mine they are heartily tired." Mary sprang forward to take her father's charge, with a girl's fondness for infants, and with some little foresight of the event soon to happen at home; while young Wilson seemed to lose his rough, cubbish nature as he crowed and cooed to his little brother. "Twins is a great trial to a poor man, bless 'em," said the half- proud, half-weary father, as he bestowed a smacking kiss on the babe ere he parted with it. II. A MANCHESTER TEA-PARTY. "Polly, put the kettle on, And let's have tea! Polly, put the kettle on, And we'll all have tea." "Here we are, wife; did'st thou think thou'd lost us?" quoth hearty-voiced Wilson, as the two women rose and shook themselves in preparation for their homeward walk. Mrs. Barton was evidently soothed, if not cheered, by the unburdening of her fears and thoughts to her friend; and her approving look went far to second her husband's invitation that the whole party should adjourn from Green Heys Fields to tea, at the Bartons' house. The only faint opposition was raised by Mrs. Wilson, on account of the lateness of the hour at which they would probably return, which she feared on her babies' account. "Now, hold your tongue, missis, will you," said her husband good-temperedly. "Don't you know them brats never goes to sleep till long past ten? and haven't you a shawl, under which you can tuck one lad's head, as safe as a bird's under its wing? And as for t'other one, I'll put it in my pocket rather than not stay, now we are this far away from Ancoats." "Or, I can lend you another shawl," suggested Mrs. Barton. "Ay, anything rather than not stay." The matter being decided the party proceeded home, through many half-finished streets, all so like one another, that you might have easily been bewildered and lost your way. Not a step, however, did our friends lose; down this entry, cutting off that corner, until they turned out of one of these innumerable streets into a little paved court, having the backs of houses at the end opposite to the opening, and a gutter running through the middle to carry off household slops, washing suds, etc. The women who lived in the court were busy taking in strings of caps, frocks, and various articles of linen, which hung from side to side, dangling so low, that if our friends had been a few minutes' sooner, they would have had to stoop very much, or else the half-wet clothes would have flapped in their faces: but although the evening seemed yet early when they were in the open fields--among the pent-up houses, night, with its mists and its darkness, had already begun to fall. Many greetings were given and exchanged between the Wilsons and these women, for not long ago they had also dwelt in this court. Two rude lads, standing at a disorderly looking house-door, exclaimed, as Mary Barton (the daughter) passed, "Eh, look! Polly Barton's getten* a sweetheart." *"For he had geten him yet no benefice." --Prologue to Canterbury Tales. Of course this referred to young Wilson, who stole a look to see how Mary took the idea. He saw her assume the air of a young fury, and to his next speech she answered not a word. Mrs. Barton produced the key of the door from her pocket; and on entering the house-place it seemed as if they were in total darkness, except one bright spot, which might be a cat's eye, or might be, what it was, a red-hot fire, smouldering under a large piece of coal, which John Barton immediately applied himself to break up, and the effect instantly produced was warm and glowing light in every corner of the room. To add to this (although the coarse yellow glare seemed lost in the ruddy glow from the fire), Mrs. Barton lighted a dip by sticking it in the fire, and having placed it satisfactorily in a tin candlestick, began to look further about her, on hospitable thoughts intent. The room was tolerably large, and possessed many conveniences. On the right of the door, as you entered, was a longish window, with a broad ledge. On each side of this, hung blue-and-white check curtains, which were now drawn, to shut in the friends met to enjoy themselves. Two geraniums, unpruned and leafy, which stood on the sill, formed a further defence from out-door pryers. In the corner between the window and the fireside was a cupboard, apparently full of plates and dishes, cups and saucers, and some more nondescript articles, for which one would have fancied their possessors could find no use-- such as triangular pieces of glass to save carving knives and forks from dirtying table-cloths. However, it was evident Mrs. Barton was proud of her crockery and glass, for she left her cupboard door open, with a glance round of satisfaction and pleasure. On the opposite side to the door and window was the staircase, and two doors; one of which (the nearest to the fire) led into a sort of little back kitchen, where dirty work, such as washing up dishes, might be done, and whose shelves served as larder, and pantry, and storeroom, and all. The other door, which was considerably lower, opened into the coal-hole--the slanting closet under the stairs; from which, to the fire-place, there was a gay-coloured piece of oil-cloth laid. The place seemed almost crammed with furniture (sure sign of good times among the mills). Beneath the window was a dresser, with three deep drawers. Opposite the fire-place was a table, which I should call a Pembroke, only that it was made of deal, and I cannot tell how far such a name may be applied to such humble material. On it, resting against the wall, was a bright green japanned tea-tray, having a couple of scarlet lovers embracing in the middle. The fire-light danced merrily on this, and really (setting all taste but that of a child's aside) it gave a richness of colouring to that side of the room. It was in some measure propped up by a crimson tea-caddy, also of japan ware. A round table on one branching leg, really for use, stood in the corresponding corner to the cupboard; and, if you can picture all this, with a washy, but clean stencilled pattern on the walls, you can form some idea of John Barton's home. The tray was soon hoisted down, and before the merry clatter of cups and saucers began, the women disburdened themselves of their out-of-door things, and sent Mary upstairs with them. Then came a long whispering, and chinking of money, to which Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were too polite to attend; knowing, as they did full well, that it all related to the preparations for hospitality; hospitality that, in their turn, they should have such pleasure in offering. So they tried to be busily occupied with the children, and not to hear Mrs. Barton's directions to Mary. "Run, Mary, dear, just round the corner, and get some fresh eggs at Tipping's (you may get one apiece, that will be fivepence), and see if he has any nice ham cut, that he would let us have a pound of." "Say two pounds, missis, and don't be stingy," chimed in the husband. "Well, a pound and a half, Mary. And get it Cumberland ham, for Wilson comes from there-away, and it will have a sort of relish of home with it he'll like,--and Mary" (seeing the lassie fain to be off), "you must get a pennyworth of milk and a loaf of bread--mind you get it fresh and new--and, and--that's all, Mary." "No, it's not all," said her husband. "Thou must get sixpennyworth of rum, to warm the tea; thou'll get it at the 'Grapes.' And thou just go to Alice Wilson; he says she lives just right round the corner, under 14, Barber Street" (this was addressed to his wife); "and tell her to come and take her tea with us; she'll like to see her brother, I'll be bound, let alone Jane and the twins." "If she comes she must bring a tea-cup and saucer, for we have but half-a-dozen, and here's six of us," said Mrs. Barton. "Pooh, pooh, Jem and Mary can drink out of one, surely." But Mary secretly determined to take care that Alice brought her tea-cup and saucer, if the alternative was to be her sharing anything with Jem. Alice Wilson had but just come in. She had been out all day in the fields, gathering wild herbs for drinks and medicine, for in addition to her invaluable qualities as a sick nurse and her worldly occupations as a washerwoman, she added a considerable knowledge of hedge and field simples; and on fine days, when no more profitable occupation offered itself, she used to ramble off into the lanes and meadows as far as her legs could carry her. This evening she had returned loaded with nettles, and her first object was to light a candle and see to hang them up in bunches in every available place in her cellar room. It was the perfection of cleanliness; in one corner stood the modest-looking bed, with a check curtain at the head, the whitewashed wall filling up the place where the corresponding one should have been. The floor was bricked, and scrupulously clean, although so damp that it seemed as if the last washing would never dry up. As the cellar window looked into an area in the street, down which boys might throw stones, it was protected by an outside shutter, and was oddly festooned with all manner of hedge-row, ditch, and field plants, which we are accustomed to call valueless, but which have a powerful effect either for good or for evil, and are consequently much used among the poor. The room was strewed, hung, and darkened with these bunches, which emitted no very fragrant odour in their process of drying. In one corner was a sort of broad hanging shelf, made of old planks, where some old hoards of Alice's were kept. Her little bit of crockery-ware was ranged on the mantelpiece, where also stood her candlestick and box of matches. A small cupboard contained at the bottom coals, and at the top her bread and basin of oatmeal, her frying-pan, teapot, and a small tin saucepan, which served as a kettle, as well as for cooking the delicate little messes of broth which Alice was sometimes able to manufacture for a sick neighbour. After her walk she felt chilly and weary, and was busy trying to light her fire with the damp coals, and half-green sticks, when Mary knocked. "Come in," said Alice, remembering, however, that she had barred the door for the night, and hastening to make it possible for any one to come in. "Is that you, Mary Barton?" exclaimed she, as the light from the candle streamed on the girl's face. "How you are grown since I used to see you at my brother's! Come in, lass, come in." "Please," said Mary, almost breathless, "mother says you're to come to tea, and bring your cup and saucer, for George and Jane Wilson is with us, and the twins, and Jem. And you're to make haste, please!" "I'm sure it's very neighbourly and kind in your mother, and I'll come, with many thanks. Stay, Mary, has your mother got any nettles for spring drink? If she hasn't, I'll take her some." "No, I don't think she has." Mary ran off like a hare to fulfil what, to a girl of thirteen, fond of power, was the more interesting part of her errand--the money- spending part. And well and ably did she perform her business, returning home with a little bottle of rum, and the eggs in one hand, while her other was filled with some excellent red-and-white, smoke-flavoured, Cumberland ham, wrapped up in paper. She was at home, and frying ham, before Alice had chosen her nettles, put out her candle, locked her door, and walked in a very foot-sore manner as far as John Barton's. What an aspect of comfort did his house-place present, after her humble cellar! She did not think of comparing; but for all that she felt the delicious glow of the fire, the bright light that revelled in every corner of the room, the savoury smells, the comfortable sounds of a boiling kettle, and the hissing, frizzling ham. With a little old-fashioned curtsey she shut the door, and replied with a loving heart to the boisterous and surprised greeting of her brother. And now all preparations being made, the party sat down; Mrs. Wilson in the post of honour, the rocking-chair, on the right-hand side of the fire, nursing her baby, while its father, in an opposite arm-chair, tried vainly to quiet the other with bread soaked in milk. Mrs. Barton knew manners too well to do anything but sit at the tea-table and make tea, though in her heart she longed to be able to superintend the frying of the ham, and cast many an anxious look at Mary as she broke the eggs and turned the ham, with a very comfortable portion of confidence in her own culinary powers. Jem stood awkwardly leaning against the dresser, replying rather gruffly to his aunt's speeches, which gave him, he thought, the air of being a little boy; whereas he considered himself as a young man, and not so very young neither, as in two months he would be eighteen. Barton vibrated between the fire and the tea-table, his only drawback being a fancy that every now and then his wife's face flushed and contracted as if in pain. At length the business actually began. Knives and forks, cups and saucers made a noise, but human voices were still, for human beings were hungry and had no time to speak. Alice first broke silence; holding her tea-cup with the manner of one proposing a toast, she said, "Here's to absent friends. Friends may meet, but mountains never." It was an unlucky toast or sentiment, as she instantly felt. Every one thought of Esther, the absent Esther; and Mrs. Barton put down her food, and could not hide the fast-dropping tears. Alice could have bitten her tongue out. It was a wet blanket to the evening; for though all had been said and suggested in the fields that could be said or suggested, every one had a wish to say something in the way of comfort to poor Mrs. Barton, and a dislike to talk about anything else while her tears fell fast and scalding. So George Wilson, his wife, and children set off early home, not before (in spite of mal-a-propos speeches) they had expressed a wish that such meetings might often take place, and not before John Barton had given his hearty consent; and declared that as soon as ever his wife was well again they would have just such another evening. "I will take care not to come and spoil it," thought poor Alice, and going up to Mrs. Barton, she took her hand almost humbly, and said, "You don't know how sorry I am I said it." To her surprise, a surprise that brought tears of joy into her eyes, Mary Barton put her arms round her neck, and kissed the self- reproaching Alice. "You didn't mean any harm, and it was me as was so foolish; only this work about Esther, and not knowing where she is, lies so heavy on my heart. Good-night, and never think no more about it. God bless you, Alice." Many and many a time, as Alice reviewed that evening in her after life, did she bless Mary Barton for these kind and thoughtful words. But just then all she could say was, "Good-night, Mary, and may God bless YOU." III. JOHN BARTONS GREAT TROUBLE. "But when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed--she had Another morn than ours." --HOOD. In the middle of that same night a neighbour of the Bartons was roused from her sound, well-earned sleep, by a knocking, which had at first made part of her dream; but starting up, as soon as she became convinced of its reality, she opened the window, and asked who was there? "Me--John Barton," answered he, in a voice tremulous with agitation. "My missis is in labour, and, for the love of God, step in while I run for th' doctor, for she's fearful bad." While the woman hastily dressed herself, leaving the window still open, she heard the cries of agony, which resounded in the little court in the stillness of the night. In less than five minutes she was standing by Mrs. Barton's bedside, relieving the terrified Mary, who went about where she was told like an automaton; her eyes tearless, her face calm, though deadly pale, and uttering no sound, except when her teeth chattered for very nervousness. The cries grew worse. The doctor was very long in hearing the repeated rings at his night-bell, and still longer in understanding who it was that made this sudden call upon his services; and then he begged Barton just to wait while he dressed himself, in order that no time might be lost in finding the court and house. Barton absolutely stamped with impatience, outside the doctor's door, before he came down; and walked so fast homewards, that the medical man several times asked him to go slower. "Is she so very bad?" asked he. "Worse, much worser than I ever saw her before," replied John. No! she was not--she was at peace. The cries were still for ever. John had no time for listening. He opened the latched door, stayed not to light a candle for the mere ceremony of showing his companion up the stairs, so well known to himself; but, in two minutes, was in the room, where lay the dead wife, whom he had loved with all the power of his strong heart. The doctor stumbled upstairs by the fire-light, and met the awe-struck look of the neighbour, which at once told him the state of things. The room was still, as he, with habitual tiptoe step, approached the poor frail body, that nothing now could more disturb. Her daughter knelt by the bedside, her face buried in the clothes, which were almost crammed into her mouth, to keep down the choking sobs. The husband stood like one stupefied. The doctor questioned the neighbour in whispers, and then approaching Barton, said, "You must go downstairs. This is a great shock, but bear it like a man. Go down." He went mechanically and sat down on the first chair. He had no hope. The look of death was too clear upon her face. Still, when he heard one or two unusual noises, the thought burst on him that it might only be a trance, a fit, a--he did not well know what--but not death! Oh, not death! And he was starting up to go up-stairs again, when the doctor's heavy cautious creaking footstep was heard on the stairs. Then he knew what it really was in the chamber above. "Nothing could have saved her--there has been some shock to the system"--and so he went on, but to unheeding ears, which yet retained his words to ponder on; words not for immediate use in conveying sense, but to be laid by, in the store-house of memory, for a more convenient season. The doctor, seeing the state of the case, grieved for the man; and, very sleepy, thought it best to go, and accordingly wished him good-night--but there was no answer, so he let himself out; and Barton sat on, like a stock or a stone, so rigid, so still. He heard the sounds above, too, and knew what they meant. He heard the stiff unseasoned drawer, in which his wife kept her clothes, pulled open. He saw the neighbour come down, and blunder about in search of soap and water. He knew well what she wanted, and WHY she wanted them, but he did not speak nor offer to help. At last she went, with some kindly meant words (a text of comfort, which fell upon a deafened ear), and something about "Mary," but which Mary, in his bewildered state, he could not tell. He tried to realise it--to think it possible. And then his mind wandered off to other days, to far different times. He thought of their courtship; of his first seeing her, an awkward beautiful rustic, far too shiftless for the delicate factory work to which she was apprenticed; of his first gift to her, a bead necklace, which had long ago been put by, in one of the deep drawers of the dresser, to be kept for Mary. He wondered if it was there yet, and with a strange curiosity he got up to feel for it; for the fire by this time was well nigh out, and candle he had none. His groping hand fell on the piled-up tea-things, which at his desire she had left unwashed till morning--they were all so tired. He was reminded of one of the daily little actions, which acquire such power when they have been performed for the last time by one we love. He began to think over his wife's daily round of duties: and something in the remembrance that these would never more be done by her, touched the source of tears, and he cried aloud. Poor Mary, meanwhile, had mechanically helped the neighbour in all the last attentions to the dead; and when she was kissed and spoken to soothingly, tears stole quietly down her cheeks; but she reserved the luxury of a full burst of grief till she should be alone. She shut the chamber-door softly, after the neighbour was gone, and then shook the bed by which she knelt with her agony of sorrow. She repeated, over and over again, the same words; the same vain, unanswered address to her who was no more. "Oh, mother! mother, are you really dead! Oh, mother, mother!" At last she stopped, because it flashed across her mind that her violence of grief might disturb her father. All was still below. She looked on the face so changed, and yet so strangely like. She bent down to kiss it. The cold unyielding flesh struck a shudder to her heart, and hastily obeying her impulse, she grasped the candle, and opened the door. Then she heard the sobs of her father's grief; and quickly, quietly stealing down the steps, she knelt by him, and kissed his hand. He took no notice at first; for his burst of grief would not be controlled. But when her shriller sobs, her terrified cries (which she could not repress), rose upon his ear, he checked himself. "Child, we must be all to one another, now SHE is gone," whispered he. "Oh, father, what can I do for you? Do tell me! I'll do anything." "I know thou wilt. Thou must not fret thyself ill, that's the first thing I ask. Thou must leave me and go to bed now, like a good girl as thou art." "Leave you, father! oh, don't say so." "Ay, but thou must: thou must go to bed, and try and sleep; thou'lt have enough to do and to bear, poor wench, tomorrow." Mary got up, kissed her father, and sadly went upstairs to the little closet, where she slept. She thought it was of no use undressing, for that she could never, never sleep, so threw herself on her bed in her clothes, and before ten minutes had passed away, the passionate grief of youth had subsided into sleep. Barton had been roused by his daughter's entrance, both from his stupor and from his uncontrollable sorrow. He could think on what was to be done, could plan for the funeral, could calculate the necessity of soon returning to his work, as the extravagance of the past night would leave them short of money if he long remained away from the mill. He was in a club, so that money was provided for the burial. These things settled in his own mind, he recalled the doctor's words, and bitterly thought of the shock his poor wife had so recently had, in the mysterious disappearance of her cherished sister. His feelings towards Esther almost amounted to curses. It was she who had brought on all this sorrow. Her giddiness, her lightness of conduct had wrought this woe. His previous thoughts about her had been tinged with wonder and pity, but now he hardened his heart against her for ever. One of the good influences over John Barton's life had departed that night. One of the ties which bound him down to the gentle humanities of earth was loosened, and henceforward the neighbours all remarked he was a changed man. His gloom and his sternness became habitual instead of occasional. He was more obstinate. But never to Mary. Between the father and the daughter there existed in full force that mysterious bond which unites those who have been loved by one who is now dead and gone. While he was harsh and silent to others, he humoured Mary with tender love: she had more of her own way than is common in any rank with girls of her age. Part of this was the necessity of the case; for of course all the money went through her hands, and the household arrangements were guided by her will and pleasure. But part was her father's indulgence, for he left her, with full trust in her unusual sense and spirit, to choose her own associates, and her own times for seeing them. With all this, Mary had not her father's confidence in the matters which now began to occupy him, heart and soul; she was aware that he had joined clubs, and become an active member of the Trades' Union, but it was hardly likely that a girl of Mary's age (even when two or three years had elapsed since her mother's death) should care much for the differences between the employers and the employed--an eternal subject for agitation in the manufacturing districts, which, however it may be lulled for a time, is sure to break forth again with fresh violence at any depression of trade, showing that in its apparent quiet, the ashes had still smouldered in the breasts of a few. Among these few was John Barton. At all times it is a bewildering thing to the poor weaver to see his employer removing from house to house, each one grander than the last, till he ends in building one more magnificent than all, or withdraws his money from the concern, or sells his mill, to buy an estate in the country, while all the time the weaver, who thinks he and his fellows are the real makers of this wealth, is struggling on for bread for his children, through the vicissitudes of lowered wages, short hours, fewer hands employed, etc. And when he knows trade is bad, and could understand (at least partially) that there are not buyers enough in the market to purchase the goods already made, and consequently that there is no demand for more; when he would bear and endure much without complaining, could he also see that his employers were bearing their share; he is, I say, bewildered and (to use his own word) "aggravated" to see that all goes on just as usual with the millowners. Large houses are still occupied, while spinners' and weavers' cottages stand empty, because the families that once filled them are obliged to live in rooms or cellars. Carriages still roll along the streets, concerts are still crowded by subscribers, the shops for expensive luxuries still find daily customers, while the workman loiters away his unemployed time in watching these things, and thinking of the pale, uncomplaining wife at home, and the wailing children asking in vain for enough of food--of the sinking health, of the dying life of those near and dear to him. The contrast is too great. Why should he alone suffer from bad times? I know that this is not really the case; and I know what is the truth in such matters; but what I wish to impress is what the workman feels and thinks. True, that with child-like improvidence, good times will often dissipate his grumbling, and make him forget all prudence and foresight. But there are earnest men among these people, men who have endured wrongs without complaining, but without ever forgetting or forgiving those whom (they believe) have caused all this woe. Among these was John Barton. His parents had suffered; his mother had died from absolute want of the necessaries of life. He himself was a good, steady workman, and, as such, pretty certain of steady employment. But he spent all he got with the confidence (you may also call it improvidence) of one who was willing, and believed himself able, to supply all his wants by his own exertions. And when his master suddenly failed, and all hands in the mill were turned back, one Tuesday morning, with the news that Mr. Hunter had stopped, Barton had only a few shillings to rely on; but he had good heart of being employed at some other mill, and accordingly, before returning home, he spent some hours in going from factory to factory, asking for work. But at every mill was some sign of depression of trade! some were working short hours, some were turning off hands, and for weeks Barton was out of work, living on credit. It was during this time that his little son, the apple of his eye, the cynosure of all his strong power of love, fell ill of the scarlet fever. They dragged him through the crisis, but his life hung on a gossamer thread. Everything, the doctor said, depended on good nourishment, on generous living, to keep up the little fellow's strength, in the prostration in which the fever had left him. Mocking words! when the commonest food in the house would not furnish one little meal. Barton tried credit; but it was worn out at the little provision shops, which were now suffering in their turn. He thought it would be no sin to steal, and would have stolen; but he could not get the opportunity in the few days the child lingered. Hungry himself, almost to an animal pitch of ravenousness, but with the bodily pain swallowed up in anxiety for his little sinking lad, he stood at one of the shop windows where all edible luxuries are displayed; haunches of venison, Stilton cheeses, moulds of jelly--all appetising sights to the common passer-by. And out of this shop came Mrs. Hunter! She crossed to her carriage, followed by the shopman loaded with purchases for a party. The door was quickly slammed to, and she drove away; and Barton returned home with a bitter spirit of wrath in his heart to see his only boy a corpse! You can fancy, now, the hoards of vengeance in his heart against the employers. For there are never wanting those who, either in speech or in print, find it their interest to cherish such feelings in the working classes; who know how and when to rouse the dangerous power at their command; and who use their knowledge with unrelenting purpose to either party. So while Mary took her own way, growing more spirited every day, and growing in her beauty too, her father was chairman at many a Trades' Union meeting; a friend of delegates, and ambitious of being a delegate himself; a Chartist, and ready to do anything for his order. But now times were good; and all these feelings were theoretical, not practical. His most practical thought was getting Mary apprenticed to a dressmaker; for he had never left off disliking a factory life for a girl, on more accounts than one. Mary must do something. The factories being, as I said, out of the question, there were two things open--going out to service and the dressmaking business; and against the first of these, Mary set herself with all the force of her strong will. What that will might have been able to achieve had her father been against her, I cannot tell; but he disliked the idea of parting with her, who was the light of his hearth; the voice of his otherwise silent home. Besides, with his ideas and feelings towards the higher classes, he considered domestic servitude as a species of slavery; a pampering of artificial wants on the one side, a giving up of every right of leisure by day and quiet rest by night on the other. How far his strong exaggerated feelings had any foundation in truth, it is for you to judge. I am afraid that Mary's determination not to go to service arose from far less sensible thoughts on the subject than her father's. Three years of independence of action (since her mother's death such a time had now elapsed) had little inclined her to submit to rules as to hours and associates, to regulate her dress by a mistress's ideas of propriety, to lose the dear feminine privileges of gossiping with a merry neighbour, and working night and day to help one who was sorrowful. Besides all this, the sayings of her absent, the mysterious aunt Esther, had an unacknowledged influence over Mary. She knew she was very pretty; the factory people as they poured from the mills, and in their freedom told the truth (whatever it might be) to every passer-by, had early let Mary into the secret of her beauty. If their remarks had fallen on an unheeding ear, there were always young men enough, in a different rank from her own, who were willing to compliment the pretty weaver's daughter as they met her in the streets. Besides, trust a girl of sixteen for knowing it well if she is pretty; concerning her plainness she may be ignorant. So with this consciousness she had early determined that her beauty should make her a lady; the rank she coveted the more for her father's abuse; the rank to which she firmly believed her lost aunt Esther had arrived. Now, while a servant must often drudge and be dirty, must be known as his servant by all who visited at her master's house, a dressmaker's apprentice must (or so Mary thought) be always dressed with a certain regard to appearances; must never soil her hands, and need never redden or dirty her face with hard labour. Before my telling you so truly what folly Mary felt or thought, injures her without redemption in your opinion, think what are the silly fancies of sixteen years of age in every class, and under all circumstances. The end of all the thoughts of father and daughter was, as I said before, Mary was to be a dressmaker; and her ambition prompted her unwilling father to apply at all the first establishments, to know on what terms of painstaking and zeal his daughter might be admitted into ever so humble a workwoman's situation. But high premiums were asked at all; poor man! he might have known that without giving up a day's work to ascertain the fact. He would have been indignant, indeed, had he known that if Mary had accompanied him, the case might have been rather different, as her beauty would have made her desirable as a show-woman. Then he tried second-rate places; at all the payment of a sum of money was necessary, and money he had none. Disheartened and angry, he went home at night, declaring it was time lost; that dressmaking was at all events a troublesome business, and not worth learning. Mary saw that the grapes were sour, and the next day she set out herself, as her father could not afford to lose another day's work; and before night (as yesterday's experience had considerably lowered her ideas) she had engaged herself as apprentice (so called, though there were no deeds or indentures to the bond) to a certain Miss Simmonds, milliner and dressmaker, in a respectable little street leading off Ardwick Green, where her business was duly announced in gold letters on a black ground, enclosed in a bird's-eye maple frame, and stuck in the front-parlour window; where the workwomen were called "her young ladies"; and where Mary was to work for two years without any remuneration, on consideration of being taught the business; and where afterwards she was to dine and have tea, with a small quarterly salary (paid quarterly because so much more genteel than by the week), a VERY small one, divisible into a minute weekly pittance. In summer she was to be there by six, bringing her day's meals during the first two years; in winter she was not to come till after breakfast. Her time for returning home at night must always depend upon the quantity of work Miss Simmonds had to do. And Mary was satisfied; and seeing this, her father was contented too, although his words were grumbling and morose; but Mary knew his ways, and coaxed and planned for the future so cheerily, that both went to bed with easy if not happy hearts. IV. OLD ALICE'S HISTORY. "To envy nought beneath the ample sky; To mourn no evil deed, no hour misspent; And like a living violet, silently Return in sweets to Heaven what goodness lent, Then bend beneath the chastening shower content." --ELLIOTT. Another year passed on. The waves of time seemed long since to have swept away all trace of poor Mary Barton. But her husband still thought of her, although with a calm and quiet grief, in the silent watches of the night: and Mary would start from her hard-earned sleep, and think, in her half-dreamy, half-awakened state, she saw her mother stand by her bedside, as she used to do "in the days of long ago"; with a shaded candle and an expression of ineffable tenderness, while she looked on her sleeping child. But Mary rubbed her eyes and sank back on her pillow, awake, and knowing it was a dream; and still, in all her troubles and perplexities, her heart called on her mother for aid, and she thought, "If mother had but lived, she would have helped me." Forgetting that the woman's sorrows are far more difficult to mitigate than a child's, even by the mighty power of a mother's love; and unconscious of the fact, that she was far superior in sense and spirit to the mother she mourned. Aunt Esther was still mysteriously absent, and people had grown weary of wondering, and begun to forget. Barton still attended his club, and was an active member of a Trades' Union; indeed, more frequently than ever, since the time of Mary's return in the evening was so uncertain; and as she occasionally, in very busy times, remained all night. His chiefest friend was still George Wilson, although he had no great sympathy on the questions that agitated Barton's mind. But their hearts were bound by old ties to one another, and the remembrance of former things gave an unspoken charm to their meetings. Our old friend, the cub-like lad, Jem Wilson, had shot up into the powerful, well-made young man, with a sensible face enough; nay, a face that might have been handsome, had it not been here and there marked by the small-pox. He worked with one of the great firms of engineers, who send from out their towns of workshops engines and machinery to the dominions of the Czar and the Sultan. His father and mother were never weary of praising Jem, at all which commendation pretty Mary Barton would toss her head, seeing clearly enough that they wished her to understand what a good husband he would make, and to favour his love, about which he never dared to speak, whatever eyes and looks revealed. One day, in the early winter time, when people were provided with warm substantial gowns, not likely soon to wear out, and when, accordingly, business was rather slack at Miss Simmonds', Mary met Alice Wilson, coming home from her half-day's work at some tradesman's house. Mary and Alice had always liked each other; indeed, Alice looked with particular interest on the motherless girl, the daughter of her whose forgiving kiss had comforted her in many sleepless hours. So there was a warm greeting between the tidy old woman and the blooming young work-girl; and then Alice ventured to ask if she would come in and take her tea with her that very evening. "You'll think it dull enough to come just to sit with an old woman like me, but there's a tidy young lass as lives in the floor above, who does plain work, and now and then a bit in your own line, Mary; she's grand-daughter to old Job Legh, a spinner, and a good girl she is. Do come, Mary! I've a terrible wish to make you known to each other. She's a genteel-looking lass, too." At the beginning of this speech Mary had feared the intended visitor was to be no other than Alice's nephew; but Alice was too delicate-minded to plan a meeting, even for her dear Jem, when one would have been an unwilling party; and Mary, relieved from her apprehension by the conclusion, gladly agreed to come. How busy Alice felt! it was not often she had any one to tea; and now her sense of the duties of a hostess were almost too much for her. She made haste home, and lighted the unwilling fire, borrowing a pair of bellows to make it burn the faster. For herself she was always patient; she let the coals take their time. Then she put on her pattens, and went to fill her kettle at the pump in the next court, and on her way she borrowed a cup; of odd saucers she had plenty, serving as plates when occasion required. Half an ounce of tea and a quarter of a pound of butter went far to absorb her morning's wages; but this was an unusual occasion. In general, she used herb-tea for herself, when at home, unless some thoughtful mistress made a present of tea-leaves from her more abundant household. The two chairs drawn out for visitors, and duly swept and dusted; an old board arranged with some skill upon two old candle boxes set on end (rather rickety to be sure, but she knew the seat of old, and when to sit lightly; indeed the whole affair was more for apparent dignity of position than for any real ease); a little, very little round table, put just before the fire, which by this time was blazing merrily; her unlacquered ancient, third-hand tea-tray arranged with a black tea-pot, two cups with a red and white pattern, and one with the old friendly willow pattern, and saucers, not to match (on one of the extra supply the lump of butter flourished away); all these preparations complete, Alice began to look about her with satisfaction, and a sort of wonder what more could be done to add to the comfort of the evening. She took one of the chairs away from its appropriate place by the table, and putting it close to the broad large hanging shelf I told you about when I first described her cellar-dwelling, and mounting on it, she pulled towards her an old deal box, and took thence a quantity of the oat bread of the north, the "clap-bread" of Cumberland and Westmoreland, and descending carefully with the thin cakes, threatening to break to pieces in her hand, she placed them on the bare table, with the belief that her visitors would have an unusual treat in eating the bread of her childhood. She brought out a good piece of a four-pound loaf of common household bread as well, and then sat down to rest, really to rest, and not to pretend, on one of the rush-bottomed chairs. The candle was ready to be lighted, the kettle boiled, the tea was awaiting its doom in its paper parcel; all was ready. A knock at the door! It was Margaret, the young workwoman who lived in the rooms above, who having heard the bustle, and the subsequent quiet, began to think it was time to pay her visit below. She was a sallow, unhealthy, sweet-looking young woman, with a careworn look; her dress was humble and very simple, consisting of some kind of dark stuff gown, her neck being covered by a drab shawl or large handkerchief, pinned down behind and at the sides in front. The old woman gave her a hearty greeting, and made her sit down on the chair she had just left, while she balanced herself on the board seat, in order that Margaret might think it was quite her free and independent choice to sit there. "I cannot think what keeps Mary Barton. She's quite grand with her late hours," said Alice, as Mary still delayed. The truth was, Mary was dressing herself; yes, to come to poor old Alice's--she thought it worth while to consider what gown she should put on. It was not for Alice, however, you may be pretty sure; no, they knew each other too well. But Mary liked making an impression, and in this it must be owned she was pretty often gratified--and there was this strange girl to consider just now. So she put on her pretty new blue merino, made tight to her throat her little linen collar and linen cuffs, and sallied forth to impress poor gentle Margaret. She certainly succeeded. Alice, who never thought much about beauty, had never told Margaret how pretty Mary was; and, as she came in half-blushing at her own self-consciousness, Margaret could hardly take her eyes off her, and Mary put down her long black lashes with a sort of dislike of the very observation she had taken such pains to secure. Can you fancy the bustle of Alice to make the tea, to pour it out, and sweeten it to their liking, to help and help again to clap-bread and bread and butter? Can you fancy the delight with which she watched her piled-up clap-bread disappear before the hungry girls and listened to the praises of her home-remembered dainty? "My mother used to send me some clap-bread by any north-country person--bless her! She knew how good such things taste when far away from home. Not but what every one likes it. When I was in service my fellow-servants were always glad to share with me. Eh, it's a long time ago, yon." "Do tell us about it, Alice," said Margaret. "Why, lass, there's nothing to tell. There was more mouths at home than could be fed. Tom, that's Will's father (you don't know Will, but he's a sailor to foreign parts), had come to Manchester, and sent word what terrible lots of work was to be had, both for lads and lasses. So father sent George first (you know George, well enough, Mary), and then work was scarce out toward Burton, where we lived, and father said I maun try and get a place. And George wrote as how wages were far higher in Manchester than Milnthorpe or Lancaster; and, lasses, I was young and thoughtless, and thought it was a fine thing to go so far from home. So, one day, th' butcher he brings us a letter fra George, to say he'd heard on a place--and I was all agog to go, and father was pleased like; but mother said little, and that little was very quiet. I've often thought she was a bit hurt to see me so ready to go--God forgive me! But she packed up my clothes, and some of the better end of her own as would fit me, in yon little paper box up there--it's good for nought now, but I would liefer live without fire than break it up to be burnt; and yet it is going on for eighty years old, for she had it when she was a girl, and brought all her clothes in it to father's when they were married. But, as I was saying, she did not cry, though the tears was often in her eyes; and I seen her looking after me down the lane as long as I were in sight, with her hand shading her eyes--and that were the last look I ever had on her." Alice knew that before long she should go to that mother; and, besides, the griefs and bitter woes of youth have worn themselves out before we grow old; but she looked so sorrowful that the girls caught her sadness, and mourned for the poor woman who had been dead and gone so many years ago. "Did you never see her again, Alice? Did you never go home while she was alive?" asked Mary. Nein, und auch seitdem nicht. Häufig und oft habe ich geplant zu gehen. Ich plane es immer noch und hoffe, wieder nach Hause zu gehen, bevor es Gott gefällt mich fortzunehmen. Früher habe ich versucht genug Geld zu sparen, um für eine Woche zu gehen, als ich in Dienst war; aber zuerst kam dies, und dann das. Zuerst erkrankten die Kinder der Herrin an Masern, genau als die Woche, die ich beantragt hatte, kam, und ich konnte sie nicht alleine lassen, denn sie alle weinten, dass ich mich um sie kümmern sollte. Dann wurde die Herrin selbst krank, und ich konnte noch weniger gehen. Denn Sie sehen, sie hatten einen kleinen Laden, und er trank, und me und die Herrin waren diejenigen, die sich um die Kinder und den Laden, das Kochen und Waschen kümmerten. Owd Dicky o' Billy's kept telling me long, Wee s'd ha' better toimes if I'd but howd my tung, Oi've howden my tung, till oi've near stopped my breath, Oi think i' my heeart oi'se soon clem to deeath, Owd Dicky's weel crammed, He never wur clemmed, An' he ne'er picked ower i' his loife,** III. We tow'rt on six week--thinking aitch day wur th' last, We shifted, an' shifted, till neaw we're quoite fast; We lived upo' nettles, whoile nettles wur good, An' Waterloo porridge the best o' eawr food, Oi'm tellin' yo' true, Oi can find folk enow, As wur livin' na better nor me. IV. Owd Billy o' Dans sent th' baileys one day, Fur a shop deebt oi eawd him, as oi could na pay, But he wur too lat, fur owd Billy o' th' Bent, Had sowd th' tit an' cart, an' ta'en goods for th' rent, We'd neawt left bo' th' owd stoo', That wur seeats fur two, An' on it ceawred Marget an' me. Then t' baileys leuked reawnd as sloy as a meawse, When they seed as aw t' goods were ta'en eawt o' t' heawse; Says one chap to th' tother, "Aws gone, theaw may see"; Says oi, "Ne'er freet, mon, yeaur welcome ta' me." They made no moor ado But whopped up th' eawd stoo', An' we booath leet, whack--upo' t' flags VI. Then oi said to eawr Marget, as we lay upo' t' floor, "We's never be lower i' this warld oi'm sure, If ever things awtern, oi'm sure they mun mend, For oi think i' my heart we're booath at t' far eend; For meeat we ha' none, Nor looms t' weyve on,-- Edad! they're as good lost as fund." VII. Eawr Marget declares had hoo clooas to put on, Hoo'd goo up to Lunnon an' talk to th' greet mon An' if things were na awtered when there hoo had been, Hoo's fully resolved t' sew up meawth an' eend; Hoo's neawt to say again t' king, But hoo loikes a fair thing, An' hoo says hoo can tell when hoo's hurt. *Clem; to starve with hunger. "Hard is the choice, when the valiant must eat their arms or CLEM."--BEN JONSON. **To "pick ower," means to throw the shuttle in hand-loom weaving. The air to which this is sung is a kind of droning recitative, depending much on expression and feeling. To read it, it may, perhaps, seem humorous; but it is that humour which is near akin to pathos, and to those who have seen the distress it describes it is a powerfully pathetic song. Margaret had both witnessed the destitution, and had the heart to feel it, and withal, her voice was of that rich and rare order, which does not require any great compass of notes to make itself appreciated. Alice had her quiet enjoyment of tears. But Margaret, with fixed eye, and earnest, dreamy look, seemed to become more and more absorbed in realising to herself the woe she had been describing, and which she felt might at that very moment be suffering and hopeless within a short distance of their comparative comfort. Suddenly she burst forth with all the power of her magnificent voice, as if a prayer from her very heart for all who were in distress, in the grand supplication, "Lord, remember David." Mary held her breath, unwilling to lose a note, it was so clear, so perfect, so imploring. A far more correct musician than Mary might have paused with equal admiration of the really scientific knowledge with which the poor depressed-looking young needlewoman used her superb and flexile voice. Deborah Travis herself (once an Oldham factory girl, and afterwards the darling of fashionable crowds as Mrs. Knyvett) might have owned a sister in her art. She stopped; and with tears of holy sympathy in her eyes, Alice thanked the songstress, who resumed her calm, demure manner, much to Mary's wonder, for she looked at her unweariedly, as if surprised that the hidden power should not be perceived in the outward appearance. When Alice's little speech of thanks was over, there was quiet enough to hear a fine, though rather quavering, male voice, going over again one or two strains of Margaret's song. "That's grandfather!" exclaimed she. "I must be going, for he said he should not be at home till past nine." "Well, I'll not say nay, for I have to be up by four for a very heavy wash at Mrs. Simpson's; but I shall be terrible glad to see you again at any time, lasses; and I hope you'll take to one another." As the girls ran up the cellar steps together, Margaret said--"Just step in and see grandfather, I should like him to see you." And Mary consented. V. THE MILL ON FIRE-JEM WILSON TO THE RESCUE. "Learned he was; nor bird nor insect flew, But he its leafy home and history knew: Nor wild-flower decked the rock, nor moss the well, But he its name and qualities could tell." --ELLIOTT. There is a class of men in Manchester, unknown even to many of the inhabitants, and whose existence will probably be doubted by many, who yet may claim kindred with all the noble names that science recognises. I said in "Manchester," but they are scattered all over the manufacturing districts of Lancashire. In the neighbourhood of Oldham there are weavers, common hand-loom weavers, who throw the shuttle with unceasing sound, though Newton's "Principia" lies open on the loom, to be snatched at in work hours, but revelled over in meal times, or at night. Mathematical problems are received with interest, and studied with absorbing attention by many a broad- spoken, common-looking factory-hand. It is perhaps less astonishing that the more popularly interesting branches of natural history have their warm and devoted followers among this class. There are botanists among them, equally familiar with either the Linnaean or the Natural system, who know the name and habitat of every plant within a day's walk from their dwellings; who steal the holiday of a day or two when any particular plant should be in flower, and tying up their simple food in their pocket-handkerchiefs, set off with single purpose to fetch home the humble-looking weed. There are entomologists, who may be seen with a rude-looking net, ready to catch any winged insect, or a kind of dredge, with which they rake the green and slimy pools; practical, shrewd, hard-working men, who pore over every new specimen with real scientific delight. Nor is it the common and more obvious divisions of Entomology and Botany that alone attract these earnest seekers after knowledge. Perhaps it may be owing to the great annual town-holiday of Whitsun-week so often falling in May or June, that the two great beautiful families of Ephemeridae and Phryganidae have been so much and so closely studied by Manchester workmen, while they have in a great measure escaped general observation. If you will refer to the preface to Sir J. E. Smith's Life (I have it not by me, or I would copy you the exact passage), you will find that he names a little circumstance corroborative of what I have said. Being on a visit to Roscoe, of Liverpool, he made some inquiries of him as to the habitat of a very rare plant, said to be found in certain places in Lancashire. Mr. Roscoe knew nothing of the plant; but stated, that if any one could give him the desired information, it would be a hand-loom weaver in Manchester, whom he named. Sir J. E. Smith proceeded by boat to Manchester, and on arriving at that town, he inquired of the porter who was carrying his luggage if he could direct him to So-and-So. "Oh, yes," replied the man. "He does a bit in my way"; and, on further investigation, it turned out that both the porter and his friend the weaver were skilful botanists, and able to give Sir J. E. Smith the very information which he wanted. Such are the tastes and pursuits of some of the thoughtful, little understood, working-men of Manchester. And Margaret's grandfather was one of these. He was a little wiry-looking old man, who moved with a jerking motion, as if his limbs were worked by a string like a child's toy, with dun-coloured hair lying thin and soft at the back and sides of his head; his forehead was so large it seemed to overbalance the rest of his face, which had, indeed, lost its natural contour by the absence of all the teeth. The eyes absolutely gleamed with intelligence; so keen, so observant, you felt as if they were almost wizard-like. Indeed, the whole room looked not unlike a wizard's dwelling. Instead of pictures were hung rude wooden frames of impaled insects; the little table was covered with cabalistic books; and beside them lay a case of mysterious instruments, one of which Job Legh was using when his grand-daughter entered. On her appearance he pushed his spectacles up so as to rest midway on his forehead, and gave Mary a short, kind welcome. But Margaret he caressed as a mother caresses her first-born; stroking her with tenderness, and almost altering his voice as he spoke to her. Mary looked round on the odd, strange things she had never seen at home, and which seemed to her to have a very uncanny look. "Is your grandfather a fortune-teller?" whispered she to her new friend. "No," replied Margaret, in the same voice; "but you are not the first as has taken him for such. He is only fond of such things as most folks know nothing about." "And do you know aught about them too?" "I know a bit about some of the things grandfather is fond on; just because he's fond on 'em, I tried to learn about them." "What things are these?" said Mary, struck with the weird-looking creatures that sprawled around the room in their roughly-made glass cases. But she was not prepared for the technical names, which Job Legh pattered down on her ear, on which they fell like hail on a skylight; and the strange language only bewildered her more than ever. Margaret saw the state of the case, and came to the rescue. "Look, Mary, at this horrid scorpion. He gave me such a fright: I am all of a twitter yet when I think of it. Grandfather went to Liverpool one Whitsun-week to go strolling about the docks and pick up what he could from the sailors, who often bring some queer thing or another from the hot countries they go to; and so he sees a chap with a bottle in his hand, like a druggist's physic-bottle; and says grandfather, 'What have ye gotten there?' So the sailor holds it up, and grandfather knew it was a rare kind o' scorpion, not common even in the East Indies where the man came from; and says he, 'How did you catch this fine fellow, for he wouldn't be taken for nothing, I'm thinking?' And the man said as how when they were unloading the ship he'd found him lying behind a bag of rice, and he thought the cold had killed him, for he was not squashed nor injured a bit. He did not like to part with any of the spirit out of his grog to put the scorpion in, but slipped him into the bottle, knowing there were folks enow who would give him something for him. So grandfather gives him a shilling." "Two shillings," interrupted Job Legh; "and a good bargain it was." "Well! grandfather came home as proud as Punch, and pulled the bottle out of his pocket. But you see th' scorpion were doubled up, and grandfather thought I couldn't fairly see how big he was. So he shakes him out right before the fire; and a good warm one it was, for I was ironing, I remember. I left off ironing and stooped down over him, to look at him better, and grandfather got a book, and began to read how this very kind were the most poisonous and vicious species, how their bite were often fatal, and then went on to read how people who were bitten got swelled, and screamed with pain. I was listening hard, but as it fell out, I never took my eyes off the creature, though I could not ha' told I was watching it. Suddenly it seemed to give a jerk, and before I could speak it gave another, and in a minute it was as wild as it could be, running at me just like a mad dog." "What did you do?" asked Mary. "Me! why, I jumped first on a chair, and then on all the things I'd been ironing on the dresser, and I screamed for grandfather to come up by me, but he did not hearken to me." "Why, if I'd come up by thee, who'd ha' caught the creature, I should like to know?" "Well, I begged grandfather to crush it, and I had the iron right over it once, ready to drop, but grandfather begged me not to hurt it in that way. So I couldn't think what he'd have, for he hopped round the room as if he were sore afraid, for all he begged me not to injure it. At last he goes to th' kettle, and lifts up the lid, and peeps in. What on earth is he doing that for, thinks I; he'll never drink his tea with a scorpion running free and easy about the room. Then he takes the tongs, and he settles his spectacles on his nose, and in a minute he had lifted the creature up by th' leg, and dropped him into the boiling water." "And did that kill him?" said Mary. "Ay, sure enough; he boiled for longer time than grandfather liked, though. But I was so afeard of his coming round again, I ran to the public-house for some gin, and grandfather filled the bottle, and then we poured off the water, and picked him out of the kettle, and dropped him into the bottle, and he were there about a twelvemonth." "What brought him to life at first?" asked Mary. "Why, you see, he were never really dead, only torpid--that is, dead asleep with the cold, and our good fire brought him round." "I'm glad father does not care for such things," said Mary. "Are you? Well, I'm often downright glad grandfather is so fond of his books, and his creatures, and his plants. It does my heart good to see him so happy, sorting them all at home, and so ready to go in search of more, whenever he's a spare day. Look at him now! he's gone back to his books, and he'll be as happy as a king, working away till I make him go to bed. It keeps him silent, to be sure; but so long as I see him earnest, and pleased, and eager, what does that matter? Then, when he has his talking bouts, you can't think how much he has to say. Dear grandfather! you don't know how happy we are!" Mary wondered if the dear grandfather heard all this, for Margaret did not speak in an undertone; but no! he was far too deep, and eager in solving a problem. He did not even notice Mary's leave-taking, and she went home with the feeling that she had that night made the acquaintance of two of the strangest people she ever saw in her life. Margaret, so quiet, so commonplace, until her singing powers were called forth; so silent from home, so cheerful and agreeable at home; and her grandfather so very different to any one Mary had ever seen. Margaret had said he was not a fortune-teller, but she did not know whether to believe her. To resolve her doubts, she told the history of the evening to her father, who was interested by her account, and curious to see and judge for himself. Opportunities are not often wanting where inclination goes before, and ere the end of that winter Mary looked upon Margaret almost as an old friend. The latter would bring her work when Mary was likely to be at home in the evenings and sit with her; and Job Legh would put a book and his pipe in his pocket and just step round the corner to fetch his grandchild, ready for a talk if he found Barton in; ready to pull out pipe and book if the girls wanted him to wait, and John was still at his club. In short, ready to do whatever would give pleasure to his darling Margaret. I do not know what points of resemblance, or dissimilitude (for this joins people as often as that) attracted the two girls to each other. Margaret had the great charm of possessing good strong common sense, and do you not perceive how involuntarily this is valued? It is so pleasant to have a friend who possesses the power of setting a difficult question in a clear light; whose judgment can tell what is best to be done; and who is so convinced of what is "wisest, best," that in consideration of the end, all difficulties in the way diminish. People admire talent, and talk about their admiration. But they value common sense without talking about it, and often without knowing it. So Mary and Margaret grew in love one toward the other; and Mary told many of her feelings in a way she had never done before to any one. Most of her foibles also were made known to Margaret, but not all. There was one cherished weakness still concealed from every one. It concerned a lover, not beloved, but favoured by fancy. A gallant, handsome young man; but--not beloved. Yet Mary hoped to meet him every day in her walks, blushed when she heard his name, and tried to think of him as her future husband, and above all, tried to think of herself as his future wife. Alas! poor Mary! Bitter woe did thy weakness work thee. She had other lovers. One or two would gladly have kept her company, but she held herself too high, they said. Jem Wilson said nothing, but loved on and on, ever more fondly; he hoped against hope; he would not give up, for it seemed like giving up life to give up thought of Mary. He did not dare to look to any end of all this; the present, so that he saw her, touched the hem of her garment, was enough. Surely, in time, such deep hope would beget love. He would not relinquish hope, and yet her coldness of manner was enough to daunt any man; and it made Jem more despairing than he would acknowledge for a long time even to himself. But one evening he came round by Barton's house, a willing messenger for his father, and opening the door saw Margaret sitting asleep before the fire. She had come in to speak to Mary; and worn-out by a long, working, watching night, she fell asleep in the genial warmth. An old-fashioned saying about a pair of gloves came into Jem's mind, and stepping gently up, he kissed Margaret with a friendly kiss. She awoke, and perfectly understanding the thing, she said, "For shame of yourself, Jem! What would Mary say?" Lightly said, lightly answered. "She'd nobbut say, practice makes perfect." And they both laughed. But the words Margaret had said rankled in Jem's mind. Would Mary care? Would she care in the very least? They seemed to call for an answer by night and by day; and Jem felt that his heart told him Mary was quite indifferent to any action of his. Still he loved on, and on, ever more fondly. Mary's father was well aware of the nature of Jem Wilson's feelings for his daughter, but he took no notice of them to any one, thinking Mary full young yet for the cares of married life, and unwilling, too, to entertain the idea of parting with her at any time, however distant. But he welcomed Jem at his house, as he would have done his father's son, whatever were his motives for coming; and now and then admitted the thought, that Mary might do worse, when her time came, than marry Jem Wilson, a steady workman at a good trade, a good son to his parents, and a fine manly spirited chap--at least when Mary was not by; for when she was present he watched her too closely, and too anxiously, to have much of what John Barton called "spunk" in him. It was towards the end of February, in that year, and a bitter black frost had lasted for many weeks. The keen east wind had long since swept the streets clean, though in a gusty day the dust would rise like pounded ice, and make people's faces quite smart with the cold force with which it blew against them. Houses, sky, people, and everything looked as if a gigantic brush had washed them all over with a dark shade of Indian ink. There was some reason for this grimy appearance on human beings, whatever there might be for the dun looks of the landscape; for soft water had become an article not even to be purchased; and the poor washerwomen might be seen vainly trying to procure a little by breaking the thick grey ice that coated the ditches and ponds in the neighbourhood. People prophesied a long continuance to this already lengthened frost; said the spring would be very late; no spring fashions required; no summer clothing chased for a short uncertain summer. Indeed, there was no end to the evil prophesied during the continuance of that bleak east wind. Mary hurried home one evening, just as daylight was fading, from Miss Simmonds', with her shawl held up to her mouth, and her head bent as if in deprecation of the meeting wind. So she did not perceive Margaret till she was close upon her at the very turning into the court. "Bless me, Margaret! is that you? Where are you bound to?" "To nowhere but your own house (that is, if you'll take me in). I've a job of work to finish to-night; mourning, as must be in time for the funeral to-morrow; and grandfather has been out moss- hunting, and will not be home till late." "Oh, how charming it will be! I'll help you if you're backward. Have you much to do?" "Yes, I only got the order yesterday at noon; and there's three girls beside the mother; and what with trying on and matching the stuff (for there was not enough in the piece they chose first), I'm above a bit behindhand. I've the skirts all to make. I kept that work till candlelight; and the sleeves, to say nothing of little bits to the bodies; for the missis is very particular, and I could scarce keep from smiling while they were crying so, really taking on sadly I'm sure, to hear first one and then t'other clear up to notice the set of her gown. They weren't to be misfits, I promise you, though they were in such trouble." "Well, Margaret, you're right welcome, as you know, and I'll sit down and help you with pleasure, though I was tired enough of sewing to-night at Miss Simmonds'!" By this time Mary had broken up the raking coal, and lighted her candle; and Margaret settled herself to her work on one side of the table, while her friend hurried over her tea at the other. The things were then lifted en masse to the dresser; and dusting her side of the table with the apron she always wore at home, Mary took up some breadths and began to run them together. "Who's it all for, for if you told me I've forgotten?" "Why, for Mrs. Ogden as keeps the greengrocer's shop in Oxford Road. Her husband drank himself to death, and though she cried over him and his ways all the time he was alive, she's fretted sadly for him now he's dead." "Has he left her much to go upon?" asked Mary, examining the texture of the dress. "This is beautifully fine soft bombazine." "No, I'm much afeard there's but little, and there's several young children, besides the three Miss Ogdens." "I should have thought girls like them would ha' made their own gowns," observed Mary. "So I dare say they do, many a one, but now they seem all so busy getting ready for the funeral; for it's to be quite a grand affair, well-nigh twenty people to breakfast, as one of the little ones told me. The little thing seemed to like the fuss, and I do believe it comforted poor Mrs. Ogden to make all the piece o' work. Such a smell of ham boiling and fowls roasting while I waited in the kitchen; it seemed more like a wedding nor* a funeral. They said she'd spend a matter o' sixty pound on th' burial." *Nor; generally used in Lancashire for "than." "They had lever sleep NOR be in laundery."--DUNBAR "I thought you said she was but badly off," said Mary. "Ay, I know she's asked for credit at several places, saying her husband laid hands on every farthing he could get for drink. But th' undertakers urge her on, you see, and tell her this thing's usual, and that thing's only a common mark of respect, and that everybody has t'other thing, till the poor woman has no will o' her own. I dare say, too, her heart strikes her (it always does when a person's gone) for many a word and many a slighting deed to him who's stiff and cold; and she thinks to make up matters, as it were, by a grand funeral, though she and all her children, too, may have to pinch many a year to pay the expenses, if ever they pay them at all." "This mourning, too, will cost a pretty penny," said Mary. "I often wonder why folks wear mourning; it's not pretty or becoming; and it costs a deal of money just when people can spare it least; and if what the Bible tells us be true, we ought not to be sorry when a friend, who's been good, goes to his rest; and as for a bad man, one's glad enough to get shut* on him. I cannot see what good comes out o' wearing mourning." *Shut; quit. "I'll tell you what I think the fancy was sent for (old Alice calls everything 'sent for,' and I believe she's right). It does do good, though not as much as it costs, that I do believe, in setting people (as is cast down by sorrow and feels themselves unable to settle to anything but crying) something to do. Why now I told you how they were grieving; for, perhaps, he was a kind husband and father, in his thoughtless way, when he wasn't in liquor. But they cheered up wonderful while I was there, and I asked 'em for more directions than usual, that they might have something to talk over and fix about; and I left 'em my fashion-book (though it were two months old) just a purpose." "I don't think every one would grieve a that way. Old Alice wouldn't." "Old Alice is one in a thousand. I doubt, too, if she would fret much, however sorry she might be. She would say it were sent, and fall to trying to find out what good it were to do. Every sorrow in her mind is sent for good. Did I ever tell you, Mary, what she said one day when she found me taking on about something?" "No; do tell me. What were you fretting about, first place?" "I can't tell you, just now; perhaps I may some time." "When?" "Perhaps this very evening, if it rises in my heart; perhaps never. It's a fear that sometimes I can't abide to think about, and sometimes I don't like to think on anything else. Well, I was fretting about this fear, and Alice comes in for something, and finds me crying. I would not tell her no more than I would you, Mary; so she says, 'Well, dear, you must mind this, when you're going to fret and be low about anything--An anxious mind is never a holy mind.' O Mary, I have so often checked my grumbling sin'* she said that." *Sin'; since. "SIN that his lord was twenty yere of age." --Prologue to Canterbury Tales. The weary sound of stitching was the only sound heard for a little while, till Mary inquired-- "Do you expect to get paid for this mourning?" "Why, I do not much think I shall. I've thought it over once or twice, and I mean to bring myself to think I shan't, and to like to do it as my bit towards comforting them. I don't think they can pay, and yet they're just the sort of folk to have their minds easier for wearing mourning. There's only one thing I dislike making black for, it does so hurt the eyes." Margaret put down her work with a sigh, and shaded her eyes. Then she assumed a cheerful tone, and said-- "You'll not have to wait long, Mary, for my secret's on the tip of my tongue. Mary, do you know I sometimes think I'm growing a little blind, and then what would become of grandfather and me? Oh, God help me, Lord help me!" She fell into an agony of tears, while Mary knelt by her, striving to soothe and to comfort her: but, like an inexperienced person, striving rather to deny the correctness of Margaret's fear, than helping her to meet and overcome the evil. "No," said Margaret, quietly fixing her tearful eyes on Mary; "I know I'm not mistaken. I have felt one going some time, long before I ever thought what it would lead to; and last autumn I went to a doctor; and he did not mince the matter, but said unless I sat in a darkened room, with my hands before me, my sight would not last me many years longer. But how could I do that, Mary? For one thing, grandfather would have known there was somewhat the matter; and, oh! it will grieve him sore whenever he is told, so the later the better; and besides, Mary, we've sometimes little enough to go upon, and what I earn is a great help. For grandfather takes a day here, and a day there, for botanising or going after insects, and he'll think little enough of four or five shillings for a specimen; dear grandfather! and I'm so loath to think he should be stinted of what gives him such pleasure. So I went to another doctor to try and get him to say something different, and he said, 'Oh, it was only weakness,' and gived me a bottle of lotion; but I've used three bottles (and each of 'em cost two shillings), and my eye is so much worse, not hurting so much, but I can't see a bit with it. There now, Mary," continued she, shutting one eye, "now you only look like a great black shadow, with the edges dancing and sparkling." "And can you see pretty well with th' other?" "Yes, pretty near as well as ever. Th' only difference is, that if I sew a long time together, a bright spot like th' sun comes right where I'm looking; all the rest is quite clear but just where I want to see. I've been to both doctors again and now they're both o' the same story; and I suppose I'm going dark as fast as may be. Plain work pays so bad, and mourning has been so plentiful this winter, that I were tempted to take in any black work I could; and now I'm suffering from it." "And yet, Margaret, you're going on taking it in; that's what you'd call foolish in another." "It is, Mary! and yet what can I do? Folk mun live; and I think I should go blind any way, and I daren't tell grandfather, else I would leave it off; but he will so fret." Margaret rocked herself backward and forward to still her emotion. "O Mary!" she said, "I try to get his face off by heart, and I stare at him so when he's not looking, and then shut my eyes to see if I can remember his dear face. There's one thing, Mary, that serves a bit to comfort me. You'll have heard of old Jacob Butterworth, the singing weaver? Well, I know'd him a bit, so I went to him, and said how I wished he'd teach me the right way o' singing; and he says I've a rare fine voice, and I go once a week, and take a lesson fra' him. He's been a grand singer in his day. He led the choruses at the Festivals, and got thanked many a time by London folk; and one foreign singer, Madame Catalani, turned round and shook him by th' hand before the Oud Church* full o' people. He says I may gain ever so much money by singing; but I don't know. Any rate, it's sad work, being blind." *Old Church; now the Cathedral of Manchester, She took up her sewing, saying her eyes were rested now, and for some time they sewed on in silence. Suddenly there were steps heard in the little paved court, person after person ran past the curtained window. "Something's up" said Mary. She went to the door, and stopping the first person she saw, inquired the cause of the Commotion. "Eh, wench! donna ye see the fire-light? Carsons' mill is blazing away like fun" and away her informant ran. "Come, Margaret, on wi' your bonnet, and let's go to see Carsons' mill; it's afire, and they say a burning mill is such a grand sight. I never saw one." "Well, I think it's a fearful sight. Besides, I've all this work to do." But Mary coaxed in her sweet manner, and with her gentle caresses, promising to help with the gowns all night long, if necessary, nay, saying she should quite enjoy it. The truth was, Margaret's secret weighed heavily and painfully on her mind, and she felt her inability to comfort; besides, she wanted to change the current of Margaret's thoughts; and in addition to these unselfish feelings, came the desire she had honestly expressed, of seeing a factory on fire. So in two minutes they were ready. At the threshold of the house they met John Barton, to whom they told their errand. "Carsons' mill! Ay, there is a mill on fire somewhere, sure enough by the light, and it will be a rare blaze, for there's not a drop o' water to be got. And much Carsons will care, for they're well insured, and the machines are a' th' oud-fashioned kind. See if they don't think it a fine thing for themselves. They'll not thank them as tries to put it out." He gave way for the impatient girls to pass. Guided by the ruddy light more than by any exact knowledge of the streets that led to the mill, they scampered along with bent heads, facing the terrible east wind as best they might. Carsons' mill ran lengthways from east to west. Along it went one of the oldest thoroughfares in Manchester. Indeed, all that part of the town was comparatively old; it was there that the first cotton mills were built, and the crowded alleys and back streets of the neighbourhood made a fire there particularly to be dreaded. The staircase of the mill ascended from the entrance at the western end, which faced into a wide, dingy-looking street, consisting principally of public-houses, pawnbrokers' shops, rag and bone warehouses, and dirty provision shops. The other, the east end of the factory, fronted into a very narrow back street, not twenty feet wide, and miserably lighted and paved. Right against this end of the factory were the gable ends of the last house in the principal street--a house which from its size, its handsome stone facings, and the attempt at ornament in the front, had probably been once a gentleman's house; but now the light which streamed from its enlarged front windows made clear the interior of the splendidly fitted-up room, with its painted walls, its pillared recesses, its gilded and gorgeous fittings-up, its miserable squalid inmates. It was a gin palace. Mary almost wished herself away, so fearful (as Margaret had said) was the sight when they joined the crowd assembled to witness the fire. There was a murmur of many voices whenever the roaring of the flames ceased for an instant. It was easy to perceive the mass were deeply interested. "What do they say?" asked Margaret of a neighbour in the crowd, as she caught a few words clear and distinct from the general murmur. "There never is any one in the mill, surely!" exclaimed Mary, as the sea of upward-turned faces moved with one accord to the eastern end, looking into Dunham Street, the narrow back lane already mentioned. The western end of the mill, whither the raging flames were driven by the wind, was crowned and turreted with triumphant fire. It sent forth its infernal tongues from every window hole, licking the black walls with amorous fierceness; it was swayed or fell before the mighty gale, only to rise higher and yet higher, to ravage and roar yet more wildly. This part of the roof fell in with an astounding crash, while the crowd struggled more and more to press into Dunham Street, for what were magnificent terrible flames--what were falling timbers or tottering walls, in comparison with human life? There, where the devouring flames had been repelled by the yet more powerful wind, but where yet black smoke gushed out from every aperture--there, at one of the windows on the fourth story, or rather a doorway where a crane was fixed to hoist up goods, might occasionally be seen, when the thick gusts of smoke cleared partially away for an instant, the imploring figures of two men. They had remained after the rest of the workmen for some reason or other, and, owing to the wind having driven the fire in the opposite direction, had perceived no sight or sound of alarm, till long after (if anything could be called long in that throng of terrors which passed by in less than half-an-hour) the fire had consumed the old wooden staircase at the other end of the building. I am not sure whether it was not the first sound of the rushing crowd below that made them fully aware of their awful position. "Where are the engines?" asked Margaret of her neighbour. "They're coming, no doubt; but bless you, I think it's bare ten minutes since we first found out th' fire; it rages so wi' this wind, and all so dry-like." "Is no one gone for a ladder?" gasped Mary, as the men were perceptibly, though not audibly, praying the great multitude below for help. "Ay, Wilson's son and another man were off like a shot, well-nigh five minutes ago. But th' masons, and slaters, and such like, have left their work, and locked up the yards." Wilson, then, was that man whose figure loomed out against the ever-increasing dull hot light behind, whenever the smoke was clear-- was that George Wilson? Mary sickened with terror. She knew he worked for Carsons; but at first she had had no idea that any lives were in danger; and since she had become aware of this, the heated air, the roaring flames, the dizzy light, and the agitated and murmuring crowd, had bewildered her thoughts. "Oh! let us go home, Margaret; I cannot stay." "We cannot go! See how we are wedged in by folks. Poor Mary! ye won't hanker after a fire again. Hark! listen!" For through the hushed crowd pressing round the angle of the mill, and filling up Dunham Street, might be heard the rattle of the engine, the heavy, quick tread of loaded horses. "Thank God!" said Margaret's neighbour, "the engine's come." Another pause; the plugs were stiff, and water could not be got. Then there was a pressure through the crowd, the front rows bearing back on those behind, till the girls were sick with the close ramming confinement. Then a relaxation, and a breathing freely once more. "'Twas young Wilson and a fireman wi' a ladder," said Margaret's neighbour, a tall man who could overlook the crowd. "Oh, tell us what you see?" begged Mary. "They've getten it fixed against the gin-shop wall. One o' the men i' the factory has fell back; dazed wi' the smoke, I'll warrant. The floor's not given way there. God!" said he, bringing his eye lower down, "the ladder's too short! It's a' over wi' them, poor chaps. Th' fire's coming slow and sure to that end, and afore they've either getten water, or another ladder, they'll be dead out and out. Lord have mercy on them!" A sob, as if of excited women, was heard in the hush of the crowd. Another pressure like the former! Mary clung to Margaret's arm with a pinching grasp, and longed to faint, and be insensible, to escape from the oppressing misery of her sensations. A minute or two. "They've taken th' ladder into th' Temple of Apollor. Can't press back with it to the yard it came from." A mighty shout arose; a sound to wake the dead. Up on high, quivering in the air, was seen the end of the ladder, protruding out of a garret window, in the gable end of the gin palace, nearly opposite to the doorway where the men had been seen. Those in the crowd nearest the factory, and consequently best able to see up to the garret window, said that several men were holding one end, and guiding by their weight its passage to the doorway. The garret window-frame had been taken out before the crowd below were aware of the attempt. At length--for it seemed long, measured by beating hearts, though scarce two minutes had elapsed--the ladder was fixed, an aerial bridge at a dizzy height, across the narrow street. Every eye was fixed in unwinking anxiety, and people's very breathing seemed stilled in suspense. The men were nowhere to be seen, but the wind appeared, for the moment, higher than ever, and drove back the invading flames to the other end. Mary and Margaret could see now; right above them danced the ladder in the wind. The crowd pressed back from under; firemen's helmets appeared at the window, holding the ladder firm, when a man, with quick, steady tread, and unmoving head, passed from one side to the other. The multitude did not even whisper while he crossed the perilous bridge, which quivered under him; but when he was across, safe comparatively in the factory, a cheer arose for an instant, checked, however, almost immediately, by the uncertainty of the result, and the desire not in any way to shake the nerves of the brave fellow who had cast his life on such a die. "There he is again!" sprung to the lips of many, as they saw him at the doorway, standing as if for an instant to breathe a mouthful of the fresher air, before he trusted himself to cross. On his shoulders he bore an insensible body. "It's Jem Wilson and his father," whispered Margaret; but Mary knew it before. The people were sick with anxious terror. He could no longer balance himself with his arms; everything must depend on nerve and eye. They saw the latter was fixed, by the position of the head, which never wavered; the ladder shook under the double weight; but still he never moved his head--he dared not look below. It seemed an age before the crossing was accomplished. At last the window was gained; the bearer relieved from his burden; both had disappeared. Then the multitude might shout; and above the roaring flames, louder than the blowing of the mighty wind, arose that tremendous burst of applause at the success of the daring enterprise. Then a shrill cry was heard, asking-- "Is the oud man alive, and likely to do?" "Ay," answered one of the firemen to the hushed crowd below. "He's coming round finely, now he's had a dash of cowd water." He drew back his head; and the eager inquiries, the shouts, the sea-like murmurs of the moving rolling mass began again to be heard--but only for an instant. In far less time than even that in which I have endeavoured briefly to describe the pause of events, the same bold hero stepped again upon the ladder, with evident purpose to rescue the man yet remaining in the burning mill. He went across in the same quick steady manner as before, and the people below, made less acutely anxious by his previous success, were talking to each other, shouting out intelligence of the progress of the fire at the other end of the factory, telling of the endeavours of the firemen at that part to obtain water, while the closely-packed body of men heaved and rolled from side to side. It was different from the former silent breathless hush. I do not know if it were from this cause, or from the recollection of peril past, or that he looked below, in the breathing moment before returning with the remaining person (a slight little man) slung across his shoulders, but Jem Wilson's step was less steady, his tread more uncertain; he seemed to feel with his foot for the next round of the ladder, to waver, and finally to stop half-way. By this time the crowd was still enough; in the awful instant that intervened no one durst speak, even to encourage. Many turned sick with terror, and shut their eyes to avoid seeing the catastrophe they dreaded. It came. The brave man swayed from side to side, at first as slightly as if only balancing himself; but he was evidently losing nerve, and even sense; it was only wonderful how the animal instinct of self-preservation did not overcome every generous feeling, and impel him at once to drop the helpless, inanimate body he carried; perhaps the same instinct told him, that the sudden loss of so heavy a weight would of itself be a great and imminent danger. "Help me; she's fainted," cried Margaret. But no one heeded. All eyes were directed upwards. At this point of time a rope, with a running noose, was dexterously thrown by one of the firemen, after the manner of a lasso, over the head and round the bodies of the two men. True, it was with rude and slight adjustment: but slight as it was, it served as a steadying guide; it encouraged the sinking heart, the dizzy head. Once more Jem stepped onwards. He was not hurried by any jerk or pull. Slowly and gradually the rope was hauled in, slowly and gradually did he make the four or five paces between him and safety. The window was gained, and all were saved. The multitude in the street absolutely danced with triumph, and huzzaed, and yelled till you would have fancied their very throats would crack; and then, with all the fickleness of interest characteristic of a large body of people, pressed and stumbled, and cursed and swore, in the hurry to get out of Dunham Street, and back to the immediate scene of the fire, the mighty diapason of whose roaring flames formed an awful accompaniment to the screams, and yells, and imprecations, of the struggling crowd. As they pressed away, Margaret was left, pale and almost sinking under the weight of Mary's body, which she had preserved in an upright position by keeping her arms tight round Mary's waist, dreading, with reason, the trampling of unheeding feet. Now, however, she gently let her down on the cold clean pavement; and the change of posture, and the difference in temperature, now that the people had withdrawn from their close neighbourhood, speedily restored her to consciousness. Her first glance was bewildered and uncertain. She had forgotten where she was. Her cold, hard bed felt strange; the murky glare in the sky affrighted her. She shut her eyes to think, to recollect. Her next look was upwards. The fearful bridge had been withdrawn; the window was unoccupied. "They are safe," said Margaret. "All? Are all safe, Margaret?" asked Mary. "Ask yon fireman, and he'll tell you more about it than I can. But I know they're all safe." The fireman hastily corroborated Margaret's words. "Why did you let Jem Wilson go twice?" asked Margaret. "Let--why, we could not hinder him. As soon as ever he'd heard his father speak (which he was na long a doing), Jem were off like a shot; only saying he knowed better nor us where to find t'other man. We'd all ha' gone, if he had na been in such a hurry, for no one can say as Manchester firemen is ever backward when there's danger." So saying, he ran off; and the two girls, without remark or discussion, turned homewards. They were overtaken by the elder Wilson, pale, grimy, and blear-eyed, but apparently, as strong and well as ever. He loitered a minute or two alongside of them giving an account of his detention in the mill; he then hastily wished good-night, saying he must go home and tell his missis he was all safe and well: but after he had gone a few steps, he turned back, came on Mary's side of the pavement, and in an earnest whisper, which Margaret could not avoid hearing, he said-- "Mary, if my boy comes across you to-night, give him a kind word or two for my sake. Do! bless you, there's a good wench." Mary hung her head and answered not a word, and in an instant he was gone. When they arrived at home, they found John Barton smoking his pipe, unwilling to question; yet very willing to hear all the details they could give him. Margaret went over the whole story, and it was amusing to watch his gradually increasing interest and excitement. First, the regular puffing abated, then ceased. Then the pipe was fairly taken out of his mouth, and held suspended. Then he rose, and at every further point he came a step nearer to the narrator. When it was ended he swore (an unusual thing for him) that if Jem Wilson wanted Mary he should have her tomorrow, if he had not a penny to keep her. Margaret laughed, but Mary, who was now recovered from her agitation, pouted and looked angry. Die Arbeit, die sie hinterlassen hatten, wurde wieder aufgenommen: Aber mit vollem Herzen gehen die Finger nie besonders schnell; und ich bedaure sagen zu müssen, dass die beiden jüngeren Miss Ogdens aufgrund des Feuers so traurig über den Verlust ihres ausgezeichneten Vaters waren, dass sie nicht in der Lage waren, vor dem kleinen Kreis von mitfühlenden Freunden zu erscheinen, die sich versammelt hatten, um die Witwe zu trösten und die Beerdigung zu sehen, wie sie losfuhr. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

An einem Abend Anfang Mai machen sich Menschenmengen von Fabrikarbeitern und ihren Familien nach einem Feiertag auf dem ruhigen und idyllischen Green Heys Feld, kurz vor Manchester, auf den Heimweg. Unter den Gruppen von Menschen treffen sich zwei Männer und ihre Frauen und begrüßen einander in alter Freundschaft. Der erste Mann, John Barton, begleitet seine weinende schwangere Frau, Mrs. Mary Barton, und der zweite Mann, George Wilson, wird von seiner Frau, Jane Wilson, und ihren Zwillingsjungen begleitet. George erkundigt sich nach Marys Schwester Esther, die kürzlich verschwunden ist. Diese Frage verstört Mrs. Barton, also weist John die Frauen an, sich auf die Wiese zu setzen, und geht mit Wilson alleine weiter, um zu plaudern. John glaubt, dass Esther, die äußerst hübsch, hoffnungslos eitel und von ihrer älteren Schwester verwöhnt ist, nachdem John ihre abweichenden Werte scharf kritisiert hatte, mit einem Verehrer durchgebrannt ist. Barton schwört, dass seine Tochter Mary nicht in einer Fabrik arbeiten wird, weil finanzielle Unabhängigkeit für junge Frauen gefährlich ist. George fragt, ob John seine Tochter immer noch "kleine Mary" nennen sollte, obwohl sie eine Teenagerin ist. John behauptet, dass seine Tochter niemals eine selbstbezogene Damen sein wird, weil er eine Oberschicht nicht akzeptieren kann, die nichts tut, um das Leiden der Armen zu lindern. Barton reflektiert zornig die Unterschiede im Wohlstand in ihrer Gemeinschaft. Die Männer kehren zur Frage nach Esther zurück, die Barton vergeblich gesucht hat, nur um herauszufinden, dass sie nach einem letzten Besuch bei ihrer Familie an einem Sonntagabend mit einer Pferdekutsche die Stadt verlassen hat. Barton macht sich Sorgen um seine Frau, die über Esthers Verschwinden verzweifelt ist. Wilson und Barton nähern sich ihren Frauen und Wilson beklagt, dass ihre Familien keine Nachbarn mehr sind. Angesichts von Bartons Problemen bietet George die Hilfe seiner Schwester Alice Wilson an, die immer noch in dem Hof wohnt, in dem die Bartons leben. Plötzlich läuft die dreizehnjährige Mary Barton vorbei und der siebzehnjährige Jem Wilson schnappt sich einen Kuss. Mary schlägt ihm empört ins Gesicht. George beendet den Streit, indem er die Teenager bittet, jeweils eines der Zwillingskinder zu nehmen, und beschwert sich liebevoll über die Anstrengungen, Kinder zu haben und arm zu sein. Die Männer und ihre jeweiligen Kinder nähern sich ihren plaudernden Frauen und machen sich auf den Heimweg, wo sie vorhaben, Tee im Haus der Bartons zu trinken. Als sie sich dem Haus nähern, necken zwei Jungen Jem damit, dass er eine Freundin hat, und sie weigert sich wütend, mit ihm zu sprechen. Zurück im Haus der Bartons heizt John das Feuer an, während Mrs. Barton Tee in der bescheidenen, aber gemütlich eingerichteten Wohnung bereitet. Mrs. Barton schickt Mary los, um die Zutaten für den Tee zu holen, was darauf hindeutet, dass die gegenwärtige Zeit für Fabrikarbeiter relativ wohlhabend ist. Ihre Mutter sagt Mary auch, dass sie Alice Wilson zum Tee einladen solle. Alice gesellt sich nach einem ganzen Tag Kräuter pflücken in den Feldern zur Runde. Während alle das Essen genießen, macht Alice einen Toast auf abwesende Freunde, was Mrs. Barton an ihre abwesende Schwester erinnert und sie zu Tränen rührt. Die Wilsons verlassen das Haus awkward, aber nicht bevor sich Alice bei Mrs. Barton entschuldigt. Die ältere Mary vergibt Alice gnädig, weil sie weiß, dass ihr keine Absicht unterlag. Später am Abend bittet John Barton einen Nachbarn um Hilfe, weil seine Frau in Wehen liegt. Barton geht den Arzt holen, der prompt erscheint, nur um festzustellen, dass sowohl die Mutter als auch das ungeborene Kind tot sind. Der Arzt gibt dem Tod die Schuld an einem Schock für Marys Körper, und John Barton behält dieses Wissen für eine andere Zeit im Hinterkopf. Eine Welle der Trauer überkommt die junge Mary und John Barton, aber John schickt Mary weise ins Bett, während er über die Bestattungsarrangements nachdenkt. In dieser Nacht ändert sich Johns Wesen, als er über seinen Hass auf Esther nachdenkt, die er für den Tod seiner Frau verantwortlich macht. Er wird strenger und harter, aber nicht gegenüber Mary, mit der er eine liebevolle Bindung aufrechterhält. Zwei Jahre vergehen und Mary wird wegen der Nachgiebigkeit ihres Vaters gegenüber ihrem launischen, unabhängigen Geist vorlaut. Sie übernimmt die Organisation des Haushalts. In der Zwischenzeit beschäftigt sich Barton als aktives Mitglied der Gewerkschaften und Chartisten und wird zunehmend embittert gegenüber der Oberschicht, die die Notlage des Arbeiters ignoriert. Zu allem Überfluss stirbt Bartons Arbeitgeber, Mr. Hunter, und alle Arbeiter in der Mühle verlieren ihren Arbeitsplatz. Barton kann keine andere Arbeit finden und kann auch keine Lebensmittel mehr auf Kredit kaufen. Als Barton darüber nachdenkt, zu stehlen, um seinen jungen Sohn Tom zu ernähren, der an Scharlachfieber stirbt, sieht er, wie Mrs. Hunter den Laden beladen mit Luxusnahrungsmitteln verlässt. Verärgert kehrt Barton nach Hause zurück und findet seinen Sohn tot vor. Er kanalisiert diesen Zorn in seine Mitarbeit bei den Gewerkschaften und dem Chartismus. Ein Jahr später bezahlt Barton für die 16-jährige Mary eine Lehre als Schneiderin bei Miss Simmonds für zwei Jahre. In der Zwischenzeit ist Mary sehr schön geworden und entscheidet, dass ihre Schönheit sie zu einer Dame machen wird, wie sie sich ihre Tante Esther vorstellt. Ein weiteres Jahr vergeht, und Mary beklagt das fehlende Führung ihrer Mutter, während sie heranwächst. Jem Wilson, jetzt ein junger Mann, arbeitet in einer der großen Gießereien als Ingenieur. Eines Abends trifft Mary auf Alice Wilson, die das Mädchen zum Tee einlädt. Dort lernt Mary eine andere Schneiderin kennen, Margaret Jennings, die mit ihrem Großvater, dem alten Job Legh, in den Räumen über Alice Kellerwohnung lebt. Marys jugendliche Schönheit lässt die einfache und abgearbeitete Margaret staunen, und die beiden Mädchen werden Freundinnen. In der Zwischenzeit erzählt Alice ihre Geschichte von der Heimarbeit als Dienstmagd in Manchester und verpasst deshalb den Tod ihrer Mutter. Alice äußert den Wunsch, das Haus ihrer Jugend noch einmal zu sehen. Sie erwähnt ihren Neffen Will, den Sohn ihres verstorbenen Bruders Tom, der jetzt als Matrose arbeitet. Schließlich bittet Alice Margaret, für Mary zu singen - was Mary von Margaret's engelhafter Stimme beeindruckt. Als Margaret hört, wie ihr Großvater nach Hause kommt, eilt sie die Treppe hinauf, um Mary dem alten Mann vorzustellen. Job Legh begrüßt sie herzlich. Nach einem angenehmen Abend mit dem ungleichen Paar kehrt Mary nach Hause zurück und erzählt ihrem Vater von ihrem Besuch. Im Laufe der Zeit werden Mary und Margaret enge Freunde, und auch zwischen John Barton und Job Legh entsteht eine Freundschaft. Mary vertraut Margaret und erzählt ihr alle ihre Geheimnisse, bis auf eines. Mary hat einen gutaussehenden und galanten Liebhaber, den sie gerne heiraten würde, aber nicht liebt. In der Zwischenzeit behandelt Mary Jem mit kalter Verachtung, obwohl ihr Vater ihn als Ehemann für seine Tochter akzeptiert. Eines Abends beenden Mary und Margaret Zusatzarbeiten für eine verwitwete Gemüsehändlerin, Mrs. Ogden. Sie sprechen über den Zweck der Trauerkleidung, um eine Witwe von ihrer Trauer abzulenken, und über Alice's angeborene Güte. Margaret verspricht Mary, ihr ein Geheimnis zu erzählen und erinnert sich an Alice's Ratschläge, dass ein besorgter Geist kein heiliger ist. Margaret erzählt Mary unter Tränen, dass sie blind wird. Ein Arzt hat ihr gesagt, dass sie nicht mehr nähen darf, aber Margaret muss weitermachen, um ihren Lebensunterhalt zu verdienen. Es besteht jedoch die Möglichkeit, dass sie fürs Singen bezahlt werden könnte, und sie nimmt Gesangsstunden bei Jacob Butterworth, einem einheimischen Weber, der Sänger geworden ist. Ein Aufruhr draußen unterbricht das Gespräch der Mädchen, und sie erfahren, dass Carsons Mühle in Flammen steht. Sie rennen, um sich der Menschenmenge anzuschließen, die sich um das brennende Gebäude versammelt, und erfahren, dass zwei Männer, darunter auch George Wilson, darin gefangen sind. Jem Wilson überquert eine wacklige Leiter zwischen der brennenden Fabrik und einem angrenzenden Gebäude. Er kehrt mit seinem Vater auf den Schultern zurück und geht dann erneut ins Gebäude, um den anderen Mann zu retten. In der Zwischenzeit ist Mary ohnmächtig geworden vor Hitze und Angst. Sie wacht auf und die Mädchen kehren nach Hause zurück, dabei treffen sie auf George. Er erzählt von dem Abenteuer und bittet Mary, nett zu Jem zu sein. Mary erzählt ihrem Vater von den Ereignissen und er erklärt, dass Jem Mary morgen heiraten kann

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.

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: All this led her on, but it brought on her fate as well, the day when her mother would be at the door in the carriage in which Maisie now rode on no occasions but these. There was no question at present of Miss Overmore's going back with her: it was universally recognised that her quarrel with Mrs. Farange was much too acute. The child felt it from the first; there was no hugging nor exclaiming as that lady drove her away--there was only a frightening silence, unenlivened even by the invidious enquiries of former years, which culminated, according to its stern nature, in a still more frightening old woman, a figure awaiting her on the very doorstep. "You're to be under this lady's care," said her mother. "Take her, Mrs. Wix," she added, addressing the figure impatiently and giving the child a push from which Maisie gathered that she wished to set Mrs. Wix an example of energy. Mrs. Wix took her and, Maisie felt the next day, would never let her go. She had struck her at first, just after Miss Overmore, as terrible; but something in her voice at the end of an hour touched the little girl in a spot that had never even yet been reached. Maisie knew later what it was, though doubtless she couldn't have made a statement of it: these were things that a few days' talk with Mrs. Wix quite lighted up. The principal one was a matter Mrs. Wix herself always immediately mentioned: she had had a little girl quite of her own, and the little girl had been killed on the spot. She had had absolutely nothing else in all the world, and her affliction had broken her heart. It was comfortably established between them that Mrs. Wix's heart was broken. What Maisie felt was that she had been, with passion and anguish, a mother, and that this was something Miss Overmore was not, something (strangely, confusingly) that mamma was even less. So it was that in the course of an extraordinarily short time she found herself as deeply absorbed in the image of the little dead Clara Matilda, who, on a crossing in the Harrow Road, had been knocked down and crushed by the cruellest of hansoms, as she had ever found herself in the family group made vivid by one of seven. "She's your little dead sister," Mrs. Wix ended by saying, and Maisie, all in a tremor of curiosity and compassion, addressed from that moment a particular piety to the small accepted acquisition. Somehow she wasn't a real sister, but that only made her the more romantic. It contributed to this view of her that she was never to be spoken of in that character to any one else--least of all to Mrs. Farange, who wouldn't care for her nor recognise the relationship: it was to be just an unutterable and inexhaustible little secret with Mrs. Wix. Maisie knew everything about her that could be known, everything she had said or done in her little mutilated life, exactly how lovely she was, exactly how her hair was curled and her frocks were trimmed. Her hair came down far below her waist--it was of the most wonderful golden brightness, just as Mrs. Wix's own had been a long time before. Mrs. Wix's own was indeed very remarkable still, and Maisie had felt at first that she should never get on with it. It played a large part in the sad and strange appearance, the appearance as of a kind of greasy greyness, which Mrs. Wix had presented on the child's arrival. It had originally been yellow, but time had turned that elegance to ashes, to a turbid sallow unvenerable white. Still excessively abundant, it was dressed in a manner of which the poor lady appeared not yet to have recognised the supersession, with a glossy braid, like a large diadem, on the top of the head, and behind, at the nape of the neck, a dingy rosette like a large button. She wore glasses which, in humble reference to a divergent obliquity of vision, she called her straighteners, and a little ugly snuff-coloured dress trimmed with satin bands in the form of scallops and glazed with antiquity. The straighteners, she explained to Maisie, were put on for the sake of others, whom, as she believed, they helped to recognise the bearing, otherwise doubtful, of her regard; the rest of the melancholy garb could only have been put on for herself. With the added suggestion of her goggles it reminded her pupil of the polished shell or corslet of a horrid beetle. At first she had looked cross and almost cruel; but this impression passed away with the child's increased perception of her being in the eyes of the world a figure mainly to laugh at. She was as droll as a charade or an animal toward the end of the "natural history"--a person whom people, to make talk lively, described to each other and imitated. Every one knew the straighteners; every one knew the diadem and the button, the scallops and satin bands; every one, though Maisie had never betrayed her, knew even Clara Matilda. It was on account of these things that mamma got her for such low pay, really for nothing: so much, one day when Mrs. Wix had accompanied her into the drawing-room and left her, the child heard one of the ladies she found there--a lady with eyebrows arched like skipping-ropes and thick black stitching, like ruled lines for musical notes on beautiful white gloves--announce to another. She knew governesses were poor; Miss Overmore was unmentionably and Mrs. Wix ever so publicly so. Neither this, however, nor the old brown frock nor the diadem nor the button, made a difference for Maisie in the charm put forth through everything, the charm of Mrs. Wix's conveying that somehow, in her ugliness and her poverty, she was peculiarly and soothingly safe; safer than any one in the world, than papa, than mamma, than the lady with the arched eyebrows; safer even, though so much less beautiful, than Miss Overmore, on whose loveliness, as she supposed it, the little girl was faintly conscious that one couldn't rest with quite the same tucked-in and kissed-for-good-night feeling. Mrs. Wix was as safe as Clara Matilda, who was in heaven and yet, embarrassingly, also in Kensal Green, where they had been together to see her little huddled grave. It was from something in Mrs. Wix's tone, which in spite of caricature remained indescribable and inimitable, that Maisie, before her term with her mother was over, drew this sense of a support, like a breast-high banister in a place of "drops," that would never give way. If she knew her instructress was poor and queer she also knew she was not nearly so "qualified" as Miss Overmore, who could say lots of dates straight off (letting you hold the book yourself), state the position of Malabar, play six pieces without notes and, in a sketch, put in beautifully the trees and houses and difficult parts. Maisie herself could play more pieces than Mrs. Wix, who was moreover visibly ashamed of her houses and trees and could only, with the help of a smutty forefinger, of doubtful legitimacy in the field of art, do the smoke coming out of the chimneys. They dealt, the governess and her pupil, in "subjects," but there were many the governess put off from week to week and that they never got to at all: she only used to say "We'll take that in its proper order." Her order was a circle as vast as the untravelled globe. She had not the spirit of adventure--the child could perfectly see how many subjects she was afraid of. She took refuge on the firm ground of fiction, through which indeed there curled the blue river of truth. She knew swarms of stories, mostly those of the novels she had read; relating them with a memory that never faltered and a wealth of detail that was Maisie's delight. They were all about love and beauty and countesses and wickedness. Her conversation was practically an endless narrative, a great garden of romance, with sudden vistas into her own life and gushing fountains of homeliness. These were the parts where they most lingered; she made the child take with her again every step of her long, lame course and think it beyond magic or monsters. Her pupil acquired a vivid vision of every one who had ever, in her phrase, knocked against her--some of them oh so hard!--every one literally but Mr. Wix, her husband, as to whom nothing was mentioned save that he had been dead for ages. He had been rather remarkably absent from his wife's career, and Maisie was never taken to see his grave. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

Maisie kehrt zu ihrer Mutter zurück. Hier tritt Mrs. Wix auf, die Erzieherin, die jetzt für Maisie verantwortlich sein soll, wenn sie bei ihrer Mutter ist. Mrs. Wix wirkt zuerst abschreckend auf Maisie, gewinnt sie aber bald für sich. Wir erfahren, dass Mrs. Wix eine junge Tochter namens Clara Matilda hatte, die gestorben ist, und Maisie kann an Mrs. Wix' Stimme erkennen, dass sie "eine Mutter gewesen war und dass Miss Overmore das nicht war, etwas, das seltsamerweise verwirrend war, und dass selbst Mama noch weniger war". Also hat Maisie ihre erste Erfahrung mit mütterlicher Liebe von Mrs. Wix - eine weitere Vorahnung. Mrs. Wix wird sowohl als arm als auch als hässlich beschrieben, aber "eigenartig und beruhigend sicher", was in der Sprache von James bedeutet, dass sie Maisie superbeschützt. Maisie und Mrs. Wix besuchen das Grab von Clara Matilda. Es stellt sich heraus, dass Mrs. Wix sowohl weniger begabt als auch weniger elegant ist als Miss Overmore. Anstatt von Mrs. Wix Schulfächer zu lernen, hört Maisie Geschichten - viele, viele Geschichten. Das Einzige, was Mrs. Wix über ihren verstorbenen Ehemann verrät, ist, dass er schon lange tot ist. Sie und Maisie gehen nie zu seinem Grab.

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.

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: XLII. ALL ALONE. It was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example; but when the helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then Jo found her promise very hard to keep. How could she "comfort father and mother," when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her sister; how could she "make the house cheerful," when all its light and warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old home for the new; and where in all the world could she "find some useful, happy work to do," that would take the place of the loving service which had been its own reward? She tried in a blind, hopeless way to do her duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it seemed unjust that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made heavier, and life get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some people seemed to get all sunshine, and some all shadow; it was not fair, for she tried more than Amy to be good, but never got any reward, only disappointment, trouble, and hard work. Poor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair came over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house, devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that never seemed to grow any easier. "I can't do it. I wasn't meant for a life like this, and I know I shall break away and do something desperate if somebody don't come and help me," she said to herself, when her first efforts failed, and she fell into the moody, miserable state of mind which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the inevitable. But some one did come and help her, though Jo did not recognize her good angels at once, because they wore familiar shapes, and used the simple spells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started up at night, thinking Beth called her; and when the sight of the little empty bed made her cry with the bitter cry of an unsubmissive sorrow, "O Beth, come back! come back!" she did not stretch out her yearning arms in vain; for, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her sister's faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo's, and broken whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to heart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing, which chastened grief and strengthened love. Feeling this, Jo's burden seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked more endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother's arms. When aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise found help; for one day she went to the study, and, leaning over the good gray head lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile, she said, very humbly,-- "Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she did, for I'm all wrong." "My dear, nothing can comfort me like this," he answered, with a falter in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he, too, needed help, and did not fear to ask it. [Illustration: Jo and her father] Then, sitting in Beth's little chair close beside him, Jo told her troubles,--the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark, and all the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him entire confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found consolation in the act; for the time had come when they could talk together not only as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to serve each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love. Happy, thoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called "the church of one member," and from which she came with fresh courage, recovered cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit; for the parents who had taught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach another to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power. Other helps had Jo,--humble, wholesome duties and delights that would not be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned to see and value. Brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful as they once had been, for Beth had presided over both; and something of her housewifely spirit seemed to linger round the little mop and the old brush, that was never thrown away. As she used them, Jo found herself humming the songs Beth used to hum, imitating Beth's orderly ways, and giving the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and cosey, which was the first step toward making home happy, though she didn't know it, till Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the hand,-- "You thoughtful creter, you're determined we sha'n't miss that dear lamb ef you can help it. We don't say much, but we see it, and the Lord will bless you for't, see ef He don't." As they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her sister Meg was; how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and children, and how much they were all doing for each other. "Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I should blossom out half as well as you have, if I tried it?" said Jo, as she constructed a kite for Demi, in the topsy-turvy nursery. "It's just what you need to bring out the tender, womanly half of your nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut-burr, prickly outside, but silky-soft within, and a sweet kernel, if one can only get at it. Love will make you show your heart some day, and then the rough burr will fall off." "Frost opens chestnut-burrs, ma'am, and it takes a good shake to bring them down. Boys go nutting, and I don't care to be bagged by them," returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob. Meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo's old spirit, but she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her power; and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of Meg's most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly. Grief is the best opener for some hearts, and Jo's was nearly ready for the bag: a little more sunshine to ripen the nut, then, not a boy's impatient shake, but a man's hand reached up to pick it gently from the burr, and find the kernel sound and sweet. If she had suspected this, she would have shut up tight, and been more prickly than ever; fortunately she wasn't thinking about herself, so, when the time came, down she dropped. Now, if she had been the heroine of a moral story-book, she ought at this period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the world, and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in her pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn't a heroine; she was only a struggling human girl, like hundreds of others, and she just acted out her nature, being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood suggested. It's highly virtuous to say we'll be good, but we can't do it all at once, and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together, before some of us even get our feet set in the right way. Jo had got so far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if she did not; but to do it cheerfully--ah, that was another thing! She had often said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard; and now she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful than to devote her life to father and mother, trying to make home as happy to them as they had to her? And, if difficulties were necessary to increase the splendor of the effort, what could be harder for a restless, ambitious girl than to give up her own hopes, plans, and desires, and cheerfully live for others? Providence had taken her at her word; here was the task, not what she had expected, but better, because self had no part in it: now, could she do it? She decided that she would try; and, in her first attempt, she found the helps I have suggested. Still another was given her, and she took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as Christian took the refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed the hill called Difficulty. "Why don't you write? That always used to make you happy," said her mother, once, when the desponding fit overshadowed Jo. "I've no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things." "We do; write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world. Try it, dear; I'm sure it would do you good, and please us very much." "Don't believe I can;" but Jo got out her desk, and began to overhaul her half-finished manuscripts. An hour afterward her mother peeped in, and there she was, scratching away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which caused Mrs. March to smile, and slip away, well pleased with the success of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it happened, but something got into that story that went straight to the hearts of those who read it; for, when her family had laughed and cried over it, her father sent it, much against her will, to one of the popular magazines, and, to her utter surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested. Letters from several persons, whose praise was honor, followed the appearance of the little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as friends admired it. For a small thing it was a great success; and Jo was more astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned all at once. "I don't understand it. What _can_ there be in a simple little story like that, to make people praise it so?" she said, quite bewildered. "There is truth in it, Jo, that's the secret; humor and pathos make it alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no thought of fame or money, and put your heart into it, my daughter; you have had the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow as happy as we are in your success." "If there _is_ anything good or true in what I write, it isn't mine; I owe it all to you and mother and to Beth," said Jo, more touched by her father's words than by any amount of praise from the world. So, taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very charitable world to such humble wanderers; for they were kindly welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like dutiful children whom good fortune overtakes. When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared that Jo would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon set at rest; for, though Jo looked grave at first, she took it very quietly, and was full of hopes and plans for "the children" before she read the letter twice. It was a sort of written duet, wherein each glorified the other in lover-like fashion, very pleasant to read and satisfactory to think of, for no one had any objection to make. "You like it, mother?" said Jo, as they laid down the closely written sheets, and looked at one another. "Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused Fred. I felt sure then that something better than what you call the 'mercenary spirit' had come over her, and a hint here and there in her letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day." "How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a word to me." "Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have girls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea into your head, lest you should write and congratulate them before the thing was settled." "I'm not the scatter-brain I was; you may trust me, I'm sober and sensible enough for any one's _confidante_ now." "So you are, dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied it might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved any one else." "Now, mother, did you really think I could be so silly and selfish, after I'd refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?" "I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he came back, and asked again, you might, perhaps, feel like giving another answer. Forgive me, dear, I can't help seeing that you are very lonely, and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to my heart; so I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he tried now." "No, mother, it is better as it is, and I'm glad Amy has learned to love him. But you are right in one thing: I _am_ lonely, and perhaps if Teddy had tried again, I might have said 'Yes,' not because I love him any more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away." "I'm glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There are plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with father and mother, sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all comes to give you your reward." "Mothers are the _best_ lovers in the world; but I don't mind whispering to Marmee that I'd like to try all kinds. It's very curious, but the more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural affections, the more I seem to want. I'd no idea hearts could take in so many; mine is so elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite contented with my family. I don't understand it." "I do;" and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie. "It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me; he isn't sentimental, doesn't say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don't seem to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and generous and tender he was till now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it full of noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know it's mine. He says he feels as if he 'could make a prosperous voyage now with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for ballast.' I pray he may, and try to be all he believes me, for I love my gallant captain with all my heart and soul and might, and never will desert him, while God lets us be together. O mother, I never knew how much like heaven this world could be, when two people love and live for one another!" "And that's our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work miracles. How very, very happy they must be!" And Jo laid the rustling sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he finds himself alone in the work-a-day world again. By and by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again, not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one sister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not true; she knew that, and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for affection was strong, and Amy's happiness woke the hungry longing for some one to "love with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them be together." Up in the garret, where Jo's unquiet wanderings ended, stood four little wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owner's name, and each filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended now for all. Jo glanced into them, and when she came to her own, leaned her chin on the edge, and stared absently at the chaotic collection, till a bundle of old exercise-books caught her eye. She drew them out, turned them over, and re-lived that pleasant winter at kind Mrs. Kirke's. She had smiled at first, then she looked thoughtful, next sad, and when she came to a little message written in the Professor's hand, her lips began to tremble, the books slid out of her lap, and she sat looking at the friendly words, as if they took a new meaning, and touched a tender spot in her heart. "Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely come." Oh, wenn er nur wollte! So freundlich, so gut, so geduldig mit mir immer; mein lieber alter Fritz, ich habe ihn nicht genug wertgeschätzt, als ich ihn hatte, aber jetzt wie gerne würde ich ihn sehen, denn alle scheinen sich von mir zu entfernen, und ich bin ganz allein. Und sie hielt das kleine Papier fest, als wäre es ein Versprechen, das noch erfüllt werden sollte. Jo legte ihren Kopf auf einen bequemen Lumpensack und weinte, als ob sie dem Regen trotzen wollte, der auf das Dach prasselte. War es Selbstmitleid, Einsamkeit oder Niedergeschlagenheit? Oder war es das Erwachen eines Gefühls, das so geduldig auf seinen Inspirator gewartet hatte? Wer kann das sagen? [Abbildung: Jo legte ihren Kopf auf einen bequemen Lumpensack und weinte] War es alles Selbstmitleid, Einsamkeit oder Niedergeschlagenheit? Oder war es das Erwachen eines Gefühls, das so geduldig auf seinen Inspirator gewartet hatte? Wer kann das sagen? [Abbildung: Ein solider, lebensechter Geist, der sich über sie lehnt] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Trotz ihrer Vorbereitung ist Jo am Boden zerstört, dass sie Beth verloren hat, und fühlt Verzweiflung darüber, ihr Leben nur den häuslichen Sorgen widmen zu müssen. Ihre Mutter spendet Trost, da sie ihren Schmerz teilt, und auch ihr Vater, dessen Rat und Seelsorge sie sucht. Durch ihre Arbeit versucht sie, Beths fröhlichen Haushaltsgeist zu übernehmen und darauf zu achten, dass Zuhause gemütlich und behaglich ist. Jo erkennt, wie gut es Meg mit ihrer Ehe geht, insbesondere mit ihren Kindern, und fragt sich, ob es für sie vielleicht auch angenehm sein könnte. In der Zwischenzeit schlägt ihre Mutter vor, dass Jo das Schreiben als Möglichkeit finden könnte, mehr Freude zu finden. Jo ist skeptisch, aber sie findet sich dabei wieder, eine einfache Geschichte zu schreiben, die von der Familie, dann von Freunden und sogar von Zeitungen sehr gut aufgenommen wird. Jo wundert sich über ihren Erfolg, aber ihr Vater erklärt, dass Jo nicht des Geldes wegen schreibt, sondern einfach die Wahrheit mit einer direkten Einfachheit schreibt, die den Menschen ans Herz geht. Als Laurie und Amy von ihrer Verlobung berichten, ist Jo wirklich glücklich für sie, wünscht sich aber auch, die Liebe und Freude zu finden, die sie haben. Sie geht in den Dachboden, wo sie Erinnerungen an ihren Winter in New York und die Freundschaft zu Mr. Bhaer entdeckt, und wünscht sich, ihn wiederzusehen.

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.

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 IV. Forres. Ein Raum im Palast. [Tusch. Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox und Diener treten auf.] DUNCAN. Wurde die Hinrichtung von Cawdor durchgeführt? Sind Die Beauftragten noch nicht zurückgekehrt? MALCOLM. Mein Herr, Sie sind noch nicht zurück. Aber ich habe Mit jemandem gesprochen, der seinen Tod gesehen hat: der berichtete, Dass er seine Verratshandlungen sehr offen gestanden hat; Um Euer Hoheit Vergebung gebeten hat und Eine tiefe Reue geäußert hat: nichts in seinem Leben Stand ihm so gut wie sein Tod; er starb Wie jemand, der seinen Tod studiert hatte, Um das kostbarste, das er besaß, Wie eine belanglose Kleinigkeit wegzuwerfen. DUNCAN. Es gibt keine Kunst, Den Geist aus dem Gesicht zu lesen: Er war ein Edelmann, auf dem ich Absolutes Vertrauen aufgebaut habe.-- [Macbeth, Banquo, Ross und Angus treten auf.] O würdigster Neffe! Die Sünde meiner Undankbarkeit lastete gerade eben Schwer auf mir: Du bist so weit voraus, Dass der schnellste Flügel der Vergeltung langsam Hinterherkommt. Wärst du doch weniger verdient gewesen; Dann hätten sowohl der Dank als auch die Belohnung Mir zugehört! Nur das habe ich noch zu sagen, Mehr als das, was alle ertragen können, gebührt dir. MACBETH. Der Dienst und die Treue, die ich schulde, Werden durch das Ausführen schon belohnt. Eure Hoheit Hat die Aufgabe, unsere Pflichten zu empfangen: Und unsere Pflichten Gelten Ihrem Thron und Staat, Kindern und Dienern; Die nur das tun, was sie tun sollten, Gesichert durch Ihre Liebe und Ehre. DUNCAN. Willkommen hier: Ich habe damit begonnen, dich zu pflanzen, Und ich werde mich bemühen, Dich voller Wachstum zu machen.--Edler Banquo, Der nicht weniger verdient hat und auch Nicht weniger bekannt sein muss, lass mich dich umarmen Und halte dich an meinem Herzen fest. BANQUO. Wenn ich dort wachse, Gehört die Ernte Ihnen. DUNCAN. Meine überfließende Freude Sucht, sich in Tropfen des Kummers zu verstecken.--Söhne, Verwandte, Thanes, Und ihr, die ihr den nächsten Platz einnehmt, wisst: Wir werden unseren Besitz auf unseren Erstgeborenen, Malcolm, gründen; den wir in Zukunft Prinz von Cumberland nennen: Diese Ehre darf Nicht alleine ihm zuteilwerden, Sondern auch Zeichen des Adels, wie Sterne, sollen Auf alle Verdienten leuchten.--Von hier aus nach Inverness, Und bindet uns enger an euch. MACBETH. Der Rest ist Arbeit, die nicht für euch bestimmt ist: Ich werde selbst der Bote sein und die Freude bereiten, Wenn meine Frau von eurer Ankunft erfährt; Also verabschiede ich mich in Demut. DUNCAN. Mein würdiger Cawdor! MACBETH. [Beiseite.] Der Prinz von Cumberland!--Das ist ein Schritt, Über den ich stürzen oder hinwegspringen muss, Denn er liegt auf meinem Weg. Sterne, versteckt euer Licht! Lasst das Licht meine schwarzen und tiefen Begierden nicht sehen: Das Auge soll vor der Hand blinzeln! Aber dennoch sei es so, Dass das, wovor das Auge Angst hat, wenn es geschehen ist, gesehen wird. [Abgang.] DUNCAN. Stimmt, würdiger Banquo!--er ist genauso tapfer; Und durch seine Lobreden werde ich genährt,-- Es ist ein Festmahl für mich. Lasst uns ihm folgen, Der sich bemüht hat, uns willkommen zu heißen: Er ist ein unvergleichlicher Verwandter. [Tusch. Abgang.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Im Gerichtssaal des Palastes empfängt König Duncan die Nachricht von der Hinrichtung Cawdors und übermittelt Macbeth und Banquo formale Dankesworte für ihre Rolle in der Schlacht. Dann verkündet Duncan zum privaten Erstaunen Macbeths, dass sein Nachfolger als König, wann auch immer das sein mag, sein Sohn Malcolm sein wird.

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.

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 the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton left them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she soon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton's side, there was no avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office--catching cold--fetching letters--and friendship, were long under discussion; and to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant to Jane--inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton's meditated activity. "Here is April come!" said she, "I get quite anxious about you. June will soon be here." "But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked forward to the summer in general." "But have you really heard of nothing?" "I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet." "Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing." "I not aware!" said Jane, shaking her head; "dear Mrs. Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?" "But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in." "Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane. "I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present." "Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible." "Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble." "But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June, or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence, is not obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly." "Excuse me, ma'am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends. When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry would soon produce something--Offices for the sale--not quite of human flesh--but of human intellect." "Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to the abolition." "I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade," replied Jane; "governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do." "Something that would do!" repeated Mrs. Elton. "Aye, _that_ may suit your humble ideas of yourself;--I know what a modest creature you are; but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of life." "You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I think, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison. A gentleman's family is all that I should condition for." "I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the first circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name your own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family as much as you chose;--that is--I do not know--if you knew the harp, you might do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;--yes, I really believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate for what you chose;--and you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and comfortably settled before the Campbells or I have any rest." "You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of such a situation together," said Jane, "they are pretty sure to be equal; however, I am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted at present for me. I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am obliged to any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing nothing to be done till the summer. For two or three months longer I shall remain where I am, and as I am." "And I am quite serious too, I assure you," replied Mrs. Elton gaily, "in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends to watch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us." In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of object, and Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane, "Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!--Only think of his gallantry in coming away before the other men!--what a dear creature he is;--I assure you I like him excessively. I admire all that quaint, old-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease; modern ease often disgusts me. But this good old Mr. Woodhouse, I wish you had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner. Oh! I assure you I began to think my caro sposo would be absolutely jealous. I fancy I am rather a favourite; he took notice of my gown. How do you like it?--Selina's choice--handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it is not over-trimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being over-trimmed--quite a horror of finery. I must put on a few ornaments now, because it is expected of me. A bride, you know, must appear like a bride, but my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple style of dress is so infinitely preferable to finery. But I am quite in the minority, I believe; few people seem to value simplicity of dress,--show and finery are every thing. I have some notion of putting such a trimming as this to my white and silver poplin. Do you think it will look well?" The whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room when Mr. Weston made his appearance among them. He had returned to a late dinner, and walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over. He had been too much expected by the best judges, for surprize--but there was great joy. Mr. Woodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he would have been sorry to see him before. John Knightley only was in mute astonishment.--That a man who might have spent his evening quietly at home after a day of business in London, should set off again, and walk half a mile to another man's house, for the sake of being in mixed company till bed-time, of finishing his day in the efforts of civility and the noise of numbers, was a circumstance to strike him deeply. A man who had been in motion since eight o'clock in the morning, and might now have been still, who had been long talking, and might have been silent, who had been in more than one crowd, and might have been alone!--Such a man, to quit the tranquillity and independence of his own fireside, and on the evening of a cold sleety April day rush out again into the world!--Could he by a touch of his finger have instantly taken back his wife, there would have been a motive; but his coming would probably prolong rather than break up the party. John Knightley looked at him with amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and said, "I could not have believed it even of _him_." Mr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation he was exciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and with all the right of being principal talker, which a day spent anywhere from home confers, was making himself agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the inquiries of his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all her careful directions to the servants had been forgotten, and spread abroad what public news he had heard, was proceeding to a family communication, which, though principally addressed to Mrs. Weston, he had not the smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in the room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he had met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it. "Read it, read it," said he, "it will give you pleasure; only a few lines--will not take you long; read it to Emma." The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking to them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible to every body. "Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say to it?--I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I?--Anne, my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe me?--In town next week, you see--at the latest, I dare say; for _she_ is as impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most likely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all nothing of course. But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us again, so near as town. They will stay a good while when they do come, and he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what I wanted. Well, pretty good news, is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read it all? Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some other time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the circumstance to the others in a common way." Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion. Her looks and words had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew she was happy, and knew she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm and open; but Emma could not speak so fluently. _She_ was a little occupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the degree of her agitation, which she rather thought was considerable. Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative to want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say, and soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial communication of what the whole room must have overheard already. It was well that he took every body's joy for granted, or he might not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly delighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made happy;--from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs. Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject with her. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Während des späteren Teils der Party erwähnt Jane, dass sie Gouvernante werden muss, was sie mit dem Sklavenhandel vergleicht. Mr. Weston kommt nach einem geschäftlichen Tag in London auf der Party an und gibt Mrs. Weston einen Brief von Frank Churchill, der nach Highbury zurückkehrt, da sich der Gesundheitszustand seiner Tante verbessert hat.

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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. Chapter: How will you know the pitch of that great bell Too large for you to stir? Let but a flute Play 'neath the fine-mixed metal listen close Till the right note flows forth, a silvery rill. Then shall the huge bell tremble--then the mass With myriad waves concurrent shall respond In low soft unison. Lydgate that evening spoke to Miss Vincy of Mrs. Casaubon, and laid some emphasis on the strong feeling she appeared to have for that formal studious man thirty years older than herself. "Of course she is devoted to her husband," said Rosamond, implying a notion of necessary sequence which the scientific man regarded as the prettiest possible for a woman; but she was thinking at the same time that it was not so very melancholy to be mistress of Lowick Manor with a husband likely to die soon. "Do you think her very handsome?" "She certainly is handsome, but I have not thought about it," said Lydgate. "I suppose it would be unprofessional," said Rosamond, dimpling. "But how your practice is spreading! You were called in before to the Chettams, I think; and now, the Casaubons." "Yes," said Lydgate, in a tone of compulsory admission. "But I don't really like attending such people so well as the poor. The cases are more monotonous, and one has to go through more fuss and listen more deferentially to nonsense." "Not more than in Middlemarch," said Rosamond. "And at least you go through wide corridors and have the scent of rose-leaves everywhere." "That is true, Mademoiselle de Montmorenci," said Lydgate, just bending his head to the table and lifting with his fourth finger her delicate handkerchief which lay at the mouth of her reticule, as if to enjoy its scent, while he looked at her with a smile. But this agreeable holiday freedom with which Lydgate hovered about the flower of Middlemarch, could not continue indefinitely. It was not more possible to find social isolation in that town than elsewhere, and two people persistently flirting could by no means escape from "the various entanglements, weights, blows, clashings, motions, by which things severally go on." Whatever Miss Vincy did must be remarked, and she was perhaps the more conspicuous to admirers and critics because just now Mrs. Vincy, after some struggle, had gone with Fred to stay a little while at Stone Court, there being no other way of at once gratifying old Featherstone and keeping watch against Mary Garth, who appeared a less tolerable daughter-in-law in proportion as Fred's illness disappeared. Aunt Bulstrode, for example, came a little oftener into Lowick Gate to see Rosamond, now she was alone. For Mrs. Bulstrode had a true sisterly feeling for her brother; always thinking that he might have married better, but wishing well to the children. Now Mrs. Bulstrode had a long-standing intimacy with Mrs. Plymdale. They had nearly the same preferences in silks, patterns for underclothing, china-ware, and clergymen; they confided their little troubles of health and household management to each other, and various little points of superiority on Mrs. Bulstrode's side, namely, more decided seriousness, more admiration for mind, and a house outside the town, sometimes served to give color to their conversation without dividing them--well-meaning women both, knowing very little of their own motives. Mrs. Bulstrode, paying a morning visit to Mrs. Plymdale, happened to say that she could not stay longer, because she was going to see poor Rosamond. "Why do you say 'poor Rosamond'?" said Mrs. Plymdale, a round-eyed sharp little woman, like a tamed falcon. "She is so pretty, and has been brought up in such thoughtlessness. The mother, you know, had always that levity about her, which makes me anxious for the children." "Well, Harriet, if I am to speak my mind," said Mrs. Plymdale, with emphasis, "I must say, anybody would suppose you and Mr. Bulstrode would be delighted with what has happened, for you have done everything to put Mr. Lydgate forward." "Selina, what do you mean?" said Mrs. Bulstrode, in genuine surprise. "Not but what I am truly thankful for Ned's sake," said Mrs. Plymdale. "He could certainly better afford to keep such a wife than some people can; but I should wish him to look elsewhere. Still a mother has anxieties, and some young men would take to a bad life in consequence. Besides, if I was obliged to speak, I should say I was not fond of strangers coming into a town." "I don't know, Selina," said Mrs. Bulstrode, with a little emphasis in her turn. "Mr. Bulstrode was a stranger here at one time. Abraham and Moses were strangers in the land, and we are told to entertain strangers. And especially," she added, after a slight pause, "when they are unexceptionable." "I was not speaking in a religious sense, Harriet. I spoke as a mother." "Selina, I am sure you have never heard me say anything against a niece of mine marrying your son." "Oh, it is pride in Miss Vincy--I am sure it is nothing else," said Mrs. Plymdale, who had never before given all her confidence to "Harriet" on this subject. "No young man in Middlemarch was good enough for her: I have heard her mother say as much. That is not a Christian spirit, I think. But now, from all I hear, she has found a man as proud as herself." "You don't mean that there is anything between Rosamond and Mr. Lydgate?" said Mrs. Bulstrode, rather mortified at finding out her own ignorance. "Is it possible you don't know, Harriet?" "Oh, I go about so little; and I am not fond of gossip; I really never hear any. You see so many people that I don't see. Your circle is rather different from ours." "Well, but your own niece and Mr. Bulstrode's great favorite--and yours too, I am sure, Harriet! I thought, at one time, you meant him for Kate, when she is a little older." "I don't believe there can be anything serious at present," said Mrs. Bulstrode. "My brother would certainly have told me." "Well, people have different ways, but I understand that nobody can see Miss Vincy and Mr. Lydgate together without taking them to be engaged. However, it is not my business. Shall I put up the pattern of mittens?" After this Mrs. Bulstrode drove to her niece with a mind newly weighted. She was herself handsomely dressed, but she noticed with a little more regret than usual that Rosamond, who was just come in and met her in walking-dress, was almost as expensively equipped. Mrs. Bulstrode was a feminine smaller edition of her brother, and had none of her husband's low-toned pallor. She had a good honest glance and used no circumlocution. "You are alone, I see, my dear," she said, as they entered the drawing-room together, looking round gravely. Rosamond felt sure that her aunt had something particular to say, and they sat down near each other. Nevertheless, the quilling inside Rosamond's bonnet was so charming that it was impossible not to desire the same kind of thing for Kate, and Mrs. Bulstrode's eyes, which were rather fine, rolled round that ample quilled circuit, while she spoke. "I have just heard something about you that has surprised me very much, Rosamond." "What is that, aunt?" Rosamond's eyes also were roaming over her aunt's large embroidered collar. "I can hardly believe it--that you should be engaged without my knowing it--without your father's telling me." Here Mrs. Bulstrode's eyes finally rested on Rosamond's, who blushed deeply, and said-- "I am not engaged, aunt." "How is it that every one says so, then--that it is the town's talk?" "The town's talk is of very little consequence, I think," said Rosamond, inwardly gratified. "Oh, my dear, be more thoughtful; don't despise your neighbors so. Remember you are turned twenty-two now, and you will have no fortune: your father, I am sure, will not be able to spare you anything. Mr. Lydgate is very intellectual and clever; I know there is an attraction in that. I like talking to such men myself; and your uncle finds him very useful. But the profession is a poor one here. To be sure, this life is not everything; but it is seldom a medical man has true religious views--there is too much pride of intellect. And you are not fit to marry a poor man. "Mr. Lydgate is not a poor man, aunt. He has very high connections." "He told me himself he was poor." "That is because he is used to people who have a high style of living." "My dear Rosamond, _you_ must not think of living in high style." Rosamond looked down and played with her reticule. She was not a fiery young lady and had no sharp answers, but she meant to live as she pleased. "Then it is really true?" said Mrs. Bulstrode, looking very earnestly at her niece. "You are thinking of Mr. Lydgate--there is some understanding between you, though your father doesn't know. Be open, my dear Rosamond: Mr. Lydgate has really made you an offer?" Poor Rosamond's feelings were very unpleasant. She had been quite easy as to Lydgate's feeling and intention, but now when her aunt put this question she did not like being unable to say Yes. Her pride was hurt, but her habitual control of manner helped her. "Pray excuse me, aunt. I would rather not speak on the subject." "You would not give your heart to a man without a decided prospect, I trust, my dear. And think of the two excellent offers I know of that you have refused!--and one still within your reach, if you will not throw it away. I knew a very great beauty who married badly at last, by doing so. Mr. Ned Plymdale is a nice young man--some might think good-looking; and an only son; and a large business of that kind is better than a profession. Not that marrying is everything. I would have you seek first the kingdom of God. But a girl should keep her heart within her own power." "I should never give it to Mr. Ned Plymdale, if it were. I have already refused him. If I loved, I should love at once and without change," said Rosamond, with a great sense of being a romantic heroine, and playing the part prettily. "I see how it is, my dear," said Mrs. Bulstrode, in a melancholy voice, rising to go. "You have allowed your affections to be engaged without return." "No, indeed, aunt," said Rosamond, with emphasis. "Then you are quite confident that Mr. Lydgate has a serious attachment to you?" Rosamond's cheeks by this time were persistently burning, and she felt much mortification. She chose to be silent, and her aunt went away all the more convinced. Mr. Bulstrode in things worldly and indifferent was disposed to do what his wife bade him, and she now, without telling her reasons, desired him on the next opportunity to find out in conversation with Mr. Lydgate whether he had any intention of marrying soon. The result was a decided negative. Mr. Bulstrode, on being cross-questioned, showed that Lydgate had spoken as no man would who had any attachment that could issue in matrimony. Mrs. Bulstrode now felt that she had a serious duty before her, and she soon managed to arrange a tete-a-tete with Lydgate, in which she passed from inquiries about Fred Vincy's health, and expressions of her sincere anxiety for her brother's large family, to general remarks on the dangers which lay before young people with regard to their settlement in life. Young men were often wild and disappointing, making little return for the money spent on them, and a girl was exposed to many circumstances which might interfere with her prospects. "Especially when she has great attractions, and her parents see much company," said Mrs. Bulstrode "Gentlemen pay her attention, and engross her all to themselves, for the mere pleasure of the moment, and that drives off others. I think it is a heavy responsibility, Mr. Lydgate, to interfere with the prospects of any girl." Here Mrs. Bulstrode fixed her eyes on him, with an unmistakable purpose of warning, if not of rebuke. "Clearly," said Lydgate, looking at her--perhaps even staring a little in return. "On the other hand, a man must be a great coxcomb to go about with a notion that he must not pay attention to a young lady lest she should fall in love with him, or lest others should think she must." "Oh, Mr. Lydgate, you know well what your advantages are. You know that our young men here cannot cope with you. Where you frequent a house it may militate very much against a girl's making a desirable settlement in life, and prevent her from accepting offers even if they are made." Lydgate was less flattered by his advantage over the Middlemarch Orlandos than he was annoyed by the perception of Mrs. Bulstrode's meaning. She felt that she had spoken as impressively as it was necessary to do, and that in using the superior word "militate" she had thrown a noble drapery over a mass of particulars which were still evident enough. Lydgate was fuming a little, pushed his hair back with one hand, felt curiously in his waistcoat-pocket with the other, and then stooped to beckon the tiny black spaniel, which had the insight to decline his hollow caresses. It would not have been decent to go away, because he had been dining with other guests, and had just taken tea. But Mrs. Bulstrode, having no doubt that she had been understood, turned the conversation. Solomon's Proverbs, I think, have omitted to say, that as the sore palate findeth grit, so an uneasy consciousness heareth innuendoes. The next day Mr. Farebrother, parting from Lydgate in the street, supposed that they should meet at Vincy's in the evening. Lydgate answered curtly, no--he had work to do--he must give up going out in the evening. "What! you are going to get lashed to the mast, eh, and are stopping your ears?" said the Vicar. "Well, if you don't mean to be won by the sirens, you are right to take precautions in time." A few days before, Lydgate would have taken no notice of these words as anything more than the Vicar's usual way of putting things. They seemed now to convey an innuendo which confirmed the impression that he had been making a fool of himself and behaving so as to be misunderstood: not, he believed, by Rosamond herself; she, he felt sure, took everything as lightly as he intended it. She had an exquisite tact and insight in relation to all points of manners; but the people she lived among were blunderers and busybodies. However, the mistake should go no farther. He resolved--and kept his resolution--that he would not go to Mr. Vincy's except on business. Rosamond became very unhappy. The uneasiness first stirred by her aunt's questions grew and grew till at the end of ten days that she had not seen Lydgate, it grew into terror at the blank that might possibly come--into foreboding of that ready, fatal sponge which so cheaply wipes out the hopes of mortals. The world would have a new dreariness for her, as a wilderness that a magician's spells had turned for a little while into a garden. She felt that she was beginning to know the pang of disappointed love, and that no other man could be the occasion of such delightful aerial building as she had been enjoying for the last six months. Poor Rosamond lost her appetite and felt as forlorn as Ariadne--as a charming stage Ariadne left behind with all her boxes full of costumes and no hope of a coach. There are many wonderful mixtures in the world which are all alike called love, and claim the privileges of a sublime rage which is an apology for everything (in literature and the drama). Happily Rosamond did not think of committing any desperate act: she plaited her fair hair as beautifully as usual, and kept herself proudly calm. Her most cheerful supposition was that her aunt Bulstrode had interfered in some way to hinder Lydgate's visits: everything was better than a spontaneous indifference in him. Any one who imagines ten days too short a time--not for falling into leanness, lightness, or other measurable effects of passion, but--for the whole spiritual circuit of alarmed conjecture and disappointment, is ignorant of what can go on in the elegant leisure of a young lady's mind. On the eleventh day, however, Lydgate when leaving Stone Court was requested by Mrs. Vincy to let her husband know that there was a marked change in Mr. Featherstone's health, and that she wished him to come to Stone Court on that day. Now Lydgate might have called at the warehouse, or might have written a message on a leaf of his pocket-book and left it at the door. Yet these simple devices apparently did not occur to him, from which we may conclude that he had no strong objection to calling at the house at an hour when Mr. Vincy was not at home, and leaving the message with Miss Vincy. A man may, from various motives, decline to give his company, but perhaps not even a sage would be gratified that nobody missed him. It would be a graceful, easy way of piecing on the new habits to the old, to have a few playful words with Rosamond about his resistance to dissipation, and his firm resolve to take long fasts even from sweet sounds. It must be confessed, also, that momentary speculations as to all the possible grounds for Mrs. Bulstrode's hints had managed to get woven like slight clinging hairs into the more substantial web of his thoughts. Miss Vincy was alone, and blushed so deeply when Lydgate came in that he felt a corresponding embarrassment, and instead of any playfulness, he began at once to speak of his reason for calling, and to beg her, almost formally, to deliver the message to her father. Rosamond, who at the first moment felt as if her happiness were returning, was keenly hurt by Lydgate's manner; her blush had departed, and she assented coldly, without adding an unnecessary word, some trivial chain-work which she had in her hands enabling her to avoid looking at Lydgate higher than his chin. In all failures, the beginning is certainly the half of the whole. After sitting two long moments while he moved his whip and could say nothing, Lydgate rose to go, and Rosamond, made nervous by her struggle between mortification and the wish not to betray it, dropped her chain as if startled, and rose too, mechanically. Lydgate instantaneously stooped to pick up the chain. When he rose he was very near to a lovely little face set on a fair long neck which he had been used to see turning about under the most perfect management of self-contented grace. But as he raised his eyes now he saw a certain helpless quivering which touched him quite newly, and made him look at Rosamond with a questioning flash. At this moment she was as natural as she had ever been when she was five years old: she felt that her tears had risen, and it was no use to try to do anything else than let them stay like water on a blue flower or let them fall over her cheeks, even as they would. That moment of naturalness was the crystallizing feather-touch: it shook flirtation into love. Remember that the ambitious man who was looking at those Forget-me-nots under the water was very warm-hearted and rash. He did not know where the chain went; an idea had thrilled through the recesses within him which had a miraculous effect in raising the power of passionate love lying buried there in no sealed sepulchre, but under the lightest, easily pierced mould. His words were quite abrupt and awkward; but the tone made them sound like an ardent, appealing avowal. "What is the matter? you are distressed. Tell me, pray." Rosamond had never been spoken to in such tones before. I am not sure that she knew what the words were: but she looked at Lydgate and the tears fell over her cheeks. There could have been no more complete answer than that silence, and Lydgate, forgetting everything else, completely mastered by the outrush of tenderness at the sudden belief that this sweet young creature depended on him for her joy, actually put his arms round her, folding her gently and protectingly--he was used to being gentle with the weak and suffering--and kissed each of the two large tears. This was a strange way of arriving at an understanding, but it was a short way. Rosamond was not angry, but she moved backward a little in timid happiness, and Lydgate could now sit near her and speak less incompletely. Rosamond had to make her little confession, and he poured out words of gratitude and tenderness with impulsive lavishment. In half an hour he left the house an engaged man, whose soul was not his own, but the woman's to whom he had bound himself. He came again in the evening to speak with Mr. Vincy, who, just returned from Stone Court, was feeling sure that it would not be long before he heard of Mr. Featherstone's demise. The felicitous word "demise," which had seasonably occurred to him, had raised his spirits even above their usual evening pitch. The right word is always a power, and communicates its definiteness to our action. Considered as a demise, old Featherstone's death assumed a merely legal aspect, so that Mr. Vincy could tap his snuff-box over it and be jovial, without even an intermittent affectation of solemnity; and Mr. Vincy hated both solemnity and affectation. Who was ever awe struck about a testator, or sang a hymn on the title to real property? Mr. Vincy was inclined to take a jovial view of all things that evening: he even observed to Lydgate that Fred had got the family constitution after all, and would soon be as fine a fellow as ever again; and when his approbation of Rosamond's engagement was asked for, he gave it with astonishing facility, passing at once to general remarks on the desirableness of matrimony for young men and maidens, and apparently deducing from the whole the appropriateness of a little more punch. "They'll take suggestion as a cat laps milk." --SHAKESPEARE: Tempest. The triumphant confidence of the Mayor founded on Mr. Featherstone's insistent demand that Fred and his mother should not leave him, was a feeble emotion compared with all that was agitating the breasts of the old man's blood-relations, who naturally manifested more their sense of the family tie and were more visibly numerous now that he had become bedridden. Naturally: for when "poor Peter" had occupied his arm-chair in the wainscoted parlor, no assiduous beetles for whom the cook prepares boiling water could have been less welcome on a hearth which they had reasons for preferring, than those persons whose Featherstone blood was ill-nourished, not from penuriousness on their part, but from poverty. Brother Solomon and Sister Jane were rich, and the family candor and total abstinence from false politeness with which they were always received seemed to them no argument that their brother in the solemn act of making his will would overlook the superior claims of wealth. Themselves at least he had never been unnatural enough to banish from his house, and it seemed hardly eccentric that he should have kept away Brother Jonah, Sister Martha, and the rest, who had no shadow of such claims. They knew Peter's maxim, that money was a good egg, and should be laid in a warm nest. But Brother Jonah, Sister Martha, and all the needy exiles, held a different point of view. Probabilities are as various as the faces to be seen at will in fretwork or paper-hangings: every form is there, from Jupiter to Judy, if you only look with creative inclination. To the poorer and least favored it seemed likely that since Peter had done nothing for them in his life, he would remember them at the last. Jonah argued that men liked to make a surprise of their wills, while Martha said that nobody need be surprised if he left the best part of his money to those who least expected it. Also it was not to be thought but that an own brother "lying there" with dropsy in his legs must come to feel that blood was thicker than water, and if he didn't alter his will, he might have money by him. At any rate some blood-relations should be on the premises and on the watch against those who were hardly relations at all. Such things had been known as forged wills and disputed wills, which seemed to have the golden-hazy advantage of somehow enabling non-legatees to live out of them. Again, those who were no blood-relations might be caught making away with things--and poor Peter "lying there" helpless! Somebody should be on the watch. But in this conclusion they were at one with Solomon and Jane; also, some nephews, nieces, and cousins, arguing with still greater subtilty as to what might be done by a man able to "will away" his property and give himself large treats of oddity, felt in a handsome sort of way that there was a family interest to be attended to, and thought of Stone Court as a place which it would be nothing but right for them to visit. Sister Martha, otherwise Mrs. Cranch, living with some wheeziness in the Chalky Flats, could not undertake the journey; but her son, as being poor Peter's own nephew, could represent her advantageously, and watch lest his uncle Jonah should make an unfair use of the improbable things which seemed likely to happen. In fact there was a general sense running in the Featherstone blood that everybody must watch everybody else, and that it would be well for everybody else to reflect that the Almighty was watching him. Thus Stone Court continually saw one or other blood-relation alighting or departing, and Mary Garth had the unpleasant task of carrying their messages to Mr. Featherstone, who would see none of them, and sent her down with the still more unpleasant task of telling them so. As manager of the household she felt bound to ask them in good provincial fashion to stay and eat; but she chose to consult Mrs. Vincy on the point of extra down-stairs consumption now that Mr. Featherstone was laid up. "Oh, my dear, you must do things handsomely where there's last illness and a property. God knows, I don't grudge them every ham in the house--only, save the best for the funeral. Have some stuffed veal always, and a fine cheese in cut. You must expect to keep open house in these last illnesses," said liberal Mrs. Vincy, once more of cheerful note and bright plumage. But some of the visitors alighted and did not depart after the handsome treating to veal and ham. Brother Jonah, for example (there are such unpleasant people in most families; perhaps even in the highest aristocracy there are Brobdingnag specimens, gigantically in debt and bloated at greater expense)--Brother Jonah, I say, having come down in the world, was mainly supported by a calling which he was modest enough not to boast of, though it was much better than swindling either on exchange or turf, but which did not require his presence at Brassing so long as he had a good corner to sit in and a supply of food. He chose the kitchen-corner, partly because he liked it best, and partly because he did not want to sit with Solomon, concerning whom he had a strong brotherly opinion. Seated in a famous arm-chair and in his best suit, constantly within sight of good cheer, he had a comfortable consciousness of being on the premises, mingled with fleeting suggestions of Sunday and the bar at the Green Man; and he informed Mary Garth that he should not go out of reach of his brother Peter while that poor fellow was above ground. The troublesome ones in a family are usually either the wits or the idiots. Jonah was the wit among the Featherstones, and joked with the maid-servants when they came about the hearth, but seemed to consider Miss Garth a suspicious character, and followed her with cold eyes. Mary would have borne this one pair of eyes with comparative ease, but unfortunately there was young Cranch, who, having come all the way from the Chalky Flats to represent his mother and watch his uncle Jonah, also felt it his duty to stay and to sit chiefly in the kitchen to give his uncle company. Young Cranch was not exactly the balancing point between the wit and the idiot,--verging slightly towards the latter type, and squinting so as to leave everything in doubt about his sentiments except that they were not of a forcible character. When Mary Garth entered the kitchen and Mr. Jonah Featherstone began to follow her with his cold detective eyes, young Cranch turning his head in the same direction seemed to insist on it that she should remark how he was squinting, as if he did it with design, like the gypsies when Borrow read the New Testament to them. This was rather too much for poor Mary; sometimes it made her bilious, sometimes it upset her gravity. One day that she had an opportunity she could not resist describing the kitchen scene to Fred, who would not be hindered from immediately going to see it, affecting simply to pass through. But no sooner did he face the four eyes than he had to rush through the nearest door which happened to lead to the dairy, and there under the high roof and among the pans he gave way to laughter which made a hollow resonance perfectly audible in the kitchen. He fled by another doorway, but Mr. Jonah, who had not before seen Fred's white complexion, long legs, and pinched delicacy of face, prepared many sarcasms in which these points of appearance were wittily combined with the lowest moral attributes. "Why, Tom, _you_ don't wear such gentlemanly trousers--you haven't got half such fine long legs," said Jonah to his nephew, winking at the same time, to imply that there was something more in these statements than their undeniableness. Tom looked at his legs, but left it uncertain whether he preferred his moral advantages to a more vicious length of limb and reprehensible gentility of trouser. In the large wainscoted parlor too there were constantly pairs of eyes on the watch, and own relatives eager to be "sitters-up." Many came, lunched, and departed, but Brother Solomon and the lady who had been Jane Featherstone for twenty-five years before she was Mrs. Waule found it good to be there every day for hours, without other calculable occupation than that of observing the cunning Mary Garth (who was so deep that she could be found out in nothing) and giving occasional dry wrinkly indications of crying--as if capable of torrents in a wetter season--at the thought that they were not allowed to go into Mr. Featherstone's room. For the old man's dislike of his own family seemed to get stronger as he got less able to amuse himself by saying biting things to them. Too languid to sting, he had the more venom refluent in his blood. Not fully believing the message sent through Mary Garth, they had presented themselves together within the door of the bedroom, both in black--Mrs. Waule having a white handkerchief partially unfolded in her hand--and both with faces in a sort of half-mourning purple; while Mrs. Vincy with her pink cheeks and pink ribbons flying was actually administering a cordial to their own brother, and the light-complexioned Fred, his short hair curling as might be expected in a gambler's, was lolling at his ease in a large chair. Old Featherstone no sooner caught sight of these funereal figures appearing in spite of his orders than rage came to strengthen him more successfully than the cordial. He was propped up on a bed-rest, and always had his gold-headed stick lying by him. He seized it now and swept it backwards and forwards in as large an area as he could, apparently to ban these ugly spectres, crying in a hoarse sort of screech-- "Back, back, Mrs. Waule! Back, Solomon!" "Oh, Brother. Peter," Mrs. Waule began--but Solomon put his hand before her repressingly. He was a large-cheeked man, nearly seventy, with small furtive eyes, and was not only of much blander temper but thought himself much deeper than his brother Peter; indeed not likely to be deceived in any of his fellow-men, inasmuch as they could not well be more greedy and deceitful than he suspected them of being. Even the invisible powers, he thought, were likely to be soothed by a bland parenthesis here and there--coming from a man of property, who might have been as impious as others. "Brother Peter," he said, in a wheedling yet gravely official tone, "It's nothing but right I should speak to you about the Three Crofts and the Manganese. The Almighty knows what I've got on my mind--" "Then he knows more than I want to know," said Peter, laying down his stick with a show of truce which had a threat in it too, for he reversed the stick so as to make the gold handle a club in case of closer fighting, and looked hard at Solomon's bald head. "There's things you might repent of, Brother, for want of speaking to me," said Solomon, not advancing, however. "I could sit up with you to-night, and Jane with me, willingly, and you might take your own time to speak, or let me speak." "Yes, I shall take my own time--you needn't offer me yours," said Peter. "But you can't take your own time to die in, Brother," began Mrs. Waule, with her usual woolly tone. "And when you lie speechless you may be tired of having strangers about you, and you may think of me and my children"--but here her voice broke under the touching thought which she was attributing to her speechless brother; the mention of ourselves being naturally affecting. "No, I shan't," said old Featherstone, contradictiously. "I shan't think of any of you. I've made my will, I tell you, I've made my will." Here he turned his head towards Mrs. Vincy, and swallowed some more of his cordial. "Some people would be ashamed to fill up a place belonging by rights to others," said Mrs. Waule, turning her narrow eyes in the same direction. "Oh, sister," said Solomon, with ironical softness, "you and me are not fine, and handsome, and clever enough: we must be humble and let smart people push themselves before us." Fred's spirit could not bear this: rising and looking at Mr. Featherstone, he said, "Shall my mother and I leave the room, sir, that you may be alone with your friends?" "Sit down, I tell you," said old Featherstone, snappishly. "Stop where you are. Good-by, Solomon," he added, trying to wield his stick again, but failing now that he had reversed the handle. "Good-by, Mrs. Waule. Don't you come again." "I shall be down-stairs, Brother, whether or no," said Solomon. "I shall do my duty, and it remains to be seen what the Almighty will allow." "Yes, in property going out of families," said Mrs. Waule, in continuation,--"and where there's steady young men to carry on. But I pity them who are not such, and I pity their mothers. Good-by, Brother Peter." "Remember, I'm the eldest after you, Brother, and prospered from the first, just as you did, and have got land already by the name of Featherstone," said Solomon, relying much on that reflection, as one which might be suggested in the watches of the night. "But I bid you good-by for the present." Their exit was hastened by their seeing old Mr. Featherstone pull his wig on each side and shut his eyes with his mouth-widening grimace, as if he were determined to be deaf and blind. None the less they came to Stone Court daily and sat below at the post of duty, sometimes carrying on a slow dialogue in an undertone in which the observation and response were so far apart, that any one hearing them might have imagined himself listening to speaking automata, in some doubt whether the ingenious mechanism would really work, or wind itself up for a long time in order to stick and be silent. Solomon and Jane would have been sorry to be quick: what that led to might be seen on the other side of the wall in the person of Brother Jonah. But their watch in the wainscoted parlor was sometimes varied by the presence of other guests from far or near. Now that Peter Featherstone was up-stairs, his property could be discussed with all that local enlightenment to be found on the spot: some rural and Middlemarch neighbors expressed much agreement with the family and sympathy with their interest against the Vincys, and feminine visitors were even moved to tears, in conversation with Mrs. Waule, when they recalled the fact that they themselves had been disappointed in times past by codicils and marriages for spite on the part of ungrateful elderly gentlemen, who, it might have been supposed, had been spared for something better. Such conversation paused suddenly, like an organ when the bellows are let drop, if Mary Garth came into the room; and all eyes were turned on her as a possible legatee, or one who might get access to iron chests. But the younger men who were relatives or connections of the family, were disposed to admire her in this problematic light, as a girl who showed much conduct, and who among all the chances that were flying might turn out to be at least a moderate prize. Hence she had her share of compliments and polite attentions. Especially from Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, a distinguished bachelor and auctioneer of those parts, much concerned in the sale of land and cattle: a public character, indeed, whose name was seen on widely distributed placards, and who might reasonably be sorry for those who did not know of him. He was second cousin to Peter Featherstone, and had been treated by him with more amenity than any other relative, being useful in matters of business; and in that programme of his funeral which the old man had himself dictated, he had been named as a Bearer. There was no odious cupidity in Mr. Borthrop Trumbull--nothing more than a sincere sense of his own merit, which, he was aware, in case of rivalry might tell against competitors; so that if Peter Featherstone, who so far as he, Trumbull, was concerned, had behaved like as good a soul as ever breathed, should have done anything handsome by him, all he could say was, that he had never fished and fawned, but had advised him to the best of his experience, which now extended over twenty years from the time of his apprenticeship at fifteen, and was likely to yield a knowledge of no surreptitious kind. His admiration was far from being confined to himself, but was accustomed professionally as well as privately to delight in estimating things at a high rate. He was an amateur of superior phrases, and never used poor language without immediately correcting himself--which was fortunate, as he was rather loud, and given to predominate, standing or walking about frequently, pulling down his waistcoat with the air of a man who is very much of his own opinion, trimming himself rapidly with his fore-finger, and marking each new series in these movements by a busy play with his large seals. There was occasionally a little fierceness in his demeanor, but it was directed chiefly against false opinion, of which there is so much to correct in the world that a man of some reading and experience necessarily has his patience tried. He felt that the Featherstone family generally was of limited understanding, but being a man of the world and a public character, took everything as a matter of course, and even went to converse with Mr. Jonah and young Cranch in the kitchen, not doubting that he had impressed the latter greatly by his leading questions concerning the Chalky Flats. If anybody had observed that Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, being an auctioneer, was bound to know the nature of everything, he would have smiled and trimmed himself silently with the sense that he came pretty near that. On the whole, in an auctioneering way, he was an honorable man, not ashamed of his business, and feeling that "the celebrated Peel, now Sir Robert," if introduced to him, would not fail to recognize his importance. "I don't mind if I have a slice of that ham, and a glass of that ale, Miss Garth, if you will allow me," he said, coming into the parlor at half-past eleven, after having had the exceptional privilege of seeing old Featherstone, and standing with his back to the fire between Mrs. Waule and Solomon. "It's not necessary for you to go out;--let me ring the bell." "Thank you," said Mary, "I have an errand." "Well, Mr. Trumbull, you're highly favored," said Mrs. Waule. "What! seeing the old man?" said the auctioneer, playing with his seals dispassionately. "Ah, you see he has relied on me considerably." Here he pressed his lips together, and frowned meditatively. "Might anybody ask what their brother has been saying?" said Solomon, in a soft tone of humility, in which he had a sense of luxurious cunning, he being a rich man and not in need of it. "Oh yes, anybody may ask," said Mr. Trumbull, with loud and good-humored though cutting sarcasm. "Anybody may interrogate. Any one may give their remarks an interrogative turn," he continued, his sonorousness rising with his style. "This is constantly done by good speakers, even when they anticipate no answer. It is what we call a figure of speech--speech at a high figure, as one may say." The eloquent auctioneer smiled at his own ingenuity. "I shouldn't be sorry to hear he'd remembered you, Mr. Trumbull," said Solomon. "I never was against the deserving. It's the undeserving I'm against." "Ah, there it is, you see, there it is," said Mr. Trumbull, significantly. "It can't be denied that undeserving people have been legatees, and even residuary legatees. It is so, with testamentary dispositions." Again he pursed up his lips and frowned a little. "Do you mean to say for certain, Mr. Trumbull, that my brother has left his land away from our family?" said Mrs. Waule, on whom, as an unhopeful woman, those long words had a depressing effect. "A man might as well turn his land into charity land at once as leave it to some people," observed Solomon, his sister's question having drawn no answer. "What, Blue-Coat land?" said Mrs. Waule, again. "Oh, Mr. Trumbull, you never can mean to say that. It would be flying in the face of the Almighty that's prospered him." While Mrs. Waule was speaking, Mr. Borthrop Trumbull walked away from the fireplace towards the window, patrolling with his fore-finger round the inside of his stock, then along his whiskers and the curves of his hair. He now walked to Miss Garth's work-table, opened a book which lay there and read the title aloud with pompous emphasis as if he were offering it for sale: "'Anne of Geierstein' (pronounced Jeersteen) or the 'Maiden of the Mist, by the author of Waverley.'" Then turning the page, he began sonorously--"The course of four centuries has well-nigh elapsed since the series of events which are related in the following chapters took place on the Continent." He pronounced the last truly admirable word with the accent on the last syllable, not as unaware of vulgar usage, but feeling that this novel delivery enhanced the sonorous beauty which his reading had given to the whole. And now the servant came in with the tray, so that the moments for answering Mrs. Waule's question had gone by safely, while she and Solomon, watching Mr. Trumbull's movements, were thinking that high learning interfered sadly with serious affairs. Mr. Borthrop Trumbull really knew nothing about old Featherstone's will; but he could hardly have been brought to declare any ignorance unless he had been arrested for misprision of treason. "I shall take a mere mouthful of ham and a glass of ale," he said, reassuringly. "As a man with public business, I take a snack when I can. I will back this ham," he added, after swallowing some morsels with alarming haste, "against any ham in the three kingdoms. In my opinion it is better than the hams at Freshitt Hall--and I think I am a tolerable judge." "Some don't like so much sugar in their hams," said Mrs. Waule. "But my poor brother would always have sugar." "If any person demands better, he is at liberty to do so; but, God bless me, what an aroma! I should be glad to buy in that quality, I know. There is some gratification to a gentleman"--here Mr. Trumbull's voice conveyed an emotional remonstrance--"in having this kind of ham set on his table." He pushed aside his plate, poured out his glass of ale and drew his chair a little forward, profiting by the occasion to look at the inner side of his legs, which he stroked approvingly--Mr. Trumbull having all those less frivolous airs and gestures which distinguish the predominant races of the north. "You have an interesting work there, I see, Miss Garth," he observed, when Mary re-entered. "It is by the author of 'Waverley': that is Sir Walter Scott. I have bought one of his works myself--a very nice thing, a very superior publication, entitled 'Ivanhoe.' You will not get any writer to beat him in a hurry, I think--he will not, in my opinion, be speedily surpassed. I have just been reading a portion at the commencement of 'Anne of Jeersteen.' It commences well." (Things never began with Mr. Borthrop Trumbull: they always commenced, both in private life and on his handbills.) "You are a reader, I see. Do you subscribe to our Middlemarch library?" "No," said Mary. "Mr. Fred Vincy brought this book." "I am a great bookman myself," returned Mr. Trumbull. "I have no less than two hundred volumes in calf, and I flatter myself they are well selected. Also pictures by Murillo, Rubens, Teniers, Titian, Vandyck, and others. I shall be happy to lend you any work you like to mention, Miss Garth." "I am much obliged," said Mary, hastening away again, "but I have little time for reading." "I should say my brother has done something for _her_ in his will," said Mr. Solomon, in a very low undertone, when she had shut the door behind her, pointing with his head towards the absent Mary. "His first wife was a poor match for him, though," said Mrs. Waule. "She brought him nothing: and this young woman is only her niece,--and very proud. And my brother has always paid her wage." "A sensible girl though, in my opinion," said Mr. Trumbull, finishing his ale and starting up with an emphatic adjustment of his waistcoat. "I have observed her when she has been mixing medicine in drops. She minds what she is doing, sir. That is a great point in a woman, and a great point for our friend up-stairs, poor dear old soul. A man whose life is of any value should think of his wife as a nurse: that is what I should do, if I married; and I believe I have lived single long enough not to make a mistake in that line. Some men must marry to elevate themselves a little, but when I am in need of that, I hope some one will tell me so--I hope some individual will apprise me of the fact. I wish you good morning, Mrs. Waule. Good morning, Mr. Solomon. I trust we shall meet under less melancholy auspices." When Mr. Trumbull had departed with a fine bow, Solomon, leaning forward, observed to his sister, "You may depend, Jane, my brother has left that girl a lumping sum." "Anybody would think so, from the way Mr. Trumbull talks," said Jane. Then, after a pause, "He talks as if my daughters wasn't to be trusted to give drops." "Auctioneers talk wild," said Solomon. "Not but what Trumbull has made money." "Close up his eyes and draw the curtain close; And let us all to meditation." --2 Henry VI. That night after twelve o'clock Mary Garth relieved the watch in Mr. Featherstone's room, and sat there alone through the small hours. She often chose this task, in which she found some pleasure, notwithstanding the old man's testiness whenever he demanded her attentions. There were intervals in which she could sit perfectly still, enjoying the outer stillness and the subdued light. The red fire with its gently audible movement seemed like a solemn existence calmly independent of the petty passions, the imbecile desires, the straining after worthless uncertainties, which were daily moving her contempt. Mary was fond of her own thoughts, and could amuse herself well sitting in twilight with her hands in her lap; for, having early had strong reason to believe that things were not likely to be arranged for her peculiar satisfaction, she wasted no time in astonishment and annoyance at that fact. And she had already come to take life very much as a comedy in which she had a proud, nay, a generous resolution not to act the mean or treacherous part. Mary might have become cynical if she had not had parents whom she honored, and a well of affectionate gratitude within her, which was all the fuller because she had learned to make no unreasonable claims. She sat to-night revolving, as she was wont, the scenes of the day, her lips often curling with amusement at the oddities to which her fancy added fresh drollery: people were so ridiculous with their illusions, carrying their fool's caps unawares, thinking their own lies opaque while everybody else's were transparent, making themselves exceptions to everything, as if when all the world looked yellow under a lamp they alone were rosy. Yet there were some illusions under Mary's eyes which were not quite comic to her. She was secretly convinced, though she had no other grounds than her close observation of old Featherstone's nature, that in spite of his fondness for having the Vincys about him, they were as likely to be disappointed as any of the relations whom he kept at a distance. She had a good deal of disdain for Mrs. Vincy's evident alarm lest she and Fred should be alone together, but it did not hinder her from thinking anxiously of the way in which Fred would be affected, if it should turn out that his uncle had left him as poor as ever. She could make a butt of Fred when he was present, but she did not enjoy his follies when he was absent. Yet she liked her thoughts: a vigorous young mind not overbalanced by passion, finds a good in making acquaintance with life, and watches its own powers with interest. Mary had plenty of merriment within. Her thought was not veined by any solemnity or pathos about the old man on the bed: such sentiments are easier to affect than to feel about an aged creature whose life is not visibly anything but a remnant of vices. She had always seen the most disagreeable side of Mr. Featherstone: he was not proud of her, and she was only useful to him. To be anxious about a soul that is always snapping at you must be left to the saints of the earth; and Mary was not one of them. She had never returned him a harsh word, and had waited on him faithfully: that was her utmost. Old Featherstone himself was not in the least anxious about his soul, and had declined to see Mr. Tucker on the subject. To-night he had not snapped, and for the first hour or two he lay remarkably still, until at last Mary heard him rattling his bunch of keys against the tin box which he always kept in the bed beside him. About three o'clock he said, with remarkable distinctness, "Missy, come here!" Mary obeyed, and found that he had already drawn the tin box from under the clothes, though he usually asked to have this done for him; and he had selected the key. He now unlocked the box, and, drawing from it another key, looked straight at her with eyes that seemed to have recovered all their sharpness and said, "How many of 'em are in the house?" "You mean of your own relations, sir," said Mary, well used to the old man's way of speech. He nodded slightly and she went on. "Mr. Jonah Featherstone and young Cranch are sleeping here." "Oh ay, they stick, do they? and the rest--they come every day, I'll warrant--Solomon and Jane, and all the young uns? They come peeping, and counting and casting up?" "Not all of them every day. Mr. Solomon and Mrs. Waule are here every day, and the others come often." The old man listened with a grimace while she spoke, and then said, relaxing his face, "The more fools they. You hearken, missy. It's three o'clock in the morning, and I've got all my faculties as well as ever I had in my life. I know all my property, and where the money's put out, and everything. And I've made everything ready to change my mind, and do as I like at the last. Do you hear, missy? I've got my faculties." "Well, sir?" said Mary, quietly. He now lowered his tone with an air of deeper cunning. "I've made two wills, and I'm going to burn one. Now you do as I tell you. This is the key of my iron chest, in the closet there. You push well at the side of the brass plate at the top, till it goes like a bolt: then you can put the key in the front lock and turn it. See and do that; and take out the topmost paper--Last Will and Testament--big printed." "No, sir," said Mary, in a firm voice, "I cannot do that." "Not do it? I tell you, you must," said the old man, his voice beginning to shake under the shock of this resistance. "I cannot touch your iron chest or your will. I must refuse to do anything that might lay me open to suspicion." "I tell you, I'm in my right mind. Shan't I do as I like at the last? I made two wills on purpose. Take the key, I say." "No, sir, I will not," said Mary, more resolutely still. Her repulsion was getting stronger. "I tell you, there's no time to lose." "I cannot help that, sir. I will not let the close of your life soil the beginning of mine. I will not touch your iron chest or your will." She moved to a little distance from the bedside. The old man paused with a blank stare for a little while, holding the one key erect on the ring; then with an agitated jerk he began to work with his bony left hand at emptying the tin box before him. "Missy," he began to say, hurriedly, "look here! take the money--the notes and gold--look here--take it--you shall have it all--do as I tell you." He made an effort to stretch out the key towards her as far as possible, and Mary again retreated. "I will not touch your key or your money, sir. Pray don't ask me to do it again. If you do, I must go and call your brother." He let his hand fall, and for the first time in her life Mary saw old Peter Featherstone begin to cry childishly. She said, in as gentle a tone as she could command, "Pray put up your money, sir;" and then went away to her seat by the fire, hoping this would help to convince him that it was useless to say more. Presently he rallied and said eagerly-- "Look here, then. Call the young chap. Call Fred Vincy." Mary's heart began to beat more quickly. Various ideas rushed through her mind as to what the burning of a second will might imply. She had to make a difficult decision in a hurry. "I will call him, if you will let me call Mr. Jonah and others with him." "Nobody else, I say. The young chap. I shall do as I like." "Wait till broad daylight, sir, when every one is stirring. Or let me call Simmons now, to go and fetch the lawyer? He can be here in less than two hours." "Lawyer? What do I want with the lawyer? Nobody shall know--I say, nobody shall know. I shall do as I like." "Let me call some one else, sir," said Mary, persuasively. She did not like her position--alone with the old man, who seemed to show a strange flaring of nervous energy which enabled him to speak again and again without falling into his usual cough; yet she desired not to push unnecessarily the contradiction which agitated him. "Let me, pray, call some one else." "You let me alone, I say. Look here, missy. Take the money. You'll never have the chance again. It's pretty nigh two hundred--there's more in the box, and nobody knows how much there was. Take it and do as I tell you." Mary, standing by the fire, saw its red light falling on the old man, propped up on his pillows and bed-rest, with his bony hand holding out the key, and the money lying on the quilt before him. She never forgot that vision of a man wanting to do as he liked at the last. But the way in which he had put the offer of the money urged her to speak with harder resolution than ever. "It is of no use, sir. I will not do it. Put up your money. I will not touch your money. I will do anything else I can to comfort you; but I will not touch your keys or your money." "Anything else anything else!" said old Featherstone, with hoarse rage, which, as if in a nightmare, tried to be loud, and yet was only just audible. "I want nothing else. You come here--you come here." Mary approached him cautiously, knowing him too well. She saw him dropping his keys and trying to grasp his stick, while he looked at her like an aged hyena, the muscles of his face getting distorted with the effort of his hand. She paused at a safe distance. "Let me give you some cordial," she said, quietly, "and try to compose yourself. You will perhaps go to sleep. And to-morrow by daylight you can do as you like." He lifted the stick, in spite of her being beyond his reach, and threw it with a hard effort which was but impotence. It fell, slipping over the foot of the bed. Mary let it lie, and retreated to her chair by the fire. By-and-by she would go to him with the cordial. Fatigue would make him passive. It was getting towards the chillest moment of the morning, the fire had got low, and she could see through the chink between the moreen window-curtains the light whitened by the blind. Having put some wood on the fire and thrown a shawl over her, she sat down, hoping that Mr. Featherstone might now fall asleep. If she went near him the irritation might be kept up. He had said nothing after throwing the stick, but she had seen him taking his keys again and laying his right hand on the money. He did not put it up, however, and she thought that he was dropping off to sleep. But Mary herself began to be more agitated by the remembrance of what she had gone through, than she had been by the reality--questioning those acts of hers which had come imperatively and excluded all question in the critical moment. Presently the dry wood sent out a flame which illuminated every crevice, and Mary saw that the old man was lying quietly with his head turned a little on one side. She went towards him with inaudible steps, and thought that his face looked strangely motionless; but the next moment the movement of the flame communicating itself to all objects made her uncertain. The violent beating of her heart rendered her perceptions so doubtful that even when she touched him and listened for his breathing, she could not trust her conclusions. She went to the window and gently propped aside the curtain and blind, so that the still light of the sky fell on the bed. The next moment she ran to the bell and rang it energetically. In a very little while there was no longer any doubt that Peter Featherstone was dead, with his right hand clasping the keys, and his left hand lying on the heap of notes and gold. BOOK IV. THREE LOVE PROBLEMS. 1st Gent. Such men as this are feathers, chips, and straws. Carry no weight, no force. 2d Gent. But levity Is causal too, and makes the sum of weight. For power finds its place in lack of power; Advance is cession, and the driven ship May run aground because the helmsman's thought Lacked force to balance opposites." It was on a morning of May that Peter Featherstone was buried. In the prosaic neighborhood of Middlemarch, May was not always warm and sunny, and on this particular morning a chill wind was blowing the blossoms from the surrounding gardens on to the green mounds of Lowick churchyard. Swiftly moving clouds only now and then allowed a gleam to light up any object, whether ugly or beautiful, that happened to stand within its golden shower. In the churchyard the objects were remarkably various, for there was a little country crowd waiting to see the funeral. The news had spread that it was to be a "big burying;" the old gentleman had left written directions about everything and meant to have a funeral "beyond his betters." This was true; for old Featherstone had not been a Harpagon whose passions had all been devoured by the ever-lean and ever-hungry passion of saving, and who would drive a bargain with his undertaker beforehand. He loved money, but he also loved to spend it in gratifying his peculiar tastes, and perhaps he loved it best of all as a means of making others feel his power more or less uncomfortably. If any one will here contend that there must have been traits of goodness in old Featherstone, I will not presume to deny this; but I must observe that goodness is of a modest nature, easily discouraged, and when much privacy, elbowed in early life by unabashed vices, is apt to retire into extreme privacy, so that it is more easily believed in by those who construct a selfish old gentleman theoretically, than by those who form the narrower judgments based on his personal acquaintance. In any case, he had been bent on having a handsome funeral, and on having persons "bid" to it who would rather have stayed at home. He had even desired that female relatives should follow him to the grave, and poor sister Martha had taken a difficult journey for this purpose from the Chalky Flats. She and Jane would have been altogether cheered (in a tearful manner) by this sign that a brother who disliked seeing them while he was living had been prospectively fond of their presence when he should have become a testator, if the sign had not been made equivocal by being extended to Mrs. Vincy, whose expense in handsome crape seemed to imply the most presumptuous hopes, aggravated by a bloom of complexion which told pretty plainly that she was not a blood-relation, but of that generally objectionable class called wife's kin. We are all of us imaginative in some form or other, for images are the brood of desire; and poor old Featherstone, who laughed much at the way in which others cajoled themselves, did not escape the fellowship of illusion. In writing the programme for his burial he certainly did not make clear to himself that his pleasure in the little drama of which it formed a part was confined to anticipation. In chuckling over the vexations he could inflict by the rigid clutch of his dead hand, he inevitably mingled his consciousness with that livid stagnant presence, and so far as he was preoccupied with a future life, it was with one of gratification inside his coffin. Thus old Featherstone was imaginative, after his fashion. However, the three mourning-coaches were filled according to the written orders of the deceased. There were pall-bearers on horseback, with the richest scarfs and hatbands, and even the under-bearers had trappings of woe which were of a good well-priced quality. The black procession, when dismounted, looked the larger for the smallness of the churchyard; the heavy human faces and the black draperies shivering in the wind seemed to tell of a world strangely incongruous with the lightly dropping blossoms and the gleams of sunshine on the daisies. The clergyman who met the procession was Mr. Cadwallader--also according to the request of Peter Featherstone, prompted as usual by peculiar reasons. Having a contempt for curates, whom he always called understrappers, he was resolved to be buried by a beneficed clergyman. Mr. Casaubon was out of the question, not merely because he declined duty of this sort, but because Featherstone had an especial dislike to him as the rector of his own parish, who had a lien on the land in the shape of tithe, also as the deliverer of morning sermons, which the old man, being in his pew and not at all sleepy, had been obliged to sit through with an inward snarl. He had an objection to a parson stuck up above his head preaching to him. But his relations with Mr. Cadwallader had been of a different kind: the trout-stream which ran through Mr. Casaubon's land took its course through Featherstone's also, so that Mr. Cadwallader was a parson who had had to ask a favor instead of preaching. Moreover, he was one of the high gentry living four miles away from Lowick, and was thus exalted to an equal sky with the sheriff of the county and other dignities vaguely regarded as necessary to the system of things. There would be a satisfaction in being buried by Mr. Cadwallader, whose very name offered a fine opportunity for pronouncing wrongly if you liked. This distinction conferred on the Rector of Tipton and Freshitt was the reason why Mrs. Cadwallader made one of the group that watched old Featherstone's funeral from an upper window of the manor. She was not fond of visiting that house, but she liked, as she said, to see collections of strange animals such as there would be at this funeral; and she had persuaded Sir James and the young Lady Chettam to drive the Rector and herself to Lowick in order that the visit might be altogether pleasant. "I will go anywhere with you, Mrs. Cadwallader," Celia had said; "but I don't like funerals." "Oh, my dear, when you have a clergyman in your family you must accommodate your tastes: I did that very early. When I married Humphrey I made up my mind to like sermons, and I set out by liking the end very much. That soon spread to the middle and the beginning, because I couldn't have the end without them." "No, to be sure not," said the Dowager Lady Chettam, with stately emphasis. The upper window from which the funeral could be well seen was in the room occupied by Mr. Casaubon when he had been forbidden to work; but he had resumed nearly his habitual style of life now in spite of warnings and prescriptions, and after politely welcoming Mrs. Cadwallader had slipped again into the library to chew a cud of erudite mistake about Cush and Mizraim. But for her visitors Dorothea too might have been shut up in the library, and would not have witnessed this scene of old Featherstone's funeral, which, aloof as it seemed to be from the tenor of her life, always afterwards came back to her at the touch of certain sensitive points in memory, just as the vision of St. Peter's at Rome was inwoven with moods of despondency. Scenes which make vital changes in our neighbors' lot are but the background of our own, yet, like a particular aspect of the fields and trees, they become associated for us with the epochs of our own history, and make a part of that unity which lies in the selection of our keenest consciousness. The dream-like association of something alien and ill-understood with the deepest secrets of her experience seemed to mirror that sense of loneliness which was due to the very ardor of Dorothea's nature. The country gentry of old time lived in a rarefied social air: dotted apart on their stations up the mountain they looked down with imperfect discrimination on the belts of thicker life below. And Dorothea was not at ease in the perspective and chilliness of that height. "I shall not look any more," said Celia, after the train had entered the church, placing herself a little behind her husband's elbow so that she could slyly touch his coat with her cheek. "I dare say Dodo likes it: she is fond of melancholy things and ugly people." "I am fond of knowing something about the people I live among," said Dorothea, who had been watching everything with the interest of a monk on his holiday tour. "It seems to me we know nothing of our neighbors, unless they are cottagers. One is constantly wondering what sort of lives other people lead, and how they take things. I am quite obliged to Mrs. Cadwallader for coming and calling me out of the library." "Quite right to feel obliged to me," said Mrs. Cadwallader. "Your rich Lowick farmers are as curious as any buffaloes or bisons, and I dare say you don't half see them at church. They are quite different from your uncle's tenants or Sir James's--monsters--farmers without landlords--one can't tell how to class them." "Most of these followers are not Lowick people," said Sir James; "I suppose they are legatees from a distance, or from Middlemarch. Lovegood tells me the old fellow has left a good deal of money as well as land." "Think of that now! when so many younger sons can't dine at their own expense," said Mrs. Cadwallader. "Ah," turning round at the sound of the opening door, "here is Mr. Brooke. I felt that we were incomplete before, and here is the explanation. You are come to see this odd funeral, of course?" "No, I came to look after Casaubon--to see how he goes on, you know. And to bring a little news--a little news, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, nodding at Dorothea as she came towards him. "I looked into the library, and I saw Casaubon over his books. I told him it wouldn't do: I said, 'This will never do, you know: think of your wife, Casaubon.' And he promised me to come up. I didn't tell him my news: I said, he must come up." "Ah, now they are coming out of church," Mrs. Cadwallader exclaimed. "Dear me, what a wonderfully mixed set! Mr. Lydgate as doctor, I suppose. But that is really a good looking woman, and the fair young man must be her son. Who are they, Sir James, do you know?" "I see Vincy, the Mayor of Middlemarch; they are probably his wife and son," said Sir James, looking interrogatively at Mr. Brooke, who nodded and said-- "Yes, a very decent family--a very good fellow is Vincy; a credit to the manufacturing interest. You have seen him at my house, you know." "Ah, yes: one of your secret committee," said Mrs. Cadwallader, provokingly. "A coursing fellow, though," said Sir James, with a fox-hunter's disgust. "And one of those who suck the life out of the wretched handloom weavers in Tipton and Freshitt. That is how his family look so fair and sleek," said Mrs. Cadwallader. "Those dark, purple-faced people are an excellent foil. Dear me, they are like a set of jugs! Do look at Humphrey: one might fancy him an ugly archangel towering above them in his white surplice." "It's a solemn thing, though, a funeral," said Mr. Brooke, "if you take it in that light, you know." "But I am not taking it in that light. I can't wear my solemnity too often, else it will go to rags. It was time the old man died, and none of these people are sorry." "How piteous!" said Dorothea. "This funeral seems to me the most dismal thing I ever saw. It is a blot on the morning I cannot bear to think that any one should die and leave no love behind." She was going to say more, but she saw her husband enter and seat himself a little in the background. The difference his presence made to her was not always a happy one: she felt that he often inwardly objected to her speech. "Positively," exclaimed Mrs. Cadwallader, "there is a new face come out from behind that broad man queerer than any of them: a little round head with bulging eyes--a sort of frog-face--do look. He must be of another blood, I think." "Let me see!" said Celia, with awakened curiosity, standing behind Mrs. Cadwallader and leaning forward over her head. "Oh, what an odd face!" Then with a quick change to another sort of surprised expression, she added, "Why, Dodo, you never told me that Mr. Ladislaw was come again!" Dorothea felt a shock of alarm: every one noticed her sudden paleness as she looked up immediately at her uncle, while Mr. Casaubon looked at her. "He came with me, you know; he is my guest--puts up with me at the Grange," said Mr. Brooke, in his easiest tone, nodding at Dorothea, as if the announcement were just what she might have expected. "And we have brought the picture at the top of the carriage. I knew you would be pleased with the surprise, Casaubon. There you are to the very life--as Aquinas, you know. Quite the right sort of thing. And you will hear young Ladislaw talk about it. He talks uncommonly well--points out this, that, and the other--knows art and everything of that kind--companionable, you know--is up with you in any track--what I've been wanting a long while." Mr. Casaubon bowed with cold politeness, mastering his irritation, but only so far as to be silent. He remembered Will's letter quite as well as Dorothea did; he had noticed that it was not among the letters which had been reserved for him on his recovery, and secretly concluding that Dorothea had sent word to Will not to come to Lowick, he had shrunk with proud sensitiveness from ever recurring to the subject. He now inferred that she had asked her uncle to invite Will to the Grange; and she felt it impossible at that moment to enter into any explanation. Mrs. Cadwallader's eyes, diverted from the churchyard, saw a good deal of dumb show which was not so intelligible to her as she could have desired, and could not repress the question, "Who is Mr. Ladislaw?" "A young relative of Mr. Casaubon's," said Sir James, promptly. His good-nature often made him quick and clear-seeing in personal matters, and he had divined from Dorothea's glance at her husband that there was some alarm in her mind. "A very nice young fellow--Casaubon has done everything for him," explained Mr. Brooke. "He repays your expense in him, Casaubon," he went on, nodding encouragingly. "I hope he will stay with me a long while and we shall make something of my documents. I have plenty of ideas and facts, you know, and I can see he is just the man to put them into shape--remembers what the right quotations are, omne tulit punctum, and that sort of thing--gives subjects a kind of turn. I invited him some time ago when you were ill, Casaubon; Dorothea said you couldn't have anybody in the house, you know, and she asked me to write." Poor Dorothea felt that every word of her uncle's was about as pleasant as a grain of sand in the eye to Mr. Casaubon. It would be altogether unfitting now to explain that she had not wished her uncle to invite Will Ladislaw. She could not in the least make clear to herself the reasons for her husband's dislike to his presence--a dislike painfully impressed on her by the scene in the library; but she felt the unbecomingness of saying anything that might convey a notion of it to others. Mr. Casaubon, indeed, had not thoroughly represented those mixed reasons to himself; irritated feeling with him, as with all of us, seeking rather for justification than for self-knowledge. But he wished to repress outward signs, and only Dorothea could discern the changes in her husband's face before he observed with more of dignified bending and sing-song than usual-- "You are exceedingly hospitable, my dear sir; and I owe you acknowledgments for exercising your hospitality towards a relative of mine." The funeral was ended now, and the churchyard was being cleared. "Now you can see him, Mrs. Cadwallader," said Celia. "He is just like a miniature of Mr. Casaubon's aunt that hangs in Dorothea's boudoir--quite nice-looking." "A very pretty sprig," said Mrs. Cadwallader, dryly. "What is your nephew to be, Mr. Casaubon?" "Pardon me, he is not my nephew. He is my cousin." "Well, you know," interposed Mr. Brooke, "he is trying his wings. He is just the sort of young fellow to rise. I should be glad to give him an opportunity. He would make a good secretary, now, like Hobbes, Milton, Swift--that sort of man." "I understand," said Mrs. Cadwallader. "One who can write speeches." "I'll fetch him in now, eh, Casaubon?" said Mr. Brooke. "He wouldn't come in till I had announced him, you know. And we'll go down and look at the picture. There you are to the life: a deep subtle sort of thinker with his fore-finger on the page, while Saint Bonaventure or somebody else, rather fat and florid, is looking up at the Trinity. Everything is symbolical, you know--the higher style of art: I like that up to a certain point, but not too far--it's rather straining to keep up with, you know. But you are at home in that, Casaubon. And your painter's flesh is good--solidity, transparency, everything of that sort. I went into that a great deal at one time. However, I'll go and fetch Ladislaw." "Non, je ne comprends pas de plus charmant plaisir Que de voir d'heritiers une troupe affligee Le maintien interdit, et la mine allongee, Lire un long testament ou pales, etonnes On leur laisse un bonsoir avec un pied de nez. Pour voir au naturel leur tristesse profonde Je reviendrais, je crois, expres de l'autre monde." --REGNARD: Le Legataire Universel. When the animals entered the Ark in pairs, one may imagine that allied species made much private remark on each other, and were tempted to think that so many forms feeding on the same store of fodder were eminently superfluous, as tending to diminish the rations. (I fear the part played by the vultures on that occasion would be too painful for art to represent, those birds being disadvantageously naked about the gullet, and apparently without rites and ceremonies.) The same sort of temptation befell the Christian Carnivora who formed Peter Featherstone's funeral procession; most of them having their minds bent on a limited store which each would have liked to get the most of. The long-recognized blood-relations and connections by marriage made already a goodly number, which, multiplied by possibilities, presented a fine range for jealous conjecture and pathetic hopefulness. Jealousy of the Vincys had created a fellowship in hostility among all persons of the Featherstone blood, so that in the absence of any decided indication that one of themselves was to have more than the rest, the dread lest that long-legged Fred Vincy should have the land was necessarily dominant, though it left abundant feeling and leisure for vaguer jealousies, such as were entertained towards Mary Garth. Solomon found time to reflect that Jonah was undeserving, and Jonah to abuse Solomon as greedy; Jane, the elder sister, held that Martha's children ought not to expect so much as the young Waules; and Martha, more lax on the subject of primogeniture, was sorry to think that Jane was so "having." These nearest of kin were naturally impressed with the unreasonableness of expectations in cousins and second cousins, and used their arithmetic in reckoning the large sums that small legacies might mount to, if there were too many of them. Two cousins were present to hear the will, and a second cousin besides Mr. Trumbull. This second cousin was a Middlemarch mercer of polite manners and superfluous aspirates. The two cousins were elderly men from Brassing, one of them conscious of claims on the score of inconvenient expense sustained by him in presents of oysters and other eatables to his rich cousin Peter; the other entirely saturnine, leaning his hands and chin on a stick, and conscious of claims based on no narrow performance but on merit generally: both blameless citizens of Brassing, who wished that Jonah Featherstone did not live there. The wit of a family is usually best received among strangers. "Why, Trumbull himself is pretty sure of five hundred--_that_ you may depend,--I shouldn't wonder if my brother promised him," said Solomon, musing aloud with his sisters, the evening before the funeral. "Dear, dear!" said poor sister Martha, whose imagination of hundreds had been habitually narrowed to the amount of her unpaid rent. But in the morning all the ordinary currents of conjecture were disturbed by the presence of a strange mourner who had plashed among them as if from the moon. This was the stranger described by Mrs. Cadwallader as frog-faced: a man perhaps about two or three and thirty, whose prominent eyes, thin-lipped, downward-curved mouth, and hair sleekly brushed away from a forehead that sank suddenly above the ridge of the eyebrows, certainly gave his face a batrachian unchangeableness of expression. Here, clearly, was a new legatee; else why was he bidden as a mourner? Here were new possibilities, raising a new uncertainty, which almost checked remark in the mourning-coaches. We are all humiliated by the sudden discovery of a fact which has existed very comfortably and perhaps been staring at us in private while we have been making up our world entirely without it. No one had seen this questionable stranger before except Mary Garth, and she knew nothing more of him than that he had twice been to Stone Court when Mr. Featherstone was down-stairs, and had sat alone with him for several hours. She had found an opportunity of mentioning this to her father, and perhaps Caleb's were the only eyes, except the lawyer's, which examined the stranger with more of inquiry than of disgust or suspicion. Caleb Garth, having little expectation and less cupidity, was interested in the verification of his own guesses, and the calmness with which he half smilingly rubbed his chin and shot intelligent glances much as if he were valuing a tree, made a fine contrast with the alarm or scorn visible in other faces when the unknown mourner, whose name was understood to be Rigg, entered the wainscoted parlor and took his seat near the door to make part of the audience when the will should be read. Just then Mr. Solomon and Mr. Jonah were gone up-stairs with the lawyer to search for the will; and Mrs. Waule, seeing two vacant seats between herself and Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, had the spirit to move next to that great authority, who was handling his watch-seals and trimming his outlines with a determination not to show anything so compromising to a man of ability as wonder or surprise. "I suppose you know everything about what my poor brother's done, Mr. Trumbull," said Mrs. Waule, in the lowest of her woolly tones, while she turned her crape-shadowed bonnet towards Mr. Trumbull's ear. "My good lady, whatever was told me was told in confidence," said the auctioneer, putting his hand up to screen that secret. "Them who've made sure of their good-luck may be disappointed yet," Mrs. Waule continued, finding some relief in this communication. "Hopes are often delusive," said Mr. Trumbull, still in confidence. "Ah!" said Mrs. Waule, looking across at the Vincys, and then moving back to the side of her sister Martha. "It's wonderful how close poor Peter was," she said, in the same undertones. "We none of us know what he might have had on his mind. I only hope and trust he wasn't a worse liver than we think of, Martha." Poor Mrs. Cranch was bulky, and, breathing asthmatically, had the additional motive for making her remarks unexceptionable and giving them a general bearing, that even her whispers were loud and liable to sudden bursts like those of a deranged barrel-organ. "I never _was_ covetous, Jane," she replied; "but I have six children and have buried three, and I didn't marry into money. The eldest, that sits there, is but nineteen--so I leave you to guess. And stock always short, and land most awkward. But if ever I've begged and prayed; it's been to God above; though where there's one brother a bachelor and the other childless after twice marrying--anybody might think!" Meanwhile, Mr. Vincy had glanced at the passive face of Mr. Rigg, and had taken out his snuff-box and tapped it, but had put it again unopened as an indulgence which, however clarifying to the judgment, was unsuited to the occasion. "I shouldn't wonder if Featherstone had better feelings than any of us gave him credit for," he observed, in the ear of his wife. "This funeral shows a thought about everybody: it looks well when a man wants to be followed by his friends, and if they are humble, not to be ashamed of them. I should be all the better pleased if he'd left lots of small legacies. They may be uncommonly useful to fellows in a small way." "Everything is as handsome as could be, crape and silk and everything," said Mrs. Vincy, contentedly. But I am sorry to say that Fred was under some difficulty in repressing a laugh, which would have been more unsuitable than his father's snuff-box. Fred had overheard Mr. Jonah suggesting something about a "love-child," and with this thought in his mind, the stranger's face, which happened to be opposite him, affected him too ludicrously. Mary Garth, discerning his distress in the twitchings of his mouth, and his recourse to a cough, came cleverly to his rescue by asking him to change seats with her, so that he got into a shadowy corner. Fred was feeling as good-naturedly as possible towards everybody, including Rigg; and having some relenting towards all these people who were less lucky than he was aware of being himself, he would not for the world have behaved amiss; still, it was particularly easy to laugh. But the entrance of the lawyer and the two brothers drew every one's attention. The lawyer was Mr. Standish, and he had come to Stone Court this morning believing that he knew thoroughly well who would be pleased and who disappointed before the day was over. The will he expected to read was the last of three which he had drawn up for Mr. Featherstone. Mr. Standish was not a man who varied his manners: he behaved with the same deep-voiced, off-hand civility to everybody, as if he saw no difference in them, and talked chiefly of the hay-crop, which would be "very fine, by God!" of the last bulletins concerning the King, and of the Duke of Clarence, who was a sailor every inch of him, and just the man to rule over an island like Britain. Old Featherstone had often reflected as he sat looking at the fire that Standish would be surprised some day: it is true that if he had done as he liked at the last, and burnt the will drawn up by another lawyer, he would not have secured that minor end; still he had had his pleasure in ruminating on it. And certainly Mr. Standish was surprised, but not at all sorry; on the contrary, he rather enjoyed the zest of a little curiosity in his own mind, which the discovery of a second will added to the prospective amazement on the part of the Featherstone family. As to the sentiments of Solomon and Jonah, they were held in utter suspense: it seemed to them that the old will would have a certain validity, and that there might be such an interlacement of poor Peter's former and latter intentions as to create endless "lawing" before anybody came by their own--an inconvenience which would have at least the advantage of going all round. Hence the brothers showed a thoroughly neutral gravity as they re-entered with Mr. Standish; but Solomon took out his white handkerchief again with a sense that in any case there would be affecting passages, and crying at funerals, however dry, was customarily served up in lawn. Perhaps the person who felt the most throbbing excitement at this moment was Mary Garth, in the consciousness that it was she who had virtually determined the production of this second will, which might have momentous effects on the lot of some persons present. No soul except herself knew what had passed on that final night. "The will I hold in my hand," said Mr. Standish, who, seated at the table in the middle of the room, took his time about everything, including the coughs with which he showed a disposition to clear his voice, "was drawn up by myself and executed by our deceased friend on the 9th of August, 1825. But I find that there is a subsequent instrument hitherto unknown to me, bearing date the 20th of July, 1826, hardly a year later than the previous one. And there is farther, I see"--Mr. Standish was cautiously travelling over the document with his spectacles--"a codicil to this latter will, bearing date March 1, 1828." "Dear, dear!" said sister Martha, not meaning to be audible, but driven to some articulation under this pressure of dates. "I shall begin by reading the earlier will," continued Mr. Standish, "since such, as appears by his not having destroyed the document, was the intention of deceased." The preamble was felt to be rather long, and several besides Solomon shook their heads pathetically, looking on the ground: all eyes avoided meeting other eyes, and were chiefly fixed either on the spots in the table-cloth or on Mr. Standish's bald head; excepting Mary Garth's. When all the rest were trying to look nowhere in particular, it was safe for her to look at them. And at the sound of the first "give and bequeath" she could see all complexions changing subtly, as if some faint vibration were passing through them, save that of Mr. Rigg. He sat in unaltered calm, and, in fact, the company, preoccupied with more important problems, and with the complication of listening to bequests which might or might not be revoked, had ceased to think of him. Fred blushed, and Mr. Vincy found it impossible to do without his snuff-box in his hand, though he kept it closed. The small bequests came first, and even the recollection that there was another will and that poor Peter might have thought better of it, could not quell the rising disgust and indignation. One likes to be done well by in every tense, past, present, and future. And here was Peter capable five years ago of leaving only two hundred apiece to his own brothers and sisters, and only a hundred apiece to his own nephews and nieces: the Garths were not mentioned, but Mrs. Vincy and Rosamond were each to have a hundred. Mr. Trumbull was to have the gold-headed cane and fifty pounds; the other second cousins and the cousins present were each to have the like handsome sum, which, as the saturnine cousin observed, was a sort of legacy that left a man nowhere; and there was much more of such offensive dribbling in favor of persons not present--problematical, and, it was to be feared, low connections. Altogether, reckoning hastily, here were about three thousand disposed of. Where then had Peter meant the rest of the money to go--and where the land? and what was revoked and what not revoked--and was the revocation for better or for worse? All emotion must be conditional, and might turn out to be the wrong thing. The men were strong enough to bear up and keep quiet under this confused suspense; some letting their lower lip fall, others pursing it up, according to the habit of their muscles. But Jane and Martha sank under the rush of questions, and began to cry; poor Mrs. Cranch being half moved with the consolation of getting any hundreds at all without working for them, and half aware that her share was scanty; whereas Mrs. Waule's mind was entirely flooded with the sense of being an own sister and getting little, while somebody else was to have much. The general expectation now was that the "much" would fall to Fred Vincy, but the Vincys themselves were surprised when ten thousand pounds in specified investments were declared to be bequeathed to him:--was the land coming too? Fred bit his lips: it was difficult to help smiling, and Mrs. Vincy felt herself the happiest of women--possible revocation shrinking out of sight in this dazzling vision. There was still a residue of personal property as well as the land, but the whole was left to one person, and that person was--O possibilities! O expectations founded on the favor of "close" old gentlemen! O endless vocatives that would still leave expression slipping helpless from the measurement of mortal folly!--that residuary legatee was Joshua Rigg, who was also sole executor, and who was to take thenceforth the name of Featherstone. There was a rustling which seemed like a shudder running round the room. Every one stared afresh at Mr. Rigg, who apparently experienced no surprise. "A most singular testamentary disposition!" exclaimed Mr. Trumbull, preferring for once that he should be considered ignorant in the past. "But there is a second will--there is a further document. We have not yet heard the final wishes of the deceased." Mary Garth was feeling that what they had yet to hear were not the final wishes. The second will revoked everything except the legacies to the low persons before mentioned (some alterations in these being the occasion of the codicil), and the bequest of all the land lying in Lowick parish with all the stock and household furniture, to Joshua Rigg. The residue of the property was to be devoted to the erection and endowment of almshouses for old men, to be called Featherstone's Alms-Houses, and to be built on a piece of land near Middlemarch already bought for the purpose by the testator, he wishing--so the document declared--to please God Almighty. Nobody present had a farthing; but Mr. Trumbull had the gold-headed cane. It took some time for the company to recover the power of expression. Mary dared not look at Fred. Mr. Vincy was the first to speak--after using his snuff-box energetically--and he spoke with loud indignation. "The most unaccountable will I ever heard! I should say he was not in his right mind when he made it. I should say this last will was void," added Mr. Vincy, feeling that this expression put the thing in the true light. "Eh Standish?" "Our deceased friend always knew what he was about, I think," said Mr. Standish. "Everything is quite regular. Here is a letter from Clemmens of Brassing tied with the will. He drew it up. A very respectable solicitor." "I never noticed any alienation of mind--any aberration of intellect in the late Mr. Featherstone," said Borthrop Trumbull, "but I call this will eccentric. I was always willingly of service to the old soul; and he intimated pretty plainly a sense of obligation which would show itself in his will. The gold-headed cane is farcical considered as an acknowledgment to me; but happily I am above mercenary considerations." "There's nothing very surprising in the matter that I can see," said Caleb Garth. "Anybody might have had more reason for wondering if the will had been what you might expect from an open-minded straightforward man. For my part, I wish there was no such thing as a will." "That's a strange sentiment to come from a Christian man, by God!" said the lawyer. "I should like to know how you will back that up, Garth!" "Oh," said Caleb, leaning forward, adjusting his finger-tips with nicety and looking meditatively on the ground. It always seemed to him that words were the hardest part of "business." But here Mr. Jonah Featherstone made himself heard. "Well, he always was a fine hypocrite, was my brother Peter. But this will cuts out everything. If I'd known, a wagon and six horses shouldn't have drawn me from Brassing. I'll put a white hat and drab coat on to-morrow." "Dear, dear," wept Mrs. Cranch, "and we've been at the expense of travelling, and that poor lad sitting idle here so long! It's the first time I ever heard my brother Peter was so wishful to please God Almighty; but if I was to be struck helpless I must say it's hard--I can think no other." "It'll do him no good where he's gone, that's my belief," said Solomon, with a bitterness which was remarkably genuine, though his tone could not help being sly. "Peter was a bad liver, and almshouses won't cover it, when he's had the impudence to show it at the last." "And all the while had got his own lawful family--brothers and sisters and nephews and nieces--and has sat in church with 'em whenever he thought well to come," said Mrs. Waule. "And might have left his property so respectable, to them that's never been used to extravagance or unsteadiness in no manner of way--and not so poor but what they could have saved every penny and made more of it. And me--the trouble I've been at, times and times, to come here and be sisterly--and him with things on his mind all the while that might make anybody's flesh creep. But if the Almighty's allowed it, he means to punish him for it. Brother Solomon, I shall be going, if you'll drive me." "I've no desire to put my foot on the premises again," said Solomon. "I've got land of my own and property of my own to will away." "It's a poor tale how luck goes in the world," said Jonah. "It never answers to have a bit of spirit in you. You'd better be a dog in the manger. But those above ground might learn a lesson. One fool's will is enough in a family." "There's more ways than one of being a fool," said Solomon. "I shan't leave my money to be poured down the sink, and I shan't leave it to foundlings from Africay. I like Featherstones that were brewed such, and not turned Featherstones with sticking the name on 'em." Solomon addressed these remarks in a loud aside to Mrs. Waule as he rose to accompany her. Brother Jonah felt himself capable of much more stinging wit than this, but he reflected that there was no use in offending the new proprietor of Stone Court, until you were certain that he was quite without intentions of hospitality towards witty men whose name he was about to bear. Mr. Joshua Rigg, in fact, appeared to trouble himself little about any innuendoes, but showed a notable change of manner, walking coolly up to Mr. Standish and putting business questions with much coolness. He had a high chirping voice and a vile accent. Fred, whom he no longer moved to laughter, thought him the lowest monster he had ever seen. But Fred was feeling rather sick. The Middlemarch mercer waited for an opportunity of engaging Mr. Rigg in conversation: there was no knowing how many pairs of legs the new proprietor might require hose for, and profits were more to be relied on than legacies. Also, the mercer, as a second cousin, was dispassionate enough to feel curiosity. Mr. Vincy, after his one outburst, had remained proudly silent, though too much preoccupied with unpleasant feelings to think of moving, till he observed that his wife had gone to Fred's side and was crying silently while she held her darling's hand. He rose immediately, and turning his back on the company while he said to her in an undertone,--"Don't give way, Lucy; don't make a fool of yourself, my dear, before these people," he added in his usual loud voice--"Go and order the phaeton, Fred; I have no time to waste." Mary Garth had before this been getting ready to go home with her father. She met Fred in the hall, and now for the first time had the courage to look at him. He had that withered sort of paleness which will sometimes come on young faces, and his hand was very cold when she shook it. Mary too was agitated; she was conscious that fatally, without will of her own, she had perhaps made a great difference to Fred's lot. "Good-by," she said, with affectionate sadness. "Be brave, Fred. I do believe you are better without the money. What was the good of it to Mr. Featherstone?" "That's all very fine," said Fred, pettishly. "What is a fellow to do? I must go into the Church now." (He knew that this would vex Mary: very well; then she must tell him what else he could do.) "And I thought I should be able to pay your father at once and make everything right. And you have not even a hundred pounds left you. What shall you do now, Mary?" "Take another situation, of course, as soon as I can get one. My father has enough to do to keep the rest, without me. Good-by." In a very short time Stone Court was cleared of well-brewed Featherstones and other long-accustomed visitors. Another stranger had been brought to settle in the neighborhood of Middlemarch, but in the case of Mr. Rigg Featherstone there was more discontent with immediate visible consequences than speculation as to the effect which his presence might have in the future. No soul was prophetic enough to have any foreboding as to what might appear on the trial of Joshua Rigg. And here I am naturally led to reflect on the means of elevating a low subject. Historical parallels are remarkably efficient in this way. The chief objection to them is, that the diligent narrator may lack space, or (what is often the same thing) may not be able to think of them with any degree of particularity, though he may have a philosophical confidence that if known they would be illustrative. It seems an easier and shorter way to dignity, to observe that--since there never was a true story which could not be told in parables, where you might put a monkey for a margrave, and vice versa--whatever has been or is to be narrated by me about low people, may be ennobled by being considered a parable; so that if any bad habits and ugly consequences are brought into view, the reader may have the relief of regarding them as not more than figuratively ungenteel, and may feel himself virtually in company with persons of some style. Thus while I tell the truth about loobies, my reader's imagination need not be entirely excluded from an occupation with lords; and the petty sums which any bankrupt of high standing would be sorry to retire upon, may be lifted to the level of high commercial transactions by the inexpensive addition of proportional ciphers. As to any provincial history in which the agents are all of high moral rank, that must be of a date long posterior to the first Reform Bill, and Peter Featherstone, you perceive, was dead and buried some months before Lord Grey came into office. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Bei den Vinzys bemerkt Rosamond, dass Lydgates Praxis wächst, und er sagt, dass er es lieber mag, die Armen zu behandeln, weil ihre Fälle herausfordernder sind. Das Gerücht über ihre Flirts verbreitet sich, und Tante Bulstrode mischt sich ein und sagt Lydgate, dass er, wenn er es nicht ernst meint, den anderen Verehrern aus dem Weg gehen sollte. Lydgate ist genervt und meidet die Vinzys. Rosamond, die glaubt, dass sie verliebt ist, ist entsetzt über Lydgates Abwesenheit. Als er jedoch wegen einer Kleinigkeit vorbeikommt, zeigt Rosamond in einem unbedachten Moment der Natürlichkeit Tränen über seine Vernachlässigung, und er, impulsiv und warmherzig, umarmt sie, um sie zu trösten. In einer halben Stunde verlässt er ein verlobter Mann "dessen Seele nicht ihm gehört, sondern der Frau, an die er sich gebunden hat". In der Zwischenzeit ist Featherstone dem Tod nahe und die Verwandten versammeln sich wie Geier um ihn herum. Der alte Mann verachtet sie und weigert sich, sie zu sehen. Er toleriert nur Fred, Mrs. Vincy und Mary Garth, die ihn pflegt. Mary ist ein starkes, eigenständiges Mädchen von Verstand, das von den Ironien des Lebens amüsiert ist. "Die Leute waren so lächerlich mit ihren Illusionen." Sie denkt, dass die Vinzys von Featherstones Testament überrascht sein könnten. In der Mitte der Nacht, als Featherstone im Sterben liegt, bittet er Mary, ihm seine Kiste mit den Testamenten zu holen. Es gibt zwei Testamente und er möchte eines davon in letzter Minute zerstören. Sie weigert sich, sich einzumischen, weil sie weiß, dass sie für das Ergebnis verantwortlich gemacht würde. Sie bittet darum, jemand anderen oder einen Anwalt anzurufen. Featherstone weiß, dass es dafür zu spät ist, und versucht, sie mit 200 Pfund zu bestechen, eine Summe, die ihre Familie aus ihren Schwierigkeiten befreien würde. Aber sie ist unerbittlich. Sie stellt fest, dass Featherstone trotz all seines Geldes in diesem Moment hilflos und allein ist. Er stirbt, ohne das Testament zu ändern. Die Casaubons, Brookes und Cadwalladers beobachten die Featherstone-Beerdigung vom Lowick-Herrenhaus aus und kommentieren sie. Dorothea bemerkt, dass wir unsere Nachbarn nie wirklich kennen und dass es sehr traurig ist, die Welt ohne Liebe zu verlassen. Plötzlich wird Will Ladislaw bei der Trauerprozession entdeckt und sowohl Dorothea als auch Casaubon sind schockiert, aber sie wollen nicht darüber sprechen. Mr. Brooke sagt, er habe ihn eingeladen, aber es klingt so, als hätte er es auf Dorotheas Bitte hin getan. Bei der Testamentseröffnung stellt sich heraus, dass ein unbekannter "froschgesichtiger Mann" der Überraschungserbe ist. Sein Name ist Mr. Riggs. Im neueren Testament, dem, das Featherstone zu verbrennen versuchte, geht das Geld an wohltätige Zwecke und das Anwesen an Mr. Riggs. Im alten Testament wurde das Geld Fred vermacht. Mary Garth tut Fred leid, aber sie weiß, dass sie das Richtige getan hat, indem sie sich nicht eingemischt hat.

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.

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 XXVII I A LETTER from Raymie Wutherspoon, in France, said that he had been sent to the front, been slightly wounded, been made a captain. From Vida's pride Carol sought to draw a stimulant to rouse her from depression. Miles had sold his dairy. He had several thousand dollars. To Carol he said good-by with a mumbled word, a harsh hand-shake, "Going to buy a farm in northern Alberta--far off from folks as I can get." He turned sharply away, but he did not walk with his former spring. His shoulders seemed old. It was said that before he went he cursed the town. There was talk of arresting him, of riding him on a rail. It was rumored that at the station old Champ Perry rebuked him, "You better not come back here. We've got respect for your dead, but we haven't got any for a blasphemer and a traitor that won't do anything for his country and only bought one Liberty Bond." Some of the people who had been at the station declared that Miles made some dreadful seditious retort: something about loving German workmen more than American bankers; but others asserted that he couldn't find one word with which to answer the veteran; that he merely sneaked up on the platform of the train. He must have felt guilty, everybody agreed, for as the train left town, a farmer saw him standing in the vestibule and looking out. His house--with the addition which he had built four months ago--was very near the track on which his train passed. When Carol went there, for the last time, she found Olaf's chariot with its red spool wheels standing in the sunny corner beside the stable. She wondered if a quick eye could have noticed it from a train. That day and that week she went reluctantly to Red Cross work; she stitched and packed silently, while Vida read the war bulletins. And she said nothing at all when Kennicott commented, "From what Champ says, I guess Bjornstam was a bad egg, after all. In spite of Bea, don't know but what the citizens' committee ought to have forced him to be patriotic--let on like they could send him to jail if he didn't volunteer and come through for bonds and the Y. M. C. A. They've worked that stunt fine with all these German farmers." II She found no inspiration but she did find a dependable kindness in Mrs. Westlake, and at last she yielded to the old woman's receptivity and had relief in sobbing the story of Bea. Guy Pollock she often met on the street, but he was merely a pleasant voice which said things about Charles Lamb and sunsets. Her most positive experience was the revelation of Mrs. Flickerbaugh, the tall, thin, twitchy wife of the attorney. Carol encountered her at the drug store. "Walking?" snapped Mrs. Flickerbaugh. "Why, yes." "Humph. Guess you're the only female in this town that retains the use of her legs. Come home and have a cup o' tea with me." Because she had nothing else to do, Carol went. But she was uncomfortable in the presence of the amused stares which Mrs. Flickerbaugh's raiment drew. Today, in reeking early August, she wore a man's cap, a skinny fur like a dead cat, a necklace of imitation pearls, a scabrous satin blouse, and a thick cloth skirt hiked up in front. "Come in. Sit down. Stick the baby in that rocker. Hope you don't mind the house looking like a rat's nest. You don't like this town. Neither do I," said Mrs. Flickerbaugh. "Why----" "Course you don't!" "Well then, I don't! But I'm sure that some day I'll find some solution. Probably I'm a hexagonal peg. Solution: find the hexagonal hole." Carol was very brisk. "How do you know you ever will find it?" "There's Mrs. Westlake. She's naturally a big-city woman--she ought to have a lovely old house in Philadelphia or Boston--but she escapes by being absorbed in reading." "You be satisfied to never do anything but read?" "No, but Heavens, one can't go on hating a town always!" "Why not? I can! I've hated it for thirty-two years. I'll die here--and I'll hate it till I die. I ought to have been a business woman. I had a good deal of talent for tending to figures. All gone now. Some folks think I'm crazy. Guess I am. Sit and grouch. Go to church and sing hymns. Folks think I'm religious. Tut! Trying to forget washing and ironing and mending socks. Want an office of my own, and sell things. Julius never hear of it. Too late." Carol sat on the gritty couch, and sank into fear. Could this drabness of life keep up forever, then? Would she some day so despise herself and her neighbors that she too would walk Main Street an old skinny eccentric woman in a mangy cat's-fur? As she crept home she felt that the trap had finally closed. She went into the house, a frail small woman, still winsome but hopeless of eye as she staggered with the weight of the drowsy boy in her arms. She sat alone on the porch, that evening. It seemed that Kennicott had to make a professional call on Mrs. Dave Dyer. Under the stilly boughs and the black gauze of dusk the street was meshed in silence. There was but the hum of motor tires crunching the road, the creak of a rocker on the Howlands' porch, the slap of a hand attacking a mosquito, a heat-weary conversation starting and dying, the precise rhythm of crickets, the thud of moths against the screen--sounds that were a distilled silence. It was a street beyond the end of the world, beyond the boundaries of hope. Though she should sit here forever, no brave procession, no one who was interesting, would be coming by. It was tediousness made tangible, a street builded of lassitude and of futility. Myrtle Cass appeared, with Cy Bogart. She giggled and bounced when Cy tickled her ear in village love. They strolled with the half-dancing gait of lovers, kicking their feet out sideways or shuffling a dragging jig, and the concrete walk sounded to the broken two-four rhythm. Their voices had a dusky turbulence. Suddenly, to the woman rocking on the porch of the doctor's house, the night came alive, and she felt that everywhere in the darkness panted an ardent quest which she was missing as she sank back to wait for----There must be something. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

Raymie Wutherspoon wird zum Rang eines Hauptmanns befördert. Bjornstam verkauft seine Farm und verlässt Gopher Prairie, um sich in North Alberta niederzulassen. Viele Leute sind der Meinung, dass Bjornstam ins Gefängnis geschickt werden sollte. Selbst Kennicott glaubt, dass Bjornstam schlecht war. Frau Westlake spricht süß und Carol erzählt der alten Matrone Bea's Geschichte. Eines Tages lädt Frau Flickerbaugh sie zum Tee ein. Carol hört überrascht zu, wie sehr die Frau des Anwalts die Stadt hasst. Sie wollte Geschäftsfrau sein, aber ihr Ehemann erlaubte es ihr nicht, ihr eigenes Geschäft zu gründen. Deshalb wurde Frau Flickerbaugh eigenwillig und das erschreckt Carol, weil sie fürchtet, dasselbe Schicksal zu erleiden. Sie sitzt alleine auf der Veranda, weil Kennicott zu einem beruflichen Besuch bei Maud Dyer gegangen ist. Sie beobachtet, wie Cy Bogart und Myrtle Cass Hand in Hand die Straße entlang gehen. Sie hat das Gefühl, dass um sie herum etwas Glühendes geschieht, das sie nicht sehen kann.

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.

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: Was ich beabsichtige aufzuzeichnen, ist fast fertig; aber eine Begebenheit, die in meiner Erinnerung auffallend ist, bleibt mir immer im Gedächtnis und ohne die dieser Teil meines Gesponnenen einen verstrickten Endfaden hätte. Ich hatte mich in Ruhm und Reichtum gesteigert, mein häusliches Glück war perfekt, ich war seit zehn glücklichen Jahren verheiratet. Agnes und ich saßen in einer Nacht im Frühling am Feuer in unserem Haus in London, und drei unserer Kinder spielten im Raum, als man mir mitteilte, dass ein Fremder mich sehen wolle. Man hatte ihn gefragt, ob er geschäftlich gekommen sei, und er hatte mit Nein geantwortet; er sei gekommen, um mich zu sehen, und er sei eine weite Strecke gereist. Er sei ein alter Mann, sagte mein Diener, und sehe wie ein Bauer aus. Da dies für die Kinder mysteriös klang und außerdem wie der Beginn einer beliebten Geschichte war, die Agnes ihnen oft erzählte, als Einführung zur Ankunft einer bösen alten Fee in einem Umhang, die jeden hasste, verursachte dies einige Aufregung. Einer unserer Jungen legte seinen Kopf in den Schoß seiner Mutter, um außer Gefahr zu sein, und die kleine Agnes (unser ältestes Kind) ließ ihre Puppe auf einem Stuhl zurück, um sie zu repräsentieren, und streckte ihre kleinen Haare aus goldenen Locken zwischen den Vorhängen hindurch, um zu sehen, was als nächstes passierte. "Lasst ihn herein!", sagte ich. Es erschien bald ein kräftiger, grauhaariger alter Mann, der innehielt, als er eintrat, und in der dunklen Tür stand. Die kleine Agnes, von seinem Aussehen angezogen, war zu ihm gelaufen, um ihn hereinzubringen, und ich hatte sein Gesicht noch nicht deutlich gesehen, als meine Frau aufstand und mir mit einer erfreuten und aufgeregten Stimme zurief, dass es Mr. Peggotty sei! Es war Mr. Peggotty. Ein alter Mann nun, aber in einem rotwangigen, kräftigen, starken Alter. Als unsere erste Emotion vorbei war und er vor dem Feuer mit den Kindern auf seinen Knien saß und der Schein auf sein Gesicht fiel, sah er für mich so vital und kräftig aus, und zudem so gutaussehend, wie ich es je gesehen hatte. "Mas'r Davy", sagte er. Und der alte Name mit dem alten Klang fiel mir so natürlich ins Ohr! "Mas'r Davy, es ist eine freudige Stunde, dich noch einmal und zusammen mit deiner eigenen treuen Ehefrau zu sehen!" "Tatsächlich eine freudige Stunde, alter Freund!", rief ich aus. "Und diese hübschen Kleinen hier", sagte Mr. Peggotty. "Schaut euch diese hübschen Blumen an! Mas'r Davy, du warst nicht größer als die kleinste von ihnen, als ich dich zum ersten Mal gesehen habe! Als Em'ly nicht größer war und unser armer Junge noch ein Junge war!" "Die Zeit hat mich mehr verändert als dich seitdem", sagte ich. "Aber lasst diese lieben Schlingel ins Bett gehen; und da kein Haus in England außer diesem euch beherbergen kann, sagt mir, wohin ich euer Gepäck senden soll (ist die alte schwarze Tasche dabei, die so weit gegangen ist, frage ich mich!), und dann werden wir bei einem Glas Yarmouth-Grog die Neuigkeiten der letzten zehn Jahre hören!" "Seid ihr alleine?", fragte Agnes. "Ja, gnädige Frau", sagte er und küsste ihre Hand, "ganz alleine." Wir setzten ihn zwischen uns, ohne zu wissen, wie wir ihn gebührend willkommen heißen sollten, und während ich begann, seine alte vertraute Stimme zu hören, hätte ich mir vorstellen können, dass er noch immer seine lange Reise auf der Suche nach seiner geliebten Nichte fortsetzte. "Es ist eine Menge Wasser", sagte Mr. Peggotty, "um das zu überqueren, und nur für etwa vier Wochen zu bleiben. Aber Wasser (besonders wenn es salzig ist) liegt mir im Blut; und Freunde sind teuer, und ich bin hier. -Das ist ein Vers", sagte Mr. Peggotty, überrascht, dass er es herausgefunden hatte, "obwohl ich das gar nicht beabsichtigt hatte." "Geht ihr schon so bald all diese tausend Meilen zurück?", fragte Agnes. "Ja, gnädige Frau", antwortete er. "Ich habe Em'ly das versprochen, bevor ich wegging. Seht ihr, ich werde nicht jünger, wenn die Jahre vergehen, und wenn ich nicht so gesegelt wäre, wäre ich wahrscheinlich nie gegangen. Und es ist mir immer im Kopf herumgegangen, dass ich kommen und Mas'r Davy und dich in deinem verheirateten Glück sehen muss, bevor ich zu alt werde." Er betrachtete uns, als ob er seine Augen nicht genug an uns sättigen könnte. Agnes setzte einige verstreute Strähnen seines grauen Haares lachend zurück, damit er uns besser sehen konnte. "Und erzählt uns nun", sagte ich, "alles, was euer Schicksal betrifft." "Unser Schicksal, Mas'r Davy", erwiderte er, "ist schnell erzählt. Uns ging es immer gut. Wir sind immer gediehen. Wir haben unsere Arbeit getan, wie es sich gehört, und vielleicht haben wir am Anfang etwas hart gelebt, aber wir haben immer Erfolg gehabt. Mit der Schafzucht und der Viehzucht und mit dies und jenem sind wir recht wohlhabend. Da hat eine Art Segen auf uns gelastet", sagte Mr. Peggotty, sein Haupt ehrfürchtig geneigt, "und wir haben nichts als Erfolg gehabt. Das ist langfristig gesehen so. Wenn nicht gestern, dann heute. Wenn nicht heute, dann morgen." "Und Emily?", fragten Agnes und ich gleichzeitig. "Em'ly", sagte er, "nachdem ihr gegangen wart, Ma'am - und ich habe sie nie ihre Gebete vor dem Leinwandtrennvorhang sagen hören, als wir uns im Busch niedergelassen hatten, ohne dass ich deinen Namen gehört hätte - und nachdem sie und ich Mas'r Davy aus den Augen verloren hatten, dieses schimmernde Abendrot da draußen - war sie zunächst sehr niedergeschlagen darüber, wenn sie gewusst hätte, was Mas'r Davy uns so freundlich und fürsorglich verschwiegen hat, ist meine Meinung, dass sie dahingeschwunden wäre. Aber es waren einige arme Leute an Bord, die krank waren, und sie hat sich um sie gekümmert; und es waren Kinder in unserer Gesellschaft, um die sie sich gekümmert hat; und so war sie beschäftigt und hat Gutes getan, und das hat ihr geholfen." "Wann hat sie zum ersten Mal davon erfahren?", fragte ich. "Ich habe es ihr fast ein Jahr lang verheimlicht", sagte Mr. Peggotty, "seitdem ich davon erfahren habe. Wir lebten damals an einem einsamen Ort, aber unter den schönsten Bäumen und mit Rosen, die über unser Dach wuchsen. Eines Tages kam ein Reisender aus unserem eigenen Norfolk oder Suffolk in England (ich erinnere mich nicht genau), und natürlich haben wir ihn aufgenommen und ihm zu essen und zu trinken gegeben und ihn willkommen geheißen. Das machen wir alle, in der ganzen Kolonie. Er hatte eine alte Zeitung dabei und eine andere druckbare Nachricht über den Sturm. So hat sie es erfahren. Als ich abends nach Hause kam, stellte ich fest, dass sie es wusste." Er senkte seine Stimme, als er diese Worte sagte, und die Ernsthaftigkeit, die ich so gut in Erinnerung hatte, breitete sich über sein Gesicht aus. "Hat es sie sehr verändert?", fragten wir. "Ja, für eine lange Zeit", sagte er und schüttelte den Kopf, "wenn nicht bis zum heutigen Tag. Aber ich denke, die Einsamkeit hat ihr gutgetan. Und sie hatte Er strich sich über das Gesicht und sah mit einem halb unterdrückten Seufzer vom Feuer auf. "Ist Martha schon bei dir?", fragte ich. "Martha", antwortete er, "hat im zweiten Jahr geheiratet, Mas'r Davy. Ein junger Mann, ein Bauernarbeiter, der mit den Fuhrwerken seines Herrn auf dem Weg zum Markt zu uns kam - eine Reise von über fünfhundert Meilen, hin und zurück - bot an, sie zur Frau zu nehmen (Frauen sind dort sehr selten) und sich dann mit ihr im Busch niederzulassen. Sie bat mich, ihm ihre wahre Geschichte zu erzählen. Das tat ich. Sie heirateten und leben jetzt vierhundert Meilen entfernt von jeder Stimme außer ihrer eigenen und den singenden Vögeln." "Mrs. Gummidge?", schlug ich vor. Das war ein angenehmer Gedanke, denn Mr. Peggotty brach plötzlich in schallendes Gelächter aus und rieb sich die Hände an seinen Beinen, wie er es gewohnt war, wenn er sich auf dem lange in Seenot geratenen Boot amüsierte. "Glaubst du das!", sagte er. "Jemand hat sogar angeboten, sie zu heiraten! Wenn ein Schiffs Koch, der sich als Siedler niederließ, nicht um Missis Gummidge angehalten hat, bin ich gormiert - und fairer kann ich mich nicht ausdrücken!" Agnes hat noch nie so gelacht. Diese plötzliche Ekstase von Mr. Peggotty erfreute sie so sehr, dass sie nicht aufhören konnte zu lachen. Und je mehr sie lachte, desto mehr brach Mr. Peggottys Ekstase aus, und desto mehr rieb er seine Beine. "Und was hat Mrs. Gummidge gesagt?", fragte ich, als ich ernst genug war. "Wenn du mir glaubst", antwortete Mr. Peggotty, "Missis Gummidge hat, anstatt 'Danke, ich bin Ihnen sehr verbunden, aber ich werde meine Situation in meinem Alter nicht ändern' zu sagen, einen Eimer genommen, der dort stand, und ihn über den Kopf des Schiffskochs gestülpt, bis er um Hilfe schrie, und ich bin reingegangen und habe ihn gerettet." Mr. Peggotty brach in schallendes Gelächter aus, und Agnes und ich lachten mit. "Aber ich muss das zu der guten Seele sagen", fuhr er fort und wischte sich das Gesicht ab, "sie ist all das gewesen, was sie uns versprochen hat, und noch mehr. Sie ist die gewillteste, die treueste, die ehrlichste und hilfsbereiteste Frau, Mas'r Davy, die je den Atem des Lebens gezogen hat. Ich habe sie nie einsam und verlassen gekannt, nicht einmal als die Kolonie noch vor uns lag und wir neu darin waren. Und an die alte hat sie nie gedacht, das versichere ich dir, seit sie England verlassen hat!" "Nun, zu guter Letzt, Mr. Micawber", sagte ich. "Er hat alle seine Verpflichtungen hier beglichen - sogar Traddles' Rechnung, erinnerst du dich, meine liebe Agnes -, daher können wir annehmen, dass es ihm gut geht. Aber was ist die neueste Nachricht von ihm?" Mr. Peggotty lächelte und legte seine Hand in seine Brusttasche. Er holte ein flach zusammengefaltetes Zeitungspäckchen heraus, aus dem er mit großer Sorgfalt eine merkwürdig aussehende Zeitung nahm. "Du musst wissen, Mas'r Davy", sagte er, "nachdem wir den Busch jetzt verlassen haben und es so gut geht, sind wir einmal um die Port Middlebay Bay herumgefahren, wo es das gibt, was wir eine Stadt nennen." "Mr. Micawber war also in der Nähe des Buschs bei dir?", sagte ich. "Segne dich, ja", sagte Mr. Peggotty, "und hat kräftig mitgeholfen. Ich wünsche mir keinen besseren Herrn, wenn es darum geht, mit anzupacken. Ich habe Mr. Micawbers kahles Haupt in der Sonne schwitzen sehen, Mas'r Davy, bis ich dachte, es würde davon schmelzen. Und jetzt ist er ein Richter." "Ein Richter, ah?", sagte ich. Mr. Peggotty deutete auf einen bestimmten Absatz in der Zeitung, wo ich folgendes laut las, aus dem Port Middlebay Times: "Das öffentliche Abendessen für unseren herausragenden Mitkolonisten und Mitbürger, WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, Bezirksrichter von Port Middlebay, fand gestern im großen Raum des Hotels statt, der bis zur Erstickung gefüllt war. Es wird geschätzt, dass zur gleichen Zeit mindestens siebenundvierzig Personen zum Abendessen Platz gefunden haben, abgesehen von den Gästen im Flur und auf der Treppe. Die Schönheit, Mode und Exklusivität von Port Middlebay strömte herbei, um einem so verdient geschätzten, hochbegabten und weit verbreiteten Mann die Ehre zu erweisen. Doktor Mell (von der Colonial Salem-House Grammar School, Port Middlebay) leitete die Veranstaltung, und zu seiner Rechten saß der prominente Gast. Nach dem Abtragen des Tischzeugs und dem Singen von Non Nobis (wunderbar ausgeführt und in dem wir keine Schwierigkeiten hatten, die glockenähnlichen Töne des begabten Amateurs WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, JUNIOR, herauszuhören), wurden die üblichenloyalen und patriotischen Toasts aufgebracht und mit Begeisterung aufgenommen. Doktor Mell schlug in einer Rede voller Gefühl "Unseren herausragenden Gast, die Zierde unserer Stadt, vor. Möge er uns niemals verlassen, außer um es sich selbst noch besser zu machen, und möge sein Erfolg unter uns ihn dazu bringen, sich selbst zu verbessern!" Der Beifall, mit dem der Toast aufgenommen wurde, lässt sich nicht in Worte fassen. Wieder und wieder stieg er an und fiel ab, wie die Wellen des Meeres. Schließlich herrschte Stille, und WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, stellte sich vor, um seinen Dank auszusprechen. Es sei uns fern, in dem gegenwärtig vergleichsweise unvollkommenen Zustand unserer Einrichtung zu versuchen, unserem herausragenden Mitbürger in den fließenden Abschnitten seiner geschliffen und hochgeschmückten Rede zu folgen! Es genügt anzumerken, dass es ein Meisterwerk der Eloquenz war, und dass die Passagen, in denen er besonders seine eigene erfolgreiche Karriere bis zu ihrer Quelle zurückverfolgte und den jüngeren Teil seines Publikums vor den Gefahren unüberwindlicher finanzieller Verbindlichkeiten warnte, die sie nicht begleichen konnten, Tränen in jedes männliche Auge brachten. Die verbleibenden Toasts waren für DOKTOR MELL; Mrs. MICAWBER (die ihre Anerkennung von der Seitentür aus anmutig verbeugte, wo eine Galaxie von Schönheiten auf Stühlen erhöht wurde, um die erfreuliche Szene zu bezeugen und zu schmücken), Mrs. RIDGER BEGS (ehemals Miss Micawber); Mrs. MELL; WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, JUNIOR (der die Versammlung zum Lachen brachte, indem er humorvoll bemerkte, dass er sich nicht in einer Rede bedanken könne, sondern dies mit ihrer Erlaubnis in einem Lied tun würde); MRS. MICAWBERS FAMILY (allgemein bekannt, wie nicht zu erwähnen ist, im Mutterland) usw. Am Ende der Veranstaltung wurden die Tische wie von Zauberei für das Tanzen abgeräumt. Unter den Anhängern der TANZGÖTTIN, die sich vergnügten, bis die Sonne zur Abreise mahnte, waren besonders bemerkenswert Wilkins Micawber, Esquire, Junior, und die bezaubernde und talentierte Miss Helena, vierte Tochter von Doktor Mell." Ich sah zurück zum Namen von Doktor Mell und war erfreut, in diesen glücklicheren Umständen Mr. Mell, ehemals der arme Usher me Mach weiter, mein lieber Herr! Du bist hier nicht unbekannt, du wirst nicht ungeschätzt. Obwohl wir "abgelegen" sind, sind wir weder "unfreundlich", "melancholisch" noch (möchte ich hinzufügen) "langsam". Mach weiter, mein lieber Herr, auf deinem Adler-Kurs! Die Bewohner von Port Middlebay können zumindest darauf hoffen, es mit Freude, Unterhaltung und Bildung zu beobachten! 'Unter den Blicken, die von diesem Teil der Erde zu Ihnen aufsteigen, wird immer zu finden sein, solange es Licht und Leben gibt, 'Das 'Auge 'Zugehört zu 'WILKINS MICAWBER, 'Magistrat.' Beim Überfliegen des restlichen Inhalts der Zeitung stellte ich fest, dass Herr Micawber ein fleißiger und geschätzter Korrespondent dieser Zeitung war. Es gab noch einen weiteren Brief von ihm in derselben Zeitung, der eine Brücke betraf; es gab eine Anzeige über eine Sammlung ähnlicher Briefe von ihm, die in Kürze in einem ordentlichen Band "mit erheblichen Ergänzungen" neu aufgelegt werden sollten; und wenn ich mich nicht sehr irre, war auch der Leitartikel von ihm. Wir sprachen an vielen anderen Abenden viel über Herrn Micawber, während Mr. Peggotty bei uns blieb. Er lebte während seines gesamten Aufenthalts bei uns - der meiner Meinung nach etwas weniger als einen Monat dauerte - bei uns, und seine Schwester und meine Tante kamen nach London, um ihn zu sehen. Agnes und ich verabschiedeten uns von ihm an Bord des Schiffes, als er abfuhr; und auf dieser Erde werden wir uns nie mehr von ihm trennen. Aber bevor er ging, ging er mit mir nach Yarmouth, um eine kleine Tafel anzusehen, die ich auf dem Friedhof zum Gedenken an Ham aufgestellt hatte. Während ich ihm auf seine Bitte hin die einfache Inschrift abschrieb, sah ich, wie er sich bückte und eine Büschel Gras von dem Grab und etwas Erde aufnahm. 'Für Em'ly', sagte er, als er es sich an seine Brust steckte. 'Ich habe es versprochen, Mas'r Davy.' Und nun endet meine schriftliche Geschichte. Ich blicke noch einmal zurück - zum letzten Mal - bevor ich diese Seiten schließe. Ich sehe mich selbst, mit Agnes an meiner Seite, auf dem Lebensweg reisen. Ich sehe unsere Kinder und unsere Freunde um uns herum; und ich höre das Rauschen vieler Stimmen, die mir nicht gleichgültig sind, während ich weiterreise. Welche Gesichter sind mir in der flüchtigen Menge am deutlichsten? Sieh her, all diese, die sich mir zuwenden, während ich meine Gedanken danach frage! Hier ist meine Tante, mit stärkeren Brillen, eine alte Frau von mehr als achtzig Jahren, aber dennoch aufrecht und eine beharrliche Spaziergängerin von sechs Meilen bei winterlichem Wetter. Immer bei ihr kommt Peggotty, meine gute alte Kinderschwester, ebenfalls mit Brille, die es gewohnt ist, nachts ganz nah an der Lampe zu nähen, aber nie ohne ein Stück Wachskerze, ein Maßband in einem kleinen Haus und eine Nähkiste mit einem Bild von St. Paul's auf dem Deckel. Die Wangen und Arme von Peggotty, die in meiner Kindheit so hart und rot waren, als ich mich wunderte, warum die Vögel sie nicht statt der Äpfel pickten, sind jetzt schrumpelig; und ihre Augen, die früher ihr ganzes Gesicht durchdrangen, sind schwächer geworden (obwohl sie immer noch glitzern); aber ihr rauer Zeigefinger, den ich einst mit einer Taschenmuskatnussreibe in Verbindung gebracht habe, ist immer noch derselbe, und wenn ich mein jüngstes Kind dabei sehe, wie es danach greift, wenn es von meiner Tante zu ihr taumelt, denke ich an unser kleines Wohnzimmer zu Hause, als ich kaum gehen konnte. Die alte Enttäuschung meiner Tante wurde jetzt behoben. Sie ist Patentante einer echten lebenden Betsey Trotwood; und Dora (die Nächste in der Reihe) sagt, dass sie sie verwöhnt. In Peggottys Tasche befindet sich etwas Sperriges. Es ist nichts Geringeres als das Krokodil-Buch, das zu dieser Zeit schon ziemlich ramponiert ist, mit diversen Seiten, die zerrissen und quer übergebunden sind, aber das Peggotty den Kindern als wertvolles Relikt präsentiert. Ich finde es sehr seltsam, mein eigenes Kinderantlitz zu sehen, das mich aus den Krokodilgeschichten ansieht; und daran erinnere ich mich an meinen alten Bekannten Brooks aus Sheffield. Unter meinen Jungen sehe ich in dieser Sommerferienzeit einen alten Mann, der Riesendrachen baut und sie mit einem Entzücken betrachtet, für das es keine Worte gibt. Er begrüßt mich freudig und flüstert mit vielen Kopfnicken und Augenzwinkern: 'Trotwood, Sie werden sich freuen zu hören, dass ich das Memorial fertigstellen werde, wenn ich sonst nichts zu tun habe, und dass Ihre Tante die außergewöhnlichste Frau in der Welt ist, Sir!' Wer ist diese gebeugte Dame, die sich mit einem Stock abstützt und mir ein Gesicht zeigt, in dem einige Spuren alter Pracht und Schönheit schwach mit einem quengeligen, schwachsinnigen, unzufriedenen Geist kämpfen? Sie ist in einem Garten, und in ihrer Nähe steht eine scharfe, dunkle, vertrocknete Frau mit einer weißen Narbe auf der Lippe. Lass mich hören, was sie sagen. 'Rosa, ich habe den Namen dieses Herrn vergessen.' Rosa beugt sich über sie und ruft ihr zu: 'Mr. Copperfield.' 'Ich freue mich, Sie zu sehen, Sir. Es tut mir leid zu sehen, dass Sie trauern. Ich hoffe, die Zeit wird Ihnen gut sein.' Ihr ungeduldiger Begleiter schimpft mit ihr, sagt ihr, dass ich nicht in Trauer bin, bittet sie, noch einmal hinzusehen, versucht, sie aufzumuntern. 'Sie haben meinen Sohn gesehen, Sir', sagt die ältere Dame. 'Haben Sie sich versöhnt?' Sie schaut mich unverwandt an, legt ihre Hand an die Stirn und stöhnt. Plötzlich ruft sie mit schrecklicher Stimme: 'Rosa, komm zu mir. Er ist tot!' Rosa kniet vor ihr nieder, liebkost sie abwechselnd und streitet mit ihr; mal erklärt sie ihr wütend: 'Ich habe ihn mehr geliebt als du je getan hast!' - mal wiegt sie sie auf ihrem Schoß sanft in den Schlaf wie ein krankes Kind. So lasse ich sie zurück; so finde ich sie immer; so vergehen sie von Jahr zu Jahr ihre Zeit. Welches Schiff kehrt aus Indien zurück, und welche englische Dame ist diese, die mit einem knurrigen alten schottischen Croesus mit großen Ohren verheiratet ist? Kann das Julia Mills sein? Ja, es ist Julia Mills, mürrisch und vornehm, mit einem schwarzen Diener, der ihr Karten und Briefe auf einem goldenen Tablett bringt, und einer kirschroten Frau in Leinen, mit einem hellen Kopftuch, die ihr in ihrem Ankleidezimmer Tiffin serviert. Aber Julia führt in diesen Tagen kein Tagebuch mehr; sie singt niemals das Leichengeleit der Zuneigung; sie streitet sich unentwegt mit dem alten schottischen Croesus, der eine Art gelben Bären mit gegerbtem Fell ist. Julia ist bis zum Hals in Geld eingetaucht und spricht und denkt an nichts anderes. Ich mochte sie lieber in der Sahara. Oder vielleicht sind wir ja schon in der Sahara! Denn obwohl Julia ein prächtiges Haus, stattliche Gesellschaft und täglich üppige Mahlzeiten hat, sehe ich nichts Grünes um sie herum; nichts, was je Frucht oder Bl Lieber Copperfield, ich konnte wirklich alles, was mir am Herzen lag, erreichen. Reverend Horace wurde auf die Pfarrstelle mit jährlich 450 Pfund befördert. Unsere beiden Jungen erhalten die beste Bildung und zeichnen sich als fleißige Schüler und gute Kameraden aus. Drei der Mädchen sind sehr gut verheiratet. Drei weitere leben mit uns zusammen. Weitere drei führen den Haushalt für Reverend Horace seit dem Tod von Mrs. Crewler. Alle sind glücklich." "Außer..." werfe ich ein. "Außer der Beauty", sagt Traddles. "Ja. Es war sehr unglücklich, dass sie so einen Vagabunden geheiratet hat. Aber da war etwas an ihm, etwas Glänzendes, das sie angezogen hat. Aber jetzt haben wir sie sicher bei uns zu Hause und ihn losgeworden, wir müssen sie wieder aufmuntern." Traddles' Haus ist eines der Häuser, die er und Sophy bei ihren abendlichen Spaziergängen aufgeteilt haben, oder möglicherweise könnte es auch so gewesen sein. Es ist ein großes Haus; aber Traddles bewahrt seine Papiere in seinem Ankleidezimmer auf und seine Stiefel bei seinen Papieren. Er und Sophy quetschen sich in obere Zimmer und behalten die besten Schlafzimmer für die Beauty und die Mädchen. Es gibt keinen Platz im Haus; denn mehr von "den Mädchen" sind hier und sind immer hier, aus irgendeinem Zufall, den ich nicht zählen kann. Hier, wenn wir eintreten, ist eine Menge von ihnen, die zur Tür herunterrennen und Traddles herumreichen, um ihn zu küssen, bis er außer Atem ist. Hier, für immer etabliert, ist die arme Beauty, eine Witwe mit einem kleinen Mädchen; hier, beim Abendessen an Sophys Geburtstag, sind die drei verheirateten Mädchen mit ihren drei Ehemännern und einem Bruder des Ehemanns und einer Cousine des Ehemanns, und eine Schwester des Ehemanns, die mir scheint, mit dem Cousin verlobt zu sein. Traddles, genau der gleiche einfache, unverstellte Kerl wie eh und je, sitzt am Fuße des großen Tisches wie ein Patriarch, und Sophy strahlt ihn an, von oben herab über einen fröhlichen Raum, der sicherlich nicht mit Britannia-Metall glänzt. Und jetzt, während ich meine Aufgabe beende und meinen Wunsch, noch länger zu verweilen, unterdrücke, verblassen diese Gesichter. Aber ein Gesicht, das auf mich strahlt wie ein himmlisches Licht, durch das ich alle anderen Objekte sehe, steht über ihnen und ist jenseits von ihnen allen. Und das bleibt. Ich drehe meinen Kopf und sehe es, in seiner wunderschönen Gelassenheit, neben mir. Meine Lampe brennt schwach, und ich habe bis tief in die Nacht geschrieben; aber die liebevolle Präsenz, ohne die ich nichts wäre, ist an meiner Seite. O Agnes, O meine Seele, möge dein Gesicht tatsächlich bei mir sein, wenn ich mein Leben schließe. Möge ich, wenn die Realitäten von mir weichen wie die Schatten, die ich jetzt wegschicke, dich immer noch nahe bei mir finden, nach oben zeigend! Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Abschnitte schreiben?

David und Agnes sind seit zehn Jahren verheiratet, als eines Nachts ein alter Mann sie besucht. Es ist Mr. Peggotty, der nun für einen kurzen Besuch nach England zurückgekehrt ist. Er erzählt David, wie seine kleine Gruppe von Auswanderern in Australien durch die Viehzucht erfolgreich geworden ist. Em'ly hatte viele Chancen zu heiraten, aber sie hat sie alle abgelehnt und ist zufrieden, bei ihrem Onkel zu bleiben. Martha Endell ist verheiratet, und selbst Mrs. Gummidge hätte heiraten können, aber sie hat ihren Verehrer recht bestimmt abgelehnt, indem sie ihn mit einem Eimer schlug. Mr. Micawber ist ein angesehener Bezirksrichter geworden, und David liest einen Zeitungsbericht über ein ihm zu Ehren veranstaltetes Abendessen, bei dem der Vortragende niemand anderer als Doktor Mell, Davids früherer Lehrer, war. Mr. Peggotty bleibt fast einen Monat lang bei David und bevor er geht, besucht er Hams Grab. Er bittet David, die schlichte Inschrift auf der Tafel abzuschreiben, und dann sammelt er eine Büschel Gras vom Grab und etwas Erde, "für Em'ly". David blickt auf sein Leben zurück und erzählt dem Leser von seinen alten Freunden - fast wie ein Theateraufruf. Tante Betsey ist älter geworden, aber unverändert, und wird von Peggotty versorgt. Mr. Dick schreibt weiterhin und lässt seine Drachen steigen. Frau Steerforth und Rosa Dartle leben noch immer zusammen und trauern um ihren Verlust. Julia Mills, Doras alte Freundin, ist mit einem wohlhabenden Schotten verheiratet und unglücklich. Traddles ist ein Richter und er und Sophy haben zwei Jungen, die an den besten Schulen ausgebildet werden und sich als Schüler auszeichnen. Dr. Strong arbeitet an seinem Wörterbuch und Jack Maldon verhöhnt die Welt und hält Doktor Strong für "charmant antiquiert". Die Gerechtigkeit hat gesiegt. Am glücklichsten von allen ist David. Seine Liebe zu Agnes ist vollkommen. "Die liebevolle Anwesenheit, ohne die ich nichts wäre, begleitet mich." Sein einziger Wunsch ist, dass sie weiterhin bei ihm lebt und dass sie, wenn er stirbt, in seiner Nähe ist und "nach oben zeigt".

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.

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: Illustrating the Laws of Attraction It is evident to you now that Maggie had arrived at a moment in her life which must be considered by all prudent persons as a great opportunity for a young woman. Launched into the higher society of St. Ogg's, with a striking person, which had the advantage of being quite unfamiliar to the majority of beholders, and with such moderate assistance of costume as you have seen foreshadowed in Lucy's anxious colloquy with aunt Pullet, Maggie was certainly at a new starting-point in life. At Lucy's first evening party, young Torry fatigued his facial muscles more than usual in order that "the dark-eyed girl there in the corner" might see him in all the additional style conferred by his eyeglass; and several young ladies went home intending to have short sleeves with black lace, and to plait their hair in a broad coronet at the back of their head,--"That cousin of Miss Deane's looked so very well." In fact, poor Maggie, with all her inward consciousness of a painful past and her presentiment of a troublous future, was on the way to become an object of some envy,--a topic of discussion in the newly established billiard-room, and between fair friends who had no secrets from each other on the subject of trimmings. The Miss Guests, who associated chiefly on terms of condescension with the families of St. Ogg's, and were the glass of fashion there, took some exception to Maggie's manners. She had a way of not assenting at once to the observations current in good society, and of saying that she didn't know whether those observations were true or not, which gave her an air of _gaucherie_, and impeded the even flow of conversation; but it is a fact capable of an amiable interpretation that ladies are not the worst disposed toward a new acquaintance of their own sex because she has points of inferiority. And Maggie was so entirely without those pretty airs of coquetry which have the traditional reputation of driving gentlemen to despair that she won some feminine pity for being so ineffective in spite of her beauty. She had not had many advantages, poor thing! and it must be admitted there was no pretension about her; her abruptness and unevenness of manner were plainly the result of her secluded and lowly circumstances. It was only a wonder that there was no tinge of vulgarity about her, considering what the rest of poor Lucy's relations were--an allusion which always made the Miss Guests shudder a little. It was not agreeable to think of any connection by marriage with such people as the Gleggs and the Pullets; but it was of no use to contradict Stephen when once he had set his mind on anything, and certainly there was no possible objection to Lucy in herself,--no one could help liking her. She would naturally desire that the Miss Guests should behave kindly to this cousin of whom she was so fond, and Stephen would make a great fuss if they were deficient in civility. Under these circumstances the invitations to Park House were not wanting; and elsewhere, also, Miss Deane was too popular and too distinguished a member of society in St. Ogg's for any attention toward her to be neglected. Thus Maggie was introduced for the first time to the young lady's life, and knew what it was to get up in the morning without any imperative reason for doing one thing more than another. This new sense of leisure and unchecked enjoyment amidst the soft-breathing airs and garden-scents of advancing spring--amidst the new abundance of music, and lingering strolls in the sunshine, and the delicious dreaminess of gliding on the river--could hardly be without some intoxicating effect on her, after her years of privation; and even in the first week Maggie began to be less haunted by her sad memories and anticipations. Life was certainly very pleasant just now; it was becoming very pleasant to dress in the evening, and to feel that she was one of the beautiful things of this spring-time. And there were admiring eyes always awaiting her now; she was no longer an unheeded person, liable to be chid, from whom attention was continually claimed, and on whom no one felt bound to confer any. It was pleasant, too, when Stephen and Lucy were gone out riding, to sit down at the piano alone, and find that the old fitness between her fingers and the keys remained, and revived, like a sympathetic kinship not to be worn out by separation; to get the tunes she had heard the evening before, and repeat them again and again until she had found out a way of producing them so as to make them a more pregnant, passionate language to her. The mere concord of octaves was a delight to Maggie, and she would often take up a book of studies rather than any melody, that she might taste more keenly by abstraction the more primitive sensation of intervals. Not that her enjoyment of music was of the kind that indicates a great specific talent; it was rather that her sensibility to the supreme excitement of music was only one form of that passionate sensibility which belonged to her whole nature, and made her faults and virtues all merge in each other; made her affections sometimes an impatient demand, but also prevented her vanity from taking the form of mere feminine coquetry and device, and gave it the poetry of ambition. But you have known Maggie a long while, and need to be told, not her characteristics, but her history, which is a thing hardly to be predicted even from the completest knowledge of characteristics. For the tragedy of our lives is not created entirely from within. "Character," says Novalis, in one of his questionable aphorisms,--"character is destiny." But not the whole of our destiny. Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, was speculative and irresolute, and we have a great tragedy in consequence. But if his father had lived to a good old age, and his uncle had died an early death, we can conceive Hamlet's having married Ophelia, and got through life with a reputation of sanity, notwithstanding many soliloquies, and some moody sarcasms toward the fair daughter of Polonius, to say nothing of the frankest incivility to his father-in-law. Maggie's destiny, then, is at present hidden, and we must wait for it to reveal itself like the course of an unmapped river; we only know that the river is full and rapid, and that for all rivers there is the same final home. Under the charm of her new pleasures, Maggie herself was ceasing to think, with her eager prefiguring imagination, of her future lot; and her anxiety about her first interview with Philip was losing its predominance; perhaps, unconsciously to herself, she was not sorry that the interview had been deferred. For Philip had not come the evening he was expected, and Mr. Stephen Guest brought word that he was gone to the coast,--probably, he thought, on a sketching expedition; but it was not certain when he would return. It was just like Philip, to go off in that way without telling any one. It was not until the twelfth day that he returned, to find both Lucy's notes awaiting him; he had left before he knew of Maggie's arrival. Perhaps one had need be nineteen again to be quite convinced of the feelings that were crowded for Maggie into those twelve days; of the length to which they were stretched for her by the novelty of her experience in them, and the varying attitudes of her mind. The early days of an acquaintance almost always have this importance for us, and fill up a larger space in our memory than longer subsequent periods, which have been less filled with discovery and new impressions. There were not many hours in those ten days in which Mr. Stephen Guest was not seated by Lucy's side, or standing near her at the piano, or accompanying her on some outdoor excursion; his attentions were clearly becoming more assiduous, and that was what every one had expected. Lucy was very happy, all the happier because Stephen's society seemed to have become much more interesting and amusing since Maggie had been there. Playful discussions--sometimes serious ones--were going forward, in which both Stephen and Maggie revealed themselves, to the admiration of the gentle, unobtrusive Lucy; and it more than once crossed her mind what a charming quartet they should have through life when Maggie married Philip. Is it an inexplicable thing that a girl should enjoy her lover's society the more for the presence of a third person, and be without the slightest spasm of jealousy that the third person had the conversation habitually directed to her? Not when that girl is as tranquil-hearted as Lucy, thoroughly possessed with a belief that she knows the state of her companions' affections, and not prone to the feelings which shake such a belief in the absence of positive evidence against it. Besides, it was Lucy by whom Stephen sat, to whom he gave his arm, to whom he appealed as the person sure to agree with him; and every day there was the same tender politeness toward her, the same consciousness of her wants and care to supply them. Was there really the same? It seemed to Lucy that there was more; and it was no wonder that the real significance of the change escaped her. It was a subtle act of conscience in Stephen that even he himself was not aware of. His personal attentions to Maggie were comparatively slight, and there had even sprung up an apparent distance between them, that prevented the renewal of that faint resemblance to gallantry into which he had fallen the first day in the boat. If Stephen came in when Lucy was out of the room, if Lucy left them together, they never spoke to each other; Stephen, perhaps, seemed to be examining books or music, and Maggie bent her head assiduously over her work. Each was oppressively conscious of the other's presence, even to the finger-ends. Yet each looked and longed for the same thing to happen the next day. Neither of them had begun to reflect on the matter, or silently to ask, "To what does all this tend?" Maggie only felt that life was revealing something quite new to her; and she was absorbed in the direct, immediate experience, without any energy left for taking account of it and reasoning about it. Stephen wilfully abstained from self-questioning, and would not admit to himself that he felt an influence which was to have any determining effect on his conduct. And when Lucy came into the room again, they were once more unconstrained; Maggie could contradict Stephen, and laugh at him, and he could recommend to her consideration the example of that most charming heroine, Miss Sophia Western, who had a great "respect for the understandings of men." Maggie could look at Stephen, which, for some reason or other she always avoided when they were alone; and he could even ask her to play his accompaniment for him, since Lucy's fingers were so busy with that bazaar-work, and lecture her on hurrying the tempo, which was certainly Maggie's weak point. One day--it was the day of Philip's return--Lucy had formed a sudden engagement to spend the evening with Mrs. Kenn, whose delicate state of health, threatening to become confirmed illness through an attack of bronchitis, obliged her to resign her functions at the coming bazaar into the hands of other ladies, of whom she wished Lucy to be one. The engagement had been formed in Stephen's presence, and he had heard Lucy promise to dine early and call at six o'clock for Miss Torry, who brought Mrs. Kenn's request. "Here is another of the moral results of this idiotic bazaar," Stephen burst forth, as soon as Miss Torry had left the room,--"taking young ladies from the duties of the domestic hearth into scenes of dissipation among urn-rugs and embroidered reticules! I should like to know what is the proper function of women, if it is not to make reasons for husbands to stay at home, and still stronger reasons for bachelors to go out. If this goes on much longer, the bonds of society will be dissolved." "Well, it will not go on much longer," said Lucy, laughing, "for the bazaar is to take place on Monday week." "Thank Heaven!" said Stephen. "Kenn himself said the other day that he didn't like this plan of making vanity do the work of charity; but just as the British public is not reasonable enough to bear direct taxation, so St. Ogg's has not got force of motive enough to build and endow schools without calling in the force of folly." "Did he say so?" said little Lucy, her hazel eyes opening wide with anxiety. "I never heard him say anything of that kind; I thought he approved of what we were doing." "I'm sure he approves _you_," said Stephen, smiling at her affectionately; "your conduct in going out to-night looks vicious, I own, but I know there is benevolence at the bottom of it." "Oh, you think too well of me," said Lucy, shaking her head, with a pretty blush, and there the subject ended. But it was tacitly understood that Stephen would not come in the evening; and on the strength of that tacit understanding he made his morning visit the longer, not saying good-bye until after four. Maggie was seated in the drawing-room, alone, shortly after dinner, with Minny on her lap, having left her uncle to his wine and his nap, and her mother to the compromise between knitting and nodding, which, when there was no company, she always carried on in the dining-room till tea-time. Maggie was stooping to caress the tiny silken pet, and comforting him for his mistress's absence, when the sound of a footstep on the gravel made her look up, and she saw Mr. Stephen Guest walking up the garden, as if he had come straight from the river. It was very unusual to see him so soon after dinner! He often complained that their dinner-hour was late at Park House. Nevertheless, there he was, in his black dress; he had evidently been home, and must have come again by the river. Maggie felt her cheeks glowing and her heart beating; it was natural she should be nervous, for she was not accustomed to receive visitors alone. He had seen her look up through the open window, and raised his hat as he walked toward it, to enter that way instead of by the door. He blushed too, and certainly looked as foolish as a young man of some wit and self-possession can be expected to look, as he walked in with a roll of music in his hand, and said, with an air of hesitating improvisation,-- "You are surprised to see me again, Miss Tulliver; I ought to apologize for coming upon you by surprise, but I wanted to come into the town, and I got our man to row me; so I thought I would bring these things from the 'Maid of Artois' for your cousin; I forgot them this morning. Will you give them to her?" "Yes," said Maggie, who had risen confusedly with Minny in her arms, and now, not quite knowing what else to do, sat down again. Stephen laid down his hat, with the music, which rolled on the floor, and sat down in the chair close by her. He had never done so before, and both he and Maggie were quite aware that it was an entirely new position. "Well, you pampered minion!" said Stephen, leaning to pull the long curly ears that drooped over Maggie's arm. It was not a suggestive remark, and as the speaker did not follow it up by further development, it naturally left the conversation at a standstill. It seemed to Stephen like some action in a dream that he was obliged to do, and wonder at himself all the while,--to go on stroking Minny's head. Yet it was very pleasant; he only wished he dared look at Maggie, and that she would look at him,--let him have one long look into those deep, strange eyes of hers, and then he would be satisfied and quite reasonable after that. He thought it was becoming a sort of monomania with him, to want that long look from Maggie; and he was racking his invention continually to find out some means by which he could have it without its appearing singular and entailing subsequent embarrassment. As for Maggie, she had no distinct thought, only the sense of a presence like that of a closely hovering broad-winged bird in the darkness, for she was unable to look up, and saw nothing but Minny's black wavy coat. But this must end some time, perhaps it ended very soon, and only _seemed_ long, as a minute's dream does. Stephen at last sat upright sideways in his chair, leaning one hand and arm over the back and looking at Maggie. What should he say? "We shall have a splendid sunset, I think; sha'n't you go out and see it?" "I don't know," said Maggie. Then courageously raising her eyes and looking out of the window, "if I'm not playing cribbage with my uncle." A pause; during which Minny is stroked again, but has sufficient insight not to be grateful for it, to growl rather. "Do you like sitting alone?" A rather arch look came over Maggie's face, and, just glancing at Stephen, she said, "Would it be quite civil to say 'yes'?" "It _was_ rather a dangerous question for an intruder to ask," said Stephen, delighted with that glance, and getting determined to stay for another. "But you will have more than half an hour to yourself after I am gone," he added, taking out his watch. "I know Mr. Deane never comes in till half-past seven." Another pause, during which Maggie looked steadily out of the window, till by a great effort she moved her head to look down at Minny's back again, and said,-- "I wish Lucy had not been obliged to go out. We lose our music." "We shall have a new voice to-morrow night," said Stephen. "Will you tell your cousin that our friend Philip Wakem is come back? I saw him as I went home." Maggie gave a little start,--it seemed hardly more than a vibration that passed from head to foot in an instant. But the new images summoned by Philip's name dispersed half the oppressive spell she had been under. She rose from her chair with a sudden resolution, and laying Minny on his cushion, went to reach Lucy's large work-basket from its corner. Stephen was vexed and disappointed; he thought perhaps Maggie didn't like the name of Wakem to be mentioned to her in that abrupt way, for he now recalled what Lucy had told him of the family quarrel. It was of no use to stay any longer. Maggie was seating herself at the table with her work, and looking chill and proud; and he--he looked like a simpleton for having come. A gratuitous, entirely superfluous visit of that sort was sure to make a man disagreeable and ridiculous. Of course it was palpable to Maggie's thinking that he had dined hastily in his own room for the sake of setting off again and finding her alone. A boyish state of mind for an accomplished young gentleman of five-and-twenty, not without legal knowledge! But a reference to history, perhaps, may make it not incredible. At this moment Maggie's ball of knitting-wool rolled along the ground, and she started up to reach it. Stephen rose too, and picking up the ball, met her with a vexed, complaining look that gave his eyes quite a new expression to Maggie, whose own eyes met them as he presented the ball to her. "Good-bye," said Stephen, in a tone that had the same beseeching discontent as his eyes. He dared not put out his hand; he thrust both hands into his tail-pockets as he spoke. Maggie thought she had perhaps been rude. "Won't you stay?" she said timidly, not looking away, for that would have seemed rude again. "No, thank you," said Stephen, looking still into the half-unwilling, half-fascinated eyes, as a thirsty man looks toward the track of the distant brook. "The boat is waiting for me. You'll tell your cousin?" "Yes." "That I brought the music, I mean?" "Yes." "And that Philip is come back?" "Yes." (Maggie did not notice Philip's name this time.) "Won't you come out a little way into the garden?" said Stephen, in a still gentler tone; but the next moment he was vexed that she did not say "No," for she moved away now toward the open window, and he was obliged to take his hat and walk by her side. But he thought of something to make him amends. "Do take my arm," he said, in a low tone, as if it were a secret. There is something strangely winning to most women in that offer of the firm arm; the help is not wanted physically at that moment, but the sense of help, the presence of strength that is outside them and yet theirs, meets a continual want of the imagination. Either on that ground or some other, Maggie took the arm. And they walked together round the grassplot and under the drooping green of the laburnums, in the same dim, dreamy state as they had been in a quarter of an hour before; only that Stephen had had the look he longed for, without yet perceiving in himself the symptoms of returning reasonableness, and Maggie had darting thoughts across the dimness,--how came he to be there? Why had she come out? Not a word was spoken. If it had been, each would have been less intensely conscious of the other. "Take care of this step," said Stephen at last. "Oh, I will go in now," said Maggie, feeling that the step had come like a rescue. "Good-evening." In an instant she had withdrawn her arm, and was running back to the house. She did not reflect that this sudden action would only add to the embarrassing recollections of the last half-hour. She had no thought left for that. She only threw herself into the low arm-chair, and burst into tears. "Oh, Philip, Philip, I wish we were together again--so quietly--in the Red Deeps." Stephen looked after her a moment, then went on to the boat, and was soon landed at the wharf. He spent the evening in the billiard-room, smoking one cigar after another, and losing "lives" at pool. But he would not leave off. He was determined not to think,--not to admit any more distinct remembrance than was urged upon him by the perpetual presence of Maggie. He was looking at her, and she was on his arm. But there came the necessity of walking home in the cool starlight, and with it the necessity of cursing his own folly, and bitterly determining that he would never trust himself alone with Maggie again. It was all madness; he was in love, thoroughly attached to Lucy, and engaged,--engaged as strongly as an honorable man need be. He wished he had never seen this Maggie Tulliver, to be thrown into a fever by her in this way; she would make a sweet, strange, troublesome, adorable wife to some man or other, but he would never have chosen her himself. Did she feel as he did? He hoped she did--not. He ought not to have gone. He would master himself in future. He would make himself disagreeable to her, quarrel with her perhaps. Quarrel with her? Was it possible to quarrel with a creature who had such eyes,--defying and deprecating, contradicting and clinging, imperious and beseeching,-- full of delicious opposites? To see such a creature subdued by love for one would be a lot worth having--to another man. There was a muttered exclamation which ended this inward soliloquy, as Stephen threw away the end of his last cigar, and thrusting his hands into his pockets, stalked along at a quieter pace through the shrubbery. It was not of a benedictory kind. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Maggie genießt derzeit ihr Leben mit Lucy in vollen Zügen. Zum ersten Mal überhaupt hat sie ein echtes Sozialleben und sie ist ziemlich beliebt in St. Ogg's. Allerdings finden Stephens Schwestern, dass Maggies Manieren fragwürdig sind, und viele Leute in der Stadt tun ihr leid. Maggie selbst genießt es jedoch sehr und fängt wieder an, Klavier zu spielen. Der Erzähler lässt uns wissen, dass Maggies endgültiges Schicksal verborgen ist, da sich die Umstände immer ändern, aber der Erzähler deutet auch an, dass Maggies endgültiges Schicksal nicht sehr glücklich sein wird. Es handelt sich eigentlich um eine Art Widerspruch - im Grunde weiß der Erzähler mehr als wir. Stephen hält sich die ganze Zeit mit Lucy und Maggie auf und die Gruppe hat tolle Gespräche. Lucy ist glücklich, dass Stephen und Maggie sich verstehen und kann es kaum erwarten, dass Maggie Philip heiratet, damit sie alle zusammen abhängen können. Aber Stephen und Maggie haben nie miteinander gesprochen, wenn sie alleine gelassen wurden. Die beiden waren jedoch überaus bewusst von der Anwesenheit des anderen und werfen sich heimliche Blicke zu. Im Grunde fühlen sich die beiden nur wohl, wenn Lucy bei ihnen ist. Eines Tages muss Lucy raus und ein paar Dinge für den Basar erledigen. Lucy wurde in den Planungsausschuss eingebunden. Stephen motzt darüber, wie das jetzt ihre ganze Zeit beansprucht. Während Lucy weg ist, kommt Stephen überraschend vorbei. Er liefert Maggie eine fadenscheinige Ausrede für sein Erscheinen und sagt ihr, dass er einige Notenblätter vorbeibringen möchte. Maggie und Stephen spielen dann ein wenig mit Lucys Hund. Stephen streichelt den Hund, während er auf Maggies Schoß sitzt, und die beiden sitzen wirklich, wirklich nah beieinander. Stephen und Maggie, wohlgemerkt. Der Hund ist auch da. Die beiden haben ein sehr gezwungenes Gespräch. Stephen bringt Philip zur Sprache und tritt sich innerlich dafür. Stephen geht, und Maggie bittet ihn, zu bleiben. Dann sagt Stephen, dass er gehen muss, aber bittet Maggie, ihn nach draußen zu begleiten. Die beiden fühlen sich sehr zueinander hingezogen. Maggie lässt Stephen plötzlich stehen und rennt zurück ins Haus. Sie wünscht sich, sie wäre wieder bei Philip, da er viel weniger verwirrend war als Stephen. Maggie gerät in Panik wegen ihrer Gefühle für Stephen und auch Stephen ist aufgeregt. Er verspricht sich selbst, sich von Maggie fernzuhalten.

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.

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 LETTER REACHES SARATOGA--IS FORWARDED TO ANNE--IS LAID BEFORE HENRY B. NORTHUP--THE STATUTE OF MAY 14, 1840--ITS PROVISIONS--ANNE'S MEMORIAL TO THE GOVERNOR--THE AFFIDAVITS ACCOMPANYING IT--SENATOR SOULE'S LETTER--DEPARTURE OF THE AGENT APPOINTED BY THE GOVERNOR--ARRIVAL AT MARKSVILLE--THE HON. JOHN P. WADDILL--THE CONVERSATION ON NEW-YORK POLITICS--IT SUGGESTS A FORTUNATE IDEA--THE MEETING WITH BASS--THE SECRET OUT--LEGAL PROCEEDINGS INSTITUTED--DEPARTURE OF NORTHUP AND THE SHERIFF FROM MARKSVILLE FOR BAYOU BOEUF--ARRANGEMENTS ON THE WAY--REACH EPPS' PLANTATION--DISCOVER HIS SLAVES IN THE COTTON FIELD--THE MEETING--THE FAREWELL. I am indebted to Mr. Henry B. Northup and others for many of the particulars contained in this chapter. The letter written by Bass, directed to Parker and Perry, and which was deposited in the post-office in Marksville on the 15th day of August, 1852, arrived at Saratoga in the early part of September. Some time previous to this, Anne had removed to Glens Falls, Warren county, where she had charge of the kitchen in Carpenter's Hotel. She kept house, however, lodging with our children, and was only absent from them during such time as the discharge of her duties in the hotel required. Messrs. Parker and Perry, on receipt of the letter, forwarded it immediately to Anne. On reading it the children were all excitement, and without delay hastened to the neighboring village of Sandy Hill, to consult Henry B. Northup, and obtain his advice and assistance in the matter. Upon examination, that gentleman found among the statutes of the State an act providing for the recovery of free citizens from slavery. It was passed May 14, 1840, and is entitled "An act more effectually to protect the free citizens of this State from being kidnapped or reduced to slavery." It provides that it shall be the duty of the Governor, upon the receipt of satisfactory information that any free citizen or inhabitant of this State, is wrongfully held in another State or Territory of the United States, upon the allegation or pretence that such person is a slave, or by color of any usage or rule of law is deemed or taken to be a slave, to take such measures to procure the restoration of such person to liberty, as he shall deem necessary. And to that end, he is authorized to appoint and employ an agent, and directed to furnish him with such credentials and instructions as will be likely to accomplish the object of his appointment. It requires the agent so appointed to proceed to collect the proper proof to establish the right of such person to his freedom; to perform such journeys, take such measures, institute such legal proceedings, &c., as may be necessary to return such person to this State, and charges all expenses incurred in carrying the act into effect, upon moneys not otherwise appropriated in the treasury.[1] It was necessary to establish two facts to the satisfaction of the Governor: First, that I was a free citizen of New-York; and secondly, that I was wrongfully held in bondage. As to the first point, there was no difficulty, all the older inhabitants in the vicinity being ready to testify to it. The second point rested entirely upon the letter to Parker and Perry, written in an unknown hand, and upon the letter penned on board the brig Orleans, which, unfortunately, had been mislaid or lost. A memorial was prepared, directed to his excellency, Governor Hunt, setting forth her marriage, my departure to Washington city; the receipt of the letters; that I was a free citizen, and such other facts as were deemed important, and was signed and verified by Anne. Accompanying this memorial were several affidavits of prominent citizens of Sandy Hill and Fort Edward, corroborating fully the statements it contained, and also a request of several well known gentlemen to the Governor, that Henry B. Northup be appointed agent under the legislative act. On reading the memorial and affidavits, his excellency took a lively interest in the matter, and on the 23d day of November, 1852, under the seal of the State, "constituted, appointed and employed Henry B. Northup, Esq., an agent, with full power to effect" my restoration, and to take such measures as would be most likely to accomplish it, and instructing him to proceed to Louisiana with all convenient dispatch.[2] The pressing nature of Mr. Northup's professional and political engagements delayed his departure until December. On the fourteenth day of that month he left Sandy Hill, and proceeded to Washington. The Hon. Pierre Soule, Senator in Congress from Louisiana, Hon. Mr. Conrad, Secretary of War, and Judge Nelson, of the Supreme Court of the United States, upon hearing a statement of the facts, and examining his commission, and certified copies of the memorial and affidavits, furnished him with open letters to gentlemen in Louisiana, strongly urging their assistance in accomplishing the object of his appointment. Senator Soule especially interested himself in the matter, insisting, in forcible language, that it was the duty and interest of every planter in his State to aid in restoring me to freedom, and trusted the sentiments of honor and justice in the bosom of every citizen of the commonwealth would enlist him at once in my behalf. Having obtained these valuable letters, Mr. Northup returned to Baltimore, and proceeded from thence to Pittsburgh. It was his original intention, under advice of friends at Washington, to go directly to New Orleans, and consult the authorities of that city. Providentially, however, on arriving at the mouth of Red River, he changed his mind. Had he continued on, he would not have met with Bass, in which case the search for me would probably have been fruitless. Taking passage on the first steamer that arrived, he pursued his journey up Red River, a sluggish, winding stream, flowing through a vast region of primitive forests and impenetrable swamps, almost wholly destitute of inhabitants. About nine o'clock in the forenoon, January 1st, 1853, he left the steamboat at Marksville, and proceeded directly to Marksville Court House, a small village four miles in the interior. From the fact that the letter to Messrs. Parker and Perry was post-marked at Marksville, it was supposed by him that I was in that place or its immediate vicinity. On reaching this town, he at once laid his business before the Hon. John P. Waddill, a legal gentleman of distinction, and a man of fine genius and most noble impulses. After reading the letters and documents presented him, and listening to a representation of the circumstances under which I had been carried away into captivity, Mr. Waddill at once proffered his services, and entered into the affair with great zeal and earnestness. He, in common with others of like elevated character, looked upon the kidnapper with abhorrence. The title of his fellow parishioners and clients to the property which constituted the larger proportion of their wealth, not only depended upon the good faith in which slave sales were transacted, but he was a man in whose honorable heart emotions of indignation were aroused by such an instance of injustice. Marksville, although occupying a prominent position, and standing out in impressive italics on the map of Louisiana, is, in fact, but a small and insignificant hamlet. Aside from the tavern, kept by a jolly and generous boniface, the court house, inhabited by lawless cows and swine in the seasons of vacation, and a high gallows, with its dissevered rope dangling in the air, there is little to attract the attention of the stranger. Solomon Northup was a name Mr. Waddill had never heard, but he was confident that if there was a slave bearing that appellation in Marksville or vicinity, his black boy Tom would know him. Tom was accordingly called, but in all his extensive circle of acquaintances there was no such personage. The letter to Parker and Perry was dated at Bayou Boeuf. At this place, therefore, the conclusion was, I must be sought. But here a difficulty suggested itself, of a very grave character indeed. Bayou Boeuf, at its nearest point, was twenty-three miles distant, and was the name applied to the section of country extending between fifty and a hundred miles, on both sides of that stream. Thousands and thousands of slaves resided upon its shores, the remarkable richness and fertility of the soil having attracted thither a great number of planters. The information in the letter was so vague and indefinite as to render it difficult to conclude upon any specific course of proceeding. It was finally determined, however, as the only plan that presented any prospect of success, that Northup and the brother of Waddill, a student in the office of the latter, should repair to the Bayou, and traveling up one side and down the other its whole length, inquire at each plantation for me. Mr. Waddill tendered the use of his carriage, and it was definitely arranged that they should start upon the excursion early Monday morning. It will be seen at once that this course, in all probability, would have resulted unsuccessfully. It would have been impossible for them to have gone into the fields and examine all the gangs at work. They were not aware that I was known only as Platt; and had they inquired of Epps himself, he would have stated truly that he knew nothing of Solomon Northup. The arrangement being adopted, however, there was nothing further to be done until Sunday had elapsed. The conversation between Messrs. Northup and Waddill, in the course of the afternoon, turned upon New-York politics. "I can scarcely comprehend the nice distinctions and shades of political parties in your State," observed Mr. Waddill. "I read of soft-shells and hard-shells, hunkers and barnburners, woolly-heads and silver-grays, and am unable to understand the precise difference between them. Pray, what is it?" Mr. Northup, re-filling his pipe, entered into quite an elaborate narrative of the origin of the various sections of parties, and concluded by saying there was another party in New-York, known as free-soilers or abolitionists. "You have seen none of those in this part of the country, I presume?" Mr. Northup remarked. "Never, but one," answered Waddill, laughingly. "We have one here in Marksville, an eccentric creature, who preaches abolitionism as vehemently as any fanatic at the North. He is a generous, inoffensive man, but always maintaining the wrong side of an argument. It affords us a deal of amusement. He is an excellent mechanic, and almost indispensable in this community. He is a carpenter. His name is Bass." Some further good-natured conversation was had at the expense of Bass' peculiarities, when Waddill all at once fell into a reflective mood, and asked for the mysterious letter again. "Let me see--l-e-t m-e s-e-e!" he repeated, thoughtfully to himself, running his eyes over the letter once more. "'Bayou Boeuf, August 15.' August 15--post-marked here. 'He that is writing for me--' Where did Bass work last summer?" he inquired, turning suddenly to his brother. His brother was unable to inform him, but rising, left the office, and soon returned with the intelligence that "Bass worked last summer somewhere on Bayou Boeuf." "He is the man," bringing down his hand emphatically on the table, "who can tell us all about Solomon Northup," exclaimed Waddill. Bass was immediately searched for, but could not be found. After some inquiry, it was ascertained he was at the landing on Red River. Procuring a conveyance, young Waddill and Northup were not long in traversing the few miles to the latter place. On their arrival, Bass was found, just on the point of leaving, to be absent a fortnight or more. After an introduction, Northup begged the privilege of speaking to him privately a moment. They walked together towards the river, when the following conversation ensued: "Mr. Bass," said Northup, "allow me to ask you if you were on Bayou Boeuf last August?" "Yes, sir, I was there in August," was the reply. "Did you write a letter for a colored man at that place to some gentleman in Saratoga Springs?" "Excuse me, sir, if I say that is none of your business," answered Bass, stopping and looking his interrogator searchingly in the face. "Perhaps I am rather hasty, Mr. Bass; I beg your pardon; but I have come from the State of New-York to accomplish the purpose the writer of a letter dated the 15th of August, post-marked at Marksville, had in view. Circumstances have led me to think that you are perhaps the man who wrote it. I am in search of Solomon Northup. If you know him, I beg you to inform me frankly where he is, and I assure you the source of any information you may give me shall not be divulged, if you desire it not to be." A long time Bass looked his new acquaintance steadily in the eyes, without opening his lips. He seemed to be doubting in his own mind if there was not an attempt to practice some deception upon him. Finally he said, deliberately-- "I have done nothing to be ashamed of. I am the man who wrote the letter. If you have come to rescue Solomon Northup, I am glad to see you." "When did you last see him, and where is he?" Northup inquired. "I last saw him Christmas, a week ago to-day. He is the slave of Edwin Epps, a planter on Bayou Boeuf, near Holmesville. He is not known as Solomon Northup; he is called Platt." The secret was out--the mystery was unraveled. Through the thick, black cloud, amid whose dark and dismal shadows I had walked twelve years, broke the star that was to light me back to liberty. All mistrust and hesitation were soon thrown aside, and the two men conversed long and freely upon the subject uppermost in their thoughts. Bass expressed the interest he had taken in my behalf--his intention of going north in the Spring, and declaring that he had resolved to accomplish my emancipation, if it were in his power. He described the commencement and progress of his acquaintance with me, and listened with eager curiosity to the account given him of my family, and the history of my early life. Before separating, he drew a map of the bayou on a strip of paper with a piece of red chalk, showing the locality of Epps' plantation, and the road leading most directly to it. Northup and his young companion returned to Marksville, where it was determined to commence legal proceedings to test the question of my right to freedom. I was made plaintiff, Mr. Northup acting as my guardian, and Edwin Epps defendant. The process to be issued was in the nature of replevin, directed to the sheriff of the parish, commanding him to take me into custody, and detain me until the decision of the court. By the time the papers were duly drawn up, it was twelve o'clock at night--too late to obtain the necessary signature of the Judge, who resided some distance out of town. Further business was therefore suspended until Monday morning. Everything, apparently, was moving along swimmingly, until Sunday afternoon, when Waddill called at Northup's room to express his apprehension of difficulties they had not expected to encounter. Bass had become alarmed, and had placed his affairs in the hands of a person at the landing, communicating to him his intention of leaving the State. This person had betrayed the confidence reposed in him to a certain extent, and a rumor began to float about the town, that the stranger at the hotel, who had been observed in the company of lawyer Waddill, was after one of old Epps' slaves, over on the bayou. Epps was known at Marksville, having frequent occasion to visit that place during the session of the courts, and the fear entertained by Mr. Northup's adviser was, that intelligence would be conveyed to him in the night, giving him an opportunity of secreting me before the arrival of the sheriff. This apprehension had the effect of expediting matters considerably. The sheriff, who lived in one direction from the village, was requested to hold himself in readiness immediately after midnight, while the Judge was informed he would be called upon at the same time. It is but justice to say, that the authorities at Marksville cheerfully rendered all the assistance in their power. As soon after midnight as bail could be perfected, and the Judge's signature obtained, a carriage, containing Mr. Northup and the sheriff, driven by the landlord's son, rolled rapidly out of the village of Marksville, on the road towards Bayou Boeuf. It was supposed that Epps would contest the issue involving my right to liberty, and it therefore suggested itself to Mr. Northup, that the testimony of the sheriff, describing my first meeting with the former, might perhaps become material on the trial. It was accordingly arranged during the ride, that, before I had an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Northup, the sheriff should propound to me certain questions agreed upon, such as the number and names of my children, the name of my wife before marriage, of places I knew at the North, and so forth. If my answers corresponded with the statements given him, the evidence must necessarily be considered conclusive. At length, shortly after Epps had left the field, with the consoling assurance that he would soon return and _warm_ us, as was stated in the conclusion of the preceding chapter, they came in sight of the plantation, and discovered us at work. Alighting from the carriage, and directing the driver to proceed to the great house, with instructions not to mention to any one the object of their errand until they met again, Northup and the sheriff turned from the highway, and came towards us across the cotton field. We observed them, on looking up at the carriage--one several rods in advance of the other. It was a singular and unusual thing to see white men approaching us in that manner, and especially at that early hour in the morning, and Uncle Abram and Patsey made some remarks, expressive of their astonishment. Walking up to Bob, the sheriff inquired: "Where's the boy they call Platt?" "Thar he is, massa," answered Bob, pointing to me, and twitching off his hat. I wondered to myself what business he could possibly have with me, and turning round, gazed at him until he had approached within a step. During my long residence on the bayou, I had become familiar with the face of every planter within many miles; but this man was an utter stranger--certainly I had never seen him before. "Your name is Platt, is it?" he asked. "Yes, master," I responded. Pointing towards Northup, standing a few rods distant, he demanded--"Do you know that man?" I looked in the direction indicated, and as my eyes rested on his countenance, a world of images thronged my brain; a multitude of well-known faces--Anne's, and the dear children's, and my old dead father's; all the scenes and associations of childhood and youth; all the friends of other and happier days, appeared and disappeared, flitting and floating like dissolving shadows before the vision of my imagination, until at last the perfect memory of the man recurred to me, and throwing up my hands towards Heaven, I exclaimed, in a voice louder than I could utter in a less exciting moment-- "_Henry B. Northup!_ Thank God--thank God!" In an instant I comprehended the nature of his business, and felt that the hour of my deliverance was at hand. I started towards him, but the sheriff stepped before me. "Stop a moment," said he; "have you any other name than Platt?" "Solomon Northup is my name, master," I replied. "Have you a family?" he inquired. "I _had_ a wife and three children." "What were your children's names?" "Elizabeth, Margaret and Alonzo." "And your wife's name before her marriage?" "Anne Hampton." "Who married you?" "Timothy Eddy, of Fort Edward." "Where does that gentleman live?" again pointing to Northup, who remained standing in the same place where I had first recognized him. "He lives in Sandy Hill, Washington county, New-York," was the reply. He was proceeding to ask further questions, but I pushed past him, unable longer to restrain myself. I seized my old acquaintance by both hands. I could not speak. I could not refrain from tears. "Sol," he said at length, "I'm glad to see you." I essayed to make some answer, but emotion choked all utterance, and I was silent. The slaves, utterly confounded, stood gazing upon the scene, their open mouths and rolling eyes indicating the utmost wonder and astonishment. For ten years I had dwelt among them, in the field and in the cabin, borne the same hardships, partaken the same fare, mingled my griefs with theirs, participated in the same scanty joys; nevertheless, not until this hour, the last I was to remain among them, had the remotest suspicion of my true name, or the slightest knowledge of my real history, been entertained by any one of them. Not a word was spoken for several minutes, during which time I clung fast to Northup, looking up into his face, fearful I should awake and find it all a dream. "Throw down that sack," Northup added, finally; "your cotton-picking days are over. Come with us to the man you live with." I obeyed him, and walking between him and the sheriff, we moved towards the great house. It was not until we had proceeded some distance that I had recovered my voice sufficiently to ask if my family were all living. He informed me he had seen Anne, Margaret and Elizabeth but a short time previously; that Alonzo was also living, and all were well. My mother, however, I could never see again. As I began to recover in some measure from the sudden and great excitement which so overwhelmed me, I grew faint and weak, insomuch it was with difficulty I could walk. The sheriff took hold of my arm and assisted me, or I think I should have fallen. As we entered the yard, Epps stood by the gate, conversing with the driver. That young man, faithful to his instructions, was entirely unable to give him the least information in answer to his repeated inquiries of what was going on. By the time we reached him he was almost as much amazed and puzzled as Bob or Uncle Abram. Shaking hands with the sheriff, and receiving an introduction to Mr. Northup, he invited them into the house, ordering me, at the same time, to bring in some wood. It was some time before I succeeded in cutting an armful, having, somehow, unaccountably lost the power of wielding the axe with any manner of precision. When I entered with it at last, the table was strewn with papers, from one of which Northup was reading. I was probably longer than necessity required, in placing the sticks upon the fire, being particular as to the exact position of each individual one of them. I heard the words, "the said Solomon Northup," and "the deponent further says," and "free citizen of New-York," repeated frequently, and from these expressions understood that the secret I had so long retained from Master and Mistress Epps, was finally developing. I lingered as long as prudence permitted, and was about leaving the room, when Epps inquired, [Illustration: SCENE IN THE COTTON FIELD, SOLOMON DELIVERED UP.] "Platt, do you know this gentleman?" "Yes, master," I replied, "I have known him as long as I can remember." "Where does he live?" "He lives in New-York." "Did you ever live there?" "Yes, master--born and bred there." "You was free, then. Now you d----d nigger," he exclaimed, "why did you not tell me that when I bought you?" "Master Epps," I answered, in a somewhat different tone than the one in which I had been accustomed to address him--"Master Epps, you did not take the trouble to ask me; besides, I told one of my owners--the man that kidnapped me--that I was free, and was whipped almost to death for it." "It seems there has been a letter written for you by somebody. Now, who is it?" he demanded, authoritatively. I made no reply. "I say, who wrote that letter?" he demanded again. "Perhaps I wrote it myself," I said. "You haven't been to Marksville post-office and back before light, I know." He insisted upon my informing him, and I insisted I would not. He made many vehement threats against the man, whoever he might be, and intimated the bloody and savage vengeance he would wreak upon him, when he found him out. His whole manner and language exhibited a feeling of anger towards the unknown person who had written for me, and of fretfulness at the idea of losing so much property. Addressing Mr. Northup, he swore if he had only had an hour's notice of his coming, he would have saved him the trouble of taking me back to New-York; that he would have run me into the swamp, or some other place out of the way, where all the sheriffs on earth couldn't have found me. I walked out into the yard, and was entering the kitchen door, when something struck me in the back. Aunt Phebe, emerging from the back door of the great house with a pan of potatoes, had thrown one of them with unnecessary violence, thereby giving me to understand that she wished to speak to me a moment confidentially. Running up to me, she whispered in my ear with great earnestness, "Lor a' mity, Platt! what d'ye think? Dem two men come after ye. Heard 'em tell massa you free--got wife and tree children back thar whar you come from. Goin' wid 'em? Fool if ye don't--wish I could go," and Aunt Phebe ran on in this manner at a rapid rate. Presently Mistress Epps made her appearance in the kitchen. She said many things to me, and wondered why I had not told her who I was. She expressed her regret, complimenting me by saying she had rather lose any other servant on the plantation. Had Patsey that day stood in my place, the measure of my mistress' joy would have overflowed. Now there was no one left who could mend a chair or a piece of furniture--no one who was of any use about the house--no one who could play for her on the violin--and Mistress Epps was actually affected to tears. Epps had called to Bob to bring up his saddle horse. The other slaves, also, overcoming their fear of the penalty, had left their work and come to the yard. They were standing behind the cabins, out of sight of Epps. They beckoned me to come to them, and with all the eagerness of curiosity, excited to the highest pitch, conversed with and questioned me. If I could repeat the exact words they uttered, with the same emphasis--if I could paint their several attitudes, and the expression of their countenances--it would be indeed an interesting picture. In their estimation, I had suddenly arisen to an immeasurable height--had become a being of immense importance. The legal papers having been served, and arrangements made with Epps to meet them the next day at Marksville, Northup and the sheriff entered the carriage to return to the latter place. As I was about mounting to the driver's seat, the sheriff said I ought to bid Mr. and Mrs. Epps good bye. I ran back to the piazza where they were standing, and taking off my hat, said, "Good-bye, missis." "Good-bye, Platt," said Mrs. Epps, kindly. "Good-bye, master." "Ah! you d--d nigger," muttered Epps, in a surly, malicious tone of voice, "you needn't feel so cussed tickled--you ain't gone yet--I'll see about this business at Marksville to-morrow." I was only a "_nigger_" and knew my place, but felt as strongly as if I had been a white man, that it would have been an inward comfort, had I dared to have given him a parting kick. On my way back to the carriage, Patsey ran from behind a cabin and threw her arms about my neck. "Oh! Platt," she cried, tears streaming down her face, "you're goin' to be free--you're goin' way off yonder where we'll neber see ye any more. You've saved me a good many whippins, Platt; I'm glad you're goin' to be free--but oh! de Lord, de Lord! what'll become of me?" I disengaged myself from her, and entered the carriage. The driver cracked his whip and away we rolled. I looked back and saw Patsey, with drooping head, half reclining on the ground; Mrs. Epps was on the piazza; Uncle Abram, and Bob, and Wiley, and Aunt Phebe stood by the gate, gazing after me. I waved my hand, but the carriage turned a bend of the bayou, hiding them from my eyes forever. We stopped a moment at Carey's sugar house, where a great number of slaves were at work, such an establishment being a curiosity to a Northern man. Epps dashed by us on horseback at full speed--on the way, as we learned next day, to the "Pine Woods," to see William Ford, who had brought me into the country. Tuesday, the fourth of January, Epps and his counsel, the Hon. H. Taylor, Northup, Waddill, the Judge and sheriff of Avoyelles, and myself, met in a room in the village of Marksville. Mr. Northup stated the facts in regard to me, and presented his commission, and the affidavits accompanying it. The sheriff described the scene in the cotton field. I was also interrogated at great length. Finally, Mr. Taylor assured his client that he was satisfied, and that litigation would not only be expensive, but utterly useless. In accordance with his advice, a paper was drawn up and signed by the proper parties, wherein Epps acknowledged he was satisfied of my right to freedom, and formally surrendered me to the authorities of New-York. It was also stipulated that it be entered of record in the recorder's office of Avoyelles.[3] Mr. Northup and myself immediately hastened to the landing, and taking passage on the first steamer that arrived, were soon floating down Red River, up which, with such desponding thoughts, I had been borne twelve years before. FOOTNOTES: [1] See Appendix A. [2] See Appendix B. [3] See Appendix C. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

Die Herren Perry und Parker erhalten Bass' Brief und informieren umgehend Anne darüber. Ihre Kinder besuchen Henry B. Northup, um seine Hilfe zu erbitten. Da es ein Gesetz gibt, das freie Bürger vor der Versklavung schützt, verfolgt er dies mit dem Gouverneur weiter. Er kann beweisen, dass Solomon ein freier Bürger von New York ist und dass er zu Unrecht in Knechtschaft gehalten wird. Der Gouverneur zeigt großes Interesse an der Angelegenheit und ernennt Northup zum Beauftragten. Northup reist nach Washington und trifft dort den Senator von Louisiana, den Kriegsminister und einen Richter des Obersten Gerichtshofs. Er erhält Unterlagen, um sie den Beamten in Louisiana zu zeigen. Northup plant, direkt nach New Orleans zu reisen, macht jedoch zunächst einen Zwischenstopp in Marksville. Dort teilt er sein Anliegen mit dem Ehrenwerten John P. Waddill, der ihm gerne hilft. Allerdings hat Waddill noch nie den Namen Solomon Northup gehört und fragt seinen Jungen Tom, der den Namen auch nicht kennt. Northup ist ein wenig verzweifelt, da Solomons Brief vage war und der weitere Weg nicht klar ist. Doch dann geschieht ein schicksalhafter Moment: Die beiden Männer reden über Politik, als Northup fragt, ob es in der Gegend Freiheitsanwälte gibt. Waddill lacht und erwähnt einen Mann namens Bass. Northup erschrickt und schaut auf seinen Brief. Er erkennt, dass es derselbe Mann ist, der den Brief für Solomon geschrieben hat, und er erzählt Waddill davon. Nach etwas Suche findet man Bass an einem Anleger am Red River. Northup geht zu ihm und erkundigt sich nach Bayou Boeuf und Solomon. Zuerst ist Bass zögerlich zu antworten, da er nicht weiß, ob Northup ein ehrlicher Mann ist, aber Northup erzählt ihm offen von seinem Zweck der Anfrage und Bass verrät ihm alles. Bass gibt ihm eine Karte von Bayou Boeuf, und Northup leitet rechtliche Schritte gegen Epps ein. Er und ein Sheriff reisen so schnell wie möglich zu Epps' Plantage, damit kein Wort an Epps dringt. Solomon lässt die Erzählung nun wieder zu dem Moment wechseln, als er die beiden Männer auf dem Feld kommen sieht. Er erkennt sie nicht. Der Sheriff geht auf "Platt" zu und fragt, ob er den anderen Mann erkennt. Solomon schaut sorgfältig hin, und Erinnerungen beginnen über ihn hereinzuströmen. Freudig ruft er aus, dass es Henry B. Northup ist. Der Sheriff stellt Solomon einige Fragen, um seine Identität festzustellen, und Solomon bricht vor Glück in Tränen aus. Die anderen Sklaven sind völlig durcheinander, als sie dies beobachten. Northup und Solomon umarmen sich, und Northup und der Sheriff führen ihn ins Haus. Epps kommt heraus, verwirrt. Als ihm die Informationen über Solomon übermittelt werden, fragt Epps Solomon scharf, warum er nichts gesagt hat. Solomon spricht mit mehr Autorität, als er es zuvor bei Epps getan hat: Er erklärt, dass er nie gefragt wurde und dass er geschlagen wurde, als er etwas gesagt hat. Epps wird gewalttätig wütend, dass ein Weißer Solomon geholfen hat, und will wissen, wer es war. Er schwört wüst und wünscht, er hätte eine Stunde gehabt, um Solomon heimlich wegzuschaffen. Herrin Epps verabschiedet sich höflich von Solomon; Epps flucht nur. Als Solomon sich von Patsey verabschiedet, schaut sie ihn tränenreich an und sagt, dass sie nicht weiß, was aus ihr werden wird. Das Gericht in Louisiana entscheidet, dass Epps nicht klagen wird und dass Solomon frei ist, nach Norden zurückzukehren.

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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: Eine weitere Woche ist vorbei - und ich bin so viele Tage näher an Gesundheit und Frühling! Ich habe nun die ganze Geschichte meiner Nachbarin gehört, in verschiedenen Sitzungen, wenn die Haushälterin Zeit von wichtigeren Aufgaben hatte. Ich werde sie in ihren eigenen Worten fortsetzen, nur etwas zusammengefasst. Sie ist im Großen und Ganzen eine sehr gute Erzählerin, und ich glaube nicht, dass ich ihren Stil verbessern könnte. Am Abend, sagte sie, am Abend meines Besuchs in den Heights, wusste ich genauso sicher wie wenn ich ihn gesehen hätte, dass Mr. Heathcliff in der Nähe war; und ich mied es, nach draußen zu gehen, weil ich immer noch seinen Brief in meiner Tasche trug und nicht länger bedroht oder geärgert werden wollte. Ich hatte beschlossen, ihn nicht zu übergeben, bis mein Herr irgendwohin ging, da ich nicht erraten konnte, wie der Erhalt sich auf Catherine auswirken würde. Die Folge war, dass er sie erst nach drei Tagen erreichte. Der vierte Tag war Sonntag, und ich brachte ihn in ihr Zimmer, nachdem die Familie in die Kirche gegangen war. Ein Bediensteter blieb bei mir, um das Haus zu bewachen, und wir schlossen normalerweise während der Gottesdienstzeiten die Türen ab; aber an diesem Tag war das Wetter so warm und angenehm, dass ich sie weit offen ließ und, um meine Verpflichtung zu erfüllen, da ich wusste, wer kommen würde, sagte ich meinem Begleiter, dass die Herrin sich sehr nach einigen Orangen sehnte und er für sie ein paar im Dorf besorgen müsse, die am nächsten Tag bezahlt würden. Er ging weg, und ich ging nach oben. Frau Linton saß in einem lockeren weißen Kleid mit einem leichten Schultertuch in der Nische des offenen Fensters, wie gewöhnlich. Ihr dickes, langes Haar war zu Beginn ihrer Krankheit teilweise entfernt worden und jetzt trug sie es einfach gekämmt in natürlichen Strähnen über ihre Schläfen und ihren Nacken. Ihr Aussehen hatte sich verändert, wie ich Heathcliff gesagt hatte; aber wenn sie ruhig war, schien es in der Veränderung eine übernatürliche Schönheit zu geben. Der Glanz ihrer Augen war einem träumerischen und melancholischen Sanftmut gewichen; sie vermittelten nicht mehr den Eindruck, die Objekte um sie herum anzuschauen: Es schien immer so, als ob sie darüber hinaus und weit darüber hinaus schauten - man hätte sagen können, aus dieser Welt heraus. Dann, die Blässe ihres Gesichts - ihr haggardes Aussehen, das verschwunden war, als sie an Gewicht zunahm - und der eigentümliche Ausdruck, der aus ihrem geistigen Zustand resultierte, obwohl er schmerzhaft auf die Ursachen hinwies, verstärkten das berührende Interesse, das sie erregte; und - immer für mich, das weiß ich, und für jeden, der sie sah, denke ich - widerlegten sie greifbarere Beweise für Genesung und stempelten sie als eine dem Verfall geweihte ab. Ein Buch lag auf dem Sims vor ihr, und der kaum wahrnehmbare Wind blätterte ab und zu darin. Ich glaube, Linton hatte es dort hingelegt; denn sie versuchte sich nie mit Lesen oder irgendeiner Beschäftigung abzulenken, und er würde viele Stunden damit verbringen, ihre Aufmerksamkeit auf ein Thema zu lenken, das früher ihr Vergnügen gewesen war. Sie war sich seiner Absicht bewusst und ertrug in ihren besseren Stimmungen seine Bemühungen gelassen, wies sie aber darauf hin, wie nutzlos sie waren, indem sie ab und zu einen müden Seufzer unterdrückte und ihn schließlich mit den traurigsten Lächeln und Küssen anhielt. Zu anderen Zeiten würde sie sich aufgeregt abwenden und ihr Gesicht in ihren Händen verbergen oder sogar wütend von ihm wegschieben; und dann sorgte er dafür, sie in Ruhe zu lassen, denn er war sicher, dass er nichts Gutes tun konnte. Die Glocken der Gimmerton-Kapelle läuteten noch, und der volle, melodiöse Fluss des Bachs im Tal wirkte beruhigend auf das Ohr. Es war ein süßer Ersatz für das noch fehlende Murmeln des sommerlichen Laubs, das die Musik um das Grange, wenn die Bäume bewachsen waren, übertönte. Bei Wuthering Heights war es immer an ruhigen Tagen nach einem großen Tauwetter oder einer Periode stetigen Regens zu hören. Und an Wuthering Heights dachte Catherine, während sie zuhörte: das heißt, wenn sie überhaupt dachte oder zuhörte; aber sie hatte den vagen, distanzierten Blick, den ich zuvor erwähnte, der keine Anerkennung von materiellen Dingen durch das Ohr oder das Auge zum Ausdruck brachte. "Es gibt einen Brief für Sie, Frau Linton", sagte ich und legte ihn behutsam in eine Hand, die auf ihrem Knie ruhte. "Sie müssen ihn sofort lesen, weil er eine Antwort erfordert. Soll ich das Siegel brechen?" "Ja", antwortete sie, ohne die Richtung ihrer Augen zu ändern. Ich öffnete ihn - er war sehr kurz. "Jetzt", fuhr ich fort, "lesen Sie ihn". Sie zog ihre Hand weg und ließ sie fallen. Ich legte sie wieder in ihren Schoß und stand und wartete, bis sie hinabschaute; aber diese Bewegung verzögerte sich so lange, dass ich schließlich fortfuhr: "Soll ich ihn vorlesen, Ma'am? Es ist von Mr. Heathcliff." Es gab einen Ruck und einen besorgten Blick, und ein Ringen, ihre Gedanken zu ordnen. Sie hob den Brief und schien ihn zu lesen, und als sie zur Unterschrift kam, seufzte sie. Doch ich sah deutlich, dass sie seine Bedeutung nicht erfasst hatte, denn als ich hören wollte, was ihre Antwort war, zeigte sie nur auf den Namen und blickte mich traurig und fragend an. "Nun, er möchte Sie sehen", sagte ich und erratete ihr Bedürfnis nach einem Dolmetscher. "Er ist zu dieser Zeit im Garten und ungeduldig zu wissen, welche Antwort ich mitbringen werde." Als ich sprach, bemerkte ich einen großen Hund, der auf dem sonnigen Gras darunter lag und die Ohren hob, als ob er bellen wollte, und sie dann wieder zurückstrich und mit einem Schwanzwedeln ankündigte, dass jemand kam, den er nicht für einen Fremden hielt. Frau Linton beugte sich vor und lauschte atemlos. Eine Minute später überquerte ein Schritt die Diele; das offene Haus war zu verlockend für Heathcliff, um nicht hereinzugehen: Wahrscheinlich nahm er an, dass ich geneigt war, mein Versprechen zu vernachlässigen, und beschloss, seinem eigenen Mut zu vertrauen. Mit angespannter Ungeduld sah Catherine dem Eingang ihres Zimmers entgegen. Er traf nicht sofort das richtige Zimmer: sie zeigte mir mit einer Handbewegung, dass ich ihn hereinlassen sollte, aber er fand es heraus, bevor ich die Tür erreichen konnte, und mit ein oder zwei Schritten war er an ihrer Seite und hielt sie in seinen Armen umklammert. Er sprach weder noch löste er seinen Griff für etwa fünf Minuten, während er mehr Küsse verteilte als je zuvor in seinem Leben, würde ich sagen: aber dann hatte meine Herrin ihn zuerst geküsst, und ich sah deutlich, dass er es kaum ertragen konnte, fürchterliche Qualen in ihr Gesicht zu blicken! Derselbe Gedanke hatte sowohl ihn als auch mich durchdrungen, seit dem Moment, als er sie erblickte, dass es keine Aussicht auf eine endgültige Heilung gab - sie war verurteilt, sicher zu sterben. "Oh, Cathy! Oh, mein Leben! Wie kann ich es ertragen?" war der erste Satz, den er in einem Ton ausstieß, der seine Verzweiflung nicht zu verbergen suchte. Und jetzt starrte er sie so eindringlich an, dass ich dachte, die Intensität seines Blickes würde ihm Tränen in die Augen treiben; aber Die beiden, in den Augen eines ruhigen Beobachters gesehen, erzeugten ein seltsames und beängstigendes Bild. Catherine konnte sich gut vorstellen, dass der Himmel für sie ein Land des Exils sein würde, es sei denn, sie verwarf auch ihren moralischen Charakter zusammen mit ihrem sterblichen Körper. Ihr derzeitiges Gesichtsausdruck hatte eine wilde Rachsucht in ihrer blassen Wange und einen blutleeren Lippen und funkelnden Augen. In ihren geschlossenen Fingern hielt sie eine Haarsträhne, die sie festgehalten hatte. Was ihren Begleiter betrifft, während er sich mit einer Hand aufrichtete, hatte er ihren Arm mit der anderen ergriffen. Seine Sanftheit reichte bei weitem nicht aus, um den Anforderungen ihres Zustands gerecht zu werden. Als er losließ, sah ich vier deutliche blaue Abdrücke auf ihrer farblosen Haut. "Bist du von einem Teufel besessen?", fuhr er sie wütend an. "So mit mir zu reden, wenn du im Sterben liegst? Denkst du darüber nach, dass all diese Worte in meiner Erinnerung gebrandmarkt sein werden und sich unauslöschlich in mich festfressen werden, wenn du mich verlassen hast? Du weißt, dass du lügst, wenn du sagst, dass ich dich getötet habe, und Catherine, du weißt, dass ich dich genauso wenig vergessen könnte wie meine eigene Existenz! Ist es nicht ausreichend für deine höllische Selbstsucht, dass du friedlich bist, während ich in den Qualen der Hölle zappeln werde?" "Ich werde nicht in Frieden sein", stöhnte Catherine und wurde durch das heftige, ungleichmäßige Pochen ihres Herzens an ihre körperliche Schwäche erinnert, das sichtbar und hörbar unter dieser übermäßigen Aufregung schlug. Sie sagte nichts weiter, bis der Anfall vorüber war, dann fuhr sie freundlicher fort: "Ich wünsche dir nicht mehr Qualen, als ich habe, Heathcliff. Ich wünsche mir nur, dass wir niemals getrennt werden. Und wenn meine Worte dich zukünftig betrüben sollten, denke bitte daran, dass ich dasselbe Leid unter der Erde empfinde und verzeihe mir um meinetwillen! Komm hierher und knie wieder nieder! Du hast mir nie in deinem Leben geschadet. Nein, wenn du Wut empfindest, wird das schlimmer sein, als sich an meine harten Worte zu erinnern! Kommst du nicht wieder her? Tu es!" Heathcliff ging hinter ihren Stuhl und lehnte sich darüber, aber nicht so weit, dass sie sein Gesicht sehen konnte, das vor Emotionen bleich war. Sie drehte sich um, um ihn anzusehen, aber er erlaubte es nicht: Er drehte sich abrupt um und ging zum Kamin, wo er schweigend mit dem Rücken zu uns stand. Mrs. Lintons Blick folgte ihm misstrauisch: Jede Bewegung weckte eine neue Empfindung in ihr. Nach einer Pause und einem langen Blick fuhr sie fort und wandte sich mit enttäuschter Empörung an mich: "Oh, du siehst, Nelly, er würde kein bisschen nachgeben, um mich vor dem Grab fernzuhalten. So werde ich geliebt! Nun, egal. Das ist nicht mein Heathcliff. Ich werde meinen noch lieben und ihn mit mir nehmen: Er ist in meiner Seele. Und," fügte sie nachdenklich hinzu, "das Ärgste, was mich quält, ist dieses zerbrochene Gefängnis nach allem. Ich bin es leid, hier eingesperrt zu sein. Ich sehne mich danach, in diese glorreiche Welt zu entkommen und für immer dort zu sein: Sie nicht dunkel durch Tränen zu sehen und danach durch die Mauern eines schmerzenden Herzens zu verlangen, sondern wirklich mit ihr und in ihr zu sein. Nelly, du denkst, du bist besser und glücklicher als ich in voller Gesundheit und Stärke. Du hast Mitleid mit mir - sehr bald wird sich das ändern. Ich werde Mitleid mit dir haben. Ich werde unvergleichlich über dir stehen. Ich frage mich, warum er nicht bei mir sein will!" Sagte sie zu sich selbst. "Ich dachte, er würde es wollen. Heathcliff, Liebling! Du solltest jetzt nicht so mürrisch sein. Komm zu mir, Heathcliff." In ihrer Eile erhob sie sich und stützte sich auf den Arm des Stuhls. Bei diesem ernsten Appell wandte er sich ihr zu und sah absolut verzweifelt aus. Seine Augen, weit und feucht, blitzten schließlich wild auf sie; seine Brust hob sich krampfhaft. Einen Moment lang hielten sie Abstand voneinander, und dann sah ich kaum, wie sie sich springend näherten, und er fing sie auf, und sie versanken in einer Umarmung, aus der ich dachte, meine Herrin würde nie lebendig freigegeben werden: Tatsächlich schien sie meinen Augen nach direkt bewusstlos zu sein. Er warf sich in den nächstgelegenen Sitz, und als ich schnell näherkam, um festzustellen, ob sie ohnmächtig geworden war, knurrte er mich an und schäumte wie ein tollwütiger Hund und hielt sie mit gieriger Eifersucht fest bei sich. Ich fühlte mich nicht wie in Gegenwart einer Kreatur meiner eigenen Spezies: Es schien, als würde er nicht verstehen, obwohl ich mit ihm sprach. Also blieb ich in großer Verwirrung stehen und schwieg. Eine Bewegung von Catherine erleichterte mich etwas später: Sie hob ihre Hand, um seinen Hals zu umklammern und ihre Wange an seiner zu reiben, während er im Gegenzug sie mit frenetischen Liebkosungen bedeckte und wild sagte: "Du lehrst mich jetzt, wie grausam und falsch du gewesen bist. Warum hast du mich verachtet? Warum hast du dein eigenes Herz verraten, Cathy? Ich habe kein einziges tröstendes Wort. Du verdienst das hier. Du hast dich selbst getötet. Ja, du darfst mich küssen und weinen und meine Küsse und Tränen auspressen: Sie werden dich zerstören - sie werden dich verdammen. Du hast mich geliebt - welches Recht hattest du, mich zu verlassen? Welches Recht - antworte mir - wegen der armen Einbildung, die du für Linton empfunden hast? Denn Elend, Demütigung, Tod und nichts, was Gott oder Satan verhängen konnten, hätten uns getrennt, _du_ hast es, aus eigenem Willen, getan. Ich habe dir nicht das Herz gebrochen - _du_ hast es gebrochen; und indem du es gebrochen hast, hast du meins gebrochen. So viel schlimmer für mich, dass ich stark bin. Will ich leben? Was für ein Leben wird es sein, wenn du - oh Gott! Möchtest _du_ mit deiner Seele im Grab leben?" "Lass mich allein. Lass mich in Ruhe", schluchzte Catherine. "Wenn ich Unrecht getan habe, sterbe ich dafür. Es ist genug! Du hast mich auch verlassen: Aber ich werde dich nicht tadeln! Ich vergebe dir. Verzeih mir!" "Es ist schwer zu vergeben und in diese Augen zu schauen und diese verschwendeten Hände zu fühlen", antwortete er. "Küss mich noch einmal; und lass mich deine Augen nicht sehen! Ich vergebe, was du mir angetan hast. Ich liebe meinen Mörder - aber _deinen_! Wie könnte ich?" Sie schwiegen - ihre Gesichter verborgen ineinander und von den Tränen des anderen befeuchtet. Zumindest vermute ich, dass das Weinen auf beiden Seiten stattfand, da es schien, dass Heathcliff bei einer so großen Gelegenheit weinen konnte. Ich fühlte mich inzwischen sehr unwohl; denn der Nachmittag verging schnell, der Mann, den ich weggeschickt hatte, kam von seiner Erledigung zurück, und ich konnte durch den Glanz der untergehenden Sonne Und da waren sie wieder schnell. Ich hörte meinen Herrn die Treppe hinaufkommen - der kalte Schweiß lief mir von der Stirn: Ich war entsetzt. "Wirst du ihren Wahnvorstellungen zuhören?" sagte ich leidenschaftlich. "Sie weiß nicht, was sie sagt. Willst du sie ruinieren, nur weil sie nicht klug genug ist, sich selbst zu helfen? Steh auf! Du könntest sofort frei sein. Das ist die teuflischste Tat, die du je begangen hast. Wir sind alle erledigt - Herr, Herrin und Diener." Ich rang die Hände und schrie auf; und Mr. Linton beschleunigte seinen Schritt bei dem Lärm. Inmitten meiner Aufregung war ich aufrichtig froh zu bemerken, dass Catherines Arme entspannt niedergesunken waren und ihr Kopf hing. "Sie ist ohnmächtig geworden, oder tot", dachte ich. "Umso besser. Viel besser, dass sie tot ist, als eine Bürde und Elendbringerin für alle um sie herum zu sein." Edgar sprang zu seinem ungebetenen Gast, bleich vor Erstaunen und Wut. Was er tun wollte, kann ich nicht sagen; jedoch stoppte der andere alle Demonstrationen sofort, indem er die leblos aussehende Gestalt in seine Arme legte. "Schau hin!" sagte er. "Wenn du kein Teufel bist, hilf ihr zuerst - dann kannst du mit mir sprechen!" Er ging ins Wohnzimmer und setzte sich. Mr. Linton rief mich und mit großer Mühe und unter vielen Mitteln gelang es uns, sie ins Bewusstsein zurückzubringen; aber sie war verwirrt; sie seufzte und stöhnte und kannte niemanden. Edgar, in seiner Besorgnis um sie, vergaß ihren verhassten Freund. Ich nicht. Ich ging bei erster Gelegenheit und bat ihn, zu gehen; und versicherte ihm, Catherine ginge es besser und er würde am Morgen von mir hören, wie sie die Nacht verbracht hatte. "Ich werde nicht ablehnen, nach draußen zu gehen", antwortete er. "Aber ich werde im Garten bleiben: und, Nelly, achte darauf, dass du morgen dein Wort hältst. Ich werde unter diesen Lärchen sein. Hörst du? Sonst zahle ich noch einen Besuch, egal ob Linton da ist oder nicht." Er warf einen schnellen Blick durch die halboffene Tür des Zimmers und stellte fest, dass das, was ich sagte, anscheinend wahr war, und befreite das Haus von seiner unglücklichen Anwesenheit. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Lockwood hat die ganze Geschichte jetzt gehört und entscheidet sich, eine verkürzte Version zu erzählen. Mehrere Tage vergehen und Nelly sammelt endlich den Mut, Catherine von Heathcliffs gewünschtem Besuch zu informieren. Catherine ist immer noch zerstört von ihrer Krankheit und sitzt nur da und starrt aus dem geöffneten Fenster. Heathcliff marschiert direkt in Catherines Zimmer und erklärt: "Oh, Cathy! Oh, mein Leben! Wie kann ich es ertragen?". Catherine schilt ihn für sein Handeln und sagt, dass er sie tötet und wünscht, beide wären tot. Er packt sie fest, bis er blaue Flecken auf ihrer Haut hinterlässt, versichert ihr aber, dass er auch gequält ist. Catherine verkündet, dass das Leben ein Gefängnis ist, dass sie sterben möchte und Heathcliff mit sich nehmen will. Es folgt viel Umarmen, Küssen und Weinen, als Heathcliff wissen will, warum Catherine ihn verraten hat, indem sie Edgar heiratet. Nelly beobachtet das ganze Drama, wird aber nervös, als ihr klar wird, dass Edgar bald von der Kapelle nach Hause kommen wird. Edgar stürmt herein, ignoriert aber Heathcliff, weil Catherine so ein Chaos ist. Heathcliff stimmt zu, zu gehen, sagt aber, dass er so lange draußen im Garten bleiben wird, wie es ihm beliebt.

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.

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: Why does the slave ever love? Why allow the tendrils of the heart to twine around objects which may at any moment be wrenched away by the hand of violence? When separations come by the hand of death, the pious soul can bow in resignation, and say, "Not my will, but thine be done, O Lord!" But when the ruthless hand of man strikes the blow, regardless of the misery he causes, it is hard to be submissive. I did not reason thus when I was a young girl. Youth will be youth. I loved and I indulged the hope that the dark clouds around me would turn out a bright lining. I forgot that in the land of my birth the shadows are too dense for light to penetrate. A land Where laughter is not mirth; nor thought the mind; Nor words a language; nor e'en men mankind. Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, And each is tortured in his separate hell. There was in the neighborhood a young colored carpenter; a free born man. We had been well acquainted in childhood, and frequently met together afterwards. We became mutually attached, and he proposed to marry me. I loved him with all the ardor of a young girl's first love. But when I reflected that I was a slave, and that the laws gave no sanction to the marriage of such, my heart sank within me. My lover wanted to buy me; but I knew that Dr. Flint was too willful and arbitrary a man to consent to that arrangement. From him, I was sure of experiencing all sort of opposition, and I had nothing to hope from my mistress. She would have been delighted to have got rid of me, but not in that way. It would have relieved her mind of a burden if she could have seen me sold to some distant state, but if I was married near home I should be just as much in her husband's power as I had previously been,--for the husband of a slave has no power to protect her. Moreover, my mistress, like many others, seemed to think that slaves had no right to any family ties of their own; that they were created merely to wait upon the family of the mistress. I once heard her abuse a young slave girl, who told her that a colored man wanted to make her his wife. "I will have you peeled and pickled, my lady," said she, "if I ever hear you mention that subject again. Do you suppose that I will have you tending _my_ children with the children of that nigger?" The girl to whom she said this had a mulatto child, of course not acknowledged by its father. The poor black man who loved her would have been proud to acknowledge his helpless offspring. Many and anxious were the thoughts I revolved in my mind. I was at a loss what to do. Above all things, I was desirous to spare my lover the insults that had cut so deeply into my own soul. I talked with my grandmother about it, and partly told her my fears. I did not dare to tell her the worst. She had long suspected all was not right, and if I confirmed her suspicions I knew a storm would rise that would prove the overthrow of all my hopes. This love-dream had been my support through many trials; and I could not bear to run the risk of having it suddenly dissipated. There was a lady in the neighborhood, a particular friend of Dr. Flint's, who often visited the house. I had a great respect for her, and she had always manifested a friendly interest in me. Grandmother thought she would have great influence with the doctor. I went to this lady, and told her my story. I told her I was aware that my lover's being a free-born man would prove a great objection; but he wanted to buy me; and if Dr. Flint would consent to that arrangement, I felt sure he would be willing to pay any reasonable price. She knew that Mrs. Flint disliked me; therefore, I ventured to suggest that perhaps my mistress would approve of my being sold, as that would rid her of me. The lady listened with kindly sympathy, and promised to do her utmost to promote my wishes. She had an interview with the doctor, and I believe she pleaded my cause earnestly; but it was all to no purpose. How I dreaded my master now! Every minute I expected to be summoned to his presence; but the day passed, and I heard nothing from him. The next morning, a message was brought to me: "Master wants you in his study." I found the door ajar, and I stood a moment gazing at the hateful man who claimed a right to rule me, body and soul. I entered, and tried to appear calm. I did not want him to know how my heart was bleeding. He looked fixedly at me, with an expression which seemed to say, "I have half a mind to kill you on the spot." At last he broke the silence, and that was a relief to both of us. "So you want to be married, do you?" said he, "and to a free nigger." "Yes, sir." "Well, I'll soon convince you whether I am your master, or the nigger fellow you honor so highly. If you _must_ have a husband, you may take up with one of my slaves." What a situation I should be in, as the wife of one of _his_ slaves, even if my heart had been interested! I replied, "Don't you suppose, sir, that a slave can have some preference about marrying? Do you suppose that all men are alike to her?" "Do you love this nigger?" said he, abruptly. "Yes, sir." "How dare you tell me so!" he exclaimed, in great wrath. After a slight pause, he added, "I supposed you thought more of yourself; that you felt above the insults of such puppies." I replied, "If he is a puppy, I am a puppy, for we are both of the negro race. It is right and honorable for us to love each other. The man you call a puppy never insulted me, sir; and he would not love me if he did not believe me to be a virtuous woman." He sprang upon me like a tiger, and gave me a stunning blow. It was the first time he had ever struck me; and fear did not enable me to control my anger. When I had recovered a little from the effects, I exclaimed, "You have struck me for answering you honestly. How I despise you!" There was silence for some minutes. Perhaps he was deciding what should be my punishment; or, perhaps, he wanted to give me time to reflect on what I had said, and to whom I had said it. Finally, he asked, "Do you know what you have said?" "Yes, sir; but your treatment drove me to it." "Do you know that I have a right to do as I like with you,--that I can kill you, if I please?" "You have tried to kill me, and I wish you had; but you have no right to do as you like with me." "Silence!" he exclaimed, in a thundering voice. "By heavens, girl, you forget yourself too far! Are you mad? If you are, I will soon bring you to your senses. Do you think any other master would bear what I have borne from you this morning? Many masters would have killed you on the spot. How would you like to be sent to jail for your insolence?" "I know I have been disrespectful, sir," I replied; "but you drove me to it; I couldn't help it. As for the jail, there would be more peace for me there than there is here." "You deserve to go there," said he, "and to be under such treatment, that you would forget the meaning of the word _peace_. It would do you good. It would take some of your high notions out of you. But I am not ready to send you there yet, notwithstanding your ingratitude for all my kindness and forbearance. You have been the plague of my life. I have wanted to make you happy, and I have been repaid with the basest ingratitude; but though you have proved yourself incapable of appreciating my kindness, I will be lenient towards you, Linda. I will give you one more chance to redeem your character. If you behave yourself and do as I require, I will forgive you and treat you as I always have done; but if you disobey me, I will punish you as I would the meanest slave on my plantation. Never let me hear that fellow's name mentioned again. If I ever know of your speaking to him, I will cowhide you both; and if I catch him lurking about my premises, I will shoot him as soon as I would a dog. Do you hear what I say? I'll teach you a lesson about marriage and free niggers! Now go, and let this be the last time I have occasion to speak to you on this subject." Reader, did you ever hate? I hope not. I never did but once; and I trust I never shall again. Somebody has called it "the atmosphere of hell;" and I believe it is so. For a fortnight the doctor did not speak to me. He thought to mortify me; to make me feel that I had disgraced myself by receiving the honorable addresses of a respectable colored man, in preference to the base proposals of a white man. But though his lips disdained to address me, his eyes were very loquacious. No animal ever watched its prey more narrowly than he watched me. He knew that I could write, though he had failed to make me read his letters; and he was now troubled lest I should exchange letters with another man. After a while he became weary of silence; and I was sorry for it. One morning, as he passed through the hall, to leave the house, he contrived to thrust a note into my hand. I thought I had better read it, and spare myself the vexation of having him read it to me. It expressed regret for the blow he had given me, and reminded me that I myself was wholly to blame for it. He hoped I had become convinced of the injury I was doing myself by incurring his displeasure. He wrote that he had made up his mind to go to Louisiana; that he should take several slaves with him, and intended I should be one of the number. My mistress would remain where she was; therefore I should have nothing to fear from that quarter. If I merited kindness from him, he assured me that it would be lavishly bestowed. He begged me to think over the matter, and answer the following day. The next morning I was called to carry a pair of scissors to his room. I laid them on the table, with the letter beside them. He thought it was my answer, and did not call me back. I went as usual to attend my young mistress to and from school. He met me in the street, and ordered me to stop at his office on my way back. When I entered, he showed me his letter, and asked me why I had not answered it. I replied, "I am your daughter's property, and it is in your power to send me, or take me, wherever you please." He said he was very glad to find me so willing to go, and that we should start early in the autumn. He had a large practice in the town, and I rather thought he had made up the story merely to frighten me. However that might be, I was determined that I would never go to Louisiana with him. Summer passed away, and early in the autumn Dr. Flint's eldest son was sent to Louisiana to examine the country, with a view to emigrating. That news did not disturb me. I knew very well that I should not be sent with _him_. That I had not been taken to the plantation before this time, was owing to the fact that his son was there. He was jealous of his son; and jealousy of the overseer had kept him from punishing me by sending me into the fields to work. Is it strange, that I was not proud of these protectors? As for the overseer, he was a man for whom I had less respect than I had for a bloodhound. Young Mr. Flint did not bring back a favorable report of Louisiana, and I heard no more of that scheme. Soon after this, my lover met me at the corner of the street, and I stopped to speak to him. Looking up, I saw my master watching us from his window. I hurried home, trembling with fear. I was sent for, immediately, to go to his room. He met me with a blow. "When is mistress to be married?" said he, in a sneering tone. A shower of oaths and imprecations followed. How thankful I was that my lover was a free man! that my tyrant had no power to flog him for speaking to me in the street! Again and again I revolved in my mind how all this would end. There was no hope that the doctor would consent to sell me on any terms. He had an iron will, and was determined to keep me, and to conquer me. My lover was an intelligent and religious man. Even if he could have obtained permission to marry me while I was a slave, the marriage would give him no power to protect me from my master. It would have made him miserable to witness the insults I should have been subjected to. And then, if we had children, I knew they must "follow the condition of the mother." What a terrible blight that would be on the heart of a free, intelligent father! For _his_ sake, I felt that I ought not to link his fate with my own unhappy destiny. He was going to Savannah to see about a little property left him by an uncle; and hard as it was to bring my feelings to it, I earnestly entreated him not to come back. I advised him to go to the Free States, where his tongue would not be tied, and where his intelligence would be of more avail to him. He left me, still hoping the day would come when I could be bought. With me the lamp of hope had gone out. The dream of my girlhood was over. I felt lonely and desolate. Still I was not stripped of all. I still had my good grandmother, and my affectionate brother. When he put his arms round my neck, and looked into my eyes, as if to read there the troubles I dared not tell, I felt that I still had something to love. But even that pleasant emotion was chilled by the reflection that he might be torn from me at any moment, by some sudden freak of my master. If he had known how we loved each other, I think he would have exulted in separating us. We often planned together how we could get to the north. But, as William remarked, such things are easier said than done. My movements were very closely watched, and we had no means of getting any money to defray our expenses. As for grandmother, she was strongly opposed to her children's undertaking any such project. She had not forgotten poor Benjamin's sufferings, and she was afraid that if another child tried to escape, he would have a similar or a worse fate. To me, nothing seemed more dreadful than my present life. I said to myself, "William _must_ be free. He shall go to the north, and I will follow him." Many a slave sister has formed the same plans. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Ach, junge Liebe. Linda steht total auf einen jungen, frei geborenen Tischler, der ihr einen Heiratsantrag macht. Aus Angst, dass Dr. Flint sie nicht heiraten lassen wird, bittet Linda eine der weiblichen Freundinnen von Dr. Flint, für sie zu intervenieren. Dr. Flint sagt auf keinen Fall und verpasst Linda sogar ein paar Schläge zur Sicherheit. Oh, und wenn er sie je mit dem Tischler sieht, wird er sie beide verprügeln. Das ist ein bisschen komisch: Eines Tages steckt Dr. Flint Linda einen Zettel zu und fragt sie, ob sie nicht mit ihm und ein paar anderen Sklaven nach Louisiana ziehen möchte. Erstaunlicherweise klappt dieser Plan natürlich nicht. Linda versucht, heimliche Treffen mit dem Tischler zu arrangieren, aber Dr. Flint hat sie im Auge. Schließlich sagt sie dem Tischler, dass er in die Freistaaten ziehen und sie vergessen sollte. Der Tischler befolgt ihren Rat und die beiden sehen sich nie wieder. Linda und ihr kleiner Bruder William schmieden Pläne für ihre Freiheit.

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.

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 LAST NIGHT MR. UTTERSON was sitting by his fireside one evening after dinner, when he was surprised to receive a visit from Poole. "Bless me, Poole, what brings you here?" he cried; and then taking a second look at him, "What ails you?" he added; "is the doctor ill?" "Mr. Utterson," said the man, "there is something wrong." "Take a seat, and here is a glass of wine for you," said the lawyer. "Now, take your time, and tell me plainly what you want." "You know the doctor's ways, sir," replied Poole, "and how he shuts himself up. Well, he's shut up again in the cabinet; and I don't like it, sir--I wish I may die if I like it. Mr. Utterson, sir, I'm afraid." "Now, my good man," said the lawyer, "be explicit. What are you afraid of?" "I've been afraid for about a week," returned Poole, doggedly disregarding the question, "and I can bear it no more." The man's appearance amply bore out his 52) words; his manner was altered for the worse; and except for the moment when he had first announced his terror, he had not once looked the lawyer in the face. Even now, he sat with the glass of wine untasted on his knee, and his eyes directed to a corner of the floor. "I can bear it no more," he repeated. "Come," said the lawyer, "I see you have some good reason, Poole; I see there is something seriously amiss. Try to tell me what it is." "I think there's been foul play," said Poole, hoarsely. "Foul play!" cried the lawyer, a good deal frightened and rather inclined to be irritated in consequence. "What foul play? What does the man mean?" "I daren't say, sir," was the answer; "but will you come along with me and see for yourself?" Mr. Utterson's only answer was to rise and get his hat and great-coat; but he observed with wonder the greatness of the relief that appeared upon the butler's face, and perhaps with no less, that the wine was still untasted when he set it down to follow. It was a wild, cold, seasonable night of March, with a pale moon, lying on her back as though the wind had tilted her, and a flying wrack of the most diaphanous and lawny texture. The wind made talking difficult, and flecked the blood into the face. It seemed to have swept the 53) streets unusually bare of passengers, besides; for Mr. Utterson thought he had never seen that part of London so deserted. He could have wished it otherwise; never in his life had he been conscious of so sharp a wish to see and touch his fellow-creatures; for struggle as he might, there was borne in upon his mind a crushing anticipation of calamity. The square, when they got there, was all full of wind and dust, and the thin trees in the garden were lashing themselves along the railing. Poole, who had kept all the way a pace or two ahead, now pulled up in the middle of the pavement, and in spite of the biting weather, took off his hat and mopped his brow with a red pocket-handkerchief. But for all the hurry of his coming, these were not the dews of exertion that he wiped away, but the moisture of some strangling anguish; for his face was white and his voice, when he spoke, harsh and broken. "Well, sir," he said, "here we are, and God grant there be nothing wrong." "Amen, Poole," said the lawyer. Thereupon the servant knocked in a very guarded manner; the door was opened on the chain; and a voice asked from within, "Is that you, Poole?" "It's all right," said Poole. "Open the door." The hall, when they entered it, was brightly lighted up; the fire was built high; and about the hearth the whole of the servants, men and 54) women, stood huddled together like a flock of sheep. At the sight of Mr. Utterson, the housemaid broke into hysterical whimpering; and the cook, crying out, "Bless God! it's Mr. Utterson," ran forward as if to take him in her arms. "What, what? Are you all here?" said the lawyer peevishly. "Very irregular, very unseemly; your master would be far from pleased." "They're all afraid," said Poole. Blank silence followed, no one protesting; only the maid lifted up her voice and now wept loudly. "Hold your tongue!" Poole said to her, with a ferocity of accent that testified to his own jangled nerves; and indeed, when the girl had so suddenly raised the note of her lamentation, they had all started and turned toward the inner door with faces of dreadful expectation. "And now," continued the butler, addressing the knife-boy, "reach me a candle, and we'll get this through hands at once." And then he begged Mr. Utterson to follow him, and led the way to the back-garden. "Now, sir," said he, "you come as gently as you can. I want you to hear, and I don't want you to be heard. And see here, sir, if by any chance he was to ask you in, don't go." Mr. Utterson's nerves, at this unlooked-for termination, gave a jerk that nearly threw him from his balance; but he re-collected his courage 55) and followed the butler into the laboratory building and through the surgical theatre, with its lumber of crates and bottles, to the foot of the stair. Here Poole motioned him to stand on one side and listen; while he himself, setting down the candle and making a great and obvious call on his resolution, mounted the steps and knocked with a somewhat uncertain hand on the red baize of the cabinet door. "Mr. Utterson, sir, asking to see you," he called; and even as he did so, once more violently signed to the lawyer to give ear. A voice answered from within: "Tell him I cannot see any one," it said complainingly. "Thank you, sir," said Poole, with a note of something like triumph in his voice; and taking up his candle, he led Mr. Utterson back across the yard and into the great kitchen, where the fire was out and the beetles were leaping on the floor. "Sir," he said, looking Mr. Utterson in the eyes, "was that my master's voice?" "It seems much changed," replied the lawyer, very pale, but giving look for look. "Changed? Well, yes, I think so," said the butler. "Have I been twenty years in this man's house, to be deceived about his voice? No, sir; master's made away with; he was made, away with eight days ago, when we heard him cry out upon the name of God; and who's in there instead of him, and why it stays there, is a thing that cries to Heaven, Mr. Utterson!" 56) "This is a very strange tale, Poole; this is rather a wild tale, my man," said Mr. Utterson, biting his finger. "Suppose it were as you suppose, supposing Dr. Jekyll to have been--well, murdered, what could induce the murderer to stay? That won't hold water; it doesn't commend itself to reason." "Well, Mr. Utterson, you are a hard man to satisfy, but I'll do it yet," said Poole. "All this last week (you must know) him, or it, or whatever it is that lives in that cabinet, has been crying night and day for some sort of medicine and cannot get it to his mind. It was sometimes his way--the master's, that is--to write his orders on a sheet of paper and throw it on the stair. We've had nothing else this week back; nothing but papers, and a closed door, and the very meals left there to be smuggled in when nobody was looking. Well, sir, every day, ay, and twice and thrice in the same day, there have been orders and complaints, and I have been sent flying to all the wholesale chemists in town. Every time I brought the stuff back, there would be another paper telling me to return it, because it was not pure, and another order to a different firm. This drug is wanted bitter bad, sir, whatever for." "Have you any of these papers?" asked Mr. Utterson. Poole felt in his pocket and handed out a crumpled note, which the lawyer, bending nearer 57) to the candle, carefully examined. Its contents ran thus: "Dr. Jekyll presents his compliments to Messrs. Maw. He assures them that their last sample is impure and quite useless for his present purpose. In the year 18---, Dr. J. purchased a somewhat large quantity from Messrs. M. He now begs them to search with the most sedulous care, and should any of the same quality be left, to forward it to him at once. Expense is no consideration. The importance of this to Dr. J. can hardly be exaggerated." So far the letter had run composedly enough, but here with a sudden splutter of the pen, the writer's emotion had broken loose. "For God's sake," he had added, "find me some of the old." "This is a strange note," said Mr. Utterson; and then sharply, "How do you come to have it open?" "The man at Maw's was main angry, sir, and he threw it back to me like so much dirt," returned Poole. "This is unquestionably the doctor's hand, do you know?" resumed the lawyer. "I thought it looked like it," said the servant rather sulkily; and then, with another voice, "But what matters hand-of-write?" he said. "I've seen him!" "Seen him?" repeated Mr. Utterson. "Well?" "That's it!" said Poole. "It was this way. I came suddenly into the theatre from the 58) garden. It seems he had slipped out to look for this drug or whatever it is; for the cabinet door was open, and there he was at the far end of the room digging among the crates. He looked up when I came in, gave a kind of cry, and whipped up-stairs into the cabinet. It was but for one minute that I saw him, but the hair stood upon my head like quills. Sir, if that was my master, why had he a mask upon his face? If it was my master, why did he cry out like a rat, and run from me? I have served him long enough. And then..." The man paused and passed his hand over his face. "These are all very strange circumstances," said Mr. Utterson, "but I think I begin to see daylight. Your master, Poole, is plainly seized with one of those maladies that both torture and deform the sufferer; hence, for aught I know, the alteration of his voice; hence the mask and the avoidance of his friends; hence his eagerness to find this drug, by means of which the poor soul retains some hope of ultimate recovery--God grant that he be not deceived! There is my explanation; it is sad enough, Poole, ay, and appalling to consider; but it is plain and natural, hangs well together, and delivers us from all exorbitant alarms." "Sir," said the butler, turning to a sort of mottled pallor, "that thing was not my master, and there's the truth. My master" here he looked round him and began to whisper--"is 59) a tall, fine build of a man, and this was more of a dwarf." Utterson attempted to protest. "O, sir," cried Poole, "do you think I do not know my master after twenty years? Do you think I do not know where his head comes to in the cabinet door, where I saw him every morning of my life? No, Sir, that thing in the mask was never Dr. Jekyll--God knows what it was, but it was never Dr. Jekyll; and it is the belief of my heart that there was murder done." "Poole," replied the lawyer, "if you say that, it will become my duty to make certain. Much as I desire to spare your master's feelings, much as I am puzzled by this note which seems to prove him to be still alive, I shall consider it my duty to break in that door." "Ah Mr. Utterson, that's talking!" cried the butler. "And now comes the second question," resumed Utterson: "Who is going to do it?" "Why, you and me," was the undaunted reply. "That's very well said," returned the lawyer; "and whatever comes of it, I shall make it my business to see you are no loser." "There is an axe in the theatre," continued Poole; "and you might take the kitchen poker for yourself." The lawyer took that rude but weighty instrument into his hand, and balanced it. "Do you know, Poole," he said, looking up, "that 60) you and I are about to place ourselves in a position of some peril?" "You may say so, sir, indeed," returned the butler. "It is well, then, that we should be frank," said the other. "We both think more than we have said; let us make a clean breast. This masked figure that you saw, did you recognise it?" "Well, sir, it went so quick, and the creature was so doubled up, that I could hardly swear to that," was the answer. "But if you mean, was it Mr. Hyde?--why, yes, I think it was! You see, it was much of the same bigness; and it had the same quick, light way with it; and then who else could have got in by the laboratory door? You have not forgot, sir that at the time of the murder he had still the key with him? But that's not all. I don't know, Mr. Utterson, if ever you met this Mr. Hyde?" "Yes," said the lawyer, "I once spoke with him." "Then you must know as well as the rest of us that there was something queer about that gentleman--something that gave a man a turn--I don't know rightly how to say it, sir, beyond this: that you felt it in your marrow kind of cold and thin." "I own I felt something of what you describe," said Mr. Utterson. "Quite so, sir," returned Poole. "Well, when 61) that masked thing like a monkey jumped from among the chemicals and whipped into the cabinet, it went down my spine like ice. Oh, I know it's not evidence, Mr. Utterson. I'm book-learned enough for that; but a man has his feelings, and I give you my Bible-word it was Mr. Hyde!" "Ay, ay," said the lawyer. "My fears incline to the same point. Evil, I fear, founded--evil was sure to come--of that connection. Ay, truly, I believe you; I believe poor Harry is killed; and I believe his murderer (for what purpose, God alone can tell) is still lurking in his victim's room. Well, let our name be vengeance. Call Bradshaw." The footman came at the summons, very white and nervous. "Pull yourself together, Bradshaw," said the lawyer. "This suspense, I know, is telling upon all of you; but it is now our intention to make an end of it. Poole, here, and I are going to force our way into the cabinet. If all is well, my shoulders are broad enough to bear the blame. Meanwhile, lest anything should really be amiss, or any malefactor seek to escape by the back, you and the boy must go round the corner with a pair of good sticks and take your post at the laboratory door. We give you ten minutes to get to your stations." As Bradshaw left, the lawyer looked at his watch. "And now, Poole, let us get to ours," 62) he said; and taking the poker under his arm, led the way into the yard. The scud had banked over the moon, and it was now quite dark. The wind, which only broke in puffs and draughts into that deep well of building, tossed the light of the candle to and fro about their steps, until they came into the shelter of the theatre, where they sat down silently to wait. London hummed solemnly all around; but nearer at hand, the stillness was only broken by the sounds of a footfall moving to and fro along the cabinet floor. "So it will walk all day, sir," whispered Poole; "ay, and the better part of the night. Only when a new sample comes from the chemist, there's a bit of a break. Ah, it's an ill conscience that's such an enemy to rest! Ah, sir, there's blood foully shed in every step of it! But hark again, a little closer--put your heart in your ears, Mr. Utterson, and tell me, is that the doctor's foot?" The steps fell lightly and oddly, with a certain swing, for all they went so slowly; it was different indeed from the heavy creaking tread of Henry Jekyll. Utterson sighed. "Is there never anything else?" he asked. Poole nodded. "Once," he said. "Once I heard it weeping!" "Weeping? how that?" said the lawyer, conscious of a sudden chill of horror. "Weeping like a woman or a lost soul," said 63) the butler. "I came away with that upon my heart, that I could have wept too." But now the ten minutes drew to an end. Poole disinterred the axe from under a stack of packing straw; the candle was set upon the nearest table to light them to the attack; and they drew near with bated breath to where that patient foot was still going up and down, up and down, in the quiet of the night. "Jekyll," cried Utterson, with a loud voice, "I demand to see you." He paused a moment, but there came no reply. "I give you fair warning, our suspicions are aroused, and I must and shall see you," he resumed; "if not by fair means, then by foul! if not of your consent, then by brute force!" "Utterson," said the voice, "for God's sake, have mercy!" "Ah, that's not Jekyll's voice--it's Hyde's!" cried Utterson. "Down with the door, Poole!" Poole swung the axe over his shoulder; the blow shook the building, and the red baize door leaped against the lock and hinges. A dismal screech, as of mere animal terror, rang from the cabinet. Up went the axe again, and again the panels crashed and the frame bounded; four times the blow fell; but the wood was tough and the fittings were of excellent workmanship; and it was not until the fifth, that the lock burst in sunder and the wreck of the door fell inwards on the carpet. 64) The besiegers, appalled by their own riot and the stillness that had succeeded, stood back a little and peered in. There lay the cabinet before their eyes in the quiet lamplight, a good fire glowing and chattering on the hearth, the kettle singing its thin strain, a drawer or two open, papers neatly set forth on the business-table, and nearer the fire, the things laid out for tea: the quietest room, you would have said, and, but for the glazed presses full of chemicals, the most commonplace that night in London. Right in the midst there lay the body of a man sorely contorted and still twitching. They drew near on tiptoe, turned it on its back and beheld the face of Edward Hyde. He was dressed in clothes far too large for him, clothes of the doctor's bigness; the cords of his face still moved with a semblance of life, but life was quite gone; and by the crushed phial in the hand and the strong smell of kernels that hung upon the air, Utterson knew that he was looking on the body of a self-destroyer. "We have come too late," he said sternly, "whether to save or punish. Hyde is gone to his account; and it only remains for us to find the body of your master." The far greater proportion of the building was occupied by the theatre, which filled almost the whole ground story and was lighted from above, and by the cabinet, which formed an upper story at one end and looked upon the 65) court. A corridor joined the theatre to the door on the by-street; and with this the cabinet communicated separately by a second flight of stairs. There were besides a few dark closets and a spacious cellar. All these they now thoroughly examined. Each closet needed but a glance, for all were empty, and all, by the dust that fell from their doors, had stood long unopened. The cellar, indeed, was filled with crazy lumber, mostly dating from the times of the surgeon who was Jekyll's predecessor; but even as they opened the door they were advertised of the uselessness of further search, by the fall of a perfect mat of cobweb which had for years sealed up the entrance. Nowhere was there any trace of Henry Jekyll, dead or alive. Poole stamped on the flags of the corridor. "He must be buried here," he said, hearkening to the sound. "Or he may have fled," said Utterson, and he turned to examine the door in the by-street. It was locked; and lying near by on the flags, they found the key, already stained with rust. "This does not look like use," observed the lawyer. "Use!" echoed Poole. "Do you not see, sir, it is broken? much as if a man had stamped on it." "Ay," continued Utterson, "and the fractures, too, are rusty." The two men looked at each other with a scare. "This is beyond me, 66) Poole," said the lawyer. "Let us go back to the cabinet." They mounted the stair in silence, and still with an occasional awe-struck glance at the dead body, proceeded more thoroughly to examine the contents of the cabinet. At one table, there were traces of chemical work, various measured heaps of some white salt being laid on glass saucers, as though for an experiment in which the unhappy man had been prevented. "That is the same drug that I was always bringing him," said Poole; and even as he spoke, the kettle with a startling noise boiled over. This brought them to the fireside, where the easy-chair was drawn cosily up, and the tea-things stood ready to the sitter's elbow, the very sugar in the cup. There were several books on a shelf; one lay beside the tea-things open, and Utterson was amazed to find it a copy of a pious work, for which Jekyll had several times expressed a great esteem, annotated, in his own hand, with startling blasphemies. Next, in the course of their review of the chamber, the searchers came to the cheval glass, into whose depths they looked with an involuntary horror. But it was so turned as to show them nothing but the rosy glow playing on the roof, the fire sparkling in a hundred repetitions along the glazed front of the presses, and their own pale and fearful countenances stooping to look in. 67) "This glass have seen some strange things, sir," whispered Poole. "And surely none stranger than itself," echoed the lawyer in the same tones. "For what did Jekyll"--he caught himself up at the word with a start, and then conquering the weakness--"what could Jekyll want with it?" he said. "You may say that!" said Poole. Next they turned to the business-table. On the desk among the neat array of papers, a large envelope was uppermost, and bore, in the doctor's hand, the name of Mr. Utterson. The lawyer unsealed it, and several enclosures fell to the floor. The first was a will, drawn in the same eccentric terms as the one which he had returned six months before, to serve as a testament in case of death and as a deed of gift in case of disappearance; but, in place of the name of Edward Hyde, the lawyer, with indescribable amazement, read the name of Gabriel John Utterson. He looked at Poole, and then back at the paper, and last of all at the dead malefactor stretched upon the carpet. "My head goes round," he said. "He has been all these days in possession; he had no cause to like me; he must have raged to see himself displaced; and he has not destroyed this document." He caught up the next paper; it was a brief note in the doctor's hand and dated at the top. 68) "O Poole!" the lawyer cried, "he was alive and here this day. He cannot have been disposed of in so short a space, he must be still alive, he must have fled! And then, why fled? and how? and in that case, can we venture to declare this suicide? Oh, we must be careful. I foresee that we may yet involve your master in some dire catastrophe." "Why don't you read it, sir?" asked Poole. "Because I fear," replied the lawyer solemnly. "God grant I have no cause for it!" And with that he brought the paper to his eyes and read as follows: "MY DEAR UTTERSON,--When this shall fall into your hands, I shall have disappeared, under what circumstances I have not the penetration to foresee, but my instinct and all the circumstances of my nameless situation tell me that the end is sure and must be early. Go then, and first read the narrative which Lanyon warned me he was to place in your hands; and if you care to hear more, turn to the confession of "Your unworthy and unhappy friend, "HENRY JEKYLL." "There was a third enclosure?" asked Utterson. "Here, sir," said Poole, and gave into his hands a considerable packet sealed in several places. 69) Der Anwalt steckte es in seine Tasche. "Ich würde von diesem Papier nichts sagen. Wenn Ihr Herr entflohen oder tot ist, können wir zumindest seinen Ruf retten. Es ist jetzt zehn; ich muss nach Hause gehen und diese Dokumente in Ruhe lesen; aber ich werde vor Mitternacht zurück sein, wenn wir die Polizei rufen werden." Sie gingen hinaus, schlossen die Tür des Theaters hinter sich ab und Utterson, der die Bediensteten erneut um das Feuer im Flur versammelt zurückließ, machte sich auf den Weg zu seinem Büro, um die beiden Erzählungen zu lesen, in denen dieses Rätsel nun erklärt werden sollte. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

Einen Abend nach dem Abendessen besucht Jekylls Butler Poole Utterson. Tief beunruhigt sagt er nur, dass er glaubt, es habe ein "schmutziges Spiel" mit Dr. Jekyll gegeben; er bringt Utterson schnell zu seinem Meister nach Hause. Die Nacht ist dunkel und windig, die Straßen sind verlassen und geben Utterson eine Vorahnung von Unheil. Als er Jekylls Haus erreicht, findet er die Diener ängstlich im Hauptsaal versammelt. Poole bringt Utterson zur Tür von Jekylls Labor und ruft hinein, dass Utterson zu Besuch gekommen ist. Eine seltsame Stimme antwortet, die überhaupt nicht nach Jekyll klingt; der Besitzer der Stimme sagt Poole, dass er keine Besucher empfangen kann. Poole und Utterson ziehen sich in die Küche zurück, wo Poole darauf besteht, dass die Stimme, die sie aus dem Labor gehört haben, nicht seinem Meister gehört. Utterson fragt sich, warum der Mörder im Labor bleiben würde, wenn er gerade Jekyll getötet hätte und nicht einfach geflohen wäre. Poole beschreibt, wie die mysteriöse Stimme ihn ständig zu Chemikern geschickt hat; der Mann im Labor scheint verzweifelt nach einer Zutat zu suchen, die keine Apotheke in London verkauft. Utterson, immer noch hoffnungsvoll, fragt, ob die von Poole erhaltenen Notizen von der Hand des Arztes stammen, aber Poole enthüllt dann, dass er die Person im Labor gesehen hat, als sie kurz herauskam, um etwas zu suchen, und dass der Mann überhaupt nicht wie Jekyll aussah. Utterson schlägt vor, dass Jekyll eine Krankheit haben könnte, die seine Stimme verändert und sein Aussehen entstellt, so dass er unkenntlich wird, aber Poole erklärt, dass die Person, die er sah, kleiner als sein Meister war - und tatsächlich aussah wie niemand sonst als Mr. Hyde. Als Utterson Poole's Worte hört, beschließt er, mit Poole in das Labor einzubrechen. Er schickt zwei Diener um den Block an die andere Tür des Labors, die am Anfang des Romans von Enfield gesehen wird. Dann kehren Utterson und Poole mit einem Kaminpoker und einer Axt zur inneren Tür zurück. Utterson ruft hinein und verlangt Einlass. Die Stimme bittet Utterson um Gnade und ihn in Ruhe zu lassen. Der Anwalt erkennt jedoch die Stimme als die von Hyde und befiehlt Poole, die Tür einzureißen. Einmal drinnen, finden die Männer Hydes leblosen Körper auf dem Boden liegen, eine zerdrückte Ampulle in seiner Hand. Es scheint, als hätte er sich vergiftet. Utterson bemerkt, dass Hyde einen Anzug trägt, der Jekyll gehört und der ihm viel zu groß ist. Die Männer durchsuchen das gesamte Labor, sowie das Chirurgentheater unten und die anderen Räume im Gebäude, aber sie finden weder eine Spur von Jekyll noch eine Leiche. Sie bemerken einen großen Spiegel und finden es seltsam, ein solches Objekt in einem wissenschaftlichen Labor vorzufinden. Dann finden sie auf Jekylls Geschäftstisch einen großen Umschlag, der an Utterson adressiert ist und drei Gegenstände enthält. Der erste ist ein Testament, das dem vorherigen sehr ähnlich ist, jedoch Hyde's Namen durch Utterson's ersetzt. Der zweite ist eine Notiz an Utterson, mit dem heutigen Datum darauf. Basierend auf diesem Beweisstück vermutet Utterson, dass Jekyll noch am Leben ist - und er fragt sich, ob Hyde wirklich Selbstmord begangen hat oder ob Jekyll ihn getötet hat. Diese Notiz instruiert Utterson, sofort nach Hause zu gehen und den Brief zu lesen, den Lanyon ihm zuvor gegeben hat. Sie fügt hinzu, dass, wenn er mehr erfahren möchte, Utterson das Geständnis seines "wertvollen und unglücklichen Freundes, Henry Jekyll" lesen könne. Utterson nimmt den dritten Gegenstand aus dem Umschlag - ein versiegeltes Paket - und verspricht Poole, dass er noch in dieser Nacht zurückkehren und die Polizei rufen wird. Dann geht er zurück in sein Büro, um Lanyons Brief und den Inhalt des versiegelten Pakets zu lesen.

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.

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 ORGON, MADAME PERNELLE, ELMIRE, MARIANE, CLEANTE, DAMIS, DORINE, MR. LOYAL MR. LOYAL (to Dorine, at the back of the stage) Good day, good sister. Pray you, let me see The master of the house. DORINE He's occupied; I think he can see nobody at present. MR. LOYAL I'm not by way of being unwelcome here. My coming can, I think, nowise displease him; My errand will be found to his advantage. DORINE Your name, then? MR. LOYAL Tell him simply that his friend Mr. Tartuffe has sent me, for his goods ... DORINE (to Orgon) It is a man who comes, with civil manners, Sent by Tartuffe, he says, upon an errand That you'll be pleased with. CLEANTE (to Orgon) Surely you must see him, And find out who he is, and what he wants. ORGON (to Cleante) Perhaps he's come to make it up between us: How shall I treat him? CLEANTE You must not get angry; And if he talks of reconciliation Accept it. MR. LOYAL (to Orgon) Sir, good-day. And Heaven send Harm to your enemies, favour to you. ORGON (aside to Cleante) This mild beginning suits with my conjectures And promises some compromise already. MR. LOYAL All of your house has long been dear to me; I had the honour, sir, to serve your father. ORGON Sir, I am much ashamed, and ask your pardon For not recalling now your face or name. MR. LOYAL My name is Loyal. I'm from Normandy. My office is court-bailiff, in despite Of envy; and for forty years, thank Heaven, It's been my fortune to perform that office With honour. So I've come, sir, by your leave To render service of a certain writ ... ORGON What, you are here to ... MR. LOYAL Pray, sir, don't be angry. 'Tis nothing, sir, but just a little summons:-- Order to vacate, you and yours, this house, Move out your furniture, make room for others, And that without delay or putting off, As needs must be ... ORGON I? Leave this house? MR. LOYAL Yes, please, sir The house is now, as you well know, of course, Mr. Tartuffe's. And he, beyond dispute, Of all your goods is henceforth lord and master By virtue of a contract here attached, Drawn in due form, and unassailable. DAMIS (to Mr. Loyal) Your insolence is monstrous, and astounding! MR. LOYAL (to Damis) I have no business, sir, that touches you; (Pointing to Orgon) This is the gentleman. He's fair and courteous, And knows too well a gentleman's behaviour To wish in any wise to question justice. ORGON But ... MR. LOYAL Sir, I know you would not for a million Wish to rebel; like a good citizen You'll let me put in force the court's decree. DAMIS Your long black gown may well, before you know it, Mister Court-bailiff, get a thorough beating. MR. LOYAL (to Orgon) Sir, make your son be silent or withdraw. I should be loath to have to set things down, And see your names inscribed in my report. DORINE (aside) This Mr. Loyal's looks are most disloyal. MR. LOYAL I have much feeling for respectable And honest folk like you, sir, and consented To serve these papers, only to oblige you, And thus prevent the choice of any other Who, less possessed of zeal for you than I am Might order matters in less gentle fashion. ORGON And how could one do worse than order people Out of their house? MR. LOYAL Why, we allow you time; And even will suspend until to-morrow The execution of the order, sir. I'll merely, without scandal, quietly, Come here and spend the night, with half a score Of officers; and just for form's sake, please, You'll bring your keys to me, before retiring. I will take care not to disturb your rest, And see there's no unseemly conduct here. But by to-morrow, and at early morning, You must make haste to move your least belongings; My men will help you--I have chosen strong ones To serve you, sir, in clearing out the house. No one could act more generously, I fancy, And, since I'm treating you with great indulgence, I beg you'll do as well by me, and see I'm not disturbed in my discharge of duty. ORGON I'd give this very minute, and not grudge it, The hundred best gold louis I have left, If I could just indulge myself, and land My fist, for one good square one, on his snout. CLEANTE (aside to Orgon) Careful!--don't make things worse. DAMIS Such insolence! I hardly can restrain myself. My hands Are itching to be at him. DORINE By my faith, With such a fine broad back, good Mr. Loyal, A little beating would become you well. MR. LOYAL My girl, such infamous words are actionable. And warrants can be issued against women. CLEANTE (to Mr. Loyal) Enough of this discussion, sir; have done. Give us the paper, and then leave us, pray. MR. LOYAL Then _au revoir_. Heaven keep you from disaster! ORGON May Heaven confound you both, you and your master! Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

Monsieur Loyal tritt ein. Er sucht den Hausherrn. Wie sich herausstellt, wurde Loyal von Tartuffe geschickt. Bevor er sich mit ihm trifft, bittet Orgon Cleante um Rat. Cleante sagt ihm, dass er einfach einen kühlen Kopf bewahren muss. Als Loyal Orgon freundlich grüßt, nimmt Orgon dies als Zeichen des guten Willens und hofft, dass Tartuffe kompromissbereit ist. Stattdessen übergibt Loyal ihm eine Klageschrift, ein schriftliches Gerichtsdokument, das die Räumung von Orgon und Co. aus ihrem eigenen Haus fordert. Orgon kann es nicht glauben, also erläutert M. Loyal es genauer. Das Haus, erzählt er Orgon, gehört jetzt Tartuffe. Er legt eine Urkunde vor, um es zu beweisen. Der hitzköpfige Damis versucht einzugreifen, wird aber von Loyal beruhigt. Loyal ist sicher, dass mit Orgons Einverständnis alles reibungslos ablaufen wird. Er versucht Orgon anzusprechen, um ihn daran zu erinnern, dass er ein weiser und "mäßiger" Mann ist, und sagt ihm, dass er "alle Menschen von aufrechtem Charakter" liebt. Orgon appelliert an Loyal. Aus reiner Güte stimmt Loyal zu, Orgon eine Frist einzuräumen... bis zum nächsten Tag. Loyal wird, wie er Orgon sagt, die Nacht verbringen... und eine Menge Männer mitbringen, um ihre Sachen auszuziehen... und Orgon und alle anderen frühmorgens rauszuschmeißen, aber er wird es auf angenehmste Weise tun. An diesem Punkt beginnt Orgon die Geduld zu verlieren; er ist bereit, Loyal direkt in die Nase zu schlagen. Cleante tritt ein und sagt Orgon, er solle sich beruhigen. Damis möchte natürlich ihm den Hintern versohlen. Und Dorine sagt Loyal ins Gesicht, dass sie ihn gerne mit einem Stock geschlagen sehen würde. Loyal warnt, dass er sie bestrafen könnte, wenn sie weiterhin so handelt. Cleante sagt Loyal, er solle ihm das Papier geben und gehen, was er tut. Orgon flucht ihm, als er aus der Tür geht.

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.

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. Rome. A public place Enter MENENIUS, COMINIUS, SICINIUS and BRUTUS, the two Tribunes, with others MENENIUS. No, I'll not go. You hear what he hath said Which was sometime his general, who lov'd him In a most dear particular. He call'd me father; But what o' that? Go, you that banish'd him: A mile before his tent fall down, and knee The way into his mercy. Nay, if he coy'd To hear Cominius speak, I'll keep at home. COMINIUS. He would not seem to know me. MENENIUS. Do you hear? COMINIUS. Yet one time he did call me by my name. I urg'd our old acquaintance, and the drops That we have bled together. 'Coriolanus' He would not answer to; forbid all names; He was a kind of nothing, titleless, Till he had forg'd himself a name i' th' fire Of burning Rome. MENENIUS. Why, so! You have made good work. A pair of tribunes that have wrack'd for Rome To make coals cheap- a noble memory! COMINIUS. I minded him how royal 'twas to pardon When it was less expected; he replied, It was a bare petition of a state To one whom they had punish'd. MENENIUS. Very well. Could he say less? COMINIUS. I offer'd to awaken his regard For's private friends; his answer to me was, He could not stay to pick them in a pile Of noisome musty chaff. He said 'twas folly, For one poor grain or two, to leave unburnt And still to nose th' offence. MENENIUS. For one poor grain or two! I am one of those. His mother, wife, his child, And this brave fellow too- we are the grains: You are the musty chaff, and you are smelt Above the moon. We must be burnt for you. SICINIUS. Nay, pray be patient; if you refuse your aid In this so never-needed help, yet do not Upbraid's with our distress. But sure, if you Would be your country's pleader, your good tongue, More than the instant army we can make, Might stop our countryman. MENENIUS. No; I'll not meddle. SICINIUS. Pray you go to him. MENENIUS. What should I do? BRUTUS. Only make trial what your love can do For Rome, towards Marcius. MENENIUS. Well, and say that Marcius Return me, as Cominius is return'd, Unheard- what then? But as a discontented friend, grief-shot With his unkindness? Say't be so? SICINIUS. Yet your good will Must have that thanks from Rome after the measure As you intended well. MENENIUS. I'll undertake't; I think he'll hear me. Yet to bite his lip And hum at good Cominius much unhearts me. He was not taken well: he had not din'd; The veins unfill'd, our blood is cold, and then We pout upon the morning, are unapt To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff'd These pipes and these conveyances of our blood With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls Than in our priest-like fasts. Therefore I'll watch him Till he be dieted to my request, And then I'll set upon him. BRUTUS. You know the very road into his kindness And cannot lose your way. MENENIUS. Good faith, I'll prove him, Speed how it will. I shall ere long have knowledge Of my success. Exit COMINIUS. He'll never hear him. SICINIUS. Not? COMINIUS. I tell you he does sit in gold, his eye Red as 'twould burn Rome, and his injury The gaoler to his pity. I kneel'd before him; 'Twas very faintly he said 'Rise'; dismiss'd me Thus with his speechless hand. What he would do, He sent in writing after me; what he would not, Bound with an oath to yield to his conditions; So that all hope is vain, Unless his noble mother and his wife, Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him For mercy to his country. Therefore let's hence, And with our fair entreaties haste them on. Exeunt Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

In Rom streiten die Tribunen mit den Patriziern darüber, wer zu Coriolanus gehen soll, um um Gnade zu flehen. Menenius ist nicht gewillt zu gehen, da Cominius es bereits versucht hat und gescheitert ist. Menenius stimmt schließlich zu und plant, Coriolanus nach dem Abendessen zu treffen, wenn er gut gestärkt ist und möglicherweise flexibler ist. Menenius verlässt den Raum. Cominius glaubt, dass Menenius' Mission vergeblich sein wird, hat jedoch die Hoffnung, dass Volumnia und Virgilia, die planen, Coriolanus um Nachsicht zu bitten, Erfolg haben werden.

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.

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: Was ich niederschreiben wollte, ist fast beendet; doch es gibt noch eine Begebenheit, die in meiner Erinnerung auffällig ist und ohne die ein Faden in dem Gewebe, das ich gesponnen habe, ein unrühmliches Ende hätte. Ich hatte an Ruhm und Reichtum gewonnen, mein häusliches Glück war vollkommen, ich war seit zehn glücklichen Jahren verheiratet. Agnes und ich saßen an einem Frühlingsabend in unserem Haus in London am Kamin, und drei unserer Kinder spielten im Zimmer, als man mir sagte, dass ein Fremder mich sehen wollte. Man hatte gefragt, ob er geschäftlich käme, worauf er mit Nein antwortete. Er war gekommen, um mich zu sehen, und hatte einen weiten Weg hinter sich. Er sei ein alter Mann, hatte mein Diener berichtet, und sähe aus wie ein Bauer. Da dies den Kindern geheimnisvoll erschien und außerdem wie der Anfang einer Lieblingsgeschichte klang, die Agnes ihnen erzählte, als Einführung zum Erscheinen einer bösen alten Fee in einem Umhang, die alle hasste, erzeugte es Aufregung. Einer unserer Jungen legte seinen Kopf in den Schoß meiner Frau, um außer Gefahr zu sein, und die kleine Agnes (unser ältestes Kind) ließ ihre Puppe auf einem Stuhl zurück, um sie zu repräsentieren, und reckte ihre kleine Menge goldener Locken zwischen den Fenstervorhängen hervor, um zu sehen, was als Nächstes geschah. "Lasst ihn hereinkommen!" sagte ich. Da tauchte bald darauf, als er eintrat, im dunklen Türrahmen verweilend, ein wohlgenährter, grauhaariger alter Mann auf. Die kleine Agnes, von seinem Aussehen angezogen, lief hin, um ihn hereinzubringen, und ich hatte sein Gesicht noch nicht deutlich gesehen, als meine Frau aufsprang und mit erfreuter und aufgeregter Stimme ausrief, dass er Mr. Peggotty sei! Es war Mr. Peggotty. Ein alter Mann jetzt, aber in einem rüstigen, herzhaften, starken Alter. Als unsere erste Emotion überstanden war und er vor dem Feuer mit den Kindern auf seinen Knien saß und das Feuerlicht auf sein Gesicht schien, erschien er mir so kräftig und robust, und dazu noch so gutaussehend, wie ich es je bei einem alten Mann gesehen hatte. "Mas'r Davy", sagte er. Und der alte Name im alten Tonfall klang so natürlich in meinem Ohr! "Mas'r Davy, es ist eine freudige Stunde, dich wiederzusehen, mit deiner eigenen treuen Ehefrau!" "Wirklich eine freudige Stunde, alter Freund!", rief ich. "Und diese hübschen hier", sagte Mr. Peggotty. "Schaut euch mal diese hübschen Blumen an! Na, Mas'r Davy, du warst doch so klein wie die Kleinsten von ihnen, als ich dich das erste Mal gesehen habe! Als Em'ly noch nicht größer war und unser armer Junge nur ein Junge war!" "Die Zeit hat mich mehr verändert als dich seitdem", sagte ich. "Aber lasst diese lieben Racker ins Bett gehen. Da nur dieses Haus euch beherbergen kann, sagt mir, wo ich euer Gepäck hinschicken soll (ist die alte schwarze Tasche auch dabei, die so weit gereist ist, frage ich mich?), und dann werden wir bei einem Glas Yarmouth Grog Neuigkeiten aus den letzten zehn Jahren austauschen!" "Bist du allein?" fragte Agnes. "Ja, gnädige Frau", antwortete er und küsste ihre Hand, "ganz allein." Wir setzten ihn zwischen uns, nicht wissend, wie wir ihm genug Willkommen heißen sollten, und als ich begann, seiner alten vertrauten Stimme zu lauschen, hätte ich schwören können, dass er noch immer seine lange Reise auf der Suche nach seiner geliebten Nichte fortsetzte. "Es ist ganz schön viel Wasser", sagte Mr. Peggotty, "um überqueren zu müssen, und nur für eine Angelegenheit von vier Wochen zu bleiben. Aber Wasser (besonders wenn es salzig ist) liegt mir im Blut; und Freunde sind teuer, und ich bin hier. - Das reimt sich", sagte Mr. Peggotty überrascht, "obwohl ich das gar nicht beabsichtigt hatte." "Willst du wirklich schon bald diese vielen tausend Meilen zurückgehen?" fragte Agnes. "Ja, gnädige Frau", antwortete er, "ich habe Em'ly das versprochen, bevor ich fortging. Sehen Sie, ich werde nicht jünger, wenn die Jahre vergehen, und wenn ich nicht gesegelt wäre, dann hätte ich es wohl nie getan. Und es war mir stets in den Gedanken, zu Mas'r Davy zu kommen und deinen eigenen süßblühenden Selbst in deinem Eheglück zu sehen, bevor ich zu alt geworden wäre." Er betrachtete uns, als ob er sich nicht genug an uns sattsehen könnte. Agnes schob lachend einige verirrte Strähnen seines grauen Haares zurück, damit er uns besser sehen konnte. "Nun erzähl uns doch", sagte ich, "alles, was deine Schicksale betrifft." "Unsere Schicksale, Mas'r Davy", erwiderte er, "sind schnell erzählt. Uns ist nie etwas fehlgeschlagen, sondern es ging uns immer gut. Wir haben immer unser Bestes gegeben. Es mag sein, dass wir anfangs etwas hart gelebt haben, aber wir sind gut zurechtgekommen. Mit Schafzucht und Viehzucht und mit dies und das sind wir so gut versorgt, wie es nur sein könnte. Es ist eine Art Segen über uns gekommen", sagte Mr. Peggotty, neigte respektvoll den Kopf, "und wir sind nichts als gewachsen. Zumindest am Ende. Wenn nicht gestern, dann heute. Wenn nicht heute, dann morgen." "Und Emily?" fragten Agnes und ich im Chor. "Em'ly", sagte er, "nachdem du sie verlassen hattest, gnädige Frau - und ich habe sie nie dabei erwischt, wie sie abends hinter dem Leinwandschutz, als wir uns in der Wildnis niedergelassen hatten, ihre Gebete sprach, ohne deinen Namen zu erwähnen - und nachdem sie und ich Mas'r Davy aus den Augen verloren hatten, dieses dortige strahlende Abendrot - da war sie anfangs sehr niedergeschlagen, so niedergeschlagen, dass, wenn sie damals gewusst hätte, was Mas'r Davy uns so freundlich und fürsorglich verschwiegen hat, bin ich der Meinung, wäre sie dahingeschmolzen. Aber es gab einige arme Leute an Bord, die krank waren, und sie kümmerte sich um sie; und es gab Kinder in unserer Gruppe, um die sie sich kümmerte; und so war sie beschäftigt und half anderen." "Wann hat sie davon zum ersten Mal erfahren?" fragte ich. "Ich habe es ihr fast ein Jahr verschwiegen, nachdem ich davon erfahren hatte", sagte Mr. Peggotty. "Wir lebten damals in einem einsamen Ort, aber umgeben von den schönsten Bäumen und mit den Rosen, die unsere Behausung bis zum Dach bedeckten. Eines Tages kam ein Reisender aus unserem eigenen Norfolk oder Suffolk in England (ich erinnere mich nicht genau), und natürlich nahmen wir ihn auf und gaben ihm zu Essen und zu Trinken und hießen ihn willkommen. Das tun wir alle in der Kolonie. Er hatte eine alte Zeitung dabei und etwas anderes Gedrucktes über den Sturm. So erfuhr sie davon. Als ich abends nach Hause kam, wusste sie es bereits." Er senkte die Stimme, als er diese Worte sagte, und die ernsthafte Miene, an die ich mich so gut erinnerte,spiegelte sich auf seinem Gesicht wider. "Hat es sie sehr verändert?" fragten wir. "Ja, für eine gute lange Zeit", sagte er und schüttelte den Kopf, "wenn nicht bis zum heutigen Tag. Aber ich denke, die Einsamkeit hat ihr gutgetan Er strich sich mit der Hand über das Gesicht und sah, mit einem halb unterdrückten Seufzer, vom Feuer auf. "Ist Martha schon bei dir?" fragte ich. "Martha", antwortete er, "hat im zweiten Jahr geheiratet, Mas'r Davy. Ein junger Mann, ein Farmarbeiter, der auf dem Weg zum Markt mit dem Dray seines Meisters bei uns vorbeikam - eine Reise von über fünfhundert Meilen hin und zurück - hat ihr Angebote gemacht, sie zu heiraten (Frauen sind dort sehr rar), und dann haben sie sich im Busch selbstständig gemacht. Sie hat mich gebeten, ihm ihre wahre Geschichte zu erzählen. Das habe ich getan. Sie haben geheiratet und leben vierhundert Meilen entfernt von jeglichen Stimmen außer ihren eigenen und den singenden Vögeln." "Mrs. Gummidge?" schlug ich vor. Es war ein angenehmer Ton, denn Mr. Peggotty brach plötzlich in ein lautes Lachen aus und rieb sich die Hände an seinen Beinen, wie er es gewohnt war, wenn er Spaß hatte in dem lang gestrandeten Boot. "Kannst du es glauben!" sagte er. "Jemand hat sogar angeboten, sie zu heiraten! Wenn ein Koch auf einem Schiff, der sich als Siedler niederlassen wollte, Mas'r Davy, Angebote gemacht hat, um Missis Gummidge zu heiraten, bin ich... tja, und fairer kann man es wohl nicht sagen!" Ich habe Agnes noch nie so lachen sehen. Diese plötzliche Begeisterung von Mr. Peggotty hat ihr so gut gefallen, dass sie nicht aufhören konnte zu lachen. Je mehr sie lachte, desto mehr musste ich lachen, und umso größer wurde Mr. Peggottys Begeisterung, und umso mehr rieb er sich die Beine. "Und was hat Mrs. Gummidge gesagt?" fragte ich, als ich ernst genug war. "Wenn du mir glaubst," antwortete Mr. Peggotty, "Missis Gummidge, anstatt 'danke, ich bin sehr dankbar, ich ändere meinen Zustand nicht mehr in meinem Alter', nahm einen Eimer, der gerade da stand, und schlug ihn über den Kopf des Schiffskochs, bis er um Hilfe schrie, und dann bin ich hin und habe ihm geholfen." Mr. Peggotty brach in ein lautes Lachen aus, und Agnes und ich lachten beide mit ihm. "Aber ich muss das sagen, für das gute Geschöpf", fuhr er fort und wischte sich das Gesicht ab, als wir völlig erschöpft waren, "sie ist alles gewesen, was sie gesagt hat, und mehr. Sie ist die willigste, treueste, ehrlichste und hilfreichste Frau, Mas'r Davy, die je auf der Welt geatmet hat. Ich habe sie nie allein und einsam erlebt, nicht eine Minute lang, nicht einmal als die Kolonie vor uns lag, und wir noch neu waren. Und an den alten Mann zu denken, das hat sie nie getan, das versichere ich dir, seit sie England verlassen hat!" "Nun, zuletzt, aber keineswegs unwichtig, Mr. Micawber", sagte ich. "Er hat jede Verpflichtung hier abbezahlt - sogar Traddles' Rechnung, erinnerst du dich, meine liebe Agnes - und daher können wir davon ausgehen, dass es ihm gut geht. Aber was sind die neuesten Nachrichten von ihm?" Mr. Peggotty lächelte und steckte die Hand in seine Brusttasche, aus der er ein flach gefaltetes, papierverpacktes Paket hervorzog. Mit großer Sorgfalt entnahm er diesem ein seltsam aussehendes kleines Zeitungsblatt. "Du musst verstehen, Mas'r Davy", sagte er, "dass wir den Busch jetzt verlassen haben und es uns so gut geht. Und wir sind einmal rundherum nach Port Middlebay, wo es das gibt, was wir eine Stadt nennen." "Mr. Micawber war also in der Nähe von dir im Busch?" sagte ich. "Ja, ganz recht", antwortete Mr. Peggotty, "und hat tüchtig mit angepackt. Ich wünschte, ich würde niemals einen besseren Herrn treffen, wenn es darum geht, tüchtig anzupacken. Ich habe diesen kahlen Kopf von ihm in der Sonne schwitzen sehen, Mas'r Davy, bis ich dachte, er würde davon schmelzen. Und jetzt ist er Magistrat geworden." "Ein Magistrat, huh?" sagte ich. Mr. Peggotty zeigte auf einen bestimmten Abschnitt in der Zeitung, wo ich folgendes laut vorlas, aus dem Port Middlebay Times: "Das öffentliche Abendessen zu Ehren unseres angesehenen Mitkolonisten und Mitbürgers, WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, Bezirksmagistrat von Port Middlebay, fand gestern in dem großen Saal des Hotels statt, der vor Menschen drängte. Es wird geschätzt, dass nicht weniger als siebenundvierzig Personen gleichzeitig zum Essen Platz fanden, abgesehen von der Gesellschaft im Flur und auf den Treppen. Die Schönheit, Mode und Exklusivität von Port Middlebay versammelten sich, um einem so verdienten, hochtalentierten und weithin beliebten Mann Respekt zu erweisen. Doctor Mell (von Colonial Salem-House Grammar School, Port Middlebay) führte den Vorsitz, und zur Rechten saß der angesehene Gast. Nach dem Abräumen des Tisches und dem Singen von Non Nobis (hervorragend dargeboten, und dabei waren wir nicht im Geringsten daran gehindert, die glockenähnlichen Töne des begabten Amateurs WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE JUNIOR, zu erkennen), wurden die üblichen loyalen und patriotischen Trinksprüche gegeben und mit Begeisterung aufgenommen. Doctor Mell schlug in einer Rede voller Gefühl "Unseren angesehenen Gast vor, den Schmuck unserer Stadt. Möge er uns nie verlassen, außer um sich zu verbessern, und möge sein Erfolg bei uns so groß sein, dass eine weitere Verbesserung ausgeschlossen ist!" Der Beifall, mit dem der Toast aufgenommen wurde, lässt sich nicht beschreiben. Wieder und wieder stieg er an und fiel ab, wie die Wellen des Ozeans. Schließlich wurde alles still, und WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, meldete sich, um seinen Dank auszusprechen. Es sei uns fern, in unserem gegenwärtig vergleichsweise unvollkommenen Zustand der Ressourcen unserer Einrichtung zu versuchen, unserem angesehenen Mitbürger durch die wohlgegliederten Perioden seiner gepflegten und hochornamentierten Rede zu folgen! Es genügt zu bemerken, dass sie ein Meisterwerk der Beredsamkeit war; und dass die Passagen, in denen er insbesondere seine eigene erfolgreiche Karriere auf ihre Quellen zurückführte und die jüngeren Mitglieder des Publikums davor warnte, sich auf die Klippen finanzieller Verpflichtungen zu wagen, die sie nicht begleichen konnten, eine Träne in das männlichste Auge brachten, das anwesend war. Die übrigen Toasts waren DOCTOR MELL, Mrs. MICAWBER (die galant ihre Anerkennung vom Seiteneingang aus beugte, wo eine Galaxie von Schönheit auf Stühlen erhöht wurde, um gleichzeitig das erfreuliche Schauspiel zu sehen und zu schmücken), Mrs. RIDGER BEGS (ehemals Miss Micawber); Mrs. MELL; WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, JUNIOR (der die Versammlung mit dem humorvollen Hinweis auf sich zog, dass er sich außerstande sehe, seinen Dank in einer Rede auszudrücken, es stattdessen aber - mit ihrer Erlaubnis - in einem Lied tun würde); Mrs. MICAWBERS FAMILIE (wohl bekannt, es ist unnötig zu erwähnen, im Herkunftsland), usw. usw. usw. Zum Abschluss der Veranstaltung wurden die Tische wie durch Zauberhand für das Tanzen geräumt. Unter den Anhängern der TERPS Machen Sie weiter, mein lieber Herr! Sie sind hier nicht unbekannt, Sie werden nicht ungeschätzt. Obwohl "entfernt", sind wir weder "unfreundlich", "melancholisch" noch (möchte ich hinzufügen) "langsam". Machen Sie weiter, mein lieber Herr, in Ihrem Adler-Kurs! Die Bewohner von Port Middlebay können zumindest hoffen, ihn mit Vergnügen, Unterhaltung und Anleitung zu verfolgen! "Unter den Augen, die von diesem Teil der Welt zu Ihnen erhoben werden, wird immer sein, solange sie Licht und Leben hat, 'Das 'Auge 'Gehörend zu 'WILKINS MICAWBER, 'Magistrat.' Beim Überfliegen des restlichen Inhalts der Zeitung stellte ich fest, dass Herr Micawber ein fleißiger und geachteter Mitarbeiter dieser Zeitschrift war. Es gab noch einen weiteren Brief von ihm in derselben Zeitung, der eine Brücke betraf. Es gab auch eine Anzeige für eine Sammlung ähnlicher Briefe von ihm, die in Kürze in einem ordentlichen Band "mit erheblichen Ergänzungen" veröffentlicht werden sollte. Und wenn ich mich nicht sehr irre, war der Leitartikel ebenfalls von ihm. Wir sprachen an vielen anderen Abenden viel über Herrn Micawber, während Herr Peggotty bei uns blieb. Er wohnte während seines gesamten Aufenthalts bei uns - der, wie ich glaube, etwas weniger als einen Monat dauerte - bei uns, und seine Schwester und meine Tante kamen nach London, um ihn zu sehen. Agnes und ich verabschiedeten uns von ihm an Bord des Schiffes, als er absegelte; und wir werden uns auf dieser Erde nie wieder von ihm trennen. Aber bevor er ging, ging er mit mir nach Yarmouth, um eine kleine Tafel im Kirchhof zu sehen, die ich zu Ehren von Ham aufgestellt hatte. Während ich auf seinen Wunsch hin die schlichte Inschrift für ihn abschrieb, sah ich, wie er sich bückte und einen Büschel Gras von dem Grab und ein wenig Erde sammelte. "Für Em'ly", sagte er, als er es in seine Brust steckte. "Ich habe es versprochen, Master Davy." Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

Eines Tages besucht ein Besucher namens Herr Peggotty David zu Hause, wo er mit Agnes und ihren drei Kindern ist. Er erzählt, dass Herr Micawber jetzt ein Magistrat ist und es Little Em'ly gut geht. Martha ist mit einem Bauern verheiratet und Frau Gummidge geht es gut. Herr Peggotty bleibt einen Monat und kehrt dann nach Australien zurück. Sie sehen ihn nie wieder.

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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. Chapter: I. THE PRISON-DOOR. [Illustration] A throng of bearded men, in sad-colored garments, and gray, steeple-crowned hats, intermixed with women, some wearing hoods and others bareheaded, was assembled in front of a wooden edifice, the door of which was heavily timbered with oak, and studded with iron spikes. The founders of a new colony, whatever Utopia of human virtue and happiness they might originally project, have invariably recognized it among their earliest practical necessities to allot a portion of the virgin soil as a cemetery, and another portion as the site of a prison. In accordance with this rule, it may safely be assumed that the forefathers of Boston had built the first prison-house somewhere in the vicinity of Cornhill, almost as seasonably as they marked out the first burial-ground, on Isaac Johnson's lot, and round about his grave, which subsequently became the nucleus of all the congregated sepulchres in the old churchyard of King's Chapel. Certain it is, that, some fifteen or twenty years after the settlement of the town, the wooden jail was already marked with weather-stains and other indications of age, which gave a yet darker aspect to its beetle-browed and gloomy front. The rust on the ponderous iron-work of its oaken door looked more antique than anything else in the New World. Like all that pertains to crime, it seemed never to have known a youthful era. Before this ugly edifice, and between it and the wheel-track of the street, was a grass-plot, much overgrown with burdock, pigweed, apple-peru, and such unsightly vegetation, which evidently found something congenial in the soil that had so early borne the black flower of civilized society, a prison. But on one side of the portal, and rooted almost at the threshold, was a wild rose-bush, covered, in this month of June, with its delicate gems, which might be imagined to offer their fragrance and fragile beauty to the prisoner as he went in, and to the condemned criminal as he came forth to his doom, in token that the deep heart of Nature could pity and be kind to him. This rose-bush, by a strange chance, has been kept alive in history; but whether it had merely survived out of the stern old wilderness, so long after the fall of the gigantic pines and oaks that originally overshadowed it,--or whether, as there is fair authority for believing, it had sprung up under the footsteps of the sainted Ann Hutchinson, as she entered the prison-door,--we shall not take upon us to determine. Finding it so directly on the threshold of our narrative, which is now about to issue from that inauspicious portal, we could hardly do otherwise than pluck one of its flowers, and present it to the reader. It may serve, let us hope, to symbolize some sweet moral blossom, that may be found along the track, or relieve the darkening close of a tale of human frailty and sorrow. [Illustration] [Illustration] Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

In diesem ersten Kapitel stellt Hawthorne die Szene des Romans ein - Boston des siebzehnten Jahrhunderts. Es ist Juni und eine Menschenmenge von trist gekleideten Puritanern steht vor einem verwitterten hölzernen Gefängnis. Vor dem Gefängnis steht ein hässliches Feld aus Unkraut und daneben wächst ein wilder Rosenbusch, der in dieser von dunklen Farben dominierten Szene fehl am Platz wirkt.

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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. Chapter: Sometimes we walked, sometimes ran; and as it drew on to morning, walked ever the less and ran the more. Though, upon its face, that country appeared to be a desert, yet there were huts and houses of the people, of which we must have passed more than twenty, hidden in quiet places of the hills. When we came to one of these, Alan would leave me in the way, and go himself and rap upon the side of the house and speak awhile at the window with some sleeper awakened. This was to pass the news; which, in that country, was so much of a duty that Alan must pause to attend to it even while fleeing for his life; and so well attended to by others, that in more than half of the houses where we called they had heard already of the murder. In the others, as well as I could make out (standing back at a distance and hearing a strange tongue), the news was received with more of consternation than surprise. For all our hurry, day began to come in while we were still far from any shelter. It found us in a prodigious valley, strewn with rocks and where ran a foaming river. Wild mountains stood around it; there grew there neither grass nor trees; and I have sometimes thought since then, that it may have been the valley called Glencoe, where the massacre was in the time of King William. But for the details of our itinerary, I am all to seek; our way lying now by short cuts, now by great detours; our pace being so hurried, our time of journeying usually by night; and the names of such places as I asked and heard being in the Gaelic tongue and the more easily forgotten. The first peep of morning, then, showed us this horrible place, and I could see Alan knit his brow. "This is no fit place for you and me," he said. "This is a place they're bound to watch." And with that he ran harder than ever down to the water-side, in a part where the river was split in two among three rocks. It went through with a horrid thundering that made my belly quake; and there hung over the lynn a little mist of spray. Alan looked neither to the right nor to the left, but jumped clean upon the middle rock and fell there on his hands and knees to check himself, for that rock was small and he might have pitched over on the far side. I had scarce time to measure the distance or to understand the peril before I had followed him, and he had caught and stopped me. So there we stood, side by side upon a small rock slippery with spray, a far broader leap in front of us, and the river dinning upon all sides. When I saw where I was, there came on me a deadly sickness of fear, and I put my hand over my eyes. Alan took me and shook me; I saw he was speaking, but the roaring of the falls and the trouble of my mind prevented me from hearing; only I saw his face was red with anger, and that he stamped upon the rock. The same look showed me the water raging by, and the mist hanging in the air: and with that I covered my eyes again and shuddered. The next minute Alan had set the brandy bottle to my lips, and forced me to drink about a gill, which sent the blood into my head again. Then, putting his hands to his mouth, and his mouth to my ear, he shouted, "Hang or drown!" and turning his back upon me, leaped over the farther branch of the stream, and landed safe. I was now alone upon the rock, which gave me the more room; the brandy was singing in my ears; I had this good example fresh before me, and just wit enough to see that if I did not leap at once, I should never leap at all. I bent low on my knees and flung myself forth, with that kind of anger of despair that has sometimes stood me in stead of courage. Sure enough, it was but my hands that reached the full length; these slipped, caught again, slipped again; and I was sliddering back into the lynn, when Alan seized me, first by the hair, then by the collar, and with a great strain dragged me into safety. Never a word he said, but set off running again for his life, and I must stagger to my feet and run after him. I had been weary before, but now I was sick and bruised, and partly drunken with the brandy; I kept stumbling as I ran, I had a stitch that came near to overmaster me; and when at last Alan paused under a great rock that stood there among a number of others, it was none too soon for David Balfour. A great rock I have said; but by rights it was two rocks leaning together at the top, both some twenty feet high, and at the first sight inaccessible. Even Alan (though you may say he had as good as four hands) failed twice in an attempt to climb them; and it was only at the third trial, and then by standing on my shoulders and leaping up with such force as I thought must have broken my collar-bone, that he secured a lodgment. Once there, he let down his leathern girdle; and with the aid of that and a pair of shallow footholds in the rock, I scrambled up beside him. Then I saw why we had come there; for the two rocks, being both somewhat hollow on the top and sloping one to the other, made a kind of dish or saucer, where as many as three or four men might have lain hidden. All this while Alan had not said a word, and had run and climbed with such a savage, silent frenzy of hurry, that I knew that he was in mortal fear of some miscarriage. Even now we were on the rock he said nothing, nor so much as relaxed the frowning look upon his face; but clapped flat down, and keeping only one eye above the edge of our place of shelter scouted all round the compass. The dawn had come quite clear; we could see the stony sides of the valley, and its bottom, which was bestrewed with rocks, and the river, which went from one side to another, and made white falls; but nowhere the smoke of a house, nor any living creature but some eagles screaming round a cliff. Then at last Alan smiled. "Ay" said he, "now we have a chance;" and then looking at me with some amusement, "Ye're no very gleg* at the jumping," said he. * Brisk. At this I suppose I coloured with mortification, for he added at once, "Hoots! small blame to ye! To be feared of a thing and yet to do it, is what makes the prettiest kind of a man. And then there was water there, and water's a thing that dauntons even me. No, no," said Alan, "it's no you that's to blame, it's me." I asked him why. "Why," said he, "I have proved myself a gomeral this night. For first of all I take a wrong road, and that in my own country of Appin; so that the day has caught us where we should never have been; and thanks to that, we lie here in some danger and mair discomfort. And next (which is the worst of the two, for a man that has been so much among the heather as myself) I have come wanting a water-bottle, and here we lie for a long summer's day with naething but neat spirit. Ye may think that a small matter; but before it comes night, David, ye'll give me news of it." I was anxious to redeem my character, and offered, if he would pour out the brandy, to run down and fill the bottle at the river. "I wouldnae waste the good spirit either," says he. "It's been a good friend to you this night; or in my poor opinion, ye would still be cocking on yon stone. And what's mair," says he, "ye may have observed (you that's a man of so much penetration) that Alan Breck Stewart was perhaps walking quicker than his ordinar'." "You!" I cried, "you were running fit to burst." "Was I so?" said he. "Well, then, ye may depend upon it, there was nae time to be lost. And now here is enough said; gang you to your sleep, lad, and I'll watch." Accordingly, I lay down to sleep; a little peaty earth had drifted in between the top of the two rocks, and some bracken grew there, to be a bed to me; the last thing I heard was still the crying of the eagles. I dare say it would be nine in the morning when I was roughly awakened, and found Alan's hand pressed upon my mouth. "Wheesht!" he whispered. "Ye were snoring." "Well," said I, surprised at his anxious and dark face, "and why not?" He peered over the edge of the rock, and signed to me to do the like. It was now high day, cloudless, and very hot. The valley was as clear as in a picture. About half a mile up the water was a camp of red-coats; a big fire blazed in their midst, at which some were cooking; and near by, on the top of a rock about as high as ours, there stood a sentry, with the sun sparkling on his arms. All the way down along the river-side were posted other sentries; here near together, there widelier scattered; some planted like the first, on places of command, some on the ground level and marching and counter-marching, so as to meet half-way. Higher up the glen, where the ground was more open, the chain of posts was continued by horse-soldiers, whom we could see in the distance riding to and fro. Lower down, the infantry continued; but as the stream was suddenly swelled by the confluence of a considerable burn, they were more widely set, and only watched the fords and stepping-stones. I took but one look at them, and ducked again into my place. It was strange indeed to see this valley, which had lain so solitary in the hour of dawn, bristling with arms and dotted with the red coats and breeches. "Ye see," said Alan, "this was what I was afraid of, Davie: that they would watch the burn-side. They began to come in about two hours ago, and, man! but ye're a grand hand at the sleeping! We're in a narrow place. If they get up the sides of the hill, they could easy spy us with a glass; but if they'll only keep in the foot of the valley, we'll do yet. The posts are thinner down the water; and, come night, we'll try our hand at getting by them." "And what are we to do till night?" I asked. "Lie here," says he, "and birstle." That one good Scotch word, "birstle," was indeed the most of the story of the day that we had now to pass. You are to remember that we lay on the bare top of a rock, like scones upon a girdle; the sun beat upon us cruelly; the rock grew so heated, a man could scarce endure the touch of it; and the little patch of earth and fern, which kept cooler, was only large enough for one at a time. We took turn about to lie on the naked rock, which was indeed like the position of that saint that was martyred on a gridiron; and it ran in my mind how strange it was, that in the same climate and at only a few days' distance, I should have suffered so cruelly, first from cold upon my island and now from heat upon this rock. All the while we had no water, only raw brandy for a drink, which was worse than nothing; but we kept the bottle as cool as we could, burying it in the earth, and got some relief by bathing our breasts and temples. The soldiers kept stirring all day in the bottom of the valley, now changing guard, now in patrolling parties hunting among the rocks. These lay round in so great a number, that to look for men among them was like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay; and being so hopeless a task, it was gone about with the less care. Yet we could see the soldiers pike their bayonets among the heather, which sent a cold thrill into my vitals; and they would sometimes hang about our rock, so that we scarce dared to breathe. It was in this way that I first heard the right English speech; one fellow as he went by actually clapping his hand upon the sunny face of the rock on which we lay, and plucking it off again with an oath. "I tell you it's 'ot," says he; and I was amazed at the clipping tones and the odd sing-song in which he spoke, and no less at that strange trick of dropping out the letter "h." To be sure, I had heard Ransome; but he had taken his ways from all sorts of people, and spoke so imperfectly at the best, that I set down the most of it to childishness. My surprise was all the greater to hear that manner of speaking in the mouth of a grown man; and indeed I have never grown used to it; nor yet altogether with the English grammar, as perhaps a very critical eye might here and there spy out even in these memoirs. The tediousness and pain of these hours upon the rock grew only the greater as the day went on; the rock getting still the hotter and the sun fiercer. There were giddiness, and sickness, and sharp pangs like rheumatism, to be supported. I minded then, and have often minded since, on the lines in our Scotch psalm:-- "The moon by night thee shall not smite, Nor yet the sun by day;" and indeed it was only by God's blessing that we were neither of us sun-smitten. At last, about two, it was beyond men's bearing, and there was now temptation to resist, as well as pain to thole. For the sun being now got a little into the west, there came a patch of shade on the east side of our rock, which was the side sheltered from the soldiers. "As well one death as another," said Alan, and slipped over the edge and dropped on the ground on the shadowy side. I followed him at once, and instantly fell all my length, so weak was I and so giddy with that long exposure. Here, then, we lay for an hour or two, aching from head to foot, as weak as water, and lying quite naked to the eye of any soldier who should have strolled that way. None came, however, all passing by on the other side; so that our rock continued to be our shield even in this new position. Presently we began again to get a little strength; and as the soldiers were now lying closer along the river-side, Alan proposed that we should try a start. I was by this time afraid of but one thing in the world; and that was to be set back upon the rock; anything else was welcome to me; so we got ourselves at once in marching order, and began to slip from rock to rock one after the other, now crawling flat on our bellies in the shade, now making a run for it, heart in mouth. The soldiers, having searched this side of the valley after a fashion, and being perhaps somewhat sleepy with the sultriness of the afternoon, had now laid by much of their vigilance, and stood dozing at their posts or only kept a look-out along the banks of the river; so that in this way, keeping down the valley and at the same time towards the mountains, we drew steadily away from their neighbourhood. But the business was the most wearing I had ever taken part in. A man had need of a hundred eyes in every part of him, to keep concealed in that uneven country and within cry of so many and scattered sentries. When we must pass an open place, quickness was not all, but a swift judgment not only of the lie of the whole country, but of the solidity of every stone on which we must set foot; for the afternoon was now fallen so breathless that the rolling of a pebble sounded abroad like a pistol shot, and would start the echo calling among the hills and cliffs. By sundown we had made some distance, even by our slow rate of progress, though to be sure the sentry on the rock was still plainly in our view. But now we came on something that put all fears out of season; and that was a deep rushing burn, that tore down, in that part, to join the glen river. At the sight of this we cast ourselves on the ground and plunged head and shoulders in the water; and I cannot tell which was the more pleasant, the great shock as the cool stream went over us, or the greed with which we drank of it. We lay there (for the banks hid us), drank again and again, bathed our chests, let our wrists trail in the running water till they ached with the chill; and at last, being wonderfully renewed, we got out the meal-bag and made drammach in the iron pan. This, though it is but cold water mingled with oatmeal, yet makes a good enough dish for a hungry man; and where there are no means of making fire, or (as in our case) good reason for not making one, it is the chief stand-by of those who have taken to the heather. As soon as the shadow of the night had fallen, we set forth again, at first with the same caution, but presently with more boldness, standing our full height and stepping out at a good pace of walking. The way was very intricate, lying up the steep sides of mountains and along the brows of cliffs; clouds had come in with the sunset, and the night was dark and cool; so that I walked without much fatigue, but in continual fear of falling and rolling down the mountains, and with no guess at our direction. The moon rose at last and found us still on the road; it was in its last quarter, and was long beset with clouds; but after awhile shone out and showed me many dark heads of mountains, and was reflected far underneath us on the narrow arm of a sea-loch. At this sight we both paused: I struck with wonder to find myself so high and walking (as it seemed to me) upon clouds; Alan to make sure of his direction. Seemingly he was well pleased, and he must certainly have judged us out of ear-shot of all our enemies; for throughout the rest of our night-march he beguiled the way with whistling of many tunes, warlike, merry, plaintive; reel tunes that made the foot go faster; tunes of my own south country that made me fain to be home from my adventures; and all these, on the great, dark, desert mountains, making company upon the way. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

Im Schutz der Nacht gehen David und Alan durch die Berge, um das Haus von James of the Glens zu erreichen. Das beleuchtete Haus hat seine Tür geöffnet, doch Soldaten patrouillieren mit ihren Waffen umher. James kommt auf Alan zu und heißt ihn auf Gälisch willkommen. Er sieht besorgt aus und prophezeit Unruhen in der Gegend als Folge des Todes von Red Fox. Er lässt Alan und David ihre Kleidung wechseln, bevor sie weiterreisen. Außerdem informiert er sie, dass er möglicherweise eine Beschreibung von ihnen als Verdächtige herausgeben muss, um selbst Strafe zu entgehen.

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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. Chapter: The Miss Alans did go to Greece, but they went by themselves. They alone of this little company will double Malea and plough the waters of the Saronic gulf. They alone will visit Athens and Delphi, and either shrine of intellectual song--that upon the Acropolis, encircled by blue seas; that under Parnassus, where the eagles build and the bronze charioteer drives undismayed towards infinity. Trembling, anxious, cumbered with much digestive bread, they did proceed to Constantinople, they did go round the world. The rest of us must be contented with a fair, but a less arduous, goal. Italiam petimus: we return to the Pension Bertolini. George said it was his old room. "No, it isn't," said Lucy; "because it is the room I had, and I had your father's room. I forget why; Charlotte made me, for some reason." He knelt on the tiled floor, and laid his face in her lap. "George, you baby, get up." "Why shouldn't I be a baby?" murmured George. Unable to answer this question, she put down his sock, which she was trying to mend, and gazed out through the window. It was evening and again the spring. "Oh, bother Charlotte," she said thoughtfully. "What can such people be made of?" "Same stuff as parsons are made of." "Nonsense!" "Quite right. It is nonsense." "Now you get up off the cold floor, or you'll be starting rheumatism next, and you stop laughing and being so silly." "Why shouldn't I laugh?" he asked, pinning her with his elbows, and advancing his face to hers. "What's there to cry at? Kiss me here." He indicated the spot where a kiss would be welcome. He was a boy after all. When it came to the point, it was she who remembered the past, she into whose soul the iron had entered, she who knew whose room this had been last year. It endeared him to her strangely that he should be sometimes wrong. "Any letters?" he asked. "Just a line from Freddy." "Now kiss me here; then here." Then, threatened again with rheumatism, he strolled to the window, opened it (as the English will), and leant out. There was the parapet, there the river, there to the left the beginnings of the hills. The cab-driver, who at once saluted him with the hiss of a serpent, might be that very Phaethon who had set this happiness in motion twelve months ago. A passion of gratitude--all feelings grow to passions in the South--came over the husband, and he blessed the people and the things who had taken so much trouble about a young fool. He had helped himself, it is true, but how stupidly! All the fighting that mattered had been done by others--by Italy, by his father, by his wife. "Lucy, you come and look at the cypresses; and the church, whatever its name is, still shows." "San Miniato. I'll just finish your sock." "Signorino, domani faremo uno giro," called the cabman, with engaging certainty. George told him that he was mistaken; they had no money to throw away on driving. And the people who had not meant to help--the Miss Lavishes, the Cecils, the Miss Bartletts! Ever prone to magnify Fate, George counted up the forces that had swept him into this contentment. "Anything good in Freddy's letter?" "Not yet." His own content was absolute, but hers held bitterness: the Honeychurches had not forgiven them; they were disgusted at her past hypocrisy; she had alienated Windy Corner, perhaps for ever. "What does he say?" "Silly boy! He thinks he's being dignified. He knew we should go off in the spring--he has known it for six months--that if mother wouldn't give her consent we should take the thing into our own hands. They had fair warning, and now he calls it an elopement. Ridiculous boy--" "Signorino, domani faremo uno giro--" "But it will all come right in the end. He has to build us both up from the beginning again. I wish, though, that Cecil had not turned so cynical about women. He has, for the second time, quite altered. Why will men have theories about women? I haven't any about men. I wish, too, that Mr. Beebe--" "You may well wish that." "He will never forgive us--I mean, he will never be interested in us again. I wish that he did not influence them so much at Windy Corner. I wish he hadn't--But if we act the truth, the people who really love us are sure to come back to us in the long run." "Perhaps." Then he said more gently: "Well, I acted the truth--the only thing I did do--and you came back to me. So possibly you know." He turned back into the room. "Nonsense with that sock." He carried her to the window, so that she, too, saw all the view. They sank upon their knees, invisible from the road, they hoped, and began to whisper one another's names. Ah! it was worth while; it was the great joy that they had expected, and countless little joys of which they had never dreamt. They were silent. "Signorino, domani faremo--" "Oh, bother that man!" But Lucy remembered the vendor of photographs and said, "No, don't be rude to him." Then with a catching of her breath, she murmured: "Mr. Eager and Charlotte, dreadful frozen Charlotte. How cruel she would be to a man like that!" "Look at the lights going over the bridge." "But this room reminds me of Charlotte. How horrible to grow old in Charlotte's way! To think that evening at the rectory that she shouldn't have heard your father was in the house. For she would have stopped me going in, and he was the only person alive who could have made me see sense. You couldn't have made me. When I am very happy"--she kissed him--"I remember on how little it all hangs. If Charlotte had only known, she would have stopped me going in, and I should have gone to silly Greece, and become different for ever." "But she did know," said George; "she did see my father, surely. He said so." "Oh, no, she didn't see him. She was upstairs with old Mrs. Beebe, don't you remember, and then went straight to the church. She said so." George was obstinate again. "My father," said he, "saw her, and I prefer his word. He was dozing by the study fire, and he opened his eyes, and there was Miss Bartlett. A few minutes before you came in. She was turning to go as he woke up. He didn't speak to her." Then they spoke of other things--the desultory talk of those who have been fighting to reach one another, and whose reward is to rest quietly in each other's arms. It was long ere they returned to Miss Bartlett, but when they did her behaviour seemed more interesting. George, who disliked any darkness, said: "It's clear that she knew. Then, why did she risk the meeting? She knew he was there, and yet she went to church." They tried to piece the thing together. As they talked, an incredible solution came into Lucy's mind. She rejected it, and said: "How like Charlotte to undo her work by a feeble muddle at the last moment." But something in the dying evening, in the roar of the river, in their very embrace warned them that her words fell short of life, and George whispered: "Or did she mean it?" "Mean what?" "Signorino, domani faremo uno giro--" Lucy bent forward and said with gentleness: "Lascia, prego, lascia. Siamo sposati." "Scusi tanto, signora," he replied in tones as gentle and whipped up his horse. "Buona sera--e grazie." "Niente." The cabman drove away singing. "Mean what, George?" He whispered: "Is it this? Is this possible? I'll put a marvel to you. That your cousin has always hoped. That from the very first moment we met, she hoped, far down in her mind, that we should be like this--of course, very far down. That she fought us on the surface, and yet she hoped. I can't explain her any other way. Can you? Look how she kept me alive in you all the summer; how she gave you no peace; how month after month she became more eccentric and unreliable. The sight of us haunted her--or she couldn't have described us as she did to her friend. There are details--it burnt. I read the book afterwards. She is not frozen, Lucy, she is not withered up all through. She tore us apart twice, but in the rectory that evening she was given one more chance to make us happy. We can never make friends with her or thank her. But I do believe that, far down in her heart, far below all speech and behaviour, she is glad." "It is impossible," murmured Lucy, and then, remembering the experiences of her own heart, she said: "No--it is just possible." Youth enwrapped them; the song of Phaethon announced passion requited, love attained. But they were conscious of a love more mysterious than this. The song died away; they heard the river, bearing down the snows of winter into the Mediterranean. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Forster erzählt uns, dass die Miss Alans nach Griechenland und weiter gereist sind. Am Ende haben sie eine Weltreise gemacht. Aber sie sind ohne Lucy gegangen. Wir befinden uns wieder in der Pension Bertolini, bei Lucy und George. Sie sind in Lucys altem Zimmer; George besteht darauf, dass es seins war, aber Lucy erinnert sich, dass sie das Zimmer von Mr. Emerson genommen hat. Sie korrigiert ihn. Seine Fehler lassen sie ihn nur noch mehr lieben. Sie spielen miteinander wie frischvermählte Paare es tun. Lucy hat einen Brief von Freddy; die Leute aus Windy Corner, mit Ausnahme von Freddy, sind weiterhin wütend auf sie wegen ihrer früheren Heuchelei. Sie sind nicht mit der Verbindung zu George einverstanden. Mr. Beebe und Mrs. Honeychurch sind beide ziemlich verärgert. Lucy und George haben sich im Herbst und Winter umworben. Es ist jetzt Frühling und ohne die Zustimmung von Mrs. Honeychurch sind sie jetzt nach Italien geflohen. Lucy denkt darüber nach, wie viele unwahrscheinliche Ereignisse zu ihrem Glück geführt haben. Wenn Charlotte Mr. Emerson an diesem Tag im Pfarrhaus gesehen hätte, hätte sie Lucy nicht hineingehen lassen. Mr. Emerson und Lucy hätten nie miteinander gesprochen und Lucy wäre nach Griechenland gegangen. Aber George besteht darauf, dass Charlotte es wusste. Sein Vater hat ihm erzählt, dass er, als er am Feuer eingeschlafen war, aufgewacht ist und Miss Bartlett davongehen sah. Lucy weiß nicht, was sie davon halten soll. George schlägt vor, dass Charlotte wollte, dass Lucy auf Mr. Emerson trifft; irgendwie, tief in ihrem Inneren, wollte sie, dass George und Lucy am Ende zusammenkommen. George hat das Buch von Miss Lavish gelesen und darin kommen Details vor, die direkt aus der Zeit von George und Lucy in Florenz stammen. Etwas an der Affäre hat sie berührt und obwohl sie dagegen gekämpft hat, hat sie ihnen letztendlich im letzten Moment geholfen. Lucy sagt zunächst, dass es unmöglich ist, aber nachdem sie darüber nachgedacht hat, glaubt sie, dass es wahr sein könnte.

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.

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: _3. Oktober._--Da ich etwas tun muss oder verrückt werde, schreibe ich dieses Tagebuch. Es ist jetzt sechs Uhr, und wir sollen uns in einer halben Stunde im Studierzimmer treffen und etwas essen. Dr. Van Helsing und Dr. Seward sind sich einig, dass wir, wenn wir nicht essen, nicht unser Bestes geben können. Unser Bestes wird, Gott weiß, heute gefordert sein. Ich muss jede Chance zum Schreiben nutzen, denn ich darf nicht aufhören zu denken. Alles, Großes und Kleines, muss untergehen; vielleicht können uns die kleinen Dinge am meisten lehren. Die Lehre, groß oder klein, hätte Mina oder mich nicht an einen schlimmeren Ort bringen können als wir heute sind. Dennoch müssen wir vertrauen und hoffen. Arme Mina hat mir gerade mit Tränen in den Augen gesagt, dass unser Glauben in Schwierigkeiten und Prüfungen getestet wird - dass wir weiterhin vertrauen müssen; und dass Gott uns bis zum Ende helfen wird. Das Ende! Oh mein Gott! Welches Ende? ... An die Arbeit! An die Arbeit! Als Dr. Van Helsing und Dr. Seward von dem armen Renfield zurückkehrten, gingen wir ernsthaft auf das ein, was zu tun war. Zuerst erzählte uns Dr. Seward, dass als er und Dr. Van Helsing in den Raum darunter gegangen waren, sie Renfield auf dem Boden liegend, ganz durcheinander, fanden. Sein Gesicht war voller Blutergüsse und eingedrückt, und die Halsknochen waren gebrochen. Dr. Seward fragte den Diensthabenden im Gang, ob er etwas gehört habe. Er sagte, dass er gesessen habe - er gab zu, halb eingeschlafen zu sein -, als er laute Stimmen im Raum hörte und dann Renfield mehrmals laut gerufen hatte: "Gott! Gott! Gott!" danach gab es ein Geräusch, als ob etwas fallen würde, und als er den Raum betrat, fand er ihn auf dem Boden liegend, mit dem Gesicht nach unten, genau wie die Ärzte ihn gesehen hatten. Van Helsing fragte, ob er "Stimmen" oder "eine Stimme" gehört habe, und er sagte, er könne es nicht sagen; am Anfang habe es ihm so erschienen, als wären es zwei gewesen, aber da niemand im Raum war, konnte es nur eine gewesen sein. Er könnte es schwören, wenn nötig, dass das Wort "Gott" vom Patienten ausgesprochen wurde. Dr. Seward sagte uns, als wir alleine waren, dass er nicht weiter auf die Angelegenheit eingehen wollte; die Frage einer Untersuchung müsse in Betracht gezogen werden, und es wäre keine gute Idee, die Wahrheit ans Licht zu bringen, da niemand es glauben würde. So wie es war, dachte er, dass er aufgrund der Aussagen des Diensthabenden eine Todesbescheinigung wegen eines Unfalls beim Sturz vom Bett ausstellen könnte. Falls der Gerichtsmediziner es verlangen sollte, würde es eine förmliche Untersuchung mit demselben Ergebnis geben. Als wir begannen, darüber zu diskutieren, was unser nächster Schritt sein sollte, beschlossen wir als allererstes, dass Mina vollstes Vertrauen haben sollte; dass ihr nichts jeglicher Art - egal wie schmerzhaft - verschwiegen werden sollte. Sie war selbst damit einverstanden, dass es klug wäre, und es war erbärmlich, sie so tapfer und dennoch so traurig und in einer solchen Verzweiflung zu sehen. "Es darf keine Geheimnisse geben", sagte sie, "Ach! Wir hatten bereits zu viel davon. Und außerdem gibt es nichts auf der Welt, das mir mehr Schmerzen bereiten kann, als ich bereits ertragen habe - und als ich jetzt leide! Was auch immer passieren mag, es muss mir neue Hoffnung oder neuen Mut geben!" Van Helsing sah sie an, während sie sprach, und sagte plötzlich, aber ruhig: "Aber liebe Frau Mina, haben Sie keine Angst; nicht um sich selbst, sondern um andere von Ihnen, nachdem das passiert ist?" Ihr Gesicht wurde in ihren Konturen fest, aber ihre Augen glänzten vor Hingabe wie die eines Märtyrers, als sie antwortete: "Ach nein! Denn ich habe meine Entscheidung getroffen!" "Zu was?" fragte er sanft, während wir alle ganz still waren; denn jeder hatte auf seine Weise eine vage Idee davon, was sie meinte. Ihre Antwort kam in direkter Einfachheit, als würde sie einfach eine Tatsache feststellen: "Weil, wenn ich in mir selbst - und ich werde genau darauf achten - ein Zeichen für Schaden an denen, die ich liebe, finde, werde ich sterben!" "Würden Sie sich umbringen?" fragte er heiser. "Ja, das würde ich tun; wenn es keinen Freund gäbe, der mich liebt und mich vor solchem Schmerz und solchem verzweifelten Bemühen bewahren würde!" Sie sah ihn bedeutungsvoll an, als sie sprach. Er saß, aber jetzt stand er auf, kam ihr nahe und legte seine Hand auf ihren Kopf, als er feierlich sagte: "Mein Kind, es gibt jemanden, der das tun würde, wenn es für Ihr Bestes wäre. Ich selbst könnte es vor Gott als eine Art Euthanasie für Sie in Betracht ziehen, auch in diesem Augenblick, wenn es das Beste wäre. Nein, wenn es sicher wäre! Aber mein Kind -" Für einen Moment schien er erstickt zu sein, und ein großer Schluchzer stieg in seiner Kehle auf; er schluckte ihn hinunter und fuhr fort: "Es gibt hier einige, die zwischen Ihnen und dem Tod stehen würden. Sie dürfen nicht sterben. Sie dürfen nicht von irgendeiner Hand sterben, aber am allerwenigsten von Ihrer eigenen. Bis der andere, der Ihr liebes Leben beschmutzt hat, wirklich tot ist, dürfen Sie nicht sterben; denn wenn er noch mit den Un-Dead Lebenden zusammen ist, würde Ihr Tod Sie ebenso machen wie er. Nein, Sie müssen leben! Sie müssen kämpfen und sich bemühen zu leben, auch wenn der Tod wie ein unsagbares Geschenk erscheinen mag. Sie müssen den Tod selbst bekämpfen, ob er Ihnen in Schmerz oder Freude entgegenkommt; am Tag oder in der Nacht; in Sicherheit oder in Gefahr! Auf Ihre lebende Seele schwöre ich Ihnen, dass Sie nicht sterben dürfen - nein, auch nicht an den Tod denken dürfen -, bis dieses große Übel vorüber ist." Die arme Liebe wurde bleich wie der Tod und zitterte vor Schrecken, wie ich gesehen habe, wie ein Sandbett bei Flut erschüttert und zittert. Wir waren alle still, wir konnten nichts tun. Schließlich wurde sie ruhiger und wandte sich ihm zu und sagte sanft, aber oh! so traurig, als sie ihre Hand ausstreckte: "Ich verspreche Ihnen, mein lieber Freund, dass ich, wenn Gott mich leben lässt, darum kämpfen werde zu leben; bis, wenn es Seinem guten Willen entspricht, dieser Schrecken von mir genommen sein wird." Sie war so gut und tapfer, dass wir alle spürten, wie sich unsere Herzen stärkten, um für sie zu arbeiten und auszuhalten, und wir begannen zu besprechen, was wir tun sollten. Ich sagte ihr, dass sie alle Papiere im Safe haben sollte, und alle Papiere oder Tagebücher und Phonographen, die wir später verwenden würden; und dass sie die Aufzeichnungen wie zuvor führen sollte. Sie war erfreut über die Aussicht, etwas zu tun - falls "erfreut" im Zusammenhang mit so düsterem Interesse verwendet werden konnte. Wie üblich hatte Van Helsing weiter vorausgedacht als alle anderen und war auf eine genaue Anordnung unserer Arbeit vorbereitet. "Es ist vielleicht gut," sagte er, "dass wir nach unserem Besuch in Carfax beschlossen haben, nichts mit den Erdkisten zu tun, die dort lagen. Hätten wir es getan, hätte der Graf unser Ziel erraten und zweifellos Maßnahmen ergriffen, um unsere Bemühungen in Bezug auf die anderen im Voraus zu vereiteln; aber jetzt kennt er nicht unsere Absichten. Vielmehr weiß er wahrscheinlich nicht einmal, dass uns eine solche Macht zur Verfügung steht, mit der wir seine Schlupfwinkel sterilisieren können, sodass er sie nicht mehr wie früher nutzen kann. Wir sind jetzt so viel weiter fortgeschritten in unserem Wissen über ihre Lage, dass wir, wenn wir das Haus in Piccadilly untersucht haben, die allerletzten von ihnen aufspüren können. Heute ist also unser Tag und unsere Hoffnung ruht darauf. Die Sonne, die heute Morgen über unserem Kummer aufgegangen ist, beschützt uns auf ihrem Lauf. Bis sie heute Abend untergeht, muss dieses Monster die Form behalten, die es jetzt hat. Es ist auf die Beschränkungen seiner irdischen Hülle angewiesen. Es kann nicht in dünne Luft schmelzen oder durch Spalten oder Ritzen verschwinden. Wenn er durch eine Tür geht, muss er sie wie ein Sterblicher öffnen. Und so haben wir diesen Tag, um all seine Verstecke aufzuspüren und zu sterilisieren. Wenn wir ihn noch nicht gefangen und zerstört haben, werden wir ihn letztendlich an einen Ort treiben, wo das Fangen und Zerstören mit der Zeit sicher sein wird." Hier sprang ich auf, denn ich konnte mich nicht zurückhalten bei dem Gedanken, dass die Minuten und Sekunden, die so kostbar mit Minas Leben und Glück gefüllt waren, an uns vorbeiflogen, denn während wir sprachen, war Handeln undenkbar. Aber Van Helsing hob warnend die Hand. "Nein, mein lieber Jonathan", sagte er, "in dieser Angelegenheit ist der schnellste Weg nach Hause der längste Weg, wie dein Sprichwort sagt. Wir werden alle handeln und mit verzweifelter Geschwindigkeit handeln, wenn die Zeit gekommen ist. Aber bedenke, höchstwahrscheinlich liegt der Schlüssel der Situation in diesem Haus in Piccadilly. Der Graf kann viele Häuser besitzen, die er gekauft hat. Von ihnen wird er Kaufverträge, Schlüssel und andere Dinge haben. Er wird Papier haben, auf dem er schreiben kann; er wird sein Scheckbuch haben. Es gibt viele Dinge, die er irgendwo haben muss; warum nicht an diesem zentralen, ruhigen Ort, wo er zu jeder Stunde vorne oder hinten reinkommen und gehen kann, ohne dass jemand darauf achtet. Wir werden dorthin gehen und das Haus durchsuchen; und wenn wir erfahren, was es enthält, dann tun wir das, was unser Freund Arthur 'stop the earths' nennt, und so jagen wir unseren alten Fuchs herunter, nicht wahr?" "Dann lasst uns sofort dorthin gehen", rief ich, "wir verschwenden die kostbare, kostbare Zeit!" Der Professor bewegte sich nicht, sondern sagte einfach:-- "Und wie sollen wir in dieses Haus in Piccadilly gelangen?" "Egal wie!" rief ich. "Wir brechen ein, wenn es sein muss." "Und deine Polizei; wo werden sie sein und was werden sie sagen?" Ich war überrascht; aber ich wusste, dass er einen guten Grund hatte, zu verzögern. Also sagte ich so ruhig wie möglich:-- "Wartet nicht länger als nötig; du weißt sicherlich, welcher Qual ich ausgesetzt bin." "Ach, mein Kind, das weiß ich, und in der Tat gibt es keinen Wunsch meinerseits, deinem Leid noch etwas hinzuzufügen. Aber denk doch mal nach, was können wir tun, solange die ganze Welt in Bewegung ist. Dann kommt unsere Zeit. Ich habe nachgedacht und nachgedacht, und es scheint mir, dass der einfachste Weg der beste von allen ist. Wir möchten jetzt in das Haus einsteigen, aber wir haben keinen Schlüssel; stimmt's?" Ich nickte. "Angenommen, du wärst wirklich der Besitzer dieses Hauses und könntest trotzdem nicht hineingelangen; und denk dir, es gäbe für dich kein Unrechtsbewusstsein eines Einbrechers, was würdest du tun?" "Ich würde mir einen anständigen Schlosser besorgen und ihn beauftragen, das Schloss für mich zu knacken." "Und deine Polizei, würde sie sich einmischen, oder nicht?" "Oh nein! Nicht, wenn sie wüssten, dass der Mann ordnungsgemäß beschäftigt ist." "Dann," er betrachtete mich so scharf, wie er sprach, "ist das Einzige, woran gezweifelt wird, das Gewissen des Arbeitgebers und der Glaube deiner Polizisten, ob dieser Arbeitgeber ein gutes oder schlechtes Gewissen hat. Deine Polizei muss wirklich eifrige Männer sein und klug-oh, so klug!-im Lesen des Herzens, dass sie sich mit solchen Angelegenheiten beschäftigen. Nein, nein, mein Freund Jonathan, du gehst und nimmst das Schloss von einem hundert leeren Häusern in diesem deinem London oder in jeder beliebigen Stadt der Welt; und wenn du es tust, wie solche Dinge richtig getan werden, und zur richtigen Zeit, zu der solche Dinge richtig getan werden, wird niemand eingreifen. Ich habe von einem Herrn gelesen, der ein so feines Haus in London besaß und als er während der Sommermonate für Monate in die Schweiz ging und sein Haus verrammelte, kam ein Einbrecher und brach ein Fenster auf der Rückseite auf und stieg ein. Dann ging er und machte die Fensterläden vorne auf und ging rein und raus durch die Tür, direkt vor den Augen der Polizei. Dann hatte er eine Auktion in diesem Haus, hat sie beworben und große Schilder aufgestellt; und als der Tag kam, hat er mit einem großen Auktionator alle Güter dieses anderen Mannes verkauft, der sie besaß. Dann ging er zu einem Bauunternehmer und verkaufte ihm dieses Haus, vereinbarte, dass er es abreißt und innerhalb einer bestimmten Zeit alles wegnimmt. Und deine Polizei und andere Behörden halfen ihm so gut sie konnten. Und als der Eigentümer aus seinem Urlaub in der Schweiz zurückkam, fand er nur ein leeres Loch, wo sein Haus gestanden hatte. Das alles wurde _regelrecht_ gemacht; und in unserer Arbeit werden wir auch _regelrecht_ sein. Wir werden nicht so früh gehen, dass die Polizisten, die dann wenig zu tun haben, es für seltsam halten; aber wir werden nach zehn Uhr gehen, wenn viele unterwegs sind, und solche Dinge würden getan werden, wenn wir tatsächlich die Besitzer des Hauses wären." Ich konnte nicht anders, als zu erkennen, wie recht er hatte, und die schreckliche Verzweiflung in Minas Gesicht löste sich einen Moment lang. Es gab Hoffnung in einem so guten Rat. Van Helsing fuhr fort:-- "Sobald wir in diesem Haus sind, können wir vielleicht weitere Hinweise finden; zumindest können einige von uns dort bleiben, während der Rest die anderen Orte sucht, an denen noch Erdkisten sind-in Bermondsey und Mile End." Lord Godalming stand auf. "Ich kann hier von Nutzen sein", sagte er. "Ich werde meine Leute anschreiben, damit sie Pferde und Kutschen holen, wo es am praktischsten ist." "Hör mal, alter Freund", sagte Morris, "es ist eine großartige Idee, alles bereit zu haben, falls wir reiten wollen; aber denkst du nicht, dass eine deiner schicken Kutschen mit ihren heraldischen Verzierungen in einer Seitenstraße von Walworth oder Mile End zu viel Aufmerksamkeit auf sich ziehen würde? Es scheint mir, dass wir Taxis nehmen sollten, wenn wir nach Süden oder Osten fahren; und sie irgendwo in der Nähe der Gegend stehen lassen sollten, in die wir gehen." "Freund Quincey hat recht!" sagte der Professor. "Sein Verstand ist in einer Ebene mit dem Horizont. Es ist eine schwierige Sache, die wir tun müssen, und wir wollen nicht, dass uns jemand zusieht, wenn es sein könnte." Mina bekam immer mehr Interesse an allem, und ich war froh zu sehen, dass die Dringlichkeit der Angelegenheit ihr half, für eine Weile das schreckliche Erlebnis der Nacht zu vergessen. Sie war sehr, sehr blass - fast gespenstisch - und so dünn, dass sich ihre Lippen zurückzogen und ihre Zähne leicht sichtbar waren. Ich erwähnte dies nicht zuletzt, um ihr unnötige Schmerzen zu ersparen; aber mir lief ein eiskalter Schauer über den Rücken, Was die Verwendung der Kräfte anging, schlug der Professor vor, dass wir nach unserem Besuch in Carfax alle ins Haus in der Piccadilly gehen sollten; dass die beiden Ärzte und ich dort bleiben sollten, während Lord Godalming und Quincey die Schlafplätze in Walworth und Mile End finden und zerstören sollten. Der Professor betonte, dass es möglich war, wenn auch nicht wahrscheinlich, dass der Graf während des Tages in der Piccadilly auftauchen könnte, und dass wir ihn dann und dort bewältigen könnten. Auf jeden Fall könnten wir ihm möglicherweise geschlossen folgen. Diesem Plan widersprach ich entschieden und was meine Teilnahme anging, sagte ich, dass ich bleiben und Mina beschützen wollte. Ich dachte, meine Entscheidung sei gefallen. Aber Mina wollte meinen Einwand nicht hören. Sie sagte, dass es möglicherweise eine Rechtsangelegenheit geben könnte, bei der ich nützlich sein könnte; dass es unter den Papieren des Grafen möglicherweise einige Hinweise gibt, die ich aufgrund meiner Erfahrungen in Transsilvanien verstehen könnte; und dass, so wie es jetzt ist, alle Stärke, die wir mobilisieren konnten, erforderlich war, um mit der außergewöhnlichen Macht des Grafen umzugehen. Ich musste nachgeben, denn Minas Entschluss stand fest; sie sagte, dass es die letzte Hoffnung für sie sei, dass wir alle gemeinsam arbeiten sollten. "Was mich betrifft," sagte sie, "habe ich keine Angst. Die Dinge waren so schlimm wie sie sein können; und was auch immer geschehen mag, es muss eine Element von Hoffnung oder Trost beinhalten. Geh, mein Mann! Gott kann, wenn er es wünscht, mich alleine genauso gut beschützen wie mit jemandem in meiner Nähe." Also stand ich auf und rief aus: "Dann lasst uns in Gottes Namen sofort losgehen, denn wir verlieren Zeit. Der Graf könnte früher in der Piccadilly auftauchen, als wir denken." "Nein!" sagte Van Helsing und hielt seine Hand hoch. "Aber warum?" fragte ich. "Habt ihr vergessen," sagte er, mit einem tatsächlichen Lächeln, "dass er gestern Abend schwer gespeist hat und spät schlafen wird?" Habe ich vergessen! Werde ich jemals vergessen können! Kann einer von uns jemals diese schreckliche Szene vergessen! Mina kämpfte hart, um ihre tapfere Haltung zu bewahren; aber der Schmerz überwältigte sie, und sie legte ihre Hände vor ihr Gesicht, zitterte und stöhnte. Van Helsing hatte nicht beabsichtigt, ihre schreckliche Erfahrung wieder ins Bewusstsein zu rufen. Er hatte einfach ihre Rolle und ihren Teil in der Angelegenheit bei seinen intellektuellen Bemühungen aus den Augen verloren. Als ihm bewusst wurde, was er gesagt hatte, war er entsetzt über seine Gedankenlosigkeit und versuchte, sie zu trösten. "Oh, Frau Mina," sagte er, "liebe, liebe Frau Mina, ach! dass ausgerechnet ich, der Sie so verehrt, so etwas Vergessliches gesagt habe. Diese dummen alten Lippen von mir und dieser dumme alte Kopf verdienen das nicht; aber du wirst es vergessen, nicht wahr?" Als er sprach, beugte er sich tief zu ihr hinunter; sie nahm seine Hand und schaute durch ihre Tränen hoarsch zu ihm auf:-- "Nein, ich werde es nicht vergessen, denn es ist gut, dass ich mich daran erinnere; und damit habe ich so viele süße Erinnerungen an dich, dass ich alles zusammennehme. Nun, ihr müsst alle bald gehen. Das Frühstück steht bereit, und wir müssen alle essen, um stark zu sein." Das Frühstück war für uns alle eine seltsame Mahlzeit. Wir versuchten, fröhlich zu sein und uns gegenseitig zu ermutigen, und Mina war die fröhlichste und lebhafteste von uns. Als es vorbei war, stand Van Helsing auf und sagte:-- "Nun, meine lieben Freunde, gehen wir unseren schrecklichen Unternehmungen entgegen. Sind wir alle bewaffnet, wie an jener Nacht, als wir zum ersten Mal das Versteck unseres Feindes besuchten; bewaffnet gegen geisterhafte und körperliche Angriffe?" Wir versicherten ihm, dass dem so sei. "Dann ist es gut. Nun, verehrte Frau Mina, Sie sind in jedem Fall hier bis zum Sonnenuntergang absolut sicher; und bevor wir zurückkommen--wenn---- Wir werden zurückkommen! Aber bevor wir gehen, lasst mich Sie gegen persönliche Angriffe verteidigen. Auf Ihre Stirn lege ich dieses Stück heiliges Oblaten im Namen des Vaters, des Sohnes und----" Es gab einen furchtbaren Schrei, der unsere Herzen fast gefrieren ließ. Als er die Oblate auf Minas Stirn legte, hatte sie eingebrannt--sie brannte sich in das Fleisch wie ein Stück glühendes Metall. Das Bewusstsein für die Bedeutung der Tatsache kam meinem armen Liebling genauso schnell wie der Schmerz; und von beidem überwältigt, wurde ihre überreizte Natur in diesem schrecklichen Schrei laut. Aber die Gedanken kamen ihr schnell; der Nachhall des Schreis war noch nicht verklungen, als die Reaktion einsetzte und sie sich auf die Knie auf den Boden warf, in einem Zustand der Demütigung und Scham. Sie zog ihr schönes Haar über ihr Gesicht, wie einst der Aussätzige seinen Mantel, und jammerte:-- "Unrein! Unrein! Selbst der Allmächtige meidet mein verunreinigtes Fleisch! Ich muss dieses Zeichen der Schande auf meiner Stirn tragen, bis zum Tag des Gerichts." Alle hielten inne. Ich hatte mich neben sie geworfen in einem Zustand hilfloser Trauer und hielt sie fest. Einige Minuten lang schlugen unsere betrübten Herzen im Einklang, während unsere Freunde ihre Tränen still liefen. Dann drehte sich Van Helsing um und sagte feierlich; so feierlich, dass ich nicht anders konnte, als das Gefühl zu haben, er sei irgendwie inspiriert und sage Dinge, die außerhalb seiner selbst lagen:-- "Es mag sein, dass du dieses Zeichen tragen musst, bis Gott selbst es für geboten hält, wie sicherlich am Tag des Gerichts, um alle Unrechte der Erde und all seiner Kinder, die er darauf gestellt hat, wieder in Ordnung zu bringen. Und ach, Frau Mina, meine liebe, liebe Frau Mina, mögen wir, die dich lieben, dort sein, um zu sehen, wenn diese Narbe, das Zeichen von Gottes Kenntnis dessen, was gewesen ist, vergeht und deine Stirn so rein wird wie das Herz, das wir kennen. Denn so sicher wie wir leben, wird diese Narbe vergehen, wenn Gott es für richtig hält, die Last, die schwer auf uns liegt, zu lindern. Bis dahin tragen wir unser Kreuz, wie Sein Sohn es in Gehorsam gegenüber Seinem Willen tat. Es mag sein, dass wir auserwählte Instrumente zu Seinem Wohlgefallen sind und dass wir Seinem Rufen gehorchen wie jener andere durch Streiche und Schande; durch Tränen und Blut; durch Zweifel und Ängste, und allem, was den Unterschied zwischen Gott und Mensch ausmacht." In seinen Worten lag Hoffnung und Trost, sie führten zur Resignation. Mina und ich empfanden das beide, und gleichzeitig nahmen wir jeder eine der alten Hände des Mannes und beugten uns vor und küssten sie. Dann knieten wir alle zusammen nieder, ohne ein Wort, und schworen, einander treu zu bleiben. Wir Männer verpflichteten uns, den Schleier des Kummers vom Kopf jener, die wir auf unsere eigene Weise liebten, zu heben; und wir beteten um Hilfe und Führung bei der schrecklichen Aufgabe, die vor uns lag. Es war dann an der Zeit, aufzubrechen. Also sagte ich Mina Eins nach dem anderen behandelten wir jede der großen Kisten auf dieselbe Weise und ließen sie so aussehen, wie wir sie vorgefunden hatten; aber in jeder von ihnen befand sich ein Teil des Altarsakraments. Als wir die Tür hinter uns schlossen, sagte der Professor feierlich: "So viel ist bereits getan. Wenn es möglich ist, dass wir bei allen anderen Kisten genauso erfolgreich sind, dann wird der Sonnenuntergang heute Abend auf Madam Minas Stirn scheinen, ganz weiß wie Elfenbein und ohne Flecken!" Als wir über den Rasen gingen, um zur Station zu gelangen und unseren Zug zu erwischen, konnten wir die Front des Irrenhauses sehen. Ich schaute erwartungsvoll und sah Mina im Fenster meines eigenen Zimmers. Ich winkte ihr zu und nickte, um ihr zu signalisieren, dass unsere Arbeit erfolgreich erledigt war. Sie nickte als Zeichen, dass sie es verstanden hatte. Das letzte, was ich sah, war, wie sie mit der Hand zum Abschied winkte. Schweren Herzens machten wir uns auf den Weg zur Station und erreichten gerade noch rechtzeitig den einfahrenden Zug. Diesen Text habe ich im Zug geschrieben. * * * * * _Piccadilly, 12:30 Uhr._- Kurz bevor wir Fenchurch Street erreichten, sagte Lord Godalming zu mir: "Quincey und ich werden einen Schlosser finden. Du solltest besser nicht mitkommen, falls es Schwierigkeiten geben sollte. In Anbetracht der Umstände wäre es für uns nicht so schlimm, in ein leeres Haus einzubrechen. Aber du bist ein Anwalt und die Incorporated Law Society würde dir sagen, dass du es besser hättest wissen sollen." Ich widersprach, dass ich nicht am Risiko teilnahm, doch er fuhr fort: "Außerdem wird es weniger Aufmerksamkeit erregen, wenn wir nicht zu viele sind. Mein Titel wird bei dem Schlosser in Ordnung sein und bei jedem Polizisten, der vorbeikommt. Du solltest lieber mit Jack und dem Professor mitgehen und irgendwo im Green Park bleiben, in Sichtweite des Hauses. Und wenn du siehst, dass die Tür geöffnet wird und der Schmied weggegangen ist, kommt ihr alle rüber. Wir werden Ausschau nach euch halten und euch hereinfahren lassen." "Der Rat ist gut!", sagte Van Helsing, und wir sagten nichts mehr. Godalming und Morris eilten in einer Kutsche davon, wir folgten in einer anderen. An der Ecke der Arlington Street stiegen unsere Mitstreiter aus und schlenderten in den Green Park. Mein Herz schlug, als ich das Haus sah, auf das so viele unserer Hoffnungen ruhten, finster und still in seiner verlassenen Lage, umgeben von lebendigeren und gepflegt aussehenden Nachbarn. Wir setzten uns auf eine Bank mit guter Aussicht und begannen Zigarren zu rauchen, um möglichst wenig Aufmerksamkeit zu erregen. Die Minuten vergingen wie Blei, während wir auf die Ankunft der anderen warteten. Schließlich sahen wir einen Vierradfahrzeug ankommen. In gemächlichem Tempo stiegen Lord Godalming und Morris aus und vom Kutscherbock stieg ein stämmiger Arbeiter mit seinem aus Rohr geflochtenen Werkzeugkorb herab. Morris zahlte dem Kutscher, der den Hut abnahm und davonfuhr. Die beiden stiegen die Stufen hinauf und Lord Godalming zeigte dem Arbeiter, was er tun sollte. Der Arbeiter zog gemächlich seinen Mantel aus und hängte ihn an einen der Stacheln des Geländers, während er etwas zu einem Polizisten sagte, der gerade vorbeispazierte. Der Polizist nickte zustimmend und der Mann kniete sich hin und legte seine Tasche neben sich. Nachdem er darin gesucht hatte, nahm er eine Auswahl an Werkzeugen heraus und ordnete sie ordentlich neben sich an. Dann stand er auf, schaute in das Schlüsselloch, blies hinein und wandte sich seinen Auftraggebern zu, um etwas zu sagen. Lord Godalming lächelte und der Mann nahm einen ordentlichen Bündel Schlüssel, wählte einen aus und begann ihn wie zur Orientierung im Schloss zu verwenden. Nachdem er eine Weile herumprobiert hatte, versuchte er einen zweiten und dann einen dritten. Plötzlich öffnete sich die Tür unter einem leichten Druck von ihm und er und die beiden anderen betraten den Flur. Wir saßen still, meine eigene Zigarre brannte wie verrückt, aber Van Helsings erlosch völlig. Geduldig warteten wir, als wir den Arbeiter herauskommen und seine Tasche holen sahen. Dann hielt er die Tür teilweise offen, hielt sie mit den Knien fest, während er einen Schlüssel ins Schloss steckte. Diesen übergab er schließlich Lord Godalming, der seine Brieftasche holte und ihm etwas gab. Der Mann nahm den Hut ab, nahm seine Tasche, zog seinen Mantel an und ging weg. Keine Menschenseele nahm die geringste Notiz von der ganzen Transaktion. Als der Mann endgültig weg war, überquerten wir die Straße und klopften an die Tür. Quincey Morris öffnete sie sofort, neben ihm stand Lord Godalming und zündete sich eine Zigarre an. "Es riecht hier so ekelhaft", sagte Letzterer, als wir eintraten. Tatsächlich roch es äußerst unangenehm - wie in der alten Kapelle in Carfax -, und basierend auf unseren bisherigen Erfahrungen war uns klar, dass der Graf den Ort ziemlich intensiv genutzt hatte. Wir begaben uns auf die Erkundung des Hauses, blieben alle zusammen, um im Falle eines Angriffs geschützt zu sein. Wir wussten, dass wir es mit einem starken und raffinierten Feind zu tun hatten, und wussten noch nicht, ob der Graf nicht vielleicht doch im Haus war. In dem Speisezimmer, das hinter dem Flur lag, fanden wir acht Kisten mit Erde. Acht Kisten nur von den neun, die wir suchten! Unsere Arbeit war noch nicht vorbei und würde es auch nie sein, bis wir die fehlende Kiste gefunden hatten. Zuerst öffneten wir die Fensterläden des Fensters, das auf einen schmalen, mit Steinfliesen gepflasterten Hof und die blinde Vorderseite eines Stalles zugewandt war, die wie die Vorderseite eines Miniaturhauses aussah. Es gab keine Fenster darin, also hatten wir keine Angst, beobachtet zu werden. Wir verloren keine Zeit und untersuchten die Truhen. Mit den Werkzeugen, die wir mitgebracht hatten, öffneten wir sie nacheinander und behandelten sie wie die anderen in der alten Kapelle. Es war für uns offensichtlich, dass der Graf sich im Moment nicht im Haus befand, und wir begannen nach seinen Sachen zu suchen. Nach einem kurzen Blick in den Rest der Räume, vom Keller bis zum Dachboden, kamen wir zu dem Schluss, dass das Speisezimmer alle Sachen enthielt, die dem Grafen gehören könnten. Deshalb begannen wir, sie gründlich zu untersuchen. Sie lagen in einer Art geordnetem Durcheinander auf dem großen Esstisch. Da waren die Grundstücksurkunden des Hauses in der Piccadilly Straße, zu einem großen Bündel zusammengefasst; Urkunden über den Kauf der Häuser in Mile End und Bermondsey; Briefpapier, Umschläge und Stifte und Tinte. Alles war in dünnes Verpackungspapier eingewickelt, um sie vor Staub zu schützen. Es gab auch eine Kleiderbürste, eine Bürste und ein Kamm sowie ein Krug und eine Schüssel - letztere enthielt schmutziges Wasser, das rot wie Blut war. Schließlich gab es noch einen kleinen Stapel Schlüssel aller Art und Größe, wahrscheinlich gehörten sie zu den anderen Häusern. Als wir diesen letzten Fund untersucht hatten, machten Lord Godalming und Quincey Morris genaue Notizen über die verschiedenen Adressen der Häuser im Osten und Süden, nahmen die Schlüssel in einem großen Bündel mit und machten sich auf den Weg, um die Kisten an diesen Orten zu zerstören. Die restlichen von uns warten so geduldig wie möglich auf ihre Rückkehr - oder auf die Ankunft des Grafen. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

Aus Jonathan Harkers Tagebuch, Eintrag vom 3. Oktober. Die Gruppe plant ihren Angriff. Alle Häuser müssen an einem Tag durchsucht werden, wobei alle Kisten sterilisiert und für Draculas Bewohnung unbrauchbar gemacht werden müssen. Zuerst werden sie den Unterschlupf in Carfax durchsuchen und zerstören. Dann sollten alle Männer zum Haus in Picadilly gehen, wo die beiden Ärzte und Jonathan bleiben, während Quincey und Arthur zu den Häusern in Walworth und Mile End gehen. Bevor sie gehen, schützt Van Helsing Minas Zimmer mit Oblaten, aber als er eine auf ihre Stirn legt, verbrennt die Hostie sie und hinterlässt eine schreckliche Narbe. Sie wurde von Dracula verunreinigt, und heilige Gegenstände schaden ihr nun. Die Männer gehen zu Carfax und legen in jede Kiste eine Oblate. Dann gehen sie weiter nach Picadilly, wo Arthur und Quincey einen Schlosser engagieren, um ihnen beim Einbruch in das Haus zu helfen. Nach einer gründlichen Durchsuchung kommen sie zu dem Schluss, dass nur acht der erwarteten neun Kisten dort sind. Sie finden Schlüssel zu den anderen beiden Häusern, und Arthur und Quincey eilen dorthin, um die Unterschlupfe zu zerstören.

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.

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 3, Szene 1. Betritt Hotspur, Worcester, Lord Mortimer, Owen Glendower. Mort. Diese Versprechen sind fair, die Parteien sicher, Und unser Einführung ist voller hoffnungsvoller Hoffnung Hotsp. Lord Mortimer und Cousin Glendower, Wollt ihr euch setzen? Und Onkel Worcester; verdammt, ich habe die Karte vergessen. Glend. Nein, hier ist sie: Setz dich Cousin Percy, setz dich guter Cousin Hotspur: Denn immer wenn Lancaster von dir spricht, Werden seine Wangen blass und ein aufsteigender Seufzer, Er wünscht dich im Himmel. Hotsp. Und dich in der Hölle, immer wenn er Owen Glendower von dir sprechen hört. Glend. Ich kann ihm das nicht verübeln: Zu meiner Geburt War der Himmel voller feuriger Gestalten, Von brennenden Fackeln: und bei meiner Geburt Bebte das Gerüst und das Fundament der Erde Zitterte wie ein Feigling. Hotsp. So wäre es auch zur gleichen Jahreszeit geschehen, wenn deine Mutter nur Kätzchen gehabt hätte, auch wenn du selbst nie geboren worden wärst. Glend. Ich sage, die Erde bebte, als ich geboren wurde. Hotsp. Und ich sage, die Erde war nicht meiner Meinung, Wenn du glaubst, sie hätte gezittert, aus Angst vor dir. Glend. Die Himmel waren alle in Flammen, die Erde bebte. Hotsp. Oh, dann bebte die Erde Um die Himmel in Flammen zu sehen, Und nicht aus Angst vor deiner Geburt. Kranke Natur bricht oft aus In seltsamen Eruptionen; und die trächtige Erde Ist von einer Art Kolik gepincht und gequält, Durch die Einkerkerung wilder Winde In ihrem Bauch: Die für ihre Vergrößerung kämpft, Rüttelt an der alten Vettel Erde und stürzt Kirchtürme und Moostürme ein. Bei deiner Geburt, Unsere Urgroßmutter Erde, die diese Unstimmigkeit hatte, Bebte vor Wut. Glend. Cousin: Von vielen Männern Trage ich diese Anfeindungen nicht: Erlaub mir Noch einmal zu sagen, dass bei meiner Geburt Der Himmel voller feuriger Gestalten war, Die Ziegen rannten von den Bergen und die Herden Schrien seltsam bedrohlich auf die verängstigten Felder: Diese Zeichen haben mich außergewöhnlich gemacht, Und alle Wege meines Lebens zeigen, Ich stehe nicht in der Reihe gewöhnlicher Männer. Wo ist der Mann, von den Meeren umgeben, Der die Ufer von England, Schottland und Wales anspricht Mich als Schüler bezeichnet oder mir vorgelesen hat? Und bringt ihn her, der nur der Sohn einer Frau ist, Kann mich auf den langwierigen Wegen der Kunst verfolgen Und in tiefen Experimenten mit mir Schritt halten. Hotsp. Ich denke, es spricht niemand besser walisisch: Ich werde zum Abendessen gehen. Mort. Beruhige dich, Cousin Percy, du wirst ihn verrückt machen. Glend. Ich kann Geister aus den tiefen Tiefen rufen. Hotsp. Warum nicht, das kann ich auch, oder jeder andere Mann: Aber werden sie kommen, wenn du sie rufst? Glend. Warum, ich kann dir beibringen, Cousin, den Teufel zu befehlen. Hotsp. Und ich kann dir beibringen, Cousin, den Teufel zu beschämen, Indem du die Wahrheit sagst. Sag die Wahrheit und beschäme den Teufel. Wenn du die Kraft hast, ihn zu erwecken, bring ihn her, Und ich schwöre, ich habe die Kraft, ihn von hier zu vertreiben. Oh, solange du lebst, sage die Wahrheit und beschäme den Teufel. Mort. Komm, komm, kein weiteres nutzloses Geplänkel. Glend. Drei Mal hat Henry Bolingbroke sich meinem Macht widersetzt: dreimal von den Ufern der Wye Und sandigen Severne, habe ich ihn Vergeblich nach Hause gebracht und zurück ins stürmische Wetter. Hotsp. Nach Hause ohne Stiefel, Und auch noch bei schmutzigem Wetter, Wie entgeht ihm im Teufelsnamen die Krankheit? Glend. Komm, hier ist die Karte: Wollen wir uns unserem dreifachen Anspruch angemessen teilen? Mort. Der Erzdiakon hat es geteilt In drei sehr gleiche Gebiete: England, von Trent und Severn bis hierher, Nach Süden und Osten, gehört mir: Alles westlich, Wales, jenseits der Severn-Ufer, Und alles fruchtbare Land innerhalb dieser Grenzen, Ist Owen Glendower zugeschrieben: Und lieber Cousin, dir Verbleibt der Rest im Norden, ab von Trent. Und unsere Dreifachindenturen sind gezeichnet: Die, ausgetauscht und besiegelt, (Ein Geschäft, das diese Nacht ausgeführt werden kann) Morgen, Cousin Percy, du und ich, Und mein guter Lord of Worcester, werden uns aufmachen, Um deinen Vater und die schottische Macht zu treffen, Wie es uns in Shrewsbury bestimmt ist. Mein Vater Glendower ist noch nicht bereit, Und wir werden seine Hilfe in diesen vierzehn Tagen nicht brauchen: In dieser Zeit könntest du Deine Mieter, Freunde und benachbarten Herren zusammengetrommelt haben. Glend. Eine kürzere Zeit wird mich zu euch senden, Lords: Und in meiner Obhut werden eure Damen kommen, Von denen ihr jetzt stehlen und ohne Lebewohl nehmen müsst, Denn es wird eine Flut von Tränen geben, Beim Abschied eurer Frauen und euch. Hotsp. In meinen Augen, gleichwertig mit Burton im Norden, Ist die Menge nicht so groß wie in eurem Besitz. Seht, wie dieser Fluss hier herumschlängelt, Und mich von dem besten Land abschneidet, Einen riesigen Halbmond, ein monströses Stück heraus. Ich werde den Fluss an dieser Stelle aufstauen, Und hier wird der schlanke und silberne Trent fließen, In einem neuen Kanal, schön und eben: Es wird sich nicht mit einer so tiefen Einkerbung winden, Um mich um so einen reichen Grundbesitz zu berauben. Glend. Nicht winden? Doch, das wird er, das siehst du doch. Mort. Ja, aber sieh, wie er seine Richtung hält, Und mich, mit ähnlichem Vorteil auf der anderen Seite hinaufführt, Die gegnerische Landmasse so kastrierend, Wie auf der anderen Seite von dir genommen wird. Worc. Ja, aber eine kleine Ladung wird ihn hier durchtrennen, Und auf dieser Nordseite dieses Landkap gewinnen, Und dann wird er gerade und gleichmäßig fließen. Hotsp. Das werde ich haben, eine kleine Ladung wird es tun. Glend. Ich werde es nicht verändert haben. Hotsp. Wirst du nicht? Glend. Nein, und du auch nicht. Hotsp. Wer will mich davon abhalten? Glend. Nun, das werde ich. Hotsp. Lass mich dich dann nicht verstehen, sprich es auf Walisisch. Glend. Ich kann Englisch sprechen, Herr, genauso gut wie du: Denn ich wurde am englischen Hof erzogen; Wo ich noch jung war, erlernte ich am Harfchen Viele ein englisches Lied, sehr schön, Und gab der Sprache eine hilfreiche Verzierung; Eine Tugend, die in dir nie gesehen wurde. Hotsp. Wahrlich, und das freut mich von ganzem Herzen, Ich wäre lieber ein Kätzchen und würde miauen, Als einer dieser Metrik-Balladenrase. Ich würde lieber eine Messingleuchterdrehen hören, Oder ein trockenes Rad, das auf der Achse quietscht, Und das würde meine Zähne nicht so sehr schärfen, Nicht so sehr, wie Schnitzpoesie; Es ist wie das gezwungene Gang eines schleichenden Kleppers. Glend. Komm, du wirst den Trent umdrehen. Hotsp. Das ist mir egal: Ich gebe dreimal so viel Land Einem wohldeservierenden Freund; Aber in Sachen Geschäft, hör mal, Ich werde auf einem Haar der neunten Not reiten. Sind die Indent Hotsp. Ich kann nicht anders: Manchmal macht er mich wütend, indem er mir von der Moldwarpe und der Ameise erzählt, vom Träumer Merlin und seinen Prophezeiungen; und von einem Drachen und einem flossenlosen Fisch, einem Flügel-kappen Griffon und einem mausernden Raben, einem kauernden Löwen und einer vorpreschenden Katze und so viel Geschwafel, das meinen Glauben erschüttert. Ich sage dir was: Gestern Nacht hat er mich mindestens neun Stunden an der Zahlung der verschiedenen Teufelsnamen teilhaben lassen, die seine Schergen waren. Ich sagte hmm, und gut, los geht's, aber habe kein Wort aufmerksam gehört. Oh, er ist so ermüdend wie ein erschöpftes Pferd, eine rechthaberische Ehefrau, schlimmer als ein rauchiges Haus. Ich würde lieber mit Käse und Knoblauch in einer Windmühle leben, als mich von ihm mit Speisen füttern zu lassen und mich in irgendeinem Sommerhaus in Christendom unterhalten zu lassen. Mort. Glaube mir, er war ein würdiger Gentleman, sehr belesen und bewandert in seltsamen Dingen; tapfer wie ein Löwe, wunderbar umgänglich und so großzügig wie die Minen Indiens. Soll ich dir sagen, Cousin, er achtet sehr auf dein Temperament und zügelt sich sogar in seiner natürlichen Art, wenn du seinen Humor kreuzt. Wahrlich, er tut es. Ich versichere dich, dass es keinen lebenden Mann gibt, der ihn so hätte in Versuchung führen können, wie du es getan hast, ohne den Klang von Gefahr und Vorwürfen wahrzunehmen. Aber benutze das nicht oft, das bitte ich dich. Worc. Bei Gott, mein Herr, ihr macht ihm zu Unrecht Vorwürfe und habt seit eurer Ankunft hier genug getan, um ihn vollkommen die Geduld zu verlieren. Ihr müsst lernen, mein Herr, diesen Fehler zu verbessern. Auch wenn er manchmal Größe, Mut und Tapferkeit zeigt, und das ist die liebste Eigenschaft, die er dir anbietet, präsentiert er oft harten Zorn, Mangel an Manieren, fehlende Selbstkontrolle, Stolz, Hochmut, Starrsinnigkeit, Meinung und Verachtung. Selbst der geringste dieser Eigenschaften, die einen Edelmann begleiten, lässt die Herzen der Menschen verloren gehen und hinterlässt einen Makel auf der Schönheit aller anderen Teile, der ihnen Lob raubt. Hotsp. Nun, ich bin belehrt. Gute Manieren seien dein Glück. Hier kommen deine Frauen, und lass uns Abschied nehmen. Mort. Das ist der ärgerliche Zwist, der mich wütend macht. Meine Frau spricht kein Englisch, ich kein Walisisch. Glend. Meine Tochter weint, sie will sich nicht von dir trennen. Sie will auch eine Soldatin sein und in den Krieg ziehen. Mort. Lieber Vater, sag ihr, dass sie und meine Tante Percy dir bald folgen sollen. Glendower spricht auf Walisisch mit ihr und sie antwortet ihm in der gleichen Sprache. Glend. Sie ist hier verzweifelt, eine störrische Hure, auf die keine Überredungskunst wirkt. Die Dame spricht auf Walisisch. Mort. Ich verstehe deinen Blick, das hübsche Walisisch, das du von diesen schwellenden Himmeln herunterschüttest, verstehe ich nur zu gut. Aber aus Scham sollte ich dir in solch einem Gespräch antworten. Die Dame wieder auf Walisisch. Mort. Ich verstehe deine Küsse, und du die meinen, und das ist eine erregende Auseinandersetzung. Aber ich werde niemals ein Ausreißer der Liebe sein, bis ich deine Sprache gelernt habe. Denn deine Zunge macht das Walisisch so süß wie hochverehrte Lieder, die von einer schönen Königin in einem Sommerhaus mit bezaubernder Klaviermusik gesungen werden. Glend. Nun, wenn du schmilzt, wird sie verrückt werden. Die Dame spricht erneut auf Walisisch. Mort. Oh, ich bin selbst in dieser Sache unwissend. Glend. Sie bittet dich, dich auf die lustigen Binsen zu legen und deinen Kopf sanft in ihren Schoß zu legen. Sie wird das Lied singen, das dir gefällt, und den Gott des Schlafes auf deine Augenlider krönen und dein Blut mit angenehmer Schwere betören, indem sie einen so deutlichen Unterschied zwischen Wachsein und Schlaf herstellt wie zwischen Tag und Nacht, eine Stunde bevor das himmlische Gespann seinen goldenen Lauf im Osten beginnt. Mort. Von ganzem Herzen werde ich mich setzen und ihr Singen anhören. Bis dahin wird unser Buch, denke ich, fertig sein. Glend. Tu das. Und die Musiker, die für dich spielen sollen, sollen tausend Meilen von hier in der Luft schweben und sofort hier sein. Setzt euch und wartet. Hotsp. Komm, Kate, du bist Meisterin im Sich-Hinlegen. Komm, schnell, schnell, damit ich meinen Kopf in deinen Schoße legen kann. Lady. Geh, du alberner Kerl. Musik spielt. Hotsp. Jetzt sehe ich, dass der Teufel Walisisch versteht, und es ist kein Wunder, dass er so humorvoll ist. Bei meinen Lebzeiten ist er ein guter Musiker. Lady. Dann wärst du am liebsten nichts als musikalisch, denn du wirst ganz von Stimmungen beherrscht. Lieg still, du Dieb, und höre der Dame beim Singen zu. Hotsp. Ich würde lieber (Lady) mein Brachhund im Irischen heulen hören. Lady. Willst du, dass dir der Kopf eingeschlagen wird? Hotsp. Nein. Lady. Dann sei still. Hotsp. Beides nicht, es ist eine Eigenart von Frauen. Lady. Nun, Gott helfe dir. Hotsp. Zum Bett der walisischen Damen. Lady. Was soll das. Hotsp. Friede, sie singt. Hier singt die Dame ein walisisches Lied. Hotsp. Komm, ich werde auch dein Lied haben wollen. Lady. Nicht meins, wahrlich nicht. Hotsp. Nicht deins, wirklich nicht? Du schwörst wie die Frau eines Süßwarenherstellers. Nicht du, wirklich nicht; und so wahr ich lebe; und so wahr mir Gott helfe; und so sicher wie der Tag; und gibst solche seidene Sicherheit für deine Schwüre, als ob du nie weiter als Finsbury herumlaufen würdest. Schere mich, Kate, wie eine Dame, die du bist, ein gutes mundfüllendes Schwüren ab und verzichte auf die Wahrheit und die Versicherung von Pfeffer-Ingwerbrot für Samt-Gardisten und Sonntagsbürger. Komm, sing. Lady. Ich werde nicht singen. Hotsp. Das ist der schnellste Weg, Schneider zu werden oder ein Spatzenlehrer zu sein. Und wenn die Verträge fertig sind, werde ich in diesen zwei Stunden weg sein und komme dann, wann du willst. Glend. Komm, komm, Lord Mortimer, du bist ebenso träge wie der erhitzte Lord Percy es eilig hat. Bis das Buch fertig ist, werden wir nur noch siegeln und dann sofort zu Pferd steigen. Mort. Von ganzem Herzen. Alle ab. König. Der Himmel verzeihe dir: Aber ich wundere mich, Harry, über deine Gefühle, die dich abhalten von den Taten all deiner Vorfahren. Deinen Platz im Rat hast du grob verloren, dein jüngerer Bruder hat ihn eingenommen, und du bist fast ein Fremder geworden für das Herz des ganzen Hofes und der Prinzen meines Blutes. Die Hoffnung und Erwartung deiner Zeit ist zerstört, und die Seele eines jeden Mannes ahnt prophetisch deinen Sturz. Hätte ich mich nicht so verschwenderisch gezeigt, nicht so oft vor den Augen der Menschen erschienen, so abgestanden und billig der vulgarisierten Gesellschaft, hätte der Ruf, der mir zur Krone verholfen hat, immer der Loyalität zum Besitz treu geblieben, und mich in rufloser Verbannung gelassen, einem Mann ohne Bedeutung und Aussicht. Indem ich selten gesehen wurde, konnte ich mich nicht bewegen, aber wie ein Komet wurde ich bewundert, dass die Menschen ihren Kindern erzählen würden: Das ist er. Andere würden sagen: Wo, wer ist Bullingbrooke. Und dann stahl ich alle Höflichkeit vom Himmel, und kleidete mich in solche Demut, dass ich den Gehorsam aus den Herzen der Menschen zog, lautstarken Jubel und Begrüßungen aus ihren Mündern, sogar in Gegenwart des gekrönten Königs. So behielt ich meine Person frisch und neu, meine Erscheinung wie ein päpstliches Gewand, nie gesehen, aber bewundert: und so mein Stand, selten aber prächtig, zeigte sich wie ein Fest, und gewann durch Seltenheit solche Feierlichkeit. Der tanzende König schlenderte hin und her, mit flachen Spaßmachern und hitzigen Witzbolden, schnell entzündet und schnell verbrannt, beschmutzte er seinen Stand, mischte seine königliche Würde mit verhassten Narren, ließ seinen großartigen Namen von ihrem Spott entweihen, und gab seinem Ansehen, seinem Namen, die Möglichkeit, über spottende Jungen zu lachen und dem Ansturm jedes bartlosen, eitlen Vergleichs standzuhalten; Er wurde ein Begleiter der gewöhnlichen Straßen, verpflichtete sich der Beliebtheit: Dadurch, dass er täglich von den Augen der Menschen verschlungen wurde, waren sie mit Honig übersättigt und begannen den Geschmack der Süße zu verabscheuen, davon ein wenig mehr als ein wenig viel zu viel ist. So war er, wenn er gesehen werden wollte, nichts weiter als der Kuckuck im Juni, gehört, aber nicht beachtet: gesehen, aber mit solchen Augen, die krank und stumpf von Gemeinschaft waren, Keine außerordentliche Bewunderung gewähren, wie sie auf königliche Majestät gerichtet ist, wenn sie selten von bewundernden Augen scheint: Aber eher geblendet und ließen ihre Augenlider herunterhängen, schliefen in seinem Gesicht und spiegelten solch ein Bild wider, wie es trübe Männer gegen ihre Feinde tun, Satt, vollgefressen und zufrieden mit seiner Anwesenheit. Und genau das, Harry, ist es, was du bist: Denn du hast dein königliches Vorrecht verloren, mit niederträchtiger Gemeinschaft. Kein Auge außer meinem ist müde von deinem gewöhnlichen Anblick, außer meines, das sich danach gesehnt hat, dich mehr zu sehen: Aber jetzt muss es das tun, was ich nicht möchte, sich mit törichter Zärtlichkeit selbst verblenden. Prinz. In Zukunft werde ich, mein dreimal gütiger Herr, mehr ich selbst sein. König. In der ganzen Welt, wie du es bis jetzt bist, war Richard damals, als ich aus Frankreich in Ravenspurg Fuß fasste; Und genau wie ich damals war, ist Percy jetzt: Jetzt, bei meinem Zepter und meiner Seele, hat er ein würdigeres Interesse am Staat als du, der Schatten des Erbes; Denn nicht aufgrund eines Rechts, das einem Recht ähnelt. Er füllt die Felder mit Rüstungen im Königreich, wendet sich gegen die bewaffneten Kiefer des Löwen; Und da er nicht mehr in Schulden steht als du, führt er alte Lords und ehrwürdige Bischöfe zu blutigen Schlachten und zu gewalttätigen Kämpfen. Welche niemals endende Ehre hat er bekommen, gegen den berühmten Douglas? dessen großartige Taten, dessen heftige Einfälle und großer Name in der Rüstung, halten in den Augen aller Soldaten die höchste Autorität, und einen militärischen Titel. In allen Königreichen, die Christus anerkennen, hat Hotspur Mars dreimal, in Wickelwindeln, diesen kindlichen Krieger in seinen Unternehmen besiegt, ihn einmal gefangen genommen, freigelassen und einen Freund aus ihm gemacht, um die Quelle tiefster Herausforderung zu füllen, und den Frieden und die Sicherheit unseres Throns zu erschüttern. Und was sagst du dazu? Percy, Northumberland, der Erzbischof von York, Douglas, Mortimer, sie verbünden sich gegen uns und erheben sich. Aber warum erzähle ich dir diese Neuigkeiten? Warum, Harry, erzähle ich dir von meinen Feinden, die mein nächster und liebster Feind bist? Du, der ausreichend genug bist, aus Unterwürfigkeit und Feigheit vor mir gegen mich zu kämpfen, um ihm zu folgen und vor ihm zu kuschen, um zu zeigen, wie sehr du entartet bist. Prinz. Glaube das nicht, du wirst es nicht so finden: Und der Himmel vergebe denen, die so viel von deiner Majestät gute Gedanken weggenommen haben: Ich werde das alles auf Percys Haupt vergelten, und an einem glorreichen Tag, wenn es an der Zeit ist, werde ich wagen, Ihnen zu sagen, dass ich Ihr Sohn bin, wenn ich ein Gewand aus blut beflecke, und meine Farben mit einer blutigen Maske beschmiere: Die weggewaschen werden, wird meine Schande mit ihnen gereinigt. Und das wird der Tag sein, an dem er aufgeht, dass dieses Kind der Ehre und des Ruhmes. Dies tapfere Hotspur, dieser allgepriesene Ritter. Und dein unerwarteter Harry sich begegnen: Denn jede Ehre, die auf seinem Helm sitzt, wären sie vielfach, und auf meinem Kopf würde meine Schande verdoppelt. Denn die Zeit wird kommen, in der ich diese nordische Jugend dazu bringen werde, seine ruhmvollen Taten gegen meine Schmach einzutauschen: Percy ist jedoch nur mein Stellvertreter, mein guter Herr, um ruhmreiche Taten in meinem Namen zu beanspruchen: Und ich werde ihn zur strengen Verantwortung ziehen, dass er mir jede Ehre erweist, ja, sogar die unbedeutendste Anbetung seiner Zeit, oder ich werde die Abrechnung aus seinem Herzen reißen. Dies verspreche ich im Namen des Himmels: Was, wenn ich es erfülle und überlebe, flehe ich Ihre Majestät an, dass es die lange gewachsene Wunden meiner Aufbrausendheit heilen möge: Wenn jedoch das Ende des Lebens alle Verbindungen aufhebt, werde ich tausende Tode sterben, bevor ich das kleinste Stück dieses Schwurs breche. König. Hunderttausend Rebellen sterben hieran: Du wirst Befehl und oberste Verantwortung dafür haben. Betrete Blunt. Wie geht es dir, Blunt? Dein Aussehen ist voller Schnelligkeit. Blunt. So ist auch die Angelegenheit, von der Falst. Warum ist es so: Komm, sing mir ein schmutziges Lied, mach mich fröhlich; ich war so tugendhaft, wie es ein Gentleman sein muss; genug tugendhaft, schwor wenig, würfelte nicht mehr als sieben Mal in der Woche, ging nicht öfter als einmal in einer Viertelstunde in ein Schankhaus, bezahlte das Geld, das ich auslieh, drei oder vier Mal; lebte gut und in gutem Maßstab: und jetzt lebe ich völlig unordentlich, außerhalb des Maßstabs. Bard. Warum, du bist so fett, Sir John, dass du bestimmt außerhalb aller Maßstäbe bist; außerhalb aller vernünftigen Maßstäbe, Sir John. Falst. Erneuere dein Gesicht, und ich werde dein Leben erneuern: Du bist unser Admiral, du trägst die Laterne im Heck, aber sie ist in deiner Nase; du bist der Ritter der brennenden Lampe. Bard. Warum, Sir John, tut dir mein Gesicht nichts an? Falst. Nein, das kann ich schwören: Ich mache so guten Gebrauch davon wie mancher Mann von einem Totenkopf oder einem Memento Mori. Ich sehe dein Gesicht nie, ohne an die Hölle zu denken und an Dives, der in Purpur gekleidet war; denn da steht er in seiner brennenden Robe, brennend. Wenn du irgendeiner Tugend zugeneigt wärst, würde ich bei deinem Gesicht schwören; mein Eid wäre: "Bei diesem Feuer": Aber du bist völlig dem Untergang gewidmet, und wärst tatsächlich nur für das Licht in deinem Gesicht die Sonne völliger Dunkelheit. Als du in der Nacht den Gads Hill hinaufstürmtest, um mein Pferd zu fangen, wenn ich nicht gedacht hätte, dass du ein Irrlicht oder ein Ball aus Wildfeuer gewesen wärst, gäbe es keinen Grund zu bezahlen. Oh, du bist ein ewiger Triumph, ein ewiges Licht des Feuers: Du hast mir tausend Marke an Fackeln und Lichtern erspart, wenn ich mit dir in der Nacht zwischen Schankhaus und Schankhaus gegangen bin: Aber den Wein, den du mich hast trinken lassen, hätte mir Lichter genauso billig gekauft wie die teuersten Kerzenmacher in Europa. Ich habe deinen Salamander mit Feuer unterhalten, jederzeit seit zweiunddreißig Jahren; der Himmel soll mich dafür belohnen. Bard. Ich wünschte, mein Gesicht wäre in deinem Bauch. Falst. Dann wäre ich mir sicher, Sodbrennen zu haben. Wirtin tritt auf. Wie jetzt, Frau Teilchen, die Henne, hast du schon nachgeforscht, wer mir in die Tasche gegriffen hat? Wirtin. Warum, Sir John, was denken Sie, Sir John? Denken Sie, ich halte Diebe in meinem Haus? Ich habe gesucht, ich habe nachgefragt, und auch mein Mann, Mann für Mann, Junge für Junge, Diener für Diener: noch nie ist auch nur ein Haar in meinem Haus verloren gegangen. Falst. Du lügst, Wirtin: Bardolph wurde rasiert und hat viele Haare verloren; und ich schwöre, meine Tasche wurde geleert: nun gut, du bist eine Frau, geh. Wirtin. Was? Ich? Ich weise dich zurück: In meinem eigenen Haus wurde ich noch nie so genannt. Falst. Geh schon, ich kenne dich gut genug. Wirtin. Nein, Sir John, du kennst mich nicht, Sir John: Du schuldest mir Geld, Sir John, und jetzt suchst du Streit, um mich darum zu betrügen: Ich habe dir ein Dutzend Hemden gekauft. Falst. Dodinas, verdammtes Dodinas: Ich habe sie an Bäckerfrauen verschenkt, und die haben Kuchen daraus gemacht. Wirtin. Nun, ich bin wahrhaftig eine Frau, acht Schilling das Ell : Du schuldest hier auch noch Geld, Sir John, für deine Verpflegung, und für Getränke, und für geliehenes Geld, vierundzwanzig Pfund. Falst. Er hat seinen Teil davon, lass ihn zahlen. Wirtin. Er? Ach, er ist arm, er hat nichts. Falst. Wie? Arm? Schaut auf sein Gesicht: Was bezeichnest du als reich? Lass sein Nasenloch prägen, lass seine Wangen prägen, ich werde keinen Denier zahlen. Was, willst du aus mir einen Leichtgläubigen machen? Kann ich nicht in Ruhe in meiner Taverne sein, ohne dass mir die Tasche geleert wird? Ich habe einen Siegelring meines Großvaters im Wert von vierzig Mark verloren. Wirtin. Ich habe den Prinzen oft sagen hören, ich weiß nicht wie oft, dass der Ring aus Kupfer war. Falst. Wie? Der Prinz ist ein Nichtsnutz, ein Feigling: und wenn er hier wäre, würde ich ihn wie einen Hund verprügeln, wenn er so etwas sagen würde. Der Prinz marschiert ein und Falstaff trifft ihn, indem er auf seinen Stab wie auf eine Flöte spielt. Falst. Wie jetzt, Junge? Kommt der Wind von dieser Tür? Müssen wir alle marschieren? Bard. Ja, zwei und zwei, wie im Newgate-Stil. Wirtin. Mein Herr, ich bitte Sie, hören Sie mich an. Prinz. Was sagst du, Frau Quickly? Wie geht es deinem Mann? Ich mag ihn sehr, er ist ein ehrlicher Mann. Wirtin. Gut, mein Herr, hören Sie mich an. Falst. Lass sie doch in Ruhe und höre mich an. Prinz. Was sagst du, Jack? Falst. Letzte Nacht bin ich hier hinter dem Vorhang eingeschlafen und mir wurde die Tasche geleert: Dieses Haus wurde zu einem Schankhaus, sie leeren die Taschen. Prinz. Was hast du verloren, Jack? Falst. Wirst du mir glauben, Hal? Drei oder vier Anleihen von je vierzig Pfund und ein Siegelring meines Großvaters. Prinz. Eine Kleinigkeit, eine Trivialität. Wirtin. Das habe ich ihm auch gesagt, mein Herr, und ich sagte, ich habe Ihre Gnaden dasselbe sagen hören: Und (mein Herr) er spricht sehr hässlich über Sie, wie ein Mann mit schmutzigem Mund, und er sagte, er würde Sie verprügeln. Prinz. Hat er das gesagt? Wirtin. Es gibt weder Glauben, Wahrheit noch Weiblichkeit in mir, wenn nicht. Falst. Es gibt in dir weder Glauben noch Wahrheit, du Dörrpflaume; und in dir gibt es nicht mehr Wahrheit als in einem Bauernfuchs: und was die Weiblichkeit betrifft, kann Marian die stellvertretende Ehefrau des Amtsvogts für dich sein. Los geh schon. Wirtin. Sag, was? Was? Falst. Was? Etwas, wofür man den Himmel danken kann. Wirtin. Ich bin nichts, wofür man den Himmel danken kann, ich möchte, dass du es weißt. Ich bin die ehrliche Frau eines Mannes. Und wenn man deinen Ritterstand beiseite lässt, bist du ein Schurke, mich so zu nennen. Falst. Wenn man deine Weiblichkeit beiseite lässt, bist du ein Ungeheuer, anders kann man es nicht sagen. Wirtin. Sag, was für ein Ungeheuer, du Schurke? Fal. Was für ein Ungeheuer? Nun, ein Otter. Prinz. Ein Otter, Sir John? Warum ein Otter? Fal. Warum? Sie ist Prinz. Und warum nicht als der Löwe? Fal. Der König selbst sollte gefürchtet werden wie der Löwe: Glaubst du, ich werde dich fürchten, genauso wie ich deinen Vater fürchte? Wenn ja, dann soll mein Gürtel brechen. Prin. Oh, wenn er das tun sollte, wie würden deine Gedärme um deine Knie fallen. Aber hör mal: Es gibt keinen Platz für Glauben, Wahrheit oder Ehrlichkeit in dieser Brust von dir: Sie ist ganz gefüllt mit Gedärmen und Bauch. Beschuldige eine ehrliche Frau, dass sie dich beklaut? Warum du verfluchter impertinenter Lump, wenn in deiner Tasche etwas anderes wäre als Rechnungen aus Tavernen, Notizen über Schmuddelhäuser und ein paar arme Bonbons, um dich langatmig zu machen: Wenn deine Tasche mit anderen Schandtaten als diesen gefüllt wäre, dann bin ich ein Schurke: Und dennoch wirst du dabei bleiben, du wirst nicht länger Unrecht in deiner Tasche ertragen. Bist du nicht beschämt? Fal. Hörst du, Hal? Du kennst ja den Zustand der Unschuld, Adam fiel: Und was sollte der arme Falstaff tun, in Tagen der Gesetzlosigkeit? Du siehst doch, dass ich mehr Fleisch habe als ein anderer Mann und deshalb auch zerbrechlicher bin. Du gestehst also, dass du meine Tasche geklaut hast? Prin. Die Geschichte lässt es so erscheinen. Fal. Gastwirtin, ich vergebe dir: Mach das Frühstück fertig, liebe deinen Ehemann, Kümmere dich um deine Bediensteten und umsorge deine Gäste: Du wirst mich einsichtig finden für jede ehrliche Begründung: Du siehst, ich bin immer noch versöhnt. Nein, ich bitte dich, geh. (Gastwirtin geht ab) Nun, Hal, zu den Neuigkeiten am Hof wegen des Raubs, Junge? Was ist die Antwort darauf? Prin. Oh mein süßes Rindfleisch: Ich muss immer dein guter Schutzengel sein. Das Geld ist zurückgezahlt worden. Fal. Oh, das Zurückzahlen gefällt mir nicht, das ist eine doppelte Arbeit. Prin. Ich bin gut mit meinem Vater befreundet und kann alles tun. Fal. Raub mir die Schatzkammer als erstes, was du tust, und tu es auch noch mit ungewaschenen Händen. Bard. Wie Ihr wünscht, mein Herr. Prin. Ich habe für dich, Jack, eine Truppe zu Verfügung gestellt. Fal. Ich wünschte, es wäre ein Kavallerieregiment gewesen. Wo finde ich jemanden, der gut stehlen kann? Oh, für einen erfahrenen Dieb von etwa zweiundzwanzig Jahren: Ich bin furchtbar unvorbereitet. Nun, Gott sei Dank für diese Rebellen, sie beleidigen niemanden außer den Tugendhaften. Ich rühme sie, ich lobe sie. Prin. Bardolph. Bar. Mein Herr. Prin. Geh und überbringe diesen Brief an Lord John von Lancaster, An meinen Bruder John. Und diesen hier an meinen Herrn von Westmoreland. Geh, Peto, zu Pferde: Denn du und ich Müssen noch dreißig Meilen bis zum Mittagessen reiten. Jack, triff mich morgen in der Tempelhalle Um zwei Uhr nachmittags, Dort wirst du deine Aufgabe erfahren und auch Geld und Anweisungen für deine Ausrüstung erhalten. Das Land brennt, Percy steht oben, Und entweder sie oder wir müssen uns beugen. Fal. Wunderbare Worte! Prächtige Welt. Gastwirtin, mein Frühstück, komm: Oh, ich wünschte, dieses Gasthaus wäre meine Trommel. Alle gehen ab. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Akt 1, Szene 1: Die Rebellen sind in Glyndwrs Schloss versammelt, wo sie eine Karte von England, Schottland und Wales betrachten. Glyndwr erzählt Hotspur, dass er magische Kräfte hat, deshalb konnte König Heinrich ihn nicht besiegen, obwohl er bereits drei Armeen nach Wales geschickt hat. Hotspur lehnt dies als Unsinn ab, ist jedoch gezwungen, freundlich zu bleiben. Die Männer haben die Karte in drei Teile aufgeteilt, wobei England an Mortimer, Schottland an Hotspur und Wales an Glyndwr geht. Hotspur versucht über ein Stück Land zu streiten, das er seiner Meinung nach verdient, aber Glyndwr weigert sich, es ihm zu erlauben. Nachdem alle Vorbereitungen für den Kampf getroffen sind und vereinbart wurde, dass ihre Armeen sich in der Nähe von Shrewsbury versammeln, rufen die Männer ihre Frauen herein, um sich zu verabschieden. Mortimer muss Glyndwr als Übersetzer benutzen, weil er seine walisische Frau nicht verstehen kann, wenn sie mit ihm spricht. Hotspur und Lady Percy necken sich erneut, woraufhin Hotspur aufbricht, um zu seiner Armee zu gelangen. Die restlichen Männer folgen ihm. Akt 3, Szene 2: König Heinrich und Hal treffen sich zum ersten Mal. Heinrich hält Hal einen langen Vortrag über die Prüfungen und das Leiden, die er durchgemacht hat, um die Krone von Richard II. zu ergreifen. Am Ende weint er darüber, dass er seinen Sohn Hal liebt, obwohl Hal so ungeeignet für den Thron scheint. Hal antwortet, indem er sagt: "In Zukunft werde ich, mein dreifach gnädiger Herr, / mehr ich selbst sein". Heinrich erklärt Hal dann, wie sich seine Feinde gegen ihn verbündet haben. Er deutet weiterhin an, dass Hotspur als großer Krieger angesehen wird und dass Hal im Vergleich zu ihm nichts ist. Hal antwortet seinem Vater, dass er dies alles auf Percys Kopf zurückzahlen wird, wenn er ein Gewand aus Blut tragen wird. Heinrich beschließt, Hal das Kommando über eine der Armeen zu übertragen, und lässt sofort all seine Männer nach Shrewsbury mobilisieren. Akt 3, Szene 3: Falstaff betritt das Gasthaus, in dem er am Vortag eingeschlafen war. Die Wirtin verlangt von ihm, dass er für den Kredit, den er angesammelt hat, bezahlt, aber Falstaff tut so, als wäre er letzte Nacht im Gasthaus bestohlen worden. Sie bestreitet es, woraufhin Falstaff sagt, dass sein Ring gestohlen wurde. Die Wirtin weist darauf hin, dass der Ring aus Kupfer war und daher wertlos ist. Schließlich tritt Prinz Harry ein und konfrontiert Falstaff damit, dass er derjenige war, der das Geld aus Falstaffs Taschen gestohlen hat. Hal sagt ihnen, dass er auch das gestohlene Gold zurückgezahlt hat und somit Falstaff davor bewahrt, bestraft zu werden. Als Falstaff protestiert, sagt Hal zu ihm: "Ich bin guter Freund meines Vaters und kann alles tun". Falstaff erhält sein Infanteriekommando und Hal bricht auf, um sich seiner Armee anzuschließen.

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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. Chapter: When Mr. St. John went, it was beginning to snow; the whirling storm continued all night. The next day a keen wind brought fresh and blinding falls; by twilight the valley was drifted up and almost impassable. I had closed my shutter, laid a mat to the door to prevent the snow from blowing in under it, trimmed my fire, and after sitting nearly an hour on the hearth listening to the muffled fury of the tempest, I lit a candle, took down "Marmion," and beginning-- "Day set on Norham's castled steep, And Tweed's fair river broad and deep, And Cheviot's mountains lone; The massive towers, the donjon keep, The flanking walls that round them sweep, In yellow lustre shone"-- I soon forgot storm in music. I heard a noise: the wind, I thought, shook the door. No; it was St. John Rivers, who, lifting the latch, came in out of the frozen hurricane--the howling darkness--and stood before me: the cloak that covered his tall figure all white as a glacier. I was almost in consternation, so little had I expected any guest from the blocked-up vale that night. "Any ill news?" I demanded. "Has anything happened?" "No. How very easily alarmed you are!" he answered, removing his cloak and hanging it up against the door, towards which he again coolly pushed the mat which his entrance had deranged. He stamped the snow from his boots. "I shall sully the purity of your floor," said he, "but you must excuse me for once." Then he approached the fire. "I have had hard work to get here, I assure you," he observed, as he warmed his hands over the flame. "One drift took me up to the waist; happily the snow is quite soft yet." "But why are you come?" I could not forbear saying. "Rather an inhospitable question to put to a visitor; but since you ask it, I answer simply to have a little talk with you; I got tired of my mute books and empty rooms. Besides, since yesterday I have experienced the excitement of a person to whom a tale has been half-told, and who is impatient to hear the sequel." He sat down. I recalled his singular conduct of yesterday, and really I began to fear his wits were touched. If he were insane, however, his was a very cool and collected insanity: I had never seen that handsome-featured face of his look more like chiselled marble than it did just now, as he put aside his snow-wet hair from his forehead and let the firelight shine free on his pale brow and cheek as pale, where it grieved me to discover the hollow trace of care or sorrow now so plainly graved. I waited, expecting he would say something I could at least comprehend; but his hand was now at his chin, his finger on his lip: he was thinking. It struck me that his hand looked wasted like his face. A perhaps uncalled-for gush of pity came over my heart: I was moved to say-- "I wish Diana or Mary would come and live with you: it is too bad that you should be quite alone; and you are recklessly rash about your own health." "Not at all," said he: "I care for myself when necessary. I am well now. What do you see amiss in me?" This was said with a careless, abstracted indifference, which showed that my solicitude was, at least in his opinion, wholly superfluous. I was silenced. He still slowly moved his finger over his upper lip, and still his eye dwelt dreamily on the glowing grate; thinking it urgent to say something, I asked him presently if he felt any cold draught from the door, which was behind him. "No, no!" he responded shortly and somewhat testily. "Well," I reflected, "if you won't talk, you may be still; I'll let you alone now, and return to my book." So I snuffed the candle and resumed the perusal of "Marmion." He soon stirred; my eye was instantly drawn to his movements; he only took out a morocco pocket-book, thence produced a letter, which he read in silence, folded it, put it back, relapsed into meditation. It was vain to try to read with such an inscrutable fixture before me; nor could I, in impatience, consent to be dumb; he might rebuff me if he liked, but talk I would. "Have you heard from Diana and Mary lately?" "Not since the letter I showed you a week ago." "There has not been any change made about your own arrangements? You will not be summoned to leave England sooner than you expected?" "I fear not, indeed: such chance is too good to befall me." Baffled so far, I changed my ground. I bethought myself to talk about the school and my scholars. "Mary Garrett's mother is better, and Mary came back to the school this morning, and I shall have four new girls next week from the Foundry Close--they would have come to-day but for the snow." "Indeed!" "Mr. Oliver pays for two." "Does he?" "He means to give the whole school a treat at Christmas." "I know." "Was it your suggestion?" "No." "Whose, then?" "His daughter's, I think." "It is like her: she is so good-natured." "Yes." Again came the blank of a pause: the clock struck eight strokes. It aroused him; he uncrossed his legs, sat erect, turned to me. "Leave your book a moment, and come a little nearer the fire," he said. Wondering, and of my wonder finding no end, I complied. "Half-an-hour ago," he pursued, "I spoke of my impatience to hear the sequel of a tale: on reflection, I find the matter will be better managed by my assuming the narrator's part, and converting you into a listener. Before commencing, it is but fair to warn you that the story will sound somewhat hackneyed in your ears; but stale details often regain a degree of freshness when they pass through new lips. For the rest, whether trite or novel, it is short. "Twenty years ago, a poor curate--never mind his name at this moment--fell in love with a rich man's daughter; she fell in love with him, and married him, against the advice of all her friends, who consequently disowned her immediately after the wedding. Before two years passed, the rash pair were both dead, and laid quietly side by side under one slab. (I have seen their grave; it formed part of the pavement of a huge churchyard surrounding the grim, soot-black old cathedral of an overgrown manufacturing town in ---shire.) They left a daughter, which, at its very birth, Charity received in her lap--cold as that of the snow-drift I almost stuck fast in to-night. Charity carried the friendless thing to the house of its rich maternal relations; it was reared by an aunt-in- law, called (I come to names now) Mrs. Reed of Gateshead. You start--did you hear a noise? I daresay it is only a rat scrambling along the rafters of the adjoining schoolroom: it was a barn before I had it repaired and altered, and barns are generally haunted by rats.--To proceed. Mrs. Reed kept the orphan ten years: whether it was happy or not with her, I cannot say, never having been told; but at the end of that time she transferred it to a place you know--being no other than Lowood School, where you so long resided yourself. It seems her career there was very honourable: from a pupil, she became a teacher, like yourself--really it strikes me there are parallel points in her history and yours--she left it to be a governess: there, again, your fates were analogous; she undertook the education of the ward of a certain Mr. Rochester." "Mr. Rivers!" I interrupted. "I can guess your feelings," he said, "but restrain them for a while: I have nearly finished; hear me to the end. Of Mr. Rochester's character I know nothing, but the one fact that he professed to offer honourable marriage to this young girl, and that at the very altar she discovered he had a wife yet alive, though a lunatic. What his subsequent conduct and proposals were is a matter of pure conjecture; but when an event transpired which rendered inquiry after the governess necessary, it was discovered she was gone--no one could tell when, where, or how. She had left Thornfield Hall in the night; every research after her course had been vain: the country had been scoured far and wide; no vestige of information could be gathered respecting her. Yet that she should be found is become a matter of serious urgency: advertisements have been put in all the papers; I myself have received a letter from one Mr. Briggs, a solicitor, communicating the details I have just imparted. Is it not an odd tale?" "Just tell me this," said I, "and since you know so much, you surely can tell it me--what of Mr. Rochester? How and where is he? What is he doing? Is he well?" "I am ignorant of all concerning Mr. Rochester: the letter never mentions him but to narrate the fraudulent and illegal attempt I have adverted to. You should rather ask the name of the governess--the nature of the event which requires her appearance." "Did no one go to Thornfield Hall, then? Did no one see Mr. Rochester?" "I suppose not." "But they wrote to him?" "Of course." "And what did he say? Who has his letters?" "Mr. Briggs intimates that the answer to his application was not from Mr. Rochester, but from a lady: it is signed 'Alice Fairfax.'" I felt cold and dismayed: my worst fears then were probably true: he had in all probability left England and rushed in reckless desperation to some former haunt on the Continent. And what opiate for his severe sufferings--what object for his strong passions--had he sought there? I dared not answer the question. Oh, my poor master--once almost my husband--whom I had often called "my dear Edward!" "He must have been a bad man," observed Mr. Rivers. "You don't know him--don't pronounce an opinion upon him," I said, with warmth. "Very well," he answered quietly: "and indeed my head is otherwise occupied than with him: I have my tale to finish. Since you won't ask the governess's name, I must tell it of my own accord. Stay! I have it here--it is always more satisfactory to see important points written down, fairly committed to black and white." And the pocket-book was again deliberately produced, opened, sought through; from one of its compartments was extracted a shabby slip of paper, hastily torn off: I recognised in its texture and its stains of ultra-marine, and lake, and vermillion, the ravished margin of the portrait-cover. He got up, held it close to my eyes: and I read, traced in Indian ink, in my own handwriting, the words "JANE EYRE"--the work doubtless of some moment of abstraction. "Briggs wrote to me of a Jane Eyre:" he said, "the advertisements demanded a Jane Eyre: I knew a Jane Elliott.--I confess I had my suspicions, but it was only yesterday afternoon they were at once resolved into certainty. You own the name and renounce the _alias_?" "Yes--yes; but where is Mr. Briggs? He perhaps knows more of Mr. Rochester than you do." "Briggs is in London. I should doubt his knowing anything at all about Mr. Rochester; it is not in Mr. Rochester he is interested. Meantime, you forget essential points in pursuing trifles: you do not inquire why Mr. Briggs sought after you--what he wanted with you." "Well, what did he want?" "Merely to tell you that your uncle, Mr. Eyre of Madeira, is dead; that he has left you all his property, and that you are now rich--merely that--nothing more." "I!--rich?" "Yes, you, rich--quite an heiress." Silence succeeded. "You must prove your identity of course," resumed St. John presently: "a step which will offer no difficulties; you can then enter on immediate possession. Your fortune is vested in the English funds; Briggs has the will and the necessary documents." Here was a new card turned up! It is a fine thing, reader, to be lifted in a moment from indigence to wealth--a very fine thing; but not a matter one can comprehend, or consequently enjoy, all at once. And then there are other chances in life far more thrilling and rapture-giving: _this_ is solid, an affair of the actual world, nothing ideal about it: all its associations are solid and sober, and its manifestations are the same. One does not jump, and spring, and shout hurrah! at hearing one has got a fortune; one begins to consider responsibilities, and to ponder business; on a base of steady satisfaction rise certain grave cares, and we contain ourselves, and brood over our bliss with a solemn brow. Besides, the words Legacy, Bequest, go side by side with the words, Death, Funeral. My uncle I had heard was dead--my only relative; ever since being made aware of his existence, I had cherished the hope of one day seeing him: now, I never should. And then this money came only to me: not to me and a rejoicing family, but to my isolated self. It was a grand boon doubtless; and independence would be glorious--yes, I felt that--that thought swelled my heart. "You unbend your forehead at last," said Mr. Rivers. "I thought Medusa had looked at you, and that you were turning to stone. Perhaps now you will ask how much you are worth?" "How much am I worth?" "Oh, a trifle! Nothing of course to speak of--twenty thousand pounds, I think they say--but what is that?" "Twenty thousand pounds?" Here was a new stunner--I had been calculating on four or five thousand. This news actually took my breath for a moment: Mr. St. John, whom I had never heard laugh before, laughed now. "Well," said he, "if you had committed a murder, and I had told you your crime was discovered, you could scarcely look more aghast." "It is a large sum--don't you think there is a mistake?" "No mistake at all." "Perhaps you have read the figures wrong--it may be two thousand!" "It is written in letters, not figures,--twenty thousand." I again felt rather like an individual of but average gastronomical powers sitting down to feast alone at a table spread with provisions for a hundred. Mr. Rivers rose now and put his cloak on. "If it were not such a very wild night," he said, "I would send Hannah down to keep you company: you look too desperately miserable to be left alone. But Hannah, poor woman! could not stride the drifts so well as I: her legs are not quite so long: so I must e'en leave you to your sorrows. Good-night." He was lifting the latch: a sudden thought occurred to me. "Stop one minute!" I cried. "Well?" "It puzzles me to know why Mr. Briggs wrote to you about me; or how he knew you, or could fancy that you, living in such an out-of-the-way place, had the power to aid in my discovery." "Oh! I am a clergyman," he said; "and the clergy are often appealed to about odd matters." Again the latch rattled. "No; that does not satisfy me!" I exclaimed: and indeed there was something in the hasty and unexplanatory reply which, instead of allaying, piqued my curiosity more than ever. "It is a very strange piece of business," I added; "I must know more about it." "Another time." "No; to-night!--to-night!" and as he turned from the door, I placed myself between it and him. He looked rather embarrassed. "You certainly shall not go till you have told me all," I said. "I would rather not just now." "You shall!--you must!" "I would rather Diana or Mary informed you." Of course these objections wrought my eagerness to a climax: gratified it must be, and that without delay; and I told him so. "But I apprised you that I was a hard man," said he, "difficult to persuade." "And I am a hard woman,--impossible to put off." {And I am a hard woman,--impossible to put off: p369.jpg} "And then," he pursued, "I am cold: no fervour infects me." "Whereas I am hot, and fire dissolves ice. The blaze there has thawed all the snow from your cloak; by the same token, it has streamed on to my floor, and made it like a trampled street. As you hope ever to be forgiven, Mr. Rivers, the high crime and misdemeanour of spoiling a sanded kitchen, tell me what I wish to know." "Well, then," he said, "I yield; if not to your earnestness, to your perseverance: as stone is worn by continual dropping. Besides, you must know some day,--as well now as later. Your name is Jane Eyre?" "Of course: that was all settled before." "You are not, perhaps, aware that I am your namesake?--that I was christened St. John Eyre Rivers?" "No, indeed! I remember now seeing the letter E. comprised in your initials written in books you have at different times lent me; but I never asked for what name it stood. But what then? Surely--" I stopped: I could not trust myself to entertain, much less to express, the thought that rushed upon me--that embodied itself,--that, in a second, stood out a strong, solid probability. Circumstances knit themselves, fitted themselves, shot into order: the chain that had been lying hitherto a formless lump of links was drawn out straight,--every ring was perfect, the connection complete. I knew, by instinct, how the matter stood, before St. John had said another word; but I cannot expect the reader to have the same intuitive perception, so I must repeat his explanation. "My mother's name was Eyre; she had two brothers; one a clergyman, who married Miss Jane Reed, of Gateshead; the other, John Eyre, Esq., merchant, late of Funchal, Madeira. Mr. Briggs, being Mr. Eyre's solicitor, wrote to us last August to inform us of our uncle's death, and to say that he had left his property to his brother the clergyman's orphan daughter, overlooking us, in consequence of a quarrel, never forgiven, between him and my father. He wrote again a few weeks since, to intimate that the heiress was lost, and asking if we knew anything of her. A name casually written on a slip of paper has enabled me to find her out. You know the rest." Again he was going, but I set my back against the door. "Do let me speak," I said; "let me have one moment to draw breath and reflect." I paused--he stood before me, hat in hand, looking composed enough. I resumed-- "Your mother was my father's sister?" "Yes." "My aunt, consequently?" He bowed. "My uncle John was your uncle John? You, Diana, and Mary are his sister's children, as I am his brother's child?" "Undeniably." "You three, then, are my cousins; half our blood on each side flows from the same source?" "We are cousins; yes." I surveyed him. It seemed I had found a brother: one I could be proud of,--one I could love; and two sisters, whose qualities were such, that, when I knew them but as mere strangers, they had inspired me with genuine affection and admiration. The two girls, on whom, kneeling down on the wet ground, and looking through the low, latticed window of Moor House kitchen, I had gazed with so bitter a mixture of interest and despair, were my near kinswomen; and the young and stately gentleman who had found me almost dying at his threshold was my blood relation. Glorious discovery to a lonely wretch! This was wealth indeed!--wealth to the heart!--a mine of pure, genial affections. This was a blessing, bright, vivid, and exhilarating;--not like the ponderous gift of gold: rich and welcome enough in its way, but sobering from its weight. I now clapped my hands in sudden joy--my pulse bounded, my veins thrilled. "Oh, I am glad!--I am glad!" I exclaimed. St. John smiled. "Did I not say you neglected essential points to pursue trifles?" he asked. "You were serious when I told you you had got a fortune; and now, for a matter of no moment, you are excited." "What can you mean? It may be of no moment to you; you have sisters and don't care for a cousin; but I had nobody; and now three relations,--or two, if you don't choose to be counted,--are born into my world full-grown. I say again, I am glad!" I walked fast through the room: I stopped, half suffocated with the thoughts that rose faster than I could receive, comprehend, settle them:--thoughts of what might, could, would, and should be, and that ere long. I looked at the blank wall: it seemed a sky thick with ascending stars,--every one lit me to a purpose or delight. Those who had saved my life, whom, till this hour, I had loved barrenly, I could now benefit. They were under a yoke,--I could free them: they were scattered,--I could reunite them: the independence, the affluence which was mine, might be theirs too. Were we not four? Twenty thousand pounds shared equally would be five thousand each, justice--enough and to spare: justice would be done,--mutual happiness secured. Now the wealth did not weigh on me: now it was not a mere bequest of coin,--it was a legacy of life, hope, enjoyment. How I looked while these ideas were taking my spirit by storm, I cannot tell; but I perceived soon that Mr. Rivers had placed a chair behind me, and was gently attempting to make me sit down on it. He also advised me to be composed; I scorned the insinuation of helplessness and distraction, shook off his hand, and began to walk about again. "Write to Diana and Mary to-morrow," I said, "and tell them to come home directly. Diana said they would both consider themselves rich with a thousand pounds, so with five thousand they will do very well." "Tell me where I can get you a glass of water," said St. John; "you must really make an effort to tranquillise your feelings." "Nonsense! and what sort of an effect will the bequest have on you? Will it keep you in England, induce you to marry Miss Oliver, and settle down like an ordinary mortal?" "You wander: your head becomes confused. I have been too abrupt in communicating the news; it has excited you beyond your strength." "Mr. Rivers! you quite put me out of patience: I am rational enough; it is you who misunderstand, or rather who affect to misunderstand." "Perhaps, if you explained yourself a little more fully, I should comprehend better." "Explain! What is there to explain? You cannot fail to see that twenty thousand pounds, the sum in question, divided equally between the nephew and three nieces of our uncle, will give five thousand to each? What I want is, that you should write to your sisters and tell them of the fortune that has accrued to them." "To you, you mean." "I have intimated my view of the case: I am incapable of taking any other. I am not brutally selfish, blindly unjust, or fiendishly ungrateful. Besides, I am resolved I will have a home and connections. I like Moor House, and I will live at Moor House; I like Diana and Mary, and I will attach myself for life to Diana and Mary. It would please and benefit me to have five thousand pounds; it would torment and oppress me to have twenty thousand; which, moreover, could never be mine in justice, though it might in law. I abandon to you, then, what is absolutely superfluous to me. Let there be no opposition, and no discussion about it; let us agree amongst each other, and decide the point at once." "This is acting on first impulses; you must take days to consider such a matter, ere your word can be regarded as valid." "Oh! if all you doubt is my sincerity, I am easy: you see the justice of the case?" "I _do_ see a certain justice; but it is contrary to all custom. Besides, the entire fortune is your right: my uncle gained it by his own efforts; he was free to leave it to whom he would: he left it to you. After all, justice permits you to keep it: you may, with a clear conscience, consider it absolutely your own." "With me," said I, "it is fully as much a matter of feeling as of conscience: I must indulge my feelings; I so seldom have had an opportunity of doing so. Were you to argue, object, and annoy me for a year, I could not forego the delicious pleasure of which I have caught a glimpse--that of repaying, in part, a mighty obligation, and winning to myself lifelong friends." "You think so now," rejoined St. John, "because you do not know what it is to possess, nor consequently to enjoy wealth: you cannot form a notion of the importance twenty thousand pounds would give you; of the place it would enable you to take in society; of the prospects it would open to you: you cannot--" "And you," I interrupted, "cannot at all imagine the craving I have for fraternal and sisterly love. I never had a home, I never had brothers or sisters; I must and will have them now: you are not reluctant to admit me and own me, are you?" "Jane, I will be your brother--my sisters will be your sisters--without stipulating for this sacrifice of your just rights." "Brother? Yes; at the distance of a thousand leagues! Sisters? Yes; slaving amongst strangers! I, wealthy--gorged with gold I never earned and do not merit! You, penniless! Famous equality and fraternisation! Close union! Intimate attachment!" "But, Jane, your aspirations after family ties and domestic happiness may be realised otherwise than by the means you contemplate: you may marry." "Nonsense, again! Marry! I don't want to marry, and never shall marry." "That is saying too much: such hazardous affirmations are a proof of the excitement under which you labour." "It is not saying too much: I know what I feel, and how averse are my inclinations to the bare thought of marriage. No one would take me for love; and I will not be regarded in the light of a mere money speculation. And I do not want a stranger--unsympathising, alien, different from me; I want my kindred: those with whom I have full fellow- feeling. Say again you will be my brother: when you uttered the words I was satisfied, happy; repeat them, if you can, repeat them sincerely." "I think I can. I know I have always loved my own sisters; and I know on what my affection for them is grounded,--respect for their worth and admiration of their talents. You too have principle and mind: your tastes and habits resemble Diana's and Mary's; your presence is always agreeable to me; in your conversation I have already for some time found a salutary solace. I feel I can easily and naturally make room in my heart for you, as my third and youngest sister." "Thank you: that contents me for to-night. Now you had better go; for if you stay longer, you will perhaps irritate me afresh by some mistrustful scruple." "And the school, Miss Eyre? It must now be shut up, I suppose?" "No. I will retain my post of mistress till you get a substitute." He smiled approbation: we shook hands, and he took leave. I need not narrate in detail the further struggles I had, and arguments I used, to get matters regarding the legacy settled as I wished. My task was a very hard one; but, as I was absolutely resolved--as my cousins saw at length that my mind was really and immutably fixed on making a just division of the property--as they must in their own hearts have felt the equity of the intention; and must, besides, have been innately conscious that in my place they would have done precisely what I wished to do--they yielded at length so far as to consent to put the affair to arbitration. The judges chosen were Mr. Oliver and an able lawyer: both coincided in my opinion: I carried my point. The instruments of transfer were drawn out: St. John, Diana, Mary, and I, each became possessed of a competency. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Am nächsten Abend macht sich St. John durch den Schnee auf den Weg, um Jane wichtige Neuigkeiten zu überbringen. Er hat einen Brief von Mr. Briggs, einem Anwalt, erhalten, der nach einer Person namens Jane Eyre fragt, deren Geschichte der ihren stark ähnelt. Er erzählt sogar die Geschichte ihrer Geschichte und enthüllt, dass er ihren richtigen Namen kennt, den sie auf den Zettel geschrieben hatte, den er von ihrem Schreibtisch genommen hat. Der Anwalt möchte sie ausfindig machen, da ihr Onkel, Mr. Eyre aus Madeira, verstorben ist und ihr sein gesamtes Vermögen von zwanzigtausend Pfund hinterlassen hat. Er erklärt, dass sie tatsächlich Cousins sind. Zuerst ist Jane traurig über die Nachricht vom Tod ihres Onkels, dann ist sie jedoch erfreut zu erfahren, dass ihr Vater der Onkel von St. John Rivers ist. Jane ist begeistert, endlich eine eigene Familie zu haben. Aber St. John denkt, dass ihre Freude daher rührt, dass sie eine so große Summe Geld bekommen hat. Jane überlegt, wie sie das Erbe ausgeben möchte. Sie plant, den Betrag gleichmäßig zwischen St. John, Diana, Mary und sich selbst aufzuteilen. St. John erhebt Einwände, aber Jane wischt sie beiseite. Sie fragt sich, ob der Reichtum es St. John ermöglichen wird, Miss Oliver zu heiraten. Sie beschließt, sich im Moor House niederzulassen. Sowohl Jane als auch St. John sind erstaunt darüber, dass sie miteinander verwandt sind. Während Jane froh ist, ihn als Bruder zu haben, gibt St. John lediglich zu, dass er ihre Gesellschaft angenehm findet. Fürs Erste beschließt Jane, ihre Arbeit in der Morton School fortzusetzen, bis jemand anderes übernehmen kann.

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.

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: Frau Ludlow war die Älteste der drei Schwestern und wurde im Allgemeinen als die vernünftigste betrachtet. Die Klassifizierung lautete in der Regel, dass Lilian die Praktische war, Edith die Schönheit und Isabel die "intellektuelle" Überlegene. Frau Keyes, die zweite der Gruppe, war die Ehefrau eines Offiziers des United States Engineers, und da unsere Geschichte sich nicht weiter mit ihr beschäftigt, genügt es zu sagen, dass sie in der Tat sehr hübsch war und den Schmuck der verschiedenen Militärstationen bildete, hauptsächlich im unmodernen Westen, zu denen ihr Mann nacheinander versetzt wurde, sehr zu ihrem tiefen Ärger. Lilian hatte einen New Yorker Anwalt geheiratet, einen jungen Mann mit lauter Stimme und Begeisterung für seinen Beruf; die Verbindung war nicht brillant, genauso wenig wie Ediths, aber Lilian war gelegentlich als eine junge Frau bezeichnet worden, die froh sein konnte, überhaupt zu heiraten - sie war so viel hässlicher als ihre Schwestern. Sie war jedoch sehr glücklich und schien jetzt als Mutter von zwei bestimmenden kleinen Jungen und als Herrin eines in die Fifty-third Street gewalzten Keils aus Braunkohle in ihrer Lage wie in einer kühnen Flucht zu jubeln. Sie war klein und kompakt und es wurde ihr Figuranspruch angezweifelt, aber man billigte ihr Anwesenheit, wenn auch keine Majestät zu. Sie hatte sich auch, wie die Leute sagten, seit ihrer Heirat verbessert, und die beiden Dinge im Leben, von denen sie sich am deutlichsten bewusst war, waren die Überzeugungskraft ihres Mannes in Argumenten und Isabels Originalität. "Ich bin Isabel nie gefolgt - es hätte meine ganze Zeit in Anspruch genommen", hatte sie oft bemerkt. Trotzdem hielt sie sie ziemlich sehnsüchtig im Auge und beobachtete sie, wie eine mütterliche Spanielhündin einen freien Windhund beobachten würde. "Ich möchte, dass sie sicher verheiratet ist - das möchte ich sehen", bemerkte sie oft zu ihrem Mann. "Nun, ich muss sagen, dass ich kein besonderes Verlangen hätte, sie zu heiraten", pflegte Edmund Ludlow mit einer ausgesprochen hörbaren Stimme zu antworten. "Ich weiß, dass du das für ein Argument sagst; du nimmst immer die entgegengesetzte Position ein. Ich sehe nicht, was du gegen sie hast, außer dass sie so originell ist." "Nun, ich mag Originale nicht; ich mag Übersetzungen", hatte Herr Ludlow mehr als einmal geantwortet. "Isabel ist in einer fremden Sprache geschrieben. Ich kann sie nicht verstehen. Sie sollte einen Armenier oder einen Portugiesen heiraten." "Das ist genau das, wovor ich Angst habe!", rief Lilian, die Isabel für alles fähig hielt. Sie hörte mit großem Interesse dem Bericht des Mädchens über das Erscheinen von Mrs. Touchett zu und bereitete sich abends darauf vor, den Anweisungen ihrer Tante nachzukommen. Was Isabel damals sagte, ist nicht überliefert, aber die Worte ihrer Schwester hatten zweifellos ein Wort bewirkt, das sie an ihren Mann richtete, als die beiden sich für ihren Besuch fertig machten. "Ich hoffe sehr, dass sie etwas Großzügiges für Isabel tun wird; sie scheint sich sehr für sie zu interessieren." "Was möchtest du, dass sie tut?", fragte Edmund Ludlow. "Soll sie ihr ein großes Geschenk machen?" "Auf keinen Fall; so etwas in der Art nicht. Aber sich für sie interessieren - sie mitfühlen. Sie ist offensichtlich genau die Art von Person, die sie schätzen würde. Sie hat so viel in fremder Gesellschaft gelebt; sie hat Isabel alles darüber erzählt. Du hast doch immer gedacht, dass Isabel ziemlich fremd ist." "Du willst, dass sie ihr ein wenig fremde Sympathie gibt, nicht wahr? Glaubst du nicht, dass sie zu Hause genug bekommt?" "Nun, sie sollte ins Ausland gehen", sagte Frau Ludlow. "Sie ist genau die Person, die ins Ausland gehen sollte." "Und du willst, dass die alte Dame sie mitnimmt, oder?" "Sie hat angeboten, sie mitzunehmen - sie brennt darauf, dass Isabel mitkommt. Aber was ich will, wenn sie erst dort ist, ist, ihr alle Vorteile zu geben. Ich bin sicher, alles, was wir tun müssen", sagte Frau Ludlow, "ist, ihr eine Chance zu geben." "Eine Chance wofür?" "Die Chance, sich weiterzuentwickeln." "Oh Moses!", rief Edmund Ludlow aus. "Ich hoffe, sie wird sich nicht weiterentwickeln!" "Wenn ich nicht sicher wäre, dass du das nur für ein Argument gesagt hast, würde es mir sehr schlecht gehen", antwortete seine Frau. "Aber du weißt, dass du sie liebst." "Weißt du, dass ich dich liebe?", sagte der junge Mann scherzhaft zu Isabel, als er ein wenig später seinen Hut bürstete. "Es ist mir egal, ob du es tust oder nicht!", rief das Mädchen aus; ihre Stimme und ihr Lächeln waren jedoch weniger hochnäsig als ihre Worte. "Oh, sie fühlt sich so großartig, seit dem Besuch von Mrs. Touchett", sagte ihre Schwester. Aber Isabel forderte diese Behauptung mit ziemlichem Ernst heraus. "Das darfst du nicht sagen, Lily. Ich fühle mich überhaupt nicht großartig." "Ich bin sicher, es schadet nicht", sagte die versöhnliche Lily. "Ach, aber es gibt nichts an Mrs. Touchetts Besuch, was einen großartig fühlen lassen würde." "Oh", rief Ludlow, "sie ist es noch mehr!" "Wann immer ich mich großartig fühle", sagte das Mädchen, "wird es einen besseren Grund dafür geben." Ob sie sich großartig fühlte oder nicht, sie fühlte sich auf jeden Fall anders, als wäre etwas mit ihr geschehen. Alleine gelassen für den Abend saß sie eine Weile unter der Lampe, die Hände leer, ihre gewohnten Beschäftigungen unbeachtet. Dann stand sie auf und bewegte sich durch das Zimmer und von einem Zimmer zum anderen, wobei sie die Orte bevorzugte, an denen das schwache Lamplight erlosch. Sie war unruhig und sogar aufgeregt; manchmal zitterte sie ein wenig. Die Bedeutung dessen, was passiert war, war nicht im Verhältnis zu ihrem Erscheinungsbild; es hatte tatsächlich eine Veränderung in ihrem Leben gegeben. Was es mit sich bringen würde, war noch äußerst unbestimmt; aber Isabel befand sich in einer Situation, die jedem Wandel einen Wert verlieh. Sie hatte den Wunsch, die Vergangenheit hinter sich zu lassen und, wie sie zu sich selbst sagte, neu anzufangen. Dieser Wunsch war in der Tat keine Geburt des gegenwärtigen Anlasses; er war so vertraut wie der Klang des Regens am Fenster und hatte sie schon oft dazu gebracht, von vorne zu beginnen. Sie schloss die Augen, als sie in einer der dunklen Ecken des ruhigen Salons saß; aber es war nicht der Wunsch nach vergessender Schläfrigkeit. Es war im Gegenteil, weil sie sich zu weit geöffnet fühlte und den Sinn dafür stoppen wollte, zu viele Dinge auf einmal zu sehen. Ihre Vorstellungskraft war ungewöhnlich aktiv; wenn die Tür nicht offen war, sprang sie aus dem Fenster. Sie war es nicht gewohnt, sie hinter Riegeln zu halten; und in wichtigen Momenten, in denen sie gerne nur ihr Urteil hätte nutzen können, zahlte sie den Preis dafür, der Fähigkeit des Sehens ohne Urteil zu viel Ermutigung gegeben zu haben. Gegenwärtig, mit dem Gefühl, dass der Ton der Veränderung angeschlagen worden war, kamen allmählich eine Vielzahl von Bildern von den Dingen, die sie hinter sich ließ. Die Jahre und Stunden ihres Lebens kamen zu ihr zurück, und für eine lange Zeit, in einer stillen Stille, die nur durch das Ticken der großen bronzenen Uhr unterbrochen wurde, ließ sie sie vorbeiziehen. Es war ein sehr glückliches Leben gewesen und sie war eine sehr glückliche Person gewesen - das war die Wahrheit, die sich am lebendigsten herauszuschälen schien. Sie hatte das Beste von allem gehabt, und in einer Welt, in der die Umstände so vieler Menschen sie beneidenswert machten, war es ein Vorteil, nie etwas Besonders Unangenehmes erfahren zu haben. Es schien Isabel, dass das Unangenehme von ihrem Wissen sogar zu sehr abwesend gewesen war, denn sie hatte aus ihrer Bekanntschaft mit der Literatur entnommen, dass es oft eine Quelle des Interesses und sogar der Unterweisung war. Ihr Vater hatte es von ihr ferngehalten - ihr gutaussehender, sehr geliebter Vater, der immer eine Abneigung dagegen hatte. Es war ein großes Glück gewesen, seine Tochter zu sein; Isabel erhob sich sogar stolz auf ihre Abkunft. Seit seinem Tod schien sie ihn sich vorzustellen, wie er seine tapfere Seite seinen Kindern präsentierte und nicht geschafft hatte, das Hässliche in der Praxis so sehr zu ignorieren wie in der Sehnsucht. Aber das ließ ihre Zärtlichkeit für ihn nur größer werden; es war kaum schmerzhaft anzunehmen, dass er zu großzügig, zu gutmütig, zu gleichgültig gegenüber schmutzigen Überlegungen gewesen war. Viele Leute hatten behauptet, dass er diese Gleichgültigkeit zu weit getrieben hatte, besonders die große Anzahl derer, denen er Geld schuldete. Über deren Meinungen war Isabel nie ganz genau informiert worden; aber es mag den Leser interessieren zu wissen, dass sie, während sie in dem verstorbenen Mr. Archer einen bemerkenswert schönen Kopf und einen sehr anziehenden Auftritt erkannten (in der Tat war er immer am Nehmen), erklärten, dass er keinen besonders guten Gebrauch von seinem Leben machte. Er hatte ein beträchtliches Vermögen verschwendet, er war bedauerlicherweise ausgelassen gewesen, es war bekannt, dass er freimütig gespielt hatte. Einige sehr strenge Kritiker gingen sogar so weit zu sagen, dass er seine Töchter nicht einmal erzogen hatte. Sie hatten keine reguläre Erziehung und kein dauerhaftes Zuhause; sie hatten mit Kindermädchen und Gouvernanten (meist sehr schlechten) gelebt oder waren an oberflächlichen Schulen, geführt von Franzosen, geschickt worden, von denen sie am Ende eines Monats unter Tränen weggebracht wurden. Diese Sichtweise der Dinge hätte Isabels Empörung geweckt, denn nach ihrem eigenen Empfinden waren ihre Möglichkeiten groß gewesen. Selbst als ihr Vater seine Töchter drei Monate lang in Neuchâtel bei einer französischen Kindermädchen zurückließ, das mit einem russischen Adligen, der im selben Hotel wohnte, durchgebrannt war - auch in dieser unregelmäßigen Situation (ein Ereignis aus dem elften Lebensjahr des Mädchens) war sie weder verängstigt noch beschämt, sondern hielt es für eine romantische Episode in einer liberalen Erziehung. Ihr Vater hatte eine große Sichtweise des Lebens, von der seine Ruhelosigkeit und sogar seine gelegentliche Unzusammenhängenheit des Verhaltens nur ein Beweis gewesen waren. Er wollte, dass seine Töchter, selbst als Kinder, so viel wie möglich von der Welt sehen; und zu diesem Zweck hatte er sie, bevor Isabel vierzehn Jahre alt war, drei Mal über den Atlantik transportiert, ihnen jedoch bei jeder Gelegenheit nur wenige Monate Sicht auf das vorgeschlagene Thema gewährt: ein Kurs, der die Neugierde unserer Heldin angeregt hatte, ohne sie zu befriedigen. Sie hätte eine Anhängerin ihres Vaters sein sollen, denn sie war das Mitglied seines Trios, das ihm für die ungenannten Unannehmlichkeiten am meisten entschädigt hatte. In seinen letzten Tagen war seine allgemeine Bereitschaft, von einer Welt Abschied zu nehmen, in der die Schwierigkeit, nach Belieben zu handeln, zu wachsen schien, wie man älter wurde, durch den Schmerz über die Trennung von seinem intelligenten, überlegenen und bemerkenswerten Mädchen spürbar gemildert worden. Später, als die Reisen nach Europa aufhörten, zeigte er seinen Kindern immer noch allerlei Nachsicht, und wenn ihn Geldsorgen plagten, wurde das unreflektierende Bewusstsein vieler Besitztümer durch nichts gestört. Isabel, obwohl sie sehr gut tanzte, konnte sich nicht daran erinnern, in New York ein erfolgreiches Mitglied des choreografischen Kreises gewesen zu sein; ihre Schwester Edith war, wie jeder sagte, viel attraktiver. Edith war so ein auffälliges Beispiel für Erfolg, dass Isabel keine Illusionen darüber haben konnte, was diesen Vorteil ausmachte, oder über die Grenzen ihrer eigenen Fähigkeit zu friskieren und zu springen und vor allem mit der richtigen Wirkung zu schreien. Neunzehn von zwanzig Personen (einschließlich der jüngeren Schwester selbst) erklärten Edith unendlich schöner als die beiden; aber der zwanzigste hatte neben dieser Beurteilung auch den Unterhaltungswert, alle anderen ästhetischen Vulgarianer zu finden. Isabel hatte in den Tiefen ihrer Natur einen noch unstillbareren Wunsch zu gefallen als Edith; aber diese jungen Dame hatte eine unübliche Stelle in ihrem Wesen, zwischen der Oberfläche und der sie trennenden Kommunikation lag eine zwölffache launische Kraft. Sie sah die jungen Männer, die in großer Zahl kamen, um ihre Schwester zu sehen; aber in der Regel hatten sie Angst vor ihr; sie glaubten, dass eine besondere Vorbereitung zum Gespräch mit ihr erforderlich sei. Ihr Ruf, viel zu lesen, hing wie die wolkige Hülle einer Göttin in einem Epos um sie herum; man Diese Dinge, die jetzt in ihrer Erinnerung abgespielt wurden, verwandelten sich in eine Vielzahl von Szenen und Figuren. Vergessene Dinge kamen zurück zu ihr; viele andere, die sie kürzlich für sehr wichtig gehalten hatte, rückten in den Hintergrund. Das Ergebnis war kaleidoskopisch, aber die Bewegung des Instruments wurde schließlich durch das Hereinkommen des Dieners mit dem Namen eines Herrn gestoppt. Der Name des Herrn lautete Caspar Goodwood; er war ein aufrechter junger Mann aus Boston, der Miss Archer seit dem letzten Jahr kannte und der sie aufgrund ihrer Schönheit für die schönste junge Frau ihrer Zeit hielt. Er hatte die Zeit, entsprechend der von mir angedeuteten Regel, als eine alberne Periode der Geschichte betrachtet. Manchmal schrieb er ihr und hatte vor einer Woche oder zwei aus New York geschrieben. Sie hatte es für durchaus möglich gehalten, dass er vorbeikommen würde - tatsächlich hatte sie den ganzen verregneten Tag über vage darauf gewartet. Jetzt, da sie erfuhr, dass er da war, verspürte sie dennoch keine Eile, ihn zu empfangen. Er war der schönste junge Mann, den sie je gesehen hatte, ja, er war sogar ein ziemlich prächtiger junger Mann; er weckte in ihr ein Gefühl von hohem, seltenem Respekt. Bei keiner anderen Person hatte sie sich jemals in gleichem Maße dazu bewegt gefühlt. In der Welt im Allgemeinen wurde angenommen, dass er sie heiraten wolle, aber das war natürlich zwischen ihnen. Man kann zumindest behaupten, dass er extra von New York nach Albany gereist war, um sie zu sehen, nachdem er in der vorherigen Stadt, in der er ein paar Tage verbrachte und wo er gehofft hatte, sie zu finden, erfahren hatte, dass sie immer noch in der Hauptstadt des Staates war. Isabel zögerte einige Minuten, um zu ihm zu gehen; sie bewegte sich mit einem neuen Gefühl von Komplikationen im Raum umher. Aber schließlich stellte sie sich vor und fand ihn in der Nähe der Lampe stehend. Er war groß, stark und etwas steif; er war auch schlank und braungebrannt. Er war nicht romantisch, sondern eher undurchsichtig attraktiv; aber seine Physiognomie hatte eine gewisse Forderung nach Aufmerksamkeit, die belohnt wurde, je mehr Charme man in seinen außergewöhnlich fixierten blauen Augen fand, Augen einer anderen Hautfarbe als die seine, und in einem Kiefer von der etwas eckigen Form, die Entschlossenheit zu verkörpern scheint. Isabel sagte sich selbst, dass es heute Nacht Entschlossenheit zum Ausdruck brachte; demnach machte sich Caspar Goodwood, der mit Hoffnung und Entschlossenheit angekommen war, nach einer halben Stunde auf den Weg zurück zu seiner Unterkunft mit dem Gefühl eines besiegten Mannes. Es sei hinzugefügt, dass er kein Mann war, der Niederlagen einfach so hinnehmen würde. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

Von den drei Archer-Schwestern gilt Lilian als die praktische, Edith als die schöne und Isabel als die "intellektuelle". Lilian und Edith sind beide verheiratet: Lilian lebt glücklich in New York mit ihrem lauten Ehemann und ihren Kindern, während die schöne Edith etwas weniger glücklich im "unmodischen Westen" lebt. Lilian und ihr Ehemann Edmund wirken wie völlig nette, normale Menschen. Lilian macht sich Sorgen um ihre außergewöhnliche jüngere Schwester, die für sie eine Art Geheimnis ist. Mr. Archer, ihr Vater, war berüchtigt dafür, nicht gut mit Geld umzugehen, oft zu spielen und verschwenderisch auszugeben. Trotz all dem erinnert sich Isabel liebevoll an ihren Vater. Isabel findet ihr Leben wunderbar; sie hatte jedes Privileg und hat nie etwas vermisst. Sie ist fast enttäuscht, weil sie denkt, dass Schwierigkeiten ihrem Leben ein wenig Würze verleihen würden - zumindest sagen das die Bücher, die sie liest, immer. Auch wenn Isabels Leben nicht von Herausforderungen geprägt war, ist es sicherlich voller skurriler Aufregung. Mr. Archer hat seine drei Töchter auf eine chaotische Art und Weise erzogen, indem er sie um die Welt geschleppt hat und nachlässige Kindermädchen engagiert hat, die sich um sie kümmern. Obwohl viele Männer um Edith geworben haben, übersehen die meisten Männer Isabel oder fühlen sich von ihrem intellektuellen Ruf eingeschüchtert. Allerdings wird uns gesagt, dass sie auf ihre eigene, einmalige Art schön ist. Seit etwa einem Jahr wirbt der in Boston ansässige Caspar Goodwood beharrlich um Isabel per Post. Sie findet ihn ziemlich beeindruckend, weiß aber noch nicht so recht, was sie für ihn empfindet. Caspar reist von New York City nach Albany, um Isabel zu besuchen. Sie ist langsam, ihn zu treffen, und obwohl er entschlossen aussieht, passiert während seines Besuchs nichts Besonderes. Er geht etwas geschlagen.

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.

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: Dr. Flint, a physician in the neighborhood, had married the sister of my mistress, and I was now the property of their little daughter. It was not without murmuring that I prepared for my new home; and what added to my unhappiness, was the fact that my brother William was purchased by the same family. My father, by his nature, as well as by the habit of transacting business as a skillful mechanic, had more of the feelings of a freeman than is common among slaves. My brother was a spirited boy; and being brought up under such influences, he daily detested the name of master and mistress. One day, when his father and his mistress both happened to call him at the same time, he hesitated between the two; being perplexed to know which had the strongest claim upon his obedience. He finally concluded to go to his mistress. When my father reproved him for it, he said, "You both called me, and I didn't know which I ought to go to first." "You are _my_ child," replied our father, "and when I call you, you should come immediately, if you have to pass through fire and water." Poor Willie! He was now to learn his first lesson of obedience to a master. Grandmother tried to cheer us with hopeful words, and they found an echo in the credulous hearts of youth. When we entered our new home we encountered cold looks, cold words, and cold treatment. We were glad when the night came. On my narrow bed I moaned and wept, I felt so desolate and alone. I had been there nearly a year, when a dear little friend of mine was buried. I heard her mother sob, as the clods fell on the coffin of her only child, and I turned away from the grave, feeling thankful that I still had something left to love. I met my grandmother, who said, "Come with me, Linda;" and from her tone I knew that something sad had happened. She led me apart from the people, and then said, "My child, your father is dead." Dead! How could I believe it? He had died so suddenly I had not even heard that he was sick. I went home with my grandmother. My heart rebelled against God, who had taken from me mother, father, mistress, and friend. The good grandmother tried to comfort me. "Who knows the ways of God?" said she. "Perhaps they have been kindly taken from the evil days to come." Years afterwards I often thought of this. She promised to be a mother to her grandchildren, so far as she might be permitted to do so; and strengthened by her love, I returned to my master's. I thought I should be allowed to go to my father's house the next morning; but I was ordered to go for flowers, that my mistress's house might be decorated for an evening party. I spent the day gathering flowers and weaving them into festoons, while the dead body of my father was lying within a mile of me. What cared my owners for that? he was merely a piece of property. Moreover, they thought he had spoiled his children, by teaching them to feel that they were human beings. This was blasphemous doctrine for a slave to teach; presumptuous in him, and dangerous to the masters. The next day I followed his remains to a humble grave beside that of my dear mother. There were those who knew my father's worth, and respected his memory. My home now seemed more dreary than ever. The laugh of the little slave-children sounded harsh and cruel. It was selfish to feel so about the joy of others. My brother moved about with a very grave face. I tried to comfort him, by saying, "Take courage, Willie; brighter days will come by and by." "You don't know any thing about it, Linda," he replied. "We shall have to stay here all our days; we shall never be free." I argued that we were growing older and stronger, and that perhaps we might, before long, be allowed to hire our own time, and then we could earn money to buy our freedom. William declared this was much easier to say than to do; moreover, he did not intend to _buy_ his freedom. We held daily controversies upon this subject. Little attention was paid to the slaves' meals in Dr. Flint's house. If they could catch a bit of food while it was going, well and good. I gave myself no trouble on that score, for on my various errands I passed my grandmother's house, where there was always something to spare for me. I was frequently threatened with punishment if I stopped there; and my grandmother, to avoid detaining me, often stood at the gate with something for my breakfast or dinner. I was indebted to _her_ for all my comforts, spiritual or temporal. It was _her_ labor that supplied my scanty wardrobe. I have a vivid recollection of the linsey-woolsey dress given me every winter by Mrs. Flint. How I hated it! It was one of the badges of slavery. While my grandmother was thus helping to support me from her hard earnings, the three hundred dollars she had lent her mistress were never repaid. When her mistress died, her son-in-law, Dr. Flint, was appointed executor. When grandmother applied to him for payment, he said the estate was insolvent, and the law prohibited payment. It did not, however, prohibit him from retaining the silver candelabra, which had been purchased with that money. I presume they will be handed down in the family, from generation to generation. My grandmother's mistress had always promised her that, at her death, she should be free; and it was said that in her will she made good the promise. But when the estate was settled, Dr. Flint told the faithful old servant that, under existing circumstances, it was necessary she should be sold. On the appointed day, the customary advertisement was posted up, proclaiming that there would be a "public sale of negroes, horses, &c." Dr. Flint called to tell my grandmother that he was unwilling to wound her feelings by putting her up at auction, and that he would prefer to dispose of her at private sale. My grandmother saw through his hypocrisy; she understood very well that he was ashamed of the job. She was a very spirited woman, and if he was base enough to sell her, when her mistress intended she should be free, she was determined the public should know it. She had for a long time supplied many families with crackers and preserves; consequently, "Aunt Marthy," as she was called, was generally known, and every body who knew her respected her intelligence and good character. Her long and faithful service in the family was also well known, and the intention of her mistress to leave her free. When the day of sale came, she took her place among the chattels, and at the first call she sprang upon the auction-block. Many voices called out, "Shame! Shame! Who is going to sell _you_, aunt Marthy? Don't stand there! That is no place for _you_." Without saying a word, she quietly awaited her fate. No one bid for her. At last, a feeble voice said, "Fifty dollars." It came from a maiden lady, seventy years old, the sister of my grandmother's deceased mistress. She had lived forty years under the same roof with my grandmother; she knew how faithfully she had served her owners, and how cruelly she had been defrauded of her rights; and she resolved to protect her. The auctioneer waited for a higher bid; but her wishes were respected; no one bid above her. She could neither read nor write; and when the bill of sale was made out, she signed it with a cross. But what consequence was that, when she had a big heart overflowing with human kindness? She gave the old servant her freedom. At that time, my grandmother was just fifty years old. Laborious years had passed since then; and now my brother and I were slaves to the man who had defrauded her of her money, and tried to defraud her of her freedom. One of my mother's sisters, called Aunt Nancy, was also a slave in his family. She was a kind, good aunt to me; and supplied the place of both housekeeper and waiting maid to her mistress. She was, in fact, at the beginning and end of every thing. Mrs. Flint, like many southern women, was totally deficient in energy. She had not strength to superintend her household affairs; but her nerves were so strong, that she could sit in her easy chair and see a woman whipped, till the blood trickled from every stroke of the lash. She was a member of the church; but partaking of the Lord's supper did not seem to put her in a Christian frame of mind. If dinner was not served at the exact time on that particular Sunday, she would station herself in the kitchen, and wait till it was dished, and then spit in all the kettles and pans that had been used for cooking. She did this to prevent the cook and her children from eking out their meagre fare with the remains of the gravy and other scrapings. The slaves could get nothing to eat except what she chose to give them. Provisions were weighed out by the pound and ounce, three times a day. I can assure you she gave them no chance to eat wheat bread from her flour barrel. She knew how many biscuits a quart of flour would make, and exactly what size they ought to be. Dr. Flint was an epicure. The cook never sent a dinner to his table without fear and trembling; for if there happened to be a dish not to his liking, he would either order her to be whipped, or compel her to eat every mouthful of it in his presence. The poor, hungry creature might not have objected to eating it; but she did object to having her master cram it down her throat till she choked. They had a pet dog, that was a nuisance in the house. The cook was ordered to make some Indian mush for him. He refused to eat, and when his head was held over it, the froth flowed from his mouth into the basin. He died a few minutes after. When Dr. Flint came in, he said the mush had not been well cooked, and that was the reason the animal would not eat it. He sent for the cook, and compelled her to eat it. He thought that the woman's stomach was stronger than the dog's; but her sufferings afterwards proved that he was mistaken. This poor woman endured many cruelties from her master and mistress; sometimes she was locked up, away from her nursing baby, for a whole day and night. When I had been in the family a few weeks, one of the plantation slaves was brought to town, by order of his master. It was near night when he arrived, and Dr. Flint ordered him to be taken to the work house, and tied up to the joist, so that his feet would just escape the ground. In that situation he was to wait till the doctor had taken his tea. I shall never forget that night. Never before, in my life, had I heard hundreds of blows fall; in succession, on a human being. His piteous groans, and his "O, pray don't, massa," rang in my ear for months afterwards. There were many conjectures as to the cause of this terrible punishment. Some said master accused him of stealing corn; others said the slave had quarrelled with his wife, in presence of the overseer, and had accused his master of being the father of her child. They were both black, and the child was very fair. I went into the work house next morning, and saw the cowhide still wet with blood, and the boards all covered with gore. The poor man lived, and continued to quarrel with his wife. A few months afterwards Dr. Flint handed them both over to a slave-trader. The guilty man put their value into his pocket, and had the satisfaction of knowing that they were out of sight and hearing. When the mother was delivered into the trader's hands, she said. "You _promised_ to treat me well." To which he replied, "You have let your tongue run too far; damn you!" She had forgotten that it was a crime for a slave to tell who was the father of her child. From others than the master persecution also comes in such cases. I once saw a young slave girl dying soon after the birth of a child nearly white. In her agony she cried out, "O Lord, come and take me!" Her mistress stood by, and mocked at her like an incarnate fiend. "You suffer, do you?" she exclaimed. "I am glad of it. You deserve it all, and more too." The girl's mother said, "The baby is dead, thank God; and I hope my poor child will soon be in heaven, too." "Heaven!" retorted the mistress. "There is no such place for the like of her and her bastard." The poor mother turned away, sobbing. Her dying daughter called her, feebly, and as she bent over her, I heard her say, "Don't grieve so, mother; God knows all about it; and HE will have mercy upon me." Her sufferings, afterwards, became so intense, that her mistress felt unable to stay; but when she left the room, the scornful smile was still on her lips. Seven children called her mother. The poor black woman had but the one child, whose eyes she saw closing in death, while she thanked God for taking her away from the greater bitterness of life. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

Der neue Master und die neue Mistress Harriet stellen den Meister ihres neuen Hauses vor, Dr. Flint, den Ehemann der Schwester ihrer früheren Mistress. William kam ebenfalls in dieses Haus, was Harriet viel Freude bereitete. Doch der Bruder und die Schwester wurden mit "kalten Blicken, kalten Worten und kalter Behandlung" empfangen. Diese Situation verschlimmerte sich, als Harriet erfuhr, dass ihr Vater gestorben war und sie nicht die Möglichkeit hatte, seinen Leichnam zu sehen. Dies beklagte sie bitterlich. William litt unter diesen Bedingungen und Harriets einziger Trost war ihre starke und tröstende Großmutter. Aunt Marthy war gesagt worden, dass sie von ihrer früheren Mistress freigelassen werden würde, aber Dr. Flint, ein herzloser Mann, beschloss, sie auf den Auktionsblock zu stellen. Zum Glück kannte die ganze Stadt die alte Frau und liebte sie, und niemand bot auf sie. Schließlich kaufte eine alte weiße Frau sie und gab ihr sofort ihre Freiheit. Harriet schreibt über Mrs. Flint, die eine schwache Frau im Körper, aber ganz sicher nicht im Geist war, was sie zwang, Gewalttaten gegen ihre Sklaven zu befehlen und zu beobachten. Sie genoss es auch, den Sklaven das Essen vorzuenthalten.

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.

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: Es scheint mir nicht meine Aufgabe zu sein, aufzuzeichnen, obwohl dieses Manuskript nur für meine Augen bestimmt ist, wie hart ich an dieser enormen Kurzschrift und allen Verbesserungen gearbeitet habe, in meinem Verantwortungsgefühl gegenüber Dora und ihren Tanten. Ich möchte nur hinzufügen, dass ich, neben dem, was ich bereits über meine Beharrlichkeit zu dieser Zeit meines Lebens geschrieben habe, und über eine geduldige und kontinuierliche Energie, die damals in mir heranreifte und die ich als den starken Teil meines Charakters kenne, wenn er überhaupt eine Stärke hat, dort den Ursprung meines Erfolgs finde. In weltlichen Angelegenheiten war ich sehr glücklich; viele Männer haben viel härter gearbeitet und sind nicht annähernd so erfolgreich gewesen; aber ich hätte niemals das erreichen können, was ich erreicht habe, ohne die Gewohnheiten der Pünktlichkeit, Ordnung und Fleiß, ohne die Entschlossenheit, mich auf ein Ziel zur konzentrieren, egal wie schnell sein Nachfolger kommen würde, die ich damals entwickelt habe. Das schreibe ich keineswegs aus Selbstlob. Der Mann, der sein eigenes Leben wie ich meines betrachtet, Seite für Seite, muss ein guter Mann gewesen sein, wenn er von dem scharfen Bewusstsein vieler vernachlässigter Talente, vieler verschwendeter Gelegenheiten und vieler irriger und verdrehter Gefühle verschont bleiben will, die ständig in seinem Inneren Krieg führen und ihn besiegen. Ich habe keine natürliche Gabe, von der ich nicht missbrauch gemacht hätte, dessen bin ich sicher. Meine Bedeutung ist einfach die, dass ich alles, was ich im Leben versucht habe, mit ganzem Herzen gut zu machen versucht habe; dass ich mich in alles, dem ich mich gewidmet habe, vollständig hineingesteigert habe; dass ich sowohl in großen Zielen als auch in kleinen stets vollkommen ernst war. Ich habe niemals geglaubt, dass irgendeine natürliche oder verbesserte Fähigkeit behaupten kann, ohne die Begleitung von fleißigen, einfachen, hart arbeitenden Eigenschaften den gewünschten Erfolg zu erreichen. Eine solche Erfüllung gibt es auf dieser Erde nicht. Einige glückliche Talente und günstige Gelegenheiten können die beiden Seiten der Leiter sein, auf denen sich manche erheben, aber das Rückgrat dieser Leiter muss aus Material bestehen, das Verschleiß standhalten kann; und es gibt keinen Ersatz für gründliche, begeisterte und aufrichtige Ernsthaftigkeit. Niemals mit nur einer Hand anzufangen, an alles, worin ich mich vollkommen hineinwerfen konnte; und niemals meine Arbeit zu verachten, egal welche, das sind, wie ich jetzt feststelle, meine goldenen Regeln. Wie viel von der Praxis, die ich gerade als Ratschlag gegeben habe, ich Agnes verdanke, werde ich hier nicht wiederholen. Meine Erzählung geht zur dankbaren Liebe zu Agnes über. Sie kam für einen Besuch von zwei Wochen zu Doctor. Mr. Wickfield war der alte Freund des Doctors, und der Doctor wollte mit ihm sprechen und ihm helfen. Es war bereits bei Agnes zur Sprache gekommen, als sie das letzte Mal in der Stadt war, und dieser Besuch war das Ergebnis. Sie und ihr Vater kamen gemeinsam. Es überraschte mich nicht im Geringsten, von ihr zu hören, dass sie zugestimmt hatte, eine Unterkunft in der Nachbarschaft für Mrs. Heep zu finden, deren rheumatische Beschwerden eine Veränderung der Luft erforderten und die begeistert war, in solch guter Gesellschaft zu sein. Ebenso wenig überrascht war ich, als am nächsten Tag Uriah, wie ein pflichtbewusster Sohn, seine werte Mutter brachte, um Besitz zu ergreifen. "Sehen Sie, Master Copperfield", sagte er, als er sich gegen meinen Willen in meiner Gesellschaft im Garten des Doctors befand, "wenn man verliebt ist, ist man ein bisschen eifersüchtig - oder besser gesagt, man möchte ein Auge auf die geliebte Person haben." "Auf wen bist du jetzt eifersüchtig?" sagte ich. "Dankeschön, Master Copperfield", erwiderte er, "im Moment auf niemanden Bestimmten - zumindest auf keinen Mann." "Meinst du, dass du eifersüchtig auf eine Frau bist?" Er warf mir einen seitlichen Blick aus seinen bösen roten Augen zu und lachte. "Wirklich, Master Copperfield", sagte er, "--ich sollte eigentlich Mister sagen, aber ich hoffe du entschuldigst meine Umgangsformen--du bist so verführerisch, dass du mich wie einen Korkenzieher herausziehst! Also, ich habe nichts dagegen, es dir zu sagen", sagte er und legte seine fischartige Hand auf meine, "ich bin nicht im Allgemeinen ein Frauenschwarm, Sir, und war es auch nie bei Mrs. Strong." Seine Augen erschienen jetzt grün, als sie meine mit einer hinterhältigen List beobachteten. "Was meinst du damit?" sagte ich. "Nun, obwohl ich Anwalt bin, Master Copperfield", antwortete er mit einem trockenen Grinsen, "meine ich derzeit genau, was ich sage." "Und was meinst du mit deinem Blick?" entgegnete ich ruhig. "Mit meinem Blick? Ach du lieber Himmel, Copperfield, das ist dreiste Praxis! Was meinst du mit meinem Blick?" "Ja", sagte ich. "Mit deinem Blick." Er schien sehr amüsiert zu sein und lachte so herzlich, wie es seiner Natur entsprach. Nachdem er sich sein Kinn mit der Hand gekratzt hatte, fuhr er langsam fort und sagte mit niedergeschlagenen Augen, während er weiterhin sehr langsam kratzte: "Als ich noch ein bescheidener Schreiberling war, hat sie immer auf mich herabgeblickt. Immer wieder hatte sie meine Agnes bei sich zu Hause hin und her, und sie war immer wieder ein Freund für dich, Master Copperfield; aber ich war ihr selbst zu sehr unterlegen, um beachtet zu werden." "Nun?" sagte ich; "angenommen, du warst es!" "Und auch ihm unterlegen", setzte Uriah sehr deutlich und in einem nachdenklichen Ton fort, während er weiterhin sein Kinn kratzte. "Kennst du den Doctor nicht besser", sagte ich, "um anzunehmen, dass er sich deiner Existenz bewusst war, wenn du nicht vor ihm warst?" Er richtete seinen Blick wieder seitlich auf mich und zog sein Gesicht sehr kinnlastig, um besser kratzen zu können, als er antwortete: "O weh, ich meine nicht den Doctor! Oh nein, der arme Mann! Ich meine Mr. Maldon!" Mir brach das Herz. Alle meine alten Zweifel und Befürchtungen zu diesem Thema, das Glück und der Frieden des Doctors, all die gemischten Möglichkeiten von Unschuld und Kompromiss, die ich nicht entwirren konnte, sah ich in einem Moment in der Gewalt dieses Kerls. "Er konnte nie ins Büro kommen, ohne mich herumzukommandieren und anzuschieben", sagte Uriah. "Ein feiner Herr war er! Ich war sehr demütig und bescheiden - und das bin ich immer noch. Aber das mochte ich nicht - und das mag ich nicht!" Er hörte auf, sich das Kinn zu kratzen, und saugte seine Wangen ein, bis sie schienen, sich zu berühren. Dabei hielt er seinen seitlichen Blick die ganze Zeit auf mich gerichtet. "Sie ist eine deiner schönen Frauen", fuhr er fort, als er sein Gesicht langsam wieder in seine natürliche Form brachte, "und bereit, kein Freund für jemanden wie mich zu sein, das weiß ich. Sie ist genau die Person, die meine Agnes zu höherem Spiel ermuntern würde. Nun, ich bin kein Frauenheld, Master Copperfield; aber ich habe schon seit geraumer Zeit Augen im Kopf. Wir Demütigen haben meistens Augen - und wir schauen mit ihnen." Ich versuchte, unbewusst und unbesorgt zu erscheinen, aber ich sah an seinem Gesicht, dass dies wenig erfolgreich war. "Nun, ich werde mich nicht herunterziehen lassen, Copperfield", fuhr er fort und hob den Teil seines Gesichts an, wo seine Uriah hielt plötzlich inne, legte seine Hände zwischen seine großen Knieknöchel und krümmte sich vor Lachen. Mit vollkommen lautlosem Lachen. Kein Ton entkam ihm. Ich war so abgestoßen von seinem verabscheuungswürdigen Verhalten, besonders von diesem abschließenden Vorfall, dass ich mich ohne jede Zeremonie abwandte und ihn halbiert im Garten stehen ließ wie eine vogelscheuchenhafte Figur ohne Halt. Es geschah nicht an diesem Abend, aber soweit ich mich erinnere, am übernächsten Abend, einem Sonntag, dass ich Agnes mitnahm, um Dora zu besuchen. Ich hatte den Besuch zuvor mit Miss Lavinia vereinbart und man erwartete Agnes zum Tee. Ich war voller Stolz und Sorge; stolz auf meine liebe Verlobte und besorgt, dass Agnes sie mögen würde. Auf dem Weg nach Putney, Agnes drinnen im Reisebus und ich draußen, malte ich mir Dora in jeder der hübschen Gesten aus, die ich so gut kannte; ich entschied mich, dass sie genau so aussehen sollte wie zu dieser Zeit und zweifelte dann, ob ich sie nicht lieber so aussehen lassen sollte wie zu einer anderen Zeit; und fast trieb ich mich damit in Fieber. Ich hatte keinerlei Zweifel, dass sie sehr hübsch war, aber sie hatte noch nie so gut ausgesehen. Als ich Agnes ihren kleinen Tanten vorstellte, war sie nicht im Wohnzimmer, sondern hielt sich schüchtern in der Nähe versteckt. Jetzt wusste ich, wo ich nach ihr suchen musste; und tatsächlich fand ich sie erneut dabei, wie sie sich zum x-ten Mal hinter der alten Tür die Ohren zuhielt. Zuerst wollte sie überhaupt nicht kommen; dann bat sie um fünf Minuten, gemessen an meiner Uhr. Als sie schließlich ihren Arm durch meinen führte, um ins Wohnzimmer geführt zu werden, war ihr entzückendes kleines Gesicht gerötet und noch nie so hübsch gewesen. Aber als wir den Raum betraten und sie blass wurde, war sie tausendmal hübscher. Dora hatte Angst vor Agnes. Sie hatte mir gesagt, dass sie wusste, dass Agnes "zu clever" war. Aber als sie sie so fröhlich, ernsthaft, nachdenklich und gut gelaunt sah, stieß sie einen leisen, freudigen Schrei aus, legte ihre liebevollen Arme um Agnes' Hals und legte ihre unschuldige Wange an ihr Gesicht. Ich war noch nie so glücklich. Ich war noch nie so erfreut, wie als ich die beiden zusammen, Seite an Seite, sitzen sah. Wie als ich mein kleines Schätzchen so natürlich zu diesen herzlichen Augen aufblicken sah. Wie als ich den zärtlichen, liebevollen Blick sah, den Agnes auf sie warf. Miss Lavinia und Miss Clarissa teilten auf ihre Weise meine Freude. Es war der angenehmste Teetisch der Welt. Miss Clarissa war die Gastgeberin. Ich schnitt und reichte den süßen Kuchensamen - die kleinen Schwestern hatten eine vogelhafte Vorliebe dafür, Samen aufzupicken und Zucker zu picken; Miss Lavinia schaute wohlwollend zu, als ob unsere glückliche Liebe allein ihr Werk wäre; und wir waren mit uns und miteinander vollkommen zufrieden. Die liebevolle Fröhlichkeit von Agnes ergriff alle Herzen. Ihr ruhiges Interesse an allem, was Dora interessierte; ihre Art, Bekanntschaft mit Jip zu machen (der sofort reagierte); ihre angenehme Art, als Dora sich schämte, zu ihrem gewohnten Platz neben mir zu kommen; ihre bescheidene Anmut und Leichtigkeit, die eine Vielzahl von errötenden kleinen Zeichen des Vertrauens von Dora hervorrief, schienen unseren Kreis vollkommen zu machen. "Ich bin so froh", sagte Dora nach dem Tee, "dass du mich magst. Ich dachte nicht, dass du das würdest, und jetzt möchte ich mehr als je zuvor gemocht werden, da Julia Mills gegangen ist." Ich habe vergessen, es zu erwähnen, im Übrigen. Miss Mills war abgereist, und Dora und ich waren an Bord eines großen Ostinderman in Gravesend gegangen, um sie zu sehen; und wir hatten kandierten Ingwer und Guaven und andere Köstlichkeiten dieser Art zum Mittagessen gehabt; und wir hatten Miss Mills weinend auf einem Klappstuhl auf dem Achterdeck zurückgelassen, ein großes neues Tagebuch unter dem Arm, in dem die vom Anblick des Ozeans geweckten ursprünglichen Gedanken unter Verschluss niedergeschrieben werden sollten. Agnes sagte, sie fürchte, ich hätte ihr ein wenig vielversprechendes Zeugnis gegeben; aber Dora korrigierte das sofort. "Oh, nein!", sagte sie und schüttelte mir die Locken vor den Augen, "es waren alles Lobeshymnen. Er denkt so viel von deiner Meinung, dass ich richtig Angst davor hatte." "Meine gute Meinung kann seine Zuneigung zu manchen Personen, die er kennt, nicht stärken", sagte Agnes mit einem Lächeln, "sie ist es nicht wert, dass sie sie haben." "Aber gibst du sie mir bitte?", bat Dora mit ihrer überredenden Art, "wenn du kannst!" Wir amüsierten uns darüber, dass Dora gemocht werden wollte, und Dora sagte, ich sei ein Dummkopf und sie möge mich sowieso nicht, und der kurze Abend verging wie im Flug. Die Zeit nahte, als der Reisebus uns abholen sollte. Ich stand alleine vor dem Kamin, als Dora sich leise anschlich, um mir den üblichen kostbaren kleinen Abschiedskuss zu geben, bevor ich ging. "Denkst du nicht, Doady, dass wenn ich sie schon vor langer Zeit zur Freundin gehabt hätte", sagte Dora, ihre strahlenden Augen sehr hell leuchtend, und ihre kleine rechte Hand beschäftigte sich gedankenverloren mit einem der Knöpfe meines Mantels, "wäre ich vielleicht klüger geworden?" "Meine Liebe!", sagte ich, "was für ein Unsinn!" "Glaubst du, dass es Unsinn ist?" erwiderte Dora, ohne mich anzusehen, "bist du sicher?" "Natürlich bin ich es!" "Ich habe vergessen", sagte Dora und drehte den Knopf weiter und weiter, "in welchem Verhältnis Agnes zu dir steht, du lieber, böser Junge." "Keine Blutsverwandte", antwortete ich, "aber wir sind wie Bruder und Schwester aufgewachsen." "Ich frage mich, warum du dich jemals in mich verliebt hast?", sagte Dora und fuhr mit einem anderen Knopf von meinem Mantel fort. "Vielleicht, weil ich dich nicht sehen und dich nicht lieben konnte, Dora!" "Angenommen, du hättest mich überhaupt nie gesehen", sagte Dora und ging zu einem anderen Knopf. "Angenommen, wir wären nie geboren worden!", sagte ich fröhlich. Ich fragte mich, worüber sie nachdachte, als ich in bewunderndem Schweigen auf die kleine, sanfte Hand sah, die die Reihe der Knöpfe an meinem Mantel entlangwanderte, und auf die Haarsträhnen, die an meiner Brust lagen, und auf die Wimpern ihrer gesenkten Augen, die leicht anstiegen, als sie ihren herumspielenden Fingern folgten. Schließlich wurden ihre Augen zu meinen erhoben, und sie stand auf Zehenspitzen, um mir, nachdenklicher als sonst, diesen kostbaren kleinen Kuss zu geben - einmal, zweimal, dreimal - und sie verließ den Raum. Sie kamen alle fünf Minuten später zusammen zurück, und Dora's ungewöhnliches Nachdenken war zu diesem Zeitpunkt völlig verschwunden. Sie war entschlossen, Jip vor der Abreise des Reisebusses alle seine Kunststücke vorzuführen. Es dauerte eine Weile (nicht so sehr wegen ihrer Vielfält "Mir geht es besser," sagte sie, "ich bin ziemlich fröhlich und unbeschwert." Ich schaute auf ihr friedliches Gesicht, das nach oben schaute, und dachte, es seien die Sterne, die es so edel erscheinen ließen. "Es hat sich nichts zu Hause geändert", sagte Agnes nach ein paar Momenten. "Kein frischer Bezug", sagte ich, "zu - ich möchte dich nicht verärgern, Agnes, aber ich muss fragen - zu dem, worüber wir gesprochen haben, als wir uns das letzte Mal verabschiedet haben?" "Nein, keiner", antwortete sie. "Ich habe so viel darüber nachgedacht." "Du musst weniger daran denken. Denk daran, dass ich letztendlich einfaches Lieben und Wahrheit anvertraue. Hab keine Sorgen um mich, Trotwood", fügte sie nach einem Moment hinzu, "den Schritt, den du fürchtest, werde ich niemals tun." Obwohl ich glaube, dass ich in keiner Jahreszeit der kühlen Überlegung je wirklich Angst davor hatte, war es eine unsagbare Erleichterung für mich, diese Zusicherung aus ihren wahrhaftigen Lippen zu bekommen. Ich sagte es ihr, eindringlich. "Und wenn dieser Besuch vorbei ist", sagte ich, "denn wir werden wahrscheinlich keine weitere Gelegenheit haben, alleine zu sein - wie lange wird es dauern, meine liebe Agnes, bis du wieder nach London kommst?" "Wahrscheinlich eine lange Zeit", antwortete sie, "ich denke, es ist am besten - um Papas willen -, zu Hause zu bleiben. Es wird wahrscheinlich einige Zeit dauern, bis wir uns wieder oft treffen, aber ich werde ein guter Briefpartner von Dora sein, und wir werden so oft voneinander hören." Wir befanden uns nun im kleinen Hof des Häuschens des Doktors. Es wurde spät. Es brannte Licht im Fenster von Mrs. Strongs Zimmer, und Agnes zeigte darauf und wünschte mir gute Nacht. "Mach dir keine Sorgen", sagte sie und gab mir ihre Hand, "wegen unserer Missgeschicke und Sorgen. Ich kann in nichts glücklicher sein als in deinem Glück. Wenn du mir jemals helfen kannst, verlasse ich mich darauf, dass ich dich danach frage. Gott segne dich immer!" In ihrem strahlenden Lächeln und in diesen letzten Tönen ihrer fröhlichen Stimme schien ich wieder mein kleines Dora in ihrer Begleitung zu sehen und zu hören. Ich stand eine Weile da und schaute durch den Torbogen zu den Sternen mit einem Herzen voller Liebe und Dankbarkeit und ging dann langsam hinaus. Ich hatte in einer anständigen Gaststätte in der Nähe ein Bett gemietet und ging gerade durch das Tor, als ich, als ich meinen Kopf drehte, ein Licht in des Doktors Arbeitszimmer sah. Ein etwas vorwurfsvoller Gedanke kam mir in den Sinn, dass er am Wörterbuch gearbeitet hatte, ohne meine Hilfe. Um zu sehen, ob dem so war und ihn auf jeden Fall zu verabschieden, falls er noch zwischen seinen Büchern sitzen würde, drehte ich mich um, ging leise über den Flur und öffnete die Tür vorsichtig und schaute hinein. Die erste Person, die ich überrascht, bei gedämpftem Licht der abgeschirmten Lampe sah, war Uriah. Er stand ganz in ihrer Nähe, eine seiner skeletthaften Hände vor dem Mund und die andere ruhte auf des Doktors Tisch. Der Doktor saß in seinem Arbeitszimmerstuhl und bedeckte sein Gesicht mit den Händen. Herr Wickfield, sehr beunruhigt und betrübt, lehnte sich vor und berührte unschlüssig den Arm des Doktors. Für einen Moment dachte ich, dass der Doktor krank war. Unter diesem Eindruck trat ich eilig einen Schritt vor, als ich Uriahs Blick traf und erkannte, was los war. Ich hätte mich zurückziehen können, aber der Doktor machte eine Geste, mich zurückzuhalten, und ich blieb stehen. "Jedenfalls", bemerkte Uriah mit einer verdrehten Geste seines unbeholfenen Körpers, "wir können die Tür geschlossen halten. Wir müssen der ganzen Stadt das nicht wissen lassen." Damit ging er auf Zehenspitzen zur Tür, die ich offen gelassen hatte, und schloss sie sorgfältig. Dann kam er zurück und nahm seine vorige Position ein. Es gab eine aufdringliche Show mitleidiger Eifer in seiner Stimme und seinem Auftreten, die zumindest für mich unerträglicher waren als jede andere Haltung, die er hätte annehmen können. "Ich habe es für meine Pflicht gehalten, Master Copperfield", sagte Uriah, "Doctor Strong darauf hinzuweisen, worüber du und ich bereits gesprochen haben. Du hast mich wohl nicht genau verstanden, oder?" Ich gab ihm einen Blick, aber keine andere Antwort und ging zu meinem guten alten Meister, um ein paar Worte des Trostes und der Ermutigung zu sagen. Er legte seine Hand auf meine Schulter, wie er es getan hatte, als ich noch ein kleiner Junge war, aber er hob nicht den grauen Kopf. "Weil du mich nicht verstanden hast, Master Copperfield", fuhr Uriah in der gleichen aufdringlichen Weise fort, "kann ich mir die Freiheit nehmen zu erwähnen, dass ich Doctor Strong auf das Verhalten von Mrs. Strong aufmerksam gemacht habe. Es widerstrebt mir sehr, Copperfield, in etwas so Unangenehmem verwickelt zu sein, aber wirklich, wie es ist, verstricken wir uns alle in etwas, worin wir uns nicht verstricken sollten. Darum ging es mir, Sir, als du mich nicht verstanden hast." Es wundert mich jetzt, wenn ich an seine einfältige Miene zurückdenke, dass ich ihn nicht gepackt habe und versucht habe, ihm die Luft aus dem Leib zu schütteln. "Ich kann mir vorstellen, dass ich mich nicht sehr klar ausgedrückt habe", fuhr er fort, "und du auch nicht. Natürlich neigten wir beide dazu, einem solchen Thema einen weiten Bogen zu geben. Wie auch immer, ich habe mich schließlich dazu entschlossen, Klartext zu sprechen, und ich habe Doctor Strong darauf hingewiesen, dass - hast du gesprochen, Sir?" Damit wandte er sich an den Doktor, der gestöhnt hatte. Der Klang hätte jedes Herz berühren können, dachte ich, aber auf Uriah hatte er keine Wirkung. "- Doctor Strong darauf hingewiesen", fuhr er fort, "dass jeder sehen kann, dass Mister Maldon und die schöne und angenehme Dame, die Doctor Strongs Frau ist, sehr aneinander hängen. Die Zeit ist wirklich gekommen (da wir uns derzeit alle in etwas verstricken, worin wir uns nicht verstricken sollten), dass Doctor Strong mitgeteilt werden muss, dass dies allen genauso klar war wie die Sonne, bevor Mister Maldon nach Indien ging; dass Mister Maldon Ausreden erfunden hat, um zurückzukommen, und zwar aus keinem anderen Grund; und dass er aus keinem anderen Grund immer hier ist. Als du hereingekommen bist, Sir, war ich gerade dabei, es meinem Kollegen zu erklären ", wandte er sich zu ihm, "um Doctor Strong auf sein Wort und seinen Ehrenwort zu fragen, ob er jemals schon lange zuvor dieser Meinung war oder nicht. Komm, Mister Wickfield, Sir! Wärest du bitte so nett, uns zu sagen? Ja oder nein, Herr? Komm, Partner!" "Um Gottes willen, mein lieber Doctor", sagte Herr Wickfield und legte wieder seine unentschlossene Hand auf den Arm des Doktors, "missachte nicht allzu sehr die Verdächtigungen, die ich gehegt haben mag." "Da hast du es!" rief Uriah und schüttelte den Kopf. "Was für eine traurige Bestätigung, nicht wahr? Er! So ein alter Freund! Da, wo ich noch ein einfacher Angestellter in seinem Büro war, Copperfield, habe ich ihn zwanzig Mal gesehen, wenn nicht sogar öfter, wie er sich darüber aufgeregt hat - wirklich verärgert war, weißt "Immer aus einer bestimmten Perspektive beobachtend", sagte Mr. Wickfield. "Aber bei allem, was Ihnen lieb ist, mein alter Freund, flehe ich Sie an, darüber nachzudenken, was es war. Ich muss jetzt gestehen, dass ich keine andere Wahl habe -" "Nein! Es gibt keinen Ausweg, Mr. Wickfield, Sir", bemerkte Uriah. "Wenn es soweit gekommen ist." " - dass ich Zweifel hatte", sagte Mr. Wickfield und warf einen hilflosen und abgelenkten Blick auf seinen Partner. "Dass ich Zweifel an ihr hatte und dachte, sie versagt in ihrer Pflicht Ihnen gegenüber. Und dass ich manchmal, wenn ich alles sagen muss, abgeneigt war, Agnes in einer so vertrauten Beziehung zu ihr zu sehen, wie ich es gesehen habe oder mir in meiner krankhaften Theorie eingebildet habe. Ich habe dies niemandem erwähnt. Ich wollte nicht, dass es irgendjemandem bekannt wird. Und obwohl es schrecklich für Sie ist, dies zu hören", sagte Mr. Wickfield völlig gedämpft, "wenn Sie wüssten, wie schrecklich es für mich ist, es Ihnen zu erzählen, würden Sie Mitleid mit mir haben!" Der Doktor streckte seine Hand aus, vollständig von seiner natürlichen Güte geleitet. Mr. Wickfield hielt sie eine Weile mit gesenktem Kopf. "Ich bin sicher", sagte Uriah, wie eine Muräne im Raum hin und her wogend, "dass dies ein Thema ist, das für jeden unangenehm ist. Aber da wir so weit gekommen sind, sollte ich mir die Freiheit nehmen und erwähnen, dass es auch Copperfield aufgefallen ist." Ich drehte mich zu ihm um und fragte ihn, wie er es wagen konnte, sich auf mich zu beziehen! "Oh! Das ist sehr nett von Ihnen, Copperfield", erwiderte Uriah und bewegte sich hin und her. "Und wir alle wissen, was für ein liebenswürdiges Wesen Sie haben. Aber Sie wissen, dass Sie in dem Moment, in dem ich letzte Nacht mit Ihnen gesprochen habe, wussten, was ich meinte. Sie wissen, dass Sie wussten, was ich meinte, Copperfield. Leugnen Sie es nicht! Sie leugnen es mit den besten Absichten, aber tun Sie es nicht, Copperfield." Ich sah den milden Blick des guten alten Doktors für einen Moment auf mich gerichtet und spürte, dass das Geständnis meiner alten Bedenken und Erinnerungen in meinem Gesicht zu deutlich geschrieben stand, um übersehen zu werden. Es hatte keinen Sinn, sich zu ereifern. Das konnte ich nicht rückgängig machen. Was immer ich sagen würde, ich konnte es nicht ungeschehen machen. Wir schwiegen wieder und blieben so, bis der Doktor aufstand und zwei- oder dreimal durch den Raum ging. Schließlich kehrte er wieder zu seinem Stuhl zurück, stützte sich auf die Rückenlehne und legte gelegentlich sein Taschentuch an die Augen. Mit einer schlichten Ehrlichkeit, die ihm meiner Meinung nach mehr Ehre einbrachte als jede Verkleidung, sagte er: "Ich war sehr schuldig. Ich glaube, ich war sehr schuldig. Ich habe jemanden, dem ich in meinem Herzen halte, Prüfungen und Verleumdungen ausgesetzt - ich nenne sie Verleumdungen, auch wenn sie nur im Geist von jemandem entstanden sind -, von denen sie nie, außer durch mich, das Objekt hätte sein können." Uriah Heep gab eine Art Schluchzen von sich. Ich glaube, um Mitleid auszudrücken. "Von denen meine Annie", sagte der Doktor, "nie, außer durch mich, das Objekt hätte sein können. Meine Herren, ich bin jetzt alt, wie Sie wissen. Heute Abend fühle ich nicht, dass ich viel zu leben habe. Aber mein Leben - mein Leben - hängt von der Wahrheit und Ehre der lieben Dame ab, die Thema dieses Gesprächs war!" Ich glaube nicht, dass die beste Verkörperung von Ritterlichkeit, die Verwirklichung der schönsten und romantischsten Figur, die jemals von einem Maler erdacht wurde, das mit einer beeindruckenderen und bewegenderen Würde hätte sagen können als der schlichte alte Doktor. "Aber ich bin nicht bereit", fuhr er fort, "zu leugnen - vielleicht war ich, ohne es zu wissen, in gewisser Weise bereit, zuzugeben -, dass ich diese Dame unwissentlich in eine unglückliche Ehe gelockt haben könnte. Ich bin ein Mann, der nicht gewohnt ist zu beobachten, und ich kann nicht anders, als zu glauben, dass die Beobachtung verschiedener Menschen unterschiedlichen Alters und Positionen, die alle zu offensichtlich in eine Richtung tendieren (und das so natürlich ist), besser ist als meine." Ich hatte oft seine gütige Art bewundert, wie ich anderswo beschrieben habe, gegenüber seiner jungen Frau; aber die respektvolle Zärtlichkeit, die er bei jeder Erwähnung von ihr an diesem Anlass zeigte, und die fast ehrfürchtige Art, wie er auch den geringsten Zweifel an ihrer Integrität von sich wies, erhoben ihn in meinen Augen über jede Beschreibung. "Ich habe diese Dame geheiratet", sagte der Doktor, "als sie sehr jung war. Ich habe sie zu mir genommen, als ihr Charakter kaum geformt war. Soweit er sich entwickelt hatte, war es mein Glück, ihn geformt zu haben. Ich kannte ihren Vater gut. Ich kannte sie gut. Ich habe ihr alles gelehrt, was ich konnte, aus Liebe zu all ihren schönen und tugendhaften Eigenschaften. Wenn ich ihr Unrecht getan habe - wie ich befürchte, dass ich es getan habe, indem ich ihre Dankbarkeit und ihre Zuneigung ausgenutzt habe (obwohl ich es nie beabsichtigt habe) - dann bitte ich diese Dame in meinem Herzen um Verzeihung!" Er ging durch den Raum und kehrte an denselben Ort zurück, wobei er den Stuhl mit einem Griff festhielt, der vor Ergriffenheit wie seine gedämpfte Stimme zitterte. "Ich betrachtete mich als Zuflucht für sie vor den Gefahren und Wechselfällen des Lebens. Ich redete mir ein, dass sie, obwohl wir in Jahren verschieden waren, mit mir in Ruhe und Zufriedenheit leben würde. Ich schloss aus meiner Überlegung nicht die Zeit aus, wenn ich sie frei lassen und immer noch jung und schön sein würde, aber mit einem gereifteren Urteilsvermögen - nein, meine Herren, auf mein Wort hin!" Seine einfache Gestalt schien durch seine Treue und Großzügigkeit erleuchtet zu sein. Jedes Wort, das er äußerte, hatte eine Kraft, die keine andere Gnade hätte verleihen können. "Mein Leben mit dieser Dame war sehr glücklich. Bis heute Abend hatte ich ununterbrochen Grund, den Tag zu preisen, an dem ich ihr großes Unrecht getan habe." Seine Stimme, die immer mehr ins Stottern geriet, hielt für einige Augenblicke inne, dann fuhr er fort: "Einmal aus meinem Traum erwacht - ich war ein armer Träumer, in der einen oder anderen Hinsicht, mein ganzes Leben lang - sehe ich, wie natürlich es ist, dass sie sich mit etwas bedauernswertem Gefühl an ihren alten Gefährten und ihren Gleichrangigen erinnert. Dass sie ihn mit einigem unschuldigem Bedauern, mit einigen unbescholtenen Gedanken an das, was hätte sein können, aber für mich, betrachtet, ist, fürchte ich, zu wahr. Vieles von dem, was ich gesehen, aber nicht beachtet habe, ist mir während dieser letzten schweren Stunde mit neuer Bedeutung zurückgekommen. Aber darüber hinaus, meine Herren, darf der Name der lieben Dame niemals mit einem Wort, einem Hauch des Zweifels in Verbindung gebracht werden." Für kurze Zeit leuchteten seine Augen und seine Stimme war fest; für kurze Zeit schwieg er wieder. Schließlich fuhr er wie zuvor fort: "Nun bleibt mir nur noch, das Bewusstsein für das Unglück, das ich verursacht habe, so demütig wie möglich zu ertragen. Es ist sie, die Vorwürfe erheben sollte, nicht ich. Um sie vor falschen Auslegungen - grausamen Auslegungen, denen nicht Als wir uns gegenüberstanden, sah ich so deutlich in der heimlichen Freude in seinem Gesicht, was ich bereits so deutlich wusste; ich meine, dass er mir sein Vertrauen aufzwingen wollte, um mich unglücklich zu machen und mir in dieser Angelegenheit eine bewusste Falle gestellt hatte; das konnte ich nicht ertragen. Seine ganze dürre Wange lag verlockend vor mir, und ich schlug sie mit meiner offenen Hand, mit solcher Kraft, dass meine Finger kribbelten, als hätte ich sie verbrannt. Er fing meine Hand in seiner auf, und wir standen in dieser Verbindung da und sahen uns an. Wir standen so lange da, lange genug, um zu sehen, wie die weißen Abdrücke meiner Finger aus dem tiefen Rot seiner Wange verschwanden und sie noch röter machten. "Copperfield", sagte er schließlich in einem atemlosen Ton, "hast du den Verstand verloren?" "Ich habe dich verlassen", sagte ich und riss meine Hand heraus. "Du Hund, ich will nichts mehr mit dir zu tun haben." "Nicht?", sagte er, gezwungen durch den Schmerz seiner Wange, seine Hand dorthin zu legen. "Vielleicht wirst du es nicht verhindern können. Ist das nicht undankbar von dir, jetzt?" "Ich habe dir schon oft genug gezeigt", sagte ich, "dass ich dich verachte. Jetzt habe ich dir noch deutlicher gezeigt, dass ich es tue. Warum sollte ich fürchten, dass du das Schlimmste aus dir herausholst? Was tust du sonst schon?" Er verstand diese Anspielung auf die Überlegungen, die mich bisher in meiner Kommunikation mit ihm zurückgehalten hatten, perfekt. Ich denke eher, dass mir weder der Schlag noch die Anspielung entgangen wären, aber ich hatte an diesem Abend die Gewissheit von Agnes bekommen. Es ist unwichtig. Es folgte eine weitere lange Pause. Seine Augen schienen, als er mich ansah, jede Farbschattierung anzunehmen, die Augen hässlich machen konnte. "Copperfield", sagte er und nahm seine Hand von seiner Wange, "du warst mir immer entgegen. Ich weiß, dass du immer gegen mich gewesen bist, bei Mr. Wickfield." "Du kannst denken, was du willst", sagte ich, noch immer in einem wütenden Zorn. "Wenn es nicht wahr ist, umso besser für dich." "Und trotzdem mochte ich dich immer, Copperfield!" erwiderte er. Ich verweigerte ihm eine Antwort und nahm meinen Hut auf, um ins Bett zu gehen, als er sich zwischen mich und die Tür stellte. "Copperfield", sagte er, "bei einem Streit gibt es immer zwei Parteien. Ich werde nicht eine davon sein." "Du kannst zum Teufel gehen!", sagte ich. "Sag das nicht!", antwortete er. "Ich weiß, du wirst es nachher bereuen. Wie kannst du dich nur so minderwertig machen und so einen schlechten Charakter zeigen? Aber ich vergebe dir." "Du verzeihst mir!", wiederholte ich verächtlich. "Ja, und du kannst nichts dagegen tun", erwiderte Uriah. "Denke daran, ich werde dein Freund sein, trotz dir. Jetzt weißt du, was du zu erwarten hast." Die Notwendigkeit, diesen Dialog zu führen (sein Teil war sehr langsam, meiner sehr schnell) in gedämpfter Stimme, damit das Haus zu unpassenden Zeiten nicht gestört wurde, verbesserte nicht meine Stimmung; obwohl meine Wut abkühlte. Ich sagte ihm nur, dass ich von ihm erwarten würde, was ich immer erwartet hatte und noch nie enttäuscht worden war. Dann öffnete ich ihm die Tür, als ob er eine große Walnuss wäre, die dort hingelegt wurde, um geknackt zu werden, und ging aus dem Haus. Aber er hatte auch außerhalb des Hauses geschlafen, bei seiner Mutter in der Unterkunft; und bevor ich viele hundert Meter gegangen war, holte er mich ein. "Weißt du, Copperfield", sagte er mir ins Ohr (ich drehte meinen Kopf nicht), "du bist in einer ziemlich falschen Position"; das fühlte ich als wahr und das ärgerte mich noch mehr; "du kannst das nicht zu einer tapferen Tat machen und du kannst nicht verhindern, dass dir vergeben wird. Ich habe nicht die Absicht, deiner Mutter oder einer lebenden Seele davon zu erzählen. Ich habe vor dir zu verzeihen. Aber ich frage mich, wie du deine Hand gegen eine Person erheben konntest, von der du wusstest, dass sie so unterwürfig ist!" Ich fühlte mich fast genauso klein wie er. Er kannte mich besser als ich mich selbst. Wenn er zurückgeschlagen oder mich offen exasperiert hätte, wäre es eine Erleichterung und Rechtfertigung gewesen; aber er hatte mich auf ein langsames Feuer gebracht, auf dem ich die halbe Nacht gequält lag. Am nächsten Morgen, als ich herauskam, läutete die frühe Kirchenglocke, und er ging mit seiner Mutter auf und ab. Er sprach mich an, als ob nichts passiert wäre, und ich konnte nichts anderes tun als zu antworten. Ich hatte ihm hart genug geschlagen, um ihm Zahnschmerzen zu bereiten, nehme ich an. Auf jeden Fall hatte er sein Gesicht in ein schwarzes Seidentuch eingewickelt, das zusammen mit seinem Hut auf dem Kopf sein Aussehen nicht gerade verbesserte. Ich hörte, dass er am Montagmorgen zu einem Zahnarzt in London gegangen war und einen Zahn entfernen ließ. Ich hoffe, es war einer von den doppelten. Der Doktor erklärte, dass es ihm nicht ganz gutging; und blieb während des restlichen Besuchs an einem beträchtlichen Teil des Tages alleine. Agnes und ihr Vater waren schon seit einer Woche weg, bevor wir unsere übliche Arbeit wieder aufnehmen konnten. Am Tag vor der Wiederaufnahme gab mir der Doktor mit seinen eigenen Händen einen zusammengefalteten, unversiegelten Brief. Dieser war an mich adressiert und gab mir in ein paar liebevollen Worten die Anweisung, niemals auf den Vorfall des Abends Bezug zu nehmen. Ich hatte es meiner Tante anvertraut, aber niemand anderem. Es war kein Thema, über das ich mit Agnes hätte sprechen können, und Agnes hatte sicherlich nicht die geringste Ahnung, was geschehen war. Auch Mrs. Strong, so war ich überzeugt, wusste es zu diesem Zeitpunkt nicht. Es vergingen mehrere Wochen, bevor ich eine geringfügige Veränderung an ihr bemerkte. Es kam langsam auf, wie eine Wolke ohne Wind. Zuerst schien sie sich über das sanfte Mitgefühl zu wundern, mit dem der Doktor mit ihr sprach, und über seinen Wunsch, dass ihre Mutter bei ihr sei, um die trübe Monotonie ihres Lebens zu erleichtern. Oft, wenn wir arbeiteten und sie daneben saß, sah ich sie innehalten und ihn mit diesem unvergesslichen Gesicht ansehen. Später bemerkte ich manchmal, wie sie aufstand, mit Tränen in den Augen, und den Raum verließ. Nach und nach legte sich ein unglücklicher Schatten auf ihre Schönheit und vertiefte sich jeden Tag. Frau Markleham war zu dieser Zeit regelmäßiger Gast im Cottage; aber sie redete und redete und sah nichts. Als sich diese Veränderung in Annie einschlich, sie war einmal wie Sonnenschein im Haus des Doktors, wurde der Doktor in seinem Aussehen älter und ernster; aber die Freundlichkeit und das Wohlwollen in seinem Wesen, seine stets ausgeglichene Freundlichkeit und seine fürsorgliche Sorge für sie, wenn sie überhaupt noch steigerungsfähig waren, wurden noch verstärkt. Einmal sah ich ihn, früh am Morgen ihres Geburtstags, als sie zu uns hereinkam, um am Fenster zu sitzen, während wir arbeiteten (das hatte sie immer getan, aber jetzt begann sie es mit einer ängstlichen und unsicheren Art zu tun, die ich sehr rührend fand), ihre Stirn zwischen seine Hände nehmen, sie küssen und sich überstürzt davonmachen, zu sehr bew Er hatte stolz sein Privileg wieder aufgenommen, in vielen seiner freien Stunden im Garten mit dem Doktor auf und ab zu gehen; so wie er es gewohnt war, den "The Doctor's Walk" in Canterbury zu gehen. Aber kaum waren die Dinge in diesem Zustand, widmete er all seine freie Zeit (und stand früher auf, um es zu verlängern) diesen Spaziergängen. Wenn er noch nie so glücklich gewesen wäre, wie als der Doktor ihm dieses wunderbare Werk, das Wörterbuch, vorlas, war er jetzt ganz unglücklich, wenn der Doktor es nicht aus der Tasche zog und anfing. Als der Doktor und ich beschäftigt waren, begann er jetzt mit der Gewohnheit, mit Mrs. Strong auf und ab zu gehen und ihr dabei zu helfen, ihre Lieblingsblumen zu schneiden oder das Beet zu jäten. Ich glaube, er sprach selten mehr als ein Dutzend Worte in einer Stunde: aber sein ruhiges Interesse und sein sehnsüchtiges Gesicht fanden sofortige Resonanz in beiden Brüsten; jeder wusste, dass der andere ihn mochte und dass er beide liebte; und er wurde das, was sonst niemand sein konnte - ein Bindeglied zwischen ihnen. Wenn ich an ihn denke, mit seinem undurchdringlich weisen Gesicht, der mit dem Doktor auf und ab geht, froh darüber, von den schwierigen Wörtern im Wörterbuch geprügelt zu werden; wenn ich an ihn denke, wie er riesige Gießkannen hinter Annie herträgt; kniend, mit bloßen Handschuhen, bei geduldiger mikroskopischer Arbeit unter den kleinen Blättern; wie er, wie es kein Philosoph hätte ausdrücken können, in allem, was er tat, den zarten Wunsch ausdrückte, ihr Freund zu sein; Sympathie, Vertrauen und Zuneigung aus jedem Loch in der Gießkanne schüttend. Wenn ich daran denke, dass er nie in diesen besseren Geist seiner geraten ist, an den sich Unhappiness wandte, den bedauernswerten König Charles nie in den Garten brachte, nie von seinem Wissen abgelenkt wurde, dass etwas falsch war, oder von seinem Wunsch, es richtig zu stellen - ich schäme mich fast, gewusst zu haben, dass er nicht ganz bei Verstand war, wenn ich bedenke, was ich mit meinem eigenen Verstand getan habe. "Nur ich, Trot, weiß, was das für ein Mann ist!" würde meine Tante stolz bemerken, wenn wir darüber sprachen. "Dick wird sich noch auszeichnen!" Bevor ich dieses Kapitel abschließe, muss ich auf ein weiteres Thema eingehen. Während des Besuchs beim Doktor bemerkte ich, dass der Briefträger jeden Morgen zwei oder drei Briefe für Uriah Heep brachte, der in Highgate blieb, bis der Rest zurückging, da es eine freie Zeit war; und dass diese immer in geschäftsmäßiger Weise von Herrn Micawber, der jetzt eine runde, legale Schrift annahm, adressiert waren. Aus diesen geringfügigen Anhaltspunkten konnte ich schließen, dass es Herrn Micawber gut ging. Ich war daher sehr überrascht, um diese Zeit einen Brief von seiner liebenswerten Frau zu erhalten. 'Sie werden zweifellos überrascht sein, mein lieber Herr Copperfield, diesen Brief zu erhalten. Noch mehr von seinem Inhalt. Noch mehr von der Klausel des bedingungslosen Vertrauens, die ich zu stellen bitte. Aber meine Gefühle als Ehefrau und Mutter benötigen Erleichterung; und da ich meine Familie nicht konsultieren möchte (die schon jetzt den Gefühlen von Herrn Micawber zuwider ist), kenne ich niemanden, von dem ich besser Rat erbitten könnte als von meinem Freund und ehemaligen Untermieter. Sie sind sich vielleicht bewusst, mein lieber Herr Copperfield, dass zwischen mir und Mr. Micawber (den ich nie verlassen werde) immer ein Geist gegenseitigen Vertrauens bewahrt wurde. Mr. Micawber hat mir möglicherweise gelegentlich einen Wechsel ohne meine Zustimmung gegeben oder mich über den Zeitpunkt getäuscht, an dem diese Verpflichtung fällig würde. Dies ist tatsächlich geschehen. Aber im Allgemeinen hat Mr. Micawber keine Geheimnisse vor der Brust der Zuneigung gehabt - ich beziehe mich auf seine Frau - und hat immer, wenn wir zur Ruhe gehen, die Ereignisse des Tages wiederholt. Sie werden sich, mein lieber Herr Copperfield, vorstellen können, wie schmerzhaft meine Gefühle sein müssen, wenn ich Ihnen mitteile, dass Mr. Micawber sich völlig verändert hat. Er ist reserviert. Er ist geheimnisvoll. Sein Leben ist ein Rätsel für die Partnerin seiner Freuden und Leiden - ich beziehe mich erneut auf seine Frau - und wenn ich Ihnen versichern würde, dass ich, abgesehen davon, dass ich weiß, dass er den ganzen Tag im Büro verbringt, weniger darüber weiß als über den Mann aus dem Süden, von dem die gedankenlosen Kinder eine dumme Geschichte über kalten Pflaumenbrei erzählen, würde ich einen Populären Trugschluss verwenden, um eine tatsächliche Tatsache auszudrücken. Aber das ist nicht alles. Mr. Micawber ist mürrisch. Er ist streng. Er ist entfremdet von unserem ältesten Sohn und unserer ältesten Tochter, er hat keinen Stolz auf seine Zwillinge, er betrachtet den unschuldigen Fremden, der zuletzt Mitglied unseres Kreises wurde, mit einem kühlen Blick. Die finanziellen Mittel, um unsere Ausgaben zu decken, die auf das Äußerste reduziert sind, werden von ihm nur mit großer Schwierigkeit erhalten, sogar unter furchtbaren Drohungen, dass er sich dort einrichten wird (der genaue Ausdruck); und er weigert sich entschieden, irgendeine Erklärung für diese verwirrende Politik abzugeben. Dies ist schwer zu ertragen. Das ist herzzerreißend. Wenn Sie mich beraten würden, wie Sie meine schwachen Fähigkeiten am besten in einem so ungewöhnlichen Dilemma einsetzen können, würden Sie eine weitere freundliche Verpflichtung zu den vielen hinzufügen, die Sie mir bereits erwiesen haben. Mit Grüßen von den Kindern und einem Lächeln von dem glücklicherweise nichtsahnenden Fremden verbleibe ich, lieber Herr Copperfield, Ihre betrübte Emma Micawber.' Ich fühlte mich nicht berechtigt, einer Ehefrau von Mrs. Micawbers Erfahrung eine andere Empfehlung zu geben, als dass sie versuchen sollte, Mr. Micawber durch Geduld und Freundlichkeit zurückzugewinnen (wie ich wusste, dass sie es in jedem Fall tun würde); aber der Brief hat mich sehr zum Nachdenken über ihn angeregt. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

Unheil. Der erwachsene David reflektiert, dass er in allem im Leben immer ernsthaft gewesen sei und seine Ziele durch "beständige, einfache, fleißige Eigenschaften" erreicht habe. Agnes und ihr Vater besuchen Dr. Strong. Agnes findet eine Unterkunft in der Nähe der Strongs für die Heeps. Agnes und Dora werden Freundinnen und Dora fragt David, warum er sie heiraten möchte, wenn er doch so eng mit Agnes verbunden war. Agnes sagt David, dass sie Uriah niemals heiraten werde. David entdeckt Dr. Strong weinend in seinem Arbeitszimmer sitzend, während Uriah über ihm steht. Uriah erzählt David, dass er Dr. Strong erzählt hat, dass seine Frau, Annie, eine Affäre mit Jack Maldon hat. Uriah sagt, es sei klar, dass Jack nur aus Indien zurückgekehrt sei, um bei Annie zu sein. Mr. Wickfield fügt hinzu, dass auch er Verdacht geschöpft habe. Uriah zwingt David dazu zuzugeben, dass er ebenfalls eine Affäre vermutete. Dr. Strong gibt sich selbst die Schuld, eine schöne, viel jüngere Frau in der Ehe gefangen zu haben und sie unglücklich gemacht zu haben. Mr. Wickfield hilft Dr. Strong ins Bett. David tadel Uriah dafür, ihn in seine Pläne verwickelt zu haben, und schlägt ihn. Uriah sagt, er vergebe ihm, was David in ein Schuldgefühl stürzt. David glaubt, dass Dr. Strong seine Unterhaltung mit Uriah gegenüber Annie nicht erwähnt. Er bemerkt jedoch, dass Dr. Strong besonders mitfühlend gegenüber Annie ist und dass Annie traurig wird. Dr. Strong schickt eine widerwillige Annie auf Reisen, um sie zu amüsieren. Das Einzige, das Glück in das Haus bringt, ist Mr. Dick, den Dr. Strong und Annie beide lieben. David erhält einen Brief von Mrs. Micawber, in dem steht, dass Mr. Micawber sich sehr verändert hat. Er ist verschwiegen, mürrisch, geizig mit Geld und kalt zu seinen Kindern.

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.

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 Drei. Der König, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspurre, Sir Walter Blunt und andere treten auf. König: Mein Blut ist zu kalt und gemäßigt gewesen, Ungeeignet für diese Beleidigungen zu reagieren, Und ihr habt mich gefunden; denn dementsprechend Tretet ihr auf meine Geduld. Aber seid sicher, Ich werde von nun an lieber ich selbst sein, Mächtig und zu fürchten, als meine Bedingung, Die bisher sanft wie Öl, weich wie junge Daunen war, Und daher diesen Respektstitel verloren hat, Den die stolze Seele nie zahlt, außer an die Stolzen. Worcester: Unser Haus (mein souveräner König) verdient wenig Die Geißel der Größe an ihm angewandt zu bekommen, Und auch diese Größe nicht, die unsere eigenen Hände Mitgeholfen haben, so stattlich zu machen. Northumberland: Mein Lord... König: Worcester, entferne dich; denn ich sehe Gefahr und Ungehorsam in deinem Blick. Oh Herr, deine Anwesenheit ist zu kühn und bestimmend, Und Majestät hat noch nie die mürrische Stirn eines Dieners ertragen. Ihr habt die Erlaubnis, uns zu verlassen. Wenn wir Eure Hilfe und Ratschläge benötigen, werden wir euch rufen. Ihr wart dabei, etwas zu sagen. Northumberland: Ja, mein guter Lord. Die Gefangenen, die eure Hoheit verlangte, Die Harry Percy hier in Holmedon genommen hat, Wurden (wie er sagt) nicht mit so großer Stärke verweigert, Wie eurer Majestät mitgeteilt wurde: Wer entweder aus Neid oder Fehleinschätzung Schuld an diesem Fehler war; und nicht mein Sohn. Hotspurre: Mein Liege, ich habe keine Gefangenen abgelehnt. Aber ich erinnere mich, als der Kampf vorbei war, Als ich durstig vor Wut und äußerst erschöpft war, Atemlos und matt, auf mein Schwert gelehnt, Kam ein bestimmter Lord, adrett und ordentlich gekleidet; Frisch wie ein Bräutigam und frisch rasiert das Kinn, Sah aus wie ein abgeerntetes Stoppelfeld im Herbst. Er war parfümiert wie ein Putzmacher, Und zwischen seinen Fingern hielt er Eine Puderdose, die er immer wieder An seine Nase hielt und wieder wegnahm: Wer damit, als es das nächste Mal dort ankam, Einen Schnupfen bekam. Und er lächelte und sprach weiter: Und als die Soldaten tote Körper trugen, Nannte er sie ungebildete Schurken, Unhöflich, So einen ungepflegten, hässlichen Leichnam Zwischen dem Wind und seinem Adel zu bringen. Mit vielen Feiertagsausdrücken und Begriffen einer Dame Fragte er mich: Unter anderem verlangte er Meine Gefangenen, in Eurem Namen, Majestät. Ich, der all die Schmerzen aushalten musste, mit meinen kalten Wunden, (Von einem possierlichen Päpafisch genervt zu sein) Antwortete beiläufig, ich weiß nicht, was, Er sollte oder sollte nicht: Denn er brachte mich dazu, verrückt zu werden, Ihn so strahlend zu sehen und so süß zu riechen, Und so zu sprechen wie eine Hofdame, Von Gewehren, Trommeln und Verwundungen: Gott segne das Ziel; Und er sagte mir, dass das erhabenste Ding auf Erden Parmacity (ein Balsam) für eine innerliche Verletzung sei: Und dass es eine große Schande sei, dass das verfluchte Salpeter Aus den Eingeweiden der harmlosen Erde gegraben wird, Was viele tapfere Kerle feige getötet hat. Und wäre es nicht für diese elenden Waffen gewesen, Wäre er selbst ein Soldat geworden. Dieses kahle, ungeschmierte Chatten von ihm (mein Lord) Bewog mich, indirekt zu antworten (wie gesagt). Und ich bitte euch, lasst nicht dieses Gerücht Als Anklage fortbestehen, Zwischen meiner Liebe und eurer Hoheit. Blunt: Die Umstände berücksichtigt, mein guter Lord, Was auch immer Harry Percie damals gesagt haben mag, An eine solche Person und an einem solchen Ort, Zu einer solchen Zeit, mit allem anderen, was wiederholt wurde, Kann vernünftigerweise sterben und niemals aufstehen, Um ihm Unrecht zu tun oder auf irgendeine Weise zu kritisieren, Was er damals gesagt hat, solange er es nicht widerruft. König: Warum leugnet er immer noch seine Gefangenen, Aber mit Einschränkungen und Ausnahmen, Dass wir auf eigene Kosten sofort freikaufen sollen Seinen Schwager, den törichten Mortimer, Der (bei meiner Seele) die Leben jener absichtlich verraten hat, Die er in den Kampf geführt hat, Gegen den großen Magier, den verfluchten Glendower: Dessen Tochter (wie wir hören) der Earl of March Kürzlich geheiratet hat. Sollen unsere Kisten dann Entleert werden, um einen Verräter nach Hause zu lösen? Sollen wir Verrat kaufen? Und uns Feinden hingeben, Wenn sie sich selbst verloren und verwirkt haben. Nein, lasst ihn auf dem kargen Berg verhungern: Denn ich werde niemals diesen Mann meinen Freund nennen, Dessen Zunge mich nach einem Pfennig fragen wird, Um den abgefallenen Mortimer nach Hause zu lösen. Hotspurre: Abgefallener Mortimer? Er ist niemals abgefallen, mein souveräner Liege, Außer durch den Kriegszufall: um zu beweisen, dass es wahr ist, Ist nur eine Zunge erforderlich. Denn all diese Wunden, Diese gewundenen Wunden, die er tapfer erlitten hat, Als er stundenlang Am Ufer des sanften Severn Im Einzelkampf Mit dem großen Glendower Seinen Körper immer wieder einsetzte. Drei Mal atmeten sie und tranken drei Mal Vereinbart, solange sie sich im schnellen Severn befanden; Der dann, erschrocken von ihren blutigen Blicken, Ängstlich zwischen den zitternden Schilfen davonlief Und seinen Lockenkopf in den hohlen Schilf versteckte, Blutbefleckt von diesen tapferen Kämpfern. Noch nie hat so eine niederträchtige und verfaulte Politik Ihr Handeln mit so tödlichen Wunden überzogen; Noch nie konnte der edle Mortimer So viele Wunden empfangen, und das alles freiwillig: Lasst ihn also nicht mit Abfall diffamiert werden. König: Du lügst ihn an, Percy, du lügst ihn an; Er hat sich nie mit Glendower getroffen: Ich sage dir, er hätte ebenso gut Den Teufel allein treffen können Wie Owen Glendower als Feind. Aber bist du nicht beschämt? Aber Sirrah, Lasst mich euch von Mortimer nie wieder reden hören. Schickt mir eure Gefangenen auf schnellstem Weg, Oder ihr werdet von mir auf solche Weise hören, Dass es euch missfallen wird. Mein Lord Northumberland, Wir lassen euch mit eurem Sohn gehen, Schickt uns eure Gefangenen, oder ihr werdet davon hören. (Abtritt des Königs) Hotspurre: Und wenn der Teufel kommt und nach ihnen brüllt, Ich werde sie nicht schicken. Ich werde sofort gehen Und es ihm sagen: Denn ich werde mein Herz erleichtern, Obwohl es auf Gefahr meines Kopfes ist. Northumberland: Was? Betrunken vor Wut? Bleibt und haltet einen Moment inne, Hier kommt euer Onkel. (Auftritt von Worcester) Hotspurre: Sprechen wir über Mortimer? Ja, ich werde von ihm sprechen, und meine Seele Möge gnadenlos sein, wenn ich mich nicht mit ihm verbinde. Heiß. Nein, dann kann ich seinem Cousin, dem König, keine Schuld geben, Dass er ihn auf den kargen Bergen verhungern lassen wollte. Aber soll es sein, dass ihr, die ihr die Krone Auf den Kopf dieses vergesslichen Mannes gesetzt habt, Und um seinetwillen den verabscheuungswürdigen Makel getragen habt Mörderische Bestechung? Soll es sein, Dass ihr einen Haufen Flüche auf euch nehmt, Die Handelnden oder die niederträchtigen Mittel, Die Seile, die Leiter oder eher der Henker? Oh, verzeiht, wenn ich so tief hinabsteige, Um die Linie und die Umstände zu zeigen, In denen ihr euch unter diesem gerissenen König befindet. Soll es aus Scham in diesen Tagen gesagt werden, Oder soll es die Chronik erfüllen, Dass Männer eures Adels und eurer Macht, Sich beide in einem ungerechten Fall verpflichteten (Wofür ihr beide, Gott verzeiht es, getan habt), Richard niederzuzwingen, diese süße, liebliche Rose, Und diese Dornen, diesen krebsartigen Bullingbrook zu pflanzen? Und soll es in noch größerer Schande weiterhin gesagt werden, Dass ihr von ihm gefoppt, abgelehnt und abserviert werdet, Für den ihr all diese Schande durchgemacht habt? Nein: Doch die Zeit dient, in der ihr eure verbannten Ehren retten könnt, Und euch wieder die Gunst der Welt verschaffen könnt. Rächt den verächtlichen und verachteten Spott Dieses stolzen Königs, der Tag und Nacht darum bemüht ist, Alle Schulden, die er euch schuldet, zu begleichen, Sogar mit dem blutigen Bezahlen eures Todes: Deshalb sage ich... Wor. Friede, Cousin, sag nichts mehr. Und nun werde ich ein geheimes Buch entfalten Und deinen schnell begreifenden Unmut Werde ich Materie vorlesen, tief und gefährlich, So voller Gefahr und Abenteuerlust, Wie der Kampf im reißenden Strom, Auf dem wackligen Fuß eines Speers zu gehen. Heiß. Wenn er hineinfällt, gute Nacht, entweder versinken oder schwimmen: Schicke Gefahr vom Osten nach Westen, So kreuzt Ehre sie von Nord nach Süd, Und lass sie sich festhalten: Das Blut erregt mehr Aufregung, Einen Löwen zu erwecken, als einen Hasen zu verscheuchen. Nor. Die Vorstellung einer großen Tat, Treibt ihn über die Grenzen der Geduld hinweg. Heiß. Beim Himmel, ich denke, es wäre ein leichter Sprung, Das helle Ehre vom blassen Mond zu pflücken, Oder in die Tiefe zu tauchen, Wo die Lotlinie niemals den Grund berühren könnte, Und die ertrunkene Ehre an den Haaren hochzuziehen: So kann derjenige, der sie von dort erlöst, tragen Ohne Rivalen, alle ihre Würden: Aber raus mit dieser halbgesichtigen Kameradschaft. Wor. Er begreift hier eine Welt von Figuren, Aber nicht die Form dessen, auf das er achten sollte: Guter Cousin, gib mir eine Weile Gehör, Und höre mich an. Heiß. Ich bitte um Verzeihung. Wor. Diese edlen Schotten Die eure Gefangenen sind. Heiß. Ich werde sie alle behalten. Beim Himmel, er wird keinen Schotten von ihnen haben: Nein, wenn ein Schotte seine Seele retten wollte, wird er nicht. Ich werde sie behalten, bei dieser Hand. Wor. Du gehst weg Und passt nicht auf meine Absichten. Die Gefangenen wirst du behalten. Heiß. Nein, ich werde: Das ist klar: Er hat gesagt, er werde Mortimer nicht auslösen: Er hat mir verboten, von Mortimer zu sprechen. Aber ich werde ihn finden, wenn er schläft, Und in sein Ohr werde ich Mortimer rufen. Nein, ich werde ihm einen Star geben, der nichts als Mortimer spricht, Und ihm geben, Dass er immer noch wütend ist. Wor. Hörst du, Cousin: ein Wort. Heiß. Alle Studien hier verachte ich feierlich, Außer wie man Bullingbrook ärgern und piesacken kann, Und diesen Schwert-und-Schild-Prinzen von Wales. Aber ich denke, sein Vater liebt ihn nicht, Und wäre froh, wenn ihm ein Missgeschick passierte, Ich hätte ihn gerne mit einem Krug Ale vergiftet. Wor. Leb wohl, Cousin: Ich werde mit dir reden, Wenn du dazu bereit bist, zuzuhören. Nor. Warum bist du, du Wespenzunge und ungeduldiger Narr, So eingefallen in die Laune dieser Frau, Dein Ohr nur an deine eigene Zunge zu binden? Heiß. Sieh mal, ich werde gegeißelt und mit Stöcken geschlagen, Geärgert und von Ameisen gestochen, wenn ich höre Von diesem abscheulichen Politiker Bullingbrook. Zu Richards Zeit: Wie nennst du den Ort? Eine Plage darauf, es ist in Gloustershire: Dort war es, wo der verrückte Herzog seinen Onkel aufbewahrte, Seinen Onkel York, wo ich erstmals mein Knie beugte Vor diesem König der Lächeln, diesem Bullingbrook: Als du und er von Ravenspurgh zurückkamt. Nor. Im Barkley Castle. Heiß. Du sagst die Wahrheit: Warum was für ein süßes Angebot, Dieselbe kriecherische Windhund hat mir gemacht, Als seine infantile Macht ins Erwachsenenalter kam, Und der sanfte Harry Percy, der liebe Cousin: Oh, der Teufel nehme solche Heuchler, Gott verzeih mir. Lieber Onkel, erzähl deine Geschichte, denn ich bin fertig. Wor. Nun, wenn du es nicht bist, fang noch einmal an, Wir werden auf deine Freizeit warten. Heiß. Ich habe fertig, in der Tat. Wor. Dann noch einmal zu deinen schottischen Gefangenen. Übergib sie ohne Lösegeld, Und mache den Sohn des Douglas zu deinem einzigen Mittel Für Macht in Schottland: Aus verschiedenen Gründen, Die ich dir schriftlich senden werde, sei versichert, Dass sie dir leicht gewährt werden, mein Herr. Wenn dein Sohn in Schottland so beschäftigt ist, Schleicht er sich heimlich in den Schoß Des gleichen angesehenen Prälaten, geliebt, Des Erzbischofs ... Heiß. Von York, nicht wahr? Wor. Ganz recht, der schwer an Dem Tod seines Bruders in Bristow, Lord Scroope, leidet. Ich spreche das nicht schätzungsweise aus, Was ich denke, dass es sein könnte, sondern was ich weiß Wird durchdacht, geplant und festgelegt, Und wartet nur darauf, dass der Moment gekommen ist, Der den Anlass herbeiführt. Heiß. Ich rieche es: Auf meine Lebenszeit wird es wunderbar gut sein. Nor. Bevor das Spiel beginnt, lässt du immer alles fallen. Heiß. Warum, es kann nichts anderes als ein edler Plan sein, Und dann die Macht Schottlands und Yorks Sich mit Mortimer zu vereinen, ha! Wor. Und so werden sie es tun. Heiß. In der Tat, es ist äußerst gut gezielt. Wor. Und es ist kein kleiner Grund, der uns antreibt, Unsere Köpfe zu retten, indem wir eine Anführung haben: Denn wenn wir uns auch noch so ausgeglichen verhalten, Wird der König immer denken, dass er uns etwas schuldet, Und denken, dass wir unzufrieden sind, Bis er eine Zeit gefunden hat, um uns heimzuzahlen. Und sieh schon jetzt, wie er anfängt, uns fremd gegenüber seinen Liebesblicken zu machen. Heiß. Das tut er, das tut er: Wir werden uns an ihm rächen. Wor. Cousin, lebe wohl. Gehen wir in dieser Sache nicht weiter, Doch ich werde dich durch Briefe deinen Weg leiten, Wenn die Zeit reif ist, was bald sein wird: Ich werde nach Glendower schleichen, und siehe da, Mortimer, Dort, wo du, Douglas und unsere Truppen sich treffen werden, Wie ich es gestalten werde, um unsere Glücke in unseren eigenen starken Armen zu tragen, Die wir jetzt in großer Unsicherheit halten. Nor. Leb wohl, guter Bruder, ich Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

Der König und seine Berater treffen sich in Windsor. Der König sagt, dass er in Zukunft härter und entscheidungsfreudiger sein wird. Er glaubt, dass andere ihn nicht mit ausreichendem Respekt behandelt haben. Worcester versucht zu protestieren, aber der König befiehlt ihm, das Treffen zu verlassen. Er hält Worcester für illoyal. Nachdem Worcester gegangen ist, erklärt Northumberland, dass der König einen irreführenden Bericht über Hotspurs Weigerung, seine Gefangenen herauszugeben, erhalten hat. Hotspur spricht dann selbst. Er sagt, dass er unmittelbar nach der Schlacht von einem hochnäsigen Mann mit vielen nervigen Manieren angesprochen wurde. Der Mann beleidigte seine Soldaten und verlangte dann im Namen des Königs, dass er ihm seine Gefangenen übergibt. Das hat Hotspur wütend gemacht. Hotspur erzählt dem König nun, dass er sich nicht genau daran erinnern kann, was er über die Gefangenen gesagt hat, aber er hofft, dass die Anschuldigung, sie nicht herausgegeben zu haben, die Beziehungen zwischen ihnen nicht beschädigen wird. Sir Walter Blunt bittet den König, Hotspurs Erklärung anzunehmen, aber der König ist nicht zufrieden. Er geht zu einem anderen Thema über, das Hotspur betrifft - Hotspurs Bitte, dass der König ein Lösegeld zahlt, um Mortimer, Hotspurs Schwager, freizulassen. Aber der König ist nicht in der Stimmung, dem zuzustimmen. Er hat eine niedrige Meinung von Mortimer und ihm wurde auch mitgeteilt, dass Mortimer die Tochter von Owen Glendower, seinem Gefangenen, geheiratet hat. Der König nennt Mortimer einen Verräter und lehnt es ab, ein Lösegeld anzubieten. Er fügt hinzu, dass er jeden Mann, der ihn darum bittet, nicht als Freund betrachten kann. Hotspur lehnt den Vorschlag ab, dass Mortimer ein Verräter ist, und erzählt davon, wie tapfer er gegen Glendower gekämpft hat. Der König erwidert, dass Hotspur die Fakten falsch darstellt; Mortimer hat nie mit Glendower gekämpft. Der König sagt Hotspur, dass er Mortimer nicht mehr erwähnen soll, und fordert ihn auf, ihm seine Gefangenen so schnell wie möglich zu schicken. Er droht ihm mit Vergeltung, wenn er sich weigert. Der König verlässt den Raum, mit Blunt. Allein mit seinem Vater sagt Hotspur, dass er seine Gefangenen niemals herausgeben wird. Sein Vater tadelt ihn. Dann tritt Worcester ein, aber bevor er sprechen kann, sagt Hotspur, dass er alles in seiner Macht Stehende tun wird, um Mortimer zu befreien. Er äußert auch seine tiefe Abneigung gegen den König. Hotspur erklärt Worcester die Situation, der sagt, dass es nicht überraschend ist, dass der König feindlich gegenüber Mortimer ist, da der frühere König, Richard II., den Henry IV. gestürzt hat, erklärt hat, dass Mortimer der nächste in der Thronfolge ist. Hotspur lässt dann seinem Ärger über den König freien Lauf und tadelt Northumberland und Worcester dafür, dass sie sich mit dem König zusammengetan haben, um Richard zu stürzen. Aber schlimmer noch, er tadelt sie dafür, dass sie sich mit der Verachtung des Mannes abgefunden haben, den sie an die Macht gebracht haben. Der König ist ihnen zu Dank verpflichtet, aber laut Hotspur verbringt er seine ganze Zeit damit, darüber nachzudenken, wie er sie loswerden kann. Worcester versucht, Hotspur dazu zu bringen, seinem Plan zuzuhören, aber Hotspur ist so aufgeregt, dass er nicht aufhört zu reden. Er rühmt sich von Ehre und sagt, dass er keinem einzigen Gefangenen aufgeben wird und sein Leben dem Sturz des Königs und seines Sohnes widmen wird. Northumberland tadelt seinen Sohn für seinen Ausbruch. Aber Hotspur entschuldigt sich nicht. Stattdessen macht er in derselben Weise weiter. Er erinnert sich an das erste Mal, als er den König traf, zu der Zeit, als König Richard regierte. Das Treffen fand in Yorkshire statt, als Henry IV. noch Bolingbroke hieß. Bolingbroke hatte süß zu ihm gesprochen, aber Hotspur verflucht die Erinnerung daran. Hotspur hat schließlich alles gesagt, was er zu sagen hatte, und das gibt Worcester die Gelegenheit, seinen Plan zu erklären. Er sagt Hotspur, dass er seine schottischen Gefangenen ohne Lösegeld freilassen soll und eine Allianz mit Douglas, dem schottischen Anführer, eingehen soll. Worcester sagt dann Northumberland, dass er eine Allianz mit dem Erzbischof von York eingehen soll. Worcester weiß, dass der Erzbischof um seinen Bruder trauert, der von Henry IV. hingerichtet wurde, und wahrscheinlich an einer Rebellion teilnehmen möchte. Hotspur ergänzt dann den Rest des Plans, indem er erkennt, dass sich Douglas mit den Kräften von Mortimer und Glendower zusammenschließen kann und sie dann alle gemeinsam gegen den König kämpfen werden. Hotspur und Northumberland unterstützen den Plan begeistert. Worcester erklärt, wie notwendig er ist: Der König weiß, dass er ihnen zu Dank verpflichtet ist, weil sie ihm geholfen haben, an die Macht zu kommen, und er muss auch wissen, dass sie mit der Art und Weise, wie er sie behandelt, unzufrieden sind. Daher wird er sie letztendlich beseitigen, wenn sie nicht zuerst handeln. Hotspur freut sich auf die kommende Schlacht.