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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: Who hath desired the Sea--the sight of salt-water unbounded? The heave and the halt and the hurl and the crash of the comber wind-hounded? The sleek-barrelled swell before storm--grey, foamless, enormous, and growing? Stark calm on the lap of the Line--or the crazy-eyed hurricane blowing? His Sea in no showing the same--his Sea and the same 'neath all showing-- His Sea that his being fulfils? So and no otherwise--so and no otherwise hill-men desire their Hills! The Sea and the Hills. 'I have found my heart again,' said E23, under cover of the platform's tumult. 'Hunger and fear make men dazed, or I might have thought of this escape before. I was right. They come to hunt for me. Thou hast saved my head.' A group of yellow-trousered Punjab policemen, headed by a hot and perspiring young Englishman, parted the crowd about the carriages. Behind them, inconspicuous as a cat, ambled a small fat person who looked like a lawyer's tout. 'See the young Sahib reading from a paper. My description is in his hand,' said E23. 'Thev go carriage by carriage, like fisher-folk netting a pool.' When the procession reached their compartment, E23 was counting his beads with a steady jerk of the wrist; while Kim jeered at him for being so drugged as to have lost the ringed fire-tongs which are the Saddhu's distinguishing mark. The lama, deep in meditation, stared straight before him; and the farmer, glancing furtively, gathered up his belongings. 'Nothing here but a parcel of holy-bolies,' said the Englishman aloud, and passed on amid a ripple of uneasiness; for native police mean extortion to the native all India over. 'The trouble now,' whispered E23, 'lies in sending a wire as to the place where I hid that letter I was sent to find. I cannot go to the tar-office in this guise.' 'Is it not enough I have saved thy neck?' 'Not if the work be left unfinished. Did never the healer of sick pearls tell thee so? Comes another Sahib! Ah!' This was a tallish, sallowish District Superintendent of Police--belt, helmet, polished spurs and all--strutting and twirling his dark moustache. 'What fools are these Police Sahibs!' said Kim genially. E23 glanced up under his eyelids. 'It is well said,' he muttered in a changed voice. 'I go to drink water. Keep my place.' He blundered out almost into the Englishman's arms, and was bad-worded in clumsy Urdu. 'Tum mut? You drunk? You mustn't bang about as though Delhi station belonged to you, my friend.' E23, not moving a muscle of his countenance, answered with a stream of the filthiest abuse, at which Kim naturally rejoiced. It reminded him of the drummer-boys and the barrack-sweepers at Umballa in the terrible time of his first schooling. 'My good fool,' the Englishman drawled. 'Nickle-jao! Go back to your carriage.' Step by step, withdrawing deferentially and dropping his voice, the yellow Saddhu clomb back to the carriage, cursing the D.S.P. to remotest posterity, by--here Kim almost jumped--by the curse of the Queen's Stone, by the writing under the Queen's Stone, and by an assortment of Gods with wholly, new names. 'I don't know what you're saying,'--the Englishman flushed angrily--'but it's some piece of blasted impertinence. Come out of that!' E23, affecting to misunderstand, gravely produced his ticket, which the Englishman wrenched angrily from his hand. 'Oh, zoolum! What oppression!' growled the Jat from his corner. 'All for the sake of a jest too.' He had been grinning at the freedom of the Saddhu's tongue. 'Thy charms do not work well today, Holy One!' The Saddhu followed the policeman, fawning and supplicating. The ruck of passengers, busy, with their babies and their bundles, had not noticed the affair. Kim slipped out behind him; for it flashed through his head that he had heard this angry, stupid Sahib discoursing loud personalities to an old lady near Umballa three years ago. 'It is well', the Saddhu whispered, jammed in the calling, shouting, bewildered press--a Persian greyhound between his feet and a cageful of yelling hawks under charge of a Rajput falconer in the small of his back. 'He has gone now to send word of the letter which I hid. They told me he was in Peshawur. I might have known that he is like the crocodile--always at the other ford. He has saved me from present calamity, but I owe my life to thee.' 'Is he also one of Us?' Kim ducked under a Mewar camel-driver's greasy armpit and cannoned off a covey of jabbering Sikh matrons. 'Not less than the greatest. We are both fortunate! I will make report to him of what thou hast done. I am safe under his protection.' He bored through the edge of the crowd besieging the carriages, and squatted by the bench near the telegraph-office. 'Return, or they take thy place! Have no fear for the work, brother--or my life. Thou hast given me breathing-space, and Strickland Sahib has pulled me to land. We may work together at the Game yet. Farewell!' Kim hurried to his carriage: elated, bewildered, but a little nettled in that he had no key to the secrets about him. 'I am only a beginner at the Game, that is sure. I could not have leaped into safety as did the Saddhu. He knew it was darkest under the lamp. I could not have thought to tell news under pretence of cursing ... and how clever was the Sahib! No matter, I saved the life of one ... Where is the Kamboh gone, Holy One?' he whispered, as he took his seat in the now crowded compartment. 'A fear gripped him,' the lama replied, with a touch of tender malice. 'He saw thee change the Mahratta to a Saddhu in the twinkling of an eye, as a protection against evil. That shook him. Then he saw the Saddhu fall sheer into the hands of the polis--all the effect of thy art. Then he gathered up his son and fled; for he said that thou didst change a quiet trader into an impudent bandier of words with the Sahibs, and he feared a like fate. Where is the Saddhu?' 'With the polis,' said Kim ... 'Yet I saved the Kamboh's child.' The lama snuffed blandly. 'Ah, chela, see how thou art overtaken! Thou didst cure the Kamboh's child solely to acquire merit. But thou didst put a spell on the Mahratta with prideful workings--I watched thee--and with sidelong glances to bewilder an old old man and a foolish farmer: whence calamity and suspicion.' Kim controlled himself with an effort beyond his years. Not more than any other youngster did he like to eat dirt or to be misjudged, but he saw himself in a cleft stick. The train rolled out of Delhi into the night. 'It is true,' he murmured. 'Where I have offended thee I have done wrong.' 'It is more, chela. Thou hast loosed an Act upon the world, and as a stone thrown into a pool so spread the consequences thou canst not tell how far.' This ignorance was well both for Kim's vanity and for the lama's peace of mind, when we think that there was then being handed in at Simla a code-wire reporting the arrival of E23 at Delhi, and, more important, the whereabouts of a letter he had been commissioned to--abstract. Incidentally, an over-zealous policeman had arrested, on charge of murder done in a far southern State, a horribly indignant Ajmir cotton-broker, who was explaining himself to a Mr Strickland on Delhi platform, while E23 was paddling through byways into the locked heart of Delhi city. In two hours several telegrams had reached the angry minister of a southern State reporting that all trace of a somewhat bruised Mahratta had been lost; and by the time the leisurely train halted at Saharunpore the last ripple of the stone Kim had helped to heave was lapping against the steps of a mosque in far-away Roum--where it disturbed a pious man at prayers. The lama made his in ample form near the dewy bougainvillea-trellis near the platform, cheered by the clear sunshine and the presence of his disciple. 'We will put these things behind us,' he said, indicating the brazen engine and the gleaming track. 'The jolting of the te-rain--though a wonderful thing--has turned my bones to water. We will use clean air henceforward.' 'Let us go to the Kulu woman's house' said Kim, and stepped forth cheerily under the bundles. Early morning Saharunpore-way is clean and well scented. He thought of the other mornings at St Xavier's, and it topped his already thrice-heaped contentment. 'Where is this new haste born from? Wise men do not run about like chickens in the sun. We have come hundreds upon hundreds of koss already, and, till now, I have scarcely been alone with thee an instant. How canst thou receive instruction all jostled of crowds? How can I, whelmed by a flux of talk, meditate upon the Way?' 'Her tongue grows no shorter with the years, then?' the disciple smiled. 'Nor her desire for charms. I remember once when I spoke of the Wheel of Life'--the lama fumbled in his bosom for his latest copy--'she was only curious about the devils that besiege children. She shall acquire merit by entertaining us--in a little while--at an after-occasion--softly, softly. Now we will wander loose-foot, waiting upon the Chain of Things. The Search is sure.' So they travelled very easily across and among the broad bloomful fruit-gardens--by way of Aminabad, Sahaigunge, Akrola of the Ford, and little Phulesa--the line of the Siwaliks always to the north, and behind them again the snows. After long, sweet sleep under the dry stars came the lordly, leisurely passage through a waking village--begging-bowl held forth in silence, but eyes roving in defiance of the Law from sky's edge to sky's edge. Then would Kim return soft-footed through the soft dust to his master under the shadow of a mango-tree or the thinner shade of a white Doon siris, to eat and drink at ease. At mid-day, after talk and a little wayfaring, they slept; meeting the world refreshed when the air was cooler. Night found them adventuring into new territory--some chosen village spied three hours before across the fat land, and much discussed upon the road. There they told their tale--a new one each evening so far as Kim was concerned--and there were they made welcome, either by priest or headman, after the custom of the kindly East. When the shadows shortened and the lama leaned more heavily upon Kim, there was always the Wheel of Life to draw forth, to hold flat under wiped stones, and with a long straw to expound cycle by cycle. Here sat the Gods on high--and they were dreams of dreams. Here was our Heaven and the world of the demi-Gods--horsemen fighting among the hills. Here were the agonies done upon the beasts, souls ascending or descending the ladder and therefore not to be interfered with. Here were the Hells, hot and cold, and the abodes of tormented ghosts. Let the chela study the troubles that come from over-eating--bloated stomach and burning bowels. Obediently, then, with bowed head and brown finger alert to follow the pointer, did the chela study; but when they came to the Human World, busy and profitless, that is just above the Hells, his mind was distracted; for by the roadside trundled the very Wheel itself, eating, drinking, trading, marrying, and quarrelling--all warmly alive. Often the lama made the living pictures the matter of his text, bidding Kim--too ready--note how the flesh takes a thousand shapes, desirable or detestable as men reckon, but in truth of no account either way; and how the stupid spirit, bond-slave to the Hog, the Dove, and the Serpent--lusting after betel-nut, a new yoke of oxen, women, or the favour of kings--is bound to follow the body through all the Heavens and all the Hells, and strictly round again. Sometimes a woman or a poor man, watching the ritual--it was nothing less--when the great yellow chart was unfolded, would throw a few flowers or a handful of cowries upon its edge. It sufficed these humble ones that they had met a Holy One who might be moved to remember them in his prayers. 'Cure them if they are sick,' said the lama, when Kim's sporting instincts woke. 'Cure them if they have fever, but by no means work charms. Remember what befell the Mahratta.' 'Then all Doing is evil?' Kim replied, lying out under a big tree at the fork of the Doon road, watching the little ants run over his hand. 'To abstain from action is well--except to acquire merit.' 'At the Gates of Learning we were taught that to abstain from action was unbefitting a Sahib. And I am a Sahib.' 'Friend of all the World,'--the lama looked directly at Kim--'I am an old man--pleased with shows as are children. To those who follow the Way there is neither black nor white, Hind nor Bhotiyal. We be all souls seeking escape. No matter what thy wisdom learned among Sahibs, when we come to my River thou wilt be freed from all illusion--at my side. Hai! My bones ache for that River, as they ached in the te-rain; but my spirit sits above my bones, waiting. The Search is sure!' 'I am answered. Is it permitted to ask a question?' The lama inclined his stately head. 'I ate thy bread for three years--as thou knowest. Holy One, whence came--?' 'There is much wealth, as men count it, in Bhotiyal,' the lama returned with composure. 'In my own place I have the illusion of honour. I ask for that I need. I am not concerned with the account. That is for my monastery. Ai! The black high seats in the monastery, and novices all in order!' And he told stories, tracing with a finger in the dust, of the immense and sumptuous ritual of avalanche-guarded cathedrals; of processions and devil-dances; of the changing of monks and nuns into swine; of holy cities fifteen thousand feet in the air; of intrigue between monastery and monastery; of voices among the hills, and of that mysterious mirage that dances on dry snow. He spoke even of Lhassa and of the Dalai Lama, whom he had seen and adored. Each long, perfect day rose behind Kim for a barrier to cut him off from his race and his mother-tongue. He slipped back to thinking and dreaming in the vernacular, and mechanically followed the lama's ceremonial observances at eating, drinking, and the like. The old man's mind turned more and more to his monastery as his eyes turned to the steadfast snows. His River troubled him nothing. Now and again, indeed, he would gaze long and long at a tuft or a twig, expecting, he said, the earth to cleave and deliver its blessing; but he was content to be with his disciple, at ease in the temperate wind that comes down from the Doon. This was not Ceylon, nor Buddh Gaya, nor Bombay, nor some grass-tangled ruins that he seemed to have stumbled upon two years ago. He spoke of those places as a scholar removed from vanity, as a Seeker walking in humility, as an old man, wise and temperate, illumining knowledge with brilliant insight. Bit by bit, disconnectedly, each tale called up by some wayside thing, he spoke of all his wanderings up and down Hind; till Kim, who had loved him without reason, now loved him for fifty good reasons. So they enjoyed themselves in high felicity, abstaining, as the Rule demands, from evil words, covetous desires; not over-eating, not lying on high beds, nor wearing rich clothes. Their stomachs told them the time, and the people brought them their food, as the saying is. They were lords of the villages of Aminabad, Sahaigunge, Akrola of the Ford, and little Phulesa, where Kim gave the soulless woman a blessing. But news travels fast in India, and too soon shuffled across the crop-land, bearing a basket of fruits with a box of Kabul grapes and gilt oranges, a white-whiskered servitor--a lean, dry Oorya--begging them to bring the honour of their presence to his mistress, distressed in her mind that the lama had neglected her so long. 'Now do I remember'--the lama spoke as though it were a wholly new proposition. 'She is virtuous, but an inordinate talker.' Kim was sitting on the edge of a cow's manger, telling stories to a village smith's children. 'She will only ask for another son for her daughter. I have not forgotten her,' he said. 'Let her acquire merit. Send word that we will come.' They covered eleven miles through the fields in two days, and were overwhelmed with attentions at the end; for the old lady held a fine tradition of hospitality, to which she forced her son-in-law, who was under the thumb of his women-folk and bought peace by borrowing of the money-lender. Age had not weakened her tongue or her memory, and from a discreetly barred upper window, in the hearing of not less than a dozen servants, she paid Kim compliments that would have flung European audiences into unclean dismay. 'But thou art still the shameless beggar-brat of the parao,' she shrilled. 'I have not forgotten thee. Wash ye and eat. The father of my daughter's son is gone away awhile. So we poor women are dumb and useless.' For proof, she harangued the entire household unsparingly till food and drink were brought; and in the evening--the smoke-scented evening, copper-dun and turquoise across the fields--it pleased her to order her palanquin to be set down in the untidy forecourt by smoky torchlight; and there, behind not too closely drawn curtains, she gossiped. 'Had the Holy One come alone, I should have received him otherwise; but with this rogue, who can be too careful?' 'Maharanee,' said Kim, choosing as always the amplest title, 'is it my fault that none other than a Sahib--a polis-Sahib--called the Maharanee whose face he--' 'Chutt! That was on the pilgrimage. When we travel--thou knowest the proverb.' 'Called the Maharanee a Breaker of Hearts and a Dispenser of Delights?' 'To remember that! It was true. So he did. That was in the time of the bloom of my beauty.' She chuckled like a contented parrot above the sugar lump. 'Now tell me of thy goings and comings--as much as may be without shame. How many maids, and whose wives, hang upon thine eyelashes? Ye hail from Benares? I would have gone there again this year, but my daughter--we have only two sons. Phaii! Such is the effect of these low plains. Now in Kulu men are elephants. But I would ask thy Holy One--stand aside, rogue--a charm against most lamentable windy colics that in mango-time overtake my daughter's eldest. Two years back he gave me a powerful spell.' 'Oh, Holy One!' said Kim, bubbling with mirth at the lama's rueful face. 'It is true. I gave her one against wind.' 'Teeth--teeth--teeth,' snapped the old woman. "'Cure them if they are sick,"' Kim quoted relishingly, "'but by no means work charms. Remember what befell the Mahratta."' 'That was two Rains ago; she wearied me with her continual importunity.' The lama groaned as the Unjust Judge had groaned before him. 'Thus it comes--take note, my chela--that even those who would follow the Way are thrust aside by idle women. Three days through, when the child was sick, she talked to me.' 'Arre! and to whom else should I talk? The boy's mother knew nothing, and the father--in the nights of the cold weather it was--"Pray to the Gods," said he, forsooth, and turning over, snored!' 'I gave her the charm. What is an old man to do?' "'To abstain from action is well--except to acquire merit."' 'Ah chela, if thou desertest me, I am all alone.' 'He found his milk-teeth easily at any rate,' said the old lady. 'But all priests are alike.' Kim coughed severely. Being young, he did not approve of her flippancy. 'To importune the wise out of season is to invite calamity.' 'There is a talking mynah'--the thrust came back with the well-remembered snap of the jewelled fore-finger--'over the stables which has picked up the very tone of the family priest. Maybe I forget honour to my guests, but if ye had seen him double his fists into his belly, which was like a half-grown gourd, and cry: "Here is the pain!" ye would forgive. I am half minded to take the hakim's medicine. He sells it cheap, and certainly it makes him fat as Shiv's own bull. He does not deny remedies, but I doubted for the child because of the in-auspicious colour of the bottles.' The lama, under cover of the monologue, had faded out into the darkness towards the room prepared. 'Thou hast angered him, belike,' said Kim. 'Not he. He is wearied, and I forgot, being a grandmother. (None but a grandmother should ever oversee a child. Mothers are only fit for bearing.) Tomorrow, when he sees how my daughter's son is grown, he will write the charm. Then, too, he can judge of the new hakim's drugs.' 'Who is the hakim, Maharanee?' 'A wanderer, as thou art, but a most sober Bengali from Dacca--a master of medicine. He relieved me of an oppression after meat by means of a small pill that wrought like a devil unchained. He travels about now, vending preparations of great value. He has even papers, printed in Angrezi, telling what things he has done for weak-backed men and slack women. He has been here four days; but hearing ye were coming (hakims and priests are snake and tiger the world over) he has, as I take it, gone to cover.' While she drew breath after this volley, the ancient servant, sitting unrebuked on the edge of the torchlight, muttered: 'This house is a cattle-pound, as it were, for all charlatans and--priests. Let the boy stop eating mangoes ... but who can argue with a grandmother?' He raised his voice respectfully: 'Sahiba, the hakim sleeps after his meat. He is in the quarters behind the dovecote.' Kim bristled like an expectant terrier. To outface and down-talk a Calcutta-taught Bengali, a voluble Dacca drug-vendor, would be a good game. It was not seemly that the lama, and incidentally himself, should be thrown aside for such an one. He knew those curious bastard English advertisements at the backs of native newspapers. St Xavier's boys sometimes brought them in by stealth to snigger over among their mates; for the language of the grateful patient recounting his symptoms is most simple and revealing. The Oorya, not unanxious to play off one parasite against the other, slunk away towards the dovecote. 'Yes,' said Kim, with measured scorn. 'Their stock-in-trade is a little coloured water and a very great shamelessness. Their prey are broken-down kings and overfed Bengalis. Their profit is in children--who are not born.' The old lady chuckled. 'Do not be envious. Charms are better, eh? I never gainsaid it. See that thy Holy One writes me a good amulet by the morning.' 'None but the ignorant deny'--a thick, heavy voice boomed through the darkness, as a figure came to rest squatting--'None but the ignorant deny the value of charms. None but the ignorant deny the value of medicines.' 'A rat found a piece of turmeric. Said he: "I will open a grocer's shop,"' Kim retorted. Battle was fairly joined now, and they heard the old lady stiffen to attention. 'The priest's son knows the names of his nurse and three Gods. Says he: "Hear me, or I will curse you by the three million Great Ones."' Decidedly this invisible had an arrow or two in his quiver. He went on: 'I am but a teacher of the alphabet. I have learned all the wisdom of the Sahibs.' 'The Sahibs never grow old. They dance and they play like children when they are grandfathers. A strong-backed breed,' piped the voice inside the palanquin. 'I have, too, our drugs which loosen humours of the head in hot and angry men. Sina well compounded when the moon stands in the proper House; yellow earths I have--arplan from China that makes a man renew his youth and astonish his household; saffron from Kashmir, and the best salep of Kabul. Many people have died before--' 'That I surely believe,' said Kim. 'They knew the value of my drugs. I do not give my sick the mere ink in which a charm is written, but hot and rending drugs which descend and wrestle with the evil.' 'Very mightily they do so,' sighed the old lady. The voice launched into an immense tale of misfortune and bankruptcy, studded with plentiful petitions to the Government. 'But for my fate, which overrules all, I had been now in Government employ. I bear a degree from the great school at Calcutta--whither, maybe, the son of this House shall go.' 'He shall indeed. If our neighbour's brat can in a few years be made an F A' (First Arts--she used the English word, of which she had heard so often), 'how much more shall children clever as some that I know bear away prizes at rich Calcutta.' 'Never,' said the voice, 'have I seen such a child! Born in an auspicious hour, and--but for that colic which, alas! turning into black cholers, may carry him off like a pigeon--destined to many years, he is enviable.' 'Hai mai!' said the old lady. 'To praise children is inauspicious, or I could listen to this talk. But the back of the house is unguarded, and even in this soft air men think themselves to be men, and women we know ... The child's father is away too, and I must be chowkedar [watchman] in my old age. Up! Up! Take up the palanquin. Let the hakim and the young priest settle between them whether charms or medicine most avail. Ho! worthless people, fetch tobacco for the guests, and--round the homestead go I!' The palanquin reeled off, followed by straggling torches and a horde of dogs. Twenty villages knew the Sahiba--her failings, her tongue, and her large charity. Twenty villages cheated her after immemorial custom, but no man would have stolen or robbed within her jurisdiction for any gift under heaven. None the less, she made great parade of her formal inspections, the riot of which could be heard half-way to Mussoorie. Kim relaxed, as one augur must when he meets another. The hakim, still squatting, slid over his hookah with a friendly foot, and Kim pulled at the good weed. The hangers-on expected grave professional debate, and perhaps a little free doctoring. 'To discuss medicine before the ignorant is of one piece with teaching the peacock to sing,' said the hakim. 'True courtesy,' Kim echoed, 'is very often inattention.' These, be it understood, were company-manners, designed to impress. 'Hi! I have an ulcer on my leg,' cried a scullion. 'Look at it!' 'Get hence! Remove!' said the hakim. 'Is it the habit of the place to pester honoured guests? Ye crowd in like buffaloes.' 'If the Sahiba knew--' Kim began. 'Ai! Ai! Come away. They are meat for our mistress. When her young Shaitan's colics are cured perhaps we poor people may be suffered to--' 'The mistress fed thy wife when thou wast in jail for breaking the money-lender's head. Who speaks against her?' The old servitor curled his white moustaches savagely in the young moonlight. 'I am responsible for the honour of this house. Go!' and he drove the underlings before him. Said the hakim, hardly more than shaping the words with his lips: 'How do you do, Mister O'Hara? I am jolly glad to see you again.' Kim's hand clenched about the pipe-stem. Anywhere on the open road, perhaps, he would not have been astonished; but here, in this quiet backwater of life, he was not prepared for Hurree Babu. It annoyed him, too, that he had been hoodwinked. 'Ah ha! I told you at Lucknow--resurgam--I shall rise again and you shall not know me. How much did you bet--eh?' He chewed leisurely upon a few cardamom seeds, but he breathed uneasily. 'But why come here, Babuji?' 'Ah! Thatt is the question, as Shakespeare hath it. I come to congratulate you on your extraordinary effeecient performance at Delhi. Oah! I tell you we are all proud of you. It was verree neat and handy. Our mutual friend, he is old friend of mine. He has been in some dam'-tight places. Now he will be in some more. He told me; I tell Mr Lurgan; and he is pleased you graduate so nicely. All the Department is pleased.' For the first time in his life, Kim thrilled to the clean pride (it can be a deadly pitfall, none the less) of Departmental praise--ensnaring praise from an equal of work appreciated by fellow-workers. Earth has nothing on the same plane to compare with it. But, cried the Oriental in him, Babus do not travel far to retail compliments. 'Tell thy tale, Babu,' he said authoritatively. 'Oah, it is nothing. Onlee I was at Simla when the wire came in about what our mutual friend said he had hidden, and old Creighton--' He looked to see how Kim would take this piece of audacity. 'The Colonel Sahib,' the boy from St Xavier's corrected. 'Of course. He found me at a loose string, and I had to go down to Chitor to find that beastly letter. I do not like the South--too much railway travel; but I drew good travelling allowance. Ha! Ha! I meet our mutual at Delhi on the way back. He lies quiett just now, and says Saddhu-disguise suits him to the ground. Well, there I hear what you have done so well, so quickly, upon the instantaneous spur of the moment. I tell our mutual you take the bally bun, by Jove! It was splendid. I come to tell you so.' 'Umm!' The frogs were busy in the ditches, and the moon slid to her setting. Some happy servant had gone out to commune with the night and to beat upon a drum. Kim's next sentence was in the vernacular. 'How didst thou follow us?' 'Oah. Thatt was nothing. I know from our mutual friend you go to Saharunpore. So I come on. Red Lamas are not inconspicuous persons. I buy myself my drug-box, and I am very good doctor really. I go to Akrola of the Ford, and hear all about you, and I talk here and talk there. All the common people know what you do. I knew when the hospitable old lady sent the dooli. They have great recollections of the old lama's visits here. I know old ladies cannot keep their hands from medicines. So I am a doctor, and--you hear my talk? I think it is verree good. My word, Mister O'Hara, they know about you and the lama for fifty miles--the common people. So I come. Do you mind?' 'Babuji,' said Kim, looking up at the broad, grinning face, 'I am a Sahib.' 'My dear Mister O'Hara--' 'And I hope to play the Great Game.' 'You are subordinate to me departmentally at present.' 'Then why talk like an ape in a tree? Men do not come after one from Simla and change their dress, for the sake of a few sweet words. I am not a child. Talk Hindi and let us get to the yolk of the egg. Thou art here--speaking not one word of truth in ten. Why art thou here? Give a straight answer.' 'That is so verree disconcerting of the Europeans, Mister O'Hara. You should know a heap better at your time of life.' 'But I want to know,' said Kim, laughing. 'If it is the Game, I may help. How can I do anything if you bukh [babble] all round the shop?' Hurree Babu reached for the pipe, and sucked it till it gurgled again. 'Now I will speak vernacular. You sit tight, Mister O'Hara ... It concerns the pedigree of a white stallion.' 'Still? That was finished long ago.' 'When everyone is dead the Great Game is finished. Not before. Listen to me till the end. There were Five Kings who prepared a sudden war three years ago, when thou wast given the stallion's pedigree by Mahbub Ali. Upon them, because of that news, and ere they were ready, fell our Army.' 'Ay--eight thousand men with guns. I remember that night.' 'But the war was not pushed. That is the Government custom. The troops were recalled because the Government believed the Five Kings were cowed; and it is not cheap to feed men among the high Passes. Hilas and Bunar--Rajahs with guns--undertook for a price to guard the Passes against all coming from the North. They protested both fear and friendship.' He broke off with a giggle into English: 'Of course, I tell you this unoffeecially to elucidate political situation, Mister O'Hara. Offeecially, I am debarred from criticizing any action of superiors. Now I go on.--This pleased the Government, anxious to avoid expense, and a bond was made for so many rupees a month that Hilas and Bunar should guard the Passes as soon as the State's troops were withdrawn. At that time--it was after we two met--I, who had been selling tea in Leh, became a clerk of accounts in the Army. When the troops were withdrawn, I was left behind to pay the coolies who made new roads in the Hills. This road-making was part of the bond between Bunar, Hilas, and the Government.' 'So? And then?' 'I tell you, it was jolly-beastly cold up there too, after summer,' said Hurree Babu confidentially. 'I was afraid these Bunar men would cut my throat every night for thee pay-chest. My native sepoy-guard, they laughed at me! By Jove! I was such a fearful man. Nevar mind thatt. I go on colloquially ... I send word many times that these two Kings were sold to the North; and Mahbub Ali, who was yet farther North, amply confirmed it. Nothing was done. Only my feet were frozen, and a toe dropped off. I sent word that the roads for which I was paying money to the diggers were being made for the feet of strangers and enemies.' 'For?' 'For the Russians. The thing was an open jest among the coolies. Then I was called down to tell what I knew by speech of tongue. Mahbub came South too. See the end! Over the Passes this year after snow-melting'--he shivered afresh--'come two strangers under cover of shooting wild goats. They bear guns, but they bear also chains and levels and compasses.' 'Oho! The thing gets clearer.' 'They are well received by Hilas and Bunar. They make great promises; they speak as the mouthpiece of a Kaisar with gifts. Up the valleys, down the valleys go they, saying, "Here is a place to build a breastwork; here can ye pitch a fort. Here can ye hold the road against an army"--the very roads for which I paid out the rupees monthly. The Government knows, but does nothing. The three other Kings, who were not paid for guarding the Passes, tell them by runner of the bad faith of Bunar and Hilas. When all the evil is done, look you--when these two strangers with the levels and the compasses make the Five Kings to believe that a great army will sweep the Passes tomorrow or the next day--Hill-people are all fools--comes the order to me, Hurree Babu, "Go North and see what those strangers do." I say to Creighton Sahib, "This is not a lawsuit, that we go about to collect evidence."' Hurree returned to his English with a jerk: "'By Jove," I said, "why the dooce do you not issue demi-offeecial orders to some brave man to poison them, for an example? It is, if you permit the observation, most reprehensible laxity on your part." And Colonel Creighton, he laughed at me! It is all your beastly English pride. You think no one dare conspire! That is all tommy-rott.' Kim smoked slowly, revolving the business, so far as he understood it, in his quick mind. 'Then thou goest forth to follow the strangers?' 'No. To meet them. They are coming in to Simla to send down their horns and heads to be dressed at Calcutta. They are exclusively sporting gentlemen, and they are allowed special faceelities by the Government. Of course, we always do that. It is our British pride.' 'Then what is to fear from them?' 'By Jove, they are not black people. I can do all sorts of things with black people, of course. They are Russians, and highly unscrupulous people. I--I do not want to consort with them without a witness.' 'Will they kill thee?' 'Oah, thatt is nothing. I am good enough Herbert Spencerian, I trust, to meet little thing like death, which is all in my fate, you know. But--but they may beat me.' 'Why?' Hurree Babu snapped his fingers with irritation. 'Of course I shall affeeliate myself to their camp in supernumerary capacity as perhaps interpreter, or person mentally impotent and hungree, or some such thing. And then I must pick up what I can, I suppose. That is as easy for me as playing Mister Doctor to the old lady. Onlee--onlee--you see, Mister O'Hara, I am unfortunately Asiatic, which is serious detriment in some respects. And all-so I am Bengali--a fearful man.' 'God made the Hare and the Bengali. What shame?' said Kim, quoting the proverb. 'It was process of Evolution, I think, from Primal Necessity, but the fact remains in all the cui bono. I am, oh, awfully fearful!--I remember once they wanted to cut off my head on the road to Lhassa. (No, I have never reached to Lhassa.) I sat down and cried, Mister O'Hara, anticipating Chinese tortures. I do not suppose these two gentlemen will torture me, but I like to provide for possible contingency with European assistance in emergency.' He coughed and spat out the cardamoms. 'It is purely unoffeecial indent, to which you can say "No, Babu". If you have no pressing engagement with your old man--perhaps you might divert him; perhaps I can seduce his fancies--I should like you to keep in Departmental touch with me till I find those sporting coves. I have great opeenion of you since I met my friend at Delhi. And also I will embody your name in my offeecial report when matter is finally adjudicated. It will be a great feather in your cap. That is why I come really.' 'Humph! The end of the tale, I think, is true; but what of the fore-part?' 'About the Five Kings? Oah! there is ever so much truth in it. A lots more than you would suppose,' said Hurree earnestly. 'You come--eh? I go from here straight into the Doon. It is verree verdant and painted meads. I shall go to Mussoorie to good old Munsoorie Pahar, as the gentlemen and ladies say. Then by Rampur into Chini. That is the only way they can come. I do not like waiting in the cold, but we must wait for them. I want to walk with them to Simla. You see, one Russian is a Frenchman, and I know my French pretty well. I have friends in Chandernagore.' 'He would certainly rejoice to see the Hills again,' said Kim meditatively. 'All his speech these ten days past has been of little else. If we go together--' 'Oah! We can be quite strangers on the road, if your lama prefers. I shall just be four or five miles ahead. There is no hurry for Hurree--that is an Europe pun, ha! ha!--and you come after. There is plenty of time; they will plot and survey and map, of course. I shall go tomorrow, and you the next day, if you choose. Eh? You go think on it till morning. By Jove, it is near morning now.' He yawned ponderously, and with never a civil word lumbered off to his sleeping-place. But Kim slept little, and his thoughts ran in Hindustani: 'Well is the Game called great! I was four days a scullion at Quetta, waiting on the wife of the man whose book I stole. And that was part of the Great Game! From the South--God knows how far--came up the Mahratta, playing the Great Game in fear of his life. Now I shall go far and far into the North playing the Great Game. Truly, it runs like a shuttle throughout all Hind. And my share and my joy'--he smiled to the darkness--'I owe to the lama here. Also to Mahbub Ali--also to Creighton Sahib, but chiefly to the Holy One. He is right--a great and a wonderful world--and I am Kim--Kim--Kim--alone--one person--in the middle of it all. But I will see these strangers with their levels and chains...' 'What was the upshot of last night's babble?' said the lama, after his orisons. 'There came a strolling seller of drugs--a hanger-on of the Sahiba's. Him I abolished by arguments and prayers, proving that our charms are worthier than his coloured waters.' 'Alas, my charms! Is the virtuous woman still bent upon a new one?' 'Very strictly.' 'Then it must be written, or she will deafen me with her clamour.' He fumbled at his pencase. 'In the Plains,' said Kim, 'are always too many people. In the Hills, as I understand, there are fewer.' 'Oh! the Hills, and the snows upon the Hills.' The lami tore off a tiny square of paper fit to go in an amulet. 'But what dost thou know of the Hills?' 'They are very close.' Kim thrust open the door and looked at the long, peaceful line of the Himalayas flushed in morning-gold. 'Except in the dress of a Sahib, I have never set foot among them.' The lama snuffed the wind wistfully. 'If we go North,'--Kim put the question to the waking sunrise--'would not much mid-day heat be avoided by walking among the lower hills at least? ... Is the charm made, Holy One?' 'I have written the names of seven silly devils--not one of whom is worth a grain of dust in the eye. Thus do foolish women drag us from the Way!' Hurree Babu came out from behind the dovecote washing his teeth with ostentatious ritual. Full-fleshed, heavy-haunched, bull-necked, and deep-voiced, he did not look like 'a fearful man'. Kim signed almost imperceptibly that matters were in good train, and when the morning toilet was over, Hurree Babu, in flowery speech, came to do honour to the lama. They ate, of course, apart, and afterwards the old lady, more or less veiled behind a window, returned to the vital business of green-mango colics in the young. The lama's knowledge of medicine was, of course, sympathetic only. He believed that the dung of a black horse, mixed with sulphur, and carried in a snake-skin, was a sound remedy for cholera; but the symbolism interested him far more than the science. Hurree Babu deferred to these views with enchanting politeness, so that the lama called him a courteous physician. Hurree Babu replied that he was no more than an inexpert dabbler in the mysteries; but at least--he thanked the Gods therefore--he knew when he sat in the presence of a master. He himself had been taught by the Sahibs, who do not consider expense, in the lordly halls of Calcutta; but, as he was ever first to acknowledge, there lay a wisdom behind earthly wisdom--the high and lonely lore of meditation. Kim looked on with envy. The Hurree Babu of his knowledge--oily, effusive, and nervous--was gone; gone, too, was the brazen drug-vendor of overnight. There remained--polished, polite, attentive--a sober, learned son of experience and adversity, gathering wisdom from the lama's lips. The old lady confided to Kim that these rare levels were beyond her. She liked charms with plenty of ink that one could wash off in water, swallow, and be done with. Else what was the use of the Gods? She liked men and women, and she spoke of them--of kinglets she had known in the past; of her own youth and beauty; of the depredations of leopards and the eccentricities of love Asiatic; of the incidence of taxation, rack-renting, funeral ceremonies, her son-in-law (this by allusion, easy to be followed), the care of the young, and the age's lack of decency. And Kim, as interested in the life of this world as she soon to leave it, squatted with his feet under the hem of his robe, drinking all in, while the lama demolished one after another every theory of body-curing put forward by Hurree Babu. At noon the Babu strapped up his brass-bound drug-box, took his patent-leather shoes of ceremony in one hand, a gay blue-and-white umbrella in the other, and set off northwards to the Doon, where, he said, he was in demand among the lesser kings of those parts. 'We will go in the cool of the evening, chela,' said the lama. 'That doctor, learned in physic and courtesy, affirms that the people among these lower hills are devout, generous, and much in need of a teacher. In a very short time--so says the hakim--we come to cool air and the smell of pines.' 'Ye go to the Hills? And by Kulu road? Oh, thrice happy!' shrilled the old lady. 'But that I am a little pressed with the care of the homestead I would take palanquin ... but that would be shameless, and my reputation would be cracked. Ho! Ho! I know the road--every march of the road I know. Ye will find charity throughout--it is not denied to the well-looking. I will give orders for provision. A servant to set you forth upon your journey? No ... Then I will at least cook ye good food.' 'What a woman is the Sahiba!' said the white-bearded Oorya, when a tumult rose by the kitchen quarters. 'She has never forgotten a friend: she has never forgotten an enemy in all her years. And her cookery--wah!' He rubbed his slim stomach. There were cakes, there were sweetmeats, there was cold fowl stewed to rags with rice and prunes--enough to burden Kim like a mule. 'I am old and useless,' she said. 'None now love me--and none respect--but there are few to compare with me when I call on the Gods and squat to my cooking-pots. Come again, O people of good will. Holy One and disciple, come again. The room is always prepared; the welcome is always ready ... See the women do not follow thy chela too openly. I know the women of Kulu. Take heed, chela, lest he run away when he smells his Hills again ... Hai! Do not tilt the rice-bag upside down ... Bless the household, Holy One, and forgive thy servant her stupidities.' She wiped her red old eyes on a corner of her veil, and clucked throatily. 'Women talk,' said the lama at last, 'but that is a woman's infirmity. I gave her a charm. She is upon the Wheel and wholly given over to the shows of this life, but none the less, chela, she is virtuous, kindly, hospitable--of a whole and zealous heart. Who shall say she does not acquire merit?' 'Not I, Holy One,' said Kim, reslinging the bountiful provision on his shoulders. 'In my mind--behind my eyes--I have tried to picture such an one altogether freed from the Wheel--desiring nothing, causing nothing--a nun, as it were.' 'And, O imp?' The lama almost laughed aloud. 'I cannot make the picture.' 'Nor I. But there are many, many millions of lives before her. She will get wisdom a little, it may be, in each one.' 'And will she forget how to make stews with saffron upon that road?' 'Thy mind is set on things unworthy. But she has skill. I am refreshed all over. When we reach the lower hills I shall be yet stronger. The hakim spoke truly to me this morn when he said a breath from the snows blows away twenty years from the life of a man. We will go up into the Hills--the high hills--up to the sound of snow-waters and the sound of the trees--for a little while. The hakim said that at any time we may return to the Plains, for we do no more than skirt the pleasant places. The hakim is full of learning; but he is in no way proud. I spoke to him--when thou wast talking to the Sahiba--of a certain dizziness that lays hold upon the back of my neck in the night, and he said it rose from excessive heat--to be cured by cool air. Upon consideration, I marvelled that I had not thought of such a simple remedy.' 'Didst thou tell him of thy Search?' said Kim, a little jealously. He preferred to sway the lama by his own speech--not through the wiles of Hurree Babu. 'Assuredly. I told him of my dream, and of the manner by which I had acquired merit by causing thee to be taught wisdom.' 'Thou didst not say I was a Sahib?' 'What need? I have told thee many times we be but two souls seeking escape. He said--and he is just herein--that the River of Healing will break forth even as I dreamed--at my feet, if need be. Having found the Way, seest thou, that shall free me from the Wheel, need I trouble to find a way about the mere fields of earth--which are illusion? That were senseless. I have my dreams, night upon night repeated; I have Jataka; and I have thee, Friend of all the World. It was written in thy horoscope that a Red Bull on a green field--I have not forgotten--should bring thee to honour. Who but I saw that prophecy accomplished? Indeed, I was the instrument. Thou shalt find me my River, being in return the instrument. The Search is sure!' He set his ivory-yellow face, serene and untroubled, towards the beckoning Hills; his shadow shouldering far before him in the dust. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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E23s Verkleidung hilft ihm, den Leuten auszuweichen, die nach ihm suchen, aber er muss immer noch einen Weg finden, um herauszufinden, wo er den Brief vergraben hat, der all diese Aufregung verursacht hat. Ein weißer Mann taucht auf - ein Bezirkspolizeidirektor. E23 stößt versehentlich gegen ihn und beschimpft ihn dann wüst. Der Bezirkspolizeidirektor hält ihn für betrunken und sieht aus, als könnte er ihn verhaften, aber dann gibt E23 ihm sein Zugticket und kriecht vor ihm so gut er kann. Kim folgt E23, weil er den Bezirkspolizeidirektor erkennt: Es ist derselbe Kerl, der in Kapitel 4 mit der Kulu-Frau gescherzt hat. E23 flüstert Kim zu, dass alles in Ordnung ist - der Bezirkspolizeidirektor hat seine Botschaft erhalten, also wird der Brief sicher sein. Es stellt sich heraus, dass dieser Typ auch beim Geheimdienst ist. E23 dankt Kim, dass er sein Leben gerettet hat, und schickt ihn dann weiter zur Arbeit. Zurück beim Lama schimpft der Lama Kim wegen seines "stolzen Tuns", den Mahratta zu verändern, nur um Unruhe zu stiften. Kim ist verletzt durch das Urteil des Lamas, aber sie gehen weiter und reisen zum Haus der Kulu-Frau. Der Lama glaubt, dass Kim die Kranken heilen sollte, wenn er kann, denn das ist eine gute Tat, aber sonst sollte er vermeiden, zu handeln, denn wenn man das tut, bleibt man an dieses Leben gebunden. Kim sagt dem Lama, dass er gelehrt wurde zu handeln - wie kann man das nicht tun? Der Lama warnt Kim, dass er sich nicht von den Unterschieden zwischen den Menschen täuschen lassen sollte: Wir alle bewegen uns gemeinsam durch das Leben und suchen nach Verständnis. Der Lama und Kim kommen endlich beim Haus der Kulu-Frau an. Sie empfängt sie herzlich und neckt Kim wegen seiner Fähigkeit, bei den Damen anzukommen, aber dann fängt sie sofort an, den Lama wegen Talismanen zur Erhaltung der Gesundheit ihrer Enkelkinder zu schelten. Während sie spricht, geht der Lama in sein Zimmer, um zu schlafen. Kim bleibt und hört, wie die Kulu-Frau über einen reisenden Hakim spricht, der auf ihrem Grundstück bleiben soll; ihr Diener geht, um diesen Hakim hereinzubringen, um sich mit Kim zu treffen. Als der Hakim ankommt, fallen er und Kim schnell in einen Austausch von Beleidigungen über die Qualität seiner Produkte. Erst als die Kulu-Frau und die Diener den Raum verlassen, gibt sich der Hakim zu erkennen: es ist der Babu. Es stellt sich heraus, dass der Babu derjenige war, der den Brief holen sollte, den E23 versteckt hatte, während seine Feinde ihm nachjagten. Alle sind glücklich mit Kim beim Geheimdienst: E23, Lurgan - alle. Kim sagt dem Babu im Grunde, er solle aufhören - warum würde der Babu all den Weg von Simla hierherkommen, um Kim den Rücken zu stärken und ihm zu sagen, dass er gute Arbeit leistet? Der Babu gibt zu, dass alles mit "der Abstammung eines weißen Hengstes" zusammenhängt. Kim dachte, dass diese Sache mit der geheimen Botschaft von Mahbub Ali an Creighton längst vorbei war - etwa seit Kapitel 5. Der Babu erklärt: Die Fünf Könige an der nördlichen Grenze Indiens und Afghanistans bedrohten einen Krieg. Die Regierung schickte eine Truppe, aber dann befahl sie dieser Truppe, sich zu beruhigen. Sie gingen davon aus, dass die Fünf Könige wahrscheinlich durch diese Demonstration militärischer Stärke eingeschüchtert waren. Also machten sie mit zwei dieser fünf Könige, Hilas und Bunar, einen Deal, um die nördlichen Bergpässe gegen jeden abzusichern, der von Norden nach Indien kommt. Im Gegenzug für diese Unterstützung von Hilas und Bunar investierte die Regierung in Straßen und Infrastruktur für ihre Regionen. Es war der Babus Aufgabe, den gesamten Bau zu überwachen. Aber jetzt hat der Babu von zwei Personen gehört, die als Ziegenjäger verkleidet vom Norden herunterkommen. Diese "Jäger" tragen auch Kompass und andere Geräte zur Kartenerstellung bei sich. Diese Männer repräsentieren die Russen, und es scheint, dass sie Hilas und Bunar überzeugen, sich auf ihre Seite zu schlagen. Die Regierung wird nicht gegen diese Männer vorgehen, daher hat der Babu geplant, sich ihnen als Dolmetscher oder Ähnliches anzuschließen, aber jetzt hat er irgendwie... Angst bekommen. Er will nicht zu nah herankommen. Also will der Babu, dass Kim mitkommt und ihm hilft. Kim und der Babu tun sich zusammen, um den Lama davon zu überzeugen, nach Norden in die Berge zu reisen. Kim sagt dem Lama, dort wird es weniger Leute geben, die ihn von seiner Suche nach dem Fluss des Pfeiles ablenken, und der Babu erzählt ihm fröhliche Geschichten über Nordländer, die Religion lieben und einen Lehrer brauchen. Der Lama beschließt, nach Norden zu gehen.

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 war seit der Geburt meines Kindes nicht mehr in das Haus meines Herrn zurückgekehrt. Der alte Mann tobte und wollte, dass ich mich von seiner unmittelbaren Macht entfernte. Aber seine Frau schwor bei allem Guten und Großen, dass sie mich umbringen würde, wenn ich zurückkehrte, und er zweifelte nicht an ihren Worten. Manchmal blieb er eine Weile weg. Dann kam er und erneuerte den alten abgetragenen Diskurs über seine Nachsicht und meine Undankbarkeit. Er bemühte sich unnötigerweise mich davon zu überzeugen, dass ich mich erniedrigt hätte. Der giftige alte Frevler brauchte dieses Thema nicht anzuschlagen. Ich fühlte mich schon genug gedemütigt. Mein unbewusstes Baby war der ständige Zeuge meiner Schande. Ich hörte mit stiller Verachtung zu, als er davon sprach, dass ich _seine_ gute Meinung verwirkt hätte; aber ich vergoss bittere Tränen, dass ich nicht mehr wert war, von den Guten und Reinherzigen respektiert zu werden. Ach! Die Sklaverei hielt mich immer noch in ihrem giftigen Griff. Es gab keine Chance für mich, respektabel zu sein. Es gab keine Aussicht, ein besseres Leben führen zu können. Manchmal drohte mein Herr mir, mein Kind zu verkaufen, wenn ich weiterhin seine "freundlichen Angebote" ablehnte. "Vielleicht demütigt dich das", sagte er. Mich demütigen? Lag ich nicht schon im Staub? Aber seine Drohung zerriss mein Herz. Ich wusste, dass das Gesetz ihm die Macht gab, es umzusetzen; denn Sklavenhalter waren klug genug, zu erlassen, dass "das Kind dem Zustand der _Mutter_, nicht dem des _Vaters_ folgen soll", um sicherzustellen, dass Ausschweifung nicht mit Habsucht interferiert. Bei diesem Gedanken hielt ich mein unschuldiges Baby umso fester an mein Herz. Schreckliche Visionen tauchten in meinem Kopf auf, wenn ich daran dachte, dass es in die Hände von Sklavenhändlern fallen könnte. Ich weinte über ihn und sagte: "Oh mein Kind! Vielleicht lassen sie dich in einer kalten Hütte zurück, um zu sterben, und werfen dich dann in ein Loch, als wärst du ein Hund." Als Dr. Flint erfuhr, dass ich wieder Mutter werden würde, war er unermesslich wütend. Er stürmte aus dem Haus und kehrte mit einer Schere zurück. Ich hatte wunderschönes Haar, und er schimpfte oft darüber, wie ich stolz darauf war, es schön zu arrangieren. Er schnitt jedes Haar knapp an meinem Kopf ab und schimpfte und fluchte die ganze Zeit. Ich antwortete auf einige seiner Beleidigungen, und er schlug mich. Einige Monate zuvor hatte er mich in einem Wutanfall die Treppe hinuntergestoßen, und die Verletzung, die ich erlitt, war so schwerwiegend, dass ich viele Tage lang nicht in der Lage war, mich im Bett umzudrehen. Damals sagte er: "Linda, ich schwöre bei Gott, ich werde nie wieder die Hand gegen dich erheben"; aber ich wusste, dass er sein Versprechen vergessen würde. Nachdem er herausgefunden hatte, in welcher Lage ich mich befand, war er wie ein ruheloser Geist aus der Hölle. Er kam jeden Tag, und ich wurde solchen Beleidigungen ausgesetzt, die keine Feder beschreiben kann. Ich wollte sie meinen Großeltern so weit wie möglich vorenthalten. Ich wusste, dass sie genug hatte, um ihr Leben zu traurig zu machen, ohne dass sie meine Probleme ertragen musste. Als sie den Arzt sah, wie er mich gewaltsam behandelte, und hörte, wie er Flüche aussprach, die die Zunge eines Mannes lähmen könnten, konnte sie nicht immer schweigen. Es war natürlich und mütterlich von ihr, dass sie versuchte, mich zu verteidigen, aber es machte die Dinge nur schlimmer. Als man mir sagte, dass mein neugeborenes Baby ein Mädchen war, war mein Herz schwerer als je zuvor. Die Sklaverei ist für Männer schrecklich, aber für Frauen ist sie noch viel schrecklicher. Zusätzlich zu der Last, die alle teilen, haben _sie_ ihre eigenen Unrechte, Leiden und Demütigungen. Dr. Flint hatte geschworen, dass er mich bis zum letzten Tag für dieses neue Verbrechen gegen _ihn_ leiden lassen würde, wie er es nannte, und solange er mich in seiner Gewalt hatte, hielt er sein Wort. Am vierten Tag nach der Geburt meines Babys betrat er plötzlich mein Zimmer und befahl mir aufzustehen und mein Baby zu ihm zu bringen. Die Krankenschwester, die sich um mich kümmerte, war aus dem Raum gegangen, um etwas Nahrung vorzubereiten, und ich war allein. Es gab keine Alternative. Ich stand auf, nahm mein Baby auf den Arm und überquerte den Raum zu ihm. "Steh da", sagte er, "bis ich dir sage, dass du zurückgehen kannst!" Mein Kind ähnelte ihrem Vater und der verstorbenen Mrs. Sands, ihrer Großmutter. Er bemerkte das und während ich vor ihm stand, zitternd vor Schwäche, überschüttete er mich und mein Kleines mit jeder schändlichen Beleidigung, an die er denken konnte. Sogar die Großmutter in ihrem Grab entging seinem Fluch nicht. Inmitten seiner Beschimpfungen fiel ich zu seinen Füßen in Ohnmacht. Das rief ihn zur Vernunft. Er nahm das Baby aus meinen Armen, legte es auf das Bett, warf kaltes Wasser in mein Gesicht, hob mich hoch und schüttelte mich heftig, um mein Bewusstsein wiederherzustellen, bevor jemand den Raum betrat. In diesem Moment kam meine Großmutter herein und er hastete aus dem Haus. Ich litt unter den Folgen dieser Behandlung, aber ich flehte meine Freunde an, mich sterben zu lassen, anstatt den Arzt zu rufen. Nichts fürchtete ich so sehr wie seine Anwesenheit. Mein Leben wurde verschont und ich war froh, um meiner Kleinen willen. Wenn es nicht diese Bindungen zum Leben gegeben hätte, wäre ich froh gewesen, durch den Tod erlöst zu werden, obwohl ich erst neunzehn Jahre gelebt hatte. Es tat mir immer weh, dass meine Kinder keinen gesetzlichen Anspruch auf einen Namen hatten. Ihr Vater bot seinen an, aber wenn ich das Angebot angenommen hätte, hätte ich es nicht gewagt, solange mein Herr lebte. Außerdem wusste ich, dass er bei ihrer Taufe nicht akzeptiert werden würde. Einen christlichen Namen hatten sie zumindest verdient, und wir beschlossen, meinen Jungen nach unserem lieben guten Benjamin zu benennen, der weit weg von uns gegangen war. Meine Großmutter gehörte zur Kirche und sie wollte, dass die Kinder getauft werden. Ich wusste, dass Dr. Flint es verbieten würde, und ich wagte es nicht zu versuchen. Aber der Zufall spielte mir in die Hände. Er wurde gerufen, um einen Patienten außerhalb der Stadt zu besuchen, und musste an einem Sonntag abwesend sein. "Jetzt ist die Gelegenheit", sagte meine Großmutter, "wir werden die Kinder in die Kirche bringen und sie taufen lassen." Als ich in die Kirche ging, kamen Erinnerungen an meine Mutter über mich, und ich fühlte mich im Geiste gedemütigt. Dort hatte sie mich zur Taufe gebracht, ohne irgendeinen Grund, sich zu schämen. Sie war verheiratet gewesen und hatte solche gesetzlichen Rechte gehabt, wie die Sklaverei einem Sklaven erlaubte. Die Gelübde waren zumindest _ihr_ heilig gewesen, und sie hatte sie nie gebrochen. Es freute mich, dass sie nicht mehr lebte, um unter welch anderen Umständen ihre Enkel zur Taufe gebracht wurden. Warum war mein Schicksal so anders als das meiner Mutter? Ihr Der Arzt kam am nächsten Tag, und mein Herz schlug schneller, als er hereinkam. Ich hatte den alten Mann nie mit so majestätischen Schritten gehen sehen. Er setzte sich und starrte mich mit verachtendem Spott an. Meine Kinder hatten gelernt, sich vor ihm zu fürchten. Das Kleine würde die Augen schließen und ihr Gesicht auf meiner Schulter verstecken, sobald sie ihn sah; und Benny, der nun fast fünf Jahre alt war, fragte oft: "Warum kommt dieser böse Mann so oft hierher? Will er uns verletzen?" Ich umarmte den lieben Jungen und hoffte, dass er frei sein würde, bevor er alt genug war, das Problem zu lösen. Und nun, als der Arzt dort so grimmig und still saß, verließ das Kind sein Spiel und kam zu mir und kuschelte sich an mich. Schließlich sprach mein Peiniger. "Also wurdest du aus Abscheu alleine gelassen", sagte er. "Es ist nicht mehr, als ich erwartet hatte. Erinnerst du dich, dass ich dir vor Jahren gesagt habe, dass du so behandelt werden würdest? Also hat er genug von dir? Ha! Ha! Ha! Die tugendhafte Dame hört das wohl nicht gerne, oder? Ha! Ha! Ha!" Es stach mich, dass er mich tugendhafte Dame nannte. Ich hatte nicht mehr die Kraft, ihm zu antworten, wie ich es früher getan hatte. Er fuhr fort: "Also scheint es, als würdest du versuchen, eine andere Intrige zu planen. Dein neuer Liebhaber ist zu mir gekommen und hat angeboten, dich zu kaufen; aber sei versichert, du wirst keinen Erfolg haben. Du gehörst mir; und du wirst mir dein Leben lang gehören. Es gibt niemanden auf dieser Welt, der dich aus der Sklaverei befreien kann. Ich hätte es getan; aber du hast mein freundliches Angebot abgelehnt." Ich sagte ihm, dass ich keine Intrige plane; dass ich den Mann, der mich kaufen wollte, nie gesehen habe. "Sagst du mir, dass ich lüge?", rief er aus und zog mich vom Stuhl. "Wirst du noch einmal sagen, dass du diesen Mann nie gesehen hast?" Ich antwortete: "Das sage ich." Er packte meinen Arm und schimpfte. Ben begann zu schreien, und ich sagte ihm, er solle zu seiner Großmutter gehen. "Beweg dich keinen Schritt, du kleiner Schurke!", sagte er. Das Kind kam näher zu mir und legte seine Arme um mich, als ob es mich beschützen wollte. Das war zu viel für meinen wütenden Herrn. Er packte ihn und warf ihn quer durch den Raum. Ich dachte, er sei tot, und stürzte auf ihn zu, um ihn aufzuheben. "Noch nicht!", rief der Arzt aus. "Lass ihn liegen, bis er wieder zu sich kommt." "Lass mich gehen! Lass mich gehen!", schrie ich. "Sonst wecke ich das ganze Haus auf." Ich kämpfte und konnte entkommen, aber er packte mich erneut. Jemand öffnete die Tür, und er ließ mich los. Ich hob mein bewusstloses Kind auf, und als ich mich umdrehte, war mein Peiniger verschwunden. Mit bangem Herzen beugte ich mich über die bleiche und ruhige Gestalt und als die braunen Augen schließlich geöffnet wurden, weiß ich nicht, ob ich sehr glücklich war. Die früheren Verfolgungen des Arztes nahmen wieder ihren Lauf. Er kam morgens, mittags und abends. Kein eifersüchtiger Liebhaber beobachtete einen Rivalen genauer als er mich und den unbekannten Sklavenhalter, mit dem er behauptete, dass ich eine Intrige geplant hätte. Wenn meine Großmutter nicht da war, durchsuchte er jedes Zimmer, um ihn zu finden. Bei einem seiner Besuche traf er zufällig auf ein junges Mädchen, das er vor einigen Tagen an einen Händler verkauft hatte. Seine Aussage war, dass er sie verkauft habe, weil sie zu vertraut mit dem Aufseher gewesen sei. Sie hatte ein bitteres Leben mit ihm gehabt und war froh, verkauft zu werden. Sie hatte keine Mutter und keine engen Bindungen. Sie war vor Jahren von ihrer Familie zerrissen worden. Einige Freunde hatten sich für ihre Sicherheit verbürgt, wenn der Händler ihr erlauben würde, die Zeit zwischen ihrem Verkauf und dem Zusammenstellen seines menschlichen Warenbestands bei ihnen zu verbringen. Eine solche Gefälligkeit wurde selten gewährt. Es ersparte dem Händler die Kosten für Verpflegung und Gefängnisgebühren, und obwohl der Betrag gering war, war es eine gewichtige Überlegung im Kopf eines Sklavenhändlers. Dr. Flint hatte immer Abneigung, Sklaven zu treffen, nachdem er sie verkauft hatte. Er befahl Rose, das Haus zu verlassen; aber er war nicht länger ihr Herr, und sie beachtete ihn nicht. Rose war für einmal die Siegerin. Seine grauen Augen blitzten wütend auf sie; aber das war die Ausdehnung seiner Macht. "Wie kommt dieses Mädchen hierher?", rief er aus. "Was berechtigt dich dazu, es zu erlauben, wenn du weißt, dass ich sie verkauft habe?" Ich antwortete: "Dies ist das Haus meiner Großmutter, und Rose kam, um sie zu besuchen. Ich habe kein Recht, jemanden vor die Tür zu setzen, der aus ehrlichen Absichten hierherkommt." Er versetzte mir den Schlag, der Rose getroffen hätte, wenn sie noch seine Sklavin gewesen wäre. Die lauten Stimmen hatten die Aufmerksamkeit meiner Großmutter erregt, und sie betrat gerade rechtzeitig den Raum, um den zweiten Schlag zu sehen. Sie war keine Frau, die eine solche Beleidigung in ihrem eigenen Haus unbeantwortet ließ. Der Arzt versuchte zu erklären, dass ich frech gewesen sei. Ihre empörten Gefühle stiegen immer höher und kochten schließlich über in Worten. "Verlasse mein Haus!", rief sie aus. "Geh nach Hause und kümmere dich um deine Frau und Kinder, dann wirst du genug zu tun haben, ohne meine Familie zu beobachten." Er warf ihr die Geburt meiner Kinder vor und beschuldigte sie, das Leben, das ich führte, zu billigen. Sie sagte ihm, dass ich aus Zwang seiner Frau mit ihr lebte; dass er sie nicht beschuldigen müsse, denn er war es, der all die Probleme verursacht hatte. Sie wurde immer aufgeregter, je weiter sie sprach. "Ich sage dir, Dr. Flint", sagte sie, "du hast nicht mehr viele Jahre zu leben, und du solltest besser beten. Du wirst all deine Kraft brauchen, und noch mehr, um den Schmutz von deiner Seele zu waschen." "Weißt du, mit wem du redest?", rief er aus. Sie antwortete: "Ja, ich weiß sehr gut, mit wem ich rede." Er verließ das Haus in großer Wut. Ich sah meine Großmutter an. Unsere Blicke trafen sich. Ihr wütender Ausdruck war verschwunden, aber sie sah traurig und müde aus - müde von ständigem Streit. Ich wunderte mich, dass es ihre Liebe zu mir nicht minderte; aber wenn es so war, zeigte sie es nie. Sie war immer freundlich, immer bereit, mit meinen Problemen mitzufühlen. Es hätte Frieden und Zufriedenheit in diesem bescheidenen Zuhause geben können, wenn es nicht den Dämon der Sklaverei gegeben hätte. Der Winter verging ungestört vom Arzt. Der schöne Frühling kam, und wenn die Natur ihre Schönheit wiedererlangt, belebt sich auch die menschliche Seele. Meine schwächelnde Hoffnungen erlangten mit den Blumen wieder Leben. Ich träumte wieder von Freiheit, mehr für meine Kinder als für mich selbst. Ich plante und plante. Hindernisse trafen auf Pläne. Es schien keinen Weg zu geben, sie zu überwinden; und dennoch hoffte ich. Der listige Arzt kam zurück. Ich war nicht zuhause, als er anrief. Ein Freund hatte mich zu einer kleinen Party eingeladen, und um sie zu erfreuen, ging ich hin. Zu meiner großen Bestürzung kam eine Botin in aller Eile, um zu sagen, dass Dr. Flint bei meiner Großmutter sei und darauf bestehe, mich zu sehen. Sie sagten ihm nicht, wo ich war, sonst wäre er gekommen und hätte in dem Haus meiner Freundin für Aufregung gesorgt. Sie schickten mir einen dunklen Umhang, ich warf ihn an und eilte nach Hause. Meine Eile rettete mich nicht; der Arzt war wütend gegangen Er fuhr fort zu sagen: "Ich habe dich in letzter Zeit nur selten gesehen, aber mein Interesse an dir hat sich nicht geändert. Als ich sagte, dass ich keine Gnade mehr mit dir haben würde, war ich unüberlegt. Ich erinnere mich an meine Worte. Linda, du wünschst dir Freiheit für dich und deine Kinder, und du kannst sie nur durch mich erlangen. Wenn du einverstanden bist mit dem, was ich vorschlagen werde, wirst du und die Kinder frei sein. Es darf keinerlei Kommunikation zwischen dir und ihrem Vater geben. Ich werde eine Hütte besorgen, in der du und die Kinder zusammen leben können. Deine Arbeit wird leicht sein, wie das Nähen für meine Familie. Bedenke, was dir angeboten wird, Linda - ein Zuhause und Freiheit! Lass die Vergangenheit vergessen sein. Wenn ich manchmal streng zu dir war, kam das von deinem Eigensinn. Du weißt, dass ich Gehorsam von meinen eigenen Kindern verlange, und ich betrachte dich immer noch als ein Kind." Er machte eine Pause, um eine Antwort von mir zu erhalten, aber ich blieb still. "Warum sprichst du nicht?", sagte er. "Was erwartest du noch?" "Nichts, Sir." "Dann akzeptierst du mein Angebot?" "Nein, Sir." Seine Wut drohte herauszubrechen, aber er schaffte es, sie zu zügeln und antwortete: "Du hast ohne nachzudenken geantwortet. Aber ich muss dich wissen lassen, dass es zwei Seiten meiner Vorschläge gibt. Wenn du die gute Seite ablehnst, wirst du die schlechte Seite akzeptieren müssen. Du musst entweder mein Angebot annehmen oder du und deine Kinder werden auf die Plantage deines jungen Herrn geschickt, dort zu bleiben, bis deine junge Herrin verheiratet ist, und deine Kinder sollen behandelt werden wie die anderen schwarzen Kinder. Du hast eine Woche Zeit, um darüber nachzudenken." Er war schlau, aber ich wusste, dass man ihm nicht trauen konnte. Ich sagte ihm, dass ich bereit sei, meine Antwort jetzt zu geben. "Ich werde sie jetzt nicht annehmen", antwortete er. "Du handelst zu sehr aus dem Impuls heraus. Bedenke, dass du und deine Kinder in einer Woche frei sein könnten, wenn du dich dafür entscheidest." An welch monströsen Wendungen hing das Schicksal meiner Kinder! Ich wusste, dass das Angebot meines Herrn eine Falle war und dass eine Flucht unmöglich sein würde, wenn ich darauf einging. Was seine Versprechen betraf, kannte ich ihn gut genug, um sicher zu sein, dass er mir Freipapiere geben würde, die keinerlei rechtlichen Wert hatten. Die Alternative war unvermeidlich. Ich beschloss, auf die Plantage zu gehen. Aber dann dachte ich daran, wie sehr ich seiner Macht ausgeliefert sein würde, und der Ausblick war entsetzlich. Selbst wenn ich mich vor ihm auf die Knie werfen und ihn anflehen würde, mich um meiner Kinder willen zu schonen, wusste ich, dass er mich mit dem Fuß wegstoßen und meine Schwäche sein Triumph sein würde. Bevor die Woche vorbei war, hörte ich, dass der junge Mr. Flint kurz davor stand, eine Frau seinesgleichen zu heiraten. Ich konnte mir vorstellen, in welcher Position ich in seinem Haushalt stehen würde. Ich war bereits einmal zur Bestrafung auf die Plantage geschickt worden, und die Angst vor dem Sohn hatte den Vater veranlasst, mich sehr bald zurückzurufen. Mein Entschluss stand fest: Ich würde meinen Herrn austricksen und meine Kinder retten oder bei dem Versuch umkommen. Meine Pläne behielt ich für mich; ich wusste, dass Freunde versuchen würden, mich davon abzubringen, und ich wollte ihre Gefühle nicht verletzen, indem ich ihren Rat ablehnte. Am entscheidenden Tag kam der Arzt und sagte, er hoffe, ich hätte eine weise Entscheidung getroffen. "Ich bin bereit, auf die Plantage zu gehen, Sir", antwortete ich. "Hast du darüber nachgedacht, wie wichtig deine Entscheidung für deine Kinder ist?", fragte er. Ich sagte ihm, dass ich es getan hatte. "Gut. Gehe auf die Plantage, und mein Fluch begleite dich", antwortete er. "Dein Junge wird zur Arbeit gezwungen und bald verkauft werden, und dein Mädchen wird aufgezogen, um gut verkauft zu werden. Geh deinen eigenen Weg!" Er verließ den Raum mit Flüchen, die nicht wiederholt werden können. Als ich wie festgewurzelt dastand, kam meine Großmutter und fragte: "Linda, Kind, was hast du ihm gesagt?" Ich antwortete, dass ich auf die Plantage gehe. "Musst du gehen?", sagte sie. "Kann nichts unternommen werden, um es zu stoppen?" Ich sagte ihr, dass es sinnlos wäre, es zu versuchen, aber sie bat mich, nicht aufzugeben. Sie sagte, sie werde zum Arzt gehen und ihn daran erinnern, wie lange und treu sie in der Familie gedient habe und wie sie ihr eigenes Baby von der Brust genommen habe, um seine Frau zu ernähren. Sie würde ihm sagen, dass ich so lange nicht zur Familie gehört hätte, dass man mich nicht vermissen würde, und dass sie ihnen meine Zeit bezahlen würde und das Geld eine Frau beschaffen würde, die mehr Kraft für die Situation hätte als ich. Ich bat sie, nicht zu gehen, aber sie bestand darauf zu sagen: "Er wird _mir_ zuhören, Linda." Sie ging und wurde behandelt, wie ich es erwartet hatte. Er hörte ruhig zu, aber er lehnte ihre Bitte ab. Er sagte ihr, dass das, was er tat, zu meinem Besten sei, dass meine Gefühle meine Situation weit überstiegen und dass ich auf der Plantage eine Behandlung erhalten würde, die meiner Verhaltensweise angemessen sei. Meine Großmutter war sehr niedergeschlagen. Ich hatte meine geheimen Hoffnungen, aber ich musste meinen Kampf alleine führen. Ich hatte den Stolz einer Frau und die Liebe einer Mutter für meine Kinder; und ich beschloss, dass aus der Dunkelheit dieser Stunde eine hellere Morgendämmerung für sie aufgehen sollte. Mein Herr hatte Macht und das Gesetz auf seiner Seite; ich hatte einen entschlossenen Willen. In jedem von uns liegt Kraft. Früh am nächsten Morgen verließ ich meine Großmutter mit meinem jüngsten Kind. Mein Junge war krank, und ich ließ ihn zurück. Ich hatte viele traurige Gedanken, während der alte Wagen holperte. Bisher hatte ich allein gelitten; nun sollte mein Kleines wie ein Sklave behandelt werden. Als wir dem großen Haus näher kamen, dachte ich an die Zeit, als ich aus Rache dorthin geschickt worden war. Ich fragte mich, zu welchem Zweck ich jetzt dorthin geschickt wurde. Ich wusste es nicht. Ich beschloss, den Anweisungen so weit zu folgen, wie es meine Pflicht erforderte; aber innerlich entschied ich, meinen Aufenthalt so kurz wie möglich zu gestalten. Mr. Flint wartete darauf, uns zu empfangen, und sagte mir, ihm auf die obere Etage zu folgen, um die Anweisungen für den Tag entgegenzunehmen. Meine kleine Ellen blieb unten in der Küche zurück. Das war eine Veränderung für sie, die bisher so gut betreut worden war. Mein junger Herr sagte, sie könne sich im Hof amüsieren. Das war nett von ihm, da ihm das Kind verhasst war. Meine Aufgabe war es, das Haus für die Aufnahme der Braut herzurichten. Inmitten von Bettlaken, Tischdecken, Handtüchern, Vorhängen und Teppichen arbeitete mein Kopf genauso eifrig an Planungen wie meine Finger mit der Nadel beschäftigt waren. Um die Mittagszeit durfte ich zu Ellen gehen. Sie hatte sich in Schluchzen hineingeschlafen. Ich hörte Mr. Flint zu einem Nachbarn sagen: "Ich habe sie hierhergebracht, und ich werde bald die Stadtvorstellungen aus ihrem Kopf bekommen. Mein Vater ist zum Teil schuld an ihrem Unsinn. Er hätte sie schon lange den richtigen Umgangsformen beibringen sollen." Der Kommentar wurde in meiner Hörweite gemacht, und es wäre genauso männlich gewesen, ihn mir ins Gesicht zu sagen. Er _hatte_ Dinge zu meinem Gesicht gesagt, die seinen Nachbarn vielleicht überrascht hätten, wenn er davon gewusst hätte. Er war "ein Kind des alten Blocks". Ich beschloss, ihm keinen Grund zu geben, mich der zu großen Dame zu beschuldigen, soweit es die Arbeit betraf. Ich arbeitete Tag und Nacht mit Elend vor mir. Wenn ich mich neben mein Kind legte, fühlte ich, wie viel einfacher es wäre, sie sterben zu sehen, als zu beobachten, wie ihr Herr sie schlug, so wie ich täglich andere Kinder schlagen sah. Der Geist der Mütter war so gebrochen von der Peitsche, dass sie dabeistanden, ohne den Mut zu haben, Einspruch zu erheben. Wie viel mehr musste ich leiden, bevor ich in diesem Maße "gebrochen" sein würde? Ich wollte so zufrieden wie möglich erscheinen. Manchmal hatte ich die Gelegenheit, ein paar Zeilen nach Hause zu schicken, und das rief Erinnerungen wach, die es für eine Weile schwierig machten, ruhig und gleichgültig gegenüber meinem Schicksal zu erscheinen. Trotz meiner Bemühungen sah ich, dass Herr Flint mich mit misstrauischem Blick betrachtete. Ellen brach unter den Schwierigkeiten ihres neuen Lebens zusammen. Getrennt von mir und ohne jemanden, der sich um sie kümmerte, irrte sie umher und weinte sich in wenigen Tagen krank. Eines Tages saß sie unter dem Fenster, an dem ich arbeitete, und weinte mit jenem müden Schrei, der das Herz einer Mutter bluten lässt. Ich musste mich dazu zwingen, es zu ertragen. Nach einer Weile hörte es auf. Ich schaute hinaus und sie war weg. Da es fast Mittag war, wagte ich mich hinunter, um sie zu suchen. Das große Haus war zwei Fuß über dem Boden erhoben. Ich schaute darunter und sah sie ungefähr in der Mitte, tief schlafend. Ich kroch darunter und zog sie heraus. Als ich sie in meinen Armen hielt, dachte ich daran, wie gut es für sie wäre, wenn sie nie wieder aufwachen würde; und ich sagte meinen Gedanken laut. Ich erschrak, als ich jemanden sagen hörte: "Haben Sie mit mir gesprochen?" Ich schaute auf und sah Herrn Flint neben mir stehen. Er sagte nichts weiter, sondern drehte sich mißmutig weg. An diesem Abend schickte er Ellen einen Keks und eine Tasse gesüßte Milch. Diese Großzügigkeit überraschte mich. Ich erfuhr später, dass er am Nachmittag eine große Schlange getötet hatte, die unter dem Haus hervorgekrochen war; und ich vermutete, dass dieses Ereignis seine ungewöhnliche Freundlichkeit veranlasst hatte. Am nächsten Morgen wurde der alte Karren mit Schindeln für die Stadt beladen. Ich setzte Ellen hinein und schickte sie zu ihrer Großmutter. Herr Flint sagte, ich hätte um seine Erlaubnis bitten sollen. Ich sagte ihm, dass das Kind krank sei und Aufmerksamkeit benötige, die ich nicht geben könne. Es wurde hingenommen, denn ihm war bewusst, dass ich in kurzer Zeit viel Arbeit geleistet hatte. Ich war drei Wochen auf der Plantage, als ich einen Besuch zu Hause plante. Es musste nachts sein, nachdem alle im Bett waren. Ich war sechs Meilen von der Stadt entfernt und der Weg war sehr trist. Ich sollte mit einem jungen Mann gehen, der, wie ich wusste, oft heimlich seine Mutter in der Stadt besuchte. Eines Nachts, als alles ruhig war, machten wir uns auf den Weg. Die Angst gab unseren Schritten Geschwindigkeit und wir waren nicht lange unterwegs. Ich kam bei meiner Großmutter an. Ihr Schlafzimmer war im Erdgeschoss und das Fenster war offen, weil das Wetter warm war. Ich sprach sie an und sie wachte auf. Sie ließ mich herein und schloss das Fenster, damit einige Spätheimkehrer mich nicht sehen konnten. Es wurde Licht gebracht und die ganze Familie versammelte sich um mich, einige lächelnd, andere weinend. Ich ging hinüber zu meinen Kindern und dankte Gott für ihren friedlichen Schlaf. Die Tränen fielen, als ich mich über sie beugte. Als ich gehen wollte, regte sich Benny. Ich drehte mich um und flüsterte: "Mutter ist hier." Nachdem er mit seiner kleinen Faust an seinen Augen gerieben hatte, öffneten sie sich und er setzte sich neugierig im Bett auf und schaute mich an. Nachdem er sich vergewissert hatte, dass ich es war, rief er aus: "Oh, Mutter! Bist du nicht tot? Haben sie dir den Kopf auf der Plantage abgeschnitten?" Die Zeit war zu schnell vergangen und mein Führer wartete auf mich. Ich legte Benny zurück ins Bett und tröstete ihn, indem ich versprach, bald wiederzukommen. Schnell kehrten wir auf demselben Weg zur Plantage zurück. Etwa auf halbem Weg trafen wir auf eine Gruppe von vier Patrouillen. Glücklicherweise hörten wir das Hufgetrappel ihrer Pferde, bevor wir sie sehen konnten, und wir hatten genug Zeit, uns hinter einem großen Baum zu verstecken. Sie zogen vorbei und riefen und schrien in einer Weise, die auf eine kürzliche Feier schließen ließ. Wie dankbar waren wir, dass sie ihre Hunde nicht dabei hatten! Wir beschleunigten unsere Schritte und als wir auf der Plantage ankamen, hörten wir das Geräusch der Handmühle. Die Sklaven zermahlten ihr Korn. Wir waren sicher im Haus, bevor das Horn sie zur Arbeit rief. Ich teilte meine kleine Portion Essen mit meinem Führer, denn ich wusste, dass er die Möglichkeit verpasst hatte, sein Korn zu mahlen, und den ganzen Tag auf dem Feld arbeiten musste. Herr Flint inspizierte oft das Haus, um sicherzustellen, dass niemand untätig war. Die gesamte Leitung der Arbeit wurde mir übertragen, weil er nichts darüber wusste; und anstatt einen Aufseher einzustellen, begnügte er sich mit meinen Anordnungen. Er hatte seinen Vater oft gedrängt, mich auf der Plantage zu haben, um die Angelegenheiten zu leiten und Kleidung für die Sklaven zu machen; aber der alte Mann kannte ihn zu gut, um einer solchen Vereinbarung zuzustimmen. Nachdem ich einen Monat lang auf der Plantage gearbeitet hatte, kam die Großtante von Herrn Flint zu Besuch. Das war die gute alte Dame, die fünfzig Dollar für meine Großmutter zahlte, um sie freizukaufen, als sie auf dem Auktionsblock stand. Meine Großmutter liebte diese alte Dame, die wir alle Miss Fanny nannten. Sie kam oft, um mit uns zu Abend zu essen. Bei solchen Gelegenheiten wurde der Tisch mit einem schneeweißen Tischtuch gedeckt und die chinesischen Tassen und silbernen Löffel wurden aus dem altertümlichen Buffet genommen. Es gab heiße Muffins, Teerüschen und köstliche Süßwaren. Meine Großmutter hielt zwei Kühe, und die frische Sahne war Miss Fannys Freude. Sie erklärte immer wieder, dass sie die beste in der Stadt sei. Die alten Damen hatten gemütliche Zeiten zusammen. Sie arbeiteten und plauderten und manchmal wurden beim Erinnern an alte Zeiten ihre Brillen von Tränen verschleiert und mussten abgenommen und abgewischt werden. Als sich Miss Fanny von uns verabschiedete, war ihre Tasche mit den besten Kuchen meiner Großmutter gefüllt, und sie wurde ermutigt, bald wieder zu kommen. Es gab eine Zeit, als Dr. Flints Frau zu uns kam, um mit uns zu Abend zu essen, und ihre Kinder wurden ebenfalls geschickt, um von "Tante Marthys" gutem Kochen zu profitieren. Aber nachdem ich zu einem Objekt ihrer Eifersucht und Bosheit geworden war, war sie wütend auf meine Großmutter, weil sie mir und meinen Kindern ein Obdach gewährte. Sie wollte nicht einmal auf der Straße mit ihr sprechen. Das verletzte die Gefühle meiner Großmutter, denn sie konnte keine Feindseligkeit gegenüber der Frau empfinden, die sie als Säugling mit ihrer Milch ernährt hatte. Die Frau des Doktors hätte gerne unseren Kontakt mit Miss Fanny unterbunden, wenn sie es hätte tun können, aber zum Glück war sie nicht auf die Großzügigkeit der Flints angewiesen. Sie hatte genug, um unabhängig zu sein; und das ist mehr, als man jemals durch Wohltätigkeit erreichen kann, wie üppig sie auch sein mag. Miss Fanny war mir durch viele Erinnerungen ans Herz gewachsen, und ich war erfreut, sie auf der Plantage zu sehen. Die Wärme ihres großen, loyalen Herzens ließ das Haus angenehmer erscheinen, solange sie darin war. Sie blieb eine Woche und ich hatte viele Gespräche mit ihr. Sie sagte, sie sei hauptsächlich gekommen, um zu sehen, wie ich behandelt wurde, und ob etwas für mich getan werden könnte. Sie erkundigte sich, ob sie mir in irgendeiner Weise helfen könne. Ich sagte ihr, dass ich glaube, dass das nicht möglich sei. Sie tröstete mich auf ihre eigene Art und sagte, sie wünschte, meine Großmutter und meine ganze Familie seien in unseren Gräbern zur Ruhe, denn Die sechs Wochen waren fast vorbei, als erwartet wurde, dass Frau Flint Besitz von ihrem neuen Zuhause nehmen würde. Die Vorbereitungen waren alle abgeschlossen, und Herr Flint sagte, ich hätte gute Arbeit geleistet. Er plante, am Samstag abzureisen und am folgenden Mittwoch mit seiner Braut zurückzukehren. Nachdem ich verschiedene Anweisungen von ihm erhalten hatte, wagte ich zu fragen, ob ich die Erlaubnis hätte, den Sonntag in der Stadt zu verbringen. Es wurde gewährt, wofür ich dankbar war. Es war das erste Mal, dass ich ihn um etwas gebeten hatte, und ich beabsichtigte, dass es das letzte Mal sein sollte. Ich brauchte mehr als eine Nacht, um das Projekt durchzuführen, das ich geplant hatte, aber der ganze Sonntag würde mir Gelegenheit dazu geben. Ich verbrachte den Sabbat mit meiner Großmutter. Ein ruhigerer, schönerer Tag war nie vom Himmel gekommen. Für mich war es ein Tag voller widersprüchlicher Gefühle. Vielleicht war es der letzte Tag, den ich jemals unter diesem lieben, alten schützenden Dach verbringen würde! Vielleicht waren das die letzten Gespräche, die ich jemals mit dem treuen alten Freund meines ganzen Lebens haben würde! Vielleicht war es das letzte Mal, dass ich und meine Kinder zusammen sein würden! Nun, das dachte ich, besser so, als dass sie Sklaven wären. Ich kannte das Schicksal, das meinem hübschen Baby in der Sklaverei bevorstand, und ich entschied mich, sie davor zu retten oder bei dem Versuch zu sterben. Ich ging, um diesen Schwur an den Gräbern meiner armen Eltern zu machen, auf dem Friedhof der Sklaven. "Dort hören die Boshaften auf zu stören, und dort sind die Müden in Ruhe. Dort ruhen die Gefangenen zusammen; sie hören nicht die Stimme des Unterdrückers; der Diener ist frei von seinem Meister." Ich kniete neben den Gräbern meiner Eltern und dankte Gott, wie ich es schon oft zuvor getan hatte, dass sie nicht gelebt hatten, um meine Prüfungen zu erleben oder über meine Sünden zu trauern. Ich hatte den Segen meiner Mutter erhalten, als sie starb; und in mancher Stunde der Trübsal schien ich ihre Stimme zu hören, manchmal schalt sie mich, manchmal flüsterte sie liebevolle Worte in mein verwundetes Herz. Ich habe viele bittere Tränen vergossen, wenn ich daran dachte, dass meine Kinder sich nicht so vollständig an mich erinnern können, wie ich mich an meine Mutter erinnere. Der Friedhof lag im Wald, und es wurde langsam dämmrig. Nichts unterbrach die todesähnliche Stille außer dem gelegentlichen Gezwitscher eines Vogels. Mein Geist war von der Feierlichkeit der Szene überwältigt. Seit über zehn Jahren hatte ich diesen Ort oft besucht, aber nie schien er mir so heilig wie jetzt. Ein schwarzer Huschel am Kopf von Mutters Grab war alles, was von einem Baum übrig geblieben war, den mein Vater gepflanzt hatte. Sein Grab war mit einem kleinen Holzbrett markiert, auf dem sein Name stand, dessen Buchstaben fast ausradiert waren. Ich kniete nieder und küsste sie und betete zu Gott um Führung und Unterstützung für den gefährlichen Schritt, den ich unternehmen wollte. Als ich an den Trümmern des alten Versammlungshauses vorbeiging, in dem die Sklaven vor Nats Turner Zeit zum Gottesdienst zusammenkommen durften, schien mir die Stimme meines Vaters daraus entgegenzukommen und mich zu bitten, nicht zu verweilen, bis ich Freiheit oder das Grab erreicht hätte. Ich eilte mit erneuerter Hoffnung weiter. Mein Vertrauen in Gott war durch dieses Gebet unter den Gräbern gestärkt worden. Mein Plan war es, mich im Haus eines Freundes zu verstecken und dort ein paar Wochen zu bleiben, bis die Suche vorbei war. Ich hoffte, dass der Arzt die Hoffnung aufgeben würde, und aus Angst, meinen Wert zu verlieren und später meine Kinder unter den Vermissten zu finden, würde er dem Verkauf zustimmen; und ich wusste, dass jemand uns kaufen würde. Ich hatte alles in meiner Macht Stehende getan, um meine Kinder während der Zeit, in der wir getrennt sein würden, bequem zu machen. Ich packte meine Sachen, als meine Großmutter ins Zimmer kam und fragte, was ich tun würde. "Ich räume meine Sachen auf", antwortete ich. Ich versuchte fröhlich auszusehen und zu sprechen; aber ihr aufmerksames Auge erkannte etwas unter der Oberfläche. Sie zog mich zu sich und bat mich, mich hinzusetzen. Sie schaute mich ernsthaft an und sagte: "Linda, willst du deine alte Großmutter umbringen? Willst du deine kleinen, hilflosen Kinder verlassen? Ich bin jetzt alt und kann mich nicht um deine Babys kümmern, wie ich es einmal für dich getan habe." Ich antwortete, dass wenn ich wegginge, ihr Vater vielleicht in der Lage sein würde, ihre Freiheit zu sichern. "Ach, mein Kind", sagte sie, "vertraue ihm nicht zu sehr. Stehe deinen eigenen Kindern bei und leide mit ihnen bis zum Tod. Niemand respektiert eine Mutter, die ihre Kinder verlässt; und wenn du sie verlässt, wirst du nie einen glücklichen Moment haben. Wenn du gehst, wirst du mir das kurze Leben zur Qual machen. Man würde dich fangen und zurückbringen, und dein Leiden wäre schrecklich. Erinnere dich an den armen Benjamin. Gib es auf, Linda. Versuche es noch ein wenig länger zu ertragen. Die Dinge könnten sich besser entwickeln als wir erwarten." Mein Mut verließ mich angesichts des Kummers, den ich diesem treuen, liebevollen alten Herzen bereiten würde. Ich versprach, dass ich es noch länger versuchen würde und nichts aus ihrem Haus nehmen würde, ohne ihr Wissen. Immer wenn die Kinder auf meinen Schoß kletterten oder ihren Kopf in meinen Schoß legten, sagte sie: "Arme kleine Seelen! Was würdet ihr ohne eine Mutter machen? Sie liebt euch nicht so wie ich es tue." Und sie umarmte sie an ihre eigene Brust, als wollte sie mich wegen meiner mangelnden Zuneigung tadeln; aber sie wusste die ganze Zeit, dass ich sie mehr liebte als mein Leben. Ich schlief mit ihr in dieser Nacht und es war das letzte Mal. Die Erinnerung daran verfolgte mich viele Jahre lang. Am Montag kehrte ich zur Plantage zurück und beschäftigte mich mit den Vorbereitungen für den wichtigen Tag. Mittwoch kam. Es war ein schöner Tag und die Gesichter der Sklaven waren so hell wie das Sonnenlicht. Die armen Geschöpfe waren fröhlich. Sie erwarteten kleine Geschenke von der Braut und hofften auf bessere Zeiten unter ihrer Leitung. Ich hatte keine solchen Hoffnungen für sie. Ich wusste, dass die jungen Ehefrauen von Sklavenhaltern oft dachten, dass ihre Autorität und Bedeutung am besten durch Grausamkeit etabliert und aufrechterhalten werden könnten; und das, was ich von der jungen Frau Flint gehört hatte, ließ mich nicht erwarten, dass ihre Herrschaft über sie weniger hart sein würde als die des Herrn und des Aufsehers. Wahrhaftig, die farbige Rasse ist das fröhlichste und vergebendste Volk auf der Erde. Dass ihre Herren sicher schlafen, ist ihrem überschwänglichen Herzen zu verdanken; und doch betrachten sie ihr Leiden mit weniger Mitleid als sie einem Pferd oder einem Hund entgegenbringen würden. Ich stand mit anderen an der Tür, um den Bräutigam und die Braut zu empfangen. Sie war ein hübsches, zart aussehendes Mädchen, und ihr Gesicht rötete sich vor Aufregung beim Anblick ihres neuen Zuhauses. Ich dachte, es wäre wahrscheinlich, dass sich Visionen einer glücklichen Zukunft vor ihr auftaten. Es machte mich traurig, denn ich wusste, wie bald Wolken ihren Sonnenschein verdecken würden. Sie inspizierte jeden Teil des Hauses und sagte mir, dass sie mit den Vorbereitungen, die ich getroffen hatte, begeistert war. Ich befürchtete, dass die alte Mrs. Flint versucht hatte, sie gegen mich einzunehmen, und ich tat mein Bestes, um sie zufriedenzustellen. Alles verlief reibungslos für mich, bis die Zeit zum Abendessen Am nächsten Tag begann meine neue Herrin mit der Haushaltsführung. Ich wurde nicht genau zur allgemeinen Dienstmagd ernannt, aber ich sollte tun, was mir gesagt wurde. Der Montagabend kam. Es war immer eine geschäftige Zeit. An diesem Abend erhielten die Sklaven ihre wöchentliche Essensration. Jeder Mann durfte drei Pfund Fleisch, ein Maß Korn und vielleicht ein Dutzend Heringe bekommen. Frauen erhielten eineinhalb Pfund Fleisch, ein Maß Korn und dieselbe Anzahl an Heringen. Kinder über zwölf Jahren hatten die Hälfte der Ration der Frauen. Das Fleisch wurde vom Vorarbeiter der Feldarbeiter geschnitten und gewogen und auf Bretter vor das Fleischhaus gestapelt. Dann ging der zweite Vorarbeiter hinter das Gebäude, und wenn der erste Vorarbeiter rief: „Wer nimmt dieses Stück Fleisch?“, antwortete er, indem er den Namen einer Person rief. Diese Methode wurde angewendet, um eine Bevorzugung bei der Verteilung des Fleisches zu verhindern. Die junge Herrin kam heraus, um zu sehen, wie die Dinge auf ihrer Plantage erledigt wurden, und sie zeigte bald eine Probe ihres Charakters. Unter denen, die auf ihre Ration warteten, war ein sehr alter Sklave, der der Familie Flint über drei Generationen treu gedient hatte. Als er humpelnd kam, um sein Stück Fleisch zu erhalten, sagte die Herrin, dass er zu alt sei, um eine Ration zu bekommen; dass farbige Leute, die zu alt zum Arbeiten waren, mit Gras gefüttert werden sollten. Armer alter Mann! Er litt viel, bevor er Ruhe im Grab fand. Meine Herrin und ich kamen sehr gut miteinander aus. Am Ende einer Woche besuchte uns die alte Mrs. Flint erneut und war lange Zeit mit ihrer Schwiegertochter allein. Ich hatte den Verdacht, um was es bei der Besprechung ging. Die Frau des alten Arztes hatte gehört, dass ich die Plantage unter einer Bedingung verlassen könnte, und sie war sehr daran interessiert, mich dort zu behalten. Hätte sie mir vertraut, wie ich es verdient hätte, hätte sie keine Angst gehabt, dass ich diese Bedingung akzeptiere. Als sie in ihre Kutsche stieg, um nach Hause zurückzukehren, sagte sie zu der jungen Mrs. Flint: "Vergiss nicht, sie so schnell wie möglich zu holen." Mein Herz war die ganze Zeit wachsam, und ich schloss sofort, dass sie von meinen Kindern sprach. Der Arzt kam am nächsten Tag, und als ich das Zimmer betrat, um den Tee-Tisch zu decken, hörte ich ihn sagen: „Wartet nicht länger. Holt sie morgen ab.“ Ich erkannte den Plan. Sie dachten, dass die Anwesenheit meiner Kinder mich an den Ort binden würde und dass es ein guter Ort sei, um uns alle dazu zu bringen, uns unserem Schicksal als Sklaven völlig zu unterwerfen. Nachdem der Arzt gegangen war, kam ein Herr, der immer freundliche Gefühle meiner Großmutter und ihrer Familie gegenüber gezeigt hatte. Mr. Flint führte ihn über die Plantage, um ihm die Ergebnisse der Arbeit von Männern und Frauen zu zeigen, die unbezahlt, miserabel gekleidet und halb verhungert waren. Die Baumwollernte war alles, woran sie dachten. Sie wurde gebührend bewundert, und der Herr kehrte mit Proben zurück, um sie seinen Freunden zu zeigen. Ich wurde angewiesen, Wasser zu bringen, um ihm die Hände zu waschen. Währenddessen fragte er: "Linda, wie gefällt dir dein neues Zuhause?" Ich sagte ihm, dass es mir so gut gefällt, wie ich erwartet hatte. Er antwortete: "Sie glauben nicht, dass du zufrieden bist, und morgen bringen sie deine Kinder, um bei dir zu sein. Es tut mir leid für dich, Linda. Ich hoffe, sie werden dich gut behandeln." Ich verließ schnell das Zimmer, unfähig, ihm zu danken. Meine Verdachtsmomente waren korrekt. Meine Kinder sollten auf die Plantage gebracht werden, um "gebrochen" zu werden. Bis heute bin ich dem Herrn dankbar, der mir diese rechtzeitigen Informationen gegeben hat. Es stärkte mich zu sofortigem Handeln. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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

Linda bringt ein weiteres Kind zur Welt, eine Tochter, und trotz Dr. Flints Protesten werden beide Kinder getauft. Sie nennt ihren Sohn Benjamin, nach ihrem Lieblingsonkel, und ihre Tochter Ellen, nach der Geliebten ihres Vaters. Mit zwei Kindern, um die sie sich kümmern muss, wird Lindas Leben noch schwieriger, denn Dr. Flint beginnt, ihre Kinder zu bestrafen und zu kontrollieren. Nachdem sie erneut abgelehnt hat, sich und ihre Kinder zu verkaufen, bietet Dr. Flint an, ihre Freiheit zu kaufen, wenn Linda zustimmt, mit ihm als seine Geliebte zusammenzuleben. Als sie ablehnt, droht er damit, sie und ihre Kinder auf der Plantage seines Sohnes leben zu lassen. Linda gibt schließlich nach - als das kleinere Übel - und geht auf die Plantage. Linda und Ellen verlassen die Plantage in Richtung von Herrn Flints Plantage. Ben ist krank, also lässt Linda ihn bei ihrer Großmutter zurück. Auf der Plantage fasst Linda den Entschluss, hart zu arbeiten, weigert sich aber entschieden, "gebrochen" zu werden. Da ihre neuen Aufgaben - dazu gehört auch die Vorbereitung des Haushalts für die Ankunft von Mrs. Flint - äußerst anspruchsvoll sind, ist Linda gezwungen, Ellen den ganzen Tag alleine zu lassen. Nach einem erschreckenden Vorfall, bei dem Ellen fast von einer Schlange getötet wird, erkennt Linda, dass sie sich nicht länger um ihre Tochter kümmern kann und schickt sie zurück, um bei ihrer Großmutter zu leben. Als Mr. Flint dagegen Einspruch erhebt, sagt sie ihm, dass Ellen krank ist, und er lässt den Vorfall passieren. In den nächsten Wochen schleicht Linda sich mehrmals mit einem jungen Mann von der Plantage nach Hause, um ihre Kinder zu besuchen. Bei einem ihrer Besuche verrät sie ihre Fluchtpläne, ändert aber ihre Meinung, als ihre Großmutter sie daran erinnert, dass ihre erste Verantwortung ihren Kindern gilt. Aber als sie zufällig erfährt, dass Dr. Flint plant, ihre Kinder zurück auf Mr. Flints Plantage zu schicken, fasst sie neuen Mut und beginnt, ihre Flucht zu planen.

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 Arthur Donnithorne landed at Liverpool and read the letter from his Aunt Lydia, briefly announcing his grand-father's death, his first feeling was, "Poor Grandfather! I wish I could have got to him to be with him when he died. He might have felt or wished something at the last that I shall never know now. It was a lonely death." It is impossible to say that his grief was deeper than that. Pity and softened memory took place of the old antagonism, and in his busy thoughts about the future, as the chaise carried him rapidly along towards the home where he was now to be master, there was a continually recurring effort to remember anything by which he could show a regard for his grandfather's wishes, without counteracting his own cherished aims for the good of the tenants and the estate. But it is not in human nature--only in human pretence--for a young man like Arthur, with a fine constitution and fine spirits, thinking well of himself, believing that others think well of him, and having a very ardent intention to give them more and more reason for that good opinion--it is not possible for such a young man, just coming into a splendid estate through the death of a very old man whom he was not fond of, to feel anything very different from exultant joy. Now his real life was beginning; now he would have room and opportunity for action, and he would use them. He would show the Loamshire people what a fine country gentleman was; he would not exchange that career for any other under the sun. He felt himself riding over the hills in the breezy autumn days, looking after favourite plans of drainage and enclosure; then admired on sombre mornings as the best rider on the best horse in the hunt; spoken well of on market-days as a first-rate landlord; by and by making speeches at election dinners, and showing a wonderful knowledge of agriculture; the patron of new ploughs and drills, the severe upbraider of negligent landowners, and withal a jolly fellow that everybody must like--happy faces greeting him everywhere on his own estate, and the neighbouring families on the best terms with him. The Irwines should dine with him every week, and have their own carriage to come in, for in some very delicate way that Arthur would devise, the lay-impropriator of the Hayslope tithes would insist on paying a couple of hundreds more to the vicar; and his aunt should be as comfortable as possible, and go on living at the Chase, if she liked, in spite of her old-maidish ways--at least until he was married, and that event lay in the indistinct background, for Arthur had not yet seen the woman who would play the lady-wife to the first-rate country gentleman. These were Arthur's chief thoughts, so far as a man's thoughts through hours of travelling can be compressed into a few sentences, which are only like the list of names telling you what are the scenes in a long long panorama full of colour, of detail, and of life. The happy faces Arthur saw greeting him were not pale abstractions, but real ruddy faces, long familiar to him: Martin Poyser was there--the whole Poyser family. What--Hetty? Yes; for Arthur was at ease about Hetty--not quite at ease about the past, for a certain burning of the ears would come whenever he thought of the scenes with Adam last August, but at ease about her present lot. Mr. Irwine, who had been a regular correspondent, telling him all the news about the old places and people, had sent him word nearly three months ago that Adam Bede was not to marry Mary Burge, as he had thought, but pretty Hetty Sorrel. Martin Poyser and Adam himself had both told Mr. Irwine all about it--that Adam had been deeply in love with Hetty these two years, and that now it was agreed they were to be married in March. That stalwart rogue Adam was more susceptible than the rector had thought; it was really quite an idyllic love affair; and if it had not been too long to tell in a letter, he would have liked to describe to Arthur the blushing looks and the simple strong words with which the fine honest fellow told his secret. He knew Arthur would like to hear that Adam had this sort of happiness in prospect. Yes, indeed! Arthur felt there was not air enough in the room to satisfy his renovated life, when he had read that passage in the letter. He threw up the windows, he rushed out of doors into the December air, and greeted every one who spoke to him with an eager gaiety, as if there had been news of a fresh Nelson victory. For the first time that day since he had come to Windsor, he was in true boyish spirits. The load that had been pressing upon him was gone, the haunting fear had vanished. He thought he could conquer his bitterness towards Adam now--could offer him his hand, and ask to be his friend again, in spite of that painful memory which would still make his ears burn. He had been knocked down, and he had been forced to tell a lie: such things make a scar, do what we will. But if Adam were the same again as in the old days, Arthur wished to be the same too, and to have Adam mixed up with his business and his future, as he had always desired before the accursed meeting in August. Nay, he would do a great deal more for Adam than he should otherwise have done, when he came into the estate; Hetty's husband had a special claim on him--Hetty herself should feel that any pain she had suffered through Arthur in the past was compensated to her a hundredfold. For really she could not have felt much, since she had so soon made up her mind to marry Adam. You perceive clearly what sort of picture Adam and Hetty made in the panorama of Arthur's thoughts on his journey homeward. It was March now; they were soon to be married: perhaps they were already married. And now it was actually in his power to do a great deal for them. Sweet--sweet little Hetty! The little puss hadn't cared for him half as much as he cared for her; for he was a great fool about her still--was almost afraid of seeing her--indeed, had not cared much to look at any other woman since he parted from her. That little figure coming towards him in the Grove, those dark-fringed childish eyes, the lovely lips put up to kiss him--that picture had got no fainter with the lapse of months. And she would look just the same. It was impossible to think how he could meet her: he should certainly tremble. Strange, how long this sort of influence lasts, for he was certainly not in love with Hetty now. He had been earnestly desiring, for months, that she should marry Adam, and there was nothing that contributed more to his happiness in these moments than the thought of their marriage. It was the exaggerating effect of imagination that made his heart still beat a little more quickly at the thought of her. When he saw the little thing again as she really was, as Adam's wife, at work quite prosaically in her new home, he should perhaps wonder at the possibility of his past feelings. Thank heaven it had turned out so well! He should have plenty of affairs and interests to fill his life now, and not be in danger of playing the fool again. Pleasant the crack of the post-boy's whip! Pleasant the sense of being hurried along in swift ease through English scenes, so like those round his own home, only not quite so charming. Here was a market-town--very much like Treddleston--where the arms of the neighbouring lord of the manor were borne on the sign of the principal inn; then mere fields and hedges, their vicinity to a market-town carrying an agreeable suggestion of high rent, till the land began to assume a trimmer look, the woods were more frequent, and at length a white or red mansion looked down from a moderate eminence, or allowed him to be aware of its parapet and chimneys among the dense-looking masses of oaks and elms--masses reddened now with early buds. And close at hand came the village: the small church, with its red-tiled roof, looking humble even among the faded half-timbered houses; the old green gravestones with nettles round them; nothing fresh and bright but the children, opening round eyes at the swift post-chaise; nothing noisy and busy but the gaping curs of mysterious pedigree. What a much prettier village Hayslope was! And it should not be neglected like this place: vigorous repairs should go on everywhere among farm-buildings and cottages, and travellers in post-chaises, coming along the Rosseter road, should do nothing but admire as they went. And Adam Bede should superintend all the repairs, for he had a share in Burge's business now, and, if he liked, Arthur would put some money into the concern and buy the old man out in another year or two. That was an ugly fault in Arthur's life, that affair last summer, but the future should make amends. Many men would have retained a feeling of vindictiveness towards Adam, but he would not--he would resolutely overcome all littleness of that kind, for he had certainly been very much in the wrong; and though Adam had been harsh and violent, and had thrust on him a painful dilemma, the poor fellow was in love, and had real provocation. No, Arthur had not an evil feeling in his mind towards any human being: he was happy, and would make every one else happy that came within his reach. And here was dear old Hayslope at last, sleeping, on the hill, like a quiet old place as it was, in the late afternoon sunlight, and opposite to it the great shoulders of the Binton Hills, below them the purplish blackness of the hanging woods, and at last the pale front of the Abbey, looking out from among the oaks of the Chase, as if anxious for the heir's return. "Poor Grandfather! And he lies dead there. He was a young fellow once, coming into the estate and making his plans. So the world goes round! Aunt Lydia must feel very desolate, poor thing; but she shall be indulged as much as she indulges her fat Fido." The wheels of Arthur's chaise had been anxiously listened for at the Chase, for to-day was Friday, and the funeral had already been deferred two days. Before it drew up on the gravel of the courtyard, all the servants in the house were assembled to receive him with a grave, decent welcome, befitting a house of death. A month ago, perhaps, it would have been difficult for them to have maintained a suitable sadness in their faces, when Mr. Arthur was come to take possession; but the hearts of the head-servants were heavy that day for another cause than the death of the old squire, and more than one of them was longing to be twenty miles away, as Mr. Craig was, knowing what was to become of Hetty Sorrel--pretty Hetty Sorrel--whom they used to see every week. They had the partisanship of household servants who like their places, and were not inclined to go the full length of the severe indignation felt against him by the farming tenants, but rather to make excuses for him; nevertheless, the upper servants, who had been on terms of neighbourly intercourse with the Poysers for many years, could not help feeling that the longed-for event of the young squire's coming into the estate had been robbed of all its pleasantness. To Arthur it was nothing surprising that the servants looked grave and sad: he himself was very much touched on seeing them all again, and feeling that he was in a new relation to them. It was that sort of pathetic emotion which has more pleasure than pain in it--which is perhaps one of the most delicious of all states to a good-natured man, conscious of the power to satisfy his good nature. His heart swelled agreeably as he said, "Well, Mills, how is my aunt?" But now Mr. Bygate, the lawyer, who had been in the house ever since the death, came forward to give deferential greetings and answer all questions, and Arthur walked with him towards the library, where his Aunt Lydia was expecting him. Aunt Lydia was the only person in the house who knew nothing about Hetty. Her sorrow as a maiden daughter was unmixed with any other thoughts than those of anxiety about funeral arrangements and her own future lot; and, after the manner of women, she mourned for the father who had made her life important, all the more because she had a secret sense that there was little mourning for him in other hearts. But Arthur kissed her tearful face more tenderly than he had ever done in his life before. "Dear Aunt," he said affectionately, as he held her hand, "YOUR loss is the greatest of all, but you must tell me how to try and make it up to you all the rest of your life." "It was so sudden and so dreadful, Arthur," poor Miss Lydia began, pouring out her little plaints, and Arthur sat down to listen with impatient patience. When a pause came, he said: "Now, Aunt, I'll leave you for a quarter of an hour just to go to my own room, and then I shall come and give full attention to everything." "My room is all ready for me, I suppose, Mills?" he said to the butler, who seemed to be lingering uneasily about the entrance-hall. "Yes, sir, and there are letters for you; they are all laid on the writing-table in your dressing-room." On entering the small anteroom which was called a dressing-room, but which Arthur really used only to lounge and write in, he just cast his eyes on the writing-table, and saw that there were several letters and packets lying there; but he was in the uncomfortable dusty condition of a man who has had a long hurried journey, and he must really refresh himself by attending to his toilette a little, before he read his letters. Pym was there, making everything ready for him, and soon, with a delightful freshness about him, as if he were prepared to begin a new day, he went back into his dressing-room to open his letters. The level rays of the low afternoon sun entered directly at the window, and as Arthur seated himself in his velvet chair with their pleasant warmth upon him, he was conscious of that quiet well-being which perhaps you and I have felt on a sunny afternoon when, in our brightest youth and health, life has opened a new vista for us, and long to-morrows of activity have stretched before us like a lovely plain which there was no need for hurrying to look at, because it was all our own. The top letter was placed with its address upwards: it was in Mr. Irwine's handwriting, Arthur saw at once; and below the address was written, "To be delivered as soon as he arrives." Nothing could have been less surprising to him than a letter from Mr. Irwine at that moment: of course, there was something he wished Arthur to know earlier than it was possible for them to see each other. At such a time as that it was quite natural that Irwine should have something pressing to say. Arthur broke the seal with an agreeable anticipation of soon seeing the writer. "I send this letter to meet you on your arrival, Arthur, because I may then be at Stoniton, whither I am called by the most painful duty it has ever been given me to perform, and it is right that you should know what I have to tell you without delay. "I will not attempt to add by one word of reproach to the retribution that is now falling on you: any other words that I could write at this moment must be weak and unmeaning by the side of those in which I must tell you the simple fact. "Hetty Sorrel is in prison, and will be tried on Friday for the crime of child-murder."... Arthur las nicht weiter. Er sprang von seinem Stuhl auf und stand eine Minute lang da, mit einem Gefühl von heftigen Krämpfen in seinem ganzen Körper, als ob das Leben mit schrecklichen Pochen aus ihm herausströmen würde. Aber in der nächsten Minute stürmte er aus dem Raum, immer noch den Brief festhaltend – er rannte den Gang entlang und die Treppen hinunter in die Halle. Mills war immer noch dort, aber Arthur sah ihn nicht, als er wie ein gehetzter Mann die Halle überquerte und hinaus auf den Kiesweg ging. Der Butler folgte ihm so schnell wie seine betagten Glieder es zuließen. Er vermutete, er wusste, wohin der junge Erbe ging. Als Mills in den Stall kam, wurde bereits ein Pferd gesattelt und Arthur quälte sich, die restlichen Worte des Briefes zu lesen. Er steckte ihn in seine Tasche, als ihm das Pferd entgegengeführt wurde, und sah in diesem Moment das besorgte Gesicht von Mills vor sich. "Sag ihnen, dass ich weg bin – nach Stoniton," sagte er in einem gedämpften Ton der Aufregung, schwang sich in den Sattel und galoppierte los. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Arthur macht sich auf den Weg von Liverpool nach Hause. Er ist guter Dinge; er hat gerade sein Eigentum übernommen und die Zukunft sieht sonnig aus. Er hatte gehört, dass Adam Hetty heiraten würde und war erfreut; diese Angelegenheit scheint gut geendet zu haben. Er spürt, dass sein Leben gerade erst beginnt. Als er am Chase ankommt, hält er inne, um seine Tante Lydia zu trösten, die tief betrübt über den Tod ihres Vaters, des alten Squires, ist. Dann geht er in sein Zimmer und findet einen Brief von Mr. Irwine, der Hetty's Notlage erklärt. All seine Freude zerplatzt, er springt auf sein Pferd und galoppiert nach Stoniton.

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: Geraint and Enid O purblind race of miserable men, How many among us at this very hour Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, By taking true for false, or false for true; Here, through the feeble twilight of this world Groping, how many, until we pass and reach That other, where we see as we are seen! So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth That morning, when they both had got to horse, Perhaps because he loved her passionately, And felt that tempest brooding round his heart, Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce Upon a head so dear in thunder, said: 'Not at my side. I charge thee ride before, Ever a good way on before; and this I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife, Whatever happens, not to speak to me, No, not a word!' and Enid was aghast; And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on, When crying out, 'Effeminate as I am, I will not fight my way with gilded arms, All shall be iron;' he loosed a mighty purse, Hung at his belt, and hurled it toward the squire. So the last sight that Enid had of home Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown With gold and scattered coinage, and the squire Chafing his shoulder: then he cried again, 'To the wilds!' and Enid leading down the tracks Through which he bad her lead him on, they past The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds, Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern, And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode: Round was their pace at first, but slackened soon: A stranger meeting them had surely thought They rode so slowly and they looked so pale, That each had suffered some exceeding wrong. For he was ever saying to himself, 'O I that wasted time to tend upon her, To compass her with sweet observances, To dress her beautifully and keep her true'-- And there he broke the sentence in his heart Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue May break it, when his passion masters him. And she was ever praying the sweet heavens To save her dear lord whole from any wound. And ever in her mind she cast about For that unnoticed failing in herself, Which made him look so cloudy and so cold; Till the great plover's human whistle amazed Her heart, and glancing round the waste she feared In every wavering brake an ambuscade. Then thought again, 'If there be such in me, I might amend it by the grace of Heaven, If he would only speak and tell me of it.' But when the fourth part of the day was gone, Then Enid was aware of three tall knights On horseback, wholly armed, behind a rock In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all; And heard one crying to his fellow, 'Look, Here comes a laggard hanging down his head, Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound; Come, we will slay him and will have his horse And armour, and his damsel shall be ours.' Then Enid pondered in her heart, and said: 'I will go back a little to my lord, And I will tell him all their caitiff talk; For, be he wroth even to slaying me, Far liefer by his dear hand had I die, Than that my lord should suffer loss or shame.' Then she went back some paces of return, Met his full frown timidly firm, and said; 'My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock Waiting to fall on you, and heard them boast That they would slay you, and possess your horse And armour, and your damsel should be theirs.' He made a wrathful answer: 'Did I wish Your warning or your silence? one command I laid upon you, not to speak to me, And thus ye keep it! Well then, look--for now, Whether ye wish me victory or defeat, Long for my life, or hunger for my death, Yourself shall see my vigour is not lost.' Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful, And down upon him bare the bandit three. And at the midmost charging, Prince Geraint Drave the long spear a cubit through his breast And out beyond; and then against his brace Of comrades, each of whom had broken on him A lance that splintered like an icicle, Swung from his brand a windy buffet out Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunned the twain Or slew them, and dismounting like a man That skins the wild beast after slaying him, Stript from the three dead wolves of woman born The three gay suits of armour which they wore, And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits Of armour on their horses, each on each, And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, 'Drive them on Before you;' and she drove them through the waste. He followed nearer; ruth began to work Against his anger in him, while he watched The being he loved best in all the world, With difficulty in mild obedience Driving them on: he fain had spoken to her, And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath And smouldered wrong that burnt him all within; But evermore it seemed an easier thing At once without remorse to strike her dead, Than to cry 'Halt,' and to her own bright face Accuse her of the least immodesty: And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more That she could speak whom his own ear had heard Call herself false: and suffering thus he made Minutes an age: but in scarce longer time Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, Before he turn to fall seaward again, Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold In the first shallow shade of a deep wood, Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks, Three other horsemen waiting, wholly armed, Whereof one seemed far larger than her lord, And shook her pulses, crying, 'Look, a prize! Three horses and three goodly suits of arms, And all in charge of whom? a girl: set on.' 'Nay,' said the second, 'yonder comes a knight.' The third, 'A craven; how he hangs his head.' The giant answered merrily, 'Yea, but one? Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him.' And Enid pondered in her heart and said, 'I will abide the coming of my lord, And I will tell him all their villainy. My lord is weary with the fight before, And they will fall upon him unawares. I needs must disobey him for his good; How should I dare obey him to his harm? Needs must I speak, and though he kill me for it, I save a life dearer to me than mine.' And she abode his coming, and said to him With timid firmness, 'Have I leave to speak?' He said, 'Ye take it, speaking,' and she spoke. 'There lurk three villains yonder in the wood, And each of them is wholly armed, and one Is larger-limbed than you are, and they say That they will fall upon you while ye pass.' To which he flung a wrathful answer back: 'And if there were an hundred in the wood, And every man were larger-limbed than I, And all at once should sally out upon me, I swear it would not ruffle me so much As you that not obey me. Stand aside, And if I fall, cleave to the better man.' And Enid stood aside to wait the event, Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath. And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him. Aimed at the helm, his lance erred; but Geraint's, A little in the late encounter strained, Struck through the bulky bandit's corselet home, And then brake short, and down his enemy rolled, And there lay still; as he that tells the tale Saw once a great piece of a promontory, That had a sapling growing on it, slide From the long shore-cliff's windy walls to the beach, And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew: So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair Of comrades making slowlier at the Prince, When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood; On whom the victor, to confound them more, Spurred with his terrible war-cry; for as one, That listens near a torrent mountain-brook, All through the crash of the near cataract hears The drumming thunder of the huger fall At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear His voice in battle, and be kindled by it, And foemen scared, like that false pair who turned Flying, but, overtaken, died the death Themselves had wrought on many an innocent. Thereon Geraint, dismounting, picked the lance That pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves Their three gay suits of armour, each from each, And bound them on their horses, each on each, And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, 'Drive them on Before you,' and she drove them through the wood. He followed nearer still: the pain she had To keep them in the wild ways of the wood, Two sets of three laden with jingling arms, Together, served a little to disedge The sharpness of that pain about her heart: And they themselves, like creatures gently born But into bad hands fallen, and now so long By bandits groomed, pricked their light ears, and felt Her low firm voice and tender government. So through the green gloom of the wood they past, And issuing under open heavens beheld A little town with towers, upon a rock, And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased In the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it: And down a rocky pathway from the place There came a fair-haired youth, that in his hand Bare victual for the mowers: and Geraint Had ruth again on Enid looking pale: Then, moving downward to the meadow ground, He, when the fair-haired youth came by him, said, 'Friend, let her eat; the damsel is so faint.' 'Yea, willingly,' replied the youth; 'and thou, My lord, eat also, though the fare is coarse, And only meet for mowers;' then set down His basket, and dismounting on the sward They let the horses graze, and ate themselves. And Enid took a little delicately, Less having stomach for it than desire To close with her lord's pleasure; but Geraint Ate all the mowers' victual unawares, And when he found all empty, was amazed; And 'Boy,' said he, 'I have eaten all, but take A horse and arms for guerdon; choose the best.' He, reddening in extremity of delight, 'My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold.' 'Ye will be all the wealthier,' cried the Prince. 'I take it as free gift, then,' said the boy, 'Not guerdon; for myself can easily, While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl; For these are his, and all the field is his, And I myself am his; and I will tell him How great a man thou art: he loves to know When men of mark are in his territory: And he will have thee to his palace here, And serve thee costlier than with mowers' fare.' Then said Geraint, 'I wish no better fare: I never ate with angrier appetite Than when I left your mowers dinnerless. And into no Earl's palace will I go. I know, God knows, too much of palaces! And if he want me, let him come to me. But hire us some fair chamber for the night, And stalling for the horses, and return With victual for these men, and let us know.' 'Yea, my kind lord,' said the glad youth, and went, Held his head high, and thought himself a knight, And up the rocky pathway disappeared, Leading the horse, and they were left alone. But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance At Enid, where she droopt: his own false doom, That shadow of mistrust should never cross Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sighed; Then with another humorous ruth remarked The lusty mowers labouring dinnerless, And watched the sun blaze on the turning scythe, And after nodded sleepily in the heat. But she, remembering her old ruined hall, And all the windy clamour of the daws About her hollow turret, plucked the grass There growing longest by the meadow's edge, And into many a listless annulet, Now over, now beneath her marriage ring, Wove and unwove it, till the boy returned And told them of a chamber, and they went; Where, after saying to her, 'If ye will, Call for the woman of the house,' to which She answered, 'Thanks, my lord;' the two remained Apart by all the chamber's width, and mute As two creatures voiceless through the fault of birth, Or two wild men supporters of a shield, Painted, who stare at open space, nor glance The one at other, parted by the shield. On a sudden, many a voice along the street, And heel against the pavement echoing, burst Their drowse; and either started while the door, Pushed from without, drave backward to the wall, And midmost of a rout of roisterers, Femininely fair and dissolutely pale, Her suitor in old years before Geraint, Entered, the wild lord of the place, Limours. He moving up with pliant courtliness, Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily, In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt hand, Found Enid with the corner of his eye, And knew her sitting sad and solitary. Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly cheer To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously According to his fashion, bad the host Call in what men soever were his friends, And feast with these in honour of their Earl; 'And care not for the cost; the cost is mine.' And wine and food were brought, and Earl Limours Drank till he jested with all ease, and told Free tales, and took the word and played upon it, And made it of two colours; for his talk, When wine and free companions kindled him, Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem Of fifty facets; thus he moved the Prince To laughter and his comrades to applause. Then, when the Prince was merry, asked Limours, 'Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speak To your good damsel there who sits apart, And seems so lonely?' 'My free leave,' he said; 'Get her to speak: she doth not speak to me.' Then rose Limours, and looking at his feet, Like him who tries the bridge he fears may fail, Crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes, Bowed at her side and uttered whisperingly: 'Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, Enid, my early and my only love, Enid, the loss of whom hath turned me wild-- What chance is this? how is it I see you here? Ye are in my power at last, are in my power. Yet fear me not: I call mine own self wild, But keep a touch of sweet civility Here in the heart of waste and wilderness. I thought, but that your father came between, In former days you saw me favourably. And if it were so do not keep it back: Make me a little happier: let me know it: Owe you me nothing for a life half-lost? Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are. And, Enid, you and he, I see with joy, Ye sit apart, you do not speak to him, You come with no attendance, page or maid, To serve you--doth he love you as of old? For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know Though men may bicker with the things they love, They would not make them laughable in all eyes, Not while they loved them; and your wretched dress, A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks Your story, that this man loves you no more. Your beauty is no beauty to him now: A common chance--right well I know it--palled-- For I know men: nor will ye win him back, For the man's love once gone never returns. But here is one who loves you as of old; With more exceeding passion than of old: Good, speak the word: my followers ring him round: He sits unarmed; I hold a finger up; They understand: nay; I do not mean blood: Nor need ye look so scared at what I say: My malice is no deeper than a moat, No stronger than a wall: there is the keep; He shall not cross us more; speak but the word: Or speak it not; but then by Him that made me The one true lover whom you ever owned, I will make use of all the power I have. O pardon me! the madness of that hour, When first I parted from thee, moves me yet.' At this the tender sound of his own voice And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it, Made his eye moist; but Enid feared his eyes, Moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast; And answered with such craft as women use, Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance That breaks upon them perilously, and said: 'Earl, if you love me as in former years, And do not practise on me, come with morn, And snatch me from him as by violence; Leave me tonight: I am weary to the death.' Low at leave-taking, with his brandished plume Brushing his instep, bowed the all-amorous Earl, And the stout Prince bad him a loud good-night. He moving homeward babbled to his men, How Enid never loved a man but him, Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her lord. But Enid left alone with Prince Geraint, Debating his command of silence given, And that she now perforce must violate it, Held commune with herself, and while she held He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly pleased To find him yet unwounded after fight, And hear him breathing low and equally. Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heaped The pieces of his armour in one place, All to be there against a sudden need; Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoiled By that day's grief and travel, evermore Seemed catching at a rootless thorn, and then Went slipping down horrible precipices, And strongly striking out her limbs awoke; Then thought she heard the wild Earl at the door, With all his rout of random followers, Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning her; Which was the red cock shouting to the light, As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy world, And glimmered on his armour in the room. And once again she rose to look at it, But touched it unawares: jangling, the casque Fell, and he started up and stared at her. Then breaking his command of silence given, She told him all that Earl Limours had said, Except the passage that he loved her not; Nor left untold the craft herself had used; But ended with apology so sweet, Low-spoken, and of so few words, and seemed So justified by that necessity, That though he thought 'was it for him she wept In Devon?' he but gave a wrathful groan, Saying, 'Your sweet faces make good fellows fools And traitors. Call the host and bid him bring Charger and palfrey.' So she glided out Among the heavy breathings of the house, And like a household Spirit at the walls Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and returned: Then tending her rough lord, though all unasked, In silence, did him service as a squire; Till issuing armed he found the host and cried, 'Thy reckoning, friend?' and ere he learnt it, 'Take Five horses and their armours;' and the host Suddenly honest, answered in amaze, 'My lord, I scarce have spent the worth of one!' 'Ye will be all the wealthier,' said the Prince, And then to Enid, 'Forward! and today I charge you, Enid, more especially, What thing soever ye may hear, or see, Or fancy (though I count it of small use To charge you) that ye speak not but obey.' And Enid answered, 'Yea, my lord, I know Your wish, and would obey; but riding first, I hear the violent threats you do not hear, I see the danger which you cannot see: Then not to give you warning, that seems hard; Almost beyond me: yet I would obey.' 'Yea so,' said he, 'do it: be not too wise; Seeing that ye are wedded to a man, Not all mismated with a yawning clown, But one with arms to guard his head and yours, With eyes to find you out however far, And ears to hear you even in his dreams.' With that he turned and looked as keenly at her As careful robins eye the delver's toil; And that within her, which a wanton fool, Or hasty judger would have called her guilt, Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall. And Geraint looked and was not satisfied. Then forward by a way which, beaten broad, Led from the territory of false Limours To the waste earldom of another earl, Doorm, whom his shaking vassals called the Bull, Went Enid with her sullen follower on. Once she looked back, and when she saw him ride More near by many a rood than yestermorn, It wellnigh made her cheerful; till Geraint Waving an angry hand as who should say 'Ye watch me,' saddened all her heart again. But while the sun yet beat a dewy blade, The sound of many a heavily-galloping hoof Smote on her ear, and turning round she saw Dust, and the points of lances bicker in it. Then not to disobey her lord's behest, And yet to give him warning, for he rode As if he heard not, moving back she held Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. At which the warrior in his obstinacy, Because she kept the letter of his word, Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood. And in the moment after, wild Limours, Borne on a black horse, like a thunder-cloud Whose skirts are loosened by the breaking storm, Half ridden off with by the thing he rode, And all in passion uttering a dry shriek, Dashed down on Geraint, who closed with him, and bore Down by the length of lance and arm beyond The crupper, and so left him stunned or dead, And overthrew the next that followed him, And blindly rushed on all the rout behind. But at the flash and motion of the man They vanished panic-stricken, like a shoal Of darting fish, that on a summer morn Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand, But if a man who stands upon the brink But lift a shining hand against the sun, There is not left the twinkle of a fin Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower; So, scared but at the motion of the man, Fled all the boon companions of the Earl, And left him lying in the public way; So vanish friendships only made in wine. Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint, Who saw the chargers of the two that fell Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly, Mixt with the flyers. 'Horse and man,' he said, 'All of one mind and all right-honest friends! Not a hoof left: and I methinks till now Was honest--paid with horses and with arms; I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg: And so what say ye, shall we strip him there Your lover? has your palfrey heart enough To bear his armour? shall we fast, or dine? No?--then do thou, being right honest, pray That we may meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm, I too would still be honest.' Thus he said: And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins, And answering not one word, she led the way. But as a man to whom a dreadful loss Falls in a far land and he knows it not, But coming back he learns it, and the loss So pains him that he sickens nigh to death; So fared it with Geraint, who being pricked In combat with the follower of Limours, Bled underneath his armour secretly, And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife What ailed him, hardly knowing it himself, Till his eye darkened and his helmet wagged; And at a sudden swerving of the road, Though happily down on a bank of grass, The Prince, without a word, from his horse fell. And Enid heard the clashing of his fall, Suddenly came, and at his side all pale Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms, Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound, And tearing off her veil of faded silk Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun, And swathed the hurt that drained her dear lord's life. Then after all was done that hand could do, She rested, and her desolation came Upon her, and she wept beside the way. And many past, but none regarded her, For in that realm of lawless turbulence, A woman weeping for her murdered mate Was cared as much for as a summer shower: One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm, Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him: Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl; Half whistling and half singing a coarse song, He drove the dust against her veilless eyes: Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm Before an ever-fancied arrow, made The long way smoke beneath him in his fear; At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel, And scoured into the coppices and was lost, While the great charger stood, grieved like a man. But at the point of noon the huge Earl Doorm, Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet beard, Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey, Came riding with a hundred lances up; But ere he came, like one that hails a ship, Cried out with a big voice, 'What, is he dead?' 'No, no, not dead!' she answered in all haste. 'Would some of your people take him up, And bear him hence out of this cruel sun? Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead.' Then said Earl Doorm: 'Well, if he be not dead, Why wail ye for him thus? ye seem a child. And be he dead, I count you for a fool; Your wailing will not quicken him: dead or not, Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears. Yet, since the face is comely--some of you, Here, take him up, and bear him to our hall: An if he live, we will have him of our band; And if he die, why earth has earth enough To hide him. See ye take the charger too, A noble one.' He spake, and past away, But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced, Each growling like a dog, when his good bone Seems to be plucked at by the village boys Who love to vex him eating, and he fears To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it, Gnawing and growling: so the ruffians growled, Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man, Their chance of booty from the morning's raid, Yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier, Such as they brought upon their forays out For those that might be wounded; laid him on it All in the hollow of his shield, and took And bore him to the naked hall of Doorm, (His gentle charger following him unled) And cast him and the bier in which he lay Down on an oaken settle in the hall, And then departed, hot in haste to join Their luckier mates, but growling as before, And cursing their lost time, and the dead man, And their own Earl, and their own souls, and her. They might as well have blest her: she was deaf To blessing or to cursing save from one. So for long hours sat Enid by her lord, There in the naked hall, propping his head, And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him. Till at the last he wakened from his swoon, And found his own dear bride propping his head, And chafing his faint hands, and calling to him; And felt the warm tears falling on his face; And said to his own heart, 'She weeps for me:' And yet lay still, and feigned himself as dead, That he might prove her to the uttermost, And say to his own heart, 'She weeps for me.' But in the falling afternoon returned The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall. His lusty spearmen followed him with noise: Each hurling down a heap of things that rang Against his pavement, cast his lance aside, And doffed his helm: and then there fluttered in, Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes, A tribe of women, dressed in many hues, And mingled with the spearmen: and Earl Doorm Struck with a knife's haft hard against the board, And called for flesh and wine to feed his spears. And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves, And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh: And none spake word, but all sat down at once, And ate with tumult in the naked hall, Feeding like horses when you hear them feed; Till Enid shrank far back into herself, To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe. But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would, He rolled his eyes about the hall, and found A damsel drooping in a corner of it. Then he remembered her, and how she wept; And out of her there came a power upon him; And rising on the sudden he said, 'Eat! I never yet beheld a thing so pale. God's curse, it makes me mad to see you weep. Eat! Look yourself. Good luck had your good man, For were I dead who is it would weep for me? Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath Have I beheld a lily like yourself. And so there lived some colour in your cheek, There is not one among my gentlewomen Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove. But listen to me, and by me be ruled, And I will do the thing I have not done, For ye shall share my earldom with me, girl, And we will live like two birds in one nest, And I will fetch you forage from all fields, For I compel all creatures to my will.' He spoke: the brawny spearman let his cheek Bulge with the unswallowed piece, and turning stared; While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawn Down, as the worm draws in the withered leaf And makes it earth, hissed each at other's ear What shall not be recorded--women they, Women, or what had been those gracious things, But now desired the humbling of their best, Yea, would have helped him to it: and all at once They hated her, who took no thought of them, But answered in low voice, her meek head yet Drooping, 'I pray you of your courtesy, He being as he is, to let me be.' She spake so low he hardly heard her speak, But like a mighty patron, satisfied With what himself had done so graciously, Assumed that she had thanked him, adding, 'Yea, Eat and be glad, for I account you mine.' She answered meekly, 'How should I be glad Henceforth in all the world at anything, Until my lord arise and look upon me?' Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk, As all but empty heart and weariness And sickly nothing; suddenly seized on her, And bare her by main violence to the board, And thrust the dish before her, crying, 'Eat.' 'No, no,' said Enid, vext, 'I will not eat Till yonder man upon the bier arise, And eat with me.' 'Drink, then,' he answered. 'Here!' (And filled a horn with wine and held it to her,) 'Lo! I, myself, when flushed with fight, or hot, God's curse, with anger--often I myself, Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat: Drink therefore and the wine will change thy will.' 'Not so,' she cried, 'by Heaven, I will not drink Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it, And drink with me; and if he rise no more, I will not look at wine until I die.' At this he turned all red and paced his hall, Now gnawed his under, now his upper lip, And coming up close to her, said at last: 'Girl, for I see ye scorn my courtesies, Take warning: yonder man is surely dead; And I compel all creatures to my will. Not eat nor drink? And wherefore wail for one, Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn By dressing it in rags? Amazed am I, Beholding how ye butt against my wish, That I forbear you thus: cross me no more. At least put off to please me this poor gown, This silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed: I love that beauty should go beautifully: For see ye not my gentlewomen here, How gay, how suited to the house of one Who loves that beauty should go beautifully? Rise therefore; robe yourself in this: obey.' He spoke, and one among his gentlewomen Displayed a splendid silk of foreign loom, Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue Played into green, and thicker down the front With jewels than the sward with drops of dew, When all night long a cloud clings to the hill, And with the dawn ascending lets the day Strike where it clung: so thickly shone the gems. But Enid answered, harder to be moved Than hardest tyrants in their day of power, With life-long injuries burning unavenged, And now their hour has come; and Enid said: 'In this poor gown my dear lord found me first, And loved me serving in my father's hall: In this poor gown I rode with him to court, And there the Queen arrayed me like the sun: In this poor gown he bad me clothe myself, When now we rode upon this fatal quest Of honour, where no honour can be gained: And this poor gown I will not cast aside Until himself arise a living man, And bid me cast it. I have griefs enough: Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be: I never loved, can never love but him: Yea, God, I pray you of your gentleness, He being as he is, to let me be.' Then strode the brute Earl up and down his hall, And took his russet beard between his teeth; Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood Crying, 'I count it of no more avail, Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you; Take my salute,' unknightly with flat hand, However lightly, smote her on the cheek. Then Enid, in her utter helplessness, And since she thought, 'He had not dared to do it, Except he surely knew my lord was dead,' Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry, As of a wild thing taken in the trap, Which sees the trapper coming through the wood. This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword, (It lay beside him in the hollow shield), Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it Shore through the swarthy neck, and like a ball The russet-bearded head rolled on the floor. So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead. And all the men and women in the hall Rose when they saw the dead man rise, and fled Yelling as from a spectre, and the two Were left alone together, and he said: 'Enid, I have used you worse than that dead man; Done you more wrong: we both have undergone That trouble which has left me thrice your own: Henceforward I will rather die than doubt. And here I lay this penance on myself, Not, though mine own ears heard you yestermorn-- You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say, I heard you say, that you were no true wife: I swear I will not ask your meaning in it: I do believe yourself against yourself, And will henceforward rather die than doubt.' And Enid could not say one tender word, She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart: She only prayed him, 'Fly, they will return And slay you; fly, your charger is without, My palfrey lost.' 'Then, Enid, shall you ride Behind me.' 'Yea,' said Enid, 'let us go.' And moving out they found the stately horse, Who now no more a vassal to the thief, But free to stretch his limbs in lawful fight, Neighed with all gladness as they came, and stooped With a low whinny toward the pair: and she Kissed the white star upon his noble front, Glad also; then Geraint upon the horse Mounted, and reached a hand, and on his foot She set her own and climbed; he turned his face And kissed her climbing, and she cast her arms About him, and at once they rode away. And never yet, since high in Paradise O'er the four rivers the first roses blew, Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind Than lived through her, who in that perilous hour Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart, And felt him hers again: she did not weep, But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist Like that which kept the heart of Eden green Before the useful trouble of the rain: Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes As not to see before them on the path, Right in the gateway of the bandit hold, A knight of Arthur's court, who laid his lance In rest, and made as if to fall upon him. Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of blood, She, with her mind all full of what had chanced, Shrieked to the stranger 'Slay not a dead man!' 'The voice of Enid,' said the knight; but she, Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd, Was moved so much the more, and shrieked again, 'O cousin, slay not him who gave you life.' And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake: 'My lord Geraint, I greet you with all love; I took you for a bandit knight of Doorm; And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him, Who love you, Prince, with something of the love Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us. For once, when I was up so high in pride That I was halfway down the slope to Hell, By overthrowing me you threw me higher. Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table Round, And since I knew this Earl, when I myself Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm (The King is close behind me) bidding him Disband himself, and scatter all his powers, Submit, and hear the judgment of the King.' 'He hears the judgment of the King of kings,' Cried the wan Prince; 'and lo, the powers of Doorm Are scattered,' and he pointed to the field, Where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll, Were men and women staring and aghast, While some yet fled; and then he plainlier told How the huge Earl lay slain within his hall. But when the knight besought him, 'Follow me, Prince, to the camp, and in the King's own ear Speak what has chanced; ye surely have endured Strange chances here alone;' that other flushed, And hung his head, and halted in reply, Fearing the mild face of the blameless King, And after madness acted question asked: Till Edyrn crying, 'If ye will not go To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you,' 'Enough,' he said, 'I follow,' and they went. But Enid in their going had two fears, One from the bandit scattered in the field, And one from Edyrn. Every now and then, When Edyrn reined his charger at her side, She shrank a little. In a hollow land, From which old fires have broken, men may fear Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said: 'Fair and dear cousin, you that most had cause To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed. Yourself were first the blameless cause to make My nature's prideful sparkle in the blood Break into furious flame; being repulsed By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and wrought Until I overturned him; then set up (With one main purpose ever at my heart) My haughty jousts, and took a paramour; Did her mock-honour as the fairest fair, And, toppling over all antagonism, So waxed in pride, that I believed myself Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad: And, but for my main purpose in these jousts, I should have slain your father, seized yourself. I lived in hope that sometime you would come To these my lists with him whom best you loved; And there, poor cousin, with your meek blue eyes The truest eyes that ever answered Heaven, Behold me overturn and trample on him. Then, had you cried, or knelt, or prayed to me, I should not less have killed him. And so you came,-- But once you came,--and with your own true eyes Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one Speaks of a service done him) overthrow My proud self, and my purpose three years old, And set his foot upon me, and give me life. There was I broken down; there was I saved: Though thence I rode all-shamed, hating the life He gave me, meaning to be rid of it. And all the penance the Queen laid upon me Was but to rest awhile within her court; Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged, And waiting to be treated like a wolf, Because I knew my deeds were known, I found, Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn, Such fine reserve and noble reticence, Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace Of tenderest courtesy, that I began To glance behind me at my former life, And find that it had been the wolf's indeed: And oft I talked with Dubric, the high saint, Who, with mild heat of holy oratory, Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness, Which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man. And you were often there about the Queen, But saw me not, or marked not if you saw; Nor did I care or dare to speak with you, But kept myself aloof till I was changed; And fear not, cousin; I am changed indeed.' He spoke, and Enid easily believed, Like simple noble natures, credulous Of what they long for, good in friend or foe, There most in those who most have done them ill. And when they reached the camp the King himself Advanced to greet them, and beholding her Though pale, yet happy, asked her not a word, But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held In converse for a little, and returned, And, gravely smiling, lifted her from horse, And kissed her with all pureness, brother-like, And showed an empty tent allotted her, And glancing for a minute, till he saw her Pass into it, turned to the Prince, and said: 'Prince, when of late ye prayed me for my leave To move to your own land, and there defend Your marches, I was pricked with some reproof, As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be, By having looked too much through alien eyes, And wrought too long with delegated hands, Not used mine own: but now behold me come To cleanse this common sewer of all my realm, With Edyrn and with others: have ye looked At Edyrn? have ye seen how nobly changed? This work of his is great and wonderful. His very face with change of heart is changed. The world will not believe a man repents: And this wise world of ours is mainly right. Full seldom doth a man repent, or use Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch Of blood and custom wholly out of him, And make all clean, and plant himself afresh. Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart As I will weed this land before I go. I, therefore, made him of our Table Round, Not rashly, but have proved him everyway One of our noblest, our most valorous, Sanest and most obedient: and indeed This work of Edyrn wrought upon himself After a life of violence, seems to me A thousand-fold more great and wonderful Than if some knight of mine, risking his life, My subject with my subjects under him, Should make an onslaught single on a realm Of robbers, though he slew them one by one, And were himself nigh wounded to the death.' So spake the King; low bowed the Prince, and felt His work was neither great nor wonderful, And past to Enid's tent; and thither came The King's own leech to look into his hurt; And Enid tended on him there; and there Her constant motion round him, and the breath Of her sweet tendance hovering over him, Filled all the genial courses of his blood With deeper and with ever deeper love, As the south-west that blowing Bala lake Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days. But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt, The blameless King went forth and cast his eyes On each of all whom Uther left in charge Long since, to guard the justice of the King: He looked and found them wanting; and as now Men weed the white horse on the Berkshire hills To keep him bright and clean as heretofore, He rooted out the slothful officer Or guilty, which for bribe had winked at wrong, And in their chairs set up a stronger race With hearts and hands, and sent a thousand men To till the wastes, and moving everywhere Cleared the dark places and let in the law, And broke the bandit holds and cleansed the land. Then, when Geraint was whole again, they past With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk. There the great Queen once more embraced her friend, And clothed her in apparel like the day. And though Geraint could never take again That comfort from their converse which he took Before the Queen's fair name was breathed upon, He rested well content that all was well. Thence after tarrying for a space they rode, And fifty knights rode with them to the shores Of Severn, and they past to their own land. And there he kept the justice of the King So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts Applauded, and the spiteful whisper died: And being ever foremost in the chase, And victor at the tilt and tournament, They called him the great Prince and man of men. But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call Enid the Fair, a grateful people named Enid the Good; and in their halls arose The cry of children, Enids and Geraints Of times to be; nor did he doubt her more, But rested in her fealty, till he crowned A happy life with a fair death, and fell Against the heathen of the Northern Sea In battle, fighting for the blameless King. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Geraint und Enid brechen an eben diesem Morgen zu ihrer Reise auf. Alle ihre Schwierigkeiten, so bemerkt der Dichter, sind auf Geraints Anfälligkeit für das gewöhnliche, menschliche Versagen zurückzuführen, Wahrheit und Falschheit nicht unterscheiden zu können. Geraint befiehlt Enid, vor ihm zu reiten und nicht zu sprechen, egal wie sehr sie provoziert wird. Vielleicht, so deutet Tennyson an, gibt er diesen Befehl, weil er sie immer noch liebt und befürchtet, dass er sie in einem Ausbruch seiner grüblerischen Eifersucht verletzen könnte. Bevor sie drei Schritte geritten sind, brüllt Geraint: "So feminin ich auch bin, ich werde mich nicht mit vergoldeten Waffen meinen Weg bahnen, alles wird aus Eisen sein..." Er wirft seine Börse weg und schickt seinen Knappen nach Hause. Die beiden reiten langsam in die banditenverseuchte Wildnis von Devon. Weder spricht, und beide sehen blass und unglücklich aus. Enid sinniert traurig: "Wenn so etwas in mir steckt,könnte ich es durch die Gnade des Himmels verbessern,wenn er nur sprechen und es mir erzählen würde." Nach einer Weile bemerkt Enid drei Ritter und belauscht sie, wie sie planen, Geraint anzugreifen. Er reitet so lustlos, dass sie keine Furcht in ihnen hervorruft. Sie möchte seinen Befehl nicht missachten, aber sie fürchtet, dass ihm etwas zustoßen könnte. Schließlich kehrt sie um und warnt ihn. Anstatt sich zu bedanken, kritisiert Geraint Enid für ihren Ungehorsam und stichelt sie wegen seines Verdachts, dass sie ihn wirklich besiegt sehen möchte. Geraint kämpft gegen die Ritter und siegt. Er stapelt die Rüstungen der toten Ritter auf ihre Pferde und lässt Enid sie anführen, während sie reitet. Die gleiche Episode wiederholt sich mit drei anderen Rittern, und wieder tadel Geraint Enid für ihren Ungehorsam. Er ist in jedem Kampf siegreich. Nun ist Enid gezwungen, sechs erbeutete Pferde anzuführen. Geraint hat etwas Mitleid mit ihrer Schwierigkeit, sie zu handhaben, bietet aber keine Hilfe an. Am Nachmittag essen Geraint und Enid mit einigen Landarbeitern und werden dann zu einer Herberge für die Nacht geführt. Nachdem sie für Unterkunft gesorgt haben, bleibt Geraint düster und gemein. Später am Abend werden sie in der Herberge vom örtlichen Herrscher Earl Limours, der zufällig einmal Werber von Enid war, besucht. Limours ist ein grober Säufer, und Geraint lässt ihn rücksichtslos alle möglichen derben Witze auf Kosten von Enid machen, sehr zu ihrem Leidwesen und ihrer Verlegenheit. Bevor er in der Nacht geht, teilt Limours Enid mit, dass er sie immer noch liebt und am nächsten Morgen vorhat, sie aus den Fängen ihres grausamen Ehemanns zu befreien. Als der Tag anbricht, warnt Enid Geraint vor der Verschwörung. Er verdächtigt sie natürlich, den Earl ermutigt zu haben, und ist wütend. Sie verlassen die Herberge sofort, werden aber von Limours und seinen Anhängern verfolgt. In einem Laufkampf gelingt es Geraint, sie abzuwehren. Bald darauf betreten das unglückliche Paar das gesetzlose Gebiet von Earl Doorm the Bull. Plötzlich bricht Geraint zusammen, denn er wurde bei der Schlacht mit Limours' Männern verwundet, aber sagte nichts darüber. Seine Verletzung ist schwer, und Enid ist machtlos, ihm zu helfen. Sie sitzt an seiner Seite und weint, während er bewusstlos daliegt. Alle Passanten haben Angst, jede Hilfe anzubieten. Nach einiger Zeit reitet Doorm mit seinen Soldaten vorbei, die von einem Raubzug zurückkehren. Das Interesse des geächteten Earls wird von der schönen Jungfrau geweckt, und er befragt sie. Doorm besteht darauf, dass der verwundete Ritter tot ist, aber Enid will ihm nicht glauben. Doorm sagt: "Nun gut, wenn er nicht tot ist,warum weint ihr dann so? Ihr scheint ein Kind zu sein.Und ist er tot, halte ich euch für einen Narren;Euer Wehklagen wird ihn nicht zum Leben erwecken, tot oder nicht,Ihr verunstaltet ein schönes Gesicht mit idiotischen Tränen..." Der Geächteten-Häuptling lässt seine Soldaten Geraints Leichnam und Enid herbeibringen. In Doorms Halle wird an diesem Abend ein Bankett abgehalten. Seine groben Soldaten und ihre anzüglichen Frauen trinken schwer und tauschen derbe Scherze aus. In der Zwischenzeit sitzt Enid in einer Ecke und kümmert sich um Geraints Leichnam. Sie weigert sich zu essen oder zu trinken und ist besessen von dem Gedanken, dass er noch lebt. Doorm nähert sich Enid und versucht, sie mit Essen, Trinken und neuen Kleidern dazu zu zwingen, seine Mätresse zu werden. Geraint kommt zu sich und belauscht dies, gibt jedoch vor, tot zu sein, um Enids Treue zu ihm zu testen. Sie lehnt weiterhin Doorms Annäherungsversuche ab, und der Earl schlägt sie wütend. Geraint springt auf und ersticht den Räuberhauptmann. Die Soldaten und Frauen fliehen in Panik. Geraint entschuldigt sich bei Enid für seinen Missbrauch ihrer Person, und die beiden fliehen dann, aus Angst vor Doorms Speerträgern Rache zu nehmen. Als sie zusammen auf einem Pferd davon galoppieren, treffen sie Edyrn, den Sohn von Nudd. Er informiert sie, dass er ein Aufklärungsscout für eine Armee unter Arthurs Führung ist, um diese Provinz von Dieben und Geächteten zu befreien. Er bietet an, sie zum Lager des Königs zu führen. Zuerst hat Enid Angst vor ihrem Cousin, aber er informiert sie, dass sie keine Grund mehr zur Sorge hat. Durch den Einfluss von Guinevere, Dubric und anderen am Hofe ist er ein geläuterter Mann geworden und ist nun ein Ritter der Tafelrunde. Im Lager berichtet Geraint Arthur. Der König teilt ihm mit, dass seine ursprüngliche Bitte, nach Devon zurückzukehren, eine Erinnerung an die traurigen Zustände in diesem Gebiet gewesen sei und die jetzige Strafexpedition motiviert habe. Außerdem lobt Arthur die Veränderung im Charakter von Edyrn und äußert Stolz auf den moralischen Einfluss, den sein Hof auf den jungen Mann gehabt hat. Nach diesem Lob schämt sich Geraint zutiefst für sein tadelnswertes und sinnloses Verhalten. Geraints Wunden werden von Arthurs eigenem Chirurgen versorgt. In ihrem Zelt in dieser Nacht versöhnen sich Geraint und Enid. Inzwischen setzt Arthur seine Polizeiaktionen in diesem gesetzlosen Gebiet fort. Neue Beamte und Richter werden ernannt, um "die Gerechtigkeit des Königs zu wahren", und die Armee zerstört alle Schlupfwinkel der Banditen. Als Geraint wieder gesund ist, kehren sie alle nach Caerleon zurück. Guinevere und Enid erneuern ihre Freundschaft, und obwohl Geraint nie wieder so glücklich über ihre Beziehung ist wie früher, misstraut er seiner Frau nicht mehr. Später kehrt das glückliche Paar nach Devon zurück. Geraints ritterliches und lobenswertes Verhalten als Herrscher und Ritter beendet alle Gerüchte über ihn. Im Laufe der Zeit werden ihnen Kinder geboren, und die kleine Familie lebt ein glückliches und langes Leben zusammen. Nie mehr zweifelt Geraint an der Liebe oder Treue von Enid. Viele Jahre später stirbt Geraint einen edlen Tod im Kampf für den König in einer Schlacht gegen die nördlichen Heiden.

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: With my stepping ashore I began the most unhappy part of my adventures. It was half-past twelve in the morning, and though the wind was broken by the land, it was a cold night. I dared not sit down (for I thought I should have frozen), but took off my shoes and walked to and fro upon the sand, bare-foot, and beating my breast with infinite weariness. There was no sound of man or cattle; not a cock crew, though it was about the hour of their first waking; only the surf broke outside in the distance, which put me in mind of my perils and those of my friend. To walk by the sea at that hour of the morning, and in a place so desert-like and lonesome, struck me with a kind of fear. As soon as the day began to break I put on my shoes and climbed a hill--the ruggedest scramble I ever undertook--falling, the whole way, between big blocks of granite, or leaping from one to another. When I got to the top the dawn was come. There was no sign of the brig, which must have lifted from the reef and sunk. The boat, too, was nowhere to be seen. There was never a sail upon the ocean; and in what I could see of the land was neither house nor man. I was afraid to think what had befallen my shipmates, and afraid to look longer at so empty a scene. What with my wet clothes and weariness, and my belly that now began to ache with hunger, I had enough to trouble me without that. So I set off eastward along the south coast, hoping to find a house where I might warm myself, and perhaps get news of those I had lost. And at the worst, I considered the sun would soon rise and dry my clothes. After a little, my way was stopped by a creek or inlet of the sea, which seemed to run pretty deep into the land; and as I had no means to get across, I must needs change my direction to go about the end of it. It was still the roughest kind of walking; indeed the whole, not only of Earraid, but of the neighbouring part of Mull (which they call the Ross) is nothing but a jumble of granite rocks with heather in among. At first the creek kept narrowing as I had looked to see; but presently to my surprise it began to widen out again. At this I scratched my head, but had still no notion of the truth: until at last I came to a rising ground, and it burst upon me all in a moment that I was cast upon a little barren isle, and cut off on every side by the salt seas. Instead of the sun rising to dry me, it came on to rain, with a thick mist; so that my case was lamentable. I stood in the rain, and shivered, and wondered what to do, till it occurred to me that perhaps the creek was fordable. Back I went to the narrowest point and waded in. But not three yards from shore, I plumped in head over ears; and if ever I was heard of more, it was rather by God's grace than my own prudence. I was no wetter (for that could hardly be), but I was all the colder for this mishap; and having lost another hope was the more unhappy. And now, all at once, the yard came in my head. What had carried me through the roost would surely serve me to cross this little quiet creek in safety. With that I set off, undaunted, across the top of the isle, to fetch and carry it back. It was a weary tramp in all ways, and if hope had not buoyed me up, I must have cast myself down and given up. Whether with the sea salt, or because I was growing fevered, I was distressed with thirst, and had to stop, as I went, and drink the peaty water out of the hags. I came to the bay at last, more dead than alive; and at the first glance, I thought the yard was something farther out than when I left it. In I went, for the third time, into the sea. The sand was smooth and firm, and shelved gradually down, so that I could wade out till the water was almost to my neck and the little waves splashed into my face. But at that depth my feet began to leave me, and I durst venture in no farther. As for the yard, I saw it bobbing very quietly some twenty feet beyond. I had borne up well until this last disappointment; but at that I came ashore, and flung myself down upon the sands and wept. The time I spent upon the island is still so horrible a thought to me, that I must pass it lightly over. In all the books I have read of people cast away, they had either their pockets full of tools, or a chest of things would be thrown upon the beach along with them, as if on purpose. My case was very different. I had nothing in my pockets but money and Alan's silver button; and being inland bred, I was as much short of knowledge as of means. I knew indeed that shell-fish were counted good to eat; and among the rocks of the isle I found a great plenty of limpets, which at first I could scarcely strike from their places, not knowing quickness to be needful. There were, besides, some of the little shells that we call buckies; I think periwinkle is the English name. Of these two I made my whole diet, devouring them cold and raw as I found them; and so hungry was I, that at first they seemed to me delicious. Perhaps they were out of season, or perhaps there was something wrong in the sea about my island. But at least I had no sooner eaten my first meal than I was seized with giddiness and retching, and lay for a long time no better than dead. A second trial of the same food (indeed I had no other) did better with me, and revived my strength. But as long as I was on the island, I never knew what to expect when I had eaten; sometimes all was well, and sometimes I was thrown into a miserable sickness; nor could I ever distinguish what particular fish it was that hurt me. All day it streamed rain; the island ran like a sop, there was no dry spot to be found; and when I lay down that night, between two boulders that made a kind of roof, my feet were in a bog. The second day I crossed the island to all sides. There was no one part of it better than another; it was all desolate and rocky; nothing living on it but game birds which I lacked the means to kill, and the gulls which haunted the outlying rocks in a prodigious number. But the creek, or strait, that cut off the isle from the main-land of the Ross, opened out on the north into a bay, and the bay again opened into the Sound of Iona; and it was the neighbourhood of this place that I chose to be my home; though if I had thought upon the very name of home in such a spot, I must have burst out weeping. I had good reasons for my choice. There was in this part of the isle a little hut of a house like a pig's hut, where fishers used to sleep when they came there upon their business; but the turf roof of it had fallen entirely in; so that the hut was of no use to me, and gave me less shelter than my rocks. What was more important, the shell-fish on which I lived grew there in great plenty; when the tide was out I could gather a peck at a time: and this was doubtless a convenience. But the other reason went deeper. I had become in no way used to the horrid solitude of the isle, but still looked round me on all sides (like a man that was hunted), between fear and hope that I might see some human creature coming. Now, from a little up the hillside over the bay, I could catch a sight of the great, ancient church and the roofs of the people's houses in Iona. And on the other hand, over the low country of the Ross, I saw smoke go up, morning and evening, as if from a homestead in a hollow of the land. I used to watch this smoke, when I was wet and cold, and had my head half turned with loneliness; and think of the fireside and the company, till my heart burned. It was the same with the roofs of Iona. Altogether, this sight I had of men's homes and comfortable lives, although it put a point on my own sufferings, yet it kept hope alive, and helped me to eat my raw shell-fish (which had soon grown to be a disgust), and saved me from the sense of horror I had whenever I was quite alone with dead rocks, and fowls, and the rain, and the cold sea. I say it kept hope alive; and indeed it seemed impossible that I should be left to die on the shores of my own country, and within view of a church-tower and the smoke of men's houses. But the second day passed; and though as long as the light lasted I kept a bright look-out for boats on the Sound or men passing on the Ross, no help came near me. It still rained, and I turned in to sleep, as wet as ever, and with a cruel sore throat, but a little comforted, perhaps, by having said good-night to my next neighbours, the people of Iona. Charles the Second declared a man could stay outdoors more days in the year in the climate of England than in any other. This was very like a king, with a palace at his back and changes of dry clothes. But he must have had better luck on his flight from Worcester than I had on that miserable isle. It was the height of the summer; yet it rained for more than twenty-four hours, and did not clear until the afternoon of the third day. This was the day of incidents. In the morning I saw a red deer, a buck with a fine spread of antlers, standing in the rain on the top of the island; but he had scarce seen me rise from under my rock, before he trotted off upon the other side. I supposed he must have swum the strait; though what should bring any creature to Earraid, was more than I could fancy. A little after, as I was jumping about after my limpets, I was startled by a guinea-piece, which fell upon a rock in front of me and glanced off into the sea. When the sailors gave me my money again, they kept back not only about a third of the whole sum, but my father's leather purse; so that from that day out, I carried my gold loose in a pocket with a button. I now saw there must be a hole, and clapped my hand to the place in a great hurry. But this was to lock the stable door after the steed was stolen. I had left the shore at Queensferry with near on fifty pounds; now I found no more than two guinea-pieces and a silver shilling. It is true I picked up a third guinea a little after, where it lay shining on a piece of turf. That made a fortune of three pounds and four shillings, English money, for a lad, the rightful heir of an estate, and now starving on an isle at the extreme end of the wild Highlands. This state of my affairs dashed me still further; and, indeed my plight on that third morning was truly pitiful. My clothes were beginning to rot; my stockings in particular were quite worn through, so that my shanks went naked; my hands had grown quite soft with the continual soaking; my throat was very sore, my strength had much abated, and my heart so turned against the horrid stuff I was condemned to eat, that the very sight of it came near to sicken me. And yet the worst was not yet come. There is a pretty high rock on the northwest of Earraid, which (because it had a flat top and overlooked the Sound) I was much in the habit of frequenting; not that ever I stayed in one place, save when asleep, my misery giving me no rest. Indeed, I wore myself down with continual and aimless goings and comings in the rain. As soon, however, as the sun came out, I lay down on the top of that rock to dry myself. The comfort of the sunshine is a thing I cannot tell. It set me thinking hopefully of my deliverance, of which I had begun to despair; and I scanned the sea and the Ross with a fresh interest. On the south of my rock, a part of the island jutted out and hid the open ocean, so that a boat could thus come quite near me upon that side, and I be none the wiser. Well, all of a sudden, a coble with a brown sail and a pair of fishers aboard of it, came flying round that corner of the isle, bound for Iona. I shouted out, and then fell on my knees on the rock and reached up my hands and prayed to them. They were near enough to hear--I could even see the colour of their hair; and there was no doubt but they observed me, for they cried out in the Gaelic tongue, and laughed. But the boat never turned aside, and flew on, right before my eyes, for Iona. I could not believe such wickedness, and ran along the shore from rock to rock, crying on them piteously even after they were out of reach of my voice, I still cried and waved to them; and when they were quite gone, I thought my heart would have burst. All the time of my troubles I wept only twice. Once, when I could not reach the yard, and now, the second time, when these fishers turned a deaf ear to my cries. But this time I wept and roared like a wicked child, tearing up the turf with my nails, and grinding my face in the earth. If a wish would kill men, those two fishers would never have seen morning, and I should likely have died upon my island. When I was a little over my anger, I must eat again, but with such loathing of the mess as I could now scarce control. Sure enough, I should have done as well to fast, for my fishes poisoned me again. I had all my first pains; my throat was so sore I could scarce swallow; I had a fit of strong shuddering, which clucked my teeth together; and there came on me that dreadful sense of illness, which we have no name for either in Scotch or English. I thought I should have died, and made my peace with God, forgiving all men, even my uncle and the fishers; and as soon as I had thus made up my mind to the worst, clearness came upon me; I observed the night was falling dry; my clothes were dried a good deal; truly, I was in a better case than ever before, since I had landed on the isle; and so I got to sleep at last, with a thought of gratitude. The next day (which was the fourth of this horrible life of mine) I found my bodily strength run very low. But the sun shone, the air was sweet, and what I managed to eat of the shell-fish agreed well with me and revived my courage. I was scarce back on my rock (where I went always the first thing after I had eaten) before I observed a boat coming down the Sound, and with her head, as I thought, in my direction. I began at once to hope and fear exceedingly; for I thought these men might have thought better of their cruelty and be coming back to my assistance. But another disappointment, such as yesterday's, was more than I could bear. I turned my back, accordingly, upon the sea, and did not look again till I had counted many hundreds. The boat was still heading for the island. The next time I counted the full thousand, as slowly as I could, my heart beating so as to hurt me. And then it was out of all question. She was coming straight to Earraid! I could no longer hold myself back, but ran to the seaside and out, from one rock to another, as far as I could go. It is a marvel I was not drowned; for when I was brought to a stand at last, my legs shook under me, and my mouth was so dry, I must wet it with the sea-water before I was able to shout. All this time the boat was coming on; and now I was able to perceive it was the same boat and the same two men as yesterday. This I knew by their hair, which the one had of a bright yellow and the other black. But now there was a third man along with them, who looked to be of a better class. As soon as they were come within easy speech, they let down their sail and lay quiet. In spite of my supplications, they drew no nearer in, and what frightened me most of all, the new man tee-hee'd with laughter as he talked and looked at me. Then he stood up in the boat and addressed me a long while, speaking fast and with many wavings of his hand. I told him I had no Gaelic; and at this he became very angry, and I began to suspect he thought he was talking English. Listening very close, I caught the word "whateffer" several times; but all the rest was Gaelic and might have been Greek and Hebrew for me. "Whatever," said I, to show him I had caught a word. "Yes, yes--yes, yes," says he, and then he looked at the other men, as much as to say, "I told you I spoke English," and began again as hard as ever in the Gaelic. This time I picked out another word, "tide." Then I had a flash of hope. I remembered he was always waving his hand towards the mainland of the Ross. "Do you mean when the tide is out--?" I cried, and could not finish. "Yes, yes," said he. "Tide." At that I turned tail upon their boat (where my adviser had once more begun to tee-hee with laughter), leaped back the way I had come, from one stone to another, and set off running across the isle as I had never run before. In about half an hour I came out upon the shores of the creek; and, sure enough, it was shrunk into a little trickle of water, through which I dashed, not above my knees, and landed with a shout on the main island. A sea-bred boy would not have stayed a day on Earraid; which is only what they call a tidal islet, and except in the bottom of the neaps, can be entered and left twice in every twenty-four hours, either dry-shod, or at the most by wading. Even I, who had the tide going out and in before me in the bay, and even watched for the ebbs, the better to get my shellfish--even I (I say) if I had sat down to think, instead of raging at my fate, must have soon guessed the secret, and got free. It was no wonder the fishers had not understood me. The wonder was rather that they had ever guessed my pitiful illusion, and taken the trouble to come back. I had starved with cold and hunger on that island for close upon one hundred hours. But for the fishers, I might have left my bones there, in pure folly. And even as it was, I had paid for it pretty dear, not only in past sufferings, but in my present case; being clothed like a beggar-man, scarce able to walk, and in great pain of my sore throat. I have seen wicked men and fools, a great many of both; and I believe they both get paid in the end; but the fools first. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Im Kapitel XIII versuchen die Männer daher, das Boot durch eine gemeinsame Anstrengung zu retten, aber die Kraft der Natur ist einfach zu stark, um sich dieser Einheit zu unterwerfen. Das Thema Mensch gegen Natur wird im weiteren Verlauf weiter erforscht. Wie wir zuvor besprochen haben, sind Davids Abenteuer symbolisch eine Übergangsphase auf seinem Weg zum Erwachsenwerden. Wir wurden sofort auf dieses Thema aufmerksam, als das Buch mit Davids Abreise von zu Hause nach dem Tod seiner Eltern begann. Nach Davids Reise zum Haus seines Onkels findet seine nächste große Reise auf dem Schiff, der Covenant, statt. Eigentlich sollte er als Sklave verkauft werden, wenn das Schiff Amerika erreicht, aber mit Davids Glück verlässt das Schiff nie die Gewässer um Schottland herum. Das Leben an Bord des Schiffes wird für David langsam und progressiv klarer. Je näher er jedem Hindernis kommt, desto klarer wird das Hindernis und löst sich auf, was die Herausforderungen auf dem Weg zum Erwachsenwerden symbolisiert, die man überwinden muss. David und Alan haben erfolgreich die Schiffsbesatzung abgewehrt und die Kontrolle über das Gefängnis erlangt. Um den Frieden zu symbolisieren, kommt die Sonne heraus. Aber bald sprudeln die normalen Gewässer in Fontänen hoch und zeigen, dass rund um das Schiff Riffe liegen. David ist nicht bereit für dieses Hindernis. Er tut sehr wenig, um zu helfen, wird größtenteils herumgeschleudert und schließlich komplett über Bord geworfen und fortgespült. Metaphorisch gesehen hat David noch viel Arbeit vor sich. Die Riffe sind eine Weckruf, der David vom Schiff trennt, das eine Art Gebärmutter war und ihm neues Selbstvertrauen gegeben hat, und ihn auf einen Zustand reduziert, in dem er sich allein auf sich selbst und die Natur verlassen muss.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. KAPITEL: | JUNIOR Avonlea fand es schwer, sich wieder an das langweilige Leben zu gewöhnen. Für Anne schienen die Dinge besonders furchtbar flach, fade und unrentabel nach dem aufregenden Bechervoll Erlebnis, von dem sie wochenlang geschlürft hatte. Konnte sie sich wieder den früheren ruhigen Vergnügungen jener fernen Tage vor dem Konzert hingeben? Zunächst glaubte sie wirklich nicht, dass sie dazu in der Lage war. "Ich bin absolut sicher, Diana, dass das Leben niemals mehr so sein kann wie in diesen alten Tagen", sagte sie betrübt, als würde sie sich auf einen Zeitraum von mindestens fünfzig Jahren beziehen. "Vielleicht gewöhne ich mich mit der Zeit daran, aber ich fürchte, Konzerte verderben die Menschen für das gewöhnliche Leben. Ich nehme an, deshalb missbilligt Marilla sie. Marilla ist eine so vernünftige Frau. Es muss viel besser sein, vernünftig zu sein; aber trotzdem glaube ich nicht, dass ich wirklich eine vernünftige Person sein möchte, weil sie so unromantisch sind. Mrs. Lynde sagt, dass ich niemals eine vernünftige Person werde, aber man kann nie wissen. Ich habe gerade jetzt das Gefühl, dass ich irgendwann vernünftig werde. Aber vielleicht liegt das nur daran, dass ich müde bin. Ich konnte letzte Nacht einfach nicht schlafen, eine Ewigkeit lang. Ich habe einfach wach gelegen und mir das Konzert immer wieder vorgestellt. Das ist das großartige an solchen Ereignissen - es ist so schön, sich daran zurückzuerinnern." Schließlich aber kehrte die Avonlea-Schule in ihre alten Bahnen zurück und nahm ihre alten Interessen wieder auf. Natürlich hinterließ das Konzert seine Spuren. Ruby Gillis und Emma White, die sich über eine Frage der Vorreihung in ihren Sitzplätzen gestritten hatten, saßen nicht mehr zusammen an einem Tisch, und eine vielversprechende Freundschaft von drei Jahren war zerbrochen. Josie Pye und Julia Bell "sprachen" drei Monate lang nicht mehr miteinander, weil Josie Pye Bessie Wright erzählt hatte, dass Julia Bells Verbeugung, als sie aufstand, um etwas vorzutragen, sie an ein Huhn erinnerte, das den Kopf bewegte, und Bessie es Julia erzählt hatte. Keiner der Sloanes wollte noch etwas mit den Bells zu tun haben, weil die Bells behauptet hatten, dass die Sloanes im Programm zu viel zu tun hatten, und die Sloanes hatten erwidert, dass die Bells nicht in der Lage seien, das Wenige, das sie zu tun hatten, ordentlich zu erledigen. Schließlich bekämpfte Charlie Sloane Moody Spurgeon MacPherson, weil Moody Spurgeon gesagt hatte, dass Anne Shirley angeberisch mit ihren Vorträgen sei, und Moody Spurgeon wurde geschlagen; folglich "sprach" Moody Spurgeons Schwester Ella May den restlichen Winter über nicht mehr mit Anne Shirley. Von diesen belanglosen Spannungen abgesehen, verlief die Arbeit in Miss Stacys kleinem Königreich regelmäßig und reibungslos. Die Winterwochen vergingen. Es war ein ungewöhnlich milder Winter mit so wenig Schnee, dass Anne und Diana fast jeden Tag auf dem Weg über den Birkenweg zur Schule gehen konnten. An Annes Geburtstag gingen sie leichtfüßig daran entlang und hielten dabei ihre Augen und Ohren inmitten ihres Geplappers aufmerksam, denn Miss Stacy hatte ihnen gesagt, dass sie bald eine Aufsatz über "Ein Winterspaziergang im Wald" schreiben müssten, und es gebührte ihnen, aufmerksam zu sein. "Stell dir vor, Diana, heute werde ich dreizehn Jahre alt", bemerkte Anne mit ehrfürchtiger Stimme. "Ich kann kaum begreifen, dass ich jetzt in meinen Teenager-Jahren bin. Als ich heute Morgen aufwachte, schien mir alles anders zu sein. Du bist schon seit einem Monat dreizehn, also scheint es dir nicht so neu zu sein wie mir. Das macht das Leben so viel interessanter. In zwei Jahren werde ich wirklich erwachsen sein. Es ist ein großer Trost zu wissen, dass ich dann große Worte verwenden kann, ohne ausgelacht zu werden." "Ruby Gillis sagt, sie will sich einen Verehrer suchen, sobald sie fünfzehn ist", sagte Diana. "Ruby Gillis denkt nur an Verehrer", sagte Anne geringschätzig. "Sie ist sogar begeistert, wenn jemand ihren Namen in einem Nachruf veröffentlicht, obwohl sie vorgibt, so wütend zu sein. Aber ich fürchte, das ist eine herzlose Bemerkung. Mrs. Allan sagt, wir sollten niemals herzlose Bemerkungen machen, aber sie kommen so oft heraus, bevor man darüber nachdenkt, nicht wahr? Ich kann einfach nicht über Josie Pye sprechen, ohne eine herzlose Bemerkung zu machen, daher erwähne ich sie überhaupt nicht. Du hast das vielleicht bemerkt. Ich versuche, so viel wie möglich wie Mrs. Allan zu sein, weil ich denke, dass sie perfekt ist. Mr. Allan denkt das auch. Mrs. Lynde sagt, dass er den Boden, den sie betritt, anbetet, und sie denkt nicht wirklich, dass es für einen Pastor richtig ist, seine Zuneigung so stark auf ein menschliches Wesen zu richten. Aber selbst Pastoren sind Menschen und haben ihre Schwächen, genau wie alle anderen auch. Ich habe letzten Sonntagnachmittag ein sehr interessantes Gespräch mit Mrs. Allan über Schwächen geführt. Es gibt nur wenige Dinge, über die es am Sonntag angemessen ist zu sprechen, und das ist eines davon. Meine Schwäche besteht darin, mir zu viel vorzustellen und meine Pflichten zu vergessen. Ich bemühe mich sehr, sie zu überwinden, und jetzt, da ich wirklich dreizehn bin, werde ich es vielleicht besser schaffen." "In vier Jahren können wir uns die Haare hochstecken", sagte Diana. "Alice Bell ist erst sechzehn und trägt ihr Haar hochgesteckt, aber ich finde das albern. Ich werde warten, bis ich siebzehn bin." "Wenn ich Alice Bells schief Nase hätte", sagte Anne entschieden, "würde ich... aber da! Ich werde nicht sagen, was ich sagen wollte, weil es extrem herzlos wäre. Außerdem habe ich es mit meiner eigenen Nase verglichen und das ist Eitelkeit. Ich fürchte, ich denke zu viel über meine Nase nach, seit ich vor langer Zeit das Kompliment darüber gehört habe. Sie ist wirklich ein großer Trost für mich. Oh, Diana, schau, da ist ein Hase. Das ist etwas, an das wir uns für unseren Wald-Aufsatz erinnern können. Ich denke wirklich, dass die Wälder im Winter genauso schön sind wie im Sommer. Sie sind so weiß und still, als ob sie schlafen und schöne Träume träumen würden." "Ich werde es nicht ausmachen, wenn es Zeit ist, diesen Aufsatz zu schreiben", seufzte Diana. "Ich kann es schaffen, über den Wald zu schreiben, aber den, den wir am Montag abgeben müssen, finde ich schrecklich. Die Idee, dass Miss Stacy uns sagt, wir sollen eine Geschichte aus unseren eigenen Köpfen schreiben!" "Nun ja, das ist so einfach wie zwinkern", sagte Anne. "Für dich ist es einfach, weil du eine Fantasie hast", erwiderte Diana, "aber was würdest du tun, wenn du ohne geboren worden wärst? Ich nehme an, du hast deinen Aufsatz schon fertig?" Anne nickte und versuchte krampfhaft, nicht überheblich zu wirken, was ihr kläglich misslang. "Ich habe ihn letzten Montagabend geschrieben. Er heißt 'Der eifersüchtige Rivale; oder Im Tod nicht getrennt.' Ich habe ihn Marilla vorgelesen und sie sagte, es sei Unsinn. Dann habe ich ihn Matthew vorgelesen und er sagte, er sei toll. So einen Kritiker mag ich. Es ist eine traurige, süße Geschichte. Ich habe wie ein Kind geweint, als ich sie geschrieben habe. Es handelt von zwei wunderschönen Jungfrauen namens Cordelia Montmorency und Geraldine Seymour, die in derselben Stadt lebten und zutiefst miteinander verbunden waren. Cordelia war eine königliche Brünette mit einer Krone aus Mitternachtshaar und dunkel blitzenden Augen. Geraldine war eine königlich blonde Frau mit Haaren wie Goldstaub und samtigen violetten Augen." "Ich habe noch nie jemanden mit violetten Augen gesehen", sagte Diana zweifelnd. "Ich auch nicht. Ich habe sie mir nur vorgestellt. Ich wollte etwas Ungewöhnliches haben. Geraldine hatte außerdem eine alabasterne Stirn. Ich habe herausgefunden, was eine alabasterne Stirn ist. Das ist einer der Vorteile, wenn man dreizehn ist. Du weißt so viel mehr als du gewusst hast, als du erst zwölf warst." "Nun, was ist mit Cordelia und Geraldine passiert?" fragte Diana, die langsam Interesse an ihrem Schicksal entwickelte. Sie wuchsen Seite an Seite in Schönheit heran, bis sie sechzehn waren. Dann kam Bertram DeVere in ihr Heimatdorf und verliebte sich in die blonde Geraldine. Er rettete ihr das Leben, als ihr Pferd mit ihr in einer Kutsche durchging, und sie in seinen Armen ohnmächtig wurde. Er trug sie drei Meilen nach Hause, weil, verstehen Sie, die Kutsche völlig zerstört war. Es fiel mir recht schwer, mir den Heiratsantrag vorzustellen, weil ich keine Erfahrung hatte, an der ich mich orientieren konnte. Ich fragte Ruby Gillis, ob sie etwas darüber wusste, wie Männer einen Antrag machen, da ich dachte, sie sei eine Autorität auf diesem Gebiet, da so viele ihrer Schwestern verheiratet sind. Ruby erzählte mir, sie habe sich im Speisekammerschrank versteckt, als Malcolm Andres ihrer Schwester Susan einen Antrag gemacht habe. Sie sagte, Malcolm habe Susan erzählt, dass sein Vater ihm den Bauernhof auf seinen eigenen Namen überschrieben habe und dann gesagt: "Was sagst du, mein Liebling, wenn wir uns dieses Jahr im Herbst verloben?" Und Susan sagte: "Ja - nein - ich weiß nicht - lass mich sehen" - und schon waren sie verlobt, so schnell ging das. Aber ich fand so einen Heiratsantrag nicht sehr romantisch, also musste ich ihn mir am Ende selbst so gut ich konnte vorstellen. Ich machte ihn sehr blumig und poetisch und Bertram ging auf die Knie, obwohl Ruby Gillis sagt, dass das heutzutage nicht mehr gemacht wird. Geraldine akzeptierte ihn in einer einseitigen Rede. Ich kann Ihnen sagen, ich habe mir viel Mühe damit gegeben. Ich habe sie fünfmal umgeschrieben und betrachte sie als mein Meisterwerk. Bertram schenkte ihr einen Diamantring und eine Rubin-Halskette und sagte ihr, dass sie für eine Hochzeitsreise nach Europa gehen würden, denn er war sehr wohlhabend. Aber dann, ach, begannen sich Schatten über ihren Weg zu legen. Cordelia war heimlich in Bertram verliebt und als Geraldine ihr von der Verlobung erzählte, war sie einfach wütend, besonders als sie die Halskette und den Diamantring sah. Die ganze Zuneigung zu Geraldine verwandelte sich in bitteren Hass und sie schwor, dass sie Bertram niemals heiraten würde. Aber sie gab vor, immer noch Geraldines Freundin zu sein. Eines Abends standen sie auf einer Brücke über einen wilden, reißenden Fluss und Cordelia, der sie dachte, dass sie allein wären, stieß Geraldine mit einem wilden, höhnischen "Ha, ha, ha" über den Abgrund. Aber Bertram sah alles und stürzte sich sofort in die Strömung und rief: "Ich werde dich retten, meine unvergleichliche Geraldine." Aber ach, er hatte vergessen, dass er nicht schwimmen konnte, und sie ertranken beide, ineinander verschränkt. Ihre Leichen wurden bald danach angeschwemmt. Sie wurden in einem gemeinsamen Grab beerdigt und ihre Beerdigung war sehr beeindruckend, Diana. Es ist viel romantischer, eine Geschichte mit einer Beerdigung als mit einer Hochzeit zu beenden. Was Cordelia betrifft, sie wurde vor Reue wahnsinnig und wurde in einer Nervenheilanstalt eingesperrt. Ich fand, das war eine poetische Vergeltung für ihr Verbrechen." "Wie wunderbar!" seufzte Diana, die zur Schule der Kritiker von Matthew gehörte. "Ich verstehe nicht, wie man solch aufregende Dinge aus seinem eigenen Kopf erfinden kann, Anne. Ich wünschte, meine Vorstellungskraft wäre so gut wie deine." "Das wäre sie auch, wenn du sie nur kultivieren würdest", sagte Anne ermutigend. "Ich habe gerade einen Plan ausgedacht, Diana. Lass uns einen eigenen Geschichtenclub haben und Geschichten zum Üben schreiben. Ich werde dir helfen, bis du es selbst kannst. Du solltest deine Vorstellungskraft kultivieren, weißt du. Miss Stacy sagt das auch. Nur müssen wir den richtigen Weg gehen. Ich habe ihr von dem Spukwald erzählt, aber sie sagte, dass wir es damit falsch gemacht hätten." So entstand der Geschichtenclub. Anfangs beschränkte er sich auf Diana und Anne, aber bald wurden auch Jane Andrews und Ruby Gillis und ein oder zwei andere aufgenommen, die fanden, dass ihre Vorstellungskraft gefördert werden sollte. Keine Jungen durften mitmachen - obwohl Ruby Gillis meinte, ihre Aufnahme würde es spannender machen - und jedes Mitglied musste eine Geschichte pro Woche vorlegen. "Es ist äußerst interessant", sagte Anne zu Marilla. "Jedes Mädchen muss seine Geschichte laut vorlesen und dann besprechen wir sie. Wir werden sie alle sorgfältig aufbewahren und unseren Nachkommen vorlesen. Wir schreiben alle unter einem Pseudonym. Mein Name ist Rosamond Montmorency. Alle Mädchen machen es recht gut. Ruby Gillis ist etwas sentimental. Sie bringt zu viel Liebesgeschichten in ihre Geschichten ein und du weißt, dass zu viel schlimmer ist als zu wenig. Jane bringt nie welche, weil sie sagt, dass sie sich so albern fühlt, wenn sie es laut vorlesen muss. Janes Geschichten sind äußerst vernünftig. Diana bringt zu viele Morde in ihre Geschichten ein. Sie sagt, dass sie meistens nicht weiß, was sie mit den Personen anfangen soll, also tötet sie sie, um sie loszuwerden. Ich muss ihnen meistens sagen, worüber sie schreiben sollen, aber das ist nicht schwer, denn ich habe unzählige Ideen." "Ich finde dieses Geschichtenschreiben immer noch fürchterlich albern", spottete Marilla. "Ihr steckt euch nur einen Haufen Unsinn in den Kopf und vergeudet Zeit, die ihr für eure Lektionen nutzen solltet. Geschichten zu lesen ist schon schlimm genug, aber sie zu schreiben ist noch schlimmer." "Aber wir achten sehr darauf, in allen Geschichten eine Moral zu haben, Marilla", erklärte Anne. "Das beste Menschen werden belohnt und die bösen angemessen bestraft. Ich bin sicher, dass das eine gesunde Wirkung hat. Das ist das Wichtige. Mr. Allan sagt das auch. Ich habe ihm und Mrs. Allan eine meiner Geschichten vorgelesen und sie stimmten beide zu, dass die Moral ausgezeichnet sei. Nur sie haben an den falschen Stellen gelacht. Ich mag es lieber, wenn die Leute weinen. Jane und Ruby weinen fast immer, wenn ich zu den tragischen Teilen komme. Diana hat ihrer Tante Josephine von unserem Club erzählt und ihre Tante Josephine hat zurückgeschrieben, dass wir ihr einige unserer Geschichten schicken sollen. Also haben wir vier unserer besten Geschichten abgeschrieben und geschickt. Miss Josephine Barry hat zurückgeschrieben, dass sie noch nie etwas so Amüsantes in ihrem Leben gelesen habe. Das hat uns ein wenig verwirrt, denn die Geschichten waren alle sehr rührend und fast alle sind gestorben. Aber ich freue mich, dass Miss Barry sie mochte. Das zeigt, dass unser Club etwas Gutes in der Welt bewirkt. Mrs. Allan sagt, das sollte unser Ziel bei allem sein. Ich versuche es wirklich, mein Ziel zu machen, aber ich vergesse es so oft, wenn ich Spaß habe. Ich hoffe, ich werde ein wenig wie Mrs. Allan, wenn ich erwachsen bin. Glaubst du, es gibt Aussicht darauf, Marilla?" "Ich würde nicht sagen, dass es große Aussichten gibt", war Marillas ermutigende Antwort. "Ich bin sicher, dass Mrs. Allan nie so ein albernes, vergessliches kleines Mädchen war wie du." "Nein, aber sie war auch nicht immer so gut wie sie jetzt ist", sagte Anne ernst. "Sie hat es mir selbst gesagt - sie hat gesagt, dass sie als Mädchen schrecklich ungezogen war und immer nur in Schwierigkeiten geriet. Ich habe mich so ermutigt gefühlt, als ich das gehört habe. Ist es sehr böse von mir, Marilla, mich ermutigt zu fühlen, wenn ich höre, dass andere Menschen böse und schelmisch waren? Mrs. Lynde sagt, es ist böse. Mrs. Lynde sagt, sie ist immer schockiert, wenn sie erfährt, dass jemand jemals ungezogen war, egal wie klein er war. Mrs. Lynde sagt, sie hat einmal einem Pfarrer dabei zugehört, wie er gestand, dass er als Junge eine Erdbeertorte aus der Vorratskammer seiner Tante gestohlen habe, und sie hatte danach keinen Respekt mehr vor diesem Pfarrer. Nun, ich hätte das nicht so empfunden. Ich hätte gedacht, dass es wirklich ehrhaft von ihm war, es zu gestehen, und ich hätte gedacht, was eine ermutigende Sache es wäre für kleine Jungen heutzutage, die dumme Dinge tun und sie bereuen, zu wissen, dass sie vielleicht trotzdem Pfarrer werden können. So würde ich mich fühlen, Marilla." "So wie ich mich im Moment fühle, Anne", sagte Marilla, "ist es höchste Zeit, dass du das Geschirr spülst. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Das Leben fühlt sich flach und uninteressant an für die Schüler von Avonlea nach dem Weihnachtskonzert. Schalten wir ein paar Wochen vor und Anne wird dreizehn Jahre alt. Sie und Diana gehen durch den Wald und reden über ihre Schreibaufgaben. Sie sollen eine Geschichte schreiben. Diana ist von der Aufgabe eingeschüchtert, aber Anne hat ihre bereits erledigt. Anne erzählt Diana ihre ganze unglaublich melodramatische Geschichte. Es geht um zwei Freundinnen, Cordelia Montmorency und Geraldine Seymour, die sich in denselben Mann, Bertram DeVere, verlieben. Wir wollen das Ende nicht verraten, aber es endet tragisch. Anne und Diana gründen einen Geschichtenclub, in dem sie Geschichten zum Üben schreiben. Schließlich treten zwei weitere Freundinnen, Jane Andrews und Ruby Gillis, dem Club bei. Janes Geschichten sind zu vernünftig, Rubys haben zu viel Liebe in sich und Dianas haben zu viele Morde. Aber sie haben alle eine gute Zeit. Sie schicken die Geschichten auch an Josephine, die sehr amüsiert ist.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Concerning the General Power of Taxation From the New York Packet. Friday, December 28, 1787. HAMILTON To the People of the State of New York: IT HAS been already observed that the federal government ought to possess the power of providing for the support of the national forces; in which proposition was intended to be included the expense of raising troops, of building and equipping fleets, and all other expenses in any wise connected with military arrangements and operations. But these are not the only objects to which the jurisdiction of the Union, in respect to revenue, must necessarily be empowered to extend. It must embrace a provision for the support of the national civil list; for the payment of the national debts contracted, or that may be contracted; and, in general, for all those matters which will call for disbursements out of the national treasury. The conclusion is, that there must be interwoven, in the frame of the government, a general power of taxation, in one shape or another. Money is, with propriety, considered as the vital principle of the body politic; as that which sustains its life and motion, and enables it to perform its most essential functions. A complete power, therefore, to procure a regular and adequate supply of it, as far as the resources of the community will permit, may be regarded as an indispensable ingredient in every constitution. From a deficiency in this particular, one of two evils must ensue; either the people must be subjected to continual plunder, as a substitute for a more eligible mode of supplying the public wants, or the government must sink into a fatal atrophy, and, in a short course of time, perish. In the Ottoman or Turkish empire, the sovereign, though in other respects absolute master of the lives and fortunes of his subjects, has no right to impose a new tax. The consequence is that he permits the bashaws or governors of provinces to pillage the people without mercy; and, in turn, squeezes out of them the sums of which he stands in need, to satisfy his own exigencies and those of the state. In America, from a like cause, the government of the Union has gradually dwindled into a state of decay, approaching nearly to annihilation. Who can doubt, that the happiness of the people in both countries would be promoted by competent authorities in the proper hands, to provide the revenues which the necessities of the public might require? The present Confederation, feeble as it is intended to repose in the United States, an unlimited power of providing for the pecuniary wants of the Union. But proceeding upon an erroneous principle, it has been done in such a manner as entirely to have frustrated the intention. Congress, by the articles which compose that compact (as has already been stated), are authorized to ascertain and call for any sums of money necessary, in their judgment, to the service of the United States; and their requisitions, if conformable to the rule of apportionment, are in every constitutional sense obligatory upon the States. These have no right to question the propriety of the demand; no discretion beyond that of devising the ways and means of furnishing the sums demanded. But though this be strictly and truly the case; though the assumption of such a right would be an infringement of the articles of Union; though it may seldom or never have been avowedly claimed, yet in practice it has been constantly exercised, and would continue to be so, as long as the revenues of the Confederacy should remain dependent on the intermediate agency of its members. What the consequences of this system have been, is within the knowledge of every man the least conversant in our public affairs, and has been amply unfolded in different parts of these inquiries. It is this which has chiefly contributed to reduce us to a situation, which affords ample cause both of mortification to ourselves, and of triumph to our enemies. What remedy can there be for this situation, but in a change of the system which has produced it in a change of the fallacious and delusive system of quotas and requisitions? What substitute can there be imagined for this ignis fatuus in finance, but that of permitting the national government to raise its own revenues by the ordinary methods of taxation authorized in every well-ordered constitution of civil government? Ingenious men may declaim with plausibility on any subject; but no human ingenuity can point out any other expedient to rescue us from the inconveniences and embarrassments naturally resulting from defective supplies of the public treasury. The more intelligent adversaries of the new Constitution admit the force of this reasoning; but they qualify their admission by a distinction between what they call INTERNAL and EXTERNAL taxation. The former they would reserve to the State governments; the latter, which they explain into commercial imposts, or rather duties on imported articles, they declare themselves willing to concede to the federal head. This distinction, however, would violate the maxim of good sense and sound policy, which dictates that every POWER ought to be in proportion to its OBJECT; and would still leave the general government in a kind of tutelage to the State governments, inconsistent with every idea of vigor or efficiency. Who can pretend that commercial imposts are, or would be, alone equal to the present and future exigencies of the Union? Taking into the account the existing debt, foreign and domestic, upon any plan of extinguishment which a man moderately impressed with the importance of public justice and public credit could approve, in addition to the establishments which all parties will acknowledge to be necessary, we could not reasonably flatter ourselves, that this resource alone, upon the most improved scale, would even suffice for its present necessities. Its future necessities admit not of calculation or limitation; and upon the principle, more than once adverted to, the power of making provision for them as they arise ought to be equally unconfined. I believe it may be regarded as a position warranted by the history of mankind, that, IN THE USUAL PROGRESS OF THINGS, THE NECESSITIES OF A NATION, IN EVERY STAGE OF ITS EXISTENCE, WILL BE FOUND AT LEAST EQUAL TO ITS RESOURCES. To say that deficiencies may be provided for by requisitions upon the States, is on the one hand to acknowledge that this system cannot be depended upon, and on the other hand to depend upon it for every thing beyond a certain limit. Those who have carefully attended to its vices and deformities as they have been exhibited by experience or delineated in the course of these papers, must feel invincible repugnancy to trusting the national interests in any degree to its operation. Its inevitable tendency, whenever it is brought into activity, must be to enfeeble the Union, and sow the seeds of discord and contention between the federal head and its members, and between the members themselves. Can it be expected that the deficiencies would be better supplied in this mode than the total wants of the Union have heretofore been supplied in the same mode? It ought to be recollected that if less will be required from the States, they will have proportionably less means to answer the demand. If the opinions of those who contend for the distinction which has been mentioned were to be received as evidence of truth, one would be led to conclude that there was some known point in the economy of national affairs at which it would be safe to stop and to say: Thus far the ends of public happiness will be promoted by supplying the wants of government, and all beyond this is unworthy of our care or anxiety. How is it possible that a government half supplied and always necessitous, can fulfill the purposes of its institution, can provide for the security, advance the prosperity, or support the reputation of the commonwealth? How can it ever possess either energy or stability, dignity or credit, confidence at home or respectability abroad? How can its administration be any thing else than a succession of expedients temporizing, impotent, disgraceful? How will it be able to avoid a frequent sacrifice of its engagements to immediate necessity? How can it undertake or execute any liberal or enlarged plans of public good? Let us attend to what would be the effects of this situation in the very first war in which we should happen to be engaged. We will presume, for argument's sake, that the revenue arising from the impost duties answers the purposes of a provision for the public debt and of a peace establishment for the Union. Thus circumstanced, a war breaks out. What would be the probable conduct of the government in such an emergency? Taught by experience that proper dependence could not be placed on the success of requisitions, unable by its own authority to lay hold of fresh resources, and urged by considerations of national danger, would it not be driven to the expedient of diverting the funds already appropriated from their proper objects to the defense of the State? It is not easy to see how a step of this kind could be avoided; and if it should be taken, it is evident that it would prove the destruction of public credit at the very moment that it was becoming essential to the public safety. To imagine that at such a crisis credit might be dispensed with, would be the extreme of infatuation. In the modern system of war, nations the most wealthy are obliged to have recourse to large loans. A country so little opulent as ours must feel this necessity in a much stronger degree. But who would lend to a government that prefaced its overtures for borrowing by an act which demonstrated that no reliance could be placed on the steadiness of its measures for paying? The loans it might be able to procure would be as limited in their extent as burdensome in their conditions. They would be made upon the same principles that usurers commonly lend to bankrupt and fraudulent debtors, with a sparing hand and at enormous premiums. It may perhaps be imagined that, from the scantiness of the resources of the country, the necessity of diverting the established funds in the case supposed would exist, though the national government should possess an unrestrained power of taxation. But two considerations will serve to quiet all apprehension on this head: one is, that we are sure the resources of the community, in their full extent, will be brought into activity for the benefit of the Union; the other is, that whatever deficiences there may be, can without difficulty be supplied by loans. The power of creating new funds upon new objects of taxation, by its own authority, would enable the national government to borrow as far as its necessities might require. Foreigners, as well as the citizens of America, could then reasonably repose confidence in its engagements; but to depend upon a government that must itself depend upon thirteen other governments for the means of fulfilling its contracts, when once its situation is clearly understood, would require a degree of credulity not often to be met with in the pecuniary transactions of mankind, and little reconcilable with the usual sharp-sightedness of avarice. Reflections of this kind may have trifling weight with men who hope to see realized in America the halcyon scenes of the poetic or fabulous age; but to those who believe we are likely to experience a common portion of the vicissitudes and calamities which have fallen to the lot of other nations, they must appear entitled to serious attention. Such men must behold the actual situation of their country with painful solicitude, and deprecate the evils which ambition or revenge might, with too much facility, inflict upon it. PUBLIUS Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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In diesem Artikel verteidigt Hamilton die Bestimmungen der Verfassung, die es der Bundesregierung ermöglichen, direkte Steuern von den Menschen zu erheben. Nach den Artikeln der Konföderation konnte der Kongress nur Gelder von den Bundesstaaten anfordern. Obwohl die Bundesstaaten rechtlich verpflichtet waren, die Gelder bereitzustellen, versäumten sie es oft, dies zu tun, was die Regierung nach Hamiltons Meinung daran hinderte, effektiv zu regieren. Hamilton argumentiert, dass die Bundesregierung genügend Ressourcen haben muss, um das Land zu regieren. Er warnt außerdem davor, dass wenn die Bundesregierung keine zuverlässige Einnahmequelle haben kann, dann wird ihr nationaler Kredit leiden, da Kreditgeber der US-Regierung nicht vertrauen werden, ihre Kredite zurückzuzahlen. Nicht in der Lage, in Zeiten der Krise, insbesondere in Kriegszeiten, Geld zu leihen, würde die Regierung nicht in der Lage sein, die Interessen der Vereinigten Staaten zu schützen.

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 wird den nachdenklichen Leser wahrscheinlich nicht überraschen, dass Ralph Touchett seit der Hochzeit seiner Cousine weniger von ihr gesehen hat als zuvor - ein Ereignis, von dem er eine Ansicht hatte, die kaum eine Bestätigung der Intimität sein konnte. Er hatte seinen Gedanken geäußert, wie wir wissen, und danach schwieg er, da Isabel ihn nicht dazu eingeladen hatte, eine Diskussion fortzusetzen, die eine Ära in ihrer Beziehung markierte. Diese Diskussion hatte einen Unterschied gemacht - den Unterschied, den er eher fürchtete als den, den er erhoffte. Sie hatte den Eifer des Mädchens, ihre Verlobung zu erfüllen, nicht gekühlt, aber sie war gefährlich nahe daran, eine Freundschaft zu ruinieren. Es wurde nie wieder auf Ralphs Meinung über Gilbert Osmond verwiesen, und indem sie dieses Thema mit einer heiligen Stille umgaben, schafften sie es, eine gewisse gegenseitige Aufrichtigkeit zu bewahren. Aber es gab einen Unterschied, wie Ralph sich oft selbst sagte - es gab einen Unterschied. Sie hatte ihm nicht vergeben, sie würde ihm niemals vergeben: Das war alles, was er gewonnen hatte. Sie dachte, sie hätte ihm vergeben; sie glaubte, es sei ihr egal; und da sie sowohl sehr großzügig als auch sehr stolz war, repräsentierten diese Überzeugungen eine gewisse Realität. Aber ob das Ereignis ihn rechtfertigen sollte oder nicht, er hätte ihr praktisch Unrecht getan, und das Unrecht war von der Art, an die Frauen sich am besten erinnern. Als Osmonds Frau könnte sie nie wieder seine Freundin sein. Sollte sie in dieser Eigenschaft das Glück genießen, das sie erwartete, würde sie nichts als Verachtung für den Mann empfinden, der versucht hatte, im Voraus einen so lieben Segen zu untergraben; und wenn andererseits seine Warnung gerechtfertigt sein sollte, würde das Gelübde, dass er es niemals erfahren sollte, eine Last auf ihre Seele legen, die sie dazu bringen würde, ihn zu hassen. So düster war Ralphs Voraussicht auf die Zukunft während des Jahres, das auf die Hochzeit seiner Cousine folgte; und wenn seine Gedanken morbid erscheinen, müssen wir bedenken, dass er nicht in voller Gesundheit war. Er tröstete sich, wie er konnte, indem er sich (wie er glaubte) vorbildlich verhielt und bei der Zeremonie anwesend war, bei der Isabel mit Herrn Osmond vereint wurde, und die im Juni in Florenz stattfand. Er erfuhr von seiner Mutter, dass Isabel zunächst daran gedacht hatte, ihre Hochzeit in ihrer Heimat zu feiern, aber dass sie sich schließlich wegen des Wunsches nach Einfachheit dafür entschieden hatte, trotz Osmonds erklärbarem Willen, jede Entfernung auf sich zu nehmen, dass dies am besten dadurch verkörpert würde, dass sie von dem nähesten Pfarrer in kürzester Zeit verheiratet würden. Die Sache wurde also in der kleinen amerikanischen Kapelle an einem sehr heißen Tag nur in Anwesenheit von Frau Touchett und ihrem Sohn, von Pansy Osmond und der Gräfin Gemini erledigt. Die Strenge bei den Vorgängen, von der ich gerade gesprochen habe, war zum Teil das Ergebnis des Fehlens von zwei Personen, die man bei dieser Gelegenheit hätte erwarten können und die ihr eine gewisse Fülle verliehen hätten. Madame Merle war eingeladen worden, aber Madame Merle, die Rom nicht verlassen konnte, hatte einen freundlichen Entschuldigungsbrief geschrieben. Henrietta Stackpole war nicht eingeladen worden, da ihre Abreise aus Amerika, die Isabel von Mr. Goodwood mitgeteilt worden war, tatsächlich durch die Pflichten ihres Berufs vereitelt wurde; aber sie hatte einen weniger freundlichen Brief geschickt, in dem sie andeutete, dass sie, wäre sie in der Lage gewesen, den Atlantik zu überqueren, nicht nur als Zeugin, sondern auch als Kritikerin anwesend gewesen wäre. Ihre Rückkehr nach Europa hatte etwas später stattgefunden, und sie hatte im Herbst in Paris eine Begegnung mit Isabel arrangiert, bei der sie vielleicht etwas zu sehr ihrem kritischen Genie nachgegeben hatte. Armer Osmond, der hauptsächlich das Objekt davon gewesen war, hatte so heftig protestiert, dass Henrietta gezwungen war, Isabel zu erklären, dass sie einen Schritt unternommen hatte, der eine Barriere zwischen ihnen aufstellte. "Es geht überhaupt nicht darum, dass du geheiratet hast - es geht darum, dass du IHN geheiratet hast", hatte sie es für ihre Pflicht gehalten zu bemerken; was, wie man sehen wird, viel mehr mit Ralph Touchett übereinstimmte, als sie vermutete, obwohl sie wenige seiner Zögern und Bedenken hatte. Henriettas zweiter Besuch in Europa schien jedoch nicht umsonst gewesen zu sein; denn gerade in dem Moment, als Osmond zu Isabel erklärt hatte, dass er wirklich Einwände gegen diese Zeitungsfrau habe und Isabel geantwortet hatte, dass sie ihm zufolge Henrietta zu hart beurteile, war der gute Herr Bantling auf der Bildfläche erschienen und hatte vorgeschlagen, dass sie einen Abstecher nach Spanien machen sollten. Henriettas Briefe aus Spanien waren die bisher beliebtesten, die sie veröffentlicht hatte, und es gab einen besonders, der vom Alhambra datierte und den Titel "Mauren und Mondschein" trug, der allgemein als ihr Meisterwerk galt. Isabel war insgeheim enttäuscht, dass ihr Mann nicht einfach die arme Mary für amüsant hielt. Sie fragte sich sogar, ob sein Sinn für Spaß oder das Amüsante - was dann sein Sinn für Humor wäre, nicht wahr? - zufällig defekt war. Natürlich betrachtete sie die Angelegenheit als eine Person, deren gegenwärtiges Glück nichts hatte, worum sie das verletzte Gewissen von Henrietta beneiden müsste. Osmond hatte ihre Verbindung als eine Art Monstrosität betrachtet; er konnte sich nicht vorstellen, was sie gemeinsam hatten. Für ihn war Mr. Bantlings Mitreisende die vulgärste aller Frauen, und er hatte sie auch als die verkommenste bezeichnet. Gegen dieses letzte Urteil hatte Isabel mit einer Leidenschaft Einspruch erhoben, die ihn erneut über die Seltsamkeit einiger ihrer Vorlieben hat staunen lassen. Isabel konnte es nur damit erklären, dass sie gern Menschen kennen lernte, die so unterschiedlich wie möglich von ihr selbst waren. "Warum machst du dann nicht die Bekanntschaft deiner Wäscherin?", hatte Osmond gefragt, worauf Isabel geantwortet hatte, dass sie fürchtete, ihre Wäscherin würde sie nicht mögen. Henrietta hingegen lag so viel an ihr. Ralph hatte die meiste Zeit der beiden Jahre, die auf ihre Hochzeit folgten, nichts von ihr gesehen; den Winter, der den Beginn ihres Aufenthalts in Rom markierte, hatte er wieder in San Remo verbracht, wo er im Frühling von seiner Mutter begleitet worden war, die danach mit ihm nach England gegangen war, um zu sehen, was sie in der Bank machten - eine Operation, zu der sie ihn nicht bewegen konnte. Ralph hatte sein Haus in San Remo gemietet, eine kleine Villa, die er noch einen weiteren Winter bewohnt hatte; aber Ende April dieses zweiten Jahres war er nach Rom gekommen. Es war das erste Mal seit ihrer Hochzeit, dass er Isabel von Angesicht zu Angesicht gegenüberstand; sein Wunsch, sie wiederzusehen, war dann am größten. Sie hatte ihm von Zeit zu Zeit geschrieben, aber ihre Briefe erzählten ihm nichts, was er wissen wollte. Er hatte seine Mutter gefragt, was sie aus ihrem Leben gemacht habe, und seine Mutter hatte einfach geantwortet, dass sie vermutete, dass sie das Beste daraus mache. Frau Touchett hatte nicht die Vorstellungskraft, die mit dem Unsichtbaren in Verbindung steht, und sie gab nun keine Nähe zu ihrer Nichte mehr vor, die sie selten traf. Diese junge Frau schien auf eine hinreichend ehrenhafte Weise zu leben, aber Frau Touchett blieb immer noch der Ansicht, dass ihre Hochzeit eine armselige Angelegenheit gewesen war. Es hatte ihr keinen Spaß gemacht, an Isabels Existenz zu denken, von der sie sicher war, dass sie eine sehr lahme Angelegenheit war. Von Zeit zu Zeit stieß sie in Florenz auf die Gräfin Gemini und tat ihr Bestes, um den Kontakt zu minimieren; und die Gräfin erinnerte sie an Osmond, der sie wiederum an Isabel denken ließ. Über die Gräfin wurde in diesen Tagen weniger geredet; aber Frau Touchett prophezeite nichts Gutes daran: es bewies nur, wie viel über sie gesprochen worden war. Eine direktere Andeutung von Isabel fand sich in der Person von Madame Merle; aber Madame Merles Beziehung zu Frau Touchett hatte eine wahrnehmbare Veränderung durchlaufen. Isabels Tante hatte ihr unumwunden gesagt, dass sie eine zu ausgeklügelte Rolle gespielt habe; und Madame Merle, die nie mit jemandem stritt, die erschien, niemanden für es wert befand und die das Wunder vollbracht hatte, mehr oder weniger mehrere Jahre mit Frau Touchett zu leben und keine Anzeichen von Ärger zu zeigen - Madame Merle nahm jetzt einen sehr hohen Ton an und erklärte, dass das eine Anschuldigung sei, gegen die sie sich nicht verteidigen könne. Sie fügte jedoch, ohne sich zu beugen, hinzu, dass ihr Verhalten nur allzu einfach gewesen sei, dass sie nur geglaubt habe, was sie sah, dass sie sah, dass Isabel nicht darauf erpicht war zu heiraten und Osmond nicht darauf aus war, zu gefallen (seine wiederholten Besuche waren nichts; er langweilte sich zu Tode auf seinem Hügel und er kam nur aus Spaß). Isabel hatte ihre Gefühle für sich behalten, und ihre Reise nach Griechenland und Ägypten hatte ihrem Begleiter effektiv Sand in die Augen gestreut. Madame Merle akzeptierte das Ereignis - sie war nicht darauf vorbereitet, es als Skandal zu betrachten; aber dass sie dabei eine Rolle gespielt habe, sei es doppelt oder allein, sei eine Anschuldigung, gegen die sie stolz protestiere. Es war zweifellos aufgrund von Frau Touchetts Haltung und der Verletzung, die sie den von vielen charmanten Jahreszeiten geheiligten Gewohnheiten zufügte, dass Madame Merle sich entschieden hatte, nach diesem Vorfall viele Monate lang in England zu verbringen, wo ihr Kredit völlig unangetastet war. Frau Touchett hatte ihr Unrecht getan; es gibt einige Dinge, die nicht vergeben werden können. Aber Madame Merle litt schweigend; in ihrer Würde lag immer etwas Exquisites. Wie gesagt, Ralph wollte sich selbst überzeugen; aber während er diesem Streben nachging, erkannte er noch einmal, wie dumm er gewesen war, das Mädchen zu warnen. Er hatte die falsche Karte gespielt, und jetzt hatte er das Spiel verloren. Er würde nichts sehen, nichts erfahren; für ihn würde sie immer eine Maske tragen. Seine wahre Vorgehensweise wäre gewesen, sich über ihre Vereinigung zu freuen, damit sie später, wenn, wie Ralph es formulierte, der Boden unter ihr herausfallen sollte, das Vergnügen gehabt hätte, ihm zu sagen, dass er ein Narr gewesen sei. Er hätte gerne zugestimmt, als Narr dargestellt zu werden, um Isabels wahre Situation zu kennen. Im Moment jedoch schmähte sie ihn nicht wegen seiner Fehleinschätzungen, noch gab sie vor, dass ihr eigenes Vertrauen gerechtfertigt sei; Wenn sie eine Maske trug, bedeckte sie ihr Gesicht vollständig. Es gab etwas Starres und Mechanisches in der aufgemalten Gelassenheit; das war keine Ausdrucksweise, sagte Ralph - es war eine Darstellung, es war sogar eine Werbung. Sie hatte ihr Kind verloren; das war eine Trauer, aber eine Trauer, über die sie kaum sprach; Es gab mehr zu sagen, als sie zu Ralph sagen konnte. Außerdem gehörte es der Vergangenheit an; es war sechs Monate zuvor geschehen, und sie hatte bereits die Symbole der Trauer abgelegt. Sie schien das Leben der Welt zu führen; Ralph hörte, wie von ihr als einer "charmanten Position" gesprochen wurde. Er bemerkte, dass sie den Eindruck erweckte, besonders beneidenswert zu sein, dass es unter vielen Leuten als Privileg angesehen wurde, sie überhaupt zu kennen. Ihr Haus stand nicht jedem offen, und sie hatte einen Abend in der Woche, zu dem nicht alle automatisch eingeladen wurden. Sie lebte mit einer gewissen Pracht, aber man musste Mitglied ihres Kreises sein, um es wahrzunehmen; denn es gab nichts, worüber man staunen konnte, nichts zu kritisieren, nichts zu bewundern, in den täglichen Vorgängen von Herrn und Frau Osmond. Ralph erkannte in all dem die Handschrift des Meisters; er wusste, dass Isabel keine Fähigkeit hatte, künstliche Eindrücke zu erzeugen. Sie erschien ihm als jemand, der eine große Liebe zur Bewegung, zur Fröhlichkeit, zu späten Stunden, zu langen Ausritten, zur Müdigkeit hatte; ein Eifer, sich unterhalten zu lassen, interessiert zu sein, selbst gelangweilt zu werden, Bekanntschaften zu machen, Menschen zu sehen, über die gesprochen wurde, die Nachbarschaft von Rom zu erkunden, Beziehungen zu einigen der muffigsten Überbleibsel der alten Gesellschaft einzugehen. Bei all dem gab es viel weniger Unterscheidungskraft als in dem Verlangen nach umfassender Entwicklung, über das er gewohnt war, seine Auffassungsgabe zu üben. In einigen ihrer Impulse gab es eine Art Gewalt, in einigen ihrer Experimente eine Art Rohheit, die ihn überraschte: Es schien ihm, als ob sie sogar schneller sprach, sich schneller bewegte, schneller atmete als vor ihrer Hochzeit. Sicherlich war sie in Übertreibungen verfallen - sie, die sich so sehr um die reine Wahrheit kümmerte; und während sie früher eine große Freude an freundlich argumentierender Rede gehabt hatte, an intellektuellem Spiel (sie sah nie so bezaubernd aus, wie wenn sie im freundlichen Inbrunst einer Diskussion einen vernichtenden Schlag mitten ins Gesicht erhielt und ihn wie eine Feder wegwischte), schien sie jetzt zu denken, dass es nichts wert sei, dass sich Menschen darüber uneinig seien oder einigten. Früher war sie neugierig, jetzt war sie gleichgültig, und doch war ihre Aktivität trotz ihrer Gleichgültigkeit größer als je zuvor. Immer noch schlank, aber noch schöner als zuvor, hatte sie keine große Reife des Aussehens erreicht; dennoch gab es in ihren persönlichen Arrangements eine Weite und Brillanz, die ihrer Schönheit eine Spur von Überheblichkeit verlieh. Arme menschliche Isabel, was hatte sie befallen? Ihr leichtfüßiger Schritt zog eine Menge Drapierungen hinter sich her; ihr intelligentes Haupt trug eine Majestät des Schmucks. Das freie, scharfsinnige Mädchen war zu einer ganz anderen Person geworden; was er sah, war die feine Dame, die angeblich etwas darstellte. Wofür stand Isabel? fragte sich Ralph; und er konnte nur antworten, indem er sagte, dass Isabel Gilbert Osmond repräsentierte. "Mein lieber Gott, was für eine Funktion!" rief er dann jämmerlich aus. Er war von dem Mysterium der Dinge erstaunt. Er erkannte Osmond, wie gesagt; er erkannte ihn an jeder Ecke. Er sah, wie er alles im Zaum hielt, wie er ihr Leben regelte und belebte. Osmond war in seinem Element; endlich hatte er Material zum Arbeiten. Er hatte immer ein Auge für Wirkung, und seine Effekte waren tief berechnet. Sie wurden nicht durch vulgäre Mittel erzeugt, aber das Motiv war so vulgär wie die Kunst großartig war. Er umgab seine Innenausstattung mit einer Art neidischer Heiligkeit, um die Gesellschaft mit dem Gefühl der Ausgrenzung zu quälen, um die Menschen glauben zu lassen, dass sein Haus anders war als alle anderen, um dem Gesicht, das er der Welt präsentierte, eine kalte Originalität zu verleihen - das war die geniale Anstrengung der Persönlichkeit, der Isabel eine überlegene Moral zugeschrieben hatte. "Er arbeitet mit überlegenem Material", sagte sich Ralph; "es ist reichlicher Reichtum im Vergleich zu seinen früheren Ressourcen." Ralph war ein kluger Mann; aber Ralph war noch nie - nach seinem eigenen Empfinden - so klug gewesen wie in dem Moment, als er heimlich feststellte, dass Osmond unter dem Vorwand der Sorge um intrinsische Werte ausschließlich für die Welt lebte. Weit davon entfernt, ihr Meister zu sein, wie er vorgab, war er ihr sehr bescheidener Diener, und das Ausmaß seiner Aufmerksamkeit war das einzige Maß für seinen Erfolg. Er lebte mit dem Auge darauf von morgens bis abends, und die Welt war so dumm, dass sie den Trick nie vermutete. Alles, was er tat, war Pose - eine so subtil durchdachte Pose, dass man sie mit Impuls verwechseln konnte, wenn man nicht auf der Hut war. Ralph hatte nie einen Mann getroffen, der so sehr in der Welt der Überlegungen lebte. Seine Vorlieben, seine Studien, seine Fähigkeiten, seine Sammlungen dienten alle einem Zweck. Sein Leben auf seinem Hügel in Florenz war die bewusste Haltung von Jahren gewesen. Seine Einsamkeit, seine Langeweile, seine Liebe zu seiner Tochter, seine guten Manieren, seine schlechten Manieren waren so viele Merkmale eines geistigen Bildes, das ständig in ihm präsent war, als Modell für Frechheit und Verwirrung. Seine Ambition war es nicht, die Welt zu gefallen, sondern sich selbst, indem er die Neugier der Welt erregte und dann darauf verzichtete, sie zu befriedigen. Es hatte ihn immer glücklich gemacht, der Welt einen Streich zu spielen. Das Beste, was er in seinem Leben getan hatte, um sich selbst zu gefallen, war seine Heirat mit Miss Archer; obwohl in diesem Fall wohl die leichtgläubige Welt in gewisser Weise in der armen Isabel verkörpert war, die bis zur Höhe ihrer Biegung verwirrt worden war. Ralph fand natürlich in der Konstanz eine Übereinstimmung; er hatte eine Überzeugung angenommen, und da er dafür gelitten hatte, konnte er sie in Ehren nicht aufgeben. Ich gebe diesen kleinen Abriss seiner Artikel für das, was sie zu der Zeit wert gewesen sein mögen. Sicher war er sehr geschickt darin, die Tatsachen seiner Theorie anzupassen - auch die Tatsache, dass der Mann, den sie liebte, während des Monats, den er in Rom zu dieser Zeit verbrachte, ihn überhaupt nicht als Feind betrachtete. Für Gilbert Osmond hatte Ralph nun keine Bedeutung mehr. Es lag nicht daran, dass er die Bedeutung eines Freundes hatte; es war eher so, dass er überhaupt keine Bedeutung hatte. Er war Isabels Cousin und er war ziemlich unangenehm krank - auf dieser Basis behandelte ihn Osmond. Er erkundigte sich angemessen, fragte nach seinem Gesundheitszustand, nach Mrs. Touchett, nach seiner Meinung zu Winterklima, ob er sich in seinem Hotel wohl fühle. Bei den wenigen Gelegenheiten, bei denen sie sich trafen, richtete er kein Wort an ihn, das nicht notwendig war; aber seine Art hatte immer die Höflichkeit, die dem bewussten Erfolg in Anwesenheit bewusster Misserfolge gebührt. Trotz all dem hatte Ralph am Ende eine scharfe innere Vorstellung davon gehabt, dass Osmond seiner Frau die Anwesenheit von Herrn Touchett nicht leicht gemacht hatte, dass sie ihn weiterhin empfing. Er war nicht eifersüchtig - er hatte diese Ausrede nicht; niemand konnte eifersüchtig auf Ralph sein. Aber er ließ Isabel für ihre ehemalige Freundlichkeit bezahlen, von der noch so viel übrig war; und da Ralph keine Lust hatte, dass sie zu viel bezahlte, hatte er sich, als sein Verdacht sich verschärft hatte, zurückgezogen. Dabei hatte er Isabel eine sehr interessante Beschäftigung genommen: Sie hatte sich ständig gefragt, welches edle Prinzip ihn am Leben erhielt. Sie hatte beschlossen, dass es seine Liebe zur Unterhaltung war; seine Unterhaltung war besser als je zuvor. Er ging nicht mehr spazieren; er war kein humorvoller Flaneur mehr. Er saß den ganzen Tag in einem Stuhl - fast jeder Stuhl würde genügen - und war so abhängig von dem, was man für ihn tun würde, dass man ihn für blind halten könnte, hätte sein Gespräch nicht sehr nachdenklich gestimmt. Der Leser weiß bereits mehr über ihn, als Isabel jemals wissen sollte, und der Leser kann daher den Schlüssel zum Geheimnis erhalten. Was Ralph am Leben hielt, war einfach die Tatsache, dass er denjenigen auf der Welt, an dem er am meisten interessiert war, noch nicht genug gesehen hatte: Er war noch nicht zufrieden. Es sollte noch mehr kommen; er konnte es nicht übers Herz bringen, das aufzugeben. Er wollte sehen, was sie aus ihrem Mann machen würde - oder was ihr Mann aus ihr machen würde. Dies war nur der erste Akt des Dramas, und er war entschlossen, die Aufführung bis zum Ende anzuschauen. Sein Entschluss hatte gehalten; er hatte noch weitere achtzehn Monate überlebt, bis zur Zeit seiner Rückkehr nach Rom mit Lord Warburton. Es hatte ihm tatsächlich so sehr den Anschein gegeben, dass er beabsichtigte, auf unbestimmte Zeit zu leben, dass Mrs. Touchett, obwohl sie für Verwirrungen in Bezug auf diesen seltsamen, unprofitablen - und unbezahlten - Sohn von ihr zugänglicher war als je zuvor, wie wir erfahren haben, sich nicht gescheut hatte, in ein fernes Land zu gehen. Wenn Ralph durch die Ungewissheit am Leben erhalten wurde, dann war es mit sehr viel derselben Emotion - der Aufregung, sich zu fragen, in welchem Zustand sie ihn finden würde -, dass Isabel am Tag nach der Ankündigung von Lord Warburton, dass er in Rom angekommen war, zu seinem Apartment hinaufging. Sie verbrachte eine Stunde mit ihm; es war der erste von mehreren Besuchen. Gilbert Osmond besuchte ihn pünktlich, und als sie ihr Kutsche für ihn schickten, kam Ralph mehrmals zum Palazzo Roccanera. Zwei Wochen vergingen, am Ende derer Ralph Lord Warburton mitteilte, dass er nach allem nicht nach Sizilien gehen würde. Die beiden Männer hatten zusammen zu Abend gegessen, nachdem der Letztere einen Tag damit verbracht hatte, die Campagna zu erkunden. Sie waren vom Tisch aufgestanden, und Warburton, vor dem Kamin, zündete eine Zigarre an, die er sofort von seinen Lippen entfernte. "Du gehst nicht nach Sizilien? Wo willst du dann hin?" "Nun, ich schätze, ich gehe nirgendwohin", sagte Ralph schamlos von Sofa aus. "Meinst du, du kehrst nach England zurück?" "Oh, ach nein. Ich bleibe in Rom." "Rom ist nicht das Richtige für dich. Rom ist nicht warm genug." "Es wird tun müssen. Ich werde es schaffen. Sieh, wie gut es mir geht." Lord Warburton betrachtete ihn eine Weile, rauchte eine Zigarre und versuchte, sie zu sehen. "Du bist auf der Reise besser gewesen als d Sein Begleiter war still; er saß da und starrte ins Feuer. Schließlich, als er aufblickte, brach er aus: "Sag mal, sag mir das mal, hast du es wirklich ernst gemeint, nach Sizilien zu gehen, als wir losgefahren sind?" "Oh, ich glaube, das fragst du zu viel! Erlaube mir zuerst eine Frage zu stellen. Bist du ganz ohne Absichten mit mir mitgekommen?" "Ich weiß nicht, was du damit meinst. Ich wollte ins Ausland fahren." "Ich vermute, wir haben jeder unser kleines Spiel gespielt." "Rede für dich selbst. Ich habe nie ein Geheimnis daraus gemacht, dass ich hier eine Weile sein wollte." "Ja, ich erinnere mich, du hast gesagt, du wolltest den Außenminister besuchen." "Ich habe ihn dreimal getroffen. Er ist sehr amüsant." "Ich glaube, du hast vergessen, weshalb du gekommen bist", sagte Ralph. "Vielleicht habe ich das", antwortete sein Begleiter eher ernsthaft. Diese beiden waren Gentlemen einer Rasse, die sich nicht durch Zurückhaltung auszeichnete, und sie waren zusammen von London nach Rom gereist, ohne auf die Angelegenheiten anzuspielen, die in den Gedanken von beiden vorherrschten. Es gab ein altes Thema, das sie einmal diskutiert hatten, aber es hatte seinen anerkannten Platz in ihrer Aufmerksamkeit verloren, und selbst nach ihrer Ankunft in Rom, wo viele Dinge darauf zurückführten, hatten sie das gleiche halb zögerliche, halb zuversichtliche Schweigen bewahrt. "Ich empfehle dir trotzdem, die Zustimmung des Arztes einzuholen", fuhr Lord Warburton abrupt nach einer Weile fort. "Die Zustimmung des Arztes würde alles verderben. Ich hole sie mir nie ein, wenn ich es vermeiden kann." "Was denkt dann Mrs. Osmond?", fragte Ralphs Freund. "Ich habe es ihr nicht gesagt. Wahrscheinlich wird sie sagen, dass es in Rom zu kalt ist und sogar anbieten, mit mir nach Catania zu gehen. Sie ist dazu fähig." "An deiner Stelle würde ich es gut finden." "Ihr Mann wird es nicht gut finden." "Nun ja, das kann ich mir vorstellen; obwohl es mir scheint, du solltest dich nicht um seine Vorlieben kümmern. Sie sind seine Angelegenheit." "Ich möchte keine weiteren Schwierigkeiten zwischen ihnen verursachen", sagte Ralph. "Gibt es denn schon so viele?" "Es ist alles darauf vorbereitet. Wenn sie mit mir fortgeht, wird es zur Explosion kommen. Osmond mag seinen Frauencousin nicht besonders." "Dann wird er natürlich einen Skandal verursachen. Aber wird er keinen Skandal verursachen, wenn du hierbleibst?" Das möchte ich sehen. Beim letzten Mal, als ich in Rom war, hat er einen gemacht, und damals dachte ich, es sei meine Pflicht, zu verschwinden. Jetzt denke ich, es sei meine Pflicht, zu bleiben und sie zu verteidigen." "Lieber Touchett, deine Verteidigungsfähigkeiten -!" Lord Warburton begann mit einem Lächeln. Aber er sah etwas in dem Gesicht seines Begleiters, das ihn innehalten ließ. "Deine Pflicht in dieser Angelegenheit scheint mir eher eine schwierige Frage zu sein", bemerkte er stattdessen. Ralph antwortete eine kurze Zeit lang nichts. "Es stimmt, dass meine Verteidigungsfähigkeiten gering sind", antwortete er schließlich, "aber da meine Angriffsfähigkeiten noch geringer sind, könnte es durchaus sein, dass Osmond mich gar nicht für wert hält, sein Schießpulver zu verschwenden. Auf jeden Fall," fügte er hinzu, "gibt es Dinge, die ich gerne sehen würde." "Opferst du dafür deine Gesundheit deiner Neugier?" fragte Lord Warburton. "Ich interessiere mich nicht sonderlich für meine Gesundheit, aber ich interessiere mich sehr für Mrs. Osmond." "Das tue ich auch. Aber nicht so wie früher", fügte Lord Warburton schnell hinzu. Das war eine der Andeutungen, die er bisher nicht gemacht hatte. "Findest du, dass sie sehr glücklich wirkt?" fragte Ralph, von dieser Offenbarung ermutigt. "Nun, ich weiß es nicht; ich habe kaum darüber nachgedacht. Sie hat mir neulich gesagt, dass sie glücklich ist." "Ach, sie hat es dir gesagt, natürlich", rief Ralph lachend aus. "Ich weiß es nicht. Es scheint mir, ich war eher die Art von Person, der sie sich hätte beklagen können." "Beklagen? Sie wird sich nie beklagen. Was auch immer sie getan hat - was sie getan hat - sie weiß es. Sie wird sich bei dir am wenigsten beklagen. Sie ist sehr vorsichtig." "Das muss sie nicht sein. Ich habe nicht vor, ihr wieder den Hof zu machen." "Ich bin erfreut, das zu hören. Zumindest an deiner Pflicht besteht kein Zweifel." "Ach nein", sagte Lord Warburton schweigend, "kein Zweifel." "Erlaube mir zu fragen", fuhr Ralph fort, "ist es, um deutlich zu machen, dass du ihr keinen Hof machen wirst, dass du so freundlich zu dem kleinen Mädchen bist?" Lord Warburton zuckte leicht zusammen; er stand auf und stellte sich vor den Kamin und betrachtete ihn aufmerksam. "Hältst du das für sehr lächerlich?" "Lächerlich? Überhaupt nicht, wenn du sie wirklich magst." "Ich halte sie für einen entzückenden kleines Wesen. Ich weiß nicht, wann ein Mädchen in diesem Alter mir mehr gefallen hat." "Sie ist ein bezauberndes Geschöpf. Ah, sie ist zumindest authentisch." "Natürlich gibt es den Unterschied in unserem Alter - mehr als zwanzig Jahre." "Mein lieber Warburton", sagte Ralph, "meinst du das ernst?" "Ganz ernst, zumindest bis jetzt." "Das freut mich sehr. Und, Gott sei Dank", rief Ralph, "wie aufgeheitert wird der alte Osmond sein!" Sein Begleiter runzelte die Stirn. "Sag mal, verdirb es nicht. Ich würde nicht um seine Tochter werben, um ihn zufriedenzustellen." "Er wird trotzdem die Sturheit haben, zufriedener zu sein." "Er mag mich nicht so sehr", sagte Lord Warburton. "So sehr? Mein lieber Warburton, der Nachteil deiner Position ist, dass die Menschen dich nicht einmal mögen müssen, um mit dir in Verbindung gebracht werden zu wollen. Bei mir in solch einem Fall hätte ich das glückliche Vertrauen, dass sie mich liebten." Lord Warburton schien kaum in der Stimmung zu sein, allgemeinen Maximen gerecht zu werden - er dachte an einen speziellen Fall. "Glaubst du, sie wird erfreut sein?" "Das Mädchen selbst? Sicherlich begeistert." "Nein, nein; ich meine Mrs. Osmond." Ralph betrachtete ihn einen Moment lang. "Mein lieber Freund, was hat sie damit zu tun?" "Was sie will. Sie mag Pansy sehr gerne." "Sehr wahr - sehr wahr." Und Ralph stand langsam auf. "Es ist eine interessante Frage - wie weit ihre Zuneigung zu Pansy sie tragen wird." Er stand einen Moment lang mit den Händen in den Taschen und einer ziemlich finsteren Stirn da. "Ich hoffe, du weißt, dass du sehr - sehr sicher bist. Zum Teufel!", rief er aus. "Ich weiß nicht, wie ich es sagen soll." "Ja, das weißt du; du weißt, wie man alles sagt." "Nun, es ist unangenehm. Ich hoffe, du bist dir sicher, dass es unter den Qualitäten von Miss Osmond nicht eine führende ist, dass sie so nah an ihrer Stiefmutter dran ist?" "Zum Teufel, Touchett!" rief Lord Warburton ärgerlich aus, "wofür hältst du mich?" Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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In diesem Kapitel bekommen wir Ralphs Meinung zur Ehe von Isabel zu hören: Er empfindet, dass sie eine Maske trägt. Er hat eine Theorie über ihr Unglücklichsein und wie sie nur die Rolle einer glücklichen Ehefrau spielt, aber er weiß, dass sie ihm nie sagen würde, ob dies der Fall ist. Die Beziehung zwischen Ralph und Isabel hat sich deutlich abgekühlt - sie wirken immer etwas distanziert und Ralph bemerkt einen klaren Unterschied. Er fühlt, dass Isabel ihm nie verzeihen wird, dass er ihren Ehemann beleidigt hat. Ralph hat es geschafft, zur Hochzeit zu kommen. Die Zeremonie war sehr klein: Nur Gräfin Gemini, Mrs. Touchett und Pansy waren dabei. Henrietta hatte ebenfalls Kritik an Mr. Osmond geübt und Mr. Osmond mochte Henrietta nicht. Mrs. Touchett hatte nur formale und distanzierte Beziehungen zu Isabel, und sie hatte auch ihre Freundschaft mit Madame Merle abgebrochen. Madame Merle verhielt sich so, als ob Mrs. Touchett sie beleidigt hätte, und tat so, als hätte sie einfach nicht bemerkt, dass Isabel während ihrer gemeinsamen Reisen Zuneigung für Gilbert Osmond empfunden hatte. Wir erfahren, dass Isabel ein Kind hatte, aber es auch verloren hat. Das Leben, das sie führt, wirkt nach außen hin erfolgreich: Von außen betrachtet, gab es nichts zu bewundern oder zu kritisieren. Ralph erkennt jedoch, dass dieses Erscheinungsbild die "Hand des Meisters" ist. Er bemerkt, dass Isabel manchmal zu übertrieben handelt und weniger neugierig, gleichgültiger erscheint. Er empfindet, dass Isabel das Erscheinungsbild einer feinen Dame hat, die etwas repräsentieren soll - nämlich Gilbert Osmond. Er erkennt, dass Osmond nie Material hatte, um sich auszudrücken, aber er hat geduldig gewartet. Isabel erfüllt nun die Funktion dieses Materials. Aber obwohl solches Material sehr edel ist, denkt Ralph bei sich, ist das, was repräsentiert wird, absolut vulgär. Ralph erkennt, dass Osmond den Anschein erweckt hat, auf intrinsische Werte zu achten, aber in Wirklichkeit lebte er dafür, was andere von ihm dachten. Sein Ziel war es, ein Bild von Unverschämtheit und Verwirrung zu projizieren - um die Welt das Gefühl zu geben, dass er ihr überlegen sei. Sein Ziel war es nicht, die Welt zu erfreuen, sondern sich selbst zu erfreuen, indem er die Neugier der Welt weckte und sie dann nicht befriedigte", erzählt uns der Erzähler von Ralphs Theorie über Osmond. Im Allgemeinen scheint Osmond nicht zu glauben, dass Ralph wichtig genug ist, um von ihm nicht gemocht zu werden. Allerdings protestierte Osmond, als Ralph einmal zu lange in Rom blieb. Ralph verließ dann die Stadt, um das Verhältnis zwischen dem Ehepaar nicht zu stören. In einem Gespräch mit Lord Warburton erklärt Ralph jedoch seine Absicht, zu bleiben, um zu sehen, ob Osmond wieder protestieren würde. Auch in diesem Gespräch geben Lord Warburton und Ralph beide zu verstehen, dass sie ursprünglich auf ihre Reise gegangen sind, um Isabel zu sehen, anstatt weiter in den Süden zu reisen, wie sie es eigentlich geplant hatten. Ralph fragt Warburton, ob er versucht, Isabel zu beweisen, dass er nicht vorhat, "sich an sie heranzumachen", indem er Interesse an Pansy zeigt. Warburton fragt sich, ob Isabel erfreut sein wird, dass er Interesse an Pansy zeigt.

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: V. The Wood-Sawyer One year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never sure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off her husband's head next day. Every day, through the stony streets, the tumbrils now jolted heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright women, brown-haired, black-haired, and grey; youths; stalwart men and old; gentle born and peasant born; all red wine for La Guillotine, all daily brought into light from the dark cellars of the loathsome prisons, and carried to her through the streets to slake her devouring thirst. Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death;--the last, much the easiest to bestow, O Guillotine! If the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels of the time, had stunned the Doctor's daughter into awaiting the result in idle despair, it would but have been with her as it was with many. But, from the hour when she had taken the white head to her fresh young bosom in the garret of Saint Antoine, she had been true to her duties. She was truest to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good will always be. As soon as they were established in their new residence, and her father had entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged the little household as exactly as if her husband had been there. Everything had its appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught, as regularly, as if they had all been united in their English home. The slight devices with which she cheated herself into the show of a belief that they would soon be reunited--the little preparations for his speedy return, the setting aside of his chair and his books--these, and the solemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially, among the many unhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death--were almost the only outspoken reliefs of her heavy mind. She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to mourning dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neat and as well attended to as the brighter clothes of happy days. She lost her colour, and the old and intent expression was a constant, not an occasional, thing; otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely. Sometimes, at night on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had repressed all day, and would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven, was on him. He always resolutely answered: "Nothing can happen to him without my knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie." They had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, when her father said to her, on coming home one evening: "My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can get to it--which depends on many uncertainties and incidents--he might see you in the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that I can show you. But you will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even if you could, it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition." "O show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day." From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the clock struck two, she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away. When it was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they went together; at other times she was alone; but, she never missed a single day. It was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel of a cutter of wood into lengths for burning, was the only house at that end; all else was wall. On the third day of her being there, he noticed her. "Good day, citizeness." "Good day, citizen." This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been established voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots; but, was now law for everybody. "Walking here again, citizeness?" "You see me, citizen!" The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he had once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed at the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent bars, peeped through them jocosely. "But it's not my business," said he. And went on sawing his wood. Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she appeared. "What? Walking here again, citizeness?" "Yes, citizen." "Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?" "Do I say yes, mamma?" whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her. "Yes, dearest." "Yes, citizen." "Ah! But it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw! I call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head comes!" The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket. "I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again! Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off _her_ head comes! Now, a child. Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off _its_ head comes. All the family!" Lucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket, but it was impossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and not be in his sight. Thenceforth, to secure his good will, she always spoke to him first, and often gave him drink-money, which he readily received. He was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten him in gazing at the prison roof and grates, and in lifting her heart up to her husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her, with his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in its work. "But it's not my business!" he would generally say at those times, and would briskly fall to his sawing again. In all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter winds of spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again in the snow and frost of winter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at this place; and every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall. Her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) it might be once in five or six times: it might be twice or thrice running: it might be, not for a week or a fortnight together. It was enough that he could and did see her when the chances served, and on that possibility she would have waited out the day, seven days a week. These occupations brought her round to the December month, wherein her father walked among the terrors with a steady head. On a lightly-snowing afternoon she arrived at the usual corner. It was a day of some wild rejoicing, and a festival. She had seen the houses, as she came along, decorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon them; also, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the standard inscription (tricoloured letters were the favourite), Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death! The miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its whole surface furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had got somebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed Death in with most inappropriate difficulty. On his house-top, he displayed pike and cap, as a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his saw inscribed as his "Little Sainte Guillotine"--for the great sharp female was by that time popularly canonised. His shop was shut and he was not there, which was a relief to Lucie, and left her quite alone. But, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movement and a shouting coming along, which filled her with fear. A moment afterwards, and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the prison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with The Vengeance. There could not be fewer than five hundred people, and they were dancing like five thousand demons. There was no other music than their own singing. They danced to the popular Revolution song, keeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison. Men and women danced together, women danced together, men danced together, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they were a mere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags; but, as they filled the place, and stopped to dance about Lucie, some ghastly apparition of a dance-figure gone raving mad arose among them. They advanced, retreated, struck at one another's hands, clutched at one another's heads, spun round alone, caught one another and spun round in pairs, until many of them dropped. While those were down, the rest linked hand in hand, and all spun round together: then the ring broke, and in separate rings of two and four they turned and turned until they all stopped at once, began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then reversed the spin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped again, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the width of the public way, and, with their heads low down and their hands high up, swooped screaming off. No fight could have been half so terrible as this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport--a something, once innocent, delivered over to all devilry--a healthy pastime changed into a means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and steeling the heart. Such grace as was visible in it, made it the uglier, showing how warped and perverted all things good by nature were become. The maidenly bosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child's head thus distracted, the delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were types of the disjointed time. This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened and bewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer's house, the feathery snow fell as quietly and lay as white and soft, as if it had never been. "O my father!" for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she had momentarily darkened with her hand; "such a cruel, bad sight." "I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don't be frightened! Not one of them would harm you." "I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of my husband, and the mercies of these people--" "We will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him climbing to the window, and I came to tell you. There is no one here to see. You may kiss your hand towards that highest shelving roof." "I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!" "You cannot see him, my poor dear?" "No, father," said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand, "no." A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. "I salute you, citizeness," from the Doctor. "I salute you, citizen." This in passing. Nothing more. Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road. "Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of cheerfulness and courage, for his sake. That was well done;" they had left the spot; "it shall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow." "For to-morrow!" "There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are precautions to be taken, that could not be taken until he was actually summoned before the Tribunal. He has not received the notice yet, but I know that he will presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the Conciergerie; I have timely information. You are not afraid?" She could scarcely answer, "I trust in you." "Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he shall be restored to you within a few hours; I have encompassed him with every protection. I must see Lorry." He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They both knew too well what it meant. One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring away with their dread loads over the hushing snow. "I must see Lorry," the Doctor repeated, turning her another way. The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it. He and his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated and made national. What he could save for the owners, he saved. No better man living to hold fast by what Tellson's had in keeping, and to hold his peace. A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine, denoted the approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the Bank. The stately residence of Monseigneur was altogether blighted and deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters: National Property. Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death! Who could that be with Mr. Lorry--the owner of the riding-coat upon the chair--who must not be seen? From whom newly arrived, did he come out, agitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arms? To whom did he appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and turning his head towards the door of the room from which he had issued, he said: "Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow?" Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Während Darnays Gefangenschaft geht Lucie jeden Tag für zwei Stunden ins Gefängnis in der Hoffnung, dass ihr Ehemann sie sehen kann. Der Ort, an dem er sie möglicherweise sehen kann, befindet sich allerdings neben einem Holzfällerhaus. Der Holzfäller, früher der Straßenbauer, quält Lucie, indem er vorgibt, ihr und dem Kopf ihrer Tochter abzusägen; Lucie gibt ihm Geld, damit er sie in Ruhe lässt. Eines Tages kommt eine wilde Menschenmenge tanzend die Straße entlang und umzingelt eine verängstigte Lucie. Als sie weiterzieht, sagt Doktor Manette zu Lucie, sie solle Darnay einen Kuss zuwerfen, denn Darnay schaut zu. Als sie dies tut, geht Madame Defarge vorbei und begrüßt sie. Der Doktor erzählt Lucie, dass Darnays Prozess für den nächsten Tag angesetzt ist.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: AKT V. SZENE I. Dunsinane. Ein Raum in der Burg. [Betreten ein Arzt und eine wartende Frau.] ARZT. Ich habe zwei Nächte bei Ihnen gewacht, kann aber in Ihrem Bericht keine Wahrheit erkennen. Wann ist es das letzte Mal, dass sie gelaufen ist? FRAU. Seit seine Majestät auf das Feld gegangen ist, habe ich sie aus dem Bett aufstehen sehen, ihr Nachthemd auf sie werfen, ihren Schrank aufschließen, Papier herausnehmen, es falten, darauf schreiben, es danach versiegeln und wieder ins Bett gehen; und das alles, während sie in einem tiefen Schlaf war. ARZT. Eine große Unruhe in der Natur - gleichzeitig den Vorteil des Schlafes zu erhalten und die Auswirkungen der Wachsamkeit zu haben. In dieser schlaftrunkenen Erregung, abgesehen von ihrem Gehen und anderen tatsächlichen Handlungen, was haben Sie jemals von ihr gehört? FRAU. Das, Sir, was ich nach ihr nicht berichten werde. ARZT. Sie können es mir sagen; und es ist am passendsten, dass Sie es tun. FRAU. Weder Ihnen noch irgendjemand anderem; da ich keinen Zeugen habe, um meine Aussage zu bestätigen. Schauen Sie, hier kommt sie! [Lady Macbeth tritt ein, mit einer Kerze.] Das ist ihr genau gleich; und, auf mein Leben, schläft sie tief. Beobachten Sie sie; halten Sie sich bereit. ARZT. Woher hat sie dieses Licht? FRAU. Es stand bei ihr: Sie hat ständig Licht bei sich; es ist ihr Befehl. ARZT. Sieh, ihre Augen sind geöffnet. FRAU. Ja, aber ihr Verstand ist verschlossen. ARZT. Was tut sie jetzt? Sehen Sie, wie sie sich die Hände reibt. FRAU. Das ist eine gewohnte Bewegung für sie, so ihre Hände zu waschen: Ich habe sie eine Viertelstunde lang dabei gesehen. LADY MACBETH. Doch hier ist ein Fleck. ARZT. Hört, sie spricht: Ich werde aufschreiben, was von ihr kommt, um meine Erinnerung zu stärken. LADY MACBETH. Fort, verdammter Fleck! fort, sage ich! Eins; zwei; nun ist es an der Zeit;--Hölle ist düster!--Schäm dich, mein Herr, schäm dich! Ein Soldat, und ängstlich? Wovor sollen wir Angst haben, wenn keiner unsere Macht zur Rechenschaft ziehen kann? Doch wer hätte gedacht, dass der alte Mann so viel Blut in sich hatte? ARZT. Hast du das bemerkt? LADY MACBETH. Der Thane von Fife hatte eine Frau; wo ist sie jetzt?--Wirst du, meine Hände, niemals sauber werden? Nicht mehr davon, mein Herr, nicht mehr davon: Du verdirbst alles mit diesem Erschrecken. ARZT. So ist es, so ist es; du hast gewusst, was du nicht wissen solltest. FRAU. Sie hat gesagt, was sie nicht sagen sollte, dessen bin ich mir sicher: Der Himmel weiß, was sie alles wusste. LADY MACBETH. Hier ist immer noch der Geruch des Blutes: Alle Parfums von Arabien werden diese kleine Hand nicht süß machen können. Oh, oh, oh! ARZT. Was für ein Seufzen ist das! Das Herz ist schwer beladen. FRAU. Ich möchte kein solches Herz in meiner Brust haben, um der Würde des gesamten Körpers willen. ARZT. Nun gut, nun gut, nun gut,-- FRAU. Betet zu Gott, dass es so ist, Sir. ARZT. Diese Krankheit übersteigt meine Fähigkeiten: dennoch habe ich welche gekannt, die im Schlaf gegangen sind und heilig in ihrem Bett gestorben sind. LADY MACBETH. Wasche deine Hände, ziehe dein Nachthemd an; sieh nicht so blass aus: Ich sage es dir noch einmal, Banquo ist begraben; er kann nicht aus seinem Grab hervortreten. ARZT. Stimmt das? LADY MACBETH. Ins Bett, ins Bett; es wird an das Tor geklopft: komm, komm, komm, gib mir deine Hand: Was getan ist, kann nicht ungeschehen gemacht werden: Ins Bett, ins Bett, ins Bett. [Hinaus.] ARZT. Wird sie nun ins Bett gehen? FRAU. Direkt. ARZT. Ungute Gerüchte machen die Runde: unnatürliche Taten bringen unnatürliche Probleme hervor: infizierte Geister werden ihre Geheimnisse auf ihre tauben Kissen entlassen. Mehr als der Arzt braucht sie das Göttliche. Gott, Gott, vergib uns allen! - Pass auf sie auf; entferne von ihr alles, was sie stören könnte und halte weiterhin ein Auge auf sie: - so, gute Nacht: Sie hat meinen Geist verwirrt und mein Sehen erschüttert: Ich denke, aber ich wage es nicht auszusprechen. FRAU. Gute Nacht, guter Doktor. [Hinaus.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Lady Macbeth leidet an einer psychischen Störung und sie schlafwandelt und redet unzusammenhängend, erinnert sich an Ereignisse der Morde an Duncan und gibt auch Verweise auf Banquo und Lady Macduff. Ihr Arzt und ihre Dienstmagd belauschen ihre belastenden Worte.

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 HOW, WITHOUT INCOMMDING HIMSELF, ATHOS PROCURES HIS EQUIPMENT D'Artagnan was so completely bewildered that without taking any heed of what might become of Kitty he ran at full speed across half Paris, and did not stop till he came to Athos's door. The confusion of his mind, the terror which spurred him on, the cries of some of the patrol who started in pursuit of him, and the hooting of the people who, notwithstanding the early hour, were going to their work, only made him precipitate his course. He crossed the court, ran up the two flights to Athos's apartment, and knocked at the door enough to break it down. Grimaud came, rubbing his half-open eyes, to answer this noisy summons, and d'Artagnan sprang with such violence into the room as nearly to overturn the astonished lackey. In spite of his habitual silence, the poor lad this time found his speech. "Holloa, there!" cried he; "what do you want, you strumpet? What's your business here, you hussy?" D'Artagnan threw off his hood, and disengaged his hands from the folds of the cloak. At sight of the mustaches and the naked sword, the poor devil perceived he had to deal with a man. He then concluded it must be an assassin. "Help! murder! help!" cried he. "Hold your tongue, you stupid fellow!" said the young man; "I am d'Artagnan; don't you know me? Where is your master?" "You, Monsieur d'Artagnan!" cried Grimaud, "impossible." "Grimaud," said Athos, coming out of his apartment in a dressing gown, "Grimaud, I thought I heard you permitting yourself to speak?" "Ah, monsieur, it is--" "Silence!" Grimaud contented himself with pointing d'Artagnan out to his master with his finger. Athos recognized his comrade, and phlegmatic as he was, he burst into a laugh which was quite excused by the strange masquerade before his eyes--petticoats falling over his shoes, sleeves tucked up, and mustaches stiff with agitation. "Don't laugh, my friend!" cried d'Artagnan; "for heaven's sake, don't laugh, for upon my soul, it's no laughing matter!" And he pronounced these words with such a solemn air and with such a real appearance of terror, that Athos eagerly seized his hand, crying, "Are you wounded, my friend? How pale you are!" "No, but I have just met with a terrible adventure! Are you alone, Athos?" "PARBLEU! whom do you expect to find with me at this hour?" "Well, well!" and d'Artagnan rushed into Athos's chamber. "Come, speak!" said the latter, closing the door and bolting it, that they might not be disturbed. "Is the king dead? Have you killed the cardinal? You are quite upset! Come, come, tell me; I am dying with curiosity and uneasiness!" "Athos," said d'Artagnan, getting rid of his female garments, and appearing in his shirt, "prepare yourself to hear an incredible, an unheard-of story." "Well, but put on this dressing gown first," said the Musketeer to his friend. D'Artagnan donned the robe as quickly as he could, mistaking one sleeve for the other, so greatly was he still agitated. "Well?" said Athos. "Well," replied d'Artagnan, bending his mouth to Athos's ear, and lowering his voice, "Milady is marked with a FLEUR-DE-LIS upon her shoulder!" "Ah!" cried the Musketeer, as if he had received a ball in his heart. "Let us see," said d'Artagnan. "Are you SURE that the OTHER is dead?" "THE OTHER?" said Athos, in so stifled a voice that d'Artagnan scarcely heard him. "Yes, she of whom you told me one day at Amiens." Athos uttered a groan, and let his head sink on his hands. "This is a woman of twenty-six or twenty-eight years." "Fair," said Athos, "is she not?" "Very." "Blue and clear eyes, of a strange brilliancy, with black eyelids and eyebrows?" "Yes." "Tall, well-made? She has lost a tooth, next to the eyetooth on the left?" "Yes." "The FLEUR-DE-LIS is small, rosy in color, and looks as if efforts had been made to efface it by the application of poultices?" "Yes." "But you say she is English?" "She is called Milady, but she may be French. Lord de Winter is only her brother-in-law." "I will see her, d'Artagnan!" "Beware, Athos, beware. You tried to kill her; she is a woman to return you the like, and not to fail." "She will not dare to say anything; that would be to denounce herself." "She is capable of anything or everything. Did you ever see her furious?" "No," said Athos. "A tigress, a panther! Ah, my dear Athos, I am greatly afraid I have drawn a terrible vengeance on both of us!" D'Artagnan then related all--the mad passion of Milady and her menaces of death. "You are right; and upon my soul, I would give my life for a hair," said Athos. "Fortunately, the day after tomorrow we leave Paris. We are going according to all probability to La Rochelle, and once gone--" "She will follow you to the end of the world, Athos, if she recognizes you. Let her, then, exhaust her vengeance on me alone!" "My dear friend, of what consequence is it if she kills me?" said Athos. "Do you, perchance, think I set any great store by life?" "There is something horribly mysterious under all this, Athos; this woman is one of the cardinal's spies, I am sure of that." "In that case, take care! If the cardinal does not hold you in high admiration for the affair of London, he entertains a great hatred for you; but as, considering everything, he cannot accuse you openly, and as hatred must be satisfied, particularly when it's a cardinal's hatred, take care of yourself. If you go out, do not go out alone; when you eat, use every precaution. Mistrust everything, in short, even your own shadow." "Fortunately," said d'Artagnan, "all this will be only necessary till after tomorrow evening, for when once with the army, we shall have, I hope, only men to dread." "In the meantime," said Athos, "I renounce my plan of seclusion, and wherever you go, I will go with you. You must return to the Rue des Fossoyeurs; I will accompany you." "But however near it may be," replied d'Artagnan, "I cannot go thither in this guise." "That's true," said Athos, and he rang the bell. Grimaud entered. Athos made him a sign to go to d'Artagnan's residence, and bring back some clothes. Grimaud replied by another sign that he understood perfectly, and set off. "All this will not advance your outfit," said Athos; "for if I am not mistaken, you have left the best of your apparel with Milady, and she will certainly not have the politeness to return it to you. Fortunately, you have the sapphire." "The jewel is yours, my dear Athos! Did you not tell me it was a family jewel?" "Yes, my grandfather gave two thousand crowns for it, as he once told me. It formed part of the nuptial present he made his wife, and it is magnificent. My mother gave it to me, and I, fool as I was, instead of keeping the ring as a holy relic, gave it to this wretch." "Then, my friend, take back this ring, to which I see you attach much value." "I take back the ring, after it has passed through the hands of that infamous creature? Never; that ring is defiled, d'Artagnan." "Sell it, then." "Sell a jewel which came from my mother! I vow I should consider it a profanation." "Pledge it, then; you can borrow at least a thousand crowns on it. With that sum you can extricate yourself from your present difficulties; and when you are full of money again, you can redeem it, and take it back cleansed from its ancient stains, as it will have passed through the hands of usurers." Athos smiled. "You are a capital companion, d'Artagnan," said be; "your never-failing cheerfulness raises poor souls in affliction. Well, let us pledge the ring, but upon one condition." "What?" "That there shall be five hundred crowns for you, and five hundred crowns for me." "Don't dream it, Athos. I don't need the quarter of such a sum--I who am still only in the Guards--and by selling my saddles, I shall procure it. What do I want? A horse for Planchet, that's all. Besides, you forget that I have a ring likewise." "To which you attach more value, it seems, than I do to mine; at least, I have thought so." "Yes, for in any extreme circumstance it might not only extricate us from some great embarrassment, but even a great danger. It is not only a valuable diamond, but it is an enchanted talisman." "I don't at all understand you, but I believe all you say to be true. Let us return to my ring, or rather to yours. You shall take half the sum that will be advanced upon it, or I will throw it into the Seine; and I doubt, as was the case with Polycrates, whether any fish will be sufficiently complaisant to bring it back to us." "Well, I will take it, then," said d'Artagnan. At this moment Grimaud returned, accompanied by Planchet; the latter, anxious about his master and curious to know what had happened to him, had taken advantage of the opportunity and brought the garments himself. d'Artagnan dressed himself, and Athos did the same. When the two were ready to go out, the latter made Grimaud the sign of a man taking aim, and the lackey immediately took down his musketoon, and prepared to follow his master. They arrived without accident at the Rue des Fossoyeurs. Bonacieux was standing at the door, and looked at d'Artagnan hatefully. "Make haste, dear lodger," said he; "there is a very pretty girl waiting for you upstairs; and you know women don't like to be kept waiting." "That's Kitty!" said d'Artagnan to himself, and darted into the passage. Sure enough! Upon the landing leading to the chamber, and crouching against the door, he found the poor girl, all in a tremble. As soon as she perceived him, she cried, "You have promised your protection; you have promised to save me from her anger. Remember, it is you who have ruined me!" "Yes, yes, to be sure, Kitty," said d'Artagnan; "be at ease, my girl. But what happened after my departure?" "How can I tell!" said Kitty. "The lackeys were brought by the cries she made. She was mad with passion. There exist no imprecations she did not pour out against you. Then I thought she would remember it was through my chamber you had penetrated hers, and that then she would suppose I was your accomplice; so I took what little money I had and the best of my things, and I got away. "Poor dear girl! But what can I do with you? I am going away the day after tomorrow." "Do what you please, Monsieur Chevalier. Help me out of Paris; help me out of France!" "I cannot take you, however, to the siege of La Rochelle," aid d'Artagnan. "No; but you can place me in one of the provinces with some lady of your acquaintance--in your own country, for instance." "My dear little love! In my country the ladies do without chambermaids. But stop! I can manage your business for you. Planchet, go and find Aramis. Request him to come here directly. We have something very important to say to him." "I understand," said Athos; "but why not Porthos? I should have thought that his duchess--" "Oh, Porthos's duchess is dressed by her husband's clerks," said d'Artagnan, laughing. "Besides, Kitty would not like to live in the Rue aux Ours. Isn't it so, Kitty?" "I do not care where I live," said Kitty, "provided I am well concealed, and nobody knows where I am." "Meanwhile, Kitty, when we are about to separate, and you are no longer jealous of me--" "Monsieur Chevalier, far off or near," said Kitty, "I shall always love you." "Where the devil will constancy niche itself next?" murmured Athos. "And I, also," said d'Artagnan, "I also. I shall always love you; be sure of that. But now answer me. I attach great importance to the question I am about to put to you. Did you never hear talk of a young woman who was carried off one night?" "There, now! Oh, Monsieur Chevalier, do you love that woman still?" "No, no; it is one of my friends who loves her--Monsieur Athos, this gentleman here." "I?" cried Athos, with an accent like that of a man who perceives he is about to tread upon an adder. "You, to be sure!" said d'Artagnan, pressing Athos's hand. "You know the interest we both take in this poor little Madame Bonacieux. Besides, Kitty will tell nothing; will you, Kitty? You understand, my dear girl," continued d'Artagnan, "she is the wife of that frightful baboon you saw at the door as you came in." "Oh, my God! You remind me of my fright! If he should have known me again!" "How? know you again? Did you ever see that man before?" "He came twice to Milady's." "That's it. About what time?" "Why, about fifteen or eighteen days ago." "Exactly so." "And yesterday evening he came again." "Yesterday evening?" "Yes, just before you came." "My dear Athos, we are enveloped in a network of spies. And do you believe he knew you again, Kitty?" "I pulled down my hood as soon as I saw him, but perhaps it was too late." "Go down, Athos--he mistrusts you less than me--and see if he be still at his door." Athos went down and returned immediately. "He has gone," said he, "and the house door is shut." "He has gone to make his report, and to say that all the pigeons are at this moment in the dovecot." "Well, then, let us all fly," said Athos, "and leave nobody here but Planchet to bring us news." "A minute. Aramis, whom we have sent for!" "That's true," said Athos; "we must wait for Aramis." At that moment Aramis entered. The matter was all explained to him, and the friends gave him to understand that among all his high connections he must find a place for Kitty. Aramis reflected for a minute, and then said, coloring, "Will it be really rendering you a service, d'Artagnan?" "I shall be grateful to you all my life." "Very well. Madame de Bois-Tracy asked me, for one of her friends who resides in the provinces, I believe, for a trustworthy maid. If you can, my dear d'Artagnan, answer for Mademoiselle-" "Oh, monsieur, be assured that I shall be entirely devoted to the person who will give me the means of quitting Paris." "Then," said Aramis, "this falls out very well." He placed himself at the table and wrote a little note which he sealed with a ring, and gave the billet to Kitty. "And now, my dear girl," said d'Artagnan, "you know that it is not good for any of us to be here. Therefore let us separate. We shall meet again in better days." "And whenever we find each other, in whatever place it may be," said Kitty, "you will find me loving you as I love you today." "Dicers' oaths!" said Athos, while d'Artagnan went to conduct Kitty downstairs. An instant afterward the three young men separated, agreeing to meet again at four o'clock with Athos, and leaving Planchet to guard the house. Aramis returned home, and Athos and d'Artagnan busied themselves about pledging the sapphire. As the Gascon had foreseen, they easily obtained three hundred pistoles on the ring. Still further, the Jew told them that if they would sell it to him, as it would make a magnificent pendant for earrings, he would give five hundred pistoles for it. Athos and d'Artagnan, with the activity of two soldiers and the knowledge of two connoisseurs, hardly required three hours to purchase the entire equipment of the Musketeer. Besides, Athos was very easy, and a noble to his fingers' ends. When a thing suited him he paid the price demanded, without thinking to ask for any abatement. D'Artagnan would have remonstrated at this; but Athos put his hand upon his shoulder, with a smile, and d'Artagnan understood that it was all very well for such a little Gascon gentleman as himself to drive a bargain, but not for a man who had the bearing of a prince. The Musketeer met with a superb Andalusian horse, black as jet, nostrils of fire, legs clean and elegant, rising six years. He examined him, and found him sound and without blemish. They asked a thousand livres for him. He might perhaps have been bought for less; but while d'Artagnan was discussing the price with the dealer, Athos was counting out the money on the table. Grimaud had a stout, short Picard cob, which cost three hundred livres. But when the saddle and arms for Grimaud were purchased, Athos had not a sou left of his hundred and fifty pistoles. D'Artagnan offered his friend a part of his share which he should return when convenient. But Athos only replied to this proposal by shrugging his shoulders. "How much did the Jew say he would give for the sapphire if he purchased it?" said Athos. "Five hundred pistoles." "That is to say, two hundred more--a hundred pistoles for you and a hundred pistoles for me. Well, now, that would be a real fortune to us, my friend; let us go back to the Jew's again." "What! will you--" "This ring would certainly only recall very bitter remembrances; then we shall never be masters of three hundred pistoles to redeem it, so that we really should lose two hundred pistoles by the bargain. Go and tell him the ring is his, d'Artagnan, and bring back the two hundred pistoles with you." "Reflect, Athos!" "Ready money is needful for the present time, and we must learn how to make sacrifices. Go, d'Artagnan, go; Grimaud will accompany you with his musketoon." A half hour afterward, d'Artagnan returned with the two thousand livres, and without having met with any accident. It was thus Athos found at home resources which he did not expect. 39 A VISION At four o'clock the four friends were all assembled with Athos. Their anxiety about their outfits had all disappeared, and each countenance only preserved the expression of its own secret disquiet--for behind all present happiness is concealed a fear for the future. Suddenly Planchet entered, bringing two letters for d'Artagnan. The one was a little billet, genteelly folded, with a pretty seal in green wax on which was impressed a dove bearing a green branch. The other was a large square epistle, resplendent with the terrible arms of his Eminence the cardinal duke. At the sight of the little letter the heart of d'Artagnan bounded, for he believed he recognized the handwriting, and although he had seen that writing but once, the memory of it remained at the bottom of his heart. He therefore seized the little epistle, and opened it eagerly. "Be," said the letter, "on Thursday next, at from six to seven o'clock in the evening, on the road to Chaillot, and look carefully into the carriages that pass; but if you have any consideration for your own life or that of those who love you, do not speak a single word, do not make a movement which may lead anyone to believe you have recognized her who exposes herself to everything for the sake of seeing you but for an instant." No signature. "That's a snare," said Athos; "don't go, d'Artagnan." "And yet," replied d'Artagnan, "I think I recognize the writing." "It may be counterfeit," said Athos. "Between six and seven o'clock the road of Chaillot is quite deserted; you might as well go and ride in the forest of Bondy." "But suppose we all go," said d'Artagnan; "what the devil! They won't devour us all four, four lackeys, horses, arms, and all!" "And besides, it will be a chance for displaying our new equipments," said Porthos. "But if it is a woman who writes," said Aramis, "and that woman desires not to be seen, remember, you compromise her, d'Artagnan; which is not the part of a gentleman." "We will remain in the background," said Porthos, "and he will advance alone." "Yes; but a pistol shot is easily fired from a carriage which goes at a gallop." "Bah!" said d'Artagnan, "they will miss me; if they fire we will ride after the carriage, and exterminate those who may be in it. They must be enemies." "He is right," said Porthos; "battle. Besides, we must try our own arms." "Bah, let us enjoy that pleasure," said Aramis, with his mild and careless manner. "As you please," said Athos. "Gentlemen," said d'Artagnan, "it is half past four, and we have scarcely time to be on the road of Chaillot by six." "Besides, if we go out too late, nobody will see us," said Porthos, "and that will be a pity. Let us get ready, gentlemen." "But this second letter," said Athos, "you forget that; it appears to me, however, that the seal denotes that it deserves to be opened. For my part, I declare, d'Artagnan, I think it of much more consequence than the little piece of waste paper you have so cunningly slipped into your bosom." D'Artagnan blushed. "Well," said he, "let us see, gentlemen, what are his Eminence's commands," and d'Artagnan unsealed the letter and read, "M. d'Artagnan, of the king's Guards, company Dessessart, is expected at the Palais-Cardinal this evening, at eight o'clock. "La Houdiniere, CAPTAIN OF THE GUARDS" "The devil!" said Athos; "here's a rendezvous much more serious than the other." "I will go to the second after attending the first," said d'Artagnan. "One is for seven o'clock, and the other for eight; there will be time for both." "Hum! I would not go at all," said Aramis. "A gallant knight cannot decline a rendezvous with a lady; but a prudent gentleman may excuse himself from not waiting on his Eminence, particularly when he has reason to believe he is not invited to make his compliments." "I am of Aramis's opinion," said Porthos. "Gentlemen," replied d'Artagnan, "I have already received by Monsieur de Cavois a similar invitation from his Eminence. I neglected it, and on the morrow a serious misfortune happened to me--Constance disappeared. Whatever may ensue, I will go." "If you are determined," said Athos, "do so." "But the Bastille?" said Aramis. "Bah! you will get me out if they put me there," said d'Artagnan. "To be sure we will," replied Aramis and Porthos, with admirable promptness and decision, as if that were the simplest thing in the world, "to be sure we will get you out; but meantime, as we are to set off the day after tomorrow, you would do much better not to risk this Bastille." "Let us do better than that," said Athos; "do not let us leave him during the whole evening. Let each of us wait at a gate of the palace with three Musketeers behind him; if we see a close carriage, at all suspicious in appearance, come out, let us fall upon it. It is a long time since we have had a skirmish with the Guards of Monsieur the Cardinal; Monsieur de Treville must think us dead." "To a certainty, Athos," said Aramis, "you were meant to be a general of the army! What do you think of the plan, gentlemen?" "Admirable!" replied the young men in chorus. "Well," said Porthos, "I will run to the hotel, and engage our comrades to hold themselves in readiness by eight o'clock; the rendezvous, the Place du Palais-Cardinal. Meantime, you see that the lackeys saddle the horses." "I have no horse," said d'Artagnan; "but that is of no consequence, I can take one of Monsieur de Treville's." "That is not worth while," said Aramis, "you can have one of mine." "One of yours! how many have you, then?" asked d'Artagnan. "Three," replied Aramis, smiling. "Certes," cried Athos, "you are the best-mounted poet of France or Navarre." "Well, my dear Aramis, you don't want three horses? I cannot comprehend what induced you to buy three!" "Therefore I only purchased two," said Aramis. "The third, then, fell from the clouds, I suppose?" "No, the third was brought to me this very morning by a groom out of livery, who would not tell me in whose service he was, and who said he had received orders from his master." "Or his mistress," interrupted d'Artagnan. "That makes no difference," said Aramis, coloring; "and who affirmed, as I said, that he had received orders from his master or mistress to place the horse in my stable, without informing me whence it came." "It is only to poets that such things happen," said Athos, gravely. "Well, in that case, we can manage famously," said d'Artagnan; "which of the two horses will you ride--that which you bought or the one that was given to you?" "That which was given to me, assuredly. You cannot for a moment imagine, d'Artagnan, that I would commit such an offense toward--" "The unknown giver," interrupted d'Artagnan. "Or the mysterious benefactress," said Athos. "The one you bought will then become useless to you?" "Nearly so." "And you selected it yourself?" "With the greatest care. The safety of the horseman, you know, depends almost always upon the goodness of his horse." "Well, transfer it to me at the price it cost you?" "I was going to make you the offer, my dear d'Artagnan, giving you all the time necessary for repaying me such a trifle." "How much did it cost you?" "Eight hundred livres." "Here are forty double pistoles, my dear friend," said d'Artagnan, taking the sum from his pocket; "I know that is the coin in which you were paid for your poems." "You are rich, then?" said Aramis. "Rich? Richest, my dear fellow!" And d'Artagnan chinked the remainder of his pistoles in his pocket. "Send your saddle, then, to the hotel of the Musketeers, and your horse can be brought back with ours." "Very well; but it is already five o'clock, so make haste." A quarter of an hour afterward Porthos appeared at the end of the Rue Ferou on a very handsome genet. Mousqueton followed him upon an Auvergne horse, small but very handsome. Porthos was resplendent with joy and pride. At the same time, Aramis made his appearance at the other end of the street upon a superb English charger. Bazin followed him upon a roan, holding by the halter a vigorous Mecklenburg horse; this was d'Artagnan's mount. The two Musketeers met at the gate. Athos and d'Artagnan watched their approach from the window. "The devil!" cried Aramis, "you have a magnificent horse there, Porthos." "Yes," replied Porthos, "it is the one that ought to have been sent to me at first. A bad joke of the husband's substituted the other; but the husband has been punished since, and I have obtained full satisfaction." Planchet and Grimaud appeared in their turn, leading their masters' steeds. D'Artagnan and Athos put themselves into saddle with their companions, and all four set forward; Athos upon a horse he owed to a woman, Aramis on a horse he owed to his mistress, Porthos on a horse he owed to his procurator's wife, and d'Artagnan on a horse he owed to his good fortune--the best mistress possible. The lackeys followed. As Porthos had foreseen, the cavalcade produced a good effect; and if Mme. Coquenard had met Porthos and seen what a superb appearance he made upon his handsome Spanish genet, she would not have regretted the bleeding she had inflicted upon the strongbox of her husband. Near the Louvre the four friends met with M. de Treville, who was returning from St. Germain; he stopped them to offer his compliments upon their appointments, which in an instant drew round them a hundred gapers. D'Artagnan profited by the circumstance to speak to M. de Treville of the letter with the great red seal and the cardinal's arms. It is well understood that he did not breathe a word about the other. M de Treville approved of the resolution he had adopted, and assured him that if on the morrow he did not appear, he himself would undertake to find him, let him be where he might. At this moment the clock of La Samaritaine struck six; the four friends pleaded an engagement, and took leave of M. de Treville. A short gallop brought them to the road of Chaillot; the day began to decline, carriages were passing and repassing. D'Artagnan, keeping at some distance from his friends, darted a scrutinizing glance into every carriage that appeared, but saw no face with which he was acquainted. At length, after waiting a quarter of an hour and just as twilight was beginning to thicken, a carriage appeared, coming at a quick pace on the road of Sevres. A presentiment instantly told d'Artagnan that this carriage contained the person who had appointed the rendezvous; the young man was himself astonished to find his heart beat so violently. Almost instantly a female head was put out at the window, with two fingers placed upon her mouth, either to enjoin silence or to send him a kiss. D'Artagnan uttered a slight cry of joy; this woman, or rather this apparition--for the carriage passed with the rapidity of a vision--was Mme. Bonacieux. By an involuntary movement and in spite of the injunction given, d'Artagnan put his horse into a gallop, and in a few strides overtook the carriage; but the window was hermetically closed, the vision had disappeared. D'Artagnan then remembered the injunction: "If you value your own life or that of those who love you, remain motionless, and as if you had seen nothing." He stopped, therefore, trembling not for himself but for the poor woman who had evidently exposed herself to great danger by appointing this rendezvous. The carriage pursued its way, still going at a great pace, till it dashed into Paris, and disappeared. D'Artagnan remained fixed to the spot, astounded and not knowing what to think. If it was Mme. Bonacieux and if she was returning to Paris, why this fugitive rendezvous, why this simple exchange of a glance, why this lost kiss? If, on the other side, it was not she--which was still quite possible--for the little light that remained rendered a mistake easy--might it not be the commencement of some plot against him through the allurement of this woman, for whom his love was known? His three companions joined him. All had plainly seen a woman's head appear at the window, but none of them, except Athos, knew Mme. Bonacieux. The opinion of Athos was that it was indeed she; but less preoccupied by that pretty face than d'Artagnan, he had fancied he saw a second head, a man's head, inside the carriage. "If that be the case," said d'Artagnan, "they are doubtless transporting her from one prison to another. But what can they intend to do with the poor creature, and how shall I ever meet her again?" "Friend," said Athos, gravely, "remember that it is the dead alone with whom we are not likely to meet again on this earth. You know something of that, as well as I do, I think. Now, if your mistress is not dead, if it is she we have just seen, you will meet with her again some day or other. And perhaps, my God!" added he, with that misanthropic tone which was peculiar to him, "perhaps sooner than you wish." Half past seven had sounded. The carriage had been twenty minutes behind the time appointed. D'Artagnan's friends reminded him that he had a visit to pay, but at the same time bade him observe that there was yet time to retract. But d'Artagnan was at the same time impetuous and curious. He had made up his mind that he would go to the Palais-Cardinal, and that he would learn what his Eminence had to say to him. Nothing could turn him from his purpose. They reached the Rue St. Honore, and in the Place du Palais-Cardinal they found the twelve invited Musketeers, walking about in expectation of their comrades. There only they explained to them the matter in hand. D'Artagnan was well known among the honorable corps of the king's Musketeers, in which it was known he would one day take his place; he was considered beforehand as a comrade. It resulted from these antecedents that everyone entered heartily into the purpose for which they met; besides, it would not be unlikely that they would have an opportunity of playing either the cardinal or his people an ill turn, and for such expeditions these worthy gentlemen were always ready. Athos divided them into three groups, assumed the command of one, gave the second to Aramis, and the third to Porthos; and then each group went and took their watch near an entrance. D'Artagnan, on his part, entered boldly at the principal gate. Although he felt himself ably supported, the young man was not without a little uneasiness as he ascended the great staircase, step by step. His conduct toward Milady bore a strong resemblance to treachery, and he was very suspicious of the political relations which existed between that woman and the cardinal. Still further, de Wardes, whom he had treated so ill, was one of the tools of his Eminence; and d'Artagnan knew that while his Eminence was terrible to his enemies, he was strongly attached to his friends. "If de Wardes has related all our affair to the cardinal, which is not to be doubted, and if he has recognized me, as is probable, I may consider myself almost as a condemned man," said d'Artagnan, shaking his head. "But why has he waited till now? That's all plain enough. Milady has laid her complaints against me with that hypocritical grief which renders her so interesting, and this last offense has made the cup overflow." "Fortunately," added he, "my good friends are down yonder, and they will not allow me to be carried away without a struggle. Nevertheless, Monsieur de Treville's company of Musketeers alone cannot maintain a war against the cardinal, who disposes of the forces of all France, and before whom the queen is without power and the king without will. D'Artagnan, my friend, you are brave, you are prudent, you have excellent qualities; but the women will ruin you!" He came to this melancholy conclusion as he entered the antechamber. He placed his letter in the hands of the usher on duty, who led him into the waiting room and passed on into the interior of the palace. In this waiting room were five or six of the cardinals Guards, who recognized d'Artagnan, and knowing that it was he who had wounded Jussac, they looked upon him with a smile of singular meaning. This smile appeared to d'Artagnan to be of bad augury. Only, as our Gascon was not easily intimidated--or rather, thanks to a great pride natural to the men of his country, he did not allow one easily to see what was passing in his mind when that which was passing at all resembled fear--he placed himself haughtily in front of Messieurs the Guards, and waited with his hand on his hip, in an attitude by no means deficient in majesty. The usher returned and made a sign to d'Artagnan to follow him. It appeared to the young man that the Guards, on seeing him depart, chuckled among themselves. He traversed a corridor, crossed a grand saloon, entered a library, and found himself in the presence of a man seated at a desk and writing. The usher introduced him, and retired without speaking a word. D'Artagnan remained standing and examined this man. D'Artagnan at first believed that he had to do with some judge examining his papers; but he perceived that the man at the desk wrote, or rather corrected, lines of unequal length, scanning the words on his fingers. He saw then that he was with a poet. At the end of an instant the poet closed his manuscript, upon the cover of which was written "Mirame, a Tragedy in Five Acts," and raised his head. D'Artagnan recognized the cardinal. 40 A TERRIBLE VISION The cardinal leaned his elbow on his manuscript, his cheek upon his hand, and looked intently at the young man for a moment. No one had a more searching eye than the Cardinal de Richelieu, and d'Artagnan felt this glance run through his veins like a fever. He however kept a good countenance, holding his hat in his hand and awaiting the good pleasure of his Eminence, without too much assurance, but also without too much humility. "Monsieur," said the cardinal, "are you a d'Artagnan from Bearn?" "Yes, monseigneur," replied the young man. "There are several branches of the d'Artagnans at Tarbes and in its environs," said the cardinal; "to which do you belong?" "I am the son of him who served in the Religious Wars under the great King Henry, the father of his gracious Majesty." "That is well. It is you who set out seven or eight months ago from your country to seek your fortune in the capital?" "Yes, monseigneur." "You came through Meung, where something befell you. I don't very well know what, but still something." "Monseigneur," said d'Artagnan, "this was what happened to me--" "Never mind, never mind!" resumed the cardinal, with a smile which indicated that he knew the story as well as he who wished to relate it. "You were recommended to Monsieur de Treville, were you not?" "Yes, monseigneur; but in that unfortunate affair at Meung--" "The letter was lost," replied his Eminence; "yes, I know that. But Monsieur de Treville is a skilled physiognomist, who knows men at first sight; and he placed you in the company of his brother-in-law, Monsieur Dessessart, leaving you to hope that one day or other you should enter the Musketeers." "Monseigneur is correctly informed," said d'Artagnan. "Since that time many things have happened to you. You were walking one day behind the Chartreux, when it would have been better if you had been elsewhere. Then you took with your friends a journey to the waters of Forges; they stopped on the road, but you continued yours. That is all very simple: you had business in England." "Monseigneur," said d'Artagnan, quite confused, "I went--" "Hunting at Windsor, or elsewhere--that concerns nobody. I know, because it is my office to know everything. On your return you were received by an august personage, and I perceive with pleasure that you preserve the souvenir she gave you." D'Artagnan placed his hand upon the queen's diamond, which he wore, and quickly turned the stone inward; but it was too late. "The day after that, you received a visit from Cavois," resumed the cardinal. "He went to desire you to come to the palace. You have not returned that visit, and you were wrong." "Monseigneur, I feared I had incurred disgrace with your Eminence." "How could that be, monsieur? Could you incur my displeasure by having followed the orders of your superiors with more intelligence and courage than another would have done? It is the people who do not obey that I punish, and not those who, like you, obey--but too well. As a proof, remember the date of the day on which I had you bidden to come to me, and seek in your memory for what happened to you that very night." That was the very evening when the abduction of Mme. Bonacieux took place. D'Artagnan trembled; and he likewise recollected that during the past half hour the poor woman had passed close to him, without doubt carried away by the same power that had caused her disappearance. "In short," continued the cardinal, "as I have heard nothing of you for some time past, I wished to know what you were doing. Besides, you owe me some thanks. You must yourself have remarked how much you have been considered in all the circumstances." D'Artagnan bowed with respect. "That," continued the cardinal, "arose not only from a feeling of natural equity, but likewise from a plan I have marked out with respect to you." D'Artagnan became more and more astonished. "I wished to explain this plan to you on the day you received my first invitation; but you did not come. Fortunately, nothing is lost by this delay, and you are now about to hear it. Sit down there, before me, d'Artagnan; you are gentleman enough not to listen standing." And the cardinal pointed with his finger to a chair for the young man, who was so astonished at what was passing that he awaited a second sign from his interlocutor before he obeyed. "You are brave, Monsieur d'Artagnan," continued his Eminence; "you are prudent, which is still better. I like men of head and heart. Don't be afraid," said he, smiling. "By men of heart I mean men of courage. But young as you are, and scarcely entering into the world, you have powerful enemies; if you do not take great heed, they will destroy you." "Alas, monseigneur!" replied the young man, "very easily, no doubt, for they are strong and well supported, while I am alone." "Yes, that's true; but alone as you are, you have done much already, and will do still more, I don't doubt. Yet you have need, I believe, to be guided in the adventurous career you have undertaken; for, if I mistake not, you came to Paris with the ambitious idea of making your fortune." "I am at the age of extravagant hopes, monseigneur," said d'Artagnan. "There are no extravagant hopes but for fools, monsieur, and you are a man of understanding. Now, what would you say to an ensign's commission in my Guards, and a company after the campaign?" "Ah, monseigneur." "You accept it, do you not?" "Monseigneur," replied d'Artagnan, with an embarrassed air. "How? You refuse?" cried the cardinal, with astonishment. "I am in his Majesty's Guards, monseigneur, and I have no reason to be dissatisfied." "But it appears to me that my Guards--mine--are also his Majesty's Guards; and whoever serves in a French corps serves the king." "Monseigneur, your Eminence has ill understood my words." "You want a pretext, do you not? I comprehend. Well, you have this excuse: advancement, the opening campaign, the opportunity which I offer you--so much for the world. As regards yourself, the need of protection; for it is fit you should know, Monsieur d'Artagnan, that I have received heavy and serious complaints against you. You do not consecrate your days and nights wholly to the king's service." D'Artagnan colored. "In fact," said the cardinal, placing his hand upon a bundle of papers, "I have here a whole pile which concerns you. I know you to be a man of resolution; and your services, well directed, instead of leading you to ill, might be very advantageous to you. Come; reflect, and decide." "Your goodness confounds me, monseigneur," replied d'Artagnan, "and I am conscious of a greatness of soul in your Eminence that makes me mean as an earthworm; but since Monseigneur permits me to speak freely--" D'Artagnan paused. "Yes; speak." "Then, I will presume to say that all my friends are in the king's Musketeers and Guards, and that by an inconceivable fatality my enemies are in the service of your Eminence; I should, therefore, be ill received here and ill regarded there if I accepted what Monseigneur offers me." "Do you happen to entertain the haughty idea that I have not yet made you an offer equal to your value?" asked the cardinal, with a smile of disdain. "Monseigneur, your Eminence is a hundred times too kind to me; and on the contrary, I think I have not proved myself worthy of your goodness. The siege of La Rochelle is about to be resumed, monseigneur. I shall serve under the eye of your Eminence, and if I have the good fortune to conduct myself at the siege in such a manner as merits your attention, then I shall at least leave behind me some brilliant action to justify the protection with which you honor me. Everything is best in its time, monseigneur. Hereafter, perhaps, I shall have the right of giving myself; at present I shall appear to sell myself." "That is to say, you refuse to serve me, monsieur," said the cardinal, with a tone of vexation, through which, however, might be seen a sort of esteem; "remain free, then, and guard your hatreds and your sympathies." "Monseigneur--" "Well, well," said the cardinal, "I don't wish you any ill; but you must be aware that it is quite trouble enough to defend and recompense our friends. We owe nothing to our enemies; and let me give you a piece of advice; take care of yourself, Monsieur d'Artagnan, for from the moment I withdraw my hand from behind you, I would not give an obolus for your life." "I will try to do so, monseigneur," replied the Gascon, with a noble confidence. "Remember at a later period and at a certain moment, if any mischance should happen to you," said Richelieu, significantly, "that it was I who came to seek you, and that I did all in my power to prevent this misfortune befalling you." "I shall entertain, whatever may happen," said d'Artagnan, placing his hand upon his breast and bowing, "an eternal gratitude toward your Eminence for that which you now do for me." "Well, let it be, then, as you have said, Monsieur d'Artagnan; we shall see each other again after the campaign. I will have my eye upon you, for I shall be there," replied the cardinal, pointing with his finger to a magnificent suit of armor he was to wear, "and on our return, well--we will settle our account!" "Young man," said Richelieu, "if I shall be able to say to you at another time what I have said to you today, I promise you to do so." This last expression of Richelieu's conveyed a terrible doubt; it alarmed d'Artagnan more than a menace would have done, for it was a warning. The cardinal, then, was seeking to preserve him from some misfortune which threatened him. He opened his mouth to reply, but with a haughty gesture the cardinal dismissed him. D'Artagnan went out, but at the door his heart almost failed him, and he felt inclined to return. Then the noble and severe countenance of Athos crossed his mind; if he made the compact with the cardinal which he required, Athos would no more give him his hand--Athos would renounce him. It was this fear that restrained him, so powerful is the influence of a truly great character on all that surrounds it. D'Artagnan descended by the staircase at which he had entered, and found Athos and the four Musketeers waiting his appearance, and beginning to grow uneasy. With a word, d'Artagnan reassured them; and Planchet ran to inform the other sentinels that it was useless to keep guard longer, as his master had come out safe from the Palais-Cardinal. Returned home with Athos, Aramis and Porthos inquired eagerly the cause of the strange interview; but d'Artagnan confined himself to telling them that M. de Richelieu had sent for him to propose to him to enter into his guards with the rank of ensign, and that he had refused. "And you were right," cried Aramis and Porthos, with one voice. Athos fell into a profound reverie and answered nothing. But when they were alone he said, "You have done that which you ought to have done, d'Artagnan; but perhaps you have been wrong." D'Artagnan sighed deeply, for this voice responded to a secret voice of his soul, which told him that great misfortunes awaited him. The whole of the next day was spent in preparations for departure. D'Artagnan went to take leave of M. de Treville. At that time it was believed that the separation of the Musketeers and the Guards would be but momentary, the king holding his Parliament that very day and proposing to set out the day after. M. de Treville contented himself with asking d'Artagnan if he could do anything for him, but d'Artagnan answered that he was supplied with all he wanted. That night brought together all those comrades of the Guards of M. Dessessart and the company of Musketeers of M. de Treville who had been accustomed to associate together. They were parting to meet again when it pleased God, and if it pleased God. That night, then, was somewhat riotous, as may be imagined. In such cases extreme preoccupation is only to be combated by extreme carelessness. At the first sound of the morning trumpet the friends separated; the Musketeers hastening to the hotel of M. de Treville, the Guards to that of M. Dessessart. Each of the captains then led his company to the Louvre, where the king held his review. The king was dull and appeared ill, which detracted a little from his usual lofty bearing. In fact, the evening before, a fever had seized him in the midst of the Parliament, while he was holding his Bed of Justice. He had, not the less, decided upon setting out that same evening; and in spite of the remonstrances that had been offered to him, he persisted in having the review, hoping by setting it at defiance to conquer the disease which began to lay hold upon him. The review over, the Guards set forward alone on their march, the Musketeers waiting for the king, which allowed Porthos time to go and take a turn in his superb equipment in the Rue aux Ours. The procurator's wife saw him pass in his new uniform and on his fine horse. She loved Porthos too dearly to allow him to part thus; she made him a sign to dismount and come to her. Porthos was magnificent; his spurs jingled, his cuirass glittered, his sword knocked proudly against his ample limbs. This time the clerks evinced no inclination to laugh, such a real ear clipper did Porthos appear. The Musketeer was introduced to M. Coquenard, whose little gray eyes sparkled with anger at seeing his cousin all blazing new. Nevertheless, one thing afforded him inward consolation; it was expected by everybody that the campaign would be a severe one. He whispered a hope to himself that this beloved relative might be killed in the field. Porthos paid his compliments to M. Coquenard and bade him farewell. M. Coquenard wished him all sorts of prosperities. As to Mme. Coquenard, she could not restrain her tears; but no evil impressions were taken from her grief as she was known to be very much attached to her relatives, about whom she was constantly having serious disputes with her husband. But the real adieux were made in Mme. Coquenard's chamber; they were heartrending. As long as the procurator's wife could follow him with her eyes, she waved her handkerchief to him, leaning so far out of the window as to lead people to believe she wished to precipitate herself. Porthos received all these attentions like a man accustomed to such demonstrations, only on turning the corner of the street he lifted his hat gracefully, and waved it to her as a sign of adieu. On his part Aramis wrote a long letter. To whom? Nobody knew. Kitty, who was to set out that evening for Tours, was waiting in the next chamber. Athos sipped the last bottle of his Spanish wine. In the meantime d'Artagnan was defiling with his company. Arriving at the Faubourg St. Antoine, he turned round to look gaily at the Bastille; but as it was the Bastille alone he looked at, he did not observe Milady, who, mounted upon a light chestnut horse, designated him with her finger to two ill-looking men who came close up to the ranks to take notice of him. To a look of interrogation which they made, Milady replied by a sign that it was he. Then, certain that there could be no mistake in the execution of her orders, she started her horse and disappeared. The two men followed the company, and on leaving the Faubourg St. Antoine, mounted two horses properly equipped, which a servant without livery had waiting for them. 41 THE SEIGE OF LA ROCHELLE The Siege of La Rochelle was one of the great political events of the reign of Louis XIII, and one of the great military enterprises of the cardinal. It is, then, interesting and even necessary that we should say a few words about it, particularly as many details of this siege are connected in too important a manner with the story we have undertaken to relate to allow us to pass it over in silence. The political plans of the cardinal when he undertook this siege were extensive. Let us unfold them first, and then pass on to the private plans which perhaps had not less influence upon his Eminence than the others. Of the important cities given up by Henry IV to the Huguenots as places of safety, there only remained La Rochelle. It became necessary, therefore, to destroy this last bulwark of Calvinism--a dangerous leaven with which the ferments of civil revolt and foreign war were constantly mingling. Spaniards, Englishmen, and Italian malcontents, adventurers of all nations, and soldiers of fortune of every sect, flocked at the first summons under the standard of the Protestants, and organized themselves like a vast association, whose branches diverged freely over all parts of Europe. La Rochelle, which had derived a new importance from the ruin of the other Calvinist cities, was, then, the focus of dissensions and ambition. Moreover, its port was the last in the kingdom of France open to the English, and by closing it against England, our eternal enemy, the cardinal completed the work of Joan of Arc and the Duc de Guise. Thus Bassompierre, who was at once Protestant and Catholic--Protestant by conviction and Catholic as commander of the order of the Holy Ghost; Bassompierre, who was a German by birth and a Frenchman at heart--in short, Bassompierre, who had a distinguished command at the siege of La Rochelle, said, in charging at the head of several other Protestant nobles like himself, "You will see, gentlemen, that we shall be fools enough to take La Rochelle." And Bassompierre was right. The cannonade of the Isle of Re presaged to him the dragonnades of the Cevennes; the taking of La Rochelle was the preface to the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. We have hinted that by the side of these views of the leveling and simplifying minister, which belong to history, the chronicler is forced to recognize the lesser motives of the amorous man and jealous rival. Richelieu, as everyone knows, had loved the queen. Was this love a simple political affair, or was it naturally one of those profound passions which Anne of Austria inspired in those who approached her? That we are not able to say; but at all events, we have seen, by the anterior developments of this story, that Buckingham had the advantage over him, and in two or three circumstances, particularly that of the diamond studs, had, thanks to the devotedness of the three Musketeers and the courage and conduct of d'Artagnan, cruelly mystified him. It was, then, Richelieu's object, not only to get rid of an enemy of France, but to avenge himself on a rival; but this vengeance must be grand and striking and worthy in every way of a man who held in his hand, as his weapon for combat, the forces of a kingdom. Richelieu knew that in combating England he combated Buckingham; that in triumphing over England he triumphed over Buckingham--in short, that in humiliating England in the eyes of Europe he humiliated Buckingham in the eyes of the queen. On his side Buckingham, in pretending to maintain the honor of England, was moved by interests exactly like those of the cardinal. Buckingham also was pursuing a private vengeance. Buckingham could not under any pretense be admitted into France as an ambassador; he wished to enter it as a conqueror. It resulted from this that the real stake in this game, which two most powerful kingdoms played for the good pleasure of two amorous men, was simply a kind look from Anne of Austria. The first advantage had been gained by Buckingham. Arriving unexpectedly in sight of the Isle of Re with ninety vessels and nearly twenty thousand men, he had surprised the Comte de Toiras, who commanded for the king in the Isle, and he had, after a bloody conflict, effected his landing. Allow us to observe in passing that in this fight perished the Baron de Chantal; that the Baron de Chantal left a little orphan girl eighteen months old, and that this little girl was afterward Mme. de Sevigne. The Comte de Toiras retired into the citadel St. Martin with his garrison, and threw a hundred men into a little fort called the fort of La Pree. This event had hastened the resolutions of the cardinal; and till the king and he could take the command of the siege of La Rochelle, which was determined, he had sent Monsieur to direct the first operations, and had ordered all the troops he could dispose of to march toward the theater of war. It was of this detachment, sent as a vanguard, that our friend d'Artagnan formed a part. The king, as we have said, was to follow as soon as his Bed of Justice had been held; but on rising from his Bed of Justice on the twenty-eighth of June, he felt himself attacked by fever. He was, notwithstanding, anxious to set out; but his illness becoming more serious, he was forced to stop at Villeroy. Now, whenever the king halted, the Musketeers halted. It followed that d'Artagnan, who was as yet purely and simply in the Guards, found himself, for the time at least, separated from his good friends--Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. This separation, which was no more than an unpleasant circumstance, would have certainly become a cause of serious uneasiness if he had been able to guess by what unknown dangers he was surrounded. He, however, arrived without accident in the camp established before La Rochelle, on the tenth of the month of September of the year 1627. Everything was in the same state. The Duke of Buckingham and his English, masters of the Isle of Re, continued to besiege, but without success, the citadel St. Martin and the fort of La Pree; and hostilities with La Rochelle had commenced, two or three days before, about a fort which the Duc d'Angouleme had caused to be constructed near the city. The Guards, under the command of M. Dessessart, took up their quarters at the Minimes; but, as we know, d'Artagnan, possessed with ambition to enter the Musketeers, had formed but few friendships among his comrades, and he felt himself isolated and given up to his own reflections. His reflections were not very cheerful. From the time of his arrival in Paris, he had been mixed up with public affairs; but his own private affairs had made no great progress, either in love or fortune. As to love, the only woman he could have loved was Mme. Bonacieux; and Mme. Bonacieux had disappeared, without his being able to discover what had become of her. As to fortune, he had made--he, humble as he was--an enemy of the cardinal; that is to say, of a man before whom trembled the greatest men of the kingdom, beginning with the king. That man had the power to crush him, and yet he had not done so. For a mind so perspicuous as that of d'Artagnan, this indulgence was a light by which he caught a glimpse of a better future. Then he had made himself another enemy, less to be feared, he thought; but nevertheless, he instinctively felt, not to be despised. This enemy was Milady. In exchange for all this, he had acquired the protection and good will of the queen; but the favor of the queen was at the present time an additional cause of persecution, and her protection, as it was known, protected badly--as witness Chalais and Mme. Bonacieux. What he had clearly gained in all this was the diamond, worth five or six thousand livres, which he wore on his finger; and even this diamond--supposing that d'Artagnan, in his projects of ambition, wished to keep it, to make it someday a pledge for the gratitude of the queen--had not in the meanwhile, since he could not part with it, more value than the gravel he trod under his feet. We say the gravel he trod under his feet, for d'Artagnan made these reflections while walking solitarily along a pretty little road which led from the camp to the village of Angoutin. Now, these reflections had led him further than he intended, and the day was beginning to decline when, by the last ray of the setting sun, he thought he saw the barrel of a musket glitter from behind a hedge. D'Artagnan had a quick eye and a prompt understanding. He comprehended that the musket had not come there of itself, and that he who bore it had not concealed himself behind a hedge with any friendly intentions. He determined, therefore, to direct his course as clear from it as he could when, on the opposite side of the road, from behind a rock, he perceived the extremity of another musket. This was evidently an ambuscade. The young man cast a glance at the first musket and saw, with a certain degree of inquietude, that it was leveled in his direction; but as soon as he perceived that the orifice of the barrel was motionless, he threw himself upon the ground. At the same instant the gun was fired, and he heard the whistling of a ball pass over his head. No time was to be lost. D'Artagnan sprang up with a bound, and at the same instant the ball from the other musket tore up the gravel on the very spot on the road where he had thrown himself with his face to the ground. D'Artagnan was not one of those foolhardy men who seek a ridiculous death in order that it may be said of them that they did not retreat a single step. Besides, courage was out of the question here; d'Artagnan had fallen into an ambush. "If there is a third shot," said he to himself, "I am a lost man." He immediately, therefore, took to his heels and ran toward the camp, with the swiftness of the young men of his country, so renowned for their agility; but whatever might be his speed, the first who fired, having had time to reload, fired a second shot, and this time so well aimed that it struck his hat, and carried it ten paces from him. As he, however, had no other hat, he picked up this as he ran, and arrived at his quarters very pale and quite out of breath. He sat down without saying a word to anybody, and began to reflect. This event might have three causes: The first and the most natural was that it might be an ambuscade of the Rochellais, who might not be sorry to kill one of his Majesty's Guards, because it would be an enemy the less, and this enemy might have a well-furnished purse in his pocket. D'Artagnan took his hat, examined the hole made by the ball, and shook his head. The ball was not a musket ball--it was an arquebus ball. The accuracy of the aim had first given him the idea that a special weapon had been employed. This could not, then, be a military ambuscade, as the ball was not of the regular caliber. This might be a kind remembrance of Monsieur the Cardinal. It may be observed that at the very moment when, thanks to the ray of the sun, he perceived the gun barrel, he was thinking with astonishment on the forbearance of his Eminence with respect to him. But d'Artagnan again shook his head. For people toward whom he had but to put forth his hand, his Eminence had rarely recourse to such means. It might be a vengeance of Milady; that was most probable. He tried in vain to remember the faces or dress of the assassins; he had escaped so rapidly that he had not had leisure to notice anything. "Ah, my poor friends!" murmured d'Artagnan; "where are you? And that you should fail me!" D'Artagnan passed a very bad night. Three or four times he started up, imagining that a man was approaching his bed for the purpose of stabbing him. Nevertheless, day dawned without darkness having brought any accident. But d'Artagnan well suspected that that which was deferred was not relinquished. D'Artagnan remained all day in his quarters, assigning as a reason to himself that the weather was bad. At nine o'clock the next morning, the drums beat to arms. The Duc d'Orleans visited the posts. The guards were under arms, and d'Artagnan took his place in the midst of his comrades. Monsieur passed along the front of the line; then all the superior officers approached him to pay their compliments, M. Dessessart, captain of the Guards, as well as the others. At the expiration of a minute or two, it appeared to d'Artagnan that M. Dessessart made him a sign to approach. He waited for a fresh gesture on the part of his superior, for fear he might be mistaken; but this gesture being repeated, he left the ranks, and advanced to receive orders. "Monsieur is about to ask for some men of good will for a dangerous mission, but one which will do honor to those who shall accomplish it; and I made you a sign in order that you might hold yourself in readiness." "Thanks, my captain!" replied d'Artagnan, who wished for nothing better than an opportunity to distinguish himself under the eye of the lieutenant general. In fact the Rochellais had made a sortie during the night, and had retaken a bastion of which the royal army had gained possession two days before. The matter was to ascertain, by reconnoitering, how the enemy guarded this bastion. At the end of a few minutes Monsieur raised his voice, and said, "I want for this mission three or four volunteers, led by a man who can be depended upon." "As to the man to be depended upon, I have him under my hand, monsieur," said M. Dessessart, pointing to d'Artagnan; "and as to the four or five volunteers, Monsieur has but to make his intentions known, and the men will not be wanting." "Four men of good will who will risk being killed with me!" said d'Artagnan, raising his sword. Two of his comrades of the Guards immediately sprang forward, and two other soldiers having joined them, the number was deemed sufficient. D'Artagnan declined all others, being unwilling to take the first chance from those who had the priority. It was not known whether, after the taking of the bastion, the Rochellais had evacuated it or left a garrison in it; the object then was to examine the place near enough to verify the reports. D'Artagnan set out with his four companions, and followed the trench; the two Guards marched abreast with him, and the two soldiers followed behind. They arrived thus, screened by the lining of the trench, till they came within a hundred paces of the bastion. There, on turning round, d'Artagnan perceived that the two soldiers had disappeared. He thought that, beginning to be afraid, they had stayed behind, and he continued to advance. At the turning of the counterscarp they found themselves within about sixty paces of the bastion. They saw no one, and the bastion seemed abandoned. The three composing our forlorn hope were deliberating whether they should proceed any further, when all at once a circle of smoke enveloped the giant of stone, and a dozen balls came whistling around d'Artagnan and his companions. They knew all they wished to know; the bastion was guarded. A longer stay in this dangerous spot would have been useless imprudence. D'Artagnan and his two companions turned their backs, and commenced a retreat which resembled a flight. On arriving at the angle of the trench which was to serve them as a rampart, one of the Guardsmen fell. A ball had passed through his breast. The other, who was safe and sound, continued his way toward the camp. D'Artagnan was not willing to abandon his companion thus, and stooped to raise him and assist him in regaining the lines; but at this moment two shots were fired. One ball struck the head of the already-wounded guard, and the other flattened itself against a rock, after having passed within two inches of d'Artagnan. The young man turned quickly round, for this attack could not have come from the bastion, which was hidden by the angle of the trench. The idea of the two soldiers who had abandoned him occurred to his mind, and with them he remembered the assassins of two evenings before. He resolved this time to know with whom he had to deal, and fell upon the body of his comrade as if he were dead. He quickly saw two heads appear above an abandoned work within thirty paces of him; they were the heads of the two soldiers. D'Artagnan had not been deceived; these two men had only followed for the purpose of assassinating him, hoping that the young man's death would be placed to the account of the enemy. As he might be only wounded and might denounce their crime, they came up to him with the purpose of making sure. Fortunately, deceived by d'Artagnan's trick, they neglected to reload their guns. When they were within ten paces of him, d'Artagnan, who in falling had taken care not to let go his sword, sprang up close to them. The assassins comprehended that if they fled toward the camp without having killed their man, they should be accused by him; therefore their first idea was to join the enemy. One of them took his gun by the barrel, and used it as he would a club. He aimed a terrible blow at d'Artagnan, who avoided it by springing to one side; but by this movement he left a passage free to the bandit, who darted off toward the bastion. As the Rochellais who guarded the bastion were ignorant of the intentions of the man they saw coming toward them, they fired upon him, and he fell, struck by a ball which broke his shoulder. Meantime d'Artagnan had thrown himself upon the other soldier, attacking him with his sword. The conflict was not long; the wretch had nothing to defend himself with but his discharged arquebus. The sword of the Guardsman slipped along the barrel of the now-useless weapon, and passed through the thigh of the assassin, who fell. D'Artagnan immediately placed the point of his sword at his throat. "Oh, do not kill me!" cried the bandit. "Pardon, pardon, my officer, and I will tell you all." "Is your secret of enough importance to me to spare your life for it?" asked the young man, withholding his arm. "Yes; if you think existence worth anything to a man of twenty, as you are, and who may hope for everything, being handsome and brave, as you are." "Wretch," cried d'Artagnan, "speak quickly! Who employed you to assassinate me?" "A woman whom I don't know, but who is called Milady." "But if you don't know this woman, how do you know her name?" "My comrade knows her, and called her so. It was with him she agreed, and not with me; he even has in his pocket a letter from that person, who attaches great importance to you, as I have heard him say." "But how did you become concerned in this villainous affair?" "He proposed to me to undertake it with him, and I agreed." "And how much did she give you for this fine enterprise?" "A hundred louis." "Well, come!" said the young man, laughing, "she thinks I am worth something. A hundred louis? Well, that was a temptation for two wretches like you. I understand why you accepted it, and I grant you my pardon; but upon one condition." "What is that?" said the soldier, uneasy at perceiving that all was not over. "That you will go and fetch me the letter your comrade has in his pocket." "But," cried the bandit, "that is only another way of killing me. How can I go and fetch that letter under the fire of the bastion?" "You must nevertheless make up your mind to go and get it, or I swear you shall die by my hand." "Pardon, monsieur; pity! In the name of that young lady you love, and whom you perhaps believe dead but who is not!" cried the bandit, throwing himself upon his knees and leaning upon his hand--for he began to lose his strength with his blood. "And how do you know there is a young woman whom I love, and that I believed that woman dead?" asked d'Artagnan. "By that letter which my comrade has in his pocket." "You see, then," said d'Artagnan, "that I must have that letter. So no more delay, no more hesitation; or else whatever may be my repugnance to soiling my sword a second time with the blood of a wretch like you, I swear by my faith as an honest man--" and at these words d'Artagnan made so fierce a gesture that the wounded man sprang up. "Stop, stop!" cried he, regaining strength by force of terror. "I will go--I will go!" D'Artagnan took the soldier's arquebus, made him go on before him, and urged him toward his companion by pricking him behind with his sword. It was a frightful thing to see this wretch, leaving a long track of blood on the ground he passed over, pale with approaching death, trying to drag himself along without being seen to the body of his accomplice, which lay twenty paces from him. Terror was so strongly painted on his face, covered with a cold sweat, that d'Artagnan took pity on him, and casting upon him a look of contempt, "Stop," said he, "I will show you the difference between a man of courage and such a coward as you. Stay where you are; I will go myself." And with a light step, an eye on the watch, observing the movements of the enemy and taking advantage of the accidents of the ground, d'Artagnan succeeded in reaching the second soldier. There were two means of gaining his object--to search him on the spot, or to carry him away, making a buckler of his body, and search him in the trench. D'Artagnan preferred the second means, and lifted the assassin onto his shoulders at the moment the enemy fired. A slight shock, the dull noise of three balls which penetrated the flesh, a last cry, a convulsion of agony, proved to d'Artagnan that the would-be assassin had saved his life. D'Artagnan regained the trench, and threw the corpse beside the wounded man, who was as pale as death. Then he began to search. A leather pocketbook, a purse, in which was evidently a part of the sum which the bandit had received, with a dice box and dice, completed the possessions of the dead man. He left the box and dice where they fell, threw the purse to the wounded man, and eagerly opened the pocketbook. Among some unimportant papers he found the following letter, that which he had sought at the risk of his life: "Since you have lost sight of that woman and she is now in safety in the convent, which you should never have allowed her to reach, try, at least, not to miss the man. If you do, you know that my hand stretches far, and that you shall pay very dearly for the hundred louis you have from me." No signature. Nevertheless it was plain the letter came from Milady. He consequently kept it as a piece of evidence, and being in safety behind the angle of the trench, he began to interrogate the wounded man. He confessed that he had undertaken with his comrade--the same who was killed--to carry off a young woman who was to leave Paris by the Barriere de La Villette; but having stopped to drink at a cabaret, they had missed the carriage by ten minutes. "But what were you to do with that woman?" asked d'Artagnan, with anguish. "We were to have conveyed her to a hotel in the Place Royale," said the wounded man. "Yes, yes!" murmured d'Artagnan; "that's the place--Milady's own residence!" Then the young man tremblingly comprehended what a terrible thirst for vengeance urged this woman on to destroy him, as well as all who loved him, and how well she must be acquainted with the affairs of the court, since she had discovered all. There could be no doubt she owed this information to the cardinal. But amid all this he perceived, with a feeling of real joy, that the queen must have discovered the prison in which poor Mme. Bonacieux was explaining her devotion, and that she had freed her from that prison; and the letter he had received from the young woman, and her passage along the road of Chaillot like an apparition, were now explained. Then also, as Athos had predicted, it became possible to find Mme. Bonacieux, and a convent was not impregnable. This idea completely restored clemency to his heart. He turned toward the wounded man, who had watched with intense anxiety all the various expressions of his countenance, and holding out his arm to him, said, "Come, I will not abandon you thus. Lean upon me, and let us return to the camp." "Yes," said the man, who could scarcely believe in such magnanimity, "but is it not to have me hanged?" "You have my word," said he; "for the second time I give you your life." The wounded man sank upon his knees, to again kiss the feet of his preserver; but d'Artagnan, who had no longer a motive for staying so near the enemy, abridged the testimonials of his gratitude. The Guardsman who had returned at the first discharge announced the death of his four companions. They were therefore much astonished and delighted in the regiment when they saw the young man come back safe and sound. D'Artagnan explained the sword wound of his companion by a sortie which he improvised. He described the death of the other soldier, and the perils they had encountered. This recital was for him the occasion of veritable triumph. The whole army talked of this expedition for a day, and Monsieur paid him his compliments upon it. Besides this, as every great action bears its recompense with it, the brave exploit of d'Artagnan resulted in the restoration of the tranquility he had lost. In fact, d'Artagnan believed that he might be tranquil, as one of his two enemies was killed and the other devoted to his interests. This tranquillity proved one thing--that d'Artagnan did not yet know Milady. 42 THE ANJOU WINE After the most disheartening news of the king's health, a report of his convalescence began to prevail in the camp; and as he was very anxious to be in person at the siege, it was said that as soon as he could mount a horse he would set forward. Meantime, Monsieur, who knew that from one day to the other he might expect to be removed from his command by the Duc d'Angouleme, by Bassompierre, or by Schomberg, who were all eager for his post, did but little, lost his days in wavering, and did not dare to attempt any great enterprise to drive the English from the Isle of Re, where they still besieged the citadel St. Martin and the fort of La Pree, as on their side the French were besieging La Rochelle. D'Artagnan, as we have said, had become more tranquil, as always happens after a past danger, particularly when the danger seems to have vanished. He only felt one uneasiness, and that was at not hearing any tidings from his friends. But one morning at the commencement of the month of November everything was explained to him by this letter, dated from Villeroy: M d'Artagnan, MM Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, after having had an entertainment at my house and enjoying themselves very much, created such a disturbance that the provost of the castle, a rigid man, has ordered them to be confined for some days; but I accomplish the order they have given me by forwarding to you a dozen bottles of my Anjou wine, with which they are much pleased. They are desirous that you should drink to their health in their favorite wine. I have done this, and am, monsieur, with great respect, Your very humble and obedient servant, Godeau, Purveyor of the Musketeers "That's all well!" cried d'Artagnan. "They think of me in their pleasures, as I thought of them in my troubles. Well, I will certainly drink to their health with all my heart, but I will not drink alone." And d'Artagnan went among those Guardsmen with whom he had formed greater intimacy than with the others, to invite them to enjoy with him this present of delicious Anjou wine which had been sent him from Villeroy. One of the two Guardsmen was engaged that evening, and another the next, so the meeting was fixed for the day after that. D'Artagnan, on his return, sent the twelve bottles of wine to the refreshment room of the Guards, with strict orders that great care should be taken of it; and then, on the day appointed, as the dinner was fixed for midday d'Artagnan sent Planchet at nine in the morning to assist in preparing everything for the entertainment. Planchet, very proud of being raised to the dignity of landlord, thought he would make all ready, like an intelligent man; and with this view called in the assistance of the lackey of one of his master's guests, named Fourreau, and the false soldier who had tried to kill d'Artagnan and who, belonging to no corps, had entered into the service of d'Artagnan, or rather of Planchet, after d'Artagnan had saved his life. The hour of the banquet being come, the two guards arrived, took their places, and the dishes were arranged on the table. Planchet waited, towel on arm; Fourreau uncorked the bottles; and Brisemont, which was the name of the convalescent, poured the wine, which was a little shaken by its journey, carefully into decanters. Of this wine, the first bottle being a little thick at the bottom, Brisemont poured the lees into a glass, and d'Artagnan desired him to drink it, for the poor devil had not yet recovered his strength. The guests having eaten the soup, were about to lift the first glass of wine to their lips, when all at once the cannon sounded from Fort Louis and Fort Neuf. The Guardsmen, imagining this to be caused by some unexpected attack, either of the besieged or the English, sprang to their swords. D'Artagnan, not less forward than they, did likewise, and all ran out, in order to repair to their posts. But scarcely were they out of the room before they were made aware of the cause of this noise. Cries of "Live the king! Live the cardinal!" resounded on every side, and the drums were beaten in all directions. In short, the king, impatient, as has been said, had come by forced marches, and had that moment arrived with all his household and a reinforcement of ten thousand troops. His Musketeers proceeded and followed him. D'Artagnan, placed in line with his company, saluted with an expressive gesture his three friends, whose eyes soon discovered him, and M. de Treville, who detected him at once. The ceremony of reception over, the four friends were soon in one another's arms. "Pardieu!" cried d'Artagnan, "you could not have arrived in better time; the dinner cannot have had time to get cold! Can it, gentlemen?" added the young man, turning to the two Guards, whom he introduced to his friends. "Ah, ah!" said Porthos, "it appears we are feasting!" "I hope," said Aramis, "there are no women at your dinner." "Is there any drinkable wine in your tavern?" asked Athos. "Well, pardieu! there is yours, my dear friend," replied d'Artagnan. "Our wine!" said Athos, astonished. "Yes, that you sent me." "We sent you wine?" "You know very well--the wine from the hills of Anjou." "Yes, I know what brand you are talking about." "The wine you prefer." "Well, in the absence of champagne and chambertin, you must content yourselves with that." "And so, connoisseurs in wine as we are, we have sent you some Anjou wine?" said Porthos. "Not exactly, it is the wine that was sent by your order." "On our account?" said the three Musketeers. "Did you send this wine, Aramis?" said Athos. "No; and you, Porthos?" "No; and you, Athos?" "No!" "If it was not you, it was your purveyor," said d'Artagnan. "Our purveyor!" "Yes, your purveyor, Godeau--the purveyor of the Musketeers." "My faith! never mind where it comes from," said Porthos, "let us taste it, and if it is good, let us drink it." "No," said Athos; "don't let us drink wine which comes from an unknown source." "You are right, Athos," said d'Artagnan. "Did none of you charge your purveyor, Godeau, to send me some wine?" "No! And yet you say he has sent you some as from us?" "Here is his letter," said d'Artagnan, and he presented the note to his comrades. "This is not his writing!" said Athos. "I am acquainted with it; before we left Villeroy I settled the accounts of the regiment." "A false letter altogether," said Porthos, "we have not been disciplined." "d'Artagnan," said Aramis, in a reproachful tone, "how could you believe that we had made a disturbance?" D'Artagnan grew pale, and a convulsive trembling shook all his limbs. "Thou alarmest me!" said Athos, who never used thee and thou but upon very particular occasions, "what has happened?" "Look you, my friends!" cried d'Artagnan, "a horrible suspicion crosses my mind! Can this be another vengeance of that woman?" It was now Athos who turned pale. D'Artagnan rushed toward the refreshment room, the three Musketeers and the two Guards following him. The first object that met the eyes of d'Artagnan on entering the room was Brisemont, stretched upon the ground and rolling in horrible convulsions. Planchet and Fourreau, as pale as death, were trying to give him succor; but it was plain that all assistance was useless--all the features of the dying man were distorted with agony. "Ah!" cried he, on perceiving d'Artagnan, "ah! this is frightful! You pretend to pardon me, and you poison me!" "I!" cried d'Artagnan. "I, wretch? What do you say?" "I say that it was you who gave me the wine; I say that it was you who desired me to drink it. I say you wished to avenge yourself on me, and I say that it is horrible!" "Do not think so, Brisemont," said d'Artagnan; "do not think so. I swear to you, I protest--" "Oh, but God is above! God will punish you! My God, grant that he may one day suffer what I suffer!" "Upon the Gospel," said d'Artagnan, throwing himself down by the dying man, "I swear to you that the wine was poisoned and that I was going to drink of it as you did." "I do not believe you," cried the soldier, and he expired amid horrible tortures. "Frightful! frightful!" murmured Athos, while Porthos broke the bottles and Aramis gave orders, a little too late, that a confessor should be sent for. "Oh, my friends," said d'Artagnan, "you come once more to save my life, not only mine but that of these gentlemen. Gentlemen," continued he, addressing the Guardsmen, "I request you will be silent with regard to this adventure. Great personages may have had a hand in what you have seen, and if talked about, the evil would only recoil upon us." "Ah, monsieur!" stammered Planchet, more dead than alive, "ah, monsieur, what an escape I have had!" "How, sirrah! you were going to drink my wine?" "To the health of the king, monsieur; I was going to drink a small glass of it if Fourreau had not told me I was called." "Alas!" said Fourreau, whose teeth chattered with terror, "I wanted to get him out of the way that I might drink myself." "Gentlemen," said d'Artagnan, addressing the Guardsmen, "you may easily comprehend that such a feast can only be very dull after what has taken place; so accept my excuses, and put off the party till another day, I beg of you." The two Guardsmen courteously accepted d'Artagnan's excuses, and perceiving that the four friends desired to be alone, retired. When the young Guardsman and the three Musketeers were without witnesses, they looked at one another with an air which plainly expressed that each of them perceived the gravity of their situation. "In the first place," said Athos, "let us leave this chamber; the dead are not agreeable company, particularly when they have died a violent death." "Planchet," said d'Artagnan, "I commit the corpse of this poor devil to your care. Let him be interred in holy ground. He committed a crime, it is true; but he repented of it." And the four friends quit the room, leaving to Planchet and Fourreau the duty of paying mortuary honors to Brisemont. The host gave them another chamber, and served them with fresh eggs and some water, which Athos went himself to draw at the fountain. In a few words, Porthos and Aramis were posted as to the situation. "Well," said d'Artagnan to Athos, "you see, my dear friend, that this is war to the death." Athos shook his head. "Yes, yes," replied he, "I perceive that plainly; but do you really believe it is she?" "I am sure of it." "Nevertheless, I confess I still doubt." "But the fleur-de-lis on her shoulder?" "She is some Englishwoman who has committed a crime in France, and has been branded in consequence." "Athos, she is your wife, I tell you," repeated d'Artagnan; "only reflect how much the two descriptions resemble each other." "Yes; but I should think the other must be dead, I hanged her so effectually." It was d'Artagnan who now shook his head in his turn. "But in either case, what is to be done?" said the young man. "The fact is, one cannot remain thus, with a sword hanging eternally over his head," said Athos. "We must extricate ourselves from this position." "But how?" "Listen! You must try to see her, and have an explanation with her. Say to her: 'Peace or war! My word as a gentleman never to say anything of you, never to do anything against you; on your side, a solemn oath to remain neutral with respect to me. If not, I will apply to the chancellor, I will apply to the king, I will apply to the hangman, I will move the courts against you, I will denounce you as branded, I will bring you to trial; and if you are acquitted, well, by the faith of a gentleman, I will kill you at the corner of some wall, as I would a mad dog.'" "I like the means well enough," said d'Artagnan, "but where and how to meet with her?" "Time, dear friend, time brings round opportunity; opportunity is the martingale of man. The more we have ventured the more we gain, when we know how to wait." "Yes; but to wait surrounded by assassins and poisoners." "Bah!" said Athos. "God has preserved us hitherto, God will preserve us still." "Yes, we. Besides, we are men; and everything considered, it is our lot to risk our lives; but she," asked he, in an undertone. "What she?" asked Athos. "Constance." "Madame Bonacieux! Ah, that's true!" said Athos. "My poor friend, I had forgotten you were in love." "Well, but," said Aramis, "have you not learned by the letter you found on the wretched corpse that she is in a convent? One may be very comfortable in a convent; and as soon as the siege of La Rochelle is terminated, I promise you on my part--" "Good," cried Athos, "good! Yes, my dear Aramis, we all know that your views have a religious tendency." "I am only temporarily a Musketeer," said Aramis, humbly. "It is some time since we heard from his mistress," said Athos, in a low voice. "But take no notice; we know all about that." "Well," said Porthos, "it appears to me that the means are very simple." "What?" asked d'Artagnan. "You say she is in a convent?" replied Porthos. "Yes." "Very well. As soon as the siege is over, we'll carry her off from that convent." "But we must first learn what convent she is in." "That's true," said Porthos. "But I think I have it," said Athos. "Don't you say, dear d'Artagnan, that it is the queen who has made choice of the convent for her?" "I believe so, at least." "In that case Porthos will assist us." "And how so, if you please?" "Why, by your marchioness, your duchess, your princess. She must have a long arm." "Hush!" said Porthos, placing a finger on his lips. "I believe her to be a cardinalist; she must know nothing of the matter." "Then," said Aramis, "I take upon myself to obtain intelligence of her." "You, Aramis?" cried the three friends. "You! And how?" "By the queen's almoner, to whom I am very intimately allied," said Aramis, coloring. And on this assurance, the four friends, who had finished their modest repast, separated, with the promise of meeting again that evening. D'Artagnan returned to less important affairs, and the three Musketeers repaired to the king's quarters, where they had to prepare their lodging. 43 THE SIGN OF THE RED DOVECOT Meanwhile the king, who, with more reason than the cardinal, showed his hatred for Buckingham, although scarcely arrived was in such a haste to meet the enemy that he commanded every disposition to be made to drive the English from the Isle of Re, and afterward to press the siege of La Rochelle; but notwithstanding his earnest wish, he was delayed by the dissensions which broke out between MM Bassompierre and Schomberg, against the Duc d'Angouleme. MM Bassompierre and Schomberg were marshals of France, and claimed their right of commanding the army under the orders of the king; but the cardinal, who feared that Bassompierre, a Huguenot at heart, might press but feebly the English and Rochellais, his brothers in religion, supported the Duc d'Angouleme, whom the king, at his instigation, had named lieutenant general. The result was that to prevent MM Bassompierre and Schomberg from deserting the army, a separate command had to be given to each. Bassompierre took up his quarters on the north of the city, between Leu and Dompierre; the Duc d'Angouleme on the east, from Dompierre to Perigny; and M. de Schomberg on the south, from Perigny to Angoutin. The quarters of Monsieur were at Dompierre; the quarters of the king were sometimes at Estree, sometimes at Jarrie; the cardinal's quarters were upon the downs, at the bridge of La Pierre, in a simple house without any entrenchment. So that Monsieur watched Bassompierre; the king, the Duc d'Angouleme; and the cardinal, M. de Schomberg. As soon as this organization was established, they set about driving the English from the Isle. The juncture was favorable. The English, who require, above everything, good living in order to be good soldiers, only eating salt meat and bad biscuit, had many invalids in their camp. Still further, the sea, very rough at this period of the year all along the sea coast, destroyed every day some little vessel; and the shore, from the point of l'Aiguillon to the trenches, was at every tide literally covered with the wrecks of pinnacles, roberges, and feluccas. The result was that even if the king's troops remained quietly in their camp, it was evident that some day or other, Buckingham, who only continued in the Isle from obstinacy, would be obliged to raise the siege. But as M. de Toiras gave information that everything was preparing in the enemy's camp for a fresh assault, the king judged that it would be best to put an end to the affair, and gave the necessary orders for a decisive action. As it is not our intention to give a journal of the siege, but on the contrary only to describe such of the events of it as are connected with the story we are relating, we will content ourselves with saying in two words that the expedition succeeded, to the great astonishment of the king and the great glory of the cardinal. The English, repulsed foot by foot, beaten in all encounters, and defeated in the passage of the Isle of Loie, were obliged to re-embark, leaving on the field of battle two thousand men, among whom were five colonels, three lieutenant colonels, two hundred and fifty captains, twenty gentlemen of rank, four pieces of cannon, and sixty flags, which were taken to Paris by Claude de St. Simon, and suspended with great pomp in the arches of Notre Dame. Te Deums were chanted in camp, and afterward throughout France. The cardinal was left free to carry on the siege, without having, at least at the present, anything to fear on the part of the English. But it must be acknowledged, this response was but momentary. An envoy of the Duke of Buckingham, named Montague, was taken, and proof was obtained of a league between the German Empire, Spain, England, and Lorraine. This league was directed against France. Still further, in Buckingham's lodging, which he had been forced to abandon more precipitately than he expected, papers were found which confirmed this alliance and which, as the cardinal asserts in his memoirs, strongly compromised Mme. de Chevreuse and consequently the queen. It was upon the cardinal that all the responsibility fell, for one is not a despotic minister without responsibility. All, therefore, of the vast resources of his genius were at work night and day, engaged in listening to the least report heard in any of the great kingdoms of Europe. The cardinal was acquainted with the activity, and more particularly the hatred, of Buckingham. If the league which threatened France triumphed, all his influence would be lost. Spanish policy and Austrian policy would have their representatives in the cabinet of the Louvre, where they had as yet but partisans; and he, Richelieu--the French minister, the national minister--would be ruined. The king, even while obeying him like a child, hated him as a child hates his master, and would abandon him to the personal vengeance of Monsieur and the queen. He would then be lost, and France, perhaps, with him. All this must be prepared against. Courtiers, becoming every instant more numerous, succeeded one another, day and night, in the little house of the bridge of La Pierre, in which the cardinal had established his residence. There were monks who wore the frock with such an ill grace that it was easy to perceive they belonged to the church militant; women a little inconvenienced by their costume as pages and whose large trousers could not entirely conceal their rounded forms; and peasants with blackened hands but with fine limbs, savoring of the man of quality a league off. There were also less agreeable visits--for two or three times reports were spread that the cardinal had nearly been assassinated. It is true that the enemies of the cardinal said that it was he himself who set these bungling assassins to work, in order to have, if wanted, the right of using reprisals; but we must not believe everything ministers say, nor everything their enemies say. These attempts did not prevent the cardinal, to whom his most inveterate detractors have never denied personal bravery, from making nocturnal excursions, sometimes to communicate to the Duc d'Angouleme important orders, sometimes to confer with the king, and sometimes to have an interview with a messenger whom he did not wish to see at home. On their part the Musketeers, who had not much to do with the siege, were not under very strict orders and led a joyous life. This was the more easy for our three companions in particular; for being friends of M. de Treville, they obtained from him special permission to be absent after the closing of the camp. Now, one evening when d'Artagnan, who was in the trenches, was not able to accompany them, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, mounted on their battle steeds, enveloped in their war cloaks, with their hands upon their pistol butts, were returning from a drinking place called the Red Dovecot, which Athos had discovered two days before upon the route to Jarrie, following the road which led to the camp and quite on their guard, as we have stated, for fear of an ambuscade, when, about a quarter of a league from the village of Boisnau, they fancied they heard the sound of horses approaching them. They immediately all three halted, closed in, and waited, occupying the middle of the road. In an instant, and as the moon broke from behind a cloud, they saw at a turning of the road two horsemen who, on perceiving them, stopped in their turn, appearing to deliberate whether they should continue their route or go back. The hesitation created some suspicion in the three friends, and Athos, advancing a few paces in front of the others, cried in a firm voice, "Who goes there?" "Who goes there, yourselves?" replied one of the horsemen. "That is not an answer," replied Athos. "Who goes there? Answer, or we charge." "Beware of what you are about, gentlemen!" said a clear voice which seemed accustomed to command. "It is some superior officer making his night rounds," said Athos. "What do you wish, gentlemen?" "Who are you?" said the same voice, in the same commanding tone. "Answer in your turn, or you may repent of your disobedience." "King's Musketeers," said Athos, more and more convinced that he who interrogated them had the right to do so. "What company?" "Company of Treville." "Advance, and give an account of what you are doing here at this hour." The three companions advanced rather humbly--for all were now convinced that they had to do with someone more powerful than themselves--leaving Athos the post of speaker. One of the two riders, he who had spoken second, was ten paces in front of his companion. Athos made a sign to Porthos and Aramis also to remain in the rear, and advanced alone. "Your pardon, my officer," said Athos; "but we were ignorant with whom we had to do, and you may see that we were keeping good guard." "Your name?" said the officer, who covered a part of his face with his cloak. "But yourself, monsieur," said Athos, who began to be annoyed by this inquisition, "give me, I beg you, the proof that you have the right to question me." "Your name?" repeated the cavalier a second time, letting his cloak fall, and leaving his face uncovered. "Monsieur the Cardinal!" cried the stupefied Musketeer. "Your name?" cried his Eminence, for the third time. "Athos," said the Musketeer. The cardinal made a sign to his attendant, who drew near. "These three Musketeers shall follow us," said he, in an undertone. "I am not willing it should be known I have left the camp; and if they follow us we shall be certain they will tell nobody." "We are gentlemen, monseigneur," said Athos; "require our parole, and give yourself no uneasiness. Thank God, we can keep a secret." The cardinal fixed his piercing eyes on this courageous speaker. "You have a quick ear, Monsieur Athos," said the cardinal; "but now listen to this. It is not from mistrust that I request you to follow me, but for my security. Your companions are no doubt Messieurs Porthos and Aramis." "Yes, your Eminence," said Athos, while the two Musketeers who had remained behind advanced hat in hand. "I know you, gentlemen," said the cardinal, "I know you. I know you are not quite my friends, and I am sorry you are not so; but I know you are brave and loyal gentlemen, and that confidence may be placed in you. Monsieur Athos, do me, then, the honor to accompany me; you and your two friends, and then I shall have an escort to excite envy in his Majesty, if we should meet him." The three Musketeers bowed to the necks of their horses. "Well, upon my honor," said Athos, "your Eminence is right in taking us with you; we have seen several ill-looking faces on the road, and we have even had a quarrel at the Red Dovecot with four of those faces." "A quarrel, and what for, gentlemen?" said the cardinal; "you know I don't like quarrelers." "And that is the reason why I have the honor to inform your Eminence of what has happened; for you might learn it from others, and upon a false account believe us to be in fault." "What have been the results of your quarrel?" said the cardinal, knitting his brow. "My friend, Aramis, here, has received a slight sword wound in the arm, but not enough to prevent him, as your Eminence may see, from mounting to the assault tomorrow, if your Eminence orders an escalade." "But you are not the men to allow sword wounds to be inflicted upon you thus," said the cardinal. "Come, be frank, gentlemen, you have settled accounts with somebody! Confess; you know I have the right of giving absolution." "I, monseigneur?" said Athos. "I did not even draw my sword, but I took him who offended me round the body, and threw him out of the window. It appears that in falling," continued Athos, with some hesitation, "he broke his thigh." "Ah, ah!" said the cardinal; "and you, Monsieur Porthos?" "I, monseigneur, knowing that dueling is prohibited--I seized a bench, and gave one of those brigands such a blow that I believe his shoulder is broken." "Very well," said the cardinal; "and you, Monsieur Aramis?" "Monseigneur, being of a very mild disposition, and being, likewise, of which Monseigneur perhaps is not aware, about to enter into orders, I endeavored to appease my comrades, when one of these wretches gave me a wound with a sword, treacherously, across my left arm. Then I admit my patience failed me; I drew my sword in my turn, and as he came back to the charge, I fancied I felt that in throwing himself upon me, he let it pass through his body. I only know for a certainty that he fell; and it seemed to me that he was borne away with his two companions." "The devil, gentlemen!" said the cardinal, "three men placed hors de combat in a cabaret squabble! You don't do your work by halves. And pray what was this quarrel about?" "These fellows were drunk," said Athos, "and knowing there was a lady who had arrived at the cabaret this evening, they wanted to force her door." "Force her door!" said the cardinal, "and for what purpose?" "To do her violence, without doubt," said Athos. "I have had the honor of informing your Eminence that these men were drunk." "And was this lady young and handsome?" asked the cardinal, with a certain degree of anxiety. "We did not see her, monseigneur," said Athos. "You did not see her? Ah, very well," replied the cardinal, quickly. "You did well to defend the honor of a woman; and as I am going to the Red Dovecot myself, I shall know if you have told me the truth." "Monseigneur," said Athos, haughtily, "we are gentlemen, and to save our heads we would not be guilty of a falsehood." "Therefore I do not doubt what you say, Monsieur Athos, I do not doubt it for a single instant; but," added he, "to change the conversation, was this lady alone?" "The lady had a cavalier shut up with her," said Athos, "but as notwithstanding the noise, this cavalier did not show himself, it is to be presumed that he is a coward." "'Judge not rashly', says the Gospel," replied the cardinal. Athos bowed. "And now, gentlemen, that's well," continued the cardinal. "I know what I wish to know; follow me." The three Musketeers passed behind his Eminence, who again enveloped his face in his cloak, and put his horse in motion, keeping from eight to ten paces in advance of his four companions. They soon arrived at the silent, solitary inn. No doubt the host knew what illustrious visitor was expected, and had consequently sent intruders out of the way. Ten paces from the door the cardinal made a sign to his esquire and the three Musketeers to halt. A saddled horse was fastened to the window shutter. The cardinal knocked three times, and in a peculiar manner. A man, enveloped in a cloak, came out immediately, and exchanged some rapid words with the cardinal; after which he mounted his horse, and set off in the direction of Surgeres, which was likewise the way to Paris. "Advance, gentlemen," said the cardinal. "You have told me the truth, my gentlemen," said he, addressing the Musketeers, "and it will not be my fault if our encounter this evening be not advantageous to you. In the meantime, follow me." The cardinal alighted; the three Musketeers did likewise. The cardinal threw the bridle of his horse to his esquire; the three Musketeers fastened the horses to the shutters. The host stood at the door. For him, the cardinal was only an officer coming to visit a lady. "Have you any chamber on the ground floor where these gentlemen can wait near a good fire?" said the cardinal. The host opened the door of a large room, in which an old stove had just been replaced by a large and excellent chimney. "I have this," said he. "That will do," replied the cardinal. "Enter, gentlemen, and be kind enough to wait for me; I shall not be more than half an hour." And while the three Musketeers entered the ground floor room, the cardinal, without asking further information, ascended the staircase like a man who has no need of having his road pointed out to him. 44 THE UTILITY OF STOVEPIPES It was evident that without suspecting it, and actuated solely by their chivalrous and adventurous character, our three friends had just rendered a service to someone the cardinal honored with his special protection. Now, who was that someone? That was the question the three Musketeers put to one another. Then, seeing that none of their replies could throw any light on the subject, Porthos called the host and asked for dice. Porthos and Aramis placed themselves at the table and began to play. Athos walked about in a contemplative mood. While thinking and walking, Athos passed and repassed before the pipe of the stove, broken in halves, the other extremity passing into the chamber above; and every time he passed and repassed he heard a murmur of words, which at length fixed his attention. Athos went close to it, and distinguished some words that appeared to merit so great an interest that he made a sign to his friends to be silent, remaining himself bent with his ear directed to the opening of the lower orifice. "Listen, Milady," said the cardinal, "the affair is important. Sit down, and let us talk it over." "Milady!" murmured Athos. "I listen to your Eminence with greatest attention," replied a female voice which made the Musketeer start. "A small vessel with an English crew, whose captain is on my side, awaits you at the mouth of Charente, at Fort La Pointe*. He will set sail tomorrow morning." _*Fort La Pointe, or Fort Vasou, was not built until 1672, nearly 50 years later._ "I must go thither tonight?" "Instantly! That is to say, when you have received my instructions. Two men, whom you will find at the door on going out, will serve you as escort. You will allow me to leave first; then, after half an hour, you can go away in your turn." "Yes, monseigneur. Now let us return to the mission with which you wish to charge me; and as I desire to continue to merit the confidence of your Eminence, deign to unfold it to me in terms clear and precise, that I may not commit an error." There was an instant of profound silence between the two interlocutors. It was evident that the cardinal was weighing beforehand the terms in which he was about to speak, and that Milady was collecting all her intellectual faculties to comprehend the things he was about to say, and to engrave them in her memory when they should be spoken. Athos took advantage of this moment to tell his two companions to fasten the door inside, and to make them a sign to come and listen with him. The two Musketeers, who loved their ease, brought a chair for each of themselves and one for Athos. All three then sat down with their heads together and their ears on the alert. "You will go to London," continued the cardinal. "Arrived in London, you will seek Buckingham." "I must beg your Eminence to observe," said Milady, "that since the affair of the diamond studs, about which the duke always suspected me, his Grace distrusts me." "Well, this time," said the cardinal, "it is not necessary to steal his confidence, but to present yourself frankly and loyally as a negotiator." "Frankly and loyally," repeated Milady, with an unspeakable expression of duplicity. "Yes, frankly and loyally," replied the cardinal, in the same tone. "All this negotiation must be carried on openly." "I will follow your Eminence's instructions to the letter. I only wait till you give them." "You will go to Buckingham in my behalf, and you will tell him I am acquainted with all the preparations he has made; but that they give me no uneasiness, since at the first step he takes I will ruin the queen." "Will he believe that your Eminence is in a position to accomplish the threat thus made?" "Yes; for I have the proofs." "I must be able to present these proofs for his appreciation." "Without doubt. And you will tell him I will publish the report of Bois-Robert and the Marquis de Beautru, upon the interview which the duke had at the residence of Madame the Constable with the queen on the evening Madame the Constable gave a masquerade. You will tell him, in order that he may not doubt, that he came there in the costume of the Great Mogul, which the Chevalier de Guise was to have worn, and that he purchased this exchange for the sum of three thousand pistoles." "Well, monseigneur?" "All the details of his coming into and going out of the palace--on the night when he introduced himself in the character of an Italian fortune teller--you will tell him, that he may not doubt the correctness of my information; that he had under his cloak a large white robe dotted with black tears, death's heads, and crossbones--for in case of a surprise, he was to pass for the phantom of the White Lady who, as all the world knows, appears at the Louvre every time any great event is impending." "Is that all, monseigneur?" "Tell him also that I am acquainted with all the details of the adventure at Amiens; that I will have a little romance made of it, wittily turned, with a plan of the garden and portraits of the principal actors in that nocturnal romance." "I will tell him that." "Tell him further that I hold Montague in my power; that Montague is in the Bastille; that no letters were found upon him, it is true, but that torture may make him tell much of what he knows, and even what he does not know." "Exactly." "Then add that his Grace has, in the precipitation with which he quit the Isle of Re, forgotten and left behind him in his lodging a certain letter from Madame de Chevreuse which singularly compromises the queen, inasmuch as it proves not only that her Majesty can love the enemies of the king but that she can conspire with the enemies of France. You recollect perfectly all I have told you, do you not?" "Your Eminence will judge: the ball of Madame the Constable; the night at the Louvre; the evening at Amiens; the arrest of Montague; the letter of Madame de Chevreuse." "That's it," said the cardinal, "that's it. You have an excellent memory, Milady." "But," resumed she to whom the cardinal addressed this flattering compliment, "if, in spite of all these reasons, the duke does not give way and continues to menace France?" "The duke is in love to madness, or rather to folly," replied Richelieu, with great bitterness. "Like the ancient paladins, he has only undertaken this war to obtain a look from his lady love. If he becomes certain that this war will cost the honor, and perhaps the liberty, of the lady of his thoughts, as he says, I will answer for it he will look twice." "And yet," said Milady, with a persistence that proved she wished to see clearly to the end of the mission with which she was about to be charged, "if he persists?" "If he persists?" said the cardinal. "That is not probable." "It is possible," said Milady. "If he persists--" His Eminence made a pause, and resumed: "If he persists--well, then I shall hope for one of those events which change the destinies of states." "If your Eminence would quote to me some one of these events in history," said Milady, "perhaps I should partake of your confidence as to the future." "Well, here, for example," said Richelieu: "when, in 1610, for a cause similar to that which moves the duke, King Henry IV, of glorious memory, was about, at the same time, to invade Flanders and Italy, in order to attack Austria on both sides. Well, did there not happen an event which saved Austria? Why should not the king of France have the same chance as the emperor?" "Your Eminence means, I presume, the knife stab in the Rue de la Feronnerie?" "Precisely," said the cardinal. "Does not your Eminence fear that the punishment inflicted upon Ravaillac may deter anyone who might entertain the idea of imitating him?" "There will be, in all times and in all countries, particularly if religious divisions exist in those countries, fanatics who ask nothing better than to become martyrs. Ay, and observe--it just occurs to me that the Puritans are furious against Buckingham, and their preachers designate him as the Antichrist." "Well?" said Milady. "Well," continued the cardinal, in an indifferent tone, "the only thing to be sought for at this moment is some woman, handsome, young, and clever, who has cause of quarrel with the duke. The duke has had many affairs of gallantry; and if he has fostered his amours by promises of eternal constancy, he must likewise have sown the seeds of hatred by his eternal infidelities." "No doubt," said Milady, coolly, "such a woman may be found." "Well, such a woman, who would place the knife of Jacques Clement or of Ravaillac in the hands of a fanatic, would save France." "Yes; but she would then be the accomplice of an assassination." "Were the accomplices of Ravaillac or of Jacques Clement ever known?" "No; for perhaps they were too high-placed for anyone to dare look for them where they were. The Palace of Justice would not be burned down for everybody, monseigneur." "You think, then, that the fire at the Palace of Justice was not caused by chance?" asked Richelieu, in the tone with which he would have put a question of no importance. "I, monseigneur?" replied Milady. "I think nothing; I quote a fact, that is all. Only I say that if I were named Madame de Montpensier, or the Queen Marie de Medicis, I should use less precautions than I take, being simply called Milady Clarik." "That is just," said Richelieu. "What do you require, then?" "I require an order which would ratify beforehand all that I should think proper to do for the greatest good of France." "But in the first place, this woman I have described must be found who is desirous of avenging herself upon the duke." "She is found," said Milady. "Then the miserable fanatic must be found who will serve as an instrument of God's justice." "He will be found." "Well," said the cardinal, "then it will be time to claim the order which you just now required." "Your Eminence is right," replied Milady; "and I have been wrong in seeing in the mission with which you honor me anything but that which it really is--that is, to announce to his Grace, on the part of your Eminence, that you are acquainted with the different disguises by means of which he succeeded in approaching the queen during the fete given by Madame the Constable; that you have proofs of the interview granted at the Louvre by the queen to a certain Italian astrologer who was no other than the Duke of Buckingham; that you have ordered a little romance of a satirical nature to be written upon the adventures of Amiens, with a plan of the gardens in which those adventures took place, and portraits of the actors who figured in them; that Montague is in the Bastille, and that the torture may make him say things he remembers, and even things he has forgotten; that you possess a certain letter from Madame de Chevreuse, found in his Grace's lodging, which singularly compromises not only her who wrote it, but her in whose name it was written. Then, if he persists, notwithstanding all this--as that is, as I have said, the limit of my mission--I shall have nothing to do but to pray God to work a miracle for the salvation of France. That is it, is it not, monseigneur, and I shall have nothing else to do?" "That is it," replied the cardinal, dryly. "And now," said Milady, without appearing to remark the change of the duke's tone toward her--"now that I have received the instructions of your Eminence as concerns your enemies, Monseigneur will permit me to say a few words to him of mine?" "Have you enemies, then?" asked Richelieu. "Yes, monseigneur, enemies against whom you owe me all your support, for I made them by serving your Eminence." "Who are they?" replied the duke. "In the first place, there is a little intrigante named Bonacieux." "She is in the prison of Nantes." "That is to say, she was there," replied Milady; "but the queen has obtained an order from the king by means of which she has been conveyed to a convent." "To a convent?" said the duke. "Yes, to a convent." "And to which?" "I don't know; the secret has been well kept." "But I will know!" "And your Eminence will tell me in what convent that woman is?" "I can see nothing inconvenient in that," said the cardinal. "Well, now I have an enemy much more to be dreaded by me than this little Madame Bonacieux." "Who is that?" "Her lover." "What is his name?" "Oh, your Eminence knows him well," cried Milady, carried away by her anger. "He is the evil genius of both of us. It is he who in an encounter with your Eminence's Guards decided the victory in favor of the king's Musketeers; it is he who gave three desperate wounds to de Wardes, your emissary, and who caused the affair of the diamond studs to fail; it is he who, knowing it was I who had Madame Bonacieux carried off, has sworn my death." "Ah, ah!" said the cardinal, "I know of whom you speak." "I mean that miserable d'Artagnan." "He is a bold fellow," said the cardinal. "And it is exactly because he is a bold fellow that he is the more to be feared." "I must have," said the duke, "a proof of his connection with Buckingham." "A proof?" cried Milady; "I will have ten." "Well, then, it becomes the simplest thing in the world; get me that proof, and I will send him to the Bastille." "So far good, monseigneur; but afterwards?" "When once in the Bastille, there is no afterward!" said the cardinal, in a low voice. "Ah, pardieu!" continued he, "if it were as easy for me to get rid of my enemy as it is easy to get rid of yours, and if it were against such people you require impunity--" "Monseigneur," replied Milady, "a fair exchange. Life for life, man for man; give me one, I will give you the other." "I don't know what you mean, nor do I even desire to know what you mean," replied the cardinal; "but I wish to please you, and see nothing out of the way in giving you what you demand with respect to so infamous a creature--the more so as you tell me this d'Artagnan is a libertine, a duelist, and a traitor." "An infamous scoundrel, monseigneur, a scoundrel!" "Give me paper, a quill, and some ink, then," said the cardinal. "Here they are, monseigneur." There was a moment of silence, which proved that the cardinal was employed in seeking the terms in which he should write the note, or else in writing it. Athos, who had not lost a word of the conversation, took his two companions by the hand, and led them to the other end of the room. "Well," said Porthos, "what do you want, and why do you not let us listen to the end of the conversation?" "Hush!" said Athos, speaking in a low voice. "We have heard all it was necessary we should hear; besides, I don't prevent you from listening, but I must be gone." "You must be gone!" said Porthos; "and if the cardinal asks for you, what answer can we make?" "You will not wait till he asks; you will speak first, and tell him that I am gone on the lookout, because certain expressions of our host have given me reason to think the road is not safe. I will say two words about it to the cardinal's esquire likewise. The rest concerns myself; don't be uneasy about that." "Be prudent, Athos," said Aramis. "Be easy on that head," replied Athos; "you know I am cool enough." Porthos and Aramis resumed their places by the stovepipe. As to Athos, he went out without any mystery, took his horse, which was tied with those of his friends to the fastenings of the shutters, in four words convinced the attendant of the necessity of a vanguard for their return, carefully examined the priming of his pistols, drew his sword, and took, like a forlorn hope, the road to the camp. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Nach seiner schrecklichen Begegnung mit Milady flieht d'Artagnan zu Athos nach Hause und erzählt ihm alles. Mit dem Beweis der Fleur-de-Lis glauben beide Männer, dass Milady die gebrandmarkte Frau von Athos ist. D'Artagnan sammelt seine drei Freunde zusammen und kehrt nach Hause zurück, um Kitty auf ihn warten zu finden. Sie hat jetzt Angst vor Milady und erinnert d'Artagnan daran, dass er versprochen hat, sie zu beschützen. Aramis stimmt zu, zu sehen, ob seine mysteriöse Geliebte einen Platz für sie finden kann. Bevor sie geht, erzählt Kitty d'Artagnan, dass sie Monsieur Bonacieux als häufigen Besucher von Miladys Haus erkennt, was Miladys Beteiligung an der Entführung von Madame Bonacieux bestätigt. D'Artagnan und Athos verpfänden Miladys Ring und kaufen Ausrüstung mit dem Geld. Als d'Artagnan nach Hause zurückkehrt, findet er zwei Briefe auf ihn wartend. Einer ist von Madame Bonacieux, der ihn bittet, sich an diesem Abend mit ihr an einer verlassenen Brücke in Paris zu treffen. Der andere ist von den Angestellten des Kardinals, die die Anwesenheit von d'Artagnan vor dem Kardinal in dieser Nacht verlangen. D'Artagnan ist entschlossen, beide Treffen wahrzunehmen, und die Musketiere bestehen darauf, ihn zu schützen. D'Artagnan wartet an dem vereinbarten Ort auf der Brücke, um Madame Bonacieux zu treffen, die plötzlich in einem Wagen vorbeirast und ihm einen Kuss zuwirft, während sie vorbeifährt. D'Artagnan kann nicht herausfinden, ob das bedeutet, dass sie sicher ist oder immer noch das Gefangene des Kardinals. Verwirrt von dem Rätsel, machen er und seine Freunde sich auf den Weg, um den Kardinal zu treffen. D'Artagnans Audienz beim Kardinal ist ebenfalls verwirrend. Der Kardinal gibt an, von d'Artagnans Intrigen zu wissen, scheint aber dennoch wohlwollend gegenüber d'Artagnan eingestellt zu sein. Er bietet d'Artagnan einen Posten als Offizier in seiner Garde an. Schockiert lehnt d'Artagnan höflich das Angebot ab. Der Kardinal warnt d'Artagnan davor, dass er sich durch die Ablehnung seines Angebots angreifbar macht, und dass nur der Kardinal ihn schützen kann. D'Artagnan besteht auf seiner Entscheidung und die Männer trennen sich in angespannter, aber respektvoller Atmosphäre. Am nächsten Tag verlässt d'Artagnans Wachkompanie Paris, um in den Kampf zu ziehen. Die Musketiere sollen erst in ein paar Tagen abreisen, so dass d'Artagnan gezwungen ist, von seinen Freunden getrennt zu sein. D'Artagnan kommt in La Rochelle an, einer von den Briten eroberten und jetzt von den Franzosen belagerten Stadt. Eines Nachts, als d'Artagnan alleine umherirrt, schießen zwei Männer auf ihn. Schwer erschüttert entkommt er und schließt daraus, dass Milady den Angriff als Rache organisiert haben muss. Am nächsten Tag meldet sich d'Artagnan freiwillig für eine gefährliche Aufklärungsmission. Die beiden Männer, die ihn angegriffen haben, melden sich ebenfalls für die Mission und versuchen, ihn außerhalb der Mauern der Stadt zu töten. D'Artagnan tötet einen von ihnen und gefangenen den anderen, und erhält dabei einen Brief von Milady, der seine Vermutungen bestätigt: Sie schickte die Attentäter, und Madame Bonacieux ist irgendwo in Frankreich in Sicherheit. Milady schickt dann d'Artagnan vergifteten Wein, der als Geschenk von seinen Freunden getarnt ist. Die Musketiere kommen gerade noch rechtzeitig, um zu verhindern, dass d'Artagnan ihn trinkt. Sie erkennen nun die Ernsthaftigkeit der Situation - Milady wird nicht ruhen, bis sie sich gerächt hat. Die Musketiere beschließen, Madame Bonacieux nach der Belagerung zu retten. Kurz darauf stoßen die Musketiere - ohne d'Artagnan, der als Wächter weniger Freiheit hat - im Gasthaus zufällig auf den Kardinal selbst. Er nimmt sie als seine persönlichen Leibwächter in Anspruch, und sie folgen ihm zu einem geheimen Treffen. Während sie unten warten, bemerkt Athos, dass er den Kardinal durch die Rohre des Ofens sprechen hören kann. Er hört auch die Stimme von Milady. Der Kardinal instruiert Milady, mit einer Nachricht nach Großbritannien zu Buckingham zu gehen - entweder muss er seinen Krieg gegen Frankreich einstellen, oder der Kardinal wird seine Affären mit der Königin offenlegen. Wenn der Herzog nicht gehorche, beschreibt der Kardinal, wie Milady seine Ermordung arrangieren soll. Milady bittet den Kardinal, sich an d'Artagnan zu rächen, indem er ihn in die Bastille wirft und herausfindet, wo Madame Bonacieux ist. Der Kardinal stimmt widerwillig zu und lässt Milady seine Befehle ausführen.

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 great events of Babbitt's spring were the secret buying of real-estate options in Linton for certain street-traction officials, before the public announcement that the Linton Avenue Car Line would be extended, and a dinner which was, as he rejoiced to his wife, not only "a regular society spread but a real sure-enough highbrow affair, with some of the keenest intellects and the brightest bunch of little women in town." It was so absorbing an occasion that he almost forgot his desire to run off to Maine with Paul Riesling. Though he had been born in the village of Catawba, Babbitt had risen to that metropolitan social plane on which hosts have as many as four people at dinner without planning it for more than an evening or two. But a dinner of twelve, with flowers from the florist's and all the cut-glass out, staggered even the Babbitts. For two weeks they studied, debated, and arbitrated the list of guests. Babbitt marveled, "Of course we're up-to-date ourselves, but still, think of us entertaining a famous poet like Chum Frink, a fellow that on nothing but a poem or so every day and just writing a few advertisements pulls down fifteen thousand berries a year!" "Yes, and Howard Littlefield. Do you know, the other evening Eunice told me her papa speaks three languages!" said Mrs. Babbitt. "Huh! That's nothing! So do I--American, baseball, and poker!" "I don't think it's nice to be funny about a matter like that. Think how wonderful it must be to speak three languages, and so useful and--And with people like that, I don't see why we invite the Orville Joneses." "Well now, Orville is a mighty up-and-coming fellow!" "Yes, I know, but--A laundry!" "I'll admit a laundry hasn't got the class of poetry or real estate, but just the same, Orvy is mighty deep. Ever start him spieling about gardening? Say, that fellow can tell you the name of every kind of tree, and some of their Greek and Latin names too! Besides, we owe the Joneses a dinner. Besides, gosh, we got to have some boob for audience, when a bunch of hot-air artists like Frink and Littlefield get going." "Well, dear--I meant to speak of this--I do think that as host you ought to sit back and listen, and let your guests have a chance to talk once in a while!" "Oh, you do, do you! Sure! I talk all the time! And I'm just a business man--oh sure!--I'm no Ph.D. like Littlefield, and no poet, and I haven't anything to spring! Well, let me tell you, just the other day your darn Chum Frink comes up to me at the club begging to know what I thought about the Springfield school-bond issue. And who told him? I did! You bet your life I told him! Little me! I certainly did! He came up and asked me, and I told him all about it! You bet! And he was darn glad to listen to me and--Duty as a host! I guess I know my duty as a host and let me tell you--" In fact, the Orville Joneses were invited. II On the morning of the dinner, Mrs. Babbitt was restive. "Now, George, I want you to be sure and be home early tonight. Remember, you have to dress." "Uh-huh. I see by the Advocate that the Presbyterian General Assembly has voted to quit the Interchurch World Movement. That--" "George! Did you hear what I said? You must be home in time to dress to-night." "Dress? Hell! I'm dressed now! Think I'm going down to the office in my B.V.D.'s?" "I will not have you talking indecently before the children! And you do have to put on your dinner-jacket!" "I guess you mean my Tux. I tell you, of all the doggone nonsensical nuisances that was ever invented--" Three minutes later, after Babbitt had wailed, "Well, I don't know whether I'm going to dress or NOT" in a manner which showed that he was going to dress, the discussion moved on. "Now, George, you mustn't forget to call in at Vecchia's on the way home and get the ice cream. Their delivery-wagon is broken down, and I don't want to trust them to send it by--" "All right! You told me that before breakfast!" "Well, I don't want you to forget. I'll be working my head off all day long, training the girl that's to help with the dinner--" "All nonsense, anyway, hiring an extra girl for the feed. Matilda could perfectly well--" "--and I have to go out and buy the flowers, and fix them, and set the table, and order the salted almonds, and look at the chickens, and arrange for the children to have their supper upstairs and--And I simply must depend on you to go to Vecchia's for the ice cream." "All riiiiiight! Gosh, I'm going to get it!" "All you have to do is to go in and say you want the ice cream that Mrs. Babbitt ordered yesterday by 'phone, and it will be all ready for you." At ten-thirty she telephoned to him not to forget the ice cream from Vecchia's. He was surprised and blasted then by a thought. He wondered whether Floral Heights dinners were worth the hideous toil involved. But he repented the sacrilege in the excitement of buying the materials for cocktails. Now this was the manner of obtaining alcohol under the reign of righteousness and prohibition: He drove from the severe rectangular streets of the modern business center into the tangled byways of Old Town--jagged blocks filled with sooty warehouses and lofts; on into The Arbor, once a pleasant orchard but now a morass of lodging-houses, tenements, and brothels. Exquisite shivers chilled his spine and stomach, and he looked at every policeman with intense innocence, as one who loved the law, and admired the Force, and longed to stop and play with them. He parked his car a block from Healey Hanson's saloon, worrying, "Well, rats, if anybody did see me, they'd think I was here on business." He entered a place curiously like the saloons of ante-prohibition days, with a long greasy bar with sawdust in front and streaky mirror behind, a pine table at which a dirty old man dreamed over a glass of something which resembled whisky, and with two men at the bar, drinking something which resembled beer, and giving that impression of forming a large crowd which two men always give in a saloon. The bartender, a tall pale Swede with a diamond in his lilac scarf, stared at Babbitt as he stalked plumply up to the bar and whispered, "I'd, uh--Friend of Hanson's sent me here. Like to get some gin." The bartender gazed down on him in the manner of an outraged bishop. "I guess you got the wrong place, my friend. We sell nothing but soft drinks here." He cleaned the bar with a rag which would itself have done with a little cleaning, and glared across his mechanically moving elbow. The old dreamer at the table petitioned the bartender, "Say, Oscar, listen." Oscar did not listen. "Aw, say, Oscar, listen, will yuh? Say, lis-sen!" The decayed and drowsy voice of the loafer, the agreeable stink of beer-dregs, threw a spell of inanition over Babbitt. The bartender moved grimly toward the crowd of two men. Babbitt followed him as delicately as a cat, and wheedled, "Say, Oscar, I want to speak to Mr. Hanson." "Whajuh wanta see him for?" "I just want to talk to him. Here's my card." It was a beautiful card, an engraved card, a card in the blackest black and the sharpest red, announcing that Mr. George F. Babbitt was Estates, Insurance, Rents. The bartender held it as though it weighed ten pounds, and read it as though it were a hundred words long. He did not bend from his episcopal dignity, but he growled, "I'll see if he's around." From the back room he brought an immensely old young man, a quiet sharp-eyed man, in tan silk shirt, checked vest hanging open, and burning brown trousers--Mr. Healey Hanson. Mr. Hanson said only "Yuh?" but his implacable and contemptuous eyes queried Babbitt's soul, and he seemed not at all impressed by the new dark-gray suit for which (as he had admitted to every acquaintance at the Athletic Club) Babbitt had paid a hundred and twenty-five dollars. "Glad meet you, Mr. Hanson. Say, uh--I'm George Babbitt of the Babbitt-Thompson Realty Company. I'm a great friend of Jake Offutt's." "Well, what of it?" "Say, uh, I'm going to have a party, and Jake told me you'd be able to fix me up with a little gin." In alarm, in obsequiousness, as Hanson's eyes grew more bored, "You telephone to Jake about me, if you want to." Hanson answered by jerking his head to indicate the entrance to the back room, and strolled away. Babbitt melodramatically crept into an apartment containing four round tables, eleven chairs, a brewery calendar, and a smell. He waited. Thrice he saw Healey Hanson saunter through, humming, hands in pockets, ignoring him. By this time Babbitt had modified his valiant morning vow, "I won't pay one cent over seven dollars a quart" to "I might pay ten." On Hanson's next weary entrance he besought "Could you fix that up?" Hanson scowled, and grated, "Just a minute--Pete's sake--just a min-ute!" In growing meekness Babbitt went on waiting till Hanson casually reappeared with a quart of gin--what is euphemistically known as a quart--in his disdainful long white hands. "Twelve bucks," he snapped. "Say, uh, but say, cap'n, Jake thought you'd be able to fix me up for eight or nine a bottle." "Nup. Twelve. This is the real stuff, smuggled from Canada. This is none o' your neutral spirits with a drop of juniper extract," the honest merchant said virtuously. "Twelve bones--if you want it. Course y' understand I'm just doing this anyway as a friend of Jake's." "Sure! Sure! I understand!" Babbitt gratefully held out twelve dollars. He felt honored by contact with greatness as Hanson yawned, stuffed the bills, uncounted, into his radiant vest, and swaggered away. He had a number of titillations out of concealing the gin-bottle under his coat and out of hiding it in his desk. All afternoon he snorted and chuckled and gurgled over his ability to "give the Boys a real shot in the arm to-night." He was, in fact, so exhilarated that he was within a block of his house before he remembered that there was a certain matter, mentioned by his wife, of fetching ice cream from Vecchia's. He explained, "Well, darn it--" and drove back. Vecchia was not a caterer, he was The Caterer of Zenith. Most coming-out parties were held in the white and gold ballroom of the Maison Vecchia; at all nice teas the guests recognized the five kinds of Vecchia sandwiches and the seven kinds of Vecchia cakes; and all really smart dinners ended, as on a resolving chord, in Vecchia Neapolitan ice cream in one of the three reliable molds--the melon mold, the round mold like a layer cake, and the long brick. Vecchia's shop had pale blue woodwork, tracery of plaster roses, attendants in frilled aprons, and glass shelves of "kisses" with all the refinement that inheres in whites of eggs. Babbitt felt heavy and thick amid this professional daintiness, and as he waited for the ice cream he decided, with hot prickles at the back of his neck, that a girl customer was giggling at him. He went home in a touchy temper. The first thing he heard was his wife's agitated: "George! DID you remember to go to Vecchia's and get the ice cream?" "Say! Look here! Do I ever forget to do things?" "Yes! Often!" "Well now, it's darn seldom I do, and it certainly makes me tired, after going into a pink-tea joint like Vecchia's and having to stand around looking at a lot of half-naked young girls, all rouged up like they were sixty and eating a lot of stuff that simply ruins their stomachs--" "Oh, it's too bad about you! I've noticed how you hate to look at pretty girls!" With a jar Babbitt realized that his wife was too busy to be impressed by that moral indignation with which males rule the world, and he went humbly up-stairs to dress. He had an impression of a glorified dining-room, of cut-glass, candles, polished wood, lace, silver, roses. With the awed swelling of the heart suitable to so grave a business as giving a dinner, he slew the temptation to wear his plaited dress-shirt for a fourth time, took out an entirely fresh one, tightened his black bow, and rubbed his patent-leather pumps with a handkerchief. He glanced with pleasure at his garnet and silver studs. He smoothed and patted his ankles, transformed by silk socks from the sturdy shanks of George Babbitt to the elegant limbs of what is called a Clubman. He stood before the pier-glass, viewing his trim dinner-coat, his beautiful triple-braided trousers; and murmured in lyric beatitude, "By golly, I don't look so bad. I certainly don't look like Catawba. If the hicks back home could see me in this rig, they'd have a fit!" He moved majestically down to mix the cocktails. As he chipped ice, as he squeezed oranges, as he collected vast stores of bottles, glasses, and spoons at the sink in the pantry, he felt as authoritative as the bartender at Healey Hanson's saloon. True, Mrs. Babbitt said he was under foot, and Matilda and the maid hired for the evening brushed by him, elbowed him, shrieked "Pleasopn door," as they tottered through with trays, but in this high moment he ignored them. Besides the new bottle of gin, his cellar consisted of one half-bottle of Bourbon whisky, a quarter of a bottle of Italian vermouth, and approximately one hundred drops of orange bitters. He did not possess a cocktail-shaker. A shaker was proof of dissipation, the symbol of a Drinker, and Babbitt disliked being known as a Drinker even more than he liked a Drink. He mixed by pouring from an ancient gravy-boat into a handleless pitcher; he poured with a noble dignity, holding his alembics high beneath the powerful Mazda globe, his face hot, his shirt-front a glaring white, the copper sink a scoured red-gold. He tasted the sacred essence. "Now, by golly, if that isn't pretty near one fine old cocktail! Kind of a Bronx, and yet like a Manhattan. Ummmmmm! Hey, Myra, want a little nip before the folks come?" Bustling into the dining-room, moving each glass a quarter of an inch, rushing back with resolution implacable on her face her gray and silver-lace party frock protected by a denim towel, Mrs. Babbitt glared at him, and rebuked him, "Certainly not!" "Well," in a loose, jocose manner, "I think the old man will!" The cocktail filled him with a whirling exhilaration behind which he was aware of devastating desires--to rush places in fast motors, to kiss girls, to sing, to be witty. He sought to regain his lost dignity by announcing to Matilda: "I'm going to stick this pitcher of cocktails in the refrigerator. Be sure you don't upset any of 'em." "Yeh." "Well, be sure now. Don't go putting anything on this top shelf." "Yeh." "Well, be--" He was dizzy. His voice was thin and distant. "Whee!" With enormous impressiveness he commanded, "Well, be sure now," and minced into the safety of the living-room. He wondered whether he could persuade "as slow a bunch as Myra and the Littlefields to go some place aft' dinner and raise Cain and maybe dig up smore booze." He perceived that he had gifts of profligacy which had been neglected. By the time the guests had come, including the inevitable late couple for whom the others waited with painful amiability, a great gray emptiness had replaced the purple swirling in Babbitt's head, and he had to force the tumultuous greetings suitable to a host on Floral Heights. The guests were Howard Littlefield, the doctor of philosophy who furnished publicity and comforting economics to the Street Traction Company; Vergil Gunch, the coal-dealer, equally powerful in the Elks and in the Boosters' Club; Eddie Swanson the agent for the Javelin Motor Car, who lived across the street; and Orville Jones, owner of the Lily White Laundry, which justly announced itself "the biggest, busiest, bulliest cleanerie shoppe in Zenith." But, naturally, the most distinguished of all was T. Cholmondeley Frink, who was not only the author of "Poemulations," which, syndicated daily in sixty-seven leading newspapers, gave him one of the largest audiences of any poet in the world, but also an optimistic lecturer and the creator of "Ads that Add." Despite the searching philosophy and high morality of his verses, they were humorous and easily understood by any child of twelve; and it added a neat air of pleasantry to them that they were set not as verse but as prose. Mr. Frink was known from Coast to Coast as "Chum." With them were six wives, more or less--it was hard to tell, so early in the evening, as at first glance they all looked alike, and as they all said, "Oh, ISN'T this nice!" in the same tone of determined liveliness. To the eye, the men were less similar: Littlefield, a hedge-scholar, tall and horse-faced; Chum Frink, a trifle of a man with soft and mouse-like hair, advertising his profession as poet by a silk cord on his eye-glasses; Vergil Gunch, broad, with coarse black hair en brosse; Eddie Swanson, a bald and bouncing young man who showed his taste for elegance by an evening waistcoat of figured black silk with glass buttons; Orville Jones, a steady-looking, stubby, not very memorable person, with a hemp-colored toothbrush mustache. Yet they were all so well fed and clean, they all shouted "'Evenin', Georgie!" with such robustness, that they seemed to be cousins, and the strange thing is that the longer one knew the women, the less alike they seemed; while the longer one knew the men, the more alike their bold patterns appeared. The drinking of the cocktails was as canonical a rite as the mixing. The company waited, uneasily, hopefully, agreeing in a strained manner that the weather had been rather warm and slightly cold, but still Babbitt said nothing about drinks. They became despondent. But when the late couple (the Swansons) had arrived, Babbitt hinted, "Well, folks, do you think you could stand breaking the law a little?" They looked at Chum Frink, the recognized lord of language. Frink pulled at his eye-glass cord as at a bell-rope, he cleared his throat and said that which was the custom: "I'll tell you, George: I'm a law-abiding man, but they do say Verg Gunch is a regular yegg, and of course he's bigger 'n I am, and I just can't figure out what I'd do if he tried to force me into anything criminal!" Gunch was roaring, "Well, I'll take a chance--" when Frink held up his hand and went on, "So if Verg and you insist, Georgie, I'll park my car on the wrong side of the street, because I take it for granted that's the crime you're hinting at!" There was a great deal of laughter. Mrs. Jones asserted, "Mr. Frink is simply too killing! You'd think he was so innocent!" Babbitt clamored, "How did you guess it, Chum? Well, you-all just wait a moment while I go out and get the--keys to your cars!" Through a froth of merriment he brought the shining promise, the mighty tray of glasses with the cloudy yellow cocktails in the glass pitcher in the center. The men babbled, "Oh, gosh, have a look!" and "This gets me right where I live!" and "Let me at it!" But Chum Frink, a traveled man and not unused to woes, was stricken by the thought that the potion might be merely fruit-juice with a little neutral spirits. He looked timorous as Babbitt, a moist and ecstatic almoner, held out a glass, but as he tasted it he piped, "Oh, man, let me dream on! It ain't true, but don't waken me! Jus' lemme slumber!" Two hours before, Frink had completed a newspaper lyric beginning: "I sat alone and groused and thunk, and scratched my head and sighed and wunk, and groaned, There still are boobs, alack, who'd like the old-time gin-mill back; that den that makes a sage a loon, the vile and smelly old saloon! I'll never miss their poison booze, whilst I the bubbling spring can use, that leaves my head at merry morn as clear as any babe new-born!" Babbitt drank with the others; his moment's depression was gone; he perceived that these were the best fellows in the world; he wanted to give them a thousand cocktails. "Think you could stand another?" he cried. The wives refused, with giggles, but the men, speaking in a wide, elaborate, enjoyable manner, gloated, "Well, sooner than have you get sore at me, Georgie--" "You got a little dividend coming," said Babbitt to each of them, and each intoned, "Squeeze it, Georgie, squeeze it!" When, beyond hope, the pitcher was empty, they stood and talked about prohibition. The men leaned back on their heels, put their hands in their trousers-pockets, and proclaimed their views with the booming profundity of a prosperous male repeating a thoroughly hackneyed statement about a matter of which he knows nothing whatever. "Now, I'll tell you," said Vergil Gunch; "way I figure it is this, and I can speak by the book, because I've talked to a lot of doctors and fellows that ought to know, and the way I see it is that it's a good thing to get rid of the saloon, but they ought to let a fellow have beer and light wines." Howard Littlefield observed, "What isn't generally realized is that it's a dangerous prop'sition to invade the rights of personal liberty. Now, take this for instance: The King of--Bavaria? I think it was Bavaria--yes, Bavaria, it was--in 1862, March, 1862, he issued a proclamation against public grazing of live-stock. The peasantry had stood for overtaxation without the slightest complaint, but when this proclamation came out, they rebelled. Or it may have been Saxony. But it just goes to show the dangers of invading the rights of personal liberty." "That's it--no one got a right to invade personal liberty," said Orville Jones. "Just the same, you don't want to forget prohibition is a mighty good thing for the working-classes. Keeps 'em from wasting their money and lowering their productiveness," said Vergil Gunch. "Yes, that's so. But the trouble is the manner of enforcement," insisted Howard Littlefield. "Congress didn't understand the right system. Now, if I'd been running the thing, I'd have arranged it so that the drinker himself was licensed, and then we could have taken care of the shiftless workman--kept him from drinking--and yet not 've interfered with the rights--with the personal liberty--of fellows like ourselves." They bobbed their heads, looked admiringly at one another, and stated, "That's so, that would be the stunt." "The thing that worries me is that a lot of these guys will take to cocaine," sighed Eddie Swanson. They bobbed more violently, and groaned, "That's so, there is a danger of that." Chum Frink chanted, "Oh, say, I got hold of a swell new receipt for home-made beer the other day. You take--" Gunch interrupted, "Wait! Let me tell you mine!" Littlefield snorted, "Beer! Rats! Thing to do is to ferment cider!" Jones insisted, "I've got the receipt that does the business!" Swanson begged, "Oh, say, lemme tell you the story--" But Frink went on resolutely, "You take and save the shells from peas, and pour six gallons of water on a bushel of shells and boil the mixture till--" Mrs. Babbitt turned toward them with yearning sweetness; Frink hastened to finish even his best beer-recipe; and she said gaily, "Dinner is served." There was a good deal of friendly argument among the men as to which should go in last, and while they were crossing the hall from the living-room to the dining-room Vergil Gunch made them laugh by thundering, "If I can't sit next to Myra Babbitt and hold her hand under the table, I won't play--I'm goin' home." In the dining-room they stood embarrassed while Mrs. Babbitt fluttered, "Now, let me see--Oh, I was going to have some nice hand-painted place-cards for you but--Oh, let me see; Mr. Frink, you sit there." The dinner was in the best style of women's-magazine art, whereby the salad was served in hollowed apples, and everything but the invincible fried chicken resembled something else. Ordinarily the men found it hard to talk to the women; flirtation was an art unknown on Floral Heights, and the realms of offices and of kitchens had no alliances. But under the inspiration of the cocktails, conversation was violent. Each of the men still had a number of important things to say about prohibition, and now that each had a loyal listener in his dinner-partner he burst out: "I found a place where I can get all the hootch I want at eight a quart--" "Did you read about this fellow that went and paid a thousand dollars for ten cases of red-eye that proved to be nothing but water? Seems this fellow was standing on the corner and fellow comes up to him--" "They say there's a whole raft of stuff being smuggled across at Detroit--" "What I always say is--what a lot of folks don't realize about prohibition--" "And then you get all this awful poison stuff--wood alcohol and everything--" "Course I believe in it on principle, but I don't propose to have anybody telling me what I got to think and do. No American 'll ever stand for that!" But they all felt that it was rather in bad taste for Orville Jones--and he not recognized as one of the wits of the occasion anyway--to say, "In fact, the whole thing about prohibition is this: it isn't the initial cost, it's the humidity." Not till the one required topic had been dealt with did the conversation become general. It was often and admiringly said of Vergil Gunch, "Gee, that fellow can get away with murder! Why, he can pull a Raw One in mixed company and all the ladies 'll laugh their heads off, but me, gosh, if I crack anything that's just the least bit off color I get the razz for fair!" Now Gunch delighted them by crying to Mrs. Eddie Swanson, youngest of the women, "Louetta! I managed to pinch Eddie's doorkey out of his pocket, and what say you and me sneak across the street when the folks aren't looking? Got something," with a gorgeous leer, "awful important to tell you!" The women wriggled, and Babbitt was stirred to like naughtiness. "Say, folks, I wished I dared show you a book I borrowed from Doc Patten!" "Now, George! The idea!" Mrs. Babbitt warned him. "This book--racy isn't the word! It's some kind of an anthropological report about--about Customs, in the South Seas, and what it doesn't SAY! It's a book you can't buy. Verg, I'll lend it to you." "Me first!" insisted Eddie Swanson. "Sounds spicy!" Orville Jones announced, "Say, I heard a Good One the other day about a coupla Swedes and their wives," and, in the best Jewish accent, he resolutely carried the Good One to a slightly disinfected ending. Gunch capped it. But the cocktails waned, the seekers dropped back into cautious reality. Chum Frink had recently been on a lecture-tour among the small towns, and he chuckled, "Awful good to get back to civilization! I certainly been seeing some hick towns! I mean--Course the folks there are the best on earth, but, gee whiz, those Main Street burgs are slow, and you fellows can't hardly appreciate what it means to be here with a bunch of live ones!" "You bet!" exulted Orville Jones. "They're the best folks on earth, those small-town folks, but, oh, mama! what conversation! Why, say, they can't talk about anything but the weather and the ne-oo Ford, by heckalorum!" "That's right. They all talk about just the same things," said Eddie Swanson. "Don't they, though! They just say the same things over and over," said Vergil Gunch. "Yes, it's really remarkable. They seem to lack all power of looking at things impersonally. They simply go over and over the same talk about Fords and the weather and so on." said Howard Littlefield. "Still, at that, you can't blame 'em. They haven't got any intellectual stimulus such as you get up here in the city," said Chum Frink. "Gosh, that's right," said Babbitt. "I don't want you highbrows to get stuck on yourselves but I must say it keeps a fellow right up on his toes to sit in with a poet and with Howard, the guy that put the con in economics! But these small-town boobs, with nobody but each other to talk to, no wonder they get so sloppy and uncultured in their speech, and so balled-up in their thinking!" Orville Jones commented, "And, then take our other advantages--the movies, frinstance. These Yapville sports think they're all-get-out if they have one change of bill a week, where here in the city you got your choice of a dozen diff'rent movies any evening you want to name!" "Sure, and the inspiration we get from rubbing up against high-class hustlers every day and getting jam full of ginger," said Eddie Swanson. "Same time," said Babbitt, "no sense excusing these rube burgs too easy. Fellow's own fault if he doesn't show the initiative to up and beat it to the city, like we done--did. And, just speaking in confidence among friends, they're jealous as the devil of a city man. Every time I go up to Catawba I have to go around apologizing to the fellows I was brought up with because I've more or less succeeded and they haven't. And if you talk natural to 'em, way we do here, and show finesse and what you might call a broad point of view, why, they think you're putting on side. There's my own half-brother Martin--runs the little ole general store my Dad used to keep. Say, I'll bet he don't know there is such a thing as a Tux--as a dinner-jacket. If he was to come in here now, he'd think we were a bunch of--of--Why, gosh, I swear, he wouldn't know what to think! Yes, sir, they're jealous!" Chum Frink agreed, "That's so. But what I mind is their lack of culture and appreciation of the Beautiful--if you'll excuse me for being highbrow. Now, I like to give a high-class lecture, and read some of my best poetry--not the newspaper stuff but the magazine things. But say, when I get out in the tall grass, there's nothing will take but a lot of cheesy old stories and slang and junk that if any of us were to indulge in it here, he'd get the gate so fast it would make his head swim." Vergil Gunch summed it up: "Fact is, we're mighty lucky to be living among a bunch of city-folks, that recognize artistic things and business-punch equally. We'd feel pretty glum if we got stuck in some Main Street burg and tried to wise up the old codgers to the kind of life we're used to here. But, by golly, there's this you got to say for 'em: Every small American town is trying to get population and modern ideals. And darn if a lot of 'em don't put it across! Somebody starts panning a rube crossroads, telling how he was there in 1900 and it consisted of one muddy street, count 'em, one, and nine hundred human clams. Well, you go back there in 1920, and you find pavements and a swell little hotel and a first-class ladies' ready-to-wear shop--real perfection, in fact! You don't want to just look at what these small towns are, you want to look at what they're aiming to become, and they all got an ambition that in the long run is going to make 'em the finest spots on earth--they all want to be just like Zenith!" III However intimate they might be with T. Cholmondeley Frink as a neighbor, as a borrower of lawn-mowers and monkey-wrenches, they knew that he was also a Famous Poet and a distinguished advertising-agent; that behind his easiness were sultry literary mysteries which they could not penetrate. But to-night, in the gin-evolved confidence, he admitted them to the arcanum: "I've got a literary problem that's worrying me to death. I'm doing a series of ads for the Zeeco Car and I want to make each of 'em a real little gem--reg'lar stylistic stuff. I'm all for this theory that perfection is the stunt, or nothing at all, and these are as tough things as I ever tackled. You might think it'd be harder to do my poems--all these Heart Topics: home and fireside and happiness--but they're cinches. You can't go wrong on 'em; you know what sentiments any decent go-ahead fellow must have if he plays the game, and you stick right to 'em. But the poetry of industrialism, now there's a literary line where you got to open up new territory. Do you know the fellow who's really THE American genius? The fellow who you don't know his name and I don't either, but his work ought to be preserved so's future generations can judge our American thought and originality to-day? Why, the fellow that writes the Prince Albert Tobacco ads! Just listen to this: It's P.A. that jams such joy in jimmy pipes. Say--bet you've often bent-an-ear to that spill-of-speech about hopping from five to f-i-f-t-y p-e-r by "stepping on her a bit!" Guess that's going some, all right--BUT just among ourselves, you better start a rapidwhiz system to keep tabs as to how fast you'll buzz from low smoke spirits to TIP-TOP-HIGH--once you line up behind a jimmy pipe that's all aglow with that peach-of-a-pal, Prince Albert. Prince Albert is john-on-the-job--always joy'usly more-ISH in flavor; always delightfully cool and fragrant! For a fact, you never hooked such double-decked, copper-riveted, two-fisted smoke enjoyment! Go to a pipe--speed-o-quick like you light on a good thing! Why--packed with Prince Albert you can play a joy'us jimmy straight across the boards! AND YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!" "Now that," caroled the motor agent, Eddie Swanson, "that's what I call he-literature! That Prince Albert fellow--though, gosh, there can't be just one fellow that writes 'em; must be a big board of classy ink-slingers in conference, but anyway: now, him, he doesn't write for long-haired pikers, he writes for Regular Guys, he writes for ME, and I tip my benny to him! The only thing is: I wonder if it sells the goods? Course, like all these poets, this Prince Albert fellow lets his idea run away with him. It makes elegant reading, but it don't say nothing. I'd never go out and buy Prince Albert Tobacco after reading it, because it doesn't tell me anything about the stuff. It's just a bunch of fluff." Frink faced him: "Oh, you're crazy! Have I got to sell you the idea of Style? Anyway that's the kind of stuff I'd like to do for the Zeeco. But I simply can't. So I decided to stick to the straight poetic, and I took a shot at a highbrow ad for the Zeeco. How do you like this: The long white trail is calling--calling--and it's over the hills and far away for every man or woman that has red blood in his veins and on his lips the ancient song of the buccaneers. It's away with dull drudging, and a fig for care. Speed--glorious Speed--it's more than just a moment's exhilaration--it's Life for you and me! This great new truth the makers of the Zeeco Car have considered as much as price and style. It's fleet as the antelope, smooth as the glide of a swallow, yet powerful as the charge of a bull-elephant. Class breathes in every line. Listen, brother! You'll never know what the high art of hiking is till you TRY LIFE'S ZIPPINGEST ZEST--THE ZEECO!" "Yes," Frink mused, "that's got an elegant color to it, if I do say so, but it ain't got the originality of 'spill-of-speech!'" The whole company sighed with sympathy and admiration. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Babbitts beschließen, ein "hochgeistiges" Abendessen auszurichten, und Georges Frustration über die Anstrengung und Mühe der Partyplanung wird durch seine Begeisterung über den Erwerb von Gin für Cocktails während der Prohibition überwunden. Er fährt zu einer Spelunke in der heruntergekommenen Altstadt, wo er sich mit Healey Hanson trifft und für überraschend teuren Gin bezahlt. Er ist so begeistert von der unmoralischen Tat, dass er fast vergisst, Myras Bitte nachzukommen, das Eis abzuholen. Während der Vorbereitungen für die Party trinkt Babbitt einen Cocktail und wird kichernd betrunken, aber als die Gäste eintreffen, ist er wieder voller Schwermut. Zu den Gästen gehören Howard Littlefield, Vergil Gunch, Eddie Swanson, Orville Jones, T. Cholmondeley Frink und ihre Ehefrauen. Beim Trinken von Cocktails und beim Abendessen diskutieren die Männer die Prohibition und die Vorteile des modernen Stadtlebens. Unter dem Einfluss des Gins gesteht Frink, dass er entmutigt ist, weil er keine Werbeanzeigen für seine Zeeco-Automobilfirma schreiben kann, wie es andere können.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: [HIERONIMO's house.] Enter HIERONIMO. HIER. Where shall I run to breath abroad my woes,-- My woes whose weight hath wearied the earth, Or mine exclaims that have surcharg'd the air With ceaseless plaints for my deceased son? The blust'ring winds, conspiring with my words, At my lament have mov'd to leafless trees, Disrob'd the meadows of their flower'd green, Made mountains marsh with spring-tides of my tears, And broken through the brazen gates of hell; Yet still tormented is my tortur'd soul With broken sighs and restless passions, That, winged, mount, and hovering in the air, Beat at the windows of the brightest heav'ns, Soliciting for justice and revenge. But they are plac'd in those empyreal heights, Where, countermur'd with walls of diamond, I find the place impregnable, and they Resist my woes and give my words no way. Enter HANGMAN with a letter. HANG. O Lord, sir! God bless you, sir! The man, sir,-- Petergade, sir: he that was so full of merry conceits-- HIER. Well, what of him? HANG. O Lord, sir! he went the wrong way; the fellow had a fair commission to the contrary. Sir, here is his passport, I pray you, sir; we have done him wrong. HIERO. I warrant thee; give it me. HANG. You will stand between the gallows and me? HIERO. Aye, aye! HANG. I thank your lord's worship. Exit HANGMAN. HIERO. And yet, though somewhat nearer me concerns I will, to ease the grief that I sustain, Take truce with sorrow while I read on this. [Reads] "My lord, I writ, as mine extremes requir'd, That you would labour my delivery: If you neglect, my life is desperate, And in my death I shall reveal the troth. You know, my lord, I slew him for your sake, And was confed'rate with the prince and you; Won by rewards and hopeful promises, I holp to murder Don Horatio too."-- Holp he to murder mine Horatio? And actors in th' accursed tragedy Wast thou, Lorenzo? Balthazar and thou, Of whom my son, my son deserv'd so well? What have I heard? what have mine eyes beheld? O sacred heav'ns, may it come to pass That such a monstrous and detested deed, So closely smoother'd and so long conceal'd, Shall thus by this be venged or reveal'd? Now see I what I durst not then suspect, That Bel-imperia's letter was not feign'd, Nor feigned she, though falsely they have wrong'd Both her, myself, Horatio and themselves. Now may I make compare 'twixt hers and this Of every accident. I ne'er could find Till now, and now I feelingly perceive, They did what Heav'n unpunish'd should not leave. O false Lorenzo! are these thy flattering looks? Is this the honour that thou didst my son? And, Balthazar,--bane to thy soul and me!-- What this the ransom he reserv'd for thee? Woe to the cause of these constrained wars! Woe to thy baseness and captivity! Woe to thy birth, thy body and thy soul, Thy cursed father, and thy conquer'd self! And bann'd with bitter execrations be The day and place where he did pity thee! But wherefore waste I mine unfruitful words, When naught but blood will satisfy my woes? I will go plain me to my lord the king, And cry aloud for justice through the court, Wearing the flints with these my wither'd feet, And either purchase justice by entreats Or tire them all with my revenging threats. Exit. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Hieronimo ist wieder allein und beklagt das Gewicht seines Leidens. Seine "gequälte Seele" war bisher nicht in der Lage, die "himmlischen Höhen" von Gerechtigkeit und Rache zu erreichen. Der Henker tritt hektisch mit einem Brief in der Hand ein und behauptet, sie hätten Pedringano nicht töten sollen. Hieronimo schickt ihn weg mit dem Versprechen, ihn vor Schaden zu schützen, und öffnet den Brief: Pedringano hat seine letzten Worte an Lorenzo geschrieben und droht, die Wahrheit preiszugeben, bevor er gehängt wird. Aus dem Brief schließt Hieronimo, dass es Lorenzo und Balthazar waren, die seinen Sohn ermordet haben. Er erkennt nun die Wahrheit hinter Bellimperias Brief und beschließt, vor dem König Gerechtigkeit zu fordern.

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 youth awakened slowly. He came gradually back to a position from which he could regard himself. For moments he had been scrutinizing his person in a dazed way as if he had never before seen himself. Then he picked up his cap from the ground. He wriggled in his jacket to make a more comfortable fit, and kneeling relaced his shoe. He thoughtfully mopped his reeking features. So it was all over at last! The supreme trial had been passed. The red, formidable difficulties of war had been vanquished. He went into an ecstasy of self-satisfaction. He had the most delightful sensations of his life. Standing as if apart from himself, he viewed that last scene. He perceived that the man who had fought thus was magnificent. He felt that he was a fine fellow. He saw himself even with those ideals which he had considered as far beyond him. He smiled in deep gratification. Upon his fellows he beamed tenderness and good will. "Gee! ain't it hot, hey?" he said affably to a man who was polishing his streaming face with his coat sleeves. "You bet!" said the other, grinning sociably. "I never seen sech dumb hotness." He sprawled out luxuriously on the ground. "Gee, yes! An' I hope we don't have no more fightin' till a week from Monday." There were some handshakings and deep speeches with men whose features were familiar, but with whom the youth now felt the bonds of tied hearts. He helped a cursing comrade to bind up a wound of the shin. But, of a sudden, cries of amazement broke out along the ranks of the new regiment. "Here they come ag'in! Here they come ag'in!" The man who had sprawled upon the ground started up and said, "Gosh!" The youth turned quick eyes upon the field. He discerned forms begin to swell in masses out of a distant wood. He again saw the tilted flag speeding forward. The shells, which had ceased to trouble the regiment for a time, came swirling again, and exploded in the grass or among the leaves of the trees. They looked to be strange war flowers bursting into fierce bloom. The men groaned. The luster faded from their eyes. Their smudged countenances now expressed a profound dejection. They moved their stiffened bodies slowly, and watched in sullen mood the frantic approach of the enemy. The slaves toiling in the temple of this god began to feel rebellion at his harsh tasks. They fretted and complained each to each. "Oh, say, this is too much of a good thing! Why can't somebody send us supports?" "We ain't never goin' to stand this second banging. I didn't come here to fight the hull damn' rebel army." There was one who raised a doleful cry. "I wish Bill Smithers had trod on my hand, insteader me treddin' on his'n." The sore joints of the regiment creaked as it painfully floundered into position to repulse. The youth stared. Surely, he thought, this impossible thing was not about to happen. He waited as if he expected the enemy to suddenly stop, apologize, and retire bowing. It was all a mistake. But the firing began somewhere on the regimental line and ripped along in both directions. The level sheets of flame developed great clouds of smoke that tumbled and tossed in the mild wind near the ground for a moment, and then rolled through the ranks as through a gate. The clouds were tinged an earthlike yellow in the sunrays and in the shadow were a sorry blue. The flag was sometimes eaten and lost in this mass of vapor, but more often it projected, sun-touched, resplendent. Into the youth's eyes there came a look that one can see in the orbs of a jaded horse. His neck was quivering with nervous weakness and the muscles of his arms felt numb and bloodless. His hands, too, seemed large and awkward as if he was wearing invisible mittens. And there was a great uncertainty about his knee joints. The words that comrades had uttered previous to the firing began to recur to him. "Oh, say, this is too much of a good thing! What do they take us for--why don't they send supports? I didn't come here to fight the hull damned rebel army." He began to exaggerate the endurance, the skill, and the valor of those who were coming. Himself reeling from exhaustion, he was astonished beyond measure at such persistency. They must be machines of steel. It was very gloomy struggling against such affairs, wound up perhaps to fight until sundown. He slowly lifted his rifle and catching a glimpse of the thickspread field he blazed at a cantering cluster. He stopped then and began to peer as best he could through the smoke. He caught changing views of the ground covered with men who were all running like pursued imps, and yelling. To the youth it was an onslaught of redoubtable dragons. He became like the man who lost his legs at the approach of the red and green monster. He waited in a sort of a horrified, listening attitude. He seemed to shut his eyes and wait to be gobbled. A man near him who up to this time had been working feverishly at his rifle suddenly stopped and ran with howls. A lad whose face had borne an expression of exalted courage, the majesty of he who dares give his life, was, at an instant, smitten abject. He blanched like one who has come to the edge of a cliff at midnight and is suddenly made aware. There was a revelation. He, too, threw down his gun and fled. There was no shame in his face. He ran like a rabbit. Others began to scamper away through the smoke. The youth turned his head, shaken from his trance by this movement as if the regiment was leaving him behind. He saw the few fleeting forms. He yelled then with fright and swung about. For a moment, in the great clamor, he was like a proverbial chicken. He lost the direction of safety. Destruction threatened him from all points. Directly he began to speed toward the rear in great leaps. His rifle and cap were gone. His unbuttoned coat bulged in the wind. The flap of his cartridge box bobbed wildly, and his canteen, by its slender cord, swung out behind. On his face was all the horror of those things which he imagined. The lieutenant sprang forward bawling. The youth saw his features wrathfully red, and saw him make a dab with his sword. His one thought of the incident was that the lieutenant was a peculiar creature to feel interested in such matters upon this occasion. He ran like a blind man. Two or three times he fell down. Once he knocked his shoulder so heavily against a tree that he went headlong. Since he had turned his back upon the fight his fears had been wondrously magnified. Death about to thrust him between the shoulder blades was far more dreadful than death about to smite him between the eyes. When he thought of it later, he conceived the impression that it is better to view the appalling than to be merely within hearing. The noises of the battle were like stones; he believed himself liable to be crushed. As he ran he mingled with others. He dimly saw men on his right and on his left, and he heard footsteps behind him. He thought that all the regiment was fleeing, pursued by these ominous crashes. In his flight the sound of these following footsteps gave him his one meager relief. He felt vaguely that death must make a first choice of the men who were nearest; the initial morsels for the dragons would be then those who were following him. So he displayed the zeal of an insane sprinter in his purpose to keep them in the rear. There was a race. As he, leading, went across a little field, he found himself in a region of shells. They hurtled over his head with long wild screams. As he listened he imagined them to have rows of cruel teeth that grinned at him. Once one lit before him and the livid lightning of the explosion effectually barred the way in his chosen direction. He groveled on the ground and then springing up went careering off through some bushes. He experienced a thrill of amazement when he came within view of a battery in action. The men there seemed to be in conventional moods, altogether unaware of the impending annihilation. The battery was disputing with a distant antagonist and the gunners were wrapped in admiration of their shooting. They were continually bending in coaxing postures over the guns. They seemed to be patting them on the back and encouraging them with words. The guns, stolid and undaunted, spoke with dogged valor. The precise gunners were coolly enthusiastic. They lifted their eyes every chance to the smoke-wreathed hillock from whence the hostile battery addressed them. The youth pitied them as he ran. Methodical idiots! Machine-like fools! The refined joy of planting shells in the midst of the other battery's formation would appear a little thing when the infantry came swooping out of the woods. The face of a youthful rider, who was jerking his frantic horse with an abandon of temper he might display in a placid barnyard, was impressed deeply upon his mind. He knew that he looked upon a man who would presently be dead. Too, he felt a pity for the guns, standing, six good comrades, in a bold row. He saw a brigade going to the relief of its pestered fellows. He scrambled upon a wee hill and watched it sweeping finely, keeping formation in difficult places. The blue of the line was crusted with steel color, and the brilliant flags projected. Officers were shouting. This sight also filled him with wonder. The brigade was hurrying briskly to be gulped into the infernal mouths of the war god. What manner of men were they, anyhow? Ah, it was some wondrous breed! Or else they didn't comprehend--the fools. A furious order caused commotion in the artillery. An officer on a bounding horse made maniacal motions with his arms. The teams went swinging up from the rear, the guns were whirled about, and the battery scampered away. The cannon with their noses poked slantingly at the ground grunted and grumbled like stout men, brave but with objections to hurry. The youth went on, moderating his pace since he had left the place of noises. Later he came upon a general of division seated upon a horse that pricked its ears in an interested way at the battle. There was a great gleaming of yellow and patent leather about the saddle and bridle. The quiet man astride looked mouse-colored upon such a splendid charger. A jingling staff was galloping hither and thither. Sometimes the general was surrounded by horsemen and at other times he was quite alone. He looked to be much harassed. He had the appearance of a business man whose market is swinging up and down. The youth went slinking around this spot. He went as near as he dared trying to overhear words. Perhaps the general, unable to comprehend chaos, might call upon him for information. And he could tell him. He knew all concerning it. Of a surety the force was in a fix, and any fool could see that if they did not retreat while they had opportunity--why-- He felt that he would like to thrash the general, or at least approach and tell him in plain words exactly what he thought him to be. It was criminal to stay calmly in one spot and make no effort to stay destruction. He loitered in a fever of eagerness for the division commander to apply to him. As he warily moved about, he heard the general call out irritably: "Tompkins, go over an' see Taylor, an' tell him not t' be in such an all-fired hurry; tell him t' halt his brigade in th' edge of th' woods; tell him t' detach a reg'ment--say I think th' center 'll break if we don't help it out some; tell him t' hurry up." A slim youth on a fine chestnut horse caught these swift words from the mouth of his superior. He made his horse bound into a gallop almost from a walk in his haste to go upon his mission. There was a cloud of dust. A moment later the youth saw the general bounce excitedly in his saddle. "Yes, by heavens, they have!" The officer leaned forward. His face was aflame with excitement. "Yes, by heavens, they 've held 'im! They 've held 'im!" He began to blithely roar at his staff: "We 'll wallop 'im now. We 'll wallop 'im now. We 've got 'em sure." He turned suddenly upon an aid: "Here--you--Jones--quick--ride after Tompkins--see Taylor--tell him t' go in--everlastingly--like blazes--anything." As another officer sped his horse after the first messenger, the general beamed upon the earth like a sun. In his eyes was a desire to chant a paean. He kept repeating, "They 've held 'em, by heavens!" His excitement made his horse plunge, and he merrily kicked and swore at it. He held a little carnival of joy on horseback. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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

Als Henry immer bewusster wird, ist er erleichtert. Der Prozess ist vorbei und die Schwierigkeiten des Krieges sind besiegt. Er fühlt sich gut mit sich selbst. Er und die anderen Männer tauschen Nettigkeiten über das Wetter aus und schütteln sich die Hände. Aber dieses gute Gefühl hält nicht lange an - der Feind greift erneut an. Massen von Truppen beginnen aus dem Hain auf der gegenüberliegenden Seite des Feldes zu strömen. Geschosse aus feindlichen Kanonen explodieren im Gras und in den Bäumen. Der Glanz verschwindet aus den Augen der Männer. Sie beschweren sich darüber, keine Ersatzleute zu haben; sie stöhnen über schmerzende Gelenke. Henry ist überzeugt, dass dies ein Fehler ist und die vorrückenden Truppen anhalten, sich entschuldigen und umkehren werden. Er irrt sich. Die Schlacht beginnt erneut, als die Unionstruppen das Feuer auf das Feld eröffnen. Henry beginnt zu zittern. Er fühlt sich taub und ist überzeugt, dass seine Feinde Maschinen aus Stahl sind. Er hört auf zu schießen, um durch den Rauch zu spähen. Alles, was er sehen kann, sind vage Szenen des Bodens, bedeckt mit Männern, die wie Teufel rennen und schreien. Entsetzt wartet er, fühlt sich, als könnte er die Augen schließen und gefressen werden. Ein Mann in seiner Nähe, der an seinem Gewehr gearbeitet hatte, hört plötzlich auf und rennt schreiend davon. Andere beginnen ebenfalls zu rennen. Henry schreit vor Angst, dreht sich um und rennt in Richtung Rückseite. Er verliert sein Gewehr und seine Mütze, und sein offener Mantel weht im Wind, während er rennt. Er verliert jede Orientierung von Sicherheit. Der Leutnant springt plötzlich vor Henry, rot im Gesicht, und versucht, ihn dort zu halten. Er schwingt sein Schwert. Henry läuft einfach weiter blind. Er fällt ein paar Mal hin. Während er rennt, sieht er andere neben ihm rennen und hört mehr flüchtende Schritte hinter sich. Er ist überzeugt, dass das Regiment flieht, verfolgt von den donnernden Granaten. Er rennt weiter bis zur Union-Batterie. Geschosse fliegen über ihn hinweg, während er durch sie hindurchrennt. Die Männer, die die Kanonen bedienen, wirken ruhig und gelassen, ahnungslos von ihrem drohenden Untergang. Sie stehen auf einem von Rauch umringten Hügel. Henry empfindet Mitleid mit den armen, ahnungslosen Narren, während er rennt. Er sieht andere Truppen in die Schlacht rennen. Henry ist voller Staunen über diese Narren, die sich beeilen, den Kriegsgott zu sättigen. Er rennt so weit, bis er einen Hügel erreicht, auf dem der General und sein Stab auf ihren Pferden stehen. Henry erwägt, ihm von dem Gemetzel und dem Terror zu erzählen. Er erwägt auch, ihn wegen seines schlechten Urteils und Verhaltens zu verprügeln. Wie konnte er stillhalten, während solche Zerstörung stattfand? Der General ruft dann einen Assistenten an, damit er eine Brigade beauftragt, ein Regiment in die Mitte zu schicken, wo Henry sich befindet, denn es besteht die Gefahr eines Durchbruchs. Der Assistent kommt nach einem Moment mit der Nachricht zurück, dass das Regiment standgehalten hat. Henrys Gefühl, dass das Unheil unmittelbar bevorstehe, hat sich nicht bewahrheitet. Der General hüpft aufgeregt auf seinem Pferd

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 public, arriving by degrees. Troopers, burghers, lackeys, pages, a pickpocket, the doorkeeper, etc., followed by the marquises. Cuigy, Brissaille, the buffet-girl, the violinists, etc. (A confusion of loud voices is heard outside the door. A trooper enters hastily.) THE DOORKEEPER (following him): Hollo! You there! Your money! THE TROOPER: I enter gratis. THE DOORKEEPER: Why? THE TROOPER: Why? I am of the King's Household Cavalry, 'faith! THE DOORKEEPER (to another trooper who enters): And you? SECOND TROOPER: I pay nothing. THE DOORKEEPER: How so? SECOND TROOPER: I am a musketeer. FIRST TROOPER (to the second): The play will not begin till two. The pit is empty. Come, a bout with the foils to pass the time. (They fence with the foils they have brought.) A LACKEY (entering): Pst. . .Flanquin. . .! ANOTHER (already there): Champagne?. . . THE FIRST (showing him cards and dice which he takes from his doublet): See, here be cards and dice. (He seats himself on the floor): Let's play. THE SECOND (doing the same): Good; I am with you, villain! FIRST LACKEY (taking from his pocket a candle-end, which he lights, and sticks on the floor): I made free to provide myself with light at my master's expense! A GUARDSMAN (to a shop-girl who advances): 'Twas prettily done to come before the lights were lit! (He takes her round the waist.) ONE OF THE FENCERS (receiving a thrust): A hit! ONE OF THE CARD-PLAYERS: Clubs! THE GUARDSMAN (following the girl): A kiss! THE SHOP-GIRL (struggling to free herself): They're looking! THE GUARDSMAN (drawing her to a dark corner): No fear! No one can see! A MAN (sitting on the ground with others, who have brought their provisions): By coming early, one can eat in comfort. A BURGHER (conducting his son): Let us sit here, son. A CARD-PLAYER: Triple ace! A MAN (taking a bottle from under his cloak, and also seating himself on the floor): A tippler may well quaff his Burgundy (he drinks): in the Burgundy Hotel! THE BURGHER (to his son): 'Faith! A man might think he had fallen in a bad house here! (He points with his cane to the drunkard): What with topers! (One of the fencers in breaking off, jostles him): brawlers! (He stumbles into the midst of the card-players): gamblers! THE GUARDSMAN (behind him, still teasing the shop-girl): Come, one kiss! THE BURGHER (hurriedly pulling his son away): By all the holies! And this, my boy, is the theater where they played Rotrou erewhile. THE YOUNG MAN: Ay, and Corneille! A TROOP OF PAGES (hand-in-hand, enter dancing the farandole, and singing): Tra' a la, la, la, la, la, la, la, lere. . . THE DOORKEEPER (sternly, to the pages): You pages there, none of your tricks!. . . FIRST PAGE (with an air of wounded dignity): Oh, sir!--such a suspicion!. . . (Briskly, to the second page, the moment the doorkeeper's back is turned): Have you string? THE SECOND: Ay, and a fish-hook with it. FIRST PAGE: We can angle for wigs, then, up there i' th' gallery. A PICKPOCKET (gathering about him some evil-looking youths): Hark ye, young cut-purses, lend an ear, while I give you your first lesson in thieving. SECOND PAGE (calling up to others in the top galleries): You there! Have you peashooters? THIRD PAGE (from above): Ay, have we, and peas withal! (He blows, and peppers them with peas.) THE YOUNG MAN (to his father): What piece do they give us? THE BURGHER: 'Clorise.' THE YOUNG MAN: Who may the author be? THE BURGHER: Master Balthazar Baro. It is a play!. . . (He goes arm-in-arm with his son.) THE PICKPOCKET (to his pupils): Have a care, above all, of the lace knee-ruffles--cut them off! A SPECTATOR (to another, showing him a corner in the gallery): I was up there, the first night of the 'Cid.' THE PICKPOCKET (making with his fingers the gesture of filching): Thus for watches-- THE BURGHER (coming down again with his son): Ah! You shall presently see some renowned actors. . . THE PICKPOCKET (making the gestures of one who pulls something stealthily, with little jerks): Thus for handkerchiefs-- THE BURGHER: Montfleury. . . SOME ONE (shouting from the upper gallery): Light up, below there! THE BURGHER: . . .Bellerose, L'Epy, La Beaupre, Jodelet! A PAGE (in the pit): Here comes the buffet-girl! THE BUFFET-GIRL (taking her place behind the buffet): Oranges, milk, raspberry-water, cedar bitters! (A hubbub outside the door is heard.) A FALSETTO VOICE: Make place, brutes! A LACKEY (astonished): The Marquises!--in the pit?. . . ANOTHER LACKEY: Oh! only for a minute or two! (Enter a band of young marquises.) A MARQUIS (seeing that the hall is half empty): What now! So we make our entrance like a pack of woolen-drapers! Peaceably, without disturbing the folk, or treading on their toes!--Oh, fie! Fie! (Recognizing some other gentlemen who have entered a little before him): Cuigy! Brissaille! (Greetings and embraces.) CUIGY: True to our word!. . .Troth, we are here before the candles are lit. THE MARQUIS: Ay, indeed! Enough! I am of an ill humor. ANOTHER: Nay, nay, Marquis! see, for your consolation, they are coming to light up! ALL THE AUDIENCE (welcoming the entrance of the lighter): Ah!. . . (They form in groups round the lusters as they are lit. Some people have taken their seats in the galleries. Ligniere, a distinguished-looking roue, with disordered shirt-front arm-in-arm with christian de Neuvillette. Christian, who is dressed elegantly, but rather behind the fashion, seems preoccupied, and keeps looking at the boxes.) Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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

Im Jahr 1640 pulsiert das große, überfüllte Pariser Theater, der Saal des Hôtel de Bourgogne, vor der Aufführung des Stücks "La Clorise". Menschen schwirren umher und unterhalten sich, je nach ihrer sozialen Klasse getrennt. Ein Bürger begleitet seinen Sohn und macht ihm die intellektuelle Bedeutung der Aufführung klar. Ein Dieb bewegt sich durch die Menge und stiehlt Taschentücher und Geldbörsen. Eine Gruppe von Dienern rennt herum und schießt mit Erbsenpistolen aufeinander. Zwei elegante Marquis mit an der Hüfte befestigten Schwertern schreiten durch die Menge, distanziert und herablassend. Die Lampen werden angezündet und die Menge jubelt, in der Gewissheit, dass die Aufführung bald beginnen wird.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: A charming introduction to a hermit's life! Four weeks' torture, tossing, and sickness! Oh, these bleak winds and bitter northern skies, and impassable roads, and dilatory country surgeons! And oh, this dearth of the human physiognomy! and, worse than all, the terrible intimation of Kenneth that I need not expect to be out of doors till spring! Mr. Heathcliff has just honoured me with a call. About seven days ago he sent me a brace of grouse--the last of the season. Scoundrel! He is not altogether guiltless in this illness of mine; and that I had a great mind to tell him. But, alas! how could I offend a man who was charitable enough to sit at my bedside a good hour, and talk on some other subject than pills and draughts, blisters and leeches? This is quite an easy interval. I am too weak to read; yet I feel as if I could enjoy something interesting. Why not have up Mrs. Dean to finish her tale? I can recollect its chief incidents, as far as she had gone. Yes: I remember her hero had run off, and never been heard of for three years; and the heroine was married. I'll ring: she'll be delighted to find me capable of talking cheerfully. Mrs. Dean came. 'It wants twenty minutes, sir, to taking the medicine,' she commenced. 'Away, away with it!' I replied; 'I desire to have--' 'The doctor says you must drop the powders.' 'With all my heart! Don't interrupt me. Come and take your seat here. Keep your fingers from that bitter phalanx of vials. Draw your knitting out of your pocket--that will do--now continue the history of Mr. Heathcliff, from where you left off, to the present day. Did he finish his education on the Continent, and come back a gentleman? or did he get a sizar's place at college, or escape to America, and earn honours by drawing blood from his foster-country? or make a fortune more promptly on the English highways?' 'He may have done a little in all these vocations, Mr. Lockwood; but I couldn't give my word for any. I stated before that I didn't know how he gained his money; neither am I aware of the means he took to raise his mind from the savage ignorance into which it was sunk: but, with your leave, I'll proceed in my own fashion, if you think it will amuse and not weary you. Are you feeling better this morning?' 'Much.' 'That's good news.' * * * * * I got Miss Catherine and myself to Thrushcross Grange; and, to my agreeable disappointment, she behaved infinitely better than I dared to expect. She seemed almost over-fond of Mr. Linton; and even to his sister she showed plenty of affection. They were both very attentive to her comfort, certainly. It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn. There were no mutual concessions: one stood erect, and the others yielded: and who can be ill-natured and bad-tempered when they encounter neither opposition nor indifference? I observed that Mr. Edgar had a deep-rooted fear of ruffling her humour. He concealed it from her; but if ever he heard me answer sharply, or saw any other servant grow cloudy at some imperious order of hers, he would show his trouble by a frown of displeasure that never darkened on his own account. He many a time spoke sternly to me about my pertness; and averred that the stab of a knife could not inflict a worse pang than he suffered at seeing his lady vexed. Not to grieve a kind master, I learned to be less touchy; and, for the space of half a year, the gunpowder lay as harmless as sand, because no fire came near to explode it. Catherine had seasons of gloom and silence now and then: they were respected with sympathising silence by her husband, who ascribed them to an alteration in her constitution, produced by her perilous illness; as she was never subject to depression of spirits before. The return of sunshine was welcomed by answering sunshine from him. I believe I may assert that they were really in possession of deep and growing happiness. It ended. Well, we _must_ be for ourselves in the long run; the mild and generous are only more justly selfish than the domineering; and it ended when circumstances caused each to feel that the one's interest was not the chief consideration in the other's thoughts. On a mellow evening in September, I was coming from the garden with a heavy basket of apples which I had been gathering. It had got dusk, and the moon looked over the high wall of the court, causing undefined shadows to lurk in the corners of the numerous projecting portions of the building. I set my burden on the house-steps by the kitchen-door, and lingered to rest, and drew in a few more breaths of the soft, sweet air; my eyes were on the moon, and my back to the entrance, when I heard a voice behind me say,--'Nelly, is that you?' It was a deep voice, and foreign in tone; yet there was something in the manner of pronouncing my name which made it sound familiar. I turned about to discover who spoke, fearfully; for the doors were shut, and I had seen nobody on approaching the steps. Something stirred in the porch; and, moving nearer, I distinguished a tall man dressed in dark clothes, with dark face and hair. He leant against the side, and held his fingers on the latch as if intending to open for himself. 'Who can it be?' I thought. 'Mr. Earnshaw? Oh, no! The voice has no resemblance to his.' 'I have waited here an hour,' he resumed, while I continued staring; 'and the whole of that time all round has been as still as death. I dared not enter. You do not know me? Look, I'm not a stranger!' A ray fell on his features; the cheeks were sallow, and half covered with black whiskers; the brows lowering, the eyes deep-set and singular. I remembered the eyes. 'What!' I cried, uncertain whether to regard him as a worldly visitor, and I raised my hands in amazement. 'What! you come back? Is it really you? Is it?' 'Yes, Heathcliff,' he replied, glancing from me up to the windows, which reflected a score of glittering moons, but showed no lights from within. 'Are they at home? where is she? Nelly, you are not glad! you needn't be so disturbed. Is she here? Speak! I want to have one word with her--your mistress. Go, and say some person from Gimmerton desires to see her.' 'How will she take it?' I exclaimed. 'What will she do? The surprise bewilders me--it will put her out of her head! And you _are_ Heathcliff! But altered! Nay, there's no comprehending it. Have you been for a soldier?' 'Go and carry my message,' he interrupted, impatiently. 'I'm in hell till you do!' He lifted the latch, and I entered; but when I got to the parlour where Mr. and Mrs. Linton were, I could not persuade myself to proceed. At length I resolved on making an excuse to ask if they would have the candles lighted, and I opened the door. They sat together in a window whose lattice lay back against the wall, and displayed, beyond the garden trees, and the wild green park, the valley of Gimmerton, with a long line of mist winding nearly to its top (for very soon after you pass the chapel, as you may have noticed, the sough that runs from the marshes joins a beck which follows the bend of the glen). Wuthering Heights rose above this silvery vapour; but our old house was invisible; it rather dips down on the other side. Both the room and its occupants, and the scene they gazed on, looked wondrously peaceful. I shrank reluctantly from performing my errand; and was actually going away leaving it unsaid, after having put my question about the candles, when a sense of my folly compelled me to return, and mutter, 'A person from Gimmerton wishes to see you ma'am.' 'What does he want?' asked Mrs. Linton. 'I did not question him,' I answered. 'Well, close the curtains, Nelly,' she said; 'and bring up tea. I'll be back again directly.' She quitted the apartment; Mr. Edgar inquired, carelessly, who it was. 'Some one mistress does not expect,' I replied. 'That Heathcliff--you recollect him, sir--who used to live at Mr. Earnshaw's.' 'What! the gipsy--the ploughboy?' he cried. 'Why did you not say so to Catherine?' 'Hush! you must not call him by those names, master,' I said. 'She'd be sadly grieved to hear you. She was nearly heartbroken when he ran off. I guess his return will make a jubilee to her.' Mr. Linton walked to a window on the other side of the room that overlooked the court. He unfastened it, and leant out. I suppose they were below, for he exclaimed quickly: 'Don't stand there, love! Bring the person in, if it be anyone particular.' Ere long, I heard the click of the latch, and Catherine flew up-stairs, breathless and wild; too excited to show gladness: indeed, by her face, you would rather have surmised an awful calamity. 'Oh, Edgar, Edgar!' she panted, flinging her arms round his neck. 'Oh, Edgar darling! Heathcliff's come back--he is!' And she tightened her embrace to a squeeze. 'Well, well,' cried her husband, crossly, 'don't strangle me for that! He never struck me as such a marvellous treasure. There is no need to be frantic!' 'I know you didn't like him,' she answered, repressing a little the intensity of her delight. 'Yet, for my sake, you must be friends now. Shall I tell him to come up?' 'Here,' he said, 'into the parlour?' 'Where else?' she asked. He looked vexed, and suggested the kitchen as a more suitable place for him. Mrs. Linton eyed him with a droll expression--half angry, half laughing at his fastidiousness. 'No,' she added, after a while; 'I cannot sit in the kitchen. Set two tables here, Ellen: one for your master and Miss Isabella, being gentry; the other for Heathcliff and myself, being of the lower orders. Will that please you, dear? Or must I have a fire lighted elsewhere? If so, give directions. I'll run down and secure my guest. I'm afraid the joy is too great to be real!' She was about to dart off again; but Edgar arrested her. '_You_ bid him step up,' he said, addressing me; 'and, Catherine, try to be glad, without being absurd. The whole household need not witness the sight of your welcoming a runaway servant as a brother.' I descended, and found Heathcliff waiting under the porch, evidently anticipating an invitation to enter. He followed my guidance without waste of words, and I ushered him into the presence of the master and mistress, whose flushed cheeks betrayed signs of warm talking. But the lady's glowed with another feeling when her friend appeared at the door: she sprang forward, took both his hands, and led him to Linton; and then she seized Linton's reluctant fingers and crushed them into his. Now, fully revealed by the fire and candlelight, I was amazed, more than ever, to behold the transformation of Heathcliff. He had grown a tall, athletic, well-formed man; beside whom my master seemed quite slender and youth-like. His upright carriage suggested the idea of his having been in the army. His countenance was much older in expression and decision of feature than Mr. Linton's; it looked intelligent, and retained no marks of former degradation. A half-civilised ferocity lurked yet in the depressed brows and eyes full of black fire, but it was subdued; and his manner was even dignified: quite divested of roughness, though stern for grace. My master's surprise equalled or exceeded mine: he remained for a minute at a loss how to address the ploughboy, as he had called him. Heathcliff dropped his slight hand, and stood looking at him coolly till he chose to speak. 'Sit down, sir,' he said, at length. 'Mrs. Linton, recalling old times, would have me give you a cordial reception; and, of course, I am gratified when anything occurs to please her.' 'And I also,' answered Heathcliff, 'especially if it be anything in which I have a part. I shall stay an hour or two willingly.' He took a seat opposite Catherine, who kept her gaze fixed on him as if she feared he would vanish were she to remove it. He did not raise his to her often: a quick glance now and then sufficed; but it flashed back, each time more confidently, the undisguised delight he drank from hers. They were too much absorbed in their mutual joy to suffer embarrassment. Not so Mr. Edgar: he grew pale with pure annoyance: a feeling that reached its climax when his lady rose, and stepping across the rug, seized Heathcliff's hands again, and laughed like one beside herself. 'I shall think it a dream to-morrow!' she cried. 'I shall not be able to believe that I have seen, and touched, and spoken to you once more. And yet, cruel Heathcliff! you don't deserve this welcome. To be absent and silent for three years, and never to think of me!' 'A little more than you have thought of me,' he murmured. 'I heard of your marriage, Cathy, not long since; and, while waiting in the yard below, I meditated this plan--just to have one glimpse of your face, a stare of surprise, perhaps, and pretended pleasure; afterwards settle my score with Hindley; and then prevent the law by doing execution on myself. Your welcome has put these ideas out of my mind; but beware of meeting me with another aspect next time! Nay, you'll not drive me off again. You were really sorry for me, were you? Well, there was cause. I've fought through a bitter life since I last heard your voice; and you must forgive me, for I struggled only for you!' 'Catherine, unless we are to have cold tea, please to come to the table,' interrupted Linton, striving to preserve his ordinary tone, and a due measure of politeness. 'Mr. Heathcliff will have a long walk, wherever he may lodge to-night; and I'm thirsty.' She took her post before the urn; and Miss Isabella came, summoned by the bell; then, having handed their chairs forward, I left the room. The meal hardly endured ten minutes. Catherine's cup was never filled: she could neither eat nor drink. Edgar had made a slop in his saucer, and scarcely swallowed a mouthful. Their guest did not protract his stay that evening above an hour longer. I asked, as he departed, if he went to Gimmerton? 'No, to Wuthering Heights,' he answered: 'Mr. Earnshaw invited me, when I called this morning.' Mr. Earnshaw invited _him_! and _he_ called on Mr. Earnshaw! I pondered this sentence painfully, after he was gone. Is he turning out a bit of a hypocrite, and coming into the country to work mischief under a cloak? I mused: I had a presentiment in the bottom of my heart that he had better have remained away. About the middle of the night, I was wakened from my first nap by Mrs. Linton gliding into my chamber, taking a seat on my bedside, and pulling me by the hair to rouse me. 'I cannot rest, Ellen,' she said, by way of apology. 'And I want some living creature to keep me company in my happiness! Edgar is sulky, because I'm glad of a thing that does not interest him: he refuses to open his mouth, except to utter pettish, silly speeches; and he affirmed I was cruel and selfish for wishing to talk when he was so sick and sleepy. He always contrives to be sick at the least cross! I gave a few sentences of commendation to Heathcliff, and he, either for a headache or a pang of envy, began to cry: so I got up and left him.' 'What use is it praising Heathcliff to him?' I answered. 'As lads they had an aversion to each other, and Heathcliff would hate just as much to hear him praised: it's human nature. Let Mr. Linton alone about him, unless you would like an open quarrel between them.' 'But does it not show great weakness?' pursued she. 'I'm not envious: I never feel hurt at the brightness of Isabella's yellow hair and the whiteness of her skin, at her dainty elegance, and the fondness all the family exhibit for her. Even you, Nelly, if we have a dispute sometimes, you back Isabella at once; and I yield like a foolish mother: I call her a darling, and flatter her into a good temper. It pleases her brother to see us cordial, and that pleases me. But they are very much alike: they are spoiled children, and fancy the world was made for their accommodation; and though I humour both, I think a smart chastisement might improve them all the same.' 'You're mistaken, Mrs. Linton,' said I. 'They humour you: I know what there would be to do if they did not. You can well afford to indulge their passing whims as long as their business is to anticipate all your desires. You may, however, fall out, at last, over something of equal consequence to both sides; and then those you term weak are very capable of being as obstinate as you.' 'And then we shall fight to the death, sha'n't we, Nelly?' she returned, laughing. 'No! I tell you, I have such faith in Linton's love, that I believe I might kill him, and he wouldn't wish to retaliate.' I advised her to value him the more for his affection. 'I do,' she answered, 'but he needn't resort to whining for trifles. It is childish and, instead of melting into tears because I said that Heathcliff was now worthy of anyone's regard, and it would honour the first gentleman in the country to be his friend, he ought to have said it for me, and been delighted from sympathy. He must get accustomed to him, and he may as well like him: considering how Heathcliff has reason to object to him, I'm sure he behaved excellently!' 'What do you think of his going to Wuthering Heights?' I inquired. 'He is reformed in every respect, apparently: quite a Christian: offering the right hand of fellowship to his enemies all around!' 'He explained it,' she replied. 'I wonder as much as you. He said he called to gather information concerning me from you, supposing you resided there still; and Joseph told Hindley, who came out and fell to questioning him of what he had been doing, and how he had been living; and finally, desired him to walk in. There were some persons sitting at cards; Heathcliff joined them; my brother lost some money to him, and, finding him plentifully supplied, he requested that he would come again in the evening: to which he consented. Hindley is too reckless to select his acquaintance prudently: he doesn't trouble himself to reflect on the causes he might have for mistrusting one whom he has basely injured. But Heathcliff affirms his principal reason for resuming a connection with his ancient persecutor is a wish to install himself in quarters at walking distance from the Grange, and an attachment to the house where we lived together; and likewise a hope that I shall have more opportunities of seeing him there than I could have if he settled in Gimmerton. He means to offer liberal payment for permission to lodge at the Heights; and doubtless my brother's covetousness will prompt him to accept the terms: he was always greedy; though what he grasps with one hand he flings away with the other.' 'It's a nice place for a young man to fix his dwelling in!' said I. 'Have you no fear of the consequences, Mrs. Linton?' 'None for my friend,' she replied: 'his strong head will keep him from danger; a little for Hindley: but he can't be made morally worse than he is; and I stand between him and bodily harm. The event of this evening has reconciled me to God and humanity! I had risen in angry rebellion against Providence. Oh, I've endured very, very bitter misery, Nelly! If that creature knew how bitter, he'd be ashamed to cloud its removal with idle petulance. It was kindness for him which induced me to bear it alone: had I expressed the agony I frequently felt, he would have been taught to long for its alleviation as ardently as I. However, it's over, and I'll take no revenge on his folly; I can afford to suffer anything hereafter! Should the meanest thing alive slap me on the cheek, I'd not only turn the other, but I'd ask pardon for provoking it; and, as a proof, I'll go make my peace with Edgar instantly. Good-night! I'm an angel!' In this self-complacent conviction she departed; and the success of her fulfilled resolution was obvious on the morrow: Mr. Linton had not only abjured his peevishness (though his spirits seemed still subdued by Catherine's exuberance of vivacity), but he ventured no objection to her taking Isabella with her to Wuthering Heights in the afternoon; and she rewarded him with such a summer of sweetness and affection in return as made the house a paradise for several days; both master and servants profiting from the perpetual sunshine. Heathcliff--Mr. Heathcliff I should say in future--used the liberty of visiting at Thrushcross Grange cautiously, at first: he seemed estimating how far its owner would bear his intrusion. Catherine, also, deemed it judicious to moderate her expressions of pleasure in receiving him; and he gradually established his right to be expected. He retained a great deal of the reserve for which his boyhood was remarkable; and that served to repress all startling demonstrations of feeling. My master's uneasiness experienced a lull, and further circumstances diverted it into another channel for a space. His new source of trouble sprang from the not anticipated misfortune of Isabella Linton evincing a sudden and irresistible attraction towards the tolerated guest. She was at that time a charming young lady of eighteen; infantile in manners, though possessed of keen wit, keen feelings, and a keen temper, too, if irritated. Her brother, who loved her tenderly, was appalled at this fantastic preference. Leaving aside the degradation of an alliance with a nameless man, and the possible fact that his property, in default of heirs male, might pass into such a one's power, he had sense to comprehend Heathcliff's disposition: to know that, though his exterior was altered, his mind was unchangeable and unchanged. And he dreaded that mind: it revolted him: he shrank forebodingly from the idea of committing Isabella to its keeping. He would have recoiled still more had he been aware that her attachment rose unsolicited, and was bestowed where it awakened no reciprocation of sentiment; for the minute he discovered its existence he laid the blame on Heathcliff's deliberate designing. We had all remarked, during some time, that Miss Linton fretted and pined over something. She grew cross and wearisome; snapping at and teasing Catherine continually, at the imminent risk of exhausting her limited patience. We excused her, to a certain extent, on the plea of ill-health: she was dwindling and fading before our eyes. But one day, when she had been peculiarly wayward, rejecting her breakfast, complaining that the servants did not do what she told them; that the mistress would allow her to be nothing in the house, and Edgar neglected her; that she had caught a cold with the doors being left open, and we let the parlour fire go out on purpose to vex her, with a hundred yet more frivolous accusations, Mrs. Linton peremptorily insisted that she should get to bed; and, having scolded her heartily, threatened to send for the doctor. Mention of Kenneth caused her to exclaim, instantly, that her health was perfect, and it was only Catherine's harshness which made her unhappy. 'How can you say I am harsh, you naughty fondling?' cried the mistress, amazed at the unreasonable assertion. 'You are surely losing your reason. When have I been harsh, tell me?' 'Yesterday,' sobbed Isabella, 'and now!' 'Yesterday!' said her sister-in-law. 'On what occasion?' 'In our walk along the moor: you told me to ramble where I pleased, while you sauntered on with Mr. Heathcliff!' 'And that's your notion of harshness?' said Catherine, laughing. 'It was no hint that your company was superfluous? We didn't care whether you kept with us or not; I merely thought Heathcliff's talk would have nothing entertaining for your ears.' 'Oh, no,' wept the young lady; 'you wished me away, because you knew I liked to be there!' 'Is she sane?' asked Mrs. Linton, appealing to me. 'I'll repeat our conversation, word for word, Isabella; and you point out any charm it could have had for you.' 'I don't mind the conversation,' she answered: 'I wanted to be with--' 'Well?' said Catherine, perceiving her hesitate to complete the sentence. 'With him: and I won't be always sent off!' she continued, kindling up. 'You are a dog in the manger, Cathy, and desire no one to be loved but yourself!' 'You are an impertinent little monkey!' exclaimed Mrs. Linton, in surprise. 'But I'll not believe this idiotcy! It is impossible that you can covet the admiration of Heathcliff--that you consider him an agreeable person! I hope I have misunderstood you, Isabella?' 'No, you have not,' said the infatuated girl. 'I love him more than ever you loved Edgar, and he might love me, if you would let him!' 'I wouldn't be you for a kingdom, then!' Catherine declared, emphatically: and she seemed to speak sincerely. 'Nelly, help me to convince her of her madness. Tell her what Heathcliff is: an unreclaimed creature, without refinement, without cultivation; an arid wilderness of furze and whinstone. I'd as soon put that little canary into the park on a winter's day, as recommend you to bestow your heart on him! It is deplorable ignorance of his character, child, and nothing else, which makes that dream enter your head. Pray, don't imagine that he conceals depths of benevolence and affection beneath a stern exterior! He's not a rough diamond--a pearl-containing oyster of a rustic: he's a fierce, pitiless, wolfish man. I never say to him, "Let this or that enemy alone, because it would be ungenerous or cruel to harm them;" I say, "Let them alone, because _I_ should hate them to be wronged:" and he'd crush you like a sparrow's egg, Isabella, if he found you a troublesome charge. I know he couldn't love a Linton; and yet he'd be quite capable of marrying your fortune and expectations: avarice is growing with him a besetting sin. There's my picture: and I'm his friend--so much so, that had he thought seriously to catch you, I should, perhaps, have held my tongue, and let you fall into his trap.' Miss Linton regarded her sister-in-law with indignation. 'For shame! for shame!' she repeated, angrily. 'You are worse than twenty foes, you poisonous friend!' 'Ah! you won't believe me, then?' said Catherine. 'You think I speak from wicked selfishness?' 'I'm certain you do,' retorted Isabella; 'and I shudder at you!' 'Good!' cried the other. 'Try for yourself, if that be your spirit: I have done, and yield the argument to your saucy insolence.'-- 'And I must suffer for her egotism!' she sobbed, as Mrs. Linton left the room. 'All, all is against me: she has blighted my single consolation. But she uttered falsehoods, didn't she? Mr. Heathcliff is not a fiend: he has an honourable soul, and a true one, or how could he remember her?' 'Banish him from your thoughts, Miss,' I said. 'He's a bird of bad omen: no mate for you. Mrs. Linton spoke strongly, and yet I can't contradict her. She is better acquainted with his heart than I, or any one besides; and she never would represent him as worse than he is. Honest people don't hide their deeds. How has he been living? how has he got rich? why is he staying at Wuthering Heights, the house of a man whom he abhors? They say Mr. Earnshaw is worse and worse since he came. They sit up all night together continually, and Hindley has been borrowing money on his land, and does nothing but play and drink: I heard only a week ago--it was Joseph who told me--I met him at Gimmerton: "Nelly," he said, "we's hae a crowner's 'quest enow, at ahr folks'. One on 'em 's a'most getten his finger cut off wi' hauding t' other fro' stickin' hisseln loike a cawlf. That's maister, yeah knaw, 'at 's soa up o' going tuh t' grand 'sizes. He's noan feared o' t' bench o' judges, norther Paul, nur Peter, nur John, nur Matthew, nor noan on 'em, not he! He fair likes--he langs to set his brazened face agean 'em! And yon bonny lad Heathcliff, yah mind, he's a rare 'un. He can girn a laugh as well 's onybody at a raight divil's jest. Does he niver say nowt of his fine living amang us, when he goes to t' Grange? This is t' way on 't:--up at sun-down: dice, brandy, cloised shutters, und can'le-light till next day at noon: then, t'fooil gangs banning und raving to his cham'er, makking dacent fowks dig thur fingers i' thur lugs fur varry shame; un' the knave, why he can caint his brass, un' ate, un' sleep, un' off to his neighbour's to gossip wi' t' wife. I' course, he tells Dame Catherine how her fathur's goold runs into his pocket, and her fathur's son gallops down t' broad road, while he flees afore to oppen t' pikes!" Now, Miss Linton, Joseph is an old rascal, but no liar; and, if his account of Heathcliff's conduct be true, you would never think of desiring such a husband, would you?' 'You are leagued with the rest, Ellen!' she replied. 'I'll not listen to your slanders. What malevolence you must have to wish to convince me that there is no happiness in the world!' Whether she would have got over this fancy if left to herself, or persevered in nursing it perpetually, I cannot say: she had little time to reflect. The day after, there was a justice-meeting at the next town; my master was obliged to attend; and Mr. Heathcliff, aware of his absence, called rather earlier than usual. Catherine and Isabella were sitting in the library, on hostile terms, but silent: the latter alarmed at her recent indiscretion, and the disclosure she had made of her secret feelings in a transient fit of passion; the former, on mature consideration, really offended with her companion; and, if she laughed again at her pertness, inclined to make it no laughing matter to her. She did laugh as she saw Heathcliff pass the window. I was sweeping the hearth, and I noticed a mischievous smile on her lips. Isabella, absorbed in her meditations, or a book, remained till the door opened; and it was too late to attempt an escape, which she would gladly have done had it been practicable. 'Come in, that's right!' exclaimed the mistress, gaily, pulling a chair to the fire. 'Here are two people sadly in need of a third to thaw the ice between them; and you are the very one we should both of us choose. Heathcliff, I'm proud to show you, at last, somebody that dotes on you more than myself. I expect you to feel flattered. Nay, it's not Nelly; don't look at her! My poor little sister-in-law is breaking her heart by mere contemplation of your physical and moral beauty. It lies in your own power to be Edgar's brother! No, no, Isabella, you sha'n't run off,' she continued, arresting, with feigned playfulness, the confounded girl, who had risen indignantly. 'We were quarrelling like cats about you, Heathcliff; and I was fairly beaten in protestations of devotion and admiration: and, moreover, I was informed that if I would but have the manners to stand aside, my rival, as she will have herself to be, would shoot a shaft into your soul that would fix you for ever, and send my image into eternal oblivion!' 'Catherine!' sagte Isabella und erhob ihre Würde, während sie sich weigerte, sich aus dem festen Griff zu befreien, der sie festhielt. 'Ich möchte dich bitten, der Wahrheit treu zu bleiben und mich nicht zu verleumden, selbst im Scherz! Mr. Heathcliff, seien Sie so freundlich, Ihren Freund dazu aufzufordern, mich freizulassen: Sie vergisst, dass Sie und ich keine intimen Bekannten sind, und was sie amüsiert, ist für mich unendlich schmerzhaft.' Als der Gast nichts erwiderte, sondern sich setzte und offensichtlich gleichgültig war, welche Gefühle sie für ihn hegte, drehte sie sich um und flüsterte eine ernsthafte Bitte um Freiheit an ihren Peiniger. 'Auf keinen Fall!' rief Mrs. Linton als Antwort. 'Ich werde mich nicht wie ein Hund im Futtertrog benennen lassen. Du *wirst* bleiben: na also! Heathcliff, warum zeigst du keine Zufriedenheit über die erfreulichen Nachrichten? Isabella schwört, dass die Liebe, die Edgar für mich empfindet, im Vergleich zu der, die sie für dich hegt, nichts ist. Ich bin sicher, dass sie so etwas ähnliches gesagt hat; nicht wahr, Ellen? Und seit dem Tag vorgestern hat sie gefastet, aus Trauer und Wut, dass ich sie aus deiner Gesellschaft abgeschoben habe, unter der Vorstellung, dass es unerwünscht wäre.' 'Ich denke, du verleumdest sie,' sagte Heathcliff, indem er seinen Stuhl drehte, um sie anzusehen. 'Sie möchte jetzt bestimmt nicht mehr in meiner Gesellschaft sein!' Und er starrte das Objekt der Diskussion hart an, wie man es bei einem seltsamen abstoßenden Tier tun würde: Einer Hundertfüßerin aus Indien zum Beispiel, die Neugierde einen dazu führt, sie trotz der Abneigung zu betrachten. Das arme Ding konnte das nicht ertragen; sie wurde abwechselnd blass und rot und während Tränen ihre Wimpern benetzten, befahl sie mit aller Kraft ihrer kleinen Finger, den festen Griff von Catherine zu lösen. Als sie jedoch bemerkte, dass jedes Mal, wenn sie einen Finger von ihrem Arm nahm, ein anderer wieder zudrückte und sie sie nicht alle zusammen entfernen konnte, begann sie ihre Nägel zu benutzen; und ihre Schärfe zierte bald den Festhaltens mit roten Halbmonden. 'Da ist eine Tigerin!' rief Mrs. Linton aus, ließ sie frei und schüttelte ihre Hand vor Schmerz. 'Verschwinde, um Gottes willen, und verstecke dein gemeines Gesicht! Wie dumm, ihm diese Krallen zu zeigen. Kannst du dir vorstellen, welche Schlüsse er daraus ziehen wird? Schau, Heathcliff! Das sind Instrumente, die Schaden anrichten werden - du musst auf deine Augen aufpassen.' 'Ich würde sie ihr von den Fingern reißen, wenn sie mich je bedrohen würden,' antwortete er brutal, als sich die Tür nach ihr geschlossen hatte. 'Aber was meintest du damit, das Mädchen auf diese Weise zu hänseln, Cathy? Du hast nicht die Wahrheit gesagt, oder?' 'Ich versichere dir, dass ich es getan habe,' erwiderte sie. 'Sie ist seit Wochen wegen dir am Sterben und hat heute Morgen über dich geschwärmt und einen Schwall an Beschimpfungen ausgespuckt, weil ich deine Fehler in einem klaren Licht dargestellt habe, um ihre Verehrung abzumildern. Aber beachte es nicht weiter: Ich wollte ihre Arroganz bestrafen, das ist alles. Ich mag sie zu sehr, mein lieber Heathcliff, um dich sie einfach völlig auffressen zu lassen' 'Und ich mag sie zu wenig, um es zu versuchen,' sagte er, 'ausgenommen in einer sehr grässlichen Weise. Du würdest von seltsamen Dingen hören, wenn ich alleine mit diesem weinerlichen, wachsartigen Gesicht leben würde: Das Gewöhnlichste wäre, dass ich den Regenbogen auf das Weiße male und die blauen Augen alle paar Tage schwarz mache: Sie ähneln abscheulicherweise Lintons.' 'Herrlich!' bemerkte Catherine. 'Sie sind Täubchenaugen - Engel!' 'Sie ist die Erbin ihres Bruders, oder?' fragte er nach einer kurzen Stille. 'Ich wäre traurig, das zu denken,' erwiderte sein Begleiter. 'Ein halbes Dutzend Neffen soll ihren Titel auslöschen, sofern es der Himmel will! Konzentriere dich jetzt nicht auf das Thema: Du bist zu sehr darauf aus, die Güter deines Nachbarn zu begehren; denk daran, dass _dieser_ Nachbar mein Besitz ist.' 'Wenn sie _mein_ wären, wären sie nicht weniger das,' sagte Heathcliff, 'aber obwohl Isabella Linton dumm sein mag, ist sie kaum verrückt; und kurzum, wir werden die Angelegenheit ruhen lassen, wie du es vorschlägst.' Sie ließen die Frage von ihren Zungen fallen und Catherine, wahrscheinlich, aus ihren Gedanken. Der andere, da war ich mir sicher, erinnerte sich oft im Laufe des Abends daran. Ich sah ihn vor sich hin lächeln - eher grinsen - und in bedrohliche Gedanken verfallen, wann immer Mrs. Linton nicht im Raum war. Ich beschloss, seine Bewegungen zu beobachten. Mein Herz neigte sich immer dem des Herrn zu, anstatt zu Catherine, mit gutem Grund wie ich mir vorstellte, denn er war freundlich und vertrauensvoll und ehrenhaft; und sie - man konnte sie nicht gerade _gegensätzlich_ nennen, aber sie schien sich selbst so viel Freiheit zu geben, dass ich wenig Vertrauen in ihre Prinzipien und noch weniger Mitgefühl für ihre Gefühle hatte. Ich wollte, dass etwas passiert, das sowohl Wuthering Heights als auch den Grange leise von Mr. Heathcliff befreit; und uns so zurücklässt, wie wir vor seiner Ankunft waren. Seine Besuche waren für mich ein fortwährender Alptraum; und ich vermutete, dass das auch für meinen Herrn galt. Sein Aufenthalt auf den Höhen war eine unerklärliche Unterdrückung. Ich hatte das Gefühl, dass Gott das verlorene Schaf dort seinem eigenen bösen Herumstrolchen überließ und ein böses Tier dazwischen schlich, um auf den richtigen Zeitpunkt zu warten, um anzugreifen und zu zerstören. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Heathcliff erscheint plötzlich an einem Septembernachmittag, ungefähr sechs Monate nachdem Catherine und Edgar geheiratet haben. Nelly verrät Catherine nicht, wer der Besucher ist, aber sie sagt es Edgar. Edgar schlägt vor, dass Catherine in der Küche besuchen geht, aber sie besteht darauf, im Salon zu empfangen. Catherine's Begeisterung über Heathcliffs Rückkehr war nicht der Empfang, den er erwartet hatte, aber er ist froh darüber. Ihre Worte und Handlungen zeigen, dass Catherine und Heathcliff sich lieben. Heathcliff überrascht alle, indem er erklärt, dass er in Wuthering Heights bleibt. Catherine und Isabella besuchen oft die Heights und Heathcliff besucht die Grange. Während dieser Besuche verliebt sich Isabella in Heathcliff. Er interessiert sich nicht für die junge Dame, aber er interessiert sich dafür, dass sie die Erbin ihres Bruders ist. Nelly ist besorgt über Heathcliffs Rückkehr und schwört, nach Anzeichen von Unanständigkeit Ausschau zu halten.

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: Hong Kong is an island which came into the possession of the English by the Treaty of Nankin, after the war of 1842; and the colonising genius of the English has created upon it an important city and an excellent port. The island is situated at the mouth of the Canton River, and is separated by about sixty miles from the Portuguese town of Macao, on the opposite coast. Hong Kong has beaten Macao in the struggle for the Chinese trade, and now the greater part of the transportation of Chinese goods finds its depot at the former place. Docks, hospitals, wharves, a Gothic cathedral, a government house, macadamised streets, give to Hong Kong the appearance of a town in Kent or Surrey transferred by some strange magic to the antipodes. Passepartout wandered, with his hands in his pockets, towards the Victoria port, gazing as he went at the curious palanquins and other modes of conveyance, and the groups of Chinese, Japanese, and Europeans who passed to and fro in the streets. Hong Kong seemed to him not unlike Bombay, Calcutta, and Singapore, since, like them, it betrayed everywhere the evidence of English supremacy. At the Victoria port he found a confused mass of ships of all nations: English, French, American, and Dutch, men-of-war and trading vessels, Japanese and Chinese junks, sempas, tankas, and flower-boats, which formed so many floating parterres. Passepartout noticed in the crowd a number of the natives who seemed very old and were dressed in yellow. On going into a barber's to get shaved he learned that these ancient men were all at least eighty years old, at which age they are permitted to wear yellow, which is the Imperial colour. Passepartout, without exactly knowing why, thought this very funny. On reaching the quay where they were to embark on the Carnatic, he was not astonished to find Fix walking up and down. The detective seemed very much disturbed and disappointed. "This is bad," muttered Passepartout, "for the gentlemen of the Reform Club!" He accosted Fix with a merry smile, as if he had not perceived that gentleman's chagrin. The detective had, indeed, good reasons to inveigh against the bad luck which pursued him. The warrant had not come! It was certainly on the way, but as certainly it could not now reach Hong Kong for several days; and, this being the last English territory on Mr. Fogg's route, the robber would escape, unless he could manage to detain him. "Well, Monsieur Fix," said Passepartout, "have you decided to go with us so far as America?" "Yes," returned Fix, through his set teeth. "Good!" exclaimed Passepartout, laughing heartily. "I knew you could not persuade yourself to separate from us. Come and engage your berth." They entered the steamer office and secured cabins for four persons. The clerk, as he gave them the tickets, informed them that, the repairs on the Carnatic having been completed, the steamer would leave that very evening, and not next morning, as had been announced. "That will suit my master all the better," said Passepartout. "I will go and let him know." Fix now decided to make a bold move; he resolved to tell Passepartout all. It seemed to be the only possible means of keeping Phileas Fogg several days longer at Hong Kong. He accordingly invited his companion into a tavern which caught his eye on the quay. On entering, they found themselves in a large room handsomely decorated, at the end of which was a large camp-bed furnished with cushions. Several persons lay upon this bed in a deep sleep. At the small tables which were arranged about the room some thirty customers were drinking English beer, porter, gin, and brandy; smoking, the while, long red clay pipes stuffed with little balls of opium mingled with essence of rose. From time to time one of the smokers, overcome with the narcotic, would slip under the table, whereupon the waiters, taking him by the head and feet, carried and laid him upon the bed. The bed already supported twenty of these stupefied sots. Fix and Passepartout saw that they were in a smoking-house haunted by those wretched, cadaverous, idiotic creatures to whom the English merchants sell every year the miserable drug called opium, to the amount of one million four hundred thousand pounds--thousands devoted to one of the most despicable vices which afflict humanity! The Chinese government has in vain attempted to deal with the evil by stringent laws. It passed gradually from the rich, to whom it was at first exclusively reserved, to the lower classes, and then its ravages could not be arrested. Opium is smoked everywhere, at all times, by men and women, in the Celestial Empire; and, once accustomed to it, the victims cannot dispense with it, except by suffering horrible bodily contortions and agonies. A great smoker can smoke as many as eight pipes a day; but he dies in five years. It was in one of these dens that Fix and Passepartout, in search of a friendly glass, found themselves. Passepartout had no money, but willingly accepted Fix's invitation in the hope of returning the obligation at some future time. They ordered two bottles of port, to which the Frenchman did ample justice, whilst Fix observed him with close attention. They chatted about the journey, and Passepartout was especially merry at the idea that Fix was going to continue it with them. When the bottles were empty, however, he rose to go and tell his master of the change in the time of the sailing of the Carnatic. Fix caught him by the arm, and said, "Wait a moment." "What for, Mr. Fix?" "I want to have a serious talk with you." "A serious talk!" cried Passepartout, drinking up the little wine that was left in the bottom of his glass. "Well, we'll talk about it to-morrow; I haven't time now." "Stay! What I have to say concerns your master." Passepartout, at this, looked attentively at his companion. Fix's face seemed to have a singular expression. He resumed his seat. "What is it that you have to say?" Fix placed his hand upon Passepartout's arm, and, lowering his voice, said, "You have guessed who I am?" "Parbleu!" said Passepartout, smiling. "Then I'm going to tell you everything--" "Now that I know everything, my friend! Ah! that's very good. But go on, go on. First, though, let me tell you that those gentlemen have put themselves to a useless expense." "Useless!" said Fix. "You speak confidently. It's clear that you don't know how large the sum is." "Of course I do," returned Passepartout. "Twenty thousand pounds." "Fifty-five thousand!" answered Fix, pressing his companion's hand. "What!" cried the Frenchman. "Has Monsieur Fogg dared--fifty-five thousand pounds! Well, there's all the more reason for not losing an instant," he continued, getting up hastily. Fix pushed Passepartout back in his chair, and resumed: "Fifty-five thousand pounds; and if I succeed, I get two thousand pounds. If you'll help me, I'll let you have five hundred of them." "Help you?" cried Passepartout, whose eyes were standing wide open. "Yes; help me keep Mr. Fogg here for two or three days." "Why, what are you saying? Those gentlemen are not satisfied with following my master and suspecting his honour, but they must try to put obstacles in his way! I blush for them!" "What do you mean?" "I mean that it is a piece of shameful trickery. They might as well waylay Mr. Fogg and put his money in their pockets!" "That's just what we count on doing." "It's a conspiracy, then," cried Passepartout, who became more and more excited as the liquor mounted in his head, for he drank without perceiving it. "A real conspiracy! And gentlemen, too. Bah!" Fix began to be puzzled. "Members of the Reform Club!" continued Passepartout. "You must know, Monsieur Fix, that my master is an honest man, and that, when he makes a wager, he tries to win it fairly!" "But who do you think I am?" asked Fix, looking at him intently. "Parbleu! An agent of the members of the Reform Club, sent out here to interrupt my master's journey. But, though I found you out some time ago, I've taken good care to say nothing about it to Mr. Fogg." "He knows nothing, then?" "Nothing," replied Passepartout, again emptying his glass. The detective passed his hand across his forehead, hesitating before he spoke again. What should he do? Passepartout's mistake seemed sincere, but it made his design more difficult. It was evident that the servant was not the master's accomplice, as Fix had been inclined to suspect. "Well," said the detective to himself, "as he is not an accomplice, he will help me." He had no time to lose: Fogg must be detained at Hong Kong, so he resolved to make a clean breast of it. "Listen to me," said Fix abruptly. "I am not, as you think, an agent of the members of the Reform Club--" "Bah!" retorted Passepartout, with an air of raillery. "I am a police detective, sent out here by the London office." "You, a detective?" "I will prove it. Here is my commission." Passepartout was speechless with astonishment when Fix displayed this document, the genuineness of which could not be doubted. "Mr. Fogg's wager," resumed Fix, "is only a pretext, of which you and the gentlemen of the Reform are dupes. He had a motive for securing your innocent complicity." "But why?" "Listen. On the 28th of last September a robbery of fifty-five thousand pounds was committed at the Bank of England by a person whose description was fortunately secured. Here is his description; it answers exactly to that of Mr. Phileas Fogg." "What nonsense!" cried Passepartout, striking the table with his fist. "My master is the most honourable of men!" "How can you tell? You know scarcely anything about him. You went into his service the day he came away; and he came away on a foolish pretext, without trunks, and carrying a large amount in banknotes. And yet you are bold enough to assert that he is an honest man!" "Yes, yes," repeated the poor fellow, mechanically. "Would you like to be arrested as his accomplice?" Passepartout, overcome by what he had heard, held his head between his hands, and did not dare to look at the detective. Phileas Fogg, the saviour of Aouda, that brave and generous man, a robber! And yet how many presumptions there were against him! Passepartout essayed to reject the suspicions which forced themselves upon his mind; he did not wish to believe that his master was guilty. "Well, what do you want of me?" said he, at last, with an effort. "See here," replied Fix; "I have tracked Mr. Fogg to this place, but as yet I have failed to receive the warrant of arrest for which I sent to London. You must help me to keep him here in Hong Kong--" "I! But I--" "I will share with you the two thousand pounds reward offered by the Bank of England." "Never!" replied Passepartout, who tried to rise, but fell back, exhausted in mind and body. "Mr. Fix," he stammered, "even should what you say be true--if my master is really the robber you are seeking for--which I deny--I have been, am, in his service; I have seen his generosity and goodness; and I will never betray him--not for all the gold in the world. I come from a village where they don't eat that kind of bread!" "You refuse?" "I refuse." "Consider that I've said nothing," said Fix; "and let us drink." "Yes; let us drink!" Passepartout felt himself yielding more and more to the effects of the liquor. Fix, seeing that he must, at all hazards, be separated from his master, wished to entirely overcome him. Some pipes full of opium lay upon the table. Fix slipped one into Passepartout's hand. He took it, put it between his lips, lit it, drew several puffs, and his head, becoming heavy under the influence of the narcotic, fell upon the table. "At last!" said Fix, seeing Passepartout unconscious. "Mr. Fogg will not be informed of the Carnatic's departure; and, if he is, he will have to go without this cursed Frenchman!" And, after paying his bill, Fix left the tavern. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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

In dem Passepartout zu starkes Interesse an seinem Meister zeigt und was daraus folgt" Passepartout schlendert in Hongkong herum und betrachtet die Chinesen, Japaner und Europäer auf der Straße. Jede Stadt der Welt scheint von gemischten Kulturen bevölkert zu sein. Hongkong ist ein englischer Hafen und überall gibt es "Belege für die englische Vorherrschaft". Er findet Fix am Kai und fragt ihn, ob er mit ihnen nach Amerika kommt, woraufhin der Detektiv mit ja antwortet. Sie gehen ins Dampferbüro, um Tickets zu kaufen, aber der Angestellte sagt ihm, dass die Carnatic an diesem Abend abfahren wird und nicht am nächsten Morgen. Auf dem Weg, seinem Meister die gute Nachricht zu überbringen, lässt er sich von Fix überreden, zuerst etwas zu trinken. In der Taverne sehen sie Leute herumliegen, denn es ist auch ein Opiumraum. Hier erzählt Fix verzweifelt Passepartout alles in der Hoffnung, dass er ihm bei der Verhaftung von Fogg hilft. Passepartout glaubt zunächst, dass Fix Teil einer Verschwörung der Mitglieder des Reform Clubs ist, um Fogg aufzuhalten, damit sie die Wette gewinnen können. Als Fix Passepartouts Irrtum herausfindet und dass Fogg nichts von ihm weiß, offenbart er ihm, dass er von Scotland Yard ist und Fogg wegen des Raubs der Bank von England verfolgt. Der Diener glaubt nicht, dass Fogg schuldig ist und erwähnt seine "Großzügigkeit und Güte". Fix gibt Passepartout dann ein Getränk mit Opium und er fällt bewusstlos auf den Boden. Fix verkündet triumphierend, dass Fogg jetzt nie von der frühen Abreise der Carnatic erfahren wird.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Am nächsten Nachmittag beugte sich Anne über ihre Patchwork-Arbeit am Küchenfenster und warf zufällig einen Blick nach draußen und sah Diana unten am Dryad's Bubble geheimnisvoll winken. Im Nu war Anne aus dem Haus und flog hinunter in die Vertiefung, während Erstaunen und Hoffnung in ihren ausdrucksstarken Augen kämpften. Doch die Hoffnung schwand, als sie Dianas niedergeschlagenes Gesicht sah. "Deine Mutter hat es nicht abgemildert?", keuchte sie. Diana schüttelte traurig den Kopf. "Nein, und oh, Anne, sie sagt, ich darf nie wieder mit dir spielen. Ich habe geweint und geweint und ihr gesagt, dass es nicht deine Schuld ist, aber es hatte keinen Zweck. Ich musste sie so lange überreden, damit sie mich zu dir kommen lässt und Abschied sagen kann. Sie sagte, ich dürfe nur zehn Minuten bleiben und sie stellt mich auf die Uhr." "Zehn Minuten sind nicht sehr lange für einen ewigen Abschied", sagte Anne tränenreich. "Oh, Diana, willst du mir treu versprechen, nie zu vergessen, mich, die Freundin deiner Jugend, egal welche lieberen Freunde dich streicheln mögen?" "Ja, das werde ich", schluchzte Diana, "und ich werde nie eine andere Busenfreundin haben - ich möchte auch keine haben. Ich könnte niemanden so lieben wie dich." "Oh, Diana", rief Anne und faltete ihre Hände, "liebst du mich?" "Nun natürlich tue ich das. Wusstest du das nicht?" "Nein." Anne holte tief Luft. "Ich dachte, du magst mich natürlich, aber ich habe nie gehofft, dass du mich liebst. Warum, Diana, ich dachte, niemand könnte mich lieben. Niemand hat mich jemals geliebt, seit ich mich erinnern kann. Oh, das ist wunderbar! Es ist ein Strahl des Lichts, der für immer auf der Dunkelheit eines von dir getrennten Pfades scheinen wird, Diana. Oh, sage es noch einmal." "Ich liebe dich von ganzem Herzen, Anne", sagte Diana standhaft, "und das werde ich immer tun, da kannst du sicher sein." "Und ich werde dich immer lieben, Diana", sagte Anne feierlich und streckte ihr die Hand entgegen. "In den kommenden Jahren wird deine Erinnerung wie ein Stern über mein einsames Leben leuchten, wie es in der letzten Geschichte, die wir zusammen gelesen haben, heißt. Diana, wirst du mir ein Büschel deiner pechschwarzen Strähnen zum Abschied schenken, das ich für immer aufbewahren kann?" "Hast du etwas, um es abzuschneiden?" fragte Diana und wischte sich die Tränen ab, die Annes ergreifende Stimme zum Fließen gebracht hatte, und kehrte zu praktischen Dingen zurück. "Ja. Glücklicherweise habe ich meine Patchwork-Schere in meiner Schürzentasche", sagte Anne feierlich und schnitt eine von Dianas Locken ab. "Leb wohl, meine geliebte Freundin. Von jetzt an müssen wir wie Fremde sein, obwohl wir Seite an Seite leben. Aber mein Herz wird dir immer treu sein." Anne stand da und beobachtete Diana, wie sie aus ihrem Blickfeld verschwand, und winkte traurig mit der Hand, wann immer sie sich umdrehte, um zurückzublicken. Dann kehrte sie ins Haus zurück und war für eine Weile recht getröstet von diesem romantischen Abschied. "Es ist vorbei", teilte sie Marilla mit. "Ich werde nie wieder eine Freundin haben. Ich bin wirklich schlechter dran als je zuvor, denn ich habe jetzt weder Katie Maurice noch Violetta. Und selbst wenn ich sie hätte, wäre es nicht dasselbe. Irgendwie sind kleine Traummädchen nicht befriedigend nach einer echten Freundin. Diana und ich hatten einen so bewegenden Abschied unten am Brunnen. Es wird in meiner Erinnerung für immer heilig sein. Ich habe die pathetischste Sprache benutzt, die ich mir vorstellen konnte, und gesagt 'du' und 'dich'. 'Du' und 'dich' sind so viel romantischer als 'Sie'. Diana hat mir eine Haarlocke gegeben und ich werde sie in einem kleinen Beutel vernähen und mein Leben lang um den Hals tragen. Bitte sorge dafür, dass sie mit mir begraben wird, denn ich glaube nicht, dass ich noch lange lebe. Vielleicht, wenn sie mich kalt und tot vor sich liegen sieht, wird Mrs. Barry Reue empfinden für das, was sie getan hat, und Diana zu meiner Beerdigung kommen lassen." "Ich denke nicht, dass du vor Kummer sterben wirst, solange du reden kannst, Anne", sagte Marilla unsympathisch. Am folgenden Montag überraschte Anne Marilla, indem sie mit ihrem Korb voller Bücher auf dem Arm und an der Hüfte und mit zusammengezogenen Lippen des Entschlusses aus dem Zimmer kam. "Ich gehe zurück zur Schule", verkündete sie. "Das ist alles, was mir im Leben bleibt, nachdem mir mein Freund rücksichtslos genommen wurde. In der Schule kann ich sie anschauen und an vergangene Tage denken." "Du solltest über deine Lektionen und Aufgaben nachdenken", sagte Marilla, die ihre Freude über diese Entwicklung der Situation verbarg. "Wenn du zurück zur Schule gehst, hoffe ich, dass wir nicht mehr von zerbrochenen Schiefertafeln über den Köpfen von Menschen und solchen Dingen hören. Benimm dich und tue genau das, was dir dein Lehrer sagt." "Ich werde versuchen, ein vorbildlicher Schüler zu sein", stimmte Anne bedrückt zu. "Das wird bestimmt nicht viel Spaß machen. Mr. Phillips hat gesagt, Minnie Andrews sei ein vorbildlicher Schüler und sie hat überhaupt keine Vorstellungskraft oder Lebendigkeit. Sie ist einfach langweilig und steif und hat anscheinend nie eine gute Zeit. Aber ich fühle mich so niedergeschlagen, dass es mir jetzt vielleicht leichter fällt. Ich gehe den Weg entlang. Ich könnte es nicht ertragen, alleine am Birkenpfad entlang zu gehen. Ich würde bitterlich weinen, wenn ich das täte." Anne wurde mit offenen Armen in der Schule begrüßt. Ihre Vorstellungskraft hatte in Spielen schmerzlich gefehlt, ihre Stimme beim Singen und ihre schauspielerischen Fähigkeiten beim Vorlesen von Büchern zur Mittagsstunde. Ruby Gillis schmuggelte ihr während des Testament-Lesens drei blaue Pflaumen hinüber; Ella May MacPherson gab ihr eine riesige gelbe Stiefmütterchenblüte, die aus den Umschlägen eines Blumenkatalogs ausgeschnitten war - eine Art Schreibtischdekoration, die in der Avonlea-Schule sehr geschätzt wurde. Sophia Sloane bot ihr an, ihr ein vollkommen elegantes neues Spitzenmuster beizubringen, das sich hervorragend zum Verzieren von Schürzen eignet. Katie Boulter gab ihr eine Parfümflasche, um Leitungswasser aufzubewahren, und Julia Bell schrieb sorgfältig auf einem Stück blassrosa Papier mit gezackten Rändern die folgende Huldigung: Wenn die Dämmerung ihren Vorhang niederlässt Und ihn mit einem Stern feststeckt Denke daran, dass du eine Freundin hast Auch wenn sie weit herumirren mag. "Es ist so schön, geschätzt zu werden", seufzte Anne verzückt zu Marilla in jener Nacht. Die Mädchen waren nicht die einzigen Schülerinnen, die sie "schätzten". Als Anne nach der Mittags-pause an ihren Platz ging - sie hatte von Mr. Phillips den Auftrag bekommen, neben dem Musterkind Minnie Andrews zu sitzen - fand sie auf ihrem Schreibtisch einen großen, köstlichen "Erdbeerapfel". Anne griff danach, bereit, hineinzubeißen, als ihr einfiel, dass die einzigen Stellen in Avonlea, an denen Erdbeeräpfel wuchsen, im alten Blythe-Obstgarten auf der anderen Seite des glitzernden Sees waren. Anne ließ den Apfel fallen, als wäre er eine glühende Kohle, und wischte ostentativ Natürlich bin ich nicht böse auf dich, weil du deiner Mutter gehorchen musst. Unsere Seelen können kommunizieren. Ich werde dein schönes Geschenk für immer behalten. Minnie Andrews ist ein sehr nettes kleines Mädchen, obwohl sie keine Vorstellungskraft hat. Aber nachdem ich Diana's Busenfreundin war, kann ich nicht Minnies sein. Bitte entschuldige Fehler, weil meine Rechtschreibung noch nicht sehr gut ist, obwohl sie sich verbessert hat. Deine bis der Tod uns scheide, Anne oder Cordelia Shirley. P.S. Ich werde heute Nacht mit deinem Brief unter meinem Kissen schlafen. A. _oder_ C.S. Marilla erwartete pessimistisch mehr Ärger, seitdem Anne wieder zur Schule ging. Aber es entwickelte sich keiner. Vielleicht hat Anne etwas von Minnie Andrews' "Vorbild"-Geist übernommen; zumindest verstand sie sich von da an sehr gut mit Herrn Phillips. Sie stürzte sich mit Leib und Seele in ihr Studium und war fest entschlossen, in keiner Klasse von Gilbert Blythe übertroffen zu werden. Die Rivalität zwischen ihnen war bald offensichtlich; auf Gilberts Seite war sie völlig gut gemeint, aber es ist zu befürchten, dass dasselbe nicht von Anne gesagt werden kann, die sicherlich eine bedenkliche Hartnäckigkeit bei Groll hatte. Sie war genauso intensiv in ihrem Hass wie in ihrer Liebe. Sie wollte sich nicht dazu herablassen, zuzugeben, dass sie Gilbert im Unterricht rivalisieren wollte, denn das hätte seine Existenz anerkannt, die Anne konsequent ignorierte; aber die Rivalität war da und die Ehren schwankten zwischen ihnen. Jetzt war Gilbert Klassenbeste im Rechtschreiben; jetzt übertraf Anne ihn mit einem Schwung ihrer langen roten Zöpfe. Eines Morgens hatte Gilbert alle Aufgaben richtig gemacht und seinen Namen auf der Tafel im Ehrenrollen stehen; am nächsten Morgen war Anne, nachdem sie den ganzen Abend zuvor wild mit Dezimalzahlen gerungen hatte, die Erste. An einem schrecklichen Tag waren sie gleichauf und ihre Namen wurden zusammen geschrieben. Es war fast so schlimm wie ein Achtungszeichen, und Annes Beschämung war genauso offensichtlich wie Gilberts Zufriedenheit. Die schriftlichen Prüfungen am Ende jedes Monats waren eine furchtbare Spannung. Im ersten Monat war Gilbert drei Noten besser. Im zweiten Monat schlug Anne ihn um fünf. Aber ihr Triumph wurde dadurch getrübt, dass Gilbert ihr vor der ganzen Schule herzlich gratulierte. Es wäre für sie viel süßer gewesen, wenn er den Stachel seiner Niederlage gespürt hätte. Herr Phillips mochte kein sehr guter Lehrer sein; aber eine Schülerin, die so unbeirrbar entschlossen war zu lernen wie Anne, konnte unter jeder Art von Lehrer kaum Fortschritte machen. Am Ende des Semesters wurden Anne und Gilbert beide in die fünfte Klasse versetzt und durften mit dem Studium der Grundlagen der "Fächer" beginnen - was Latein, Geometrie, Französisch und Algebra bedeutete. In der Geometrie traf Anne auf ihre Achillesferse. "Es ist absolut schreckliches Zeug, Marilla", stöhnte sie. "Ich bin sicher, dass ich niemals einen Zusammenhang darin erkennen kann. Es bietet überhaupt keinen Raum für Vorstellungskraft. Mr. Phillips sagt, ich bin die dümmste, die er jemals gesehen hat. Und Gil - ich meine, einige der anderen sind darin so gut. Es ist äußerst demütigend, Marilla. "Sogar Diana kommt besser damit zurecht als ich. Aber es macht mir nichts aus, von Diana geschlagen zu werden. Auch wenn wir uns jetzt als Fremde treffen, liebe ich sie noch immer mit einer _unvergänglichen_ Liebe. Es macht mich manchmal sehr traurig, an sie zu denken. Aber wirklich, Marilla, man kann in einer so interessanten Welt nicht lange traurig bleiben, oder?" Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Diana winkt Anne vom Fenster aus zu. Anne eilt hinaus, um sie zu treffen, aber es stellt sich heraus, dass Dianas Mutter nicht nachgegeben hat. Diana will nur Abschied nehmen. Sie verabschieden sich tränenreich und äußerst poetisch. Diana sagt, dass sie sie liebt, was Anne noch nie zuvor gehört hat. Anne schneidet eine Locke von Dianas Haar ab, um sich an sie zu erinnern. Anne beschließt, wieder zur Schule zu gehen, damit sie Diana wiedersehen kann, selbst aus der Ferne. Die Avonlea-Kinder haben Anne vermisst und überhäufen sie bei ihrer Rückkehr mit kleinen Geschenken. Gilbert legt einen Apfel auf Annes Tisch, aber sie ignoriert ihn. Verbrennung. Anne gibt sich in der Schule große Mühe, um Gilbert zu übertreffen, und bald entwickeln sie eine akademische Rivalität. Gilbert ist freundlich dabei, aber Anne - nicht so sehr. Bald werden sie in die fünfte Klasse befördert.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: ACT II. SCENE I. A wood near Athens Enter a FAIRY at One door, and PUCK at another PUCK. How now, spirit! whither wander you? FAIRY. Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, through brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, through fire, I do wander every where, Swifter than the moon's sphere; And I serve the Fairy Queen, To dew her orbs upon the green. The cowslips tall her pensioners be; In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours. I must go seek some dewdrops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone. Our Queen and all her elves come here anon. PUCK. The King doth keep his revels here to-night; Take heed the Queen come not within his sight; For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, Because that she as her attendant hath A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king. She never had so sweet a changeling; And jealous Oberon would have the child Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild; But she perforce withholds the loved boy, Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy. And now they never meet in grove or green, By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen, But they do square, that all their elves for fear Creep into acorn cups and hide them there. FAIRY. Either I mistake your shape and making quite, Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite Call'd Robin Goodfellow. Are not you he That frights the maidens of the villagery, Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern, And bootless make the breathless housewife churn, And sometime make the drink to bear no barm, Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm? Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck, You do their work, and they shall have good luck. Are not you he? PUCK. Thou speakest aright: I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon, and make him smile When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, Neighing in likeness of a filly foal; And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl In very likeness of a roasted crab, And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob, And on her withered dewlap pour the ale. The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me; Then slip I from her bum, down topples she, And 'tailor' cries, and falls into a cough; And then the whole quire hold their hips and laugh, And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear A merrier hour was never wasted there. But room, fairy, here comes Oberon. FAIRY. And here my mistress. Would that he were gone! Enter OBERON at one door, with his TRAIN, and TITANIA, at another, with hers OBERON. Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania. TITANIA. What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence; I have forsworn his bed and company. OBERON. Tarry, rash wanton; am not I thy lord? TITANIA. Then I must be thy lady; but I know When thou hast stolen away from fairy land, And in the shape of Corin sat all day, Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here, Come from the farthest steep of India, But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon, Your buskin'd mistress and your warrior love, To Theseus must be wedded, and you come To give their bed joy and prosperity? OBERON. How canst thou thus, for shame, Titania, Glance at my credit with Hippolyta, Knowing I know thy love to Theseus? Didst not thou lead him through the glimmering night From Perigouna, whom he ravished? And make him with fair Aegles break his faith, With Ariadne and Antiopa? TITANIA. These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain, or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport. Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea Contagious fogs; which, falling in the land, Hath every pelting river made so proud That they have overborne their continents. The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain, The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn Hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard; The fold stands empty in the drowned field, And crows are fatted with the murrion flock; The nine men's morris is fill'd up with mud, And the quaint mazes in the wanton green, For lack of tread, are undistinguishable. The human mortals want their winter here; No night is now with hymn or carol blest; Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger, washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound. And through this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose; And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which. And this same progeny of evils comes From our debate, from our dissension; We are their parents and original. OBERON. Do you amend it, then; it lies in you. Why should Titania cross her Oberon? I do but beg a little changeling boy To be my henchman. TITANIA. Set your heart at rest; The fairy land buys not the child of me. His mother was a vot'ress of my order; And, in the spiced Indian air, by night, Full often hath she gossip'd by my side; And sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands, Marking th' embarked traders on the flood; When we have laugh'd to see the sails conceive, And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind; Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait Following- her womb then rich with my young squire- Would imitate, and sail upon the land, To fetch me trifles, and return again, As from a voyage, rich with merchandise. But she, being mortal, of that boy did die; And for her sake do I rear up her boy; And for her sake I will not part with him. OBERON. How long within this wood intend you stay? TITANIA. Perchance till after Theseus' wedding-day. If you will patiently dance in our round, And see our moonlight revels, go with us; If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts. OBERON. Give me that boy and I will go with thee. TITANIA. Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away. We shall chide downright if I longer stay. Exit TITANIA with her train OBERON. Well, go thy way; thou shalt not from this grove Till I torment thee for this injury. My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememb'rest Since once I sat upon a promontory, And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath That the rude sea grew civil at her song, And certain stars shot madly from their spheres To hear the sea-maid's music. PUCK. I remember. OBERON. That very time I saw, but thou couldst not, Flying between the cold moon and the earth Cupid, all arm'd; a certain aim he took At a fair vestal, throned by the west, And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow, As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts; But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft Quench'd in the chaste beams of the wat'ry moon; And the imperial vot'ress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free. Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell. It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it Love-in-idleness. Fetch me that flow'r, the herb I showed thee once. The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid Will make or man or woman madly dote Upon the next live creature that it sees. Fetch me this herb, and be thou here again Ere the leviathan can swim a league. PUCK. I'll put a girdle round about the earth In forty minutes. Exit PUCK OBERON. Having once this juice, I'll watch Titania when she is asleep, And drop the liquor of it in her eyes; The next thing then she waking looks upon, Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, On meddling monkey, or on busy ape, She shall pursue it with the soul of love. And ere I take this charm from off her sight, As I can take it with another herb, I'll make her render up her page to me. But who comes here? I am invisible; And I will overhear their conference. Enter DEMETRIUS, HELENA following him DEMETRIUS. I love thee not, therefore pursue me not. Where is Lysander and fair Hermia? The one I'll slay, the other slayeth me. Thou told'st me they were stol'n unto this wood, And here am I, and wood within this wood, Because I cannot meet my Hermia. Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more. HELENA. You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant; But yet you draw not iron, for my heart Is true as steel. Leave you your power to draw, And I shall have no power to follow you. DEMETRIUS. Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair? Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth Tell you I do not nor I cannot love you? HELENA. And even for that do I love you the more. I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius, The more you beat me, I will fawn on you. Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me, Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave, Unworthy as I am, to follow you. What worser place can I beg in your love, And yet a place of high respect with me, Than to be used as you use your dog? DEMETRIUS. Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit; For I am sick when I do look on thee. HELENA. And I am sick when I look not on you. DEMETRIUS. You do impeach your modesty too much To leave the city and commit yourself Into the hands of one that loves you not; To trust the opportunity of night, And the ill counsel of a desert place, With the rich worth of your virginity. HELENA. Your virtue is my privilege for that: It is not night when I do see your face, Therefore I think I am not in the night; Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, For you, in my respect, are all the world. Then how can it be said I am alone When all the world is here to look on me? DEMETRIUS. I'll run from thee and hide me in the brakes, And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts. HELENA. The wildest hath not such a heart as you. Run when you will; the story shall be chang'd: Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase; The dove pursues the griffin; the mild hind Makes speed to catch the tiger- bootless speed, When cowardice pursues and valour flies. DEMETRIUS. I will not stay thy questions; let me go; Or, if thou follow me, do not believe But I shall do thee mischief in the wood. HELENA. Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field, You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius! Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex. We cannot fight for love as men may do; We should be woo'd, and were not made to woo. Exit DEMETRIUS I'll follow thee, and make a heaven of hell, To die upon the hand I love so well. Exit HELENA OBERON. Fare thee well, nymph; ere he do leave this grove, Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love. Re-enter PUCK Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer. PUCK. Ay, there it is. OBERON. I pray thee give it me. I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine; There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight; And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin, Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in; And with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes, And make her full of hateful fantasies. Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove: A sweet Athenian lady is in love With a disdainful youth; anoint his eyes; But do it when the next thing he espies May be the lady. Thou shalt know the man By the Athenian garments he hath on. Effect it with some care, that he may prove More fond on her than she upon her love. And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow. PUCK. Fear not, my lord; your servant shall do so. Exeunt Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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In einem verzauberten Wald treffen wir auf einen "Kobold" namens Robin Goodfellow. Puck grüßt eine Fee, die sagt, dass sie viel herumgewandert ist: "Über Hügel, über Tal, / Durch Busch, durch Dornengestrüpp, / Über Park, über Grenzbalken." Übersetzung: Sie fliegt durch den Wald und erledigt Botengänge für die Feenkönigin. Die Fee verkündet, dass sie noch ein paar Tautropfen sammeln und Perlen in einigen Blumen verteilen muss, weil ihre Chefin, die Feenkönigin, unterwegs ist und der Ort schön aussehen soll. Nach dieser schönen und verzaubernden Rede beleidigt die Fee Puck, indem sie ihn einen "Lumpen" der Geister nennt, was im Grunde bedeutet, dass Puck der Hinterwäldler der Geisterwelt ist. Puck kontert, dass auch der Feenkönig eine Feenparty an diesem Abend hat und die Feenkönigin besser aufpassen und aus Oberons Weg bleiben sollte. Puck sagt, dass Titania und Oberon sich wegen eines "wundervollen Jungen, der einem indischen König gestohlen wurde" streiten. Oberon will, dass der Junge sein persönlicher Page wird, aber Titania will ihn für sich selbst – sie verbringt die ganze Zeit damit, ihn mit Blumen zu krönen und sich um ihn zu kümmern. Wir erfahren, dass Titania und Oberon eigentlich ein Paar sein sollen, aber sie verbringen nicht einmal mehr Zeit miteinander. Die Fee erkennt Puck und erzählt uns von seinen berüchtigten Streichen: Er erschreckt Dorfmädchen, ruiniert selbstgemachte Butter und führt Menschen in der Nacht in die Irre, und so weiter. Puck prahlt damit, dass sein Chef, Oberon, seine Streiche und Tricks liebt. Puck erzählt uns auch von den guten Zeiten, die er hatte, als er alte Damen dazu gebracht hat, ihre Getränke zu verschütten und auf den Boden zu fallen. Gerade als Titania und Oberon von gegenüberliegenden Seiten der Bühne eintreten und sich wie ein paar Cowboys am O.K. Corral gegenüberstehen, anstatt wie der König und die Königin des Feenlandes, befiehlt Titania ihren Feen zu verschwinden und teilt uns mit, dass sie nicht mehr mit Oberon in einem Bett schläft. Titania beschuldigt Oberon, mit anderen Frauen zu schlafen – sie weiß genau, dass Oberon sich als Schäfer verkleidet hat, um sich mit einem Landmädchen zu treffen. Titania beschuldigt Oberon dann, Liebhaber von Hippolyta zu sein. Oberon wehrt sich. Er beschuldigt Titania, Theseus anzuhimmeln und Theseus von einer Menge seiner anderen Geliebten wegzulocken. Titania sagt, er sei nur eifersüchtig – so eifersüchtig, dass er sie und ihre Feen seit Frühjahr keine ihrer speziellen Naturtänze mehr machen lässt, was die natürliche Welt völlig durcheinander bringt. Durch seine wiederholten Störungen ihrer Rituale ist es windig und nebelig gewesen, und die Flüsse sind überflutet, was ernsthafte Schäden für die örtlichen Ernten verursacht. Wir erfahren, dass Titania und Oberons großer Streit die natürliche Welt ins Chaos gestürzt hat. In letzter Zeit ist es windig, nebelig und die Flüsse sind überflutet, was ernsthafte Schäden für die örtlichen Ernten verursacht. Oberon sagt, dass Titania die Macht hat, alles zu reparieren, wenn sie nur den "kleinen Wechselbalgjungen" an ihn übergibt. Brain Snack: Ein "Wechselbalg" ist ein Kind, das heimlich durch ein anderes ausgetauscht wurde, normalerweise von boshaften Feen. Titania behauptet, dass sie das Kind niemandem gestohlen hat. Sie sagt, sie ziehe den Jungen als Gefallen für seine verstorbene Mutter, eine Mensch, die eine gute Freundin von Titania in Indien war, groß. Oberon sollte es einfach akzeptieren, denn Titania wird ihren Pflegesohn niemals aufgeben. Oberon fragt Titania listig, wie lange sie noch im Wald sein will. Sie sagt, sie bleibt, bis Theseus geheiratet hat. Titania lädt Oberon ein, sich ihr beim Tanz der Feen und ihren nächtlichen Freuden im Mondschein anzuschließen, aber Oberon behauptet, er werde nur mitmachen, wenn er den Jungen haben kann. Titania sagt, dass sie den kleinen Jungen nicht für Oberons ganzes Königreich hergeben würde, und geht, bevor sie wieder in einen Streit geraten. Oberon schwört, dass Titania den Wald nicht verlassen wird, bevor er es ihr heimzahlt. Oberon ruft Puck zu sich und erzählt ihm eine kleine Geschichte. Eines Nachts sah Oberon eine Meerjungfrau auf dem Rücken eines Delphins reiten, als er sah, wie Amor versuchte, eine königliche Jungfrau mit einem seiner Pfeile zu treffen. Amor verfehlte sein Ziel und traf stattdessen eine kleine weiße Blume, die dann violett wurde. Brain Snack: Die meisten Literaturkritiker sind sich einig, dass die königliche Jungfrau, auf die Amor seinen Pfeil zielte, eine Anspielung auf Shakespeares Monarchin, Königin Elizabeth I., ist. Elizabeth war nie verheiratet und machte ein großes Tamtam darum, eine jungfräuliche Königin zu sein. Jedenfalls, zurück zu den Stiefmütterchen. Oberon bittet Puck, ihm die Blume zu bringen, weil sie magische Eigenschaften hat. Wenn der Saft der Blume auf die Augen eines schlafenden Menschen getröpfelt wird, verzaubert es den Schläfer, sich beim Aufwachen unsterblich in das erste Wesen zu verlieben, das er oder sie sieht. Puck bringt die Blume und Oberon verkündet, dass er den Saft auf Titanias Augen tun wird. Er hofft, dass sie sich unsterblich in irgendein abscheuliches, hässliches Tier verliebt. In ihrer Liebessehnsucht kann er sie überreden, ihm den kleinen Jungen zu überlassen. Sobald sein Meisterplan ausgeführt ist, wird Oberon den Zauber entfernen. Oberon hört einige Menschen herankommen und verkündet, dass er als Unsichtbarer bleiben und dem Gespräch lauschen kann. Demetrius betritt die Szene, gefolgt von Helena. Er sucht Lysander und Hermia, vermutlich um Lysander zu töten und das Herz von Hermia zu gewinnen. Demetrius kann Hermia nicht finden und wünscht sich sehr, dass Helena aufhören würde, ihm nachzustellen. Helena sagt, es sei Demetrius' Schuld, dass sie ihm hinterherläuft. Wenn er nicht so köstlich aussähe, würde sie ihn nicht belästigen. Demetrius sagt ihr klipp und klar, dass er sie nicht liebt und auch nicht lieben kann. Helena verkündet, dass sie ihm wie ein "Hund" ewig hinterherlaufen wird. Demetrius sagt, dass Jungfrauen nicht nachts durch den Wald rennen sollten und sich Männern hingeben sollten, die sie nicht lieben. Helena erklärt, dass es nicht dunkel ist, weil Demetrius' Gesicht wie ein Licht leuchtet. Außerdem ist sie nie allein, wenn sie bei ihm ist, denn er ist ihre ganze Welt. Demetrius hat nicht vor, die Rolle ihres Beschützers im Wald zu übernehmen. Er sagt, er werde vor ihr davonrennen, sich im Gebüsch verstecken und sie den wilden Tieren überlassen. Ach, die Liebe. Helena erzählt uns, dass sie gegen traditionelle Geschlechterrollen verstößt, indem sie Demetrius hinterherjagt. Sie findet es nicht fair, dass Jungs aggressiv sein können, wenn es um Liebe geht, Mädchen aber nicht. Demetrius rennt davon und Helena jagt ihm nach. Inzwischen hat Oberon die Szene voller Abscheu beobachtet. Er findet, dass Demetrius ein Idiot ist und beschließt, dass Demetrius ein paar Tropfen Liebessaft in die Augen getröpfelt bekommen sollte, damit er sich in Helena verliebt. Puck kehrt mit der magischen Stiefmütterchen zurück. Oberon beschreibt das Blumenbeet, auf dem Titania schläft und sagt, dass er losgeht, um den Trank auf ihre Augenlider zu sprühen. Oberon gibt Puck von dem Liebessaft und befiehlt ihm, ein paar Tropfen auf Demetrius' Augen zu tun – Puck wird wissen, wer Demetrius ist, weil er ein Mensch ist und Athener Kleidung trägt. Oberon und Puck vereinbaren, sich bald wieder zu treffen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: While Candide, the Baron, Pangloss, Martin, and Cacambo were relating their several adventures, were reasoning on the contingent or non-contingent events of the universe, disputing on effects and causes, on moral and physical evil, on liberty and necessity, and on the consolations a slave may feel even on a Turkish galley, they arrived at the house of the Transylvanian prince on the banks of the Propontis. The first objects which met their sight were Cunegonde and the old woman hanging towels out to dry. The Baron paled at this sight. The tender, loving Candide, seeing his beautiful Cunegonde embrowned, with blood-shot eyes, withered neck, wrinkled cheeks, and rough, red arms, recoiled three paces, seized with horror, and then advanced out of good manners. She embraced Candide and her brother; they embraced the old woman, and Candide ransomed them both. There was a small farm in the neighbourhood which the old woman proposed to Candide to make a shift with till the company could be provided for in a better manner. Cunegonde did not know she had grown ugly, for nobody had told her of it; and she reminded Candide of his promise in so positive a tone that the good man durst not refuse her. He therefore intimated to the Baron that he intended marrying his sister. "I will not suffer," said the Baron, "such meanness on her part, and such insolence on yours; I will never be reproached with this scandalous thing; my sister's children would never be able to enter the church in Germany. No; my sister shall only marry a baron of the empire." Cunegonde flung herself at his feet, and bathed them with her tears; still he was inflexible. "Thou foolish fellow," said Candide; "I have delivered thee out of the galleys, I have paid thy ransom, and thy sister's also; she was a scullion, and is very ugly, yet I am so condescending as to marry her; and dost thou pretend to oppose the match? I should kill thee again, were I only to consult my anger." "Thou mayest kill me again," said the Baron, "but thou shalt not marry my sister, at least whilst I am living." Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Candide kauft die alte Frau, Cunegonde, und einen kleinen Bauernhof. Cunegonde erinnert Candide an sein Versprechen, sie zu heiraten. Obwohl er von ihrem Aussehen entsetzt ist, wagt Candide es nicht, abzulehnen. Allerdings erklärt der Baron erneut, dass er nicht erleben wird, wie seine Schwester unter ihrem Stand heiratet.

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 V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring forth and poure Abundance, fit to honour and receive Our Heav'nly stranger; well we may afford Our givers thir own gifts, and large bestow From large bestowd, where Nature multiplies Her fertil growth, and by disburd'ning grows More fruitful, which instructs us not to spare. To whom thus EVE. ADAM, earths hallowd mould, Of God inspir'd, small store will serve, where store, All seasons, ripe for use hangs on the stalk; Save what by frugal storing firmness gains To nourish, and superfluous moist consumes: But I will haste and from each bough and break, Each Plant & juciest Gourd will pluck such choice To entertain our Angel guest, as hee Beholding shall confess that here on Earth God hath dispenst his bounties as in Heav'n. So saying, with dispatchful looks in haste She turns, on hospitable thoughts intent What choice to chuse for delicacie best, What order, so contriv'd as not to mix Tastes, not well joynd, inelegant, but bring Taste after taste upheld with kindliest change, Bestirs her then, and from each tender stalk Whatever Earth all-bearing Mother yeilds In INDIA East or West, or middle shoare In PONTUS or the PUNIC Coast, or where ALCINOUS reign'd, fruit of all kindes, in coate, Rough, or smooth rin'd, or bearded husk, or shell She gathers, Tribute large, and on the board Heaps with unsparing hand; for drink the Grape She crushes, inoffensive moust, and meathes From many a berrie, and from sweet kernels prest She tempers dulcet creams, nor these to hold Wants her fit vessels pure, then strews the ground With Rose and Odours from the shrub unfum'd. Mean while our Primitive great Sire, to meet His god-like Guest, walks forth, without more train Accompani'd then with his own compleat Perfections, in himself was all his state, More solemn then the tedious pomp that waits On Princes, when thir rich Retinue long Of Horses led, and Grooms besmeard with Gold Dazles the croud, and sets them all agape. Neerer his presence ADAM though not awd, Yet with submiss approach and reverence meek, As to a superior Nature, bowing low, Thus said. Native of Heav'n, for other place None can then Heav'n such glorious shape contain; Since by descending from the Thrones above, Those happie places thou hast deignd a while To want, and honour these, voutsafe with us Two onely, who yet by sov'ran gift possess This spacious ground, in yonder shadie Bowre To rest, and what the Garden choicest bears To sit and taste, till this meridian heat Be over, and the Sun more coole decline. Whom thus the Angelic Vertue answerd milde. ADAM, I therefore came, nor art thou such Created, or such place hast here to dwell, As may not oft invite, though Spirits of Heav'n To visit thee; lead on then where thy Bowre Oreshades; for these mid-hours, till Eevning rise I have at will. So to the Silvan Lodge They came, that like POMONA'S Arbour smil'd With flourets deck't and fragrant smells; but EVE Undeckt, save with her self more lovely fair Then Wood-Nymph, or the fairest Goddess feign'd Of three that in Mount IDA naked strove, Stood to entertain her guest from Heav'n; no vaile Shee needed, Vertue-proof, no thought infirme Alterd her cheek. On whom the Angel HAILE Bestowd, the holy salutation us'd Long after to blest MARIE, second EVE. Haile Mother of Mankind, whose fruitful Womb Shall fill the World more numerous with thy Sons Then with these various fruits the Trees of God Have heap'd this Table. Rais'd of grassie terf Thir Table was, and mossie seats had round, And on her ample Square from side to side All AUTUMN pil'd, though SPRING and AUTUMN here Danc'd hand in hand. A while discourse they hold; No fear lest Dinner coole; when thus began Our Authour. Heav'nly stranger, please to taste These bounties which our Nourisher, from whom All perfet good unmeasur'd out, descends, To us for food and for delight hath caus'd The Earth to yeild; unsavourie food perhaps To spiritual Natures; only this I know, That one Celestial Father gives to all. To whom the Angel. Therefore what he gives (Whose praise be ever sung) to man in part Spiritual, may of purest Spirits be found No ingrateful food: and food alike those pure Intelligential substances require As doth your Rational; and both contain Within them every lower facultie Of sense, whereby they hear, see, smell, touch, taste, Tasting concoct, digest, assimilate, And corporeal to incorporeal turn. For know, whatever was created, needs To be sustaind and fed; of Elements The grosser feeds the purer, earth the sea, Earth and the Sea feed Air, the Air those Fires Ethereal, and as lowest first the Moon; Whence in her visage round those spots, unpurg'd Vapours not yet into her substance turnd. Nor doth the Moon no nourishment exhale From her moist Continent to higher Orbes. The Sun that light imparts to all, receives From all his alimental recompence In humid exhalations, and at Even Sups with the Ocean: though in Heav'n the Trees Of life ambrosial frutage bear, and vines Yeild Nectar, though from off the boughs each Morn We brush mellifluous Dewes, and find the ground Cover'd with pearly grain: yet God hath here Varied his bounty so with new delights, As may compare with Heaven; and to taste Think not I shall be nice. So down they sat, And to thir viands fell, nor seemingly The Angel, nor in mist, the common gloss Of Theologians, but with keen dispatch Of real hunger, and concoctive heate To transubstantiate; what redounds, transpires Through Spirits with ease; nor wonder; if by fire Of sooty coal the Empiric Alchimist Can turn, or holds it possible to turn Metals of drossiest Ore to perfet Gold As from the Mine. Mean while at Table EVE Ministerd naked, and thir flowing cups With pleasant liquors crown'd: O innocence Deserving Paradise! if ever, then, Then had the Sons of God excuse to have bin Enamour'd at that sight; but in those hearts Love unlibidinous reign'd, nor jealousie Was understood, the injur'd Lovers Hell. Thus when with meats & drinks they had suffic'd, Not burd'nd Nature, sudden mind arose In ADAM, not to let th' occasion pass Given him by this great Conference to know Of things above his World, and of thir being Who dwell in Heav'n, whose excellence he saw Transcend his own so farr, whose radiant forms Divine effulgence, whose high Power so far Exceeded human, and his wary speech Thus to th' Empyreal Minister he fram'd. Inhabitant with God, now know I well Thy favour, in this honour done to man, Under whose lowly roof thou hast voutsaf't To enter, and these earthly fruits to taste, Food not of Angels, yet accepted so, As that more willingly thou couldst not seem At Heav'ns high feasts to have fed: yet what compare? To whom the winged Hierarch repli'd. O ADAM, one Almightie is, from whom All things proceed, and up to him return, If not deprav'd from good, created all Such to perfection, one first matter all, Indu'd with various forms, various degrees Of substance, and in things that live, of life; But more refin'd, more spiritous, and pure, As neerer to him plac't or neerer tending Each in thir several active Sphears assignd, Till body up to spirit work, in bounds Proportiond to each kind. So from the root Springs lighter the green stalk, from thence the leaves More aerie, last the bright consummate floure Spirits odorous breathes: flours and thir fruit Mans nourishment, by gradual scale sublim'd To vital Spirits aspire, to animal, To intellectual, give both life and sense, Fansie and understanding, whence the soule Reason receives, and reason is her being, Discursive, or Intuitive; discourse Is oftest yours, the latter most is ours, Differing but in degree, of kind the same. Wonder not then, what God for you saw good If I refuse not, but convert, as you, To proper substance; time may come when men With Angels may participate, and find No inconvenient Diet, nor too light Fare: And from these corporal nutriments perhaps Your bodies may at last turn all to Spirit Improv'd by tract of time, and wingd ascend Ethereal, as wee, or may at choice Here or in Heav'nly Paradises dwell; If ye be found obedient, and retain Unalterably firm his love entire Whose progenie you are. Mean while enjoy Your fill what happiness this happie state Can comprehend, incapable of more. To whom the Patriarch of mankind repli'd. O favourable spirit, propitious guest, Well hast thou taught the way that might direct Our knowledge, and the scale of Nature set From center to circumference, whereon In contemplation of created things By steps we may ascend to God. But say, What meant that caution joind, IF YE BE FOUND OBEDIENT? can wee want obedience then To him, or possibly his love desert Who formd us from the dust, and plac'd us here Full to the utmost measure of what bliss Human desires can seek or apprehend? To whom the Angel. Son of Heav'n and Earth, Attend: That thou art happie, owe to God; That thou continu'st such, owe to thy self, That is, to thy obedience; therein stand. This was that caution giv'n thee; be advis'd. God made thee perfet, not immutable; And good he made thee, but to persevere He left it in thy power, ordaind thy will By nature free, not over-rul'd by Fate Inextricable, or strict necessity; Our voluntarie service he requires, Not our necessitated, such with him Findes no acceptance, nor can find, for how Can hearts, not free, be tri'd whether they serve Willing or no, who will but what they must By Destinie, and can no other choose? My self and all th' Angelic Host that stand In sight of God enthron'd, our happie state Hold, as you yours, while our obedience holds; On other surety none; freely we serve. Because wee freely love, as in our will To love or not; in this we stand or fall: And som are fall'n, to disobedience fall'n, And so from Heav'n to deepest Hell; O fall From what high state of bliss into what woe! To whom our great Progenitor. Thy words Attentive, and with more delighted eare Divine instructer, I have heard, then when Cherubic Songs by night from neighbouring Hills Aereal Music send: nor knew I not To be both will and deed created free; Yet that we never shall forget to love Our maker, and obey him whose command Single, is yet so just, my constant thoughts Assur'd me and still assure: though what thou tellst Hath past in Heav'n, som doubt within me move, But more desire to hear, if thou consent, The full relation, which must needs be strange, Worthy of Sacred silence to be heard; And we have yet large day, for scarce the Sun Hath finisht half his journey, and scarce begins His other half in the great Zone of Heav'n. Thus ADAM made request, and RAPHAEL After short pause assenting, thus began. High matter thou injoinst me, O prime of men, Sad task and hard, for how shall I relate To human sense th' invisible exploits Of warring Spirits; how without remorse The ruin of so many glorious once And perfet while they stood; how last unfould The secrets of another world, perhaps Not lawful to reveal? yet for thy good This is dispenc't, and what surmounts the reach Of human sense, I shall delineate so, By lik'ning spiritual to corporal forms, As may express them best, though what if Earth Be but the shaddow of Heav'n, and things therein Each to other like, more then on earth is thought? As yet this world was not, and CHAOS wilde Reignd where these Heav'ns now rowl, where Earth now rests Upon her Center pois'd, when on a day (For Time, though in Eternitie, appli'd To motion, measures all things durable By present, past, and future) on such day As Heav'ns great Year brings forth, th' Empyreal Host Of Angels by Imperial summons call'd, Innumerable before th' Almighties Throne Forthwith from all the ends of Heav'n appeerd Under thir Hierarchs in orders bright Ten thousand thousand Ensignes high advanc'd, Standards, and Gonfalons twixt Van and Reare Streame in the Aire, and for distinction serve Of Hierarchies, of Orders, and Degrees; Or in thir glittering Tissues bear imblaz'd Holy Memorials, acts of Zeale and Love Recorded eminent. Thus when in Orbes Of circuit inexpressible they stood, Orb within Orb, the Father infinite, By whom in bliss imbosom'd sat the Son, Amidst as from a flaming Mount, whoseop Brightness had made invisible, thus spake. Hear all ye Angels, Progenie of Light, Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Vertues, Powers, Hear my Decree, which unrevok't shall stand. This day I have begot whom I declare My onely Son, and on this holy Hill Him have anointed, whom ye now behold At my right hand; your Head I him appoint; And by my Self have sworn to him shall bow All knees in Heav'n, and shall confess him Lord: Under his great Vice-gerent Reign abide United as one individual Soule For ever happie: him who disobeyes Mee disobeyes, breaks union, and that day Cast out from God and blessed vision, falls Into utter darkness, deep ingulft, his place Ordaind without redemption, without end. So spake th' Omnipotent, and with his words All seemd well pleas'd, all seem'd, but were not all. That day, as other solem dayes, they spent In song and dance about the sacred Hill, Mystical dance, which yonder starrie Spheare Of Planets and of fixt in all her Wheeles Resembles nearest, mazes intricate, Eccentric, intervolv'd, yet regular Then most, when most irregular they seem: And in thir motions harmonie Divine So smooths her charming tones, that Gods own ear Listens delighted. Eevning approachd (For we have also our Eevning and our Morn, We ours for change delectable, not need) Forthwith from dance to sweet repast they turn Desirous, all in Circles as they stood, Tables are set, and on a sudden pil'd With Angels Food, and rubied Nectar flows: In Pearl, in Diamond, and massie Gold, Fruit of delicious Vines, the growth of Heav'n. They eat, they drink, and with refection sweet Are fill'd, before th' all bounteous King, who showrd With copious hand, rejoycing in thir joy. Now when ambrosial Night with Clouds exhal'd From that high mount of God, whence light & shade Spring both, the face of brightest Heav'n had changd To grateful Twilight (for Night comes not there In darker veile) and roseat Dews dispos'd All but the unsleeping eyes of God to rest, Wide over all the Plain, and wider farr Then all this globous Earth in Plain outspred, (Such are the Courts of God) Th' Angelic throng Disperst in Bands and Files thir Camp extend By living Streams among the Trees of Life, Pavilions numberless, and sudden reard, Celestial Tabernacles, where they slept Fannd with coole Winds, save those who in thir course Melodious Hymns about the sovran Throne Alternate all night long: but not so wak'd SATAN, so call him now, his former name Is heard no more Heav'n; he of the first, If not the first Arch-Angel, great in Power, In favour and praeeminence, yet fraught With envie against the Son of God, that day Honourd by his great Father, and proclaimd MESSIAH King anointed, could not beare Through pride that sight, and thought himself impaird. Deep malice thence conceiving & disdain, Soon as midnight brought on the duskie houre Friendliest to sleep and silence, he resolv'd With all his Legions to dislodge, and leave Unworshipt, unobey'd the Throne supream Contemptuous, and his next subordinate Awak'ning, thus to him in secret spake. Sleepst thou Companion dear, what sleep can close Thy eye-lids? and remembrest what Decree Of yesterday, so late hath past the lips Of Heav'ns Almightie. Thou to me thy thoughts Wast wont, I mine to thee was wont to impart; Both waking we were one; how then can now Thy sleep dissent? new Laws thou seest impos'd; New Laws from him who reigns, new minds may raise In us who serve, new Counsels, to debate What doubtful may ensue, more in this place To utter is not safe. Assemble thou Of all those Myriads which we lead the chief; Tell them that by command, ere yet dim Night Her shadowie Cloud withdraws, I am to haste, And all who under me thir Banners wave, Homeward with flying march where we possess The Quarters of the North, there to prepare Fit entertainment to receive our King The great MESSIAH, and his new commands, Who speedily through all the Hierarchies Intends to pass triumphant, and give Laws. So spake the false Arch-Angel, and infus'd Bad influence into th' unwarie brest Of his Associate; hee together calls, Or several one by one, the Regent Powers, Under him Regent, tells, as he was taught, That the most High commanding, now ere Night, Now ere dim Night had disincumberd Heav'n, The great Hierarchal Standard was to move; Tells the suggested cause, and casts between Ambiguous words and jealousies, to sound Or taint integritie; but all obey'd The wonted signal, and superior voice Of thir great Potentate; for great indeed His name, and high was his degree in Heav'n; His count'nance, as the Morning Starr that guides The starrie flock, allur'd them, and with lyes Drew after him the third part of Heav'ns Host: Mean while th' Eternal eye, whose sight discernes Abstrusest thoughts, from forth his holy Mount And from within the golden Lamps that burne Nightly before him, saw without thir light Rebellion rising, saw in whom, how spred Among the sons of Morn, what multitudes Were banded to oppose his high Decree; And smiling to his onely Son thus said. Son, thou in whom my glory I behold In full resplendence, Heir of all my might, Neerly it now concernes us to be sure Of our Omnipotence, and with what Arms We mean to hold what anciently we claim Of Deitie or Empire, such a foe Is rising, who intends to erect his Throne Equal to ours, throughout the spacious North; Nor so content, hath in his thought to trie In battel, what our Power is, or our right. Let us advise, and to this hazard draw With speed what force is left, and all imploy In our defence, lest unawares we lose This our high place, our Sanctuarie, our Hill. To whom the Son with calm aspect and cleer Light'ning Divine, ineffable, serene, Made answer. Mightie Father, thou thy foes Justly hast in derision, and secure Laugh'st at thir vain designes and tumults vain, Matter to mee of Glory, whom thir hate Illustrates, when they see all Regal Power Giv'n me to quell thir pride, and in event Know whether I be dextrous to subdue Thy Rebels, or be found the worst in Heav'n. So spake the Son, but SATAN with his Powers Farr was advanc't on winged speed, an Host Innumerable as the Starrs of Night, Or Starrs of Morning, Dew-drops, which the Sun Impearls on every leaf and every flouer. Regions they pass'd, the mightie Regencies Of Seraphim and Potentates and Thrones In thir triple Degrees, Regions to which All thy Dominion, ADAM, is no more Then what this Garden is to all the Earth, And all the Sea, from one entire globose Stretcht into Longitude; which having pass'd At length into the limits of the North They came, and SATAN to his Royal seat High on a Hill, far blazing, as a Mount Rais'd on a Mount, with Pyramids and Towrs From Diamond Quarries hew'n, & Rocks of Gold, The Palace of great LUCIFER, (so call That Structure in the Dialect of men Interpreted) which not long after, hee Affecting all equality with God, In imitation of that Mount whereon MESSIAH was declar'd in sight of Heav'n, The Mountain of the Congregation call'd; For thither he assembl'd all his Train, Pretending so commanded to consult About the great reception of thir King, Thither to come, and with calumnious Art Of counterfeted truth thus held thir ears. Thrones, Dominations, Princedomes, Vertues, Powers, If these magnific Titles yet remain Not meerly titular, since by Decree Another now hath to himself ingross't All Power, and us eclipst under the name Of King anointed, for whom all this haste Of midnight march, and hurried meeting here, This onely to consult how we may best With what may be devis'd of honours new Receive him coming to receive from us Knee-tribute yet unpaid, prostration vile, Too much to one, but double how endur'd, To one and to his image now proclaim'd? But what if better counsels might erect Our minds and teach us to cast off this Yoke? Will ye submit your necks, and chuse to bend The supple knee? ye will not, if I trust To know ye right, or if ye know your selves Natives and Sons of Heav'n possest before By none, and if not equal all, yet free, Equally free; for Orders and Degrees Jarr not with liberty, but well consist. Who can in reason then or right assume Monarchie over such as live by right His equals, if in power and splendor less, In freedome equal? or can introduce Law and Edict on us, who without law Erre not, much less for this to be our Lord, And look for adoration to th' abuse Of those Imperial Titles which assert Our being ordain'd to govern, not to serve? Thus farr his bold discourse without controule Had audience, when among the Seraphim ABDIEL, then whom none with more zeale ador'd The Deitie, and divine commands obei'd, Stood up, and in a flame of zeale severe The current of his fury thus oppos'd. O argument blasphemous, false and proud! Words which no eare ever to hear in Heav'n Expected, least of all from thee, ingrate In place thy self so high above thy Peeres. Canst thou with impious obloquie condemne The just Decree of God, pronounc't and sworn, That to his only Son by right endu'd With Regal Scepter, every Soule in Heav'n Shall bend the knee, and in that honour due Confess him rightful King? unjust thou saist Flatly unjust, to binde with Laws the free, And equal over equals to let Reigne, One over all with unsucceeded power. Shalt thou give Law to God, shalt thou dispute With him the points of libertie, who made Thee what thou art, & formd the Pow'rs of Heav'n Such as he pleasd, and circumscrib'd thir being? Yet by experience taught we know how good, And of our good, and of our dignitie How provident he is, how farr from thought To make us less, bent rather to exalt Our happie state under one Head more neer United. But to grant it thee unjust, That equal over equals Monarch Reigne: Thy self though great & glorious dost thou count, Or all Angelic Nature joind in one, Equal to him begotten Son, by whom As by his Word the mighty Father made All things, ev'n thee, and all the Spirits of Heav'n By him created in thir bright degrees, Crownd them with Glory, & to thir Glory nam'd Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Vertues, Powers Essential Powers, nor by his Reign obscur'd, But more illustrious made, since he the Head One of our number thus reduc't becomes, His Laws our Laws, all honour to him done Returns our own. Cease then this impious rage, And tempt not these; but hast'n to appease Th' incensed Father, and th' incensed Son, While Pardon may be found in time besought. So spake the fervent Angel, but his zeale None seconded, as out of season judg'd, Or singular and rash, whereat rejoic'd Th' Apostat, and more haughty thus repli'd. That we were formd then saist thou? & the work Of secondarie hands, by task transferd From Father to his Son? strange point and new! Doctrin which we would know whence learnt: who saw When this creation was? rememberst thou Thy making, while the Maker gave thee being? We know no time when we were not as now; Know none before us, self-begot, self-rais'd By our own quick'ning power, when fatal course Had circl'd his full Orbe, the birth mature Of this our native Heav'n, Ethereal Sons. Our puissance is our own, our own right hand Shall teach us highest deeds, by proof to try Who is our equal: then thou shalt behold Whether by supplication we intend Address, and to begirt th' Almighty Throne Beseeching or besieging. This report, These tidings carrie to th' anointed King; And fly, ere evil intercept thy flight. He said, and as the sound of waters deep Hoarce murmur echo'd to his words applause Through the infinite Host, nor less for that The flaming Seraph fearless, though alone Encompass'd round with foes, thus answerd bold. O alienate from God, O spirit accurst, Forsak'n of all good; I see thy fall Determind, and thy hapless crew involv'd In this perfidious fraud, contagion spred Both of thy crime and punishment: henceforth No more be troubl'd how to quit the yoke Of Gods MESSIAH; those indulgent Laws Will not be now voutsaf't, other Decrees Against thee are gon forth without recall; That Golden Scepter which thou didst reject Is now an Iron Rod to bruise and breake Thy disobedience. Well thou didst advise, Yet not for thy advise or threats I fly These wicked Tents devoted, least the wrauth Impendent, raging into sudden flame Distinguish not: for soon expect to feel His Thunder on thy head, devouring fire. Then who created thee lamenting learne, When who can uncreate thee thou shalt know. So spake the Seraph ABDIEL faithful found, Among the faithless, faithful only hee; Among innumerable false, unmov'd, Unshak'n, unseduc'd, unterrifi'd His Loyaltie he kept, his Love, his Zeale; Nor number, nor example with him wrought To swerve from truth, or change his constant mind Though single. From amidst them forth he passd, Long way through hostile scorn, which he susteind Superior, nor of violence fear'd aught; And with retorted scorn his back he turn'd On those proud Towrs to swift destruction doom'd. THE END OF THE FIFTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Adam wacht aus einem friedlichen Schlaf auf, aber Eva scheint während der Nacht unruhig gewesen zu sein. Sie erzählt ihm von dem verstörenden Traum, den sie hatte. Sie erklärt, dass sie in dem Traum eine Stimme hört und ihr zum Baum der Erkenntnis folgt. Dort erscheint ein Wesen, das wie ein Engel aussieht, nimmt eine Frucht vom verbotenen Baum und probiert sie. Der Engel sagt Eva, dass sie auch wie die Götter sein könne, wenn sie es isst, aber bevor sie es versuchen kann, verschwindet er und sie kehrt in einen traumlosen Schlaf zurück. Adam ist beunruhigt durch den Traum, versichert ihr jedoch, dass es nicht unbedingt eine Vorhersage dessen ist, was in der Zukunft passieren wird, denn sie hat immer noch die Vernunft, um ihre Handlungen zu kontrollieren. Getröstet kehren sie zu ihrer Arbeit und dem Lob Gottes zurück. Inzwischen ruft Gott im Himmel den Erzengel Raphael zu sich. Er möchte nicht, dass Adam und Eva behaupten, vom Teufel überrascht worden zu sein, wenn sie zur Ungehorsamkeit verführt werden, daher instruiert er Raphael, Adam vor der kommenden Gefahr zu warnen. Als Raphael im Paradies ankommt, empfängt das Paar ihn herzlich. Sie essen zusammen, und Raphael erklärt die Unterschiede zwischen himmlischer und irdischer Nahrung. Nach dem Mahl verlässt Eva die Szene und ermöglicht es Raphael, mit Adam zu sprechen. Raphael beschreibt zunächst die Zusammensetzung der von Gott auf der Erde geschaffenen Dinge. Gott hat allen lebendigen Dingen verschiedene Arten von Substanzen gegeben. Die höchste Substanz ist der Geist, den Gott den Menschen gegeben hat. Unter den Menschen sind Tiere, die lebendiges Fleisch, aber keinen Geist haben, gefolgt von Pflanzen und dann unbelebten Objekten. Jede Gruppe besitzt die Merkmale der darunterliegenden Gruppen; zum Beispiel haben Tiere körperliche Sinne, während der Mensch alle Sinne und die Fähigkeit zur Vernunft besitzt. Raphael sagt, dass der Mensch das höchste Wesen auf der Erde ist, wegen seiner von Gott gegebenen Fähigkeit zur Vernunft, und warnt Adam, immer den Gehorsam gegenüber Gott zu wählen. Adam fragt sich, wie irgendein von Gott geschaffenes Wesen wählen konnte, ungehorsam zu sein, aber Raphael erklärt, dass Adam als vollkommen, aber veränderlich erschaffen wurde, mit der Macht, seine Vollkommenheit zu bewahren, aber auch die Macht, sie zu verlieren. Adam möchte mehr wissen und fragt, wie der Ungehorsam zuerst in den Himmel kam. Um zu antworten, erzählt Raphael die Geschichte von Satans Fall. Als der Himmel noch im Frieden war, erklärt Raphael, waren alle Hierarchien der Engel Gott gegenüber gehorsam. Eines Tages verkündete der Vater ihnen, dass er einen Sohn gezeugt hatte, der zur Rechten Gottes herrschen sollte. Während die Ankündigung Gottes die meisten Engel erfreute, war einer von ihnen wütend. Dieser zornige Engel verlor seinen himmlischen Namen und wird nun Satan genannt. Stolz, einer der höchsten Erzengel zu sein, fühlte Satan, dass er die gleichen Kräfte wie Gott verdiente. Eifersüchtig auf den Sohn, überredete er ein Drittel der anderen Engel im Himmel, sich ihm anzuschließen. Satan errichtete seinen eigenen Thron im Himmel und sagte seinen Anhängern, dass sie sich nicht ungerecht regieren lassen sollten. Einer dieser Anhänger widersprach ihm jedoch. Er wurde Abdiel genannt und kehrte nach einem Streit mit Satan treu zu Gott zurück, dem Spott der anderen rebellischen Engel trotzend.

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 pages to which the chronicler of these lives would ask the reader's attention are concerned with the scene in and out of Jude's bedroom when leafy summer came round again. His face was now so thin that his old friends would hardly have known him. It was afternoon, and Arabella was at the looking-glass curling her hair, which operation she performed by heating an umbrella-stay in the flame of a candle she had lighted, and using it upon the flowing lock. When she had finished this, practised a dimple, and put on her things, she cast her eyes round upon Jude. He seemed to be sleeping, though his position was an elevated one, his malady preventing him lying down. Arabella, hatted, gloved, and ready, sat down and waited, as if expecting some one to come and take her place as nurse. Certain sounds from without revealed that the town was in festivity, though little of the festival, whatever it might have been, could be seen here. Bells began to ring, and the notes came into the room through the open window, and travelled round Jude's head in a hum. They made her restless, and at last she said to herself: "Why ever doesn't Father come?" She looked again at Jude, critically gauged his ebbing life, as she had done so many times during the late months, and glancing at his watch, which was hung up by way of timepiece, rose impatiently. Still he slept, and coming to a resolution she slipped from the room, closed the door noiselessly, and descended the stairs. The house was empty. The attraction which moved Arabella to go abroad had evidently drawn away the other inmates long before. It was a warm, cloudless, enticing day. She shut the front door, and hastened round into Chief Street, and when near the theatre could hear the notes of the organ, a rehearsal for a coming concert being in progress. She entered under the archway of Oldgate College, where men were putting up awnings round the quadrangle for a ball in the hall that evening. People who had come up from the country for the day were picnicking on the grass, and Arabella walked along the gravel paths and under the aged limes. But finding this place rather dull she returned to the streets, and watched the carriages drawing up for the concert, numerous Dons and their wives, and undergraduates with gay female companions, crowding up likewise. When the doors were closed, and the concert began, she moved on. The powerful notes of that concert rolled forth through the swinging yellow blinds of the open windows, over the housetops, and into the still air of the lanes. They reached so far as to the room in which Jude lay; and it was about this time that his cough began again and awakened him. As soon as he could speak he murmured, his eyes still closed: "A little water, please." Nothing but the deserted room received his appeal, and he coughed to exhaustion again--saying still more feebly: "Water--some water--Sue--Arabella!" The room remained still as before. Presently he gasped again: "Throat--water--Sue--darling--drop of water--please--oh please!" No water came, and the organ notes, faint as a bee's hum, rolled in as before. While he remained, his face changing, shouts and hurrahs came from somewhere in the direction of the river. "Ah--yes! The Remembrance games," he murmured. "And I here. And Sue defiled!" The hurrahs were repeated, drowning the faint organ notes. Jude's face changed more: he whispered slowly, his parched lips scarcely moving: _"Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, There is a man-child conceived."_ ("Hurrah!") _"Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it. Lo, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein."_ ("Hurrah!") _"Why died I not from the womb? Why did I not give up the ghost when I came out of the belly? ... For now should I have lain still and been quiet. I should have slept: then had I been at rest!"_ ("Hurrah!") _"There the prisoners rest together; they hear not the voice of the oppressor... The small and the great are there; and the servant is free from his master. Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul?"_ Meanwhile Arabella, in her journey to discover what was going on, took a short cut down a narrow street and through an obscure nook into the quad of Cardinal. It was full of bustle, and brilliant in the sunlight with flowers and other preparations for a ball here also. A carpenter nodded to her, one who had formerly been a fellow-workman of Jude's. A corridor was in course of erection from the entrance to the hall staircase, of gay red and buff bunting. Waggon-loads of boxes containing bright plants in full bloom were being placed about, and the great staircase was covered with red cloth. She nodded to one workman and another, and ascended to the hall on the strength of their acquaintance, where they were putting down a new floor and decorating for the dance. The cathedral bell close at hand was sounding for five o'clock service. "I should not mind having a spin there with a fellow's arm round my waist," she said to one of the men. "But Lord, I must be getting home again--there's a lot to do. No dancing for me!" When she reached home she was met at the door by Stagg, and one or two other of Jude's fellow stoneworkers. "We are just going down to the river," said the former, "to see the boat-bumping. But we've called round on our way to ask how your husband is." "He's sleeping nicely, thank you," said Arabella. "That's right. Well now, can't you give yourself half an hour's relaxation, Mrs. Fawley, and come along with us? 'Twould do you good." "I should like to go," said she. "I've never seen the boat-racing, and I hear it is good fun." "Come along!" "How I WISH I could!" She looked longingly down the street. "Wait a minute, then. I'll just run up and see how he is now. Father is with him, I believe; so I can most likely come." They waited, and she entered. Downstairs the inmates were absent as before, having, in fact, gone in a body to the river where the procession of boats was to pass. When she reached the bedroom she found that her father had not even now come. "Why couldn't he have been here!" she said impatiently. "He wants to see the boats himself--that's what it is!" However, on looking round to the bed she brightened, for she saw that Jude was apparently sleeping, though he was not in the usual half-elevated posture necessitated by his cough. He had slipped down, and lay flat. A second glance caused her to start, and she went to the bed. His face was quite white, and gradually becoming rigid. She touched his fingers; they were cold, though his body was still warm. She listened at his chest. All was still within. The bumping of near thirty years had ceased. After her first appalled sense of what had happened, the faint notes of a military or other brass band from the river reached her ears; and in a provoked tone she exclaimed, "To think he should die just now! Why did he die just now!" Then meditating another moment or two she went to the door, softly closed it as before, and again descended the stairs. "Here she is!" said one of the workmen. "We wondered if you were coming after all. Come along; we must be quick to get a good place... Well, how is he? Sleeping well still? Of course, we don't want to drag 'ee away if--" "Oh yes--sleeping quite sound. He won't wake yet," she said hurriedly. They went with the crowd down Cardinal Street, where they presently reached the bridge, and the gay barges burst upon their view. Thence they passed by a narrow slit down to the riverside path--now dusty, hot, and thronged. Almost as soon as they had arrived the grand procession of boats began; the oars smacking with a loud kiss on the face of the stream, as they were lowered from the perpendicular. "Oh, I say--how jolly! I'm glad I've come," said Arabella. "And--it can't hurt my husband--my being away." On the opposite side of the river, on the crowded barges, were gorgeous nosegays of feminine beauty, fashionably arrayed in green, pink, blue, and white. The blue flag of the boat club denoted the centre of interest, beneath which a band in red uniform gave out the notes she had already heard in the death-chamber. Collegians of all sorts, in canoes with ladies, watching keenly for "our" boat, darted up and down. While she regarded the lively scene somebody touched Arabella in the ribs, and looking round she saw Vilbert. "That philtre is operating, you know!" he said with a leer. "Shame on 'ee to wreck a heart so!" "I shan't talk of love to-day." "Why not? It is a general holiday." She did not reply. Vilbert's arm stole round her waist, which act could be performed unobserved in the crowd. An arch expression overspread Arabella's face at the feel of the arm, but she kept her eyes on the river as if she did not know of the embrace. The crowd surged, pushing Arabella and her friends sometimes nearly into the river, and she would have laughed heartily at the horse-play that succeeded, if the imprint on her mind's eye of a pale, statuesque countenance she had lately gazed upon had not sobered her a little. The fun on the water reached the acme of excitement; there were immersions, there were shouts: the race was lost and won, the pink and blue and yellow ladies retired from the barges, and the people who had watched began to move. "Well--it's been awfully good," cried Arabella. "But I think I must get back to my poor man. Father is there, so far as I know; but I had better get back." "What's your hurry?" "Well, I must go... Dear, dear, this is awkward!" At the narrow gangway where the people ascended from the riverside path to the bridge the crowd was literally jammed into one hot mass--Arabella and Vilbert with the rest; and here they remained motionless, Arabella exclaiming, "Dear, dear!" more and more impatiently; for it had just occurred to her mind that if Jude were discovered to have died alone an inquest might be deemed necessary. "What a fidget you are, my love," said the physician, who, being pressed close against her by the throng, had no need of personal effort for contact. "Just as well have patience: there's no getting away yet!" It was nearly ten minutes before the wedged multitude moved sufficiently to let them pass through. As soon as she got up into the street Arabella hastened on, forbidding the physician to accompany her further that day. She did not go straight to her house; but to the abode of a woman who performed the last necessary offices for the poorer dead; where she knocked. "My husband has just gone, poor soul," she said. "Can you come and lay him out?" Arabella waited a few minutes; and the two women went along, elbowing their way through the stream of fashionable people pouring out of Cardinal meadow, and being nearly knocked down by the carriages. "I must call at the sexton's about the bell, too," said Arabella. "It is just round here, isn't it? I'll meet you at my door." By ten o'clock that night Jude was lying on the bedstead at his lodging covered with a sheet, and straight as an arrow. Through the partly opened window the joyous throb of a waltz entered from the ball-room at Cardinal. Two days later, when the sky was equally cloudless, and the air equally still, two persons stood beside Jude's open coffin in the same little bedroom. On one side was Arabella, on the other the Widow Edlin. They were both looking at Jude's face, the worn old eyelids of Mrs. Edlin being red. "How beautiful he is!" said she. "Yes. He's a 'andsome corpse," said Arabella. The window was still open to ventilate the room, and it being about noontide the clear air was motionless and quiet without. From a distance came voices; and an apparent noise of persons stamping. "What's that?" murmured the old woman. "Oh, that's the Doctors in the theatre, conferring Honorary degrees on the Duke of Hamptonshire and a lot more illustrious gents of that sort. It's Remembrance Week, you know. The cheers come from the young men." "Aye; young and strong-lunged! Not like our poor boy here." An occasional word, as from some one making a speech, floated from the open windows of the theatre across to this quiet corner, at which there seemed to be a smile of some sort upon the marble features of Jude; while the old, superseded, Delphin editions of Virgil and Horace, and the dog-eared Greek Testament on the neighbouring shelf, and the few other volumes of the sort that he had not parted with, roughened with stone-dust where he had been in the habit of catching them up for a few minutes between his labours, seemed to pale to a sickly cast at the sounds. The bells struck out joyously; and their reverberations travelled round the bed-room. Arabella's eyes removed from Jude to Mrs. Edlin. "D'ye think she will come?" she asked. "I could not say. She swore not to see him again." "How is she looking?" "Tired and miserable, poor heart. Years and years older than when you saw her last. Quite a staid, worn woman now. 'Tis the man--she can't stomach un, even now!" "If Jude had been alive to see her, he would hardly have cared for her any more, perhaps." "That's what we don't know... Didn't he ever ask you to send for her, since he came to see her in that strange way?" "No. Quite the contrary. I offered to send, and he said I was not to let her know how ill he was." "Did he forgive her?" "Not as I know." "Well--poor little thing, 'tis to be believed she's found forgiveness somewhere! She said she had found peace! "She may swear that on her knees to the holy cross upon her necklace till she's hoarse, but it won't be true!" said Arabella. "She's never found peace since she left his arms, and never will again till she's as he is now!" Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Judes Leben zieht sich dahin und wieder ist es Sommer und Gedenktag in Christminster. Das Wetter ist ruhig und die Festlichkeiten des College haben begonnen. Arabella lässt Jude allein und geht hinaus, um das Fest zu sehen. Die Orgelklänge des Konzerts im Freien stören Jude und er wacht hustend auf. Er bemerkt, dass es Gedenktag ist und bittet um Wasser, aber es ist niemand da, der sich um ihn kümmert. Mit großer Bitterkeit zitiert er einige Verse aus dem Buch Hiob. Mitten im Lärm der Feierlichkeiten draußen stirbt Jude allein und unbeachtet. In der Zwischenzeit amüsiert sich Arabella auf dem Fest. Sie schaut nach, wie es Jude geht, und als sie merkt, dass er tot ist, geht sie zurück, um wieder am Fest teilzunehmen, da sie den Spaß der Bootsrennen nicht verpassen möchte. Sie trifft Vilbert, erlaubt ihm, mit ihr zu flirten, und kehrt schließlich zurück, um die Beerdigung vorzubereiten. Zwei Tage später sind nur Arabella und Mrs. Edlin da, um Jude die letzte Ehre zu erweisen. Mrs. Edlin fragt sich, ob Sue zur Beerdigung kommen wird, da sie Phillotson versprochen hatte, Jude nie wieder zu sehen. Mrs. Edlin erzählt Arabella, dass Sue seit dem Leben mit Phillotson als seine Frau stark gealtert ist, obwohl sie behauptet, "Frieden gefunden" zu haben. Arabella erklärt, dass Jude Sue nie vergeben hat und dass Sue keinen Frieden haben wird, bis sie stirbt.

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: Als wir im Berkeley Hotel ankamen, fand Van Helsing ein Telegramm, das auf ihn wartete:-- "Komme mit dem Zug an. Jonathan ist in Whitby. Wichtige Neuigkeiten.-MINA HARKER." Der Professor war begeistert. "Ah, diese wundervolle Madame Mina", sagte er, "Perle unter den Frauen! Sie kommt, aber ich kann nicht bleiben. Sie muss zu deinem Haus, Freund John. Du musst sie am Bahnhof empfangen. Telegrafiere ihr _unterwegs_, damit sie sich vorbereiten kann." Als die Nachricht abgeschickt war, trank er eine Tasse Tee. Dabei erzählte er mir von einem Tagebuch, das Jonathan Harker im Ausland geführt hatte, und gab mir eine getippte Kopie davon, sowie auch von Mrs. Harkers Tagebuch in Whitby. "Nimm diese", sagte er, "und studiere sie genau. Wenn ich zurückgekehrt bin, wirst du alle Fakten kennen und wir können dann besser mit unserer Untersuchung beginnen. Behalte sie gut auf, denn darin verbirgt sich ein großer Schatz. Du wirst deinen Glauben brauchen, auch du, der du heute eine solche Erfahrung gemacht hat. Was hier erzählt wird", legte er seine Hand schwer und feierlich auf das Paket Papiere, während er sprach, "könnte der Anfang vom Ende für dich und mich und viele andere sein, oder es könnte das Totenglöckchen für die Untoten sein, die auf der Erde wandeln. Lies alles, bitte ich dich, mit offenem Geist, und wenn du auf irgendeine Weise zur Geschichte beitragen kannst, dann tue es, denn es ist von allerhöchster Bedeutung. Du hast Tagebuch über all diese so merkwürdigen Dinge geführt, ist das nicht so? Ja! Dann werden wir sie gemeinsam durchgehen, wenn wir uns treffen." Dann machte er sich fertig für seine Abreise und fuhr kurz darauf nach Liverpool Street. Ich machte mich auf den Weg nach Paddington, wo ich etwa fünfzehn Minuten vor der Ankunft des Zuges ankam. Die Menschenmenge löste sich nach der geschäftigen Art, die auf Ankunftsplattformen üblich ist, auf und ich begann mich unruhig zu fühlen, um meine Gästin nicht zu verpassen, als ein hübsches, zierliches Mädchen auf mich zukam und nach einem schnellen Blick sagte: "Dr. Seward, nicht wahr?" "Und Sie sind Mrs. Harker!" antwortete ich sofort; woraufhin sie ihre Hand ausstreckte. "Ich erkannte Sie an der Beschreibung von armer lieber Lucy; aber----" Sie hielt plötzlich inne und eine schnelle Röte überzog ihr Gesicht. Diese Röte auf meinen eigenen Wangen setzte uns irgendwie beide in Erleichterung, denn es war eine stillschweigende Antwort auf ihre eigene. Ich nahm ihr Gepäck, zu dem auch eine Schreibmaschine gehörte, und wir fuhren mit der U-Bahn nach Fenchurch Street, nachdem ich meiner Haushälterin einen Draht geschickt hatte, dass sie sofort einen Aufenthaltsraum und ein Schlafzimmer für Mrs. Harker vorbereiten solle. Nach angemessener Zeit kamen wir an. Sie wusste natürlich, dass der Ort eine Irrenanstalt war, aber ich konnte sehen, dass sie nicht in der Lage war, einen Schauder zu unterdrücken, als wir eintraten. Sie sagte mir, dass sie, wenn sie könnte, gleich zu meinem Arbeitszimmer kommen würde, da sie viel zu sagen habe. Also sitze ich nun hier und beende meinen Eintrag in meinem Phonograph-Tagebuch, während ich auf sie warte. Bisher hatte ich noch keine Gelegenheit gehabt, die Papiere anzusehen, die Van Helsing mir überlassen hatte, obwohl sie vor mir ausgebreitet lagen. Ich muss sie für etwas interessieren, damit ich die Möglichkeit habe, sie zu lesen. Sie weiß nicht, wie kostbar die Zeit ist oder welche Aufgabe uns bevorsteht. Ich muss aufpassen, sie nicht zu erschrecken. Hier ist sie! _Mina Harkers Tagebuch._ _29. September._--Nachdem ich mich zurechtgemacht hatte, ging ich in Dr. Seward's Arbeitszimmer hinunter. An der Tür hielt ich einen Moment inne, denn ich glaubte, ihn mit jemandem sprechen zu hören. Da er mich jedoch gedrängt hatte, schnell zu sein, klopfte ich an die Tür und als er "Herein" rief, trat ich ein. Zu meiner großen Überraschung war er allein und auf dem Tisch ihm gegenüber stand etwas, das ich sofort anhand der Beschreibung als Phonograph erkannte. Ich hatte noch nie einen gesehen und war sehr interessiert. "Ich hoffe, ich habe dich nicht warten lassen", sagte ich, "aber ich habe an der Tür gewartet, da ich dachte, du würdest mit jemandem sprechen." "Oh", antwortete er mit einem Lächeln, "ich habe nur mein Tagebuch eingetragen." "Dein Tagebuch?" fragte ich überrascht. "Ja", antwortete er. "Ich führe es hier." Als er sprach, legte er seine Hand auf den Phonographen. Ich war ganz aufgeregt und platzte heraus:-- "Nun, das übertrifft sogar die Kurzschrift! Darf ich etwas hören?" "Natürlich", antwortete er bereitwillig und stand auf, um es zum Sprechen vorzubereiten. Dann hielt er inne und ein besorgter Gesichtsausdruck überzog sein Gesicht. "Es ist so", begann er unbeholfen, "ich halte nur mein Tagebuch hier, und da es ganz--fast ausschließlich--um meine Fälle geht, könnte es peinlich sein - das heißt--ich meine----" Er hielt inne und ich versuchte, ihm aus seiner Verlegenheit zu helfen:-- "Du hast geholfen, unsere liebe Lucy am Ende zu betreuen. Lass mich hören, wie sie starb; denn alles, was ich von ihr weiß, werde ich sehr dankbar wissen. Sie war sehr, sehr wichtig für mich." Zu meiner Überraschung antwortete er mit einem entsetzten Blick auf sein Gesicht:-- "Dir von ihrem Tod erzählen? Nicht um die ganze Welt!" "Warum nicht?" fragte ich, denn ein ernstes, schreckliches Gefühl überkam mich. Wiederum hielt er inne, und ich konnte sehen, dass er versuchte, eine Ausrede zu erfinden. Schließlich stammelte er:-- "Weißt du, ich weiß nicht, wie ich einen bestimmten Teil des Tagebuchs auswählen soll." Während er sprach, dämmerte ihm eine Idee und er sagte mit unbewusster Einfachheit und in einer anderen Stimme, mit der Naivität eines Kindes: "Das ist wirklich wahr, auf mein Ehrenwort. Ehrlicher Inder!" Ich konnte nicht anders als lächeln, worauf er verzog: "Da habe ich mich verraten! Aber weißt du, obwohl ich das Tagebuch seit Monaten geführt habe, ist es mir nie in den Sinn gekommen, wie ich einen bestimmten Teil davon finden würde, falls ich etwas nachschauen möchte?" Inzwischen hatte ich mich entschieden, dass das Tagebuch eines Arztes, der Lucy behandelt hatte, etwas dazu beitragen könnte, unser Wissen über dieses schreckliche Wesen zu erweitern, und sagte kühn:-- "Dann, Dr. Seward, sollten Sie mich besser eine Abschrift auf meiner Schreibmaschine schreiben lassen." Er wurde leichenblass, als er sagte:-- "Nein! Nein! Nein! Nicht um alles in der Welt würde ich dich diese schreckliche Geschichte erfahren lassen!" Dann war es schrecklich; meine Intuition hatte recht! Für einen Moment dachte ich nach, und während meine Augen den Raum durchstreiften, unbewusst auf der Suche nach etwas oder irgendeiner Gelegenheit, die mir helfen könnte, fielen sie auf einen großen Stapel getipptes Schriftstück auf dem Tisch. Seine Augen bemerkten den Blick in meinen Augen und, ohne nachzudenken, folgten sie seiner Richtung. Als sie das Paket sahen, erkannte er meine Absicht. "Du kennst mich nicht", sagte ich. "Wenn du diese Papiere gelesen hast - mein eigenes Tagebuch und auch das meines Mannes, das ich abgetippt habe - dann wirst du mich besser kennen. Ich habe keine Mühe gesche _29. September._--Ich war so in das wundervolle Tagebuch von Jonathan Harker und das seiner Frau vertieft, dass ich die Zeit ohne nachzudenken verstreichen ließ. Mrs. Harker war noch nicht unten, als das Dienstmädchen das Abendessen ankündigte. Also sagte ich: "Sie ist möglicherweise müde, lassen Sie das Abendessen eine Stunde warten," und ich machte weiter mit meiner Arbeit. Gerade als ich mit dem Tagebuch von Mrs. Harker fertig war, kam sie herein. Sie sah süß aus, aber sehr traurig, und ihre Augen waren vom Weinen gerötet. Das bewegte mich irgendwie sehr. In letzter Zeit hatte auch ich Grund zum Weinen, Gott weiß es! Aber die Erleichterung blieb mir versagt. Und nun ging mir der Anblick dieser süßen Augen, die durch kürzliche Tränen aufgehellt waren, direkt ins Herz. Also sagte ich so sanft wie möglich: "Ich fürchte, ich habe dich beunruhigt." "Oh nein, du hast mich nicht beunruhigt," antwortete sie, "aber dein Schmerz hat mich mehr berührt, als ich sagen kann. Das ist eine wundervolle Maschine, aber sie ist grausam wahrhaftig. Sie hat mir in ihrem Klang die Anguish deines Herzens mitgeteilt. Es war wie eine Seele, die zu Allmächtigem Gott schreit. Niemand darf sie jemals wieder sprechen hören! Sieh, ich habe versucht, nützlich zu sein. Ich habe die Worte auf meiner Schreibmaschine abgeschrieben, und niemand außer mir muss jetzt deinen Herzschlag hören, so wie ich es tat." "Niemand muss es je erfahren, wird es je erfahren", sagte ich leise. Sie legte ihre Hand auf meine und sagte sehr ernsthaft: "Aber sie müssen es erfahren!" "Müssen! Aber warum?" fragte ich. "Weil es ein Teil der schrecklichen Geschichte ist, ein Teil von Armer, lieber Lucys Tod und allem, was dazu geführt hat; weil wir in dem Kampf, den wir vor uns haben, um die Erde von diesem schrecklichen Monster zu befreien, alles Wissen und alle Hilfe brauchen, die wir bekommen können. Ich glaube, dass die Zylinder, die du mir gegeben hast, mehr enthalten, als du beabsichtigt hast, dass ich das weiß. Aber ich kann erkennen, dass es in deinem Bericht viele Hinweise auf dieses dunkle Mysterium gibt. Wirst du mich also helfen lassen? Ich weiß alles bis zu einem gewissen Punkt, und ich sehe bereits, obwohl dein Tagebuch mich nur bis zum 7. September gebracht hat, wie die arme Lucy bedrängt wurde und wie ihr schreckliches Schicksal besiegelt wurde. Jonathan und ich haben seitdem Professor Van Helsing uns sah, Tag und Nacht gearbeitet. Er ist nach Whitby gefahren, um weitere Informationen zu bekommen, und er wird morgen hier sein, um uns zu helfen. Wir müssen keine Geheimnisse unter uns haben; wenn wir zusammenarbeiten und absolut vertrauen, können wir sicherlich stärker sein, als wenn einige von uns im Dunkeln sind." Sie sah mich so flehend an und zeigte dabei so viel Mut und Entschlossenheit in ihrer Haltung, dass ich sofort ihrem Wunsch nachgab. "Du sollst", sagte ich, "in dieser Angelegenheit tun, was du möchtest. Gott möge mir vergeben, wenn ich Unrecht tue! Es gibt noch schreckliche Dinge zu lernen, aber wenn du bisher den Weg zum Tod der armen Lucy zurückgelegt hast, wirst du, ich weiß es, nicht zufrieden sein, im Dunkeln zu bleiben. Nein, das Ende - das wirklich Ende - könnte dir einen Hauch von Frieden geben. Komm, es ist Abendessen. Wir müssen uns gegenseitig stark halten für das, was vor uns liegt; wir haben eine grausame und schreckliche Aufgabe. Nachdem du gegessen hast, wirst du den Rest erfahren, und ich werde alle Fragen beantworten, die du hast - wenn es etwas gibt, das du nicht verstehst, obwohl es uns, die wir anwesend waren, offensichtlich war." _Mina Harkers Tagebuch._ _29. September._--Nach dem Abendessen kam ich mit Dr. Seward in sein Studierzimmer. Er brachte das Phonograph aus meinem Zimmer zurück, und ich nahm meine Schreibmaschine. Er stellte mich in einen bequemen Stuhl und arrangierte den Phonographen so, dass ich ihn berühren konnte, ohne aufstehen zu müssen, und er zeigte mir, wie ich ihn anhalten konnte, falls ich eine Pause machen wollte. Dann nahm er sehr aufmerksam einen Stuhl mit dem Rücken zu mir, damit ich so frei wie möglich sein konnte, und begann vorzulesen. Ich legte die gespaltenen Kopfhörer an meine Ohren und lauschte. Als die schreckliche Geschichte von Lucys Tod und - und allem, was folgte, vorbei war, sank ich kraftlos in meinen Stuhl zurück. Glücklicherweise bin ich nicht ohnmachtssüchtig. Als Dr. Seward mich sah, sprang er mit einem entsetzten Ausruf auf und schnappte sich eilig eine Flasche aus einem Schrank und gab mir etwas Brandy, das mich nach ein paar Minuten etwas wiederherstellte. Mein Gehirn war wie in einem Wirbel, und nur dass durch die Vielzahl der Schrecken das heilige Licht, dass meine liebe, liebe Lucy endlich in Frieden war, durchdrang, glaube ich nicht, dass ich es ohne einen Auftritt ertragen hätte. Es ist alles so wild und mysteriös und seltsam, dass ich, wenn ich Jonathans Erfahrungen in Transsilvanien nicht gekannt hätte, es nicht hätte glauben können. So wie es war, wusste ich nicht, was ich glauben sollte, und ich lenkte mich ab, indem ich mich um etwas anderes kümmerte. Ich nahm die Abdeckung von meiner Schreibmaschine und sagte zu Dr. Seward: "Lasst mich das jetzt alles aufschreiben. Wir müssen bereit sein, wenn Dr. Van Helsing kommt. Ich habe ein Telegramm an Jonathan geschickt, dass er hierher kommen soll, wenn er in London aus Whitby ankommt. In dieser Angelegenheit sind Daten alles, und ich denke, wenn wir all unser Material bereit haben und jeden Punkt chronologisch geordnet haben, haben wir viel getan. Du sagst mir, dass Lord Godalming und Mr. Morris auch kommen. Lasst uns ihnen sagen können, wann sie kommen." Er stellte den Phonographen auf eine langsame Geschwindigkeit ein, und ich fing an, ab der siebten Walze zu tippen. Ich benutzte Durchschreibepapier und machte daher drei Kopien des Tagebuchs, so wie ich es mit allem anderen gemacht habe. Es war spät, als ich fertig war, aber Dr. Seward machte sich an die Arbeit, um seine Runde bei den Patienten zu machen; als er fertig war, kam er zurück und setzte sich in meiner Nähe, um zu lesen, damit ich mich nicht allzu einsam fühlte, während ich arbeitete. Wie gut und aufmerksam er ist; die Welt scheint voller guter Männer zu sein - auch wenn es Monster gibt. Bevor ich ihn verließ, erinnerte ich mich an das, was Jonathan in seinem Tagebuch von der Bestürzung des Professors beim Lesen einer Abendzeitung an der Station in Exeter geschrieben hatte; also, da Dr. Seward seine Zeitungen aufbewahrt, lieh ich mir die Ausgaben des "Westminster Gazette" und des "Pall Mall Gazette" und nahm sie mit auf mein Zimmer. Ich erinnere mich, wie sehr uns "The Dailygraph" und "The Whitby Gazette", von denen ich Ausschnitte gemacht hatte, geholfen haben, die schrecklichen Ereignisse in Whitby zu verstehen, als Graf Dracula dort landete. Also werde ich mir die Abendzeitungen seitdem anschauen und vielleicht bekomme ich etwas Neues ans Licht. Ich bin nicht müde, und die Arbeit wird mir helfen, ruhig zu bleiben. _Dr. Sewards Tagebuch._ _30. September._--Mr. Harker kam um neun Uhr an. Er hatte die Telegramm seiner Frau kurz vor der Abreise bekommen. Er ist ungewöhnlich clever, wenn man sein Gesicht als Maßstab nimmt, und voller Energie. Wenn dieses Tagebuch wahr ist - und wenn man von den eigenen wunderbaren Ich fand Renfield ruhig in seinem Zimmer sitzen, die Hände gefaltet und freundlich lächelnd. Im Moment schien er genauso vernünftig wie jeder andere, den ich je gesehen habe. Ich setzte mich hin und sprach mit ihm über viele Themen, von denen er sich ganz natürlich unterhielt. Dann sprach er von sich aus über nach Hause gehen, ein Thema, von dem er meines Wissens während seines Aufenthalts hier noch nie gesprochen hat. Tatsächlich sprach er recht zuversichtlich davon, dass er sofort entlassen wird. Ich glaube, wenn ich nicht mit Harker gesprochen und die Briefe und Daten seiner Ausbrüche gelesen hätte, wäre ich nach kurzer Beobachtungszeit bereit gewesen, für ihn zu unterschreiben. So wie es ist, bin ich düster misstrauisch. Alle diese Ausbrüche waren auf irgendeine Weise mit der Nähe des Grafen verbunden. Was bedeutet dann dieser absolute Inhalt? Kann es sein, dass sein Instinkt mit dem endgültigen Triumph des Vampirs zufrieden ist? Warte; er selbst ist zooephagous, und in seinen wilden Wahnvorstellungen vor der Tür der verlassenen Kapelle hat er immer vom "Meister" gesprochen. Das scheint alles unsere Idee zu bestätigen. Wie dem auch sei, schließlich bin ich gegangen; mein Freund ist im Moment einfach zu vernünftig, um es sicher zu machen, ihn mit Fragen zu durchbohren. Er könnte anfangen zu denken, und dann...! Also bin ich gegangen. Ich misstraue diesen ruhigen Stimmungen von ihm; deshalb habe ich dem Betreuer einen Hinweis gegeben, dass er ihn genau beobachten und einen Zwangsmantel bereit halten soll, falls es nötig wird. Jonathan Harkers Tagebuch. 29. September, im Zug nach London. Als ich Mr. Billingtons höfliche Mitteilung erhielt, dass er mir alle Informationen geben würde, die in seiner Macht stehen, dachte ich, es sei am besten, nach Whitby zu fahren und vor Ort die gewünschten Nachforschungen anzustellen. Mein Ziel war es jetzt, diese schreckliche Fracht des Grafen bis zu ihrem Bestimmungsort in London zurückzuverfolgen. Später könnten wir damit umgehen. Billington Junior, ein netter Bursche, traf mich am Bahnhof und brachte mich zum Haus seines Vaters, wo sie beschlossen hatten, dass ich die Nacht bleiben muss. Sie sind gastfreundlich, mit echter yorkshireischer Gastfreundschaft: einem Gast alles geben und ihn frei lassen, tun was er möchte. Sie wussten alle, dass ich beschäftigt war und mein Aufenthalt kurz war, und Mr. Billington hatte in seinem Büro alle Papiere über den Transport der Kisten bereit. Es war fast erschreckend, einen der Briefe wieder zu sehen, den ich auf dem Tisch des Grafen gesehen hatte, bevor ich von seinen teuflischen Plänen erfuhr. Alles war sorgfältig durchdacht und systematisch und präzise erledigt worden. Er schien auf jedes Hindernis vorbereitet gewesen zu sein, das zufällig den Weg seiner Absichten hätte behindern können. Um es mit einem amerikanischen Ausdruck auszudrücken, er hatte "kein Risiko eingegangen", und die absolute Genauigkeit, mit der seine Anweisungen erfüllt wurden, war einfach das logische Ergebnis seiner Sorgfalt. Ich sah die Rechnung und nahm sie zur Kenntnis: "Fünfzig Kisten gewöhnliche Erde, zu experimentellen Zwecken." Auch die Kopie des Briefes an Carter Paterson und deren Antwort; von beiden bekam ich Kopien. Das war alle Information, die mir Mr. Billington geben konnte, also ging ich zum Hafen und sprach mit den Küstenschützern, den Zollbeamten und dem Hafenmeister. Sie hatten alle etwas zu sagen über den seltsamen Eintrag des Schiffs, der bereits seinen Platz in der lokalen Tradition einnimmt; aber niemand konnte der einfachen Beschreibung "Fünfzig Kisten gewöhnliche Erde" etwas hinzufügen. Dann sprach ich mit dem Stationsleiter, der mich freundlicherweise mit den Männern in Verbindung brachte, die tatsächlich die Kisten entgegennahmen. Ihre Bestandsliste stimmte genau mit der Liste überein, und sie hatten nichts hinzuzufügen, außer dass die Kisten "sehr schwer" und das Umlagern trockene Arbeit war. Einer von ihnen fügte hinzu, dass es schade war, dass es keinen Herrn "wie Sie, Sir", gab, der ihre Bemühungen in flüssiger Form würdigen konnte; ein anderer fügte noch hinzu, dass der dadurch entstandene Durst selbst nach der verstrichenen Zeit noch nicht ganz gestillt war. Es versteht sich von selbst, dass ich darauf geachtet habe, diese ehemalige Anlass zur Klage für immer und angemessen abzuschaffen. 30. September. Der Stationsleiter war freundlich genug, mir eine Empfehlung an seinen alten Freund, den Stationsleiter von King's Cross, zu geben, so dass ich, als ich morgens dort ankam, ihn sofort nach dem Eintreffen der Kisten fragen konnte. Auch er brachte mich sofort mit den richtigen Beamten in Kontakt, und ich sah, dass ihre Bestandsliste mit der originellen Rechnung übereinstimmte. Die Gelegenheiten, einen abnormalen Durst zu entwickeln, waren hier begrenzt; sie wurden jedoch in edler Weise genutzt, und wieder einmal musste ich mich mit dem Ergebnis in _ex post facto_-Weise auseinandersetzen. Von dort aus ging ich zum zentralen Büro von Carter Paterson, wo ich auf äußerste Höflichkeit stieß. Sie suchten die Transaktion in ihrem Tagesbuch und Schreibbuch nach und telefonierten sofort in ihr King's Cross Büro, um weitere Details zu erhalten. Zum Glück warteten die Männer, die das Verladen übernommen hatten, gerade auf Arbeit, und der Beamte schickte sie sofort los und schickte auch mit einem von ihnen den Frachtbrief und alle mit der Lieferung der Kisten nach Carfax verbundenen Papiere. Hier stimmte die Bestandsliste wieder genau überein; die Träger konnten die Schwäche der schriftlichen Worte mit einigen Details ergänzen. Diese waren kurz gesagt fast ausschließlich mit der staubigen Natur der Arbeit verbunden und mit dem Durst, der bei den Arbeitern dadurch entstand. Als ich ihnen später die Möglichkeit bot, durch die Währung des Reiches diese segensreiche Übelkeit zu lindern, bemerkte einer der Männer:-- "Das Haus, Herr, ist so komisch wie kein anderes, in dem ich je war. Himmel, es wurde seit hundert Jahren nicht berührt. Der Staub war so dick in dem Raum, dass man darauf hätte schlafen können, ohne sich wehzutun; und der Ort war so vernachlässigt, dass man ganz Jerusalem riechen konnte. Aber die alte Kapelle - die war der Gipfel, sie war zum Fürchten! Mein Kamerad und ich dachten, wir kämen nie schnell genug raus. Oh, ich würde nicht länger als einen Moment dort bleiben, es sei denn, ich bekomme eine Pfund dafür." Da ich im Haus gewesen bin, konnte ich ihm gut glauben; aber wenn er wüsste, was ich weiß, würde er, glaube ich, seine Forderungen erhöhen. Eines bin ich nun sicher: _alle_ Kisten, die von Varna in der Demeter nach Whitby kamen, wurden sicher in der alten Kapelle in Carfax abgestellt. Es sollten fünfzig von ihnen dort sein, es sei denn, es sind seitdem welche entfernt worden - wie ich aus Dr. Sewards Tagebuch fürchte. Ich werde versuchen, den Fuhrmann zu sehen, der die Kisten von Carfax weggebracht hat, als Renfield sie angegriffen hat. Indem wir dieser Spur folgen, können wir viel lernen. Später. Mina und ich haben den ganzen Tag gearbeitet und alle Unterlagen in Ordnung gebracht. Mina Harkers Tagebuch. 30. September. Ich bin so froh darüber, dass ich kaum weiß, wie ich mich zusammenhalten soll. Es ist wohl die Reaktion auf die quälende Angst, die ich hatte: dass diese schreckliche Angelegenheit und das Wiedereröffnen seiner alten Wunde sich nachteilig auf Jonathan auswirken könnten. Ich sah ihn mit so tapferem Gesicht nach Whitby aufbrechen, wie ich konnte, aber ich war voller Befürchtungen. Die Anstrengung hat ihm jedoch gut getan. Er war noch nie so entschlossen, noch nie so stark, noch nie so voller feuriger Energie wie jetzt. Es ist genau so, wie der liebe, gute "Später." - Lord Godalming und Mr. Morris kamen früher an als erwartet. Dr. Seward war geschäftlich unterwegs und hatte Jonathan mitgenommen, also musste ich sie sehen. Es war für mich ein schmerzhaftes Treffen, denn es brachte all die armen, lieben Hoffnungen von Lucy vor ein paar Monaten zurück. Natürlich hatten sie Lucy von mir sprechen hören, und es schien, dass auch Dr. Van Helsing meine Trompete geblasen hatte, wie es Mr. Morris ausdrückte. Arme Kerle, keiner von ihnen weiß, dass ich alles über die Vorschläge, die sie Lucy gemacht haben, weiß. Sie wussten nicht so recht, was sie sagen oder tun sollten, da sie nicht wussten, wie viel ich weiß. Also mussten sie sich auf neutrale Themen konzentrieren. Aber ich habe mir die Sache überlegt und bin zu dem Schluss gekommen, dass das Beste, was ich tun konnte, wäre, sie über alles auf dem Laufenden zu halten. Ich wusste aus Dr. Sewards Tagebuch, dass sie beim Tod von Lucy - ihrem wirklichen Tod - dabei waren und dass ich keine Angst haben musste, irgendein Geheimnis vor der Zeit zu verraten. Also erzählte ich ihnen, so gut wie ich konnte, dass ich alle Papiere und Tagebücher gelesen hatte und dass mein Mann und ich, nachdem wir sie abgetippt hatten, gerade damit fertig geworden waren, sie in Ordnung zu bringen. Ich gab ihnen jeder eine Kopie zum Lesen in der Bibliothek. Als Lord Godalming seine bekam und sie umdrehte - es macht wirklich einen recht hohen Stapel - sagte er: "Haben Sie das alles geschrieben, Mrs. Harker? Ich nickte, und er fuhr fort: "Ich sehe nicht ganz, worauf Sie hinauswollen, aber Sie und Ihre Leute sind so gut und freundlich und haben so ernsthaft und energisch gearbeitet, dass alles, was ich tun kann, ist, Ihre Ideen blind zu akzeptieren und Ihnen zu helfen. Ich habe bereits eine Lektion darin gelernt, Fakten zu akzeptieren, die einen Mann demütig machen sollten bis zur letzten Stunde seines Lebens. Außerdem weiß ich, dass Sie meine arme Lucy geliebt haben -" Hier drehte er sich weg und bedeckte sein Gesicht mit den Händen. Ich konnte die Tränen in seiner Stimme hören. Mr. Morris, mit instinktiver Feinfühligkeit, legte einfach für einen Moment eine Hand auf seine Schulter und ging dann leise aus dem Raum. Ich nehme an, es gibt etwas im Wesen einer Frau, das es einem Mann ermöglicht, vor ihr zusammenzubrechen und seine Gefühle auf der zarten oder emotionalen Seite auszudrücken, ohne dass es seiner Mannhaftigkeit schadet. Denn als Lord Godalming allein mit mir war, setzte er sich auf das Sofa und brach völlig und offen zusammen. Ich setzte mich neben ihn und nahm seine Hand. Ich hoffe, er dachte nicht, dass es von mir voreilig war, und dass er, wenn er später daran denkt, niemals solche Gedanken haben wird. Da tue ich ihm Unrecht; ich weiß, dass er es nie tun wird - er ist ein zu wahrer Gentleman. Ich sagte zu ihm, denn ich sah, dass sein Herz zerbrach: "Ich habe die liebe Lucy geliebt, und ich weiß, was sie dir bedeutet hat und was du ihr bedeutet hast. Sie und ich waren wie Schwestern, und jetzt ist sie fort. Würdest du mich nicht lassen, wie eine Schwester für dich in deinem Kummer sein? Ich weiß, welche Sorgen du hattest, auch wenn ich ihre Tiefe nicht messen kann. Wenn Mitgefühl und Mitleid in deiner Not helfen können, würdest du mich nicht ein wenig dienen lassen - für Lucys Sache?" In einem Augenblick wurde der arme Kerl von Trauer überwältigt. Es schien mir, als ob alles, was er in letzter Zeit schweigend erlitten hatte, auf einmal eine Ventil fand. Er wurde ganz hysterisch und schlug seine Hände offen zusammen, in einer wahren Agonie der Trauer. Er stand auf und setzte sich dann wieder hin, und die Tränen strömten über seine Wangen. Ich hatte unendliches Mitleid mit ihm und öffnete unbedacht meine Arme. Mit einem Schluchzen legte er seinen Kopf auf meine Schulter und weinte wie ein müdes Kind, während er vor Aufregung bebte. Wir Frauen haben etwas Mutterliches in uns, das uns über kleinere Dinge erhebt, wenn der Muttergeist heraufbeschworen wird. Es fühlte sich für mich an, als ob der große, traurige Kopf dieses Mannes auf mir ruht, als ob es der eines Babys wäre, das eines Tages vielleicht auf meiner Brust liegen wird, und ich streichelte sein Haar, als wäre er mein eigenes Kind. Damals dachte ich nicht darüber nach, wie seltsam das alles war. Nach kurzer Zeit hörten seine Schluchzer auf, und er richtete sich mit einer Entschuldigung auf, obwohl er seine Emotionen nicht verbarg. Er erzählte mir, dass er in den vergangenen Tagen und Nächten - müden Tagen und schlaflosen Nächten - nicht in der Lage gewesen sei, mit jemandem zu sprechen, so wie ein Mann in seiner Trauer sprechen muss. Es gab keine Frau, die ihm Mitgefühl geben konnte, oder mit der er aufgrund der schrecklichen Umstände, mit denen seine Trauer verbunden war, frei sprechen konnte. "Jetzt weiß ich, wie sehr ich gelitten habe", sagte er, als er seine Augen abwischte, "aber ich weiß noch nicht einmal - und niemand sonst kann es je wissen - wie viel deine süße Sympathie mir heute bedeutet hat. Mit der Zeit werde ich es besser verstehen, und glaube mir, obwohl ich jetzt nicht undankbar bin, wird meine Dankbarkeit mit meinem Verständnis wachsen. Du wirst mich doch wie einen Bruder sein lassen, für unser ganzes Leben - für Lucys Sake?" "Für Lucys Sake", sagte ich, als wir uns die Hände schüttelten. "Ja, und auch für deine eigene Sache", fügte er hinzu, "denn wenn Ansehen und Dankbarkeit eines Mannes je den Einsatz wert sind, dann hast du heute meinen gewonnen. Wenn dich die Zukunft jemals in eine Situation bringt, in der du die Hilfe eines Mannes brauchst, dann glaube mir, du wirst nicht vergeblich rufen. Gott gebe, dass dir nie eine solche Zeit widerfährt, die den Sonnenschein in deinem Leben zerstört; aber wenn es jemals dazu kommen sollte, verspreche mir, dass du es mich wissen lässt." Er war so ernsthaft, und sein Schmerz war so frisch, dass ich wusste, dass es ihm Trost bringen würde, also sagte ich zu ihm: "Ich verspreche es." Als ich den Flur entlang kam, sah ich Mr. Morris aus dem Fenster schauen. Er drehte sich um, als er meine Schritte hörte. "Wie geht es Arthur?" sagte er. Dann bemerkte er meine geröteten Augen und fuhr fort: "Ah, ich sehe, du hast ihn getröstet. Armer alter Kerl! Er braucht es. Niemand außer einer Frau kann einem Mann helfen, wenn sein Herz Schmerzen hat; und er hatte niemanden, der ihn trösten konnte." Er trug sein eigenes Leid so tapfer, dass mein Herz für ihn blutete. Ich sah das Manuskript in seiner Hand und wusste, dass er, wenn er es lesen würde, erkennen würde, wie viel ich wusste. Also sagte ich zu ihm: "Ich wünschte, ich könnte alle trösten, die unter Herzschmerzen leiden. Wirst du mich als Freundin akzeptieren und zu mir um Trost kommen, wenn du ihn brauchst? Du wirst später verstehen, warum ich so spreche." Er sah, dass ich es ernst meinte, und beugte sich, nahm meine Hand und küsste sie. Es schien eine dürftige Trost zu sein für eine so tapfere und selbstlose Seele, und impulsiv beugte ich mich vor und küsste ihn. Die Tränen stiegen in seine Augen, und für einen Moment schnürte es ihm die Kehle zu; er sagte ganz ruhig: "Kleines Mädchen, du wirst diese aufrichtige Güte so lange nicht bereuen, wie du lebst!" Dann ging er in das Arbeitszimmer zu seinem Freund. "Kleines Mädchen!" - genau die Worte, die er auch bei Lucy benutzt hatte, und oh, er hat sich als Freund erwiesen! Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Auf Van Helsings Drängen hin kommen Jonathan und Mina Harker, um mit Seward in der Anstalt zu wohnen. Mina schreibt Sewards Tagebuch mit der Schreibmaschine ab und notiert den Bericht über Lucys Tod. In der Zwischenzeit liest Seward die Tagebücher der Harkers und erkennt zum ersten Mal, dass Dracula möglicherweise sein Nachbar ist und dass es eine Verbindung zwischen der Nähe des Vampirs und Renfields Verhalten geben könnte. Der wahnsinnige Renfield ist im Moment ruhig und Seward fragt sich, was diese Ruhe über Draculas Aufenthaltsort aussagt. Unterdessen recherchiert Jonathan die Kisten mit Erde, die von Transsilvanien nach England verschickt wurden. Er entdeckt, dass alle fünfzig in der Kapelle von Carfax ankamen, aber er befürchtet, dass einige in den letzten Wochen woanders hingelangt sein könnten. Mina bemerkt, dass Harker anscheinend vollständig von seiner Erfahrung in Transsilvanien genesen ist. Holmwood und Morris kommen in der Anstalt an und offensichtlich ist Holmwood von Lucys Tod immer noch schrecklich erschüttert.

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 two months the fugitives remained absent; in those two months, Mrs. Linton encountered and conquered the worst shock of what was denominated a brain fever. No mother could have nursed an only child more devotedly than Edgar tended her. Day and night he was watching, and patiently enduring all the annoyances that irritable nerves and a shaken reason could inflict; and, though Kenneth remarked that what he saved from the grave would only recompense his care by forming the source of constant future anxiety--in fact, that his health and strength were being sacrificed to preserve a mere ruin of humanity--he knew no limits in gratitude and joy when Catherine's life was declared out of danger; and hour after hour he would sit beside her, tracing the gradual return to bodily health, and flattering his too sanguine hopes with the illusion that her mind would settle back to its right balance also, and she would soon be entirely her former self. The first time she left her chamber was at the commencement of the following March. Mr. Linton had put on her pillow, in the morning, a handful of golden crocuses; her eye, long stranger to any gleam of pleasure, caught them in waking, and shone delighted as she gathered them eagerly together. 'These are the earliest flowers at the Heights,' she exclaimed. 'They remind me of soft thaw winds, and warm sunshine, and nearly melted snow. Edgar, is there not a south wind, and is not the snow almost gone?' 'The snow is quite gone down here, darling,' replied her husband; 'and I only see two white spots on the whole range of moors: the sky is blue, and the larks are singing, and the becks and brooks are all brim full. Catherine, last spring at this time, I was longing to have you under this roof; now, I wish you were a mile or two up those hills: the air blows so sweetly, I feel that it would cure you.' 'I shall never be there but once more,' said the invalid; 'and then you'll leave me, and I shall remain for ever. Next spring you'll long again to have me under this roof, and you'll look back and think you were happy to-day.' Linton lavished on her the kindest caresses, and tried to cheer her by the fondest words; but, vaguely regarding the flowers, she let the tears collect on her lashes and stream down her cheeks unheeding. We knew she was really better, and, therefore, decided that long confinement to a single place produced much of this despondency, and it might be partially removed by a change of scene. The master told me to light a fire in the many-weeks' deserted parlour, and to set an easy-chair in the sunshine by the window; and then he brought her down, and she sat a long while enjoying the genial heat, and, as we expected, revived by the objects round her: which, though familiar, were free from the dreary associations investing her hated sick chamber. By evening she seemed greatly exhausted; yet no arguments could persuade her to return to that apartment, and I had to arrange the parlour sofa for her bed, till another room could be prepared. To obviate the fatigue of mounting and descending the stairs, we fitted up this, where you lie at present--on the same floor with the parlour; and she was soon strong enough to move from one to the other, leaning on Edgar's arm. Ah, I thought myself, she might recover, so waited on as she was. And there was double cause to desire it, for on her existence depended that of another: we cherished the hope that in a little while Mr. Linton's heart would be gladdened, and his lands secured from a stranger's grip, by the birth of an heir. I should mention that Isabella sent to her brother, some six weeks from her departure, a short note, announcing her marriage with Heathcliff. It appeared dry and cold; but at the bottom was dotted in with pencil an obscure apology, and an entreaty for kind remembrance and reconciliation, if her proceeding had offended him: asserting that she could not help it then, and being done, she had now no power to repeal it. Linton did not reply to this, I believe; and, in a fortnight more, I got a long letter, which I considered odd, coming from the pen of a bride just out of the honeymoon. I'll read it: for I keep it yet. Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living. * * * * * DEAR ELLEN, it begins,--I came last night to Wuthering Heights, and heard, for the first time, that Catherine has been, and is yet, very ill. I must not write to her, I suppose, and my brother is either too angry or too distressed to answer what I sent him. Still, I must write to somebody, and the only choice left me is you. Inform Edgar that I'd give the world to see his face again--that my heart returned to Thrushcross Grange in twenty-four hours after I left it, and is there at this moment, full of warm feelings for him, and Catherine! _I can't follow it though_--(these words are underlined)--they need not expect me, and they may draw what conclusions they please; taking care, however, to lay nothing at the door of my weak will or deficient affection. The remainder of the letter is for yourself alone. I want to ask you two questions: the first is,--How did you contrive to preserve the common sympathies of human nature when you resided here? I cannot recognise any sentiment which those around share with me. The second question I have great interest in; it is this--Is Mr. Heathcliff a man? If so, is he mad? And if not, is he a devil? I sha'n't tell my reasons for making this inquiry; but I beseech you to explain, if you can, what I have married: that is, when you call to see me; and you must call, Ellen, very soon. Don't write, but come, and bring me something from Edgar. Now, you shall hear how I have been received in my new home, as I am led to imagine the Heights will be. It is to amuse myself that I dwell on such subjects as the lack of external comforts: they never occupy my thoughts, except at the moment when I miss them. I should laugh and dance for joy, if I found their absence was the total of my miseries, and the rest was an unnatural dream! The sun set behind the Grange as we turned on to the moors; by that, I judged it to be six o'clock; and my companion halted half an hour, to inspect the park, and the gardens, and, probably, the place itself, as well as he could; so it was dark when we dismounted in the paved yard of the farm-house, and your old fellow-servant, Joseph, issued out to receive us by the light of a dip candle. He did it with a courtesy that redounded to his credit. His first act was to elevate his torch to a level with my face, squint malignantly, project his under-lip, and turn away. Then he took the two horses, and led them into the stables; reappearing for the purpose of locking the outer gate, as if we lived in an ancient castle. Heathcliff stayed to speak to him, and I entered the kitchen--a dingy, untidy hole; I daresay you would not know it, it is so changed since it was in your charge. By the fire stood a ruffianly child, strong in limb and dirty in garb, with a look of Catherine in his eyes and about his mouth. 'This is Edgar's legal nephew,' I reflected--'mine in a manner; I must shake hands, and--yes--I must kiss him. It is right to establish a good understanding at the beginning.' I approached, and, attempting to take his chubby fist, said--'How do you do, my dear?' He replied in a jargon I did not comprehend. 'Shall you and I be friends, Hareton?' was my next essay at conversation. An oath, and a threat to set Throttler on me if I did not 'frame off' rewarded my perseverance. 'Hey, Throttler, lad!' whispered the little wretch, rousing a half-bred bull-dog from its lair in a corner. 'Now, wilt thou be ganging?' he asked authoritatively. Love for my life urged a compliance; I stepped over the threshold to wait till the others should enter. Mr. Heathcliff was nowhere visible; and Joseph, whom I followed to the stables, and requested to accompany me in, after staring and muttering to himself, screwed up his nose and replied--'Mim! mim! mim! Did iver Christian body hear aught like it? Mincing un' munching! How can I tell whet ye say?' 'I say, I wish you to come with me into the house!' I cried, thinking him deaf, yet highly disgusted at his rudeness. 'None o' me! I getten summut else to do,' he answered, and continued his work; moving his lantern jaws meanwhile, and surveying my dress and countenance (the former a great deal too fine, but the latter, I'm sure, as sad as he could desire) with sovereign contempt. I walked round the yard, and through a wicket, to another door, at which I took the liberty of knocking, in hopes some more civil servant might show himself. After a short suspense, it was opened by a tall, gaunt man, without neckerchief, and otherwise extremely slovenly; his features were lost in masses of shaggy hair that hung on his shoulders; and _his_ eyes, too, were like a ghostly Catherine's with all their beauty annihilated. 'What's your business here?' he demanded, grimly. 'Who are you?' 'My name was Isabella Linton,' I replied. 'You've seen me before, sir. I'm lately married to Mr. Heathcliff, and he has brought me here--I suppose, by your permission.' 'Is he come back, then?' asked the hermit, glaring like a hungry wolf. 'Yes--we came just now,' I said; 'but he left me by the kitchen door; and when I would have gone in, your little boy played sentinel over the place, and frightened me off by the help of a bull-dog.' 'It's well the hellish villain has kept his word!' growled my future host, searching the darkness beyond me in expectation of discovering Heathcliff; and then he indulged in a soliloquy of execrations, and threats of what he would have done had the 'fiend' deceived him. I repented having tried this second entrance, and was almost inclined to slip away before he finished cursing, but ere I could execute that intention, he ordered me in, and shut and re-fastened the door. There was a great fire, and that was all the light in the huge apartment, whose floor had grown a uniform grey; and the once brilliant pewter-dishes, which used to attract my gaze when I was a girl, partook of a similar obscurity, created by tarnish and dust. I inquired whether I might call the maid, and be conducted to a bedroom! Mr. Earnshaw vouchsafed no answer. He walked up and down, with his hands in his pockets, apparently quite forgetting my presence; and his abstraction was evidently so deep, and his whole aspect so misanthropical, that I shrank from disturbing him again. You'll not be surprised, Ellen, at my feeling particularly cheerless, seated in worse than solitude on that inhospitable hearth, and remembering that four miles distant lay my delightful home, containing the only people I loved on earth; and there might as well be the Atlantic to part us, instead of those four miles: I could not overpass them! I questioned with myself--where must I turn for comfort? and--mind you don't tell Edgar, or Catherine--above every sorrow beside, this rose pre-eminent: despair at finding nobody who could or would be my ally against Heathcliff! I had sought shelter at Wuthering Heights, almost gladly, because I was secured by that arrangement from living alone with him; but he knew the people we were coming amongst, and he did not fear their intermeddling. I sat and thought a doleful time: the clock struck eight, and nine, and still my companion paced to and fro, his head bent on his breast, and perfectly silent, unless a groan or a bitter ejaculation forced itself out at intervals. I listened to detect a woman's voice in the house, and filled the interim with wild regrets and dismal anticipations, which, at last, spoke audibly in irrepressible sighing and weeping. I was not aware how openly I grieved, till Earnshaw halted opposite, in his measured walk, and gave me a stare of newly-awakened surprise. Taking advantage of his recovered attention, I exclaimed--'I'm tired with my journey, and I want to go to bed! Where is the maid-servant? Direct me to her, as she won't come to me!' 'We have none,' he answered; 'you must wait on yourself!' 'Where must I sleep, then?' I sobbed; I was beyond regarding self-respect, weighed down by fatigue and wretchedness. 'Joseph will show you Heathcliff's chamber,' said he; 'open that door--he's in there.' I was going to obey, but he suddenly arrested me, and added in the strangest tone--'Be so good as to turn your lock, and draw your bolt--don't omit it!' 'Well!' I said. 'But why, Mr. Earnshaw?' I did not relish the notion of deliberately fastening myself in with Heathcliff. 'Look here!' he replied, pulling from his waistcoat a curiously-constructed pistol, having a double-edged spring knife attached to the barrel. 'That's a great tempter to a desperate man, is it not? I cannot resist going up with this every night, and trying his door. If once I find it open he's done for; I do it invariably, even though the minute before I have been recalling a hundred reasons that should make me refrain: it is some devil that urges me to thwart my own schemes by killing him. You fight against that devil for love as long as you may; when the time comes, not all the angels in heaven shall save him!' I surveyed the weapon inquisitively. A hideous notion struck me: how powerful I should be possessing such an instrument! I took it from his hand, and touched the blade. He looked astonished at the expression my face assumed during a brief second: it was not horror, it was covetousness. He snatched the pistol back, jealously; shut the knife, and returned it to its concealment. 'I don't care if you tell him,' said he. 'Put him on his guard, and watch for him. You know the terms we are on, I see: his danger does not shock you.' 'What has Heathcliff done to you?' I asked. 'In what has he wronged you, to warrant this appalling hatred? Wouldn't it be wiser to bid him quit the house?' 'No!' thundered Earnshaw; 'should he offer to leave me, he's a dead man: persuade him to attempt it, and you are a murderess! Am I to lose _all_, without a chance of retrieval? Is Hareton to be a beggar? Oh, damnation! I _will_ have it back; and I'll have _his_ gold too; and then his blood; and hell shall have his soul! It will be ten times blacker with that guest than ever it was before!' You've acquainted me, Ellen, with your old master's habits. He is clearly on the verge of madness: he was so last night at least. I shuddered to be near him, and thought on the servant's ill-bred moroseness as comparatively agreeable. He now recommenced his moody walk, and I raised the latch, and escaped into the kitchen. Joseph was bending over the fire, peering into a large pan that swung above it; and a wooden bowl of oatmeal stood on the settle close by. The contents of the pan began to boil, and he turned to plunge his hand into the bowl; I conjectured that this preparation was probably for our supper, and, being hungry, I resolved it should be eatable; so, crying out sharply, '_I'll_ make the porridge!' I removed the vessel out of his reach, and proceeded to take off my hat and riding-habit. 'Mr. Earnshaw,' I continued, 'directs me to wait on myself: I will. I'm not going to act the lady among you, for fear I should starve.' 'Gooid Lord!' he muttered, sitting down, and stroking his ribbed stockings from the knee to the ankle. 'If there's to be fresh ortherings--just when I getten used to two maisters, if I mun hev' a _mistress_ set o'er my heead, it's like time to be flitting. I niver _did_ think to see t' day that I mud lave th' owld place--but I doubt it's nigh at hand!' This lamentation drew no notice from me: I went briskly to work, sighing to remember a period when it would have been all merry fun; but compelled speedily to drive off the remembrance. It racked me to recall past happiness and the greater peril there was of conjuring up its apparition, the quicker the thible ran round, and the faster the handfuls of meal fell into the water. Joseph beheld my style of cookery with growing indignation. 'Thear!' he ejaculated. 'Hareton, thou willn't sup thy porridge to-neeght; they'll be naught but lumps as big as my neive. Thear, agean! I'd fling in bowl un' all, if I wer ye! There, pale t' guilp off, un' then ye'll hae done wi' 't. Bang, bang. It's a mercy t' bothom isn't deaved out!' It _was_ rather a rough mess, I own, when poured into the basins; four had been provided, and a gallon pitcher of new milk was brought from the dairy, which Hareton seized and commenced drinking and spilling from the expansive lip. I expostulated, and desired that he should have his in a mug; affirming that I could not taste the liquid treated so dirtily. The old cynic chose to be vastly offended at this nicety; assuring me, repeatedly, that 'the barn was every bit as good' as I, 'and every bit as wollsome,' and wondering how I could fashion to be so conceited. Meanwhile, the infant ruffian continued sucking; and glowered up at me defyingly, as he slavered into the jug. 'I shall have my supper in another room,' I said. 'Have you no place you call a parlour?' '_Parlour_!' he echoed, sneeringly, '_parlour_! Nay, we've noa _parlours_. If yah dunnut loike wer company, there's maister's; un' if yah dunnut loike maister, there's us.' 'Then I shall go up-stairs,' I answered; 'show me a chamber.' I put my basin on a tray, and went myself to fetch some more milk. With great grumblings, the fellow rose, and preceded me in my ascent: we mounted to the garrets; he opened a door, now and then, to look into the apartments we passed. 'Here's a rahm,' he said, at last, flinging back a cranky board on hinges. 'It's weel eneugh to ate a few porridge in. There's a pack o' corn i' t' corner, thear, meeterly clane; if ye're feared o' muckying yer grand silk cloes, spread yer hankerchir o' t' top on't.' The 'rahm' was a kind of lumber-hole smelling strong of malt and grain; various sacks of which articles were piled around, leaving a wide, bare space in the middle. 'Why, man,' I exclaimed, facing him angrily, 'this is not a place to sleep in. I wish to see my bed-room.' '_Bed-rume_!' he repeated, in a tone of mockery. 'Yah's see all t' _bed-rumes_ thear is--yon's mine.' He pointed into the second garret, only differing from the first in being more naked about the walls, and having a large, low, curtainless bed, with an indigo-coloured quilt, at one end. 'What do I want with yours?' I retorted. 'I suppose Mr. Heathcliff does not lodge at the top of the house, does he?' 'Oh! it's Maister _Hathecliff's_ ye're wanting?' cried he, as if making a new discovery. 'Couldn't ye ha' said soa, at onst? un' then, I mud ha' telled ye, baht all this wark, that that's just one ye cannut see--he allas keeps it locked, un' nob'dy iver mells on't but hisseln.' 'You've a nice house, Joseph,' I could not refrain from observing, 'and pleasant inmates; and I think the concentrated essence of all the madness in the world took up its abode in my brain the day I linked my fate with theirs! However, that is not to the present purpose--there are other rooms. For heaven's sake be quick, and let me settle somewhere!' He made no reply to this adjuration; only plodding doggedly down the wooden steps, and halting, before an apartment which, from that halt and the superior quality of its furniture, I conjectured to be the best one. There was a carpet--a good one, but the pattern was obliterated by dust; a fireplace hung with cut-paper, dropping to pieces; a handsome oak-bedstead with ample crimson curtains of rather expensive material and modern make; but they had evidently experienced rough usage: the vallances hung in festoons, wrenched from their rings, and the iron rod supporting them was bent in an arc on one side, causing the drapery to trail upon the floor. The chairs were also damaged, many of them severely; and deep indentations deformed the panels of the walls. I was endeavouring to gather resolution for entering and taking possession, when my fool of a guide announced,--'This here is t' maister's.' My supper by this time was cold, my appetite gone, and my patience exhausted. I insisted on being provided instantly with a place of refuge, and means of repose. 'Whear the divil?' began the religious elder. 'The Lord bless us! The Lord forgie us! Whear the _hell_ wold ye gang? ye marred, wearisome nowt! Ye've seen all but Hareton's bit of a cham'er. There's not another hoile to lig down in i' th' hahse!' I was so vexed, I flung my tray and its contents on the ground; and then seated myself at the stairs'-head, hid my face in my hands, and cried. 'Ech! ech!' exclaimed Joseph. 'Weel done, Miss Cathy! weel done, Miss Cathy! Howsiver, t' maister sall just tum'le o'er them brooken pots; un' then we's hear summut; we's hear how it's to be. Gooid-for-naught madling! ye desarve pining fro' this to Chrustmas, flinging t' precious gifts o'God under fooit i' yer flaysome rages! But I'm mista'en if ye shew yer sperrit lang. Will Hathecliff bide sich bonny ways, think ye? I nobbut wish he may catch ye i' that plisky. I nobbut wish he may.' And so he went on scolding to his den beneath, taking the candle with him; and I remained in the dark. The period of reflection succeeding this silly action compelled me to admit the necessity of smothering my pride and choking my wrath, and bestirring myself to remove its effects. An unexpected aid presently appeared in the shape of Throttler, whom I now recognised as a son of our old Skulker: it had spent its whelphood at the Grange, and was given by my father to Mr. Hindley. I fancy it knew me: it pushed its nose against mine by way of salute, and then hastened to devour the porridge; while I groped from step to step, collecting the shattered earthenware, and drying the spatters of milk from the banister with my pocket-handkerchief. Our labours were scarcely over when I heard Earnshaw's tread in the passage; my assistant tucked in his tail, and pressed to the wall; I stole into the nearest doorway. The dog's endeavour to avoid him was unsuccessful; as I guessed by a scutter down-stairs, and a prolonged, piteous yelping. I had better luck: he passed on, entered his chamber, and shut the door. Directly after Joseph came up with Hareton, to put him to bed. I had found shelter in Hareton's room, and the old man, on seeing me, said,--'They's rahm for boath ye un' yer pride, now, I sud think i' the hahse. It's empty; ye may hev' it all to yerseln, un' Him as allus maks a third, i' sich ill company!' Gladly did I take advantage of this intimation; and the minute I flung myself into a chair, by the fire, I nodded, and slept. My slumber was deep and sweet, though over far too soon. Mr. Heathcliff awoke me; he had just come in, and demanded, in his loving manner, what I was doing there? I told him the cause of my staying up so late--that he had the key of our room in his pocket. The adjective _our_ gave mortal offence. He swore it was not, nor ever should be, mine; and he'd--but I'll not repeat his language, nor describe his habitual conduct: he is ingenious and unresting in seeking to gain my abhorrence! I sometimes wonder at him with an intensity that deadens my fear: yet, I assure you, a tiger or a venomous serpent could not rouse terror in me equal to that which he wakens. He told me of Catherine's illness, and accused my brother of causing it promising that I should be Edgar's proxy in suffering, till he could get hold of him. I do hate him--I am wretched--I have been a fool! Beware of uttering one breath of this to any one at the Grange. I shall expect you every day--don't disappoint me!--ISABELLA. As soon as I had perused this epistle I went to the master, and informed him that his sister had arrived at the Heights, and sent me a letter expressing her sorrow for Mrs. Linton's situation, and her ardent desire to see him; with a wish that he would transmit to her, as early as possible, some token of forgiveness by me. 'Forgiveness!' said Linton. 'I have nothing to forgive her, Ellen. You may call at Wuthering Heights this afternoon, if you like, and say that I am not angry, but I'm sorry to have lost her; especially as I can never think she'll be happy. It is out of the question my going to see her, however: we are eternally divided; and should she really wish to oblige me, let her persuade the villain she has married to leave the country.' 'And you won't write her a little note, sir?' I asked, imploringly. 'No,' he answered. 'It is needless. My communication with Heathcliff's family shall be as sparing as his with mine. It shall not exist!' Mr. Edgar's coldness depressed me exceedingly; and all the way from the Grange I puzzled my brains how to put more heart into what he said, when I repeated it; and how to soften his refusal of even a few lines to console Isabella. I daresay she had been on the watch for me since morning: I saw her looking through the lattice as I came up the garden causeway, and I nodded to her; but she drew back, as if afraid of being observed. I entered without knocking. There never was such a dreary, dismal scene as the formerly cheerful house presented! I must confess, that if I had been in the young lady's place, I would, at least, have swept the hearth, and wiped the tables with a duster. But she already partook of the pervading spirit of neglect which encompassed her. Her pretty face was wan and listless; her hair uncurled: some locks hanging lankly down, and some carelessly twisted round her head. Probably she had not touched her dress since yester evening. Hindley was not there. Mr. Heathcliff sat at a table, turning over some papers in his pocket-book; but he rose when I appeared, asked me how I did, quite friendly, and offered me a chair. He was the only thing there that seemed decent; and I thought he never looked better. So much had circumstances altered their positions, that he would certainly have struck a stranger as a born and bred gentleman; and his wife as a thorough little slattern! She came forward eagerly to greet me, and held out one hand to take the expected letter. I shook my head. She wouldn't understand the hint, but followed me to a sideboard, where I went to lay my bonnet, and importuned me in a whisper to give her directly what I had brought. Heathcliff guessed the meaning of her manoeuvres, and said--'If you have got anything for Isabella (as no doubt you have, Nelly), give it to her. You needn't make a secret of it: we have no secrets between us.' 'Oh, I have nothing,' I replied, thinking it best to speak the truth at once. 'My master bid me tell his sister that she must not expect either a letter or a visit from him at present. He sends his love, ma'am, and his wishes for your happiness, and his pardon for the grief you have occasioned; but he thinks that after this time his household and the household here should drop intercommunication, as nothing could come of keeping it up.' Mrs. Heathcliff's lip quivered slightly, and she returned to her seat in the window. Her husband took his stand on the hearthstone, near me, and began to put questions concerning Catherine. I told him as much as I thought proper of her illness, and he extorted from me, by cross-examination, most of the facts connected with its origin. I blamed her, as she deserved, for bringing it all on herself; and ended by hoping that he would follow Mr. Linton's example and avoid future interference with his family, for good or evil. 'Mrs. Linton is now just recovering,' I said; 'she'll never be like she was, but her life is spared; and if you really have a regard for her, you'll shun crossing her way again: nay, you'll move out of this country entirely; and that you may not regret it, I'll inform you Catherine Linton is as different now from your old friend Catherine Earnshaw, as that young lady is different from me. Her appearance is changed greatly, her character much more so; and the person who is compelled, of necessity, to be her companion, will only sustain his affection hereafter by the remembrance of what she once was, by common humanity, and a sense of duty!' 'That is quite possible,' remarked Heathcliff, forcing himself to seem calm: 'quite possible that your master should have nothing but common humanity and a sense of duty to fall back upon. But do you imagine that I shall leave Catherine to his _duty_ and _humanity_? and can you compare my feelings respecting Catherine to his? Before you leave this house, I must exact a promise from you that you'll get me an interview with her: consent, or refuse, I _will_ see her! What do you say?' 'I say, Mr. Heathcliff,' I replied, 'you must not: you never shall, through my means. Another encounter between you and the master would kill her altogether.' 'With your aid that may be avoided,' he continued; 'and should there be danger of such an event--should he be the cause of adding a single trouble more to her existence--why, I think I shall be justified in going to extremes! I wish you had sincerity enough to tell me whether Catherine would suffer greatly from his loss: the fear that she would restrains me. And there you see the distinction between our feelings: had he been in my place, and I in his, though I hated him with a hatred that turned my life to gall, I never would have raised a hand against him. You may look incredulous, if you please! I never would have banished him from her society as long as she desired his. The moment her regard ceased, I would have torn his heart out, and drunk his blood! But, till then--if you don't believe me, you don't know me--till then, I would have died by inches before I touched a single hair of his head!' 'And yet,' I interrupted, 'you have no scruples in completely ruining all hopes of her perfect restoration, by thrusting yourself into her remembrance now, when she has nearly forgotten you, and involving her in a new tumult of discord and distress.' 'You suppose she has nearly forgotten me?' he said. 'Oh, Nelly! you know she has not! You know as well as I do, that for every thought she spends on Linton she spends a thousand on me! At a most miserable period of my life, I had a notion of the kind: it haunted me on my return to the neighbourhood last summer; but only her own assurance could make me admit the horrible idea again. And then, Linton would be nothing, nor Hindley, nor all the dreams that ever I dreamt. Two words would comprehend my future--_death_ and _hell_: existence, after losing her, would be hell. Yet I was a fool to fancy for a moment that she valued Edgar Linton's attachment more than mine. If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn't love as much in eighty years as I could in a day. And Catherine has a heart as deep as I have: the sea could be as readily contained in that horse-trough as her whole affection be monopolised by him. Tush! He is scarcely a degree dearer to her than her dog, or her horse. It is not in him to be loved like me: how can she love in him what he has not?' 'Catherine and Edgar are as fond of each other as any two people can be,' cried Isabella, with sudden vivacity. 'No one has a right to talk in that manner, and I won't hear my brother depreciated in silence!' 'Your brother is wondrous fond of you too, isn't he?' observed Heathcliff, scornfully. 'He turns you adrift on the world with surprising alacrity.' 'He is not aware of what I suffer,' she replied. 'I didn't tell him that.' 'You have been telling him something, then: you have written, have you?' 'To say that I was married, I did write--you saw the note.' 'And nothing since?' 'No.' 'My young lady is looking sadly the worse for her change of condition,' I remarked. 'Somebody's love comes short in her case, obviously; whose, I may guess; but, perhaps, I shouldn't say.' 'I should guess it was her own,' said Heathcliff. 'She degenerates into a mere slut! She is tired of trying to please me uncommonly early. You'd hardly credit it, but the very morrow of our wedding she was weeping to go home. However, she'll suit this house so much the better for not being over nice, and I'll take care she does not disgrace me by rambling abroad.' 'Well, sir,' returned I, 'I hope you'll consider that Mrs. Heathcliff is accustomed to be looked after and waited on; and that she has been brought up like an only daughter, whom every one was ready to serve. You must let her have a maid to keep things tidy about her, and you must treat her kindly. Whatever be your notion of Mr. Edgar, you cannot doubt that she has a capacity for strong attachments, or she wouldn't have abandoned the elegancies, and comforts, and friends of her former home, to fix contentedly, in such a wilderness as this, with you.' 'She abandoned them under a delusion,' he answered; 'picturing in me a hero of romance, and expecting unlimited indulgences from my chivalrous devotion. I can hardly regard her in the light of a rational creature, so obstinately has she persisted in forming a fabulous notion of my character and acting on the false impressions she cherished. But, at last, I think she begins to know me: I don't perceive the silly smiles and grimaces that provoked me at first; and the senseless incapability of discerning that I was in earnest when I gave her my opinion of her infatuation and herself. It was a marvellous effort of perspicacity to discover that I did not love her. I believed, at one time, no lessons could teach her that! And yet it is poorly learnt; for this morning she announced, as a piece of appalling intelligence, that I had actually succeeded in making her hate me! A positive labour of Hercules, I assure you! If it be achieved, I have cause to return thanks. Can I trust your assertion, Isabella? Are you sure you hate me? If I let you alone for half a day, won't you come sighing and wheedling to me again? I daresay she would rather I had seemed all tenderness before you: it wounds her vanity to have the truth exposed. But I don't care who knows that the passion was wholly on one side: and I never told her a lie about it. She cannot accuse me of showing one bit of deceitful softness. The first thing she saw me do, on coming out of the Grange, was to hang up her little dog; and when she pleaded for it, the first words I uttered were a wish that I had the hanging of every being belonging to her, except one: possibly she took that exception for herself. But no brutality disgusted her: I suppose she has an innate admiration of it, if only her precious person were secure from injury! Now, was it not the depth of absurdity--of genuine idiotcy, for that pitiful, slavish, mean-minded brach to dream that I could love her? Tell your master, Nelly, that I never, in all my life, met with such an abject thing as she is. She even disgraces the name of Linton; and I've sometimes relented, from pure lack of invention, in my experiments on what she could endure, and still creep shamefully cringing back! But tell him, also, to set his fraternal and magisterial heart at ease: that I keep strictly within the limits of the law. I have avoided, up to this period, giving her the slightest right to claim a separation; and, what's more, she'd thank nobody for dividing us. If she desired to go, she might: the nuisance of her presence outweighs the gratification to be derived from tormenting her!' 'Mr. Heathcliff,' said I, 'this is the talk of a madman; your wife, most likely, is convinced you are mad; and, for that reason, she has borne with you hitherto: but now that you say she may go, she'll doubtless avail herself of the permission. You are not so bewitched, ma'am, are you, as to remain with him of your own accord?' 'Take care, Ellen!' answered Isabella, her eyes sparkling irefully; there was no misdoubting by their expression the full success of her partner's endeavours to make himself detested. 'Don't put faith in a single word he speaks. He's a lying fiend! a monster, and not a human being! I've been told I might leave him before; and I've made the attempt, but I dare not repeat it! Only, Ellen, promise you'll not mention a syllable of his infamous conversation to my brother or Catherine. Whatever he may pretend, he wishes to provoke Edgar to desperation: he says he has married me on purpose to obtain power over him; and he sha'n't obtain it--I'll die first! I just hope, I pray, that he may forget his diabolical prudence and kill me! The single pleasure I can imagine is to die, or to see him dead!' 'There--that will do for the present!' said Heathcliff. 'If you are called upon in a court of law, you'll remember her language, Nelly! And take a good look at that countenance: she's near the point which would suit me. No; you're not fit to be your own guardian, Isabella, now; and I, being your legal protector, must retain you in my custody, however distasteful the obligation may be. Go up-stairs; I have something to say to Ellen Dean in private. That's not the way: up-stairs, I tell you! Why, this is the road upstairs, child!' He seized, and thrust her from the room; and returned muttering--'I have no pity! I have no pity! The more the worms writhe, the more I yearn to crush out their entrails! It is a moral teething; and I grind with greater energy in proportion to the increase of pain.' 'Do you understand what the word pity means?' I said, hastening to resume my bonnet. 'Did you ever feel a touch of it in your life?' 'Put that down!' he interrupted, perceiving my intention to depart. 'You are not going yet. Come here now, Nelly: I must either persuade or compel you to aid me in fulfilling my determination to see Catherine, and that without delay. I swear that I meditate no harm: I don't desire to cause any disturbance, or to exasperate or insult Mr. Linton; I only wish to hear from herself how she is, and why she has been ill; and to ask if anything that I could do would be of use to her. Last night I was in the Grange garden six hours, and I'll return there to-night; and every night I'll haunt the place, and every day, till I find an opportunity of entering. If Edgar Linton meets me, I shall not hesitate to knock him down, and give him enough to insure his quiescence while I stay. If his servants oppose me, I shall threaten them off with these pistols. But wouldn't it be better to prevent my coming in contact with them, or their master? And you could do it so easily. I'd warn you when I came, and then you might let me in unobserved, as soon as she was alone, and watch till I departed, your conscience quite calm: you would be hindering mischief.' I protested against playing that treacherous part in my employer's house: and, besides, I urged the cruelty and selfishness of his destroying Mrs. Linton's tranquillity for his satisfaction. 'The commonest occurrence startles her painfully,' I said. 'She's all nerves, and she couldn't bear the surprise, I'm positive. Don't persist, sir! or else I shall be obliged to inform my master of your designs; and he'll take measures to secure his house and its inmates from any such unwarrantable intrusions!' 'In that case I'll take measures to secure you, woman!' exclaimed Heathcliff; 'you shall not leave Wuthering Heights till to-morrow morning. It is a foolish story to assert that Catherine could not bear to see me; and as to surprising her, I don't desire it: you must prepare her--ask her if I may come. You say she never mentions my name, and that I am never mentioned to her. To whom should she mention me if I am a forbidden topic in the house? She thinks you are all spies for her husband. Oh, I've no doubt she's in hell among you! I guess by her silence, as much as anything, what she feels. You say she is often restless, and anxious-looking: is that a proof of tranquillity? You talk of her mind being unsettled. How the devil could it be otherwise in her frightful isolation? And that insipid, paltry creature attending her from _duty_ and _humanity_! From _pity_ and _charity_! He might as well plant an oak in a flower-pot, and expect it to thrive, as imagine he can restore her to vigour in the soil of his shallow cares? Let us settle it at once: will you stay here, and am I to fight my way to Catherine over Linton and his footman? Or will you be my friend, as you have been hitherto, and do what I request? Decide! because there is no reason for my lingering another minute, if you persist in your stubborn ill-nature!' Well, Mr. Lockwood, I argued and complained, and flatly refused him fifty times; but in the long run he forced me to an agreement. I engaged to carry a letter from him to my mistress; and should she consent, I promised to let him have intelligence of Linton's next absence from home, when he might come, and get in as he was able: I wouldn't be there, and my fellow-servants should be equally out of the way. Was it right or wrong? I fear it was wrong, though expedient. I thought I prevented another explosion by my compliance; and I thought, too, it might create a favourable crisis in Catherine's mental illness: and then I remembered Mr. Edgar's stern rebuke of my carrying tales; and I tried to smooth away all disquietude on the subject, by affirming, with frequent iteration, that that betrayal of trust, if it merited so harsh an appellation, should be the last. Notwithstanding, my journey homeward was sadder than my journey thither; and many misgivings I had, ere I could prevail on myself to put the missive into Mrs. Linton's hand. But here is Kenneth; I'll go down, and tell him how much better you are. My history is _dree_, as we say, and will serve to while away another morning. Dree, and dreary! I reflected as the good woman descended to receive the doctor: and not exactly of the kind which I should have chosen to amuse me. But never mind! I'll extract wholesome medicines from Mrs. Dean's bitter herbs; and firstly, let me beware of the fascination that lurks in Catherine Heathcliff's brilliant eyes. I should be in a curious taking if I surrendered my heart to that young person, and the daughter turned out a second edition of the mother. Another week over--and I am so many days nearer health, and spring! I have now heard all my neighbour's history, at different sittings, as the housekeeper could spare time from more important occupations. I'll continue it in her own words, only a little condensed. She is, on the whole, a very fair narrator, and I don't think I could improve her style. In the evening, she said, the evening of my visit to the Heights, I knew, as well as if I saw him, that Mr. Heathcliff was about the place; and I shunned going out, because I still carried his letter in my pocket, and didn't want to be threatened or teased any more. I had made up my mind not to give it till my master went somewhere, as I could not guess how its receipt would affect Catherine. The consequence was, that it did not reach her before the lapse of three days. The fourth was Sunday, and I brought it into her room after the family were gone to church. There was a manservant left to keep the house with me, and we generally made a practice of locking the doors during the hours of service; but on that occasion the weather was so warm and pleasant that I set them wide open, and, to fulfil my engagement, as I knew who would be coming, I told my companion that the mistress wished very much for some oranges, and he must run over to the village and get a few, to be paid for on the morrow. He departed, and I went up-stairs. Mrs. Linton sat in a loose white dress, with a light shawl over her shoulders, in the recess of the open window, as usual. Her thick, long hair had been partly removed at the beginning of her illness, and now she wore it simply combed in its natural tresses over her temples and neck. Her appearance was altered, as I had told Heathcliff; but when she was calm, there seemed unearthly beauty in the change. The flash of her eyes had been succeeded by a dreamy and melancholy softness; they no longer gave the impression of looking at the objects around her: they appeared always to gaze beyond, and far beyond--you would have said out of this world. Then, the paleness of her face--its haggard aspect having vanished as she recovered flesh--and the peculiar expression arising from her mental state, though painfully suggestive of their causes, added to the touching interest which she awakened; and--invariably to me, I know, and to any person who saw her, I should think--refuted more tangible proofs of convalescence, and stamped her as one doomed to decay. A book lay spread on the sill before her, and the scarcely perceptible wind fluttered its leaves at intervals. I believe Linton had laid it there: for she never endeavoured to divert herself with reading, or occupation of any kind, and he would spend many an hour in trying to entice her attention to some subject which had formerly been her amusement. She was conscious of his aim, and in her better moods endured his efforts placidly, only showing their uselessness by now and then suppressing a wearied sigh, and checking him at last with the saddest of smiles and kisses. At other times, she would turn petulantly away, and hide her face in her hands, or even push him off angrily; and then he took care to let her alone, for he was certain of doing no good. Gimmerton chapel bells were still ringing; and the full, mellow flow of the beck in the valley came soothingly on the ear. It was a sweet substitute for the yet absent murmur of the summer foliage, which drowned that music about the Grange when the trees were in leaf. At Wuthering Heights it always sounded on quiet days following a great thaw or a season of steady rain. And of Wuthering Heights Catherine was thinking as she listened: that is, if she thought or listened at all; but she had the vague, distant look I mentioned before, which expressed no recognition of material things either by ear or eye. 'There's a letter for you, Mrs. Linton,' I said, gently inserting it in one hand that rested on her knee. 'You must read it immediately, because it wants an answer. Shall I break the seal?' 'Yes,' she answered, without altering the direction of her eyes. I opened it--it was very short. 'Now,' I continued, 'read it.' She drew away her hand, and let it fall. I replaced it in her lap, and stood waiting till it should please her to glance down; but that movement was so long delayed that at last I resumed--'Must I read it, ma'am? It is from Mr. Heathcliff.' There was a start and a troubled gleam of recollection, and a struggle to arrange her ideas. She lifted the letter, and seemed to peruse it; and when she came to the signature she sighed: yet still I found she had not gathered its import, for, upon my desiring to hear her reply, she merely pointed to the name, and gazed at me with mournful and questioning eagerness. 'Well, he wishes to see you,' said I, guessing her need of an interpreter. 'He's in the garden by this time, and impatient to know what answer I shall bring.' As I spoke, I observed a large dog lying on the sunny grass beneath raise its ears as if about to bark, and then smoothing them back, announce, by a wag of the tail, that some one approached whom it did not consider a stranger. Mrs. Linton bent forward, and listened breathlessly. The minute after a step traversed the hall; the open house was too tempting for Heathcliff to resist walking in: most likely he supposed that I was inclined to shirk my promise, and so resolved to trust to his own audacity. With straining eagerness Catherine gazed towards the entrance of her chamber. He did not hit the right room directly: she motioned me to admit him, but he found it out ere I could reach the door, and in a stride or two was at her side, and had her grasped in his arms. He neither spoke nor loosed his hold for some five minutes, during which period he bestowed more kisses than ever he gave in his life before, I daresay: but then my mistress had kissed him first, and I plainly saw that he could hardly bear, for downright agony, to look into her face! The same conviction had stricken him as me, from the instant he beheld her, that there was no prospect of ultimate recovery there--she was fated, sure to die. 'Oh, Cathy! Oh, my life! how can I bear it?' was the first sentence he uttered, in a tone that did not seek to disguise his despair. And now he stared at her so earnestly that I thought the very intensity of his gaze would bring tears into his eyes; but they burned with anguish: they did not melt. 'What now?' said Catherine, leaning back, and returning his look with a suddenly clouded brow: her humour was a mere vane for constantly varying caprices. 'You and Edgar have broken my heart, Heathcliff! And you both come to bewail the deed to me, as if you were the people to be pitied! I shall not pity you, not I. You have killed me--and thriven on it, I think. How strong you are! How many years do you mean to live after I am gone?' Heathcliff had knelt on one knee to embrace her; he attempted to rise, but she seized his hair, and kept him down. 'I wish I could hold you,' she continued, bitterly, 'till we were both dead! I shouldn't care what you suffered. I care nothing for your sufferings. Why shouldn't you suffer? I do! Will you forget me? Will you be happy when I am in the earth? Will you say twenty years hence, "That's the grave of Catherine Earnshaw? I loved her long ago, and was wretched to lose her; but it is past. I've loved many others since: my children are dearer to me than she was; and, at death, I shall not rejoice that I am going to her: I shall be sorry that I must leave them!" Will you say so, Heathcliff?' 'Don't torture me till I'm as mad as yourself,' cried he, wrenching his head free, and grinding his teeth. The two, to a cool spectator, made a strange and fearful picture. Well might Catherine deem that heaven would be a land of exile to her, unless with her mortal body she cast away her moral character also. Her present countenance had a wild vindictiveness in its white cheek, and a bloodless lip and scintillating eye; and she retained in her closed fingers a portion of the locks she had been grasping. As to her companion, while raising himself with one hand, he had taken her arm with the other; and so inadequate was his stock of gentleness to the requirements of her condition, that on his letting go I saw four distinct impressions left blue in the colourless skin. 'Are you possessed with a devil,' he pursued, savagely, 'to talk in that manner to me when you are dying? Do you reflect that all those words will be branded in my memory, and eating deeper eternally after you have left me? You know you lie to say I have killed you: and, Catherine, you know that I could as soon forget you as my existence! Is it not sufficient for your infernal selfishness, that while you are at peace I shall writhe in the torments of hell?' 'I shall not be at peace,' moaned Catherine, recalled to a sense of physical weakness by the violent, unequal throbbing of her heart, which beat visibly and audibly under this excess of agitation. She said nothing further till the paroxysm was over; then she continued, more kindly-- 'I'm not wishing you greater torment than I have, Heathcliff. I only wish us never to be parted: and should a word of mine distress you hereafter, think I feel the same distress underground, and for my own sake, forgive me! Come here and kneel down again! You never harmed me in your life. Nay, if you nurse anger, that will be worse to remember than my harsh words! Won't you come here again? Do!' Heathcliff went to the back of her chair, and leant over, but not so far as to let her see his face, which was livid with emotion. She bent round to look at him; he would not permit it: turning abruptly, he walked to the fireplace, where he stood, silent, with his back towards us. Mrs. Linton's glance followed him suspiciously: every movement woke a new sentiment in her. After a pause and a prolonged gaze, she resumed; addressing me in accents of indignant disappointment:-- 'Oh, you see, Nelly, he would not relent a moment to keep me out of the grave. _That_ is how I'm loved! Well, never mind. That is not _my_ Heathcliff. I shall love mine yet; and take him with me: he's in my soul. And,' added she musingly, 'the thing that irks me most is this shattered prison, after all. I'm tired of being enclosed here. I'm wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there: not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart: but really with it, and in it. Nelly, you think you are better and more fortunate than I; in full health and strength: you are sorry for me--very soon that will be altered. I shall be sorry for _you_. I shall be incomparably beyond and above you all. I _wonder_ he won't be near me!' She went on to herself. 'I thought he wished it. Heathcliff, dear! you should not be sullen now. Do come to me, Heathcliff.' In her eagerness she rose and supported herself on the arm of the chair. At that earnest appeal he turned to her, looking absolutely desperate. His eyes, wide and wet, at last flashed fiercely on her; his breast heaved convulsively. An instant they held asunder, and then how they met I hardly saw, but Catherine made a spring, and he caught her, and they were locked in an embrace from which I thought my mistress would never be released alive: in fact, to my eyes, she seemed directly insensible. He flung himself into the nearest seat, and on my approaching hurriedly to ascertain if she had fainted, he gnashed at me, and foamed like a mad dog, and gathered her to him with greedy jealousy. I did not feel as if I were in the company of a creature of my own species: it appeared that he would not understand, though I spoke to him; so I stood off, and held my tongue, in great perplexity. A movement of Catherine's relieved me a little presently: she put up her hand to clasp his neck, and bring her cheek to his as he held her; while he, in return, covering her with frantic caresses, said wildly-- 'You teach me now how cruel you've been--cruel and false. _Why_ did you despise me? _Why_ did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they'll blight you--they'll damn you. You loved me--then what _right_ had you to leave me? What right--answer me--for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, _you_, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart--_you_ have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine. So much the worse for me that I am strong. Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you--oh, God! would _you_ like to live with your soul in the grave?' 'Let me alone. Let me alone,' sobbed Catherine. 'If I've done wrong, I'm dying for it. It is enough! You left me too: but I won't upbraid you! I forgive you. Forgive me!' 'It is hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes, and feel those wasted hands,' he answered. 'Kiss me again; and don't let me see your eyes! I forgive what you have done to me. I love _my_ murderer--but _yours_! How can I?' They were silent--their faces hid against each other, and washed by each other's tears. At least, I suppose the weeping was on both sides; as it seemed Heathcliff could weep on a great occasion like this. I grew very uncomfortable, meanwhile; for the afternoon wore fast away, the man whom I had sent off returned from his errand, and I could distinguish, by the shine of the western sun up the valley, a concourse thickening outside Gimmerton chapel porch. 'Service is over,' I announced. 'My master will be here in half an hour.' Heathcliff groaned a curse, and strained Catherine closer: she never moved. Ere long I perceived a group of the servants passing up the road towards the kitchen wing. Mr. Linton was not far behind; he opened the gate himself and sauntered slowly up, probably enjoying the lovely afternoon that breathed as soft as summer. 'Now he is here,' I exclaimed. 'For heaven's sake, hurry down! You'll not meet any one on the front stairs. Do be quick; and stay among the trees till he is fairly in.' 'I must go, Cathy,' said Heathcliff, seeking to extricate himself from his companion's arms. 'But if I live, I'll see you again before you are asleep. I won't stray five yards from your window.' 'You must not go!' she answered, holding him as firmly as her strength allowed. 'You _shall_ not, I tell you.' 'For one hour,' he pleaded earnestly. 'Not for one minute,' she replied. 'I _must_--Linton will be up immediately,' persisted the alarmed intruder. He would have risen, and unfixed her fingers by the act--she clung fast, gasping: there was mad resolution in her face. 'No!' she shrieked. 'Oh, don't, don't go. It is the last time! Edgar will not hurt us. Heathcliff, I shall die! I shall die!' 'Damn the fool! There he is,' cried Heathcliff, sinking back into his seat. 'Hush, my darling! Hush, hush, Catherine! I'll stay. If he shot me so, I'd expire with a blessing on my lips.' And there they were fast again. I heard my master mounting the stairs--the cold sweat ran from my forehead: I was horrified. 'Are you going to listen to her ravings?' I said, passionately. 'She does not know what she says. Will you ruin her, because she has not wit to help herself? Get up! You could be free instantly. That is the most diabolical deed that ever you did. We are all done for--master, mistress, and servant.' I wrung my hands, and cried out; and Mr. Linton hastened his step at the noise. In the midst of my agitation, I was sincerely glad to observe that Catherine's arms had fallen relaxed, and her head hung down. 'She's fainted, or dead,' I thought: 'so much the better. Far better that she should be dead, than lingering a burden and a misery-maker to all about her.' Edgar sprang to his unbidden guest, blanched with astonishment and rage. What he meant to do I cannot tell; however, the other stopped all demonstrations, at once, by placing the lifeless-looking form in his arms. 'Look there!' he said. 'Unless you be a fiend, help her first--then you shall speak to me!' Er trat in das Zimmer ein und setzte sich. Mr. Linton rief mich herbei und mit großer Schwierigkeit und nach vielen Versuchen gelang es uns, sie wieder zu Bewusstsein zu bringen. Aber sie war ganz verwirrt; sie seufzte und stöhnte und kannte niemanden. Edgar, in seiner Sorge um sie, vergaß ihren verhassten Freund. Ich tat es nicht. Ich ging bei der frühesten Gelegenheit und flehte ihn an, zu gehen; ich versicherte ihm, dass es Catherine besser ging und er am nächsten Morgen von mir hören würde, wie sie die Nacht verbracht hatte. "Ich werde nicht ablehnen, das Haus zu verlassen", antwortete er. "Aber ich werde im Garten bleiben, und, Nelly, sorge dafür, dass du dein Wort morgen hältst. Ich werde unter den Lärchenbäumen sein. Merk dir das! Ansonsten werde ich wieder vorbeikommen, ob Linton da ist oder nicht." Er warf einen schnellen Blick durch die halb offene Tür des Zimmers und stellte fest, dass meine Aussage offenbar stimmte. Damit entließ er das Haus von seiner unglücklichen Anwesenheit. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Cathy ist tatsächlich schwanger und Edgar versucht, sie wieder gesund zu pflegen. Er hofft auf einen männlichen Erben. Isabella hat Heathcliff geheiratet und schreibt an Edgar, um um Vergebung zu bitten, aber das wird ignoriert. Dann schreibt sie an Nelly und bittet sie, Wuthering Heights zu besuchen. Sie ist bestürzt über die Art und Weise, wie Heathcliff sie behandelt. In dem Brief erzählt sie von ihrer Einsamkeit, da Hareton, Joseph und Hindley unhöflich zu ihr sind. Sie bedauert es, Heathcliff geheiratet zu haben, und kann keinen Ausweg sehen. Als Heathcliff von Cathys Krankheit erfährt, gibt er Edgar die Schuld daran. Nelly besucht Wuthering Heights, kann Isabella aber keine Worte des Trostes von Edgar übermitteln, der immer noch keinen Kontakt mit ihr haben will. Heathcliff ist begierig darauf, etwas über Cathys Zustand zu erfahren und verletzt dabei offensichtlich Isabella. Heathcliff möchte Cathy sehen und bittet Nelly, das zu arrangieren. Sie lehnt ab, und Heathcliff antwortet, dass er zum Grange gehen wird und Nelly auf Wuthering Heights bleiben soll. Nelly stimmt schließlich widerwillig zu, einen Brief an Cathy zu überbringen. Vier Tage vergehen, bevor Nelly den Brief an Cathy übergeben kann, während der Rest des Haushalts in der Kirche ist. Cathy ist dem Tod nahe und hat nicht einmal die Kraft, den Brief zu halten. Gerade dann stürmt Heathcliff ins Zimmer und Cathy beschuldigt ihn und Edgar, ihr das Herz gebrochen zu haben. Sie umarmen sich, und dann beschuldigt Heathcliff Cathy, sich selbst vernachlässigt zu haben und dadurch den Tod herbeigeführt zu haben. Die verzweifelte Cathy weint und bittet um Vergebung. Heathcliff sagt, dass sie dafür verantwortlich ist, beide Herzen gebrochen zu haben. Er sagt ihr: "Ich vergebe dir, was du mir angetan hast. Ich liebe meinen Mörder, aber deinen! Wie kann ich?" Er betrachtet Cathy als Mörderin von beiden. Cathy bittet Heathcliff zu bleiben, und Edgar kehrt von der Kirche zurück und stürmt in Cathys Zimmer, wo Heathcliff Cathys Körper in Edgars Arme legt und ihn bittet, sich um sie zu kümmern, bevor er Heathcliff angreift. Nelly verspricht, Heathcliff über Cathys Zustand auf dem Laufenden zu halten.

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 was busy, from March to June. He kept himself from the bewilderment of thinking. His wife and the neighbors were generous. Every evening he played bridge or attended the movies, and the days were blank of face and silent. In June, Mrs. Babbitt and Tinka went East, to stay with relatives, and Babbitt was free to do--he was not quite sure what. All day long after their departure he thought of the emancipated house in which he could, if he desired, go mad and curse the gods without having to keep up a husbandly front. He considered, "I could have a reg'lar party to-night; stay out till two and not do any explaining afterwards. Cheers!" He telephoned to Vergil Gunch, to Eddie Swanson. Both of them were engaged for the evening, and suddenly he was bored by having to take so much trouble to be riotous. He was silent at dinner, unusually kindly to Ted and Verona, hesitating but not disapproving when Verona stated her opinion of Kenneth Escott's opinion of Dr. John Jennison Drew's opinion of the opinions of the evolutionists. Ted was working in a garage through the summer vacation, and he related his daily triumphs: how he had found a cracked ball-race, what he had said to the Old Grouch, what he had said to the foreman about the future of wireless telephony. Ted and Verona went to a dance after dinner. Even the maid was out. Rarely had Babbitt been alone in the house for an entire evening. He was restless. He vaguely wanted something more diverting than the newspaper comic strips to read. He ambled up to Verona's room, sat on her maidenly blue and white bed, humming and grunting in a solid-citizen manner as he examined her books: Conrad's "Rescue," a volume strangely named "Figures of Earth," poetry (quite irregular poetry, Babbitt thought) by Vachel Lindsay, and essays by H. L. Mencken--highly improper essays, making fun of the church and all the decencies. He liked none of the books. In them he felt a spirit of rebellion against niceness and solid-citizenship. These authors--and he supposed they were famous ones, too--did not seem to care about telling a good story which would enable a fellow to forget his troubles. He sighed. He noted a book, "The Three Black Pennies," by Joseph Hergesheimer. Ah, that was something like it! It would be an adventure story, maybe about counterfeiting--detectives sneaking up on the old house at night. He tucked the book under his arm, he clumped down-stairs and solemnly began to read, under the piano-lamp: "A twilight like blue dust sifted into the shallow fold of the thickly wooded hills. It was early October, but a crisping frost had already stamped the maple trees with gold, the Spanish oaks were hung with patches of wine red, the sumach was brilliant in the darkening underbrush. A pattern of wild geese, flying low and unconcerned above the hills, wavered against the serene ashen evening. Howat Penny, standing in the comparative clearing of a road, decided that the shifting regular flight would not come close enough for a shot.... He had no intention of hunting the geese. With the drooping of day his keenness had evaporated; an habitual indifference strengthened, permeating him...." There it was again: discontent with the good common ways. Babbitt laid down the book and listened to the stillness. The inner doors of the house were open. He heard from the kitchen the steady drip of the refrigerator, a rhythm demanding and disquieting. He roamed to the window. The summer evening was foggy and, seen through the wire screen, the street lamps were crosses of pale fire. The whole world was abnormal. While he brooded, Verona and Ted came in and went up to bed. Silence thickened in the sleeping house. He put on his hat, his respectable derby, lighted a cigar, and walked up and down before the house, a portly, worthy, unimaginative figure, humming "Silver Threads among the Gold." He casually considered, "Might call up Paul." Then he remembered. He saw Paul in a jailbird's uniform, but while he agonized he didn't believe the tale. It was part of the unreality of this fog-enchanted evening. If she were here Myra would be hinting, "Isn't it late, Georgie?" He tramped in forlorn and unwanted freedom. Fog hid the house now. The world was uncreated, a chaos without turmoil or desire. Through the mist came a man at so feverish a pace that he seemed to dance with fury as he entered the orb of glow from a street-lamp. At each step he brandished his stick and brought it down with a crash. His glasses on their broad pretentious ribbon banged against his stomach. Babbitt incredulously saw that it was Chum Frink. Frink stopped, focused his vision, and spoke with gravity: "There's another fool. George Babbitt. Lives for renting howshes--houses. Know who I am? I'm traitor to poetry. I'm drunk. I'm talking too much. I don't care. Know what I could 've been? I could 've been a Gene Field or a James Whitcomb Riley. Maybe a Stevenson. I could 've. Whimsies. 'Magination. Lissen. Lissen to this. Just made it up: Glittering summery meadowy noise Of beetles and bums and respectable boys. Hear that? Whimzh--whimsy. I made that up. I don't know what it means! Beginning good verse. Chile's Garden Verses. And whadi write? Tripe! Cheer-up poems. All tripe! Could have written--Too late!" He darted on with an alarming plunge, seeming always to pitch forward yet never quite falling. Babbitt would have been no more astonished and no less had a ghost skipped out of the fog carrying his head. He accepted Frink with vast apathy; he grunted, "Poor boob!" and straightway forgot him. He plodded into the house, deliberately went to the refrigerator and rifled it. When Mrs. Babbitt was at home, this was one of the major household crimes. He stood before the covered laundry tubs, eating a chicken leg and half a saucer of raspberry jelly, and grumbling over a clammy cold boiled potato. He was thinking. It was coming to him that perhaps all life as he knew it and vigorously practised it was futile; that heaven as portrayed by the Reverend Dr. John Jennison Drew was neither probable nor very interesting; that he hadn't much pleasure out of making money; that it was of doubtful worth to rear children merely that they might rear children who would rear children. What was it all about? What did he want? He blundered into the living-room, lay on the davenport, hands behind his head. What did he want? Wealth? Social position? Travel? Servants? Yes, but only incidentally. "I give it up," he sighed. But he did know that he wanted the presence of Paul Riesling; and from that he stumbled into the admission that he wanted the fairy girl--in the flesh. If there had been a woman whom he loved, he would have fled to her, humbled his forehead on her knees. He thought of his stenographer, Miss McGoun. He thought of the prettiest of the manicure girls at the Hotel Thornleigh barber shop. As he fell asleep on the davenport he felt that he had found something in life, and that he had made a terrifying, thrilling break with everything that was decent and normal. II He had forgotten, next morning, that he was a conscious rebel, but he was irritable in the office and at the eleven o'clock drive of telephone calls and visitors he did something he had often desired and never dared: he left the office without excuses to those slave-drivers his employees, and went to the movies. He enjoyed the right to be alone. He came out with a vicious determination to do what he pleased. As he approached the Roughnecks' Table at the club, everybody laughed. "Well, here's the millionaire!" said Sidney Finkelstein. "Yes, I saw him in his Locomobile!" said Professor Pumphrey. "Gosh, it must be great to be a smart guy like Georgie!" moaned Vergil Gunch. "He's probably stolen all of Dorchester. I'd hate to leave a poor little defenseless piece of property lying around where he could get his hooks on it!" They had, Babbitt perceived, "something on him." Also, they "had their kidding clothes on." Ordinarily he would have been delighted at the honor implied in being chaffed, but he was suddenly touchy. He grunted, "Yuh, sure; maybe I'll take you guys on as office boys!" He was impatient as the jest elaborately rolled on to its denouement. "Of course he may have been meeting a girl," they said, and "No, I think he was waiting for his old roommate, Sir Jerusalem Doak." He exploded, "Oh, spring it, spring it, you boneheads! What's the great joke?" "Hurray! George is peeved!" snickered Sidney Finkelstein, while a grin went round the table. Gunch revealed the shocking truth: He had seen Babbitt coming out of a motion-picture theater--at noon! They kept it up. With a hundred variations, a hundred guffaws, they said that he had gone to the movies during business-hours. He didn't so much mind Gunch, but he was annoyed by Sidney Finkelstein, that brisk, lean, red-headed explainer of jokes. He was bothered, too, by the lump of ice in his glass of water. It was too large; it spun round and burned his nose when he tried to drink. He raged that Finkelstein was like that lump of ice. But he won through; he kept up his banter till they grew tired of the superlative jest and turned to the great problems of the day. He reflected, "What's the matter with me to-day? Seems like I've got an awful grouch. Only they talk so darn much. But I better steer careful and keep my mouth shut." As they lighted their cigars he mumbled, "Got to get back," and on a chorus of "If you WILL go spending your mornings with lady ushers at the movies!" he escaped. He heard them giggling. He was embarrassed. While he was most bombastically agreeing with the coat-man that the weather was warm, he was conscious that he was longing to run childishly with his troubles to the comfort of the fairy child. III He kept Miss McGoun after he had finished dictating. He searched for a topic which would warm her office impersonality into friendliness. "Where you going on your vacation?" he purred. "I think I'll go up-state to a farm do you want me to have the Siddons lease copied this afternoon?" "Oh, no hurry about it.... I suppose you have a great time when you get away from us cranks in the office." She rose and gathered her pencils. "Oh, nobody's cranky here I think I can get it copied after I do the letters." She was gone. Babbitt utterly repudiated the view that he had been trying to discover how approachable was Miss McGoun. "Course! knew there was nothing doing!" he said. IV Eddie Swanson, the motor-car agent who lived across the street from Babbitt, was giving a Sunday supper. His wife Louetta, young Louetta who loved jazz in music and in clothes and laughter, was at her wildest. She cried, "We'll have a real party!" as she received the guests. Babbitt had uneasily felt that to many men she might be alluring; now he admitted that to himself she was overwhelmingly alluring. Mrs. Babbitt had never quite approved of Louetta; Babbitt was glad that she was not here this evening. He insisted on helping Louetta in the kitchen: taking the chicken croquettes from the warming-oven, the lettuce sandwiches from the ice-box. He held her hand, once, and she depressingly didn't notice it. She caroled, "You're a good little mother's-helper, Georgie. Now trot in with the tray and leave it on the side-table." He wished that Eddie Swanson would give them cocktails; that Louetta would have one. He wanted--Oh, he wanted to be one of these Bohemians you read about. Studio parties. Wild lovely girls who were independent. Not necessarily bad. Certainly not! But not tame, like Floral Heights. How he'd ever stood it all these years-- Eddie did not give them cocktails. True, they supped with mirth, and with several repetitions by Orville Jones of "Any time Louetta wants to come sit on my lap I'll tell this sandwich to beat it!" but they were respectable, as befitted Sunday evening. Babbitt had discreetly preempted a place beside Louetta on the piano bench. While he talked about motors, while he listened with a fixed smile to her account of the film she had seen last Wednesday, while he hoped that she would hurry up and finish her description of the plot, the beauty of the leading man, and the luxury of the setting, he studied her. Slim waist girdled with raw silk, strong brows, ardent eyes, hair parted above a broad forehead--she meant youth to him and a charm which saddened. He thought of how valiant a companion she would be on a long motor tour, exploring mountains, picnicking in a pine grove high above a valley. Her frailness touched him; he was angry at Eddie Swanson for the incessant family bickering. All at once he identified Louetta with the fairy girl. He was startled by the conviction that they had always had a romantic attraction for each other. "I suppose you're leading a simply terrible life, now you're a widower," she said. "You bet! I'm a bad little fellow and proud of it. Some evening you slip Eddie some dope in his coffee and sneak across the road and I'll show you how to mix a cocktail," he roared. "Well, now, I might do it! You never can tell!" "Well, whenever you're ready, you just hang a towel out of the attic window and I'll jump for the gin!" Every one giggled at this naughtiness. In a pleased way Eddie Swanson stated that he would have a physician analyze his coffee daily. The others were diverted to a discussion of the more agreeable recent murders, but Babbitt drew Louetta back to personal things: "That's the prettiest dress I ever saw in my life." "Do you honestly like it?" "Like it? Why, say, I'm going to have Kenneth Escott put a piece in the paper saying that the swellest dressed woman in the U. S. is Mrs. E. Louetta Swanson." "Now, you stop teasing me!" But she beamed. "Let's dance a little. George, you've got to dance with me." Even as he protested, "Oh, you know what a rotten dancer I am!" he was lumbering to his feet. "I'll teach you. I can teach anybody." Her eyes were moist, her voice was jagged with excitement. He was convinced that he had won her. He clasped her, conscious of her smooth warmth, and solemnly he circled in a heavy version of the one-step. He bumped into only one or two people. "Gosh, I'm not doing so bad; hittin' 'em up like a regular stage dancer!" he gloated; and she answered busily, "Yes--yes--I told you I could teach anybody--DON'T TAKE SUCH LONG STEPS!" For a moment he was robbed of confidence; with fearful concentration he sought to keep time to the music. But he was enveloped again by her enchantment. "She's got to like me; I'll make her!" he vowed. He tried to kiss the lock beside her ear. She mechanically moved her head to avoid it, and mechanically she murmured, "Don't!" For a moment he hated her, but after the moment he was as urgent as ever. He danced with Mrs. Orville Jones, but he watched Louetta swooping down the length of the room with her husband. "Careful! You're getting foolish!" he cautioned himself, the while he hopped and bent his solid knees in dalliance with Mrs. Jones, and to that worthy lady rumbled, "Gee, it's hot!" Without reason, he thought of Paul in that shadowy place where men never dance. "I'm crazy to-night; better go home," he worried, but he left Mrs. Jones and dashed to Louetta's lovely side, demanding, "The next is mine." "Oh, I'm so hot; I'm not going to dance this one." "Then," boldly, "come out and sit on the porch and get all nice and cool." "Well--" In the tender darkness, with the clamor in the house behind them, he resolutely took her hand. She squeezed his once, then relaxed. "Louetta! I think you're the nicest thing I know!" "Well, I think you're very nice." "Do you? You got to like me! I'm so lonely!" "Oh, you'll be all right when your wife comes home." "No, I'm always lonely." Sie faltete ihre Hände unter ihrem Kinn und er wagte es nicht, sie zu berühren. Er seufzte: "Wenn ich mich schlecht fühle und..." Er wollte eigentlich die Tragödie von Paul ansprechen, aber das war selbst für die Diplomatie der Liebe zu heilig. "Wenn ich mich im Büro müde und gestresst fühle, schaue ich gerne auf die andere Straßenseite und denke an dich. Weißt du, ich habe einmal von dir geträumt!" "War es ein schöner Traum?" "Herrlich!" "Oh, nun ja, sie sagen, Träume funktionieren genau andersherum! Jetzt muss ich gehen." Sie stand auf. "Oh, geh noch nicht rein! Bitte, Louetta!" "Ja, ich muss gehen. Ich muss auf meine Gäste achten." "Lass sie doch selbst auf sich aufpassen!" "Das könnte ich nicht machen." Sie klopfte ihm beiläufig auf die Schulter und schlüpfte davon. Aber nach zwei Minuten beschämenden und kindlichen Verlangens, sich heimlich nach Hause zu schleichen, schnaubte er: "Natürlich habe ich nicht versucht, mit ihr anzubändeln! Habe die ganze Zeit gewusst, dass da nichts läuft!" und ging hinüber, um mit Mrs. Orville Jones zu tanzen, und um Louetta rechtschaffen und auffällig zu meiden. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Im Juni reisen Myra und Tinka Babbitt, um Verwandte zu besuchen. An einem Abend, an dem Ted und Verona beide nicht da sind, hat George das Haus für sich. Unsicher, was er mit dieser ungewöhnlichen Freiheit anfangen soll, verspürt er erneut eine "Unzufriedenheit mit den guten gewöhnlichen Wegen". Während er grübelt, geht Chum Frink betrunken am Haus vorbei, ruft George einen Narren und suhlt sich in Selbstmitleid für den Schriftsteller, der er hätte sein können, es aber niemals sein wird. Plötzlich ist George von dem Gefühl getroffen, dass "das gesamte Leben, wie er es kannte und energisch praktizierte, sinnlos war". Er hinterfragt seine Wünsche nach Reichtum und sozialer Stellung und schläft ein, während er an hübsche junge Frauen denkt und spürt, dass er einen "schrecklichen, aufregenden Bruch mit allem, was anständig und moralisch ist" vollzieht. Am nächsten Tag verlässt er das Büro, um einen Nachmittagsfilm anzusehen. Später am Abend besucht Babbitt ein Sonntagsessen, das von Eddie Swanson ausgerichtet wird. Dort kokettiert er mit Louetta Swanson, die seine Komplimente schätzt und mit ihm tanzt - aber letztendlich weist sie ihn zurück.

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

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Das Stück hat einen vollständigen Kreislauf genommen, und die Besetzung ist nun zum Palast zurückgekehrt, wo Theseus und Hippolyta das seltsame Märchen der Liebenden diskutieren, das ihnen von den Ereignissen des vorherigen Abends erzählt wurde. Die freudigen Liebenden treten ein, und Theseus entscheidet, dass es an der Zeit ist, die Festlichkeiten für den Abend zu planen. Von allen möglichen Aufführungen erweist sich das Stück "Pyramus und Thisbe" als das vielversprechendste. Theseus ist fasziniert von der paradoxen Zusammenfassung des Stücks, die darauf hinweist, dass es sowohl fröhlich als auch tragisch, langweilig und kurz ist. Philostrate versucht, Theseus davon abzubringen, dieses Stück zu wählen, aber Theseus denkt, dass seine Einfachheit erfrischend sein wird. Im Rest der Szene präsentieren die Spieler "Pyramus und Thisbe", begleitet von den kritischen Kommentaren der Liebenden. Hippolyta ist von dieser erbärmlichen Schauspielerei angewidert, aber Theseus argumentiert, dass selbst die besten Schauspieler nur eine kurze Illusion schaffen; die Schlechtesten müssen von einem einfallsreichen Publikum unterstützt werden. Nach der Vorstellung erhebt sich Bottom von den Toten und fragt Theseus, ob er ein Epilog hören oder einen rustikalen Tanz sehen möchte. Theseus entscheidet sich für den Tanz und verliert die Geduld mit dem Schauspiel der Spieler. Das Stück endet mit drei Epilogen. Der erste ist Pucks poetischer Monolog, während er die Bühne fegt. Oberon und Titania segnen das Haus und die zukünftigen Kinder der Liebenden. Das Stück endet mit Pucks abschließender Rede, in der er sich für die Schwäche der Vorstellung entschuldigt und verspricht, dass die nächste Produktion besser sein wird.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Mr. and Mrs. Glegg at Home In order to see Mr. and Mrs. Glegg at home, we must enter the town of St. Ogg's,--that venerable town with the red fluted roofs and the broad warehouse gables, where the black ships unlade themselves of their burthens from the far north, and carry away, in exchange, the precious inland products, the well-crushed cheese and the soft fleeces which my refined readers have doubtless become acquainted with through the medium of the best classic pastorals. It is one of those old, old towns which impress one as a continuation and outgrowth of nature, as much as the nests of the bower-birds or the winding galleries of the white ants; a town which carries the traces of its long growth and history like a millennial tree, and has sprung up and developed in the same spot between the river and the low hill from the time when the Roman legions turned their backs on it from the camp on the hillside, and the long-haired sea-kings came up the river and looked with fierce, eager eyes at the fatness of the land. It is a town "familiar with forgotten years." The shadow of the Saxon hero-king still walks there fitfully, reviewing the scenes of his youth and love-time, and is met by the gloomier shadow of the dreadful heathen Dane, who was stabbed in the midst of his warriors by the sword of an invisible avenger, and who rises on autumn evenings like a white mist from his tumulus on the hill, and hovers in the court of the old hall by the river-side, the spot where he was thus miraculously slain in the days before the old hall was built. It was the Normans who began to build that fine old hall, which is, like the town, telling of the thoughts and hands of widely sundered generations; but it is all so old that we look with loving pardon at its inconsistencies, and are well content that they who built the stone oriel, and they who built the Gothic facade and towers of finest small brickwork with the trefoil ornament, and the windows and battlements defined with stone, did not sacreligiously pull down the ancient half-timbered body with its oak-roofed banqueting-hall. But older even than this old hall is perhaps the bit of wall now built into the belfry of the parish church, and said to be a remnant of the original chapel dedicated to St. Ogg, the patron saint of this ancient town, of whose history I possess several manuscript versions. I incline to the briefest, since, if it should not be wholly true, it is at least likely to contain the least falsehood. "Ogg the son of Beorl," says my private hagiographer, "was a boatman who gained a scanty living by ferrying passengers across the river Floss. And it came to pass, one evening when the winds were high, that there sat moaning by the brink of the river a woman with a child in her arms; and she was clad in rags, and had a worn and withered look, and she craved to be rowed across the river. And the men thereabout questioned her, and said, 'Wherefore dost thou desire to cross the river? Tarry till the morning, and take shelter here for the night; so shalt thou be wise and not foolish.' Still she went on to mourn and crave. But Ogg the son of Beorl came up and said, 'I will ferry thee across; it is enough that thy heart needs it.' And he ferried her across. And it came to pass, when she stepped ashore, that her rags were turned into robes of flowing white, and her face became bright with exceeding beauty, and there was a glory around it, so that she shed a light on the water like the moon in its brightness. And she said, 'Ogg, the son of Beorl, thou art blessed in that thou didst not question and wrangle with the heart's need, but wast smitten with pity, and didst straightway relieve the same. And from henceforth whoso steps into thy boat shall be in no peril from the storm; and whenever it puts forth to the rescue, it shall save the lives both of men and beasts.' And when the floods came, many were saved by reason of that blessing on the boat. But when Ogg the son of Beorl died, behold, in the parting of his soul, the boat loosed itself from its moorings, and was floated with the ebbing tide in great swiftness to the ocean, and was seen no more. Yet it was witnessed in the floods of aftertime, that at the coming on of eventide, Ogg the son of Beorl was always seen with his boat upon the wide-spreading waters, and the Blessed Virgin sat in the prow, shedding a light around as of the moon in its brightness, so that the rowers in the gathering darkness took heart and pulled anew." This legend, one sees, reflects from a far-off time the visitation of the floods, which, even when they left human life untouched, were widely fatal to the helpless cattle, and swept as sudden death over all smaller living things. But the town knew worse troubles even than the floods,--troubles of the civil wars, when it was a continual fighting-place, where first Puritans thanked God for the blood of the Loyalists, and then Loyalists thanked God for the blood of the Puritans. Many honest citizens lost all their possessions for conscience' sake in those times, and went forth beggared from their native town. Doubtless there are many houses standing now on which those honest citizens turned their backs in sorrow,--quaint-gabled houses looking on the river, jammed between newer warehouses, and penetrated by surprising passages, which turn and turn at sharp angles till they lead you out on a muddy strand overflowed continually by the rushing tide. Everywhere the brick houses have a mellow look, and in Mrs. Glegg's day there was no incongruous new-fashioned smartness, no plate-glass in shop-windows, no fresh stucco-facing or other fallacious attempt to make fine old red St. Ogg's wear the air of a town that sprang up yesterday. The shop-windows were small and unpretending; for the farmers' wives and daughters who came to do their shopping on market-days were not to be withdrawn from their regular well-known shops; and the tradesmen had no wares intended for customers who would go on their way and be seen no more. Ah! even Mrs. Glegg's day seems far back in the past now, separated from us by changes that widen the years. War and the rumor of war had then died out from the minds of men, and if they were ever thought of by the farmers in drab greatcoats, who shook the grain out of their sample-bags and buzzed over it in the full market-place, it was as a state of things that belonged to a past golden age when prices were high. Surely the time was gone forever when the broad river could bring up unwelcome ships; Russia was only the place where the linseed came from,--the more the better,--making grist for the great vertical millstones with their scythe-like arms, roaring and grinding and carefully sweeping as if an informing soul were in them. The Catholics, bad harvests, and the mysterious fluctuations of trade were the three evils mankind had to fear; even the floods had not been great of late years. The mind of St. Ogg's did not look extensively before or after. It inherited a long past without thinking of it, and had no eyes for the spirits that walk the streets. Since the centuries when St. Ogg with his boat and the Virgin Mother at the prow had been seen on the wide water, so many memories had been left behind, and had gradually vanished like the receding hilltops! And the present time was like the level plain where men lose their belief in volcanoes and earthquakes, thinking to-morrow will be as yesterday, and the giant forces that used to shake the earth are forever laid to sleep. The days were gone when people could be greatly wrought upon by their faith, still less change it; the Catholics were formidable because they would lay hold of government and property, and burn men alive; not because any sane and honest parishioner of St. Ogg's could be brought to believe in the Pope. One aged person remembered how a rude multitude had been swayed when John Wesley preached in the cattle-market; but for a long while it had not been expected of preachers that they should shake the souls of men. An occasional burst of fervor in Dissenting pulpits on the subject of infant baptism was the only symptom of a zeal unsuited to sober times when men had done with change. Protestantism sat at ease, unmindful of schisms, careless of proselytism: Dissent was an inheritance along with a superior pew and a business connection; and Churchmanship only wondered contemptuously at Dissent as a foolish habit that clung greatly to families in the grocery and chandlering lines, though not incompatible with prosperous wholesale dealing. But with the Catholic Question had come a slight wind of controversy to break the calm: the elderly rector had become occasionally historical and argumentative; and Mr. Spray, the Independent minister, had begun to preach political sermons, in which he distinguished with much subtlety between his fervent belief in the right of the Catholics to the franchise and his fervent belief in their eternal perdition. Most of Mr. Spray's hearers, however, were incapable of following his subtleties, and many old-fashioned Dissenters were much pained by his "siding with the Catholics"; while others thought he had better let politics alone. Public spirit was not held in high esteem at St. Ogg's, and men who busied themselves with political questions were regarded with some suspicion, as dangerous characters; they were usually persons who had little or no business of their own to manage, or, if they had, were likely enough to become insolvent. This was the general aspect of things at St. Ogg's in Mrs. Glegg's day, and at that particular period in her family history when she had had her quarrel with Mr. Tulliver. It was a time when ignorance was much more comfortable than at present, and was received with all the honors in very good society, without being obliged to dress itself in an elaborate costume of knowledge; a time when cheap periodicals were not, and when country surgeons never thought of asking their female patients if they were fond of reading, but simply took it for granted that they preferred gossip; a time when ladies in rich silk gowns wore large pockets, in which they carried a mutton-bone to secure them against cramp. Mrs. Glegg carried such a bone, which she had inherited from her grandmother with a brocaded gown that would stand up empty, like a suit of armor, and a silver-headed walking-stick; for the Dodson family had been respectable for many generations. Mrs. Glegg had both a front and a back parlor in her excellent house at St. Ogg's, so that she had two points of view from which she could observe the weakness of her fellow-beings, and reinforce her thankfulness for her own exceptional strength of mind. From her front window she could look down the Tofton Road, leading out of St. Ogg's, and note the growing tendency to "gadding about" in the wives of men not retired from business, together with a practice of wearing woven cotton stockings, which opened a dreary prospect for the coming generation; and from her back windows she could look down the pleasant garden and orchard which stretched to the river, and observe the folly of Mr. Glegg in spending his time among "them flowers and vegetables." For Mr. Glegg, having retired from active business as a wool-stapler for the purpose of enjoying himself through the rest of his life, had found this last occupation so much more severe than his business, that he had been driven into amateur hard labor as a dissipation, and habitually relaxed by doing the work of two ordinary gardeners. The economizing of a gardener's wages might perhaps have induced Mrs. Glegg to wink at this folly, if it were possible for a healthy female mind even to simulate respect for a husband's hobby. But it is well known that this conjugal complacency belongs only to the weaker portion of the sex, who are scarcely alive to the responsibilities of a wife as a constituted check on her husband's pleasures, which are hardly ever of a rational or commendable kind. Mr. Glegg on his side, too, had a double source of mental occupation, which gave every promise of being inexhaustible. On the one hand, he surprised himself by his discoveries in natural history, finding that his piece of garden-ground contained wonderful caterpillars, slugs, and insects, which, so far as he had heard, had never before attracted human observation; and he noticed remarkable coincidences between these zoological phenomena and the great events of that time,--as, for example, that before the burning of York Minster there had been mysterious serpentine marks on the leaves of the rose-trees, together with an unusual prevalence of slugs, which he had been puzzled to know the meaning of, until it flashed upon him with this melancholy conflagration. (Mr. Glegg had an unusual amount of mental activity, which, when disengaged from the wool business, naturally made itself a pathway in other directions.) And his second subject of meditation was the "contrairiness" of the female mind, as typically exhibited in Mrs. Glegg. That a creature made--in a genealogical sense--out of a man's rib, and in this particular case maintained in the highest respectability without any trouble of her own, should be normally in a state of contradiction to the blandest propositions and even to the most accommodating concessions, was a mystery in the scheme of things to which he had often in vain sought a clew in the early chapters of Genesis. Mr. Glegg had chosen the eldest Miss Dodson as a handsome embodiment of female prudence and thrift, and being himself of a money-getting, money-keeping turn, had calculated on much conjugal harmony. But in that curious compound, the feminine character, it may easily happen that the flavor is unpleasant in spite of excellent ingredients; and a fine systematic stinginess may be accompanied with a seasoning that quite spoils its relish. Now, good Mr. Glegg himself was stingy in the most amiable manner; his neighbors called him "near," which always means that the person in question is a lovable skinflint. If you expressed a preference for cheese-parings, Mr. Glegg would remember to save them for you, with a good-natured delight in gratifying your palate, and he was given to pet all animals which required no appreciable keep. There was no humbug or hypocrisy about Mr. Glegg; his eyes would have watered with true feeling over the sale of a widow's furniture, which a five-pound note from his side pocket would have prevented; but a donation of five pounds to a person "in a small way of life" would have seemed to him a mad kind of lavishness rather than "charity," which had always presented itself to him as a contribution of small aids, not a neutralizing of misfortune. And Mr. Glegg was just as fond of saving other people's money as his own; he would have ridden as far round to avoid a turnpike when his expenses were to be paid for him, as when they were to come out of his own pocket, and was quite zealous in trying to induce indifferent acquaintances to adopt a cheap substitute for blacking. This inalienable habit of saving, as an end in itself, belonged to the industrious men of business of a former generation, who made their fortunes slowly, almost as the tracking of the fox belongs to the harrier,--it constituted them a "race," which is nearly lost in these days of rapid money-getting, when lavishness comes close on the back of want. In old-fashioned times an "independence" was hardly ever made without a little miserliness as a condition, and you would have found that quality in every provincial district, combined with characters as various as the fruits from which we can extract acid. The true Harpagons were always marked and exceptional characters; not so the worthy tax-payers, who, having once pinched from real necessity, retained even in the midst of their comfortable retirement, with their wallfruit and wine-bins, the habit of regarding life as an ingenious process of nibbling out one's livelihood without leaving any perceptible deficit, and who would have been as immediately prompted to give up a newly taxed luxury when they had had their clear five hundred a year, as when they had only five hundred pounds of capital. Mr. Glegg was one of these men, found so impracticable by chancellors of the exchequer; and knowing this, you will be the better able to understand why he had not swerved from the conviction that he had made an eligible marriage, in spite of the too-pungent seasoning that nature had given to the eldest Miss Dodson's virtues. A man with an affectionate disposition, who finds a wife to concur with his fundamental idea of life, easily comes to persuade himself that no other woman would have suited him so well, and does a little daily snapping and quarrelling without any sense of alienation. Mr. Glegg, being of a reflective turn, and no longer occupied with wool, had much wondering meditation on the peculiar constitution of the female mind as unfolded to him in his domestic life; and yet he thought Mrs. Glegg's household ways a model for her sex. It struck him as a pitiable irregularity in other women if they did not roll up their table-napkins with the same tightness and emphasis as Mrs. Glegg did, if their pastry had a less leathery consistence, and their damson cheese a less venerable hardness than hers; nay, even the peculiar combination of grocery and druglike odors in Mrs. Glegg's private cupboard impressed him as the only right thing in the way of cupboard smells. I am not sure that he would not have longed for the quarrelling again, if it had ceased for an entire week; and it is certain that an acquiescent, mild wife would have left his meditations comparatively jejune and barren of mystery. Mr. Glegg's unmistakable kind-heartedness was shown in this, that it pained him more to see his wife at variance with others,--even with Dolly, the servant,--than to be in a state of cavil with her himself; and the quarrel between her and Mr. Tulliver vexed him so much that it quite nullified the pleasure he would otherwise have had in the state of his early cabbages, as he walked in his garden before breakfast the next morning. Still, he went in to breakfast with some slight hope that, now Mrs. Glegg had "slept upon it," her anger might be subdued enough to give way to her usually strong sense of family decorum. She had been used to boast that there had never been any of those deadly quarrels among the Dodsons which had disgraced other families; that no Dodson had ever been "cut off with a shilling," and no cousin of the Dodsons disowned; as, indeed, why should they be? For they had no cousins who had not money out at use, or some houses of their own, at the very least. There was one evening-cloud which had always disappeared from Mrs. Glegg's brow when she sat at the breakfast-table. It was her fuzzy front of curls; for as she occupied herself in household matters in the morning it would have been a mere extravagance to put on anything so superfluous to the making of leathery pastry as a fuzzy curled front. By half-past ten decorum demanded the front; until then Mrs. Glegg could economize it, and society would never be any the wiser. But the absence of that cloud only left it more apparent that the cloud of severity remained; and Mr. Glegg, perceiving this, as he sat down to his milkporridge, which it was his old frugal habit to stem his morning hunger with, prudently resolved to leave the first remark to Mrs. Glegg, lest, to so delicate an article as a lady's temper, the slightest touch should do mischief. People who seem to enjoy their ill temper have a way of keeping it in fine condition by inflicting privations on themselves. That was Mrs. Glegg's way. She made her tea weaker than usual this morning, and declined butter. It was a hard case that a vigorous mood for quarrelling, so highly capable of using an opportunity, should not meet with a single remark from Mr. Glegg on which to exercise itself. But by and by it appeared that his silence would answer the purpose, for he heard himself apostrophized at last in that tone peculiar to the wife of one's bosom. "Well, Mr. Glegg! it's a poor return I get for making you the wife I've made you all these years. If this is the way I'm to be treated, I'd better ha' known it before my poor father died, and then, when I'd wanted a home, I should ha' gone elsewhere, as the choice was offered me." Mr. Glegg paused from his porridge and looked up, not with any new amazement, but simply with that quiet, habitual wonder with which we regard constant mysteries. "Why, Mrs. G., what have I done now?" "Done now, Mr. Glegg? _done now?_--I'm sorry for you." Not seeing his way to any pertinent answer, Mr. Glegg reverted to his porridge. "There's husbands in the world," continued Mrs. Glegg, after a pause, "as 'ud have known how to do something different to siding with everybody else against their own wives. Perhaps I'm wrong and you can teach me better. But I've allays heard as it's the husband's place to stand by the wife, instead o' rejoicing and triumphing when folks insult her." "Now, what call have you to say that?" said Mr. Glegg, rather warmly, for though a kind man, he was not as meek as Moses. "When did I rejoice or triumph over you?" "There's ways o' doing things worse than speaking out plain, Mr. Glegg. I'd sooner you'd tell me to my face as you make light of me, than try to make out as everybody's in the right but me, and come to your breakfast in the morning, as I've hardly slept an hour this night, and sulk at me as if I was the dirt under your feet." "Sulk at you?" said Mr. Glegg, in a tone of angry facetiousness. "You're like a tipsy man as thinks everybody's had too much but himself." "Don't lower yourself with using coarse language to _me_, Mr. Glegg! It makes you look very small, though you can't see yourself," said Mrs. Glegg, in a tone of energetic compassion. "A man in your place should set an example, and talk more sensible." "Yes; but will you listen to sense?" retorted Mr. Glegg, sharply. "The best sense I can talk to you is what I said last night,--as you're i' the wrong to think o' calling in your money, when it's safe enough if you'd let it alone, all because of a bit of a tiff, and I was in hopes you'd ha' altered your mind this morning. But if you'd like to call it in, don't do it in a hurry now, and breed more enmity in the family, but wait till there's a pretty mortgage to be had without any trouble. You'd have to set the lawyer to work now to find an investment, and make no end o' expense." Mrs. Glegg felt there was really something in this, but she tossed her head and emitted a guttural interjection to indicate that her silence was only an armistice, not a peace. And, in fact hostilities soon broke out again. "I'll thank you for my cup o' tea, now, Mrs. G.," said Mr. Glegg, seeing that she did not proceed to give it him as usual, when he had finished his porridge. She lifted the teapot with a slight toss of the head, and said,-- "I'm glad to hear you'll _thank_ me, Mr. Glegg. It's little thanks _I_ get for what I do for folks i' this world. Though there's never a woman o' _your_ side o' the family, Mr. Glegg, as is fit to stand up with me, and I'd say it if I was on my dying bed. Not but what I've allays conducted myself civil to your kin, and there isn't one of 'em can say the contrary, though my equils they aren't, and nobody shall make me say it." "You'd better leave finding fault wi' my kin till you've left off quarrelling with you own, Mrs. G.," said Mr. Glegg, with angry sarcasm. "I'll trouble you for the milk-jug." "That's as false a word as ever you spoke, Mr. Glegg," said the lady, pouring out the milk with unusual profuseness, as much as to say, if he wanted milk he should have it with a vengeance. "And you know it's false. I'm not the woman to quarrel with my own kin; _you_ may, for I've known you to do it." "Why, what did you call it yesterday, then, leaving your sister's house in a tantrum?" "I'd no quarrel wi' my sister, Mr. Glegg, and it's false to say it. Mr. Tulliver's none o' my blood, and it was him quarrelled with me, and drove me out o' the house. But perhaps you'd have had me stay and be swore at, Mr. Glegg; perhaps you was vexed not to hear more abuse and foul language poured out upo' your own wife. But, let me tell you, it's _your_ disgrace." "Did ever anybody hear the like i' this parish?" said Mr. Glegg, getting hot. "A woman, with everything provided for her, and allowed to keep her own money the same as if it was settled on her, and with a gig new stuffed and lined at no end o' expense, and provided for when I die beyond anything she could expect--to go on i' this way, biting and snapping like a mad dog! It's beyond everything, as God A 'mighty should ha' made women _so_." (These last words were uttered in a tone of sorrowful agitation. Mr. Glegg pushed his tea from him, and tapped the table with both his hands.) "Well, Mr. Glegg, if those are your feelings, it's best they should be known," said Mrs. Glegg, taking off her napkin, and folding it in an excited manner. "But if you talk o' my being provided for beyond what I could expect, I beg leave to tell you as I'd a right to expect a many things as I don't find. And as to my being like a mad dog, it's well if you're not cried shame on by the county for your treatment of me, for it's what I can't bear, and I won't bear----" Here Mrs. Glegg's voice intimated that she was going to cry, and breaking off from speech, she rang the bell violently. "Sally," she said, rising from her chair, and speaking in rather a choked voice, "light a fire up-stairs, and put the blinds down. Mr. Glegg, you'll please to order what you'd like for dinner. I shall have gruel." Mrs. Glegg walked across the room to the small book-case, and took down Baxter's "Saints' Everlasting Rest," which she carried with her up-stairs. It was the book she was accustomed to lay open before her on special occasions,--on wet Sunday mornings, or when she heard of a death in the family, or when, as in this case, her quarrel with Mr. Glegg had been set an octave higher than usual. But Mrs. Glegg carried something else up-stairs with her, which, together with the "Saints' Rest" and the gruel, may have had some influence in gradually calming her feelings, and making it possible for her to endure existence on the ground-floor, shortly before tea-time. This was, partly, Mr. Glegg's suggestion that she would do well to let her five hundred lie still until a good investment turned up; and, further, his parenthetic hint at his handsome provision for her in case of his death. Mr. Glegg, like all men of his stamp, was extremely reticent about his will; and Mrs. Glegg, in her gloomier moments, had forebodings that, like other husbands of whom she had heard, he might cherish the mean project of heightening her grief at his death by leaving her poorly off, in which case she was firmly resolved that she would have scarcely any weeper on her bonnet, and would cry no more than if he had been a second husband. But if he had really shown her any testamentary tenderness, it would be affecting to think of him, poor man, when he was gone; and even his foolish fuss about the flowers and garden-stuff, and his insistence on the subject of snails, would be touching when it was once fairly at an end. To survive Mr. Glegg, and talk eulogistically of him as a man who might have his weaknesses, but who had done the right thing by her, not-withstanding his numerous poor relations; to have sums of interest coming in more frequently, and secrete it in various corners, baffling to the most ingenious of thieves (for, to Mrs. Glegg's mind, banks and strong-boxes would have nullified the pleasure of property; she might as well have taken her food in capsules); finally, to be looked up to by her own family and the neighborhood, so as no woman can ever hope to be who has not the praeterite and present dignity comprised in being a "widow well left,"--all this made a flattering and conciliatory view of the future. So that when good Mr. Glegg, restored to good humor by much hoeing, and moved by the sight of his wife's empty chair, with her knitting rolled up in the corner, went up-stairs to her, and observed that the bell had been tolling for poor Mr. Morton, Mrs. Glegg answered magnanimously, quite as if she had been an uninjured woman: "Ah! then, there'll be a good business for somebody to take to." Baxter had been open at least eight hours by this time, for it was nearly five o'clock; and if people are to quarrel often, it follows as a corollary that their quarrels cannot be protracted beyond certain limits. Mr. and Mrs. Glegg talked quite amicably about the Tullivers that evening. Mr. Glegg went the length of admitting that Tulliver was a sad man for getting into hot water, and was like enough to run through his property; and Mrs. Glegg, meeting this acknowledgment half-way, declared that it was beneath her to take notice of such a man's conduct, and that, for her sister's sake, she would let him keep the five hundred a while longer, for when she put it out on a mortgage she should only get four per cent. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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

St. Ogg's ist "eine dieser alten, alten Städte, die man als Fortsetzung und Wachstum der Natur betrachtet." Sie ist nach ihrem Schutzheiligen benannt, einem Bootsman, der eine Fähre über den Fluss Floss betrieb. Es wird gesagt, dass an einem Abend, als der Wind hoch war, eine Frau mit einem Kind den Fluss überqueren wollte, aber niemand sie mitnahm. Ogg hatte Mitleid mit ihr und brachte sie hinüber. Als sie an Land ging, "verwandelten sich ihre Lumpen in weiße Kleider" und sie segnete Ogg und sein Boot, sodass er bei Hochwasser vielen Menschen das Leben rettete. Als er starb, löste sich sein Boot von seiner Ankerstelle und trieb zum Meer hinaus, aber seitdem konnte man ihn abends auf dem Wasser mit der Heiligen Jungfrau in seinem Boot sehen, wenn die Fluten kamen. Die alten Zeiten sind in St. Ogg's vergessen worden, denn die Stadt "hatte keine Augen für die Geister, die durch die Straßen gingen." Glaube ist für niemanden wichtig, Ignoranz wird "mit allen Ehren in der gehobenen Gesellschaft empfangen" und Respektabilität wird von einer Generation an die nächste weitergegeben. Das ist die Stadt, in der die Gleggs leben. Herr Glegg ist ein pensionierter Wollhändler, der sich nun seinem Garten und seinen Gedanken über die "Widerspenstigkeit" des weiblichen Geistes widmet. Seine Frau ist das beste Beispiel für Widerspenstigkeit. Er wählte sie, weil sie schön und sparsam war, aber irgendwie passt ihre Geizigkeit nicht zu seiner eigenen. Herr Glegg ist "ein liebenswerter Geizhals", aber während seine Frau auch geizig ist, ist sie weniger liebenswert. Dennoch hat er sich überzeugt, dass "ein wenig tägliches Schnappen und Streiten" nicht zu beanstanden ist. Heute schweigt er beim Frühstück, damit es keine Gelegenheit zum Streiten gibt, "aber es stellte sich heraus, dass sein Schweigen den Zweck erfüllen würde." Sie verachtet ihn dafür, dass er Tulliver erlaubt hat, sie zu beleidigen. Er erwidert, dass sie, wie er schon gesagt hat, falsch liegt, wenn sie daran denkt, ihr Geld einzufordern, da es anderswo schwer sein wird, so viel Rendite zu erzielen. Sie neigt dazu, dem zuzustimmen, setzt aber den Streit fort, bis Herr Glegg darauf hinweist, dass er für sie nach seinem Tod "mehr vorgesorgt hat, als sie erwarten konnte." Daraufhin zieht sich Frau Glegg in ihr Zimmer zurück, offenbar immer noch verärgert, um den Gedanken an ein "gut versorgte Witwe" zu hegen. Als Herr Glegg nach der Gartenarbeit hereinkommt, ist sie ganz herzlich und stimmt zu, Tulliver das Geld noch etwas länger zu lassen.

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: INTRODUCTORY--ANCESTRY--THE NORTHUP FAMILY--BIRTH AND PARENTAGE--MINTUS NORTHUP--MARRIAGE WITH ANNE HAMPTON--GOOD RESOLUTIONS--CHAMPLAIN CANAL--RAFTING EXCURSION TO CANADA--FARMING--THE VIOLIN--COOKING--REMOVAL TO SARATOGA--PARKER AND PERRY--SLAVES AND SLAVERY--THE CHILDREN--THE BEGINNING OF SORROW. Having been born a freeman, and for more than thirty years enjoyed the blessings of liberty in a free State--and having at the end of that time been kidnapped and sold into Slavery, where I remained, until happily rescued in the month of January, 1853, after a bondage of twelve years--it has been suggested that an account of my life and fortunes would not be uninteresting to the public. Since my return to liberty, I have not failed to perceive the increasing interest throughout the Northern States, in regard to the subject of Slavery. Works of fiction, professing to portray its features in their more pleasing as well as more repugnant aspects, have been circulated to an extent unprecedented, and, as I understand, have created a fruitful topic of comment and discussion. I can speak of Slavery only so far as it came under my own observation--only so far as I have known and experienced it in my own person. My object is, to give a candid and truthful statement of facts: to repeat the story of my life, without exaggeration, leaving it for others to determine, whether even the pages of fiction present a picture of more cruel wrong or a severer bondage. As far back as I have been able to ascertain, my ancestors on the paternal side were slaves in Rhode Island. They belonged to a family by the name of Northup, one of whom, removing to the State of New-York, settled at Hoosic, in Rensselaer county. He brought with him Mintus Northup, my father. On the death of this gentleman, which must have occurred some fifty years ago, my father became free, having been emancipated by a direction in his will. Henry B. Northup, Esq., of Sandy Hill, a distinguished counselor at law, and the man to whom, under Providence, I am indebted for my present liberty, and my return to the society of my wife and children, is a relative of the family in which my forefathers were thus held to service, and from which they took the name I bear. To this fact may be attributed the persevering interest he has taken in my behalf. Sometime after my father's liberation, he removed to the town of Minerva, Essex county, N. Y., where I was born, in the month of July, 1808. How long he remained in the latter place I have not the means of definitely ascertaining. From thence he removed to Granville, Washington county, near a place known as Slyborough, where, for some years, he labored on the farm of Clark Northup, also a relative of his old master; from thence he removed to the Alden farm, at Moss Street, a short distance north of the village of Sandy Hill; and from thence to the farm now owned by Russel Pratt, situated on the road leading from Fort Edward to Argyle, where he continued to reside until his death, which took place on the 22d day of November, 1829. He left a widow and two children--myself, and Joseph, an elder brother. The latter is still living in the county of Oswego, near the city of that name; my mother died during the period of my captivity. Though born a slave, and laboring under the disadvantages to which my unfortunate race is subjected, my father was a man respected for his industry and integrity, as many now living, who well remember him, are ready to testify. His whole life was passed in the peaceful pursuits of agriculture, never seeking employment in those more menial positions, which seem to be especially allotted to the children of Africa. Besides giving us an education surpassing that ordinarily bestowed upon children in our condition, he acquired, by his diligence and economy, a sufficient property qualification to entitle him to the right of suffrage. He was accustomed to speak to us of his early life; and although at all times cherishing the warmest emotions of kindness, and even of affection towards the family, in whose house he had been a bondsman, he nevertheless comprehended the system of Slavery, and dwelt with sorrow on the degradation of his race. He endeavored to imbue our minds with sentiments of morality, and to teach us to place our trust and confidence in Him who regards the humblest as well as the highest of his creatures. How often since that time has the recollection of his paternal counsels occurred to me, while lying in a slave hut in the distant and sickly regions of Louisiana, smarting with the undeserved wounds which an inhuman master had inflicted, and longing only for the grave which had covered him, to shield me also from the lash of the oppressor. In the church-yard at Sandy Hill, an humble stone marks the spot where he reposes, after having worthily performed the duties appertaining to the lowly sphere wherein God had appointed him to walk. Up to this period I had been principally engaged with my father in the labors of the farm. The leisure hours allowed me were generally either employed over my books, or playing on the violin--an amusement which was the ruling passion of my youth. It has also been the source of consolation since, affording pleasure to the simple beings with whom my lot was cast, and beguiling my own thoughts, for many hours, from the painful contemplation of my fate. On Christmas day, 1829, I was married to Anne Hampton, a colored girl then living in the vicinity of our residence. The ceremony was performed at Fort Edward, by Timothy Eddy, Esq., a magistrate of that town, and still a prominent citizen of the place. She had resided a long time at Sandy Hill, with Mr. Baird, proprietor of the Eagle Tavern, and also in the family of Rev. Alexander Proudfit, of Salem. This gentleman for many years had presided over the Presbyterian society at the latter place, and was widely distinguished for his learning and piety. Anne still holds in grateful remembrance the exceeding kindness and the excellent counsels of that good man. She is not able to determine the exact line of her descent, but the blood of three races mingles in her veins. It is difficult to tell whether the red, white, or black predominates. The union of them all, however, in her origin, has given her a singular but pleasing expression, such as is rarely to be seen. Though somewhat resembling, yet she cannot properly be styled a quadroon, a class to which, I have omitted to mention, my mother belonged. I had just now passed the period of my minority, having reached the age of twenty-one years in the month of July previous. Deprived of the advice and assistance of my father, with a wife dependent upon me for support, I resolved to enter upon a life of industry; and notwithstanding the obstacle of color, and the consciousness of my lowly state, indulged in pleasant dreams of a good time coming, when the possession of some humble habitation, with a few surrounding acres, should reward my labors, and bring me the means of happiness and comfort. From the time of my marriage to this day the love I have borne my wife has been sincere and unabated; and only those who have felt the glowing tenderness a father cherishes for his offspring, can appreciate my affection for the beloved children which have since been born to us. This much I deem appropriate and necessary to say, in order that those who read these pages, may comprehend the poignancy of those sufferings I have been doomed to bear. Immediately upon our marriage we commenced house-keeping, in the old yellow building then standing at the southern extremity of Fort Edward village, and which has since been transformed into a modern mansion, and lately occupied by Captain Lathrop. It is known as the Fort House. In this building the courts were sometime held after the organization of the county. It was also occupied by Burgoyne in 1777, being situated near the old Fort on the left bank of the Hudson. During the winter I was employed with others repairing the Champlain Canal, on that section over which William Van Nortwick was superintendent. David McEachron had the immediate charge of the men in whose company I labored. By the time the canal opened in the spring, I was enabled, from the savings of my wages, to purchase a pair of horses, and other things necessarily required in the business of navigation. Having hired several efficient hands to assist me, I entered into contracts for the transportation of large rafts of timber from Lake Champlain to Troy. Dyer Beckwith and a Mr. Bartemy, of Whitehall, accompanied me on several trips. During the season I became perfectly familiar with the art and mysteries of rafting--a knowledge which afterwards enabled me to render profitable service to a worthy master, and to astonish the simple-witted lumbermen on the banks of the Bayou Boeuf. In one of my voyages down Lake Champlain, I was induced to make a visit to Canada. Repairing to Montreal, I visited the cathedral and other places of interest in that city, from whence I continued my excursion to Kingston and other towns, obtaining a knowledge of localities, which was also of service to me afterwards, as will appear towards the close of this narrative. Having completed my contracts on the canal satisfactorily to myself and to my employer, and not wishing to remain idle, now that the navigation of the canal was again suspended, I entered into another contract with Medad Gunn, to cut a large quantity of wood. In this business I was engaged during the winter of 1831-32. With the return of spring, Anne and myself conceived the project of taking a farm in the neighborhood. I had been accustomed from earliest youth to agricultural labors, and it was an occupation congenial to my tastes. I accordingly entered into arrangements for a part of the old Alden farm, on which my father formerly resided. With one cow, one swine, a yoke of fine oxen I had lately purchased of Lewis Brown, in Hartford, and other personal property and effects, we proceeded to our new home in Kingsbury. That year I planted twenty-five acres of corn, sowed large fields of oats, and commenced farming upon as large a scale as my utmost means would permit. Anne was diligent about the house affairs, while I toiled laboriously in the field. On this place we continued to reside until 1834. In the winter season I had numerous calls to play on the violin. Wherever the young people assembled to dance, I was almost invariably there. Throughout the surrounding villages my fiddle was notorious. Anne, also, during her long residence at the Eagle Tavern, had become somewhat famous as a cook. During court weeks, and on public occasions, she was employed at high wages in the kitchen at Sherrill's Coffee House. We always returned home from the performance of these services with money in our pockets; so that, with fiddling, cooking, and farming, we soon found ourselves in the possession of abundance, and, in fact, leading a happy and prosperous life. Well, indeed, would it have been for us had we remained on the farm at Kingsbury; but the time came when the next step was to be taken towards the cruel destiny that awaited me. In March, 1834, we removed to Saratoga Springs. We occupied a house belonging to Daniel O'Brien, on the north side of Washington street. At that time Isaac Taylor kept a large boarding house, known as Washington Hall, at the north end of Broadway. He employed me to drive a hack, in which capacity I worked for him two years. After this time I was generally employed through the visiting season, as also was Anne, in the United States Hotel, and other public houses of the place. In winter seasons I relied upon my violin, though during the construction of the Troy and Saratoga railroad, I performed many hard days' labor upon it. I was in the habit, at Saratoga, of purchasing articles necessary for my family at the stores of Mr. Cephas Parker and Mr. William Perry, gentlemen towards whom, for many acts of kindness, I entertained feelings of strong regard. It was for this reason that, twelve years afterwards, I caused to be directed to them the letter, which is hereinafter inserted, and which was the means, in the hands of Mr. Northup, of my fortunate deliverance. While living at the United States Hotel, I frequently met with slaves, who had accompanied their masters from the South. They were always well dressed and well provided for, leading apparently an easy life, with but few of its ordinary troubles to perplex them. Many times they entered into conversation with me on the subject of Slavery. Almost uniformly I found they cherished a secret desire for liberty. Some of them expressed the most ardent anxiety to escape, and consulted me on the best method of effecting it. The fear of punishment, however, which they knew was certain to attend their re-capture and return, in all cases proved sufficient to deter them from the experiment. Having all my life breathed the free air of the North, and conscious that I possessed the same feelings and affections that find a place in the white man's breast; conscious, moreover, of an intelligence equal to that of some men, at least, with a fairer skin, I was too ignorant, perhaps too independent, to conceive how any one could be content to live in the abject condition of a slave. I could not comprehend the justice of that law, or that religion, which upholds or recognizes the principle of Slavery; and never once, I am proud to say, did I fail to counsel any one who came to me, to watch his opportunity, and strike for freedom. I continued to reside at Saratoga until the spring of 1841. The flattering anticipations which, seven years before, had seduced us from the quiet farm-house, on the east side of the Hudson, had not been realized. Though always in comfortable circumstances, we had not prospered. The society and associations at that world-renowned watering place, were not calculated to preserve the simple habits of industry and economy to which I had been accustomed, but, on the contrary, to substitute others in their stead, tending to shiftlessness and extravagance. At this time we were the parents of three children--Elizabeth, Margaret, and Alonzo. Elizabeth, the eldest, was in her tenth year; Margaret was two years younger, and little Alonzo had just passed his fifth birth-day. They filled our house with gladness. Their young voices were music in our ears. Many an airy castle did their mother and myself build for the little innocents. When not at labor I was always walking with them, clad in their best attire, through the streets and groves of Saratoga. Their presence was my delight; and I clasped them to my bosom with as warm and tender love as if their clouded skins had been as white as snow. Thus far the history of my life presents nothing whatever unusual--nothing but the common hopes, and loves, and labors of an obscure colored man, making his humble progress in the world. But now I had reached a turning point in my existence--reached the threshold of unutterable wrong, and sorrow, and despair. Now had I approached within the shadow of the cloud, into the thick darkness whereof I was soon to disappear, thenceforward to be hidden from the eyes of all my kindred, and shut out from the sweet light of liberty, for many a weary year. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Solomon Northup erzählt seine eigene Geschichte, wie er entführt und in die Sklaverei verkauft wurde, in der er zwölf Jahre verblieb, bis er befreit wurde. Er erklärt, dass er seine Geschichte so treu wie möglich erzählen wird. Solomons väterliche Vorfahren waren Sklaven in Rhode Island, und schließlich wurde sein Vater frei. Henry B. Northup aus Sandy Hill, ein Anwalt und die Person, der Solomon seine Freiheit verdankt, ist ein heutiger Verwandter der Familie, die seinen Vater befreit hat. Solomons Vater zog nach Minerva im Essex County, New York, wo Solomon geboren wurde. Er starb und hinterließ Solomon, einen Bruder und ihre Mutter. Er wurde für seine Integrität und Fleiß respektiert und arbeitete friedlich in der Landwirtschaft. Obwohl seine Zeit in der Sklaverei nicht so schlimm war wie die anderer, sah er den Verfall des Systems und brachte seinen Kindern Moral und Glauben bei. Als junger Mann arbeitete Solomon mit seinem Vater auf dem Bauernhof. Er heiratete Anne Hampton im Jahr 1829. Solomon und Anne lebten in der Nähe des Hudson River. Solomon arbeitete fleißig in der Navigation und Floßerei. Er arrangierte den Kauf eines Teils des alten Alden-Bauernhofs, wo die Familie bis 1834 wohnte. Solomon spielte oft Violine und alle in der Nähe liebten es, ihn zu hören. Anne war bekannt für ihr Kochen. Das Paar und ihre drei Kinder zogen nach Saratoga Springs. Solomon berichtet davon, Dinge von den Ladenbesitzern Herrn Cephas Parker und Herrn William Perry zu kaufen, die ihm später bei seiner Befreiung aus der Sklaverei behilflich sein würden. Obwohl Solomon im Norden lebte, traf er Sklaven, die ihre Herren aus dem Süden besuchten. Solomon beobachtete, dass sie immer den Wunsch zeigten zu entkommen, aber vor Strafe Angst hatten. Solomon konnte nicht verstehen, wie jemand zufrieden sein konnte, unter diesen Bedingungen zu leben, und er konnte weder das "Recht" noch die religiösen Systeme begreifen, die das System der Sklaverei aufrechterhielten. Solomon liebte seine drei Kinder, Elizabeth, Margaret und Alonzo. Sein Leben war friedlich und komfortabel, solange er mit seiner Familie im Norden lebte. Nun aber kommt er zu dem Teil der Geschichte, wo sich eine dunkle Wolke über ihn legt.

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

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Jetzt, da die Geschichte des Monsters vorbei ist, sind wir zurück in Victors Geschichte. Und er erzählt uns, dass er die Bitte des Monsters abgelehnt hat, offensichtlich. Das Monster ist jedoch ziemlich schlau und ändert seine Taktik, indem es sagt, dass Victor ihm einen Gefährten schuldet. Es ist seine Pflicht als Schöpfer. Es sagt, dass es ihn weniger böse machen wird, weil die Einsamkeit ihn zu einem mürrischen Mistkerl/Mörder gemacht hat. Das Monster verspricht, seine neue Partnerin mit in den südamerikanischen Dschungel zu nehmen und sich für den Rest ihres Lebens vor den Menschen zu verstecken. Klingt fair, außer dass wir uns fragen, ob die Menschen, die bereits im südamerikanischen Dschungel leben, dazu eine Meinung haben. Ugh, okay, sagt Victor. Das Monster ist begeistert. Yay! Es wird seine eigene maßgeschneiderte Freundin haben! Dennoch vertraut es Victor-dem-Schmarotzer-Vater nicht ganz. Es schwört, Victor zu folgen und seinen Fortschritt zu überprüfen, und sagt, dass es wissen wird, wenn die Arbeit erledigt ist, was ein wenig gruselig und bedrohlich ist.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Not resting satisfied with the endeavours he had made to recover his lost charge, Mr Meagles addressed a letter of remonstrance, breathing nothing but goodwill, not only to her, but to Miss Wade too. No answer coming to these epistles, or to another written to the stubborn girl by the hand of her late young mistress, which might have melted her if anything could (all three letters were returned weeks afterwards as having been refused at the house-door), he deputed Mrs Meagles to make the experiment of a personal interview. That worthy lady being unable to obtain one, and being steadfastly denied admission, Mr Meagles besought Arthur to essay once more what he could do. All that came of his compliance was, his discovery that the empty house was left in charge of the old woman, that Miss Wade was gone, that the waifs and strays of furniture were gone, and that the old woman would accept any number of half-crowns and thank the donor kindly, but had no information whatever to exchange for those coins, beyond constantly offering for perusal a memorandum relative to fixtures, which the house-agent's young man had left in the hall. Unwilling, even under this discomfiture, to resign the ingrate and leave her hopeless, in case of her better dispositions obtaining the mastery over the darker side of her character, Mr Meagles, for six successive days, published a discreetly covert advertisement in the morning papers, to the effect that if a certain young person who had lately left home without reflection, would at any time apply to his address at Twickenham, everything would be as it had been before, and no reproaches need be apprehended. The unexpected consequences of this notification suggested to the dismayed Mr Meagles for the first time that some hundreds of young persons must be leaving their homes without reflection every day; for shoals of wrong young people came down to Twickenham, who, not finding themselves received with enthusiasm, generally demanded compensation by way of damages, in addition to coach-hire there and back. Nor were these the only uninvited clients whom the advertisement produced. The swarm of begging-letter writers, who would seem to be always watching eagerly for any hook, however small, to hang a letter upon, wrote to say that having seen the advertisement, they were induced to apply with confidence for various sums, ranging from ten shillings to fifty pounds: not because they knew anything about the young person, but because they felt that to part with those donations would greatly relieve the advertiser's mind. Several projectors, likewise, availed themselves of the same opportunity to correspond with Mr Meagles; as, for example, to apprise him that their attention having been called to the advertisement by a friend, they begged to state that if they should ever hear anything of the young person, they would not fail to make it known to him immediately, and that in the meantime if he would oblige them with the funds necessary for bringing to perfection a certain entirely novel description of Pump, the happiest results would ensue to mankind. Mr Meagles and his family, under these combined discouragements, had begun reluctantly to give up Tattycoram as irrecoverable, when the new and active firm of Doyce and Clennam, in their private capacities, went down on a Saturday to stay at the cottage until Monday. The senior partner took the coach, and the junior partner took his walking-stick. A tranquil summer sunset shone upon him as he approached the end of his walk, and passed through the meadows by the river side. He had that sense of peace, and of being lightened of a weight of care, which country quiet awakens in the breasts of dwellers in towns. Everything within his view was lovely and placid. The rich foliage of the trees, the luxuriant grass diversified with wild flowers, the little green islands in the river, the beds of rushes, the water-lilies floating on the surface of the stream, the distant voices in boats borne musically towards him on the ripple of the water and the evening air, were all expressive of rest. In the occasional leap of a fish, or dip of an oar, or twittering of a bird not yet at roost, or distant barking of a dog, or lowing of a cow--in all such sounds, there was the prevailing breath of rest, which seemed to encompass him in every scent that sweetened the fragrant air. The long lines of red and gold in the sky, and the glorious track of the descending sun, were all divinely calm. Upon the purple tree-tops far away, and on the green height near at hand up which the shades were slowly creeping, there was an equal hush. Between the real landscape and its shadow in the water, there was no division; both were so untroubled and clear, and, while so fraught with solemn mystery of life and death, so hopefully reassuring to the gazer's soothed heart, because so tenderly and mercifully beautiful. Clennam had stopped, not for the first time by many times, to look about him and suffer what he saw to sink into his soul, as the shadows, looked at, seemed to sink deeper and deeper into the water. He was slowly resuming his way, when he saw a figure in the path before him which he had, perhaps, already associated with the evening and its impressions. Minnie was there, alone. She had some roses in her hand, and seemed to have stood still on seeing him, waiting for him. Her face was towards him, and she appeared to have been coming from the opposite direction. There was a flutter in her manner, which Clennam had never seen in it before; and as he came near her, it entered his mind all at once that she was there of a set purpose to speak to him. She gave him her hand, and said, 'You wonder to see me here by myself? But the evening is so lovely, I have strolled further than I meant at first. I thought it likely I might meet you, and that made me more confident. You always come this way, do you not?' As Clennam said that it was his favourite way, he felt her hand falter on his arm, and saw the roses shake. 'Will you let me give you one, Mr Clennam? I gathered them as I came out of the garden. Indeed, I almost gathered them for you, thinking it so likely I might meet you. Mr Doyce arrived more than an hour ago, and told us you were walking down.' His own hand shook, as he accepted a rose or two from hers and thanked her. They were now by an avenue of trees. Whether they turned into it on his movement or on hers matters little. He never knew how that was. 'It is very grave here,' said Clennam, 'but very pleasant at this hour. Passing along this deep shade, and out at that arch of light at the other end, we come upon the ferry and the cottage by the best approach, I think.' In her simple garden-hat and her light summer dress, with her rich brown hair naturally clustering about her, and her wonderful eyes raised to his for a moment with a look in which regard for him and trustfulness in him were strikingly blended with a kind of timid sorrow for him, she was so beautiful that it was well for his peace--or ill for his peace, he did not quite know which--that he had made that vigorous resolution he had so often thought about. She broke a momentary silence by inquiring if he knew that papa had been thinking of another tour abroad? He said he had heard it mentioned. She broke another momentary silence by adding, with some hesitation, that papa had abandoned the idea. At this, he thought directly, 'they are to be married.' 'Mr Clennam,' she said, hesitating more timidly yet, and speaking so low that he bent his head to hear her. 'I should very much like to give you my confidence, if you would not mind having the goodness to receive it. I should have very much liked to have given it to you long ago, because--I felt that you were becoming so much our friend.' 'How can I be otherwise than proud of it at any time! Pray give it to me. Pray trust me.' 'I could never have been afraid of trusting you,' she returned, raising her eyes frankly to his face. 'I think I would have done so some time ago, if I had known how. But I scarcely know how, even now.' 'Mr Gowan,' said Arthur Clennam, 'has reason to be very happy. God bless his wife and him!' She wept, as she tried to thank him. He reassured her, took her hand as it lay with the trembling roses in it on his arm, took the remaining roses from it, and put it to his lips. At that time, it seemed to him, he first finally resigned the dying hope that had flickered in nobody's heart so much to its pain and trouble; and from that time he became in his own eyes, as to any similar hope or prospect, a very much older man who had done with that part of life. He put the roses in his breast and they walked on for a little while, slowly and silently, under the umbrageous trees. Then he asked her, in a voice of cheerful kindness, was there anything else that she would say to him as her friend and her father's friend, many years older than herself; was there any trust she would repose in him, any service she would ask of him, any little aid to her happiness that she could give him the lasting gratification of believing it was in his power to render? She was going to answer, when she was so touched by some little hidden sorrow or sympathy--what could it have been?--that she said, bursting into tears again: 'O Mr Clennam! Good, generous, Mr Clennam, pray tell me you do not blame me.' 'I blame you?' said Clennam. 'My dearest girl! I blame you? No!' After clasping both her hands upon his arm, and looking confidentially up into his face, with some hurried words to the effect that she thanked him from her heart (as she did, if it be the source of earnestness), she gradually composed herself, with now and then a word of encouragement from him, as they walked on slowly and almost silently under the darkening trees. 'And, now, Minnie Gowan,' at length said Clennam, smiling; 'will you ask me nothing?' 'Oh! I have very much to ask of you.' 'That's well! I hope so; I am not disappointed.' 'You know how I am loved at home, and how I love home. You can hardly think it perhaps, dear Mr Clennam,' she spoke with great agitation, 'seeing me going from it of my own free will and choice, but I do so dearly love it!' 'I am sure of that,' said Clennam. 'Can you suppose I doubt it?' 'No, no. But it is strange, even to me, that loving it so much and being so much beloved in it, I can bear to cast it away. It seems so neglectful of it, so unthankful.' 'My dear girl,' said Clennam, 'it is in the natural progress and change of time. All homes are left so.' 'Yes, I know; but all homes are not left with such a blank in them as there will be in mine when I am gone. Not that there is any scarcity of far better and more endearing and more accomplished girls than I am; not that I am much, but that they have made so much of me!' Pet's affectionate heart was overcharged, and she sobbed while she pictured what would happen. 'I know what a change papa will feel at first, and I know that at first I cannot be to him anything like what I have been these many years. And it is then, Mr Clennam, then more than at any time, that I beg and entreat you to remember him, and sometimes to keep him company when you can spare a little while; and to tell him that you know I was fonder of him when I left him, than I ever was in all my life. For there is nobody--he told me so himself when he talked to me this very day--there is nobody he likes so well as you, or trusts so much.' A clue to what had passed between the father and daughter dropped like a heavy stone into the well of Clennam's heart, and swelled the water to his eyes. He said, cheerily, but not quite so cheerily as he tried to say, that it should be done--that he gave her his faithful promise. 'If I do not speak of mama,' said Pet, more moved by, and more pretty in, her innocent grief, than Clennam could trust himself even to consider--for which reason he counted the trees between them and the fading light as they slowly diminished in number--'it is because mama will understand me better in this action, and will feel my loss in a different way, and will look forward in a different manner. But you know what a dear, devoted mother she is, and you will remember her too; will you not?' Let Minnie trust him, Clennam said, let Minnie trust him to do all she wished. 'And, dear Mr Clennam,' said Minnie, 'because papa and one whom I need not name, do not fully appreciate and understand one another yet, as they will by-and-by; and because it will be the duty, and the pride, and pleasure of my new life, to draw them to a better knowledge of one another, and to be a happiness to one another, and to be proud of one another, and to love one another, both loving me so dearly; oh, as you are a kind, true man! when I am first separated from home (I am going a long distance away), try to reconcile papa to him a little more, and use your great influence to keep him before papa's mind free from prejudice and in his real form. Will you do this for me, as you are a noble-hearted friend?' Poor Pet! Self-deceived, mistaken child! When were such changes ever made in men's natural relations to one another: when was such reconcilement of ingrain differences ever effected! It has been tried many times by other daughters, Minnie; it has never succeeded; nothing has ever come of it but failure. So Clennam thought. So he did not say; it was too late. He bound himself to do all she asked, and she knew full well that he would do it. They were now at the last tree in the avenue. She stopped, and withdrew her arm. Speaking to him with her eyes lifted up to his, and with the hand that had lately rested on his sleeve trembling by touching one of the roses in his breast as an additional appeal to him, she said: 'Dear Mr Clennam, in my happiness--for I am happy, though you have seen me crying--I cannot bear to leave any cloud between us. If you have anything to forgive me (not anything that I have wilfully done, but any trouble I may have caused you without meaning it, or having it in my power to help it), forgive me to-night out of your noble heart!' He stooped to meet the guileless face that met his without shrinking. He kissed it, and answered, Heaven knew that he had nothing to forgive. As he stooped to meet the innocent face once again, she whispered, 'Good-bye!' and he repeated it. It was taking leave of all his old hopes--all nobody's old restless doubts. They came out of the avenue next moment, arm-in-arm as they had entered it: and the trees seemed to close up behind them in the darkness, like their own perspective of the past. The voices of Mr and Mrs Meagles and Doyce were audible directly, speaking near the garden gate. Hearing Pet's name among them, Clennam called out, 'She is here, with me.' There was some little wondering and laughing until they came up; but as soon as they had all come together, it ceased, and Pet glided away. Mr Meagles, Doyce, and Clennam, without speaking, walked up and down on the brink of the river, in the light of the rising moon, for a few minutes; and then Doyce lingered behind, and went into the house. Mr Meagles and Clennam walked up and down together for a few minutes more without speaking, until at length the former broke silence. 'Arthur,' said he, using that familiar address for the first time in their communication, 'do you remember my telling you, as we walked up and down one hot morning, looking over the harbour at Marseilles, that Pet's baby sister who was dead seemed to Mother and me to have grown as she had grown, and changed as she had changed?' 'Very well.' 'You remember my saying that our thoughts had never been able to separate those twin sisters, and that, in our fancy, whatever Pet was, the other was?' 'Yes, very well.' 'Arthur,' said Mr Meagles, much subdued, 'I carry that fancy further to-night. I feel to-night, my dear fellow, as if you had loved my dead child very tenderly, and had lost her when she was like what Pet is now.' 'Thank you!' murmured Clennam, 'thank you!' And pressed his hand. 'Will you come in?' said Mr Meagles, presently. 'In a little while.' Mr Meagles fell away, and he was left alone. When he had walked on the river's brink in the peaceful moonlight for some half an hour, he put his hand in his breast and tenderly took out the handful of roses. Perhaps he put them to his heart, perhaps he put them to his lips, but certainly he bent down on the shore and gently launched them on the flowing river. Pale and unreal in the moonlight, the river floated them away. The lights were bright within doors when he entered, and the faces on which they shone, his own face not excepted, were soon quietly cheerful. They talked of many subjects (his partner never had had such a ready store to draw upon for the beguiling of the time), and so to bed, and to sleep. While the flowers, pale and unreal in the moonlight, floated away upon the river; and thus do greater things that once were in our breasts, and near our hearts, flow from us to the eternal seas. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Meagles schreibt ein paar Briefe an Miss Wade, um zu versuchen, Tattycoram zurückzubekommen. Kein Erfolg. Dann gibt er Anzeigen in der Zeitung auf und bekommt eine Menge Reaktionen von zufälligen Leuten, die nach Geld fragen, aber immer noch keine Spur von Tattycoram. Eines Tages besucht Arthur die Meagles und Pet trifft ihn, bevor sie zum Haus kommen. Sie ist seltsam nett, und Arthur setzt zwei und zwei zusammen und realisiert, dass sie und Gowan verlobt sein müssen. Pet versteht offensichtlich, dass Arthur an ihr interessiert war, und aus dem, was sie sagt, hört es sich so an, als ob Meagles insgeheim hoffte, dass Arthur und Pet zusammenkommen würden. Aber Arthur schluckt seinen Kummer herunter, wünscht Pet alles Gute und sagt, dass er immer ihr Freund sein wird. Sie bittet ihn im Gegenzug, ihren Vater ein wenig mehr von Gowan zu überzeugen, und Arthur stimmt zu. Sie treffen Doyce und Meagles, und alle außer Arthur gehen ins Haus. Arthur hält sich am Fluss auf, um über die Dinge nachzudenken. Du weißt schon, traurige Liebeshirngespinste. Wenn es moderne Zeiten wären, würde er einfach wegfahren und jedes Lied im Radio würde ihn nun daran erinnern, dass er und Pet nicht zusammen sind. Aber da es damals war, kann er nur zusehen, wie das Wasser vorbeifließt und tiefgründige Gedanken denken.

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: This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.--She was extremely glad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the Eltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much alike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was peculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward to another happy result--the cure of Harriet's infatuation.--From Harriet's manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted the ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the superior creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma could harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious courtesy. She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for supplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther requisite.--Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not too much in love, and Mr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer must be before her! She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told her that he could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he was to be at home by the middle of the day. She did not regret it. Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them all to rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened up for the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their grandpapa, when the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered whom she had never less expected to see together--Frank Churchill, with Harriet leaning on his arm--actually Harriet!--A moment sufficed to convince her that something extraordinary had happened. Harriet looked white and frightened, and he was trying to cheer her.--The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty yards asunder;--they were all three soon in the hall, and Harriet immediately sinking into a chair fainted away. A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered, and surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting, but the suspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted with the whole. Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs. Goddard's, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and taken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough for safety, had led them into alarm.--About half a mile beyond Highbury, making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it became for a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies had advanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small distance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a party of gipsies. A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and Miss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and calling on Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to Highbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much from cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank brought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless--and in this state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain. How the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more courageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could not be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children, headed by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and impertinent in look, though not absolutely in word.--More and more frightened, she immediately promised them money, and taking out her purse, gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to use her ill.--She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and was moving away--but her terror and her purse were too tempting, and she was followed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more. In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and conditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance at this critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced him to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road, a mile or two beyond Highbury--and happening to have borrowed a pair of scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to restore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a few minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being on foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The terror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then their own portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome. It was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other place. This was the amount of the whole story,--of his communication and of Harriet's as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.--He dared not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him not another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself. Such an adventure as this,--a fine young man and a lovely young woman thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at least. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician have seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been at work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?--How much more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and foresight!--especially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her mind had already made. It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever occurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no rencontre, no alarm of the kind;--and now it had happened to the very person, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing to pass by to rescue her!--It certainly was very extraordinary!--And knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this period, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his attachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton. It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most interesting consequences. It was not possible that the occurrence should not be strongly recommending each to the other. In the few minutes' conversation which she had yet had with him, while Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror, her naivete, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a sensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet's own account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the abominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted. She would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of interference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme. It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account proceed. Emma's first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of what had passed,--aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but she soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour it was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those who talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last night's ball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their promising never to go beyond the shrubbery again. It was some comfort to him that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse (for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well as Miss Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had the pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very indifferent--which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well, and Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had an unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man, for she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message. The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took themselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have walked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history dwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her nephews:--in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and John were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the slightest particular from the original recital. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Emma blickt gerne auf ihr Gespräch mit Mr. Knightley während des Balls zurück und freut sich, dass die Unhöflichkeit der Eltons Harriet von ihrer Verliebtheit in Mr. Elton geheilt hat. Plötzlich taucht Frank mit Harriet auf, die ohnmächtig auf seinem Arm liegt. Als sie wieder zu sich kommt, erzählt Harriet die Geschichte, wie sie mit einer Freundin, Miss Bickerton, spazieren ging, als ein Zigeunerkind auf sie zukam, um Geld zu betteln. Miss Bickerton lief vor Angst davon, aber Harriet konnte ihr nicht folgen, weil sie einen Krampf vom Ball hatte. Gerade als sie anfing, Panik zu bekommen, umzingelten sie eine Gruppe von Zigeunern und verlangten Geld. Frank lief zufällig vorbei und erschreckte die Zigeuner. Emma kann nicht anders, als sich zu fragen, ob dieser romantische Vorfall Harriet und Frank interessant füreinander machen könnte. Der Vorfall alarmiert Mr. Woodhouse und gibt Anlass zum Klatsch, aber die Zigeuner verlassen die Nachbarschaft und es wird kein Schaden angerichtet.

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: Helen began to wonder why she had spent a matter of eight pounds in making some people ill and others angry. Now that the wave of excitement was ebbing, and had left her, Mr. Bast, and Mrs. Bast stranded for the night in a Shropshire hotel, she asked herself what forces had made the wave flow. At all events, no harm was done. Margaret would play the game properly now, and though Helen disapproved of her sister's methods, she knew that the Basts would benefit by them in the long-run. "Mr. Wilcox is so illogical," she explained to Leonard, who had put his wife to bed, and was sitting with her in the empty coffee-room. "If we told him it was his duty to take you on, he might refuse to do it. The fact is, he isn't properly educated. I don't want to set you against him, but you'll find him a trial." "I can never thank you sufficiently, Miss Schlegel," was all that Leonard felt equal to. "I believe in personal responsibility. Don't you? And in personal everything. I hate--I suppose I oughtn't to say that--but the Wilcoxes are on the wrong tack surely. Or perhaps it isn't their fault. Perhaps the little thing that says 'I' is missing out of the middle of their heads, and then it's a waste of time to blame them. There's a nightmare of a theory that says a special race is being born which will rule the rest of us in the future just because it lacks the little thing that says 'I.' Had you heard that?" "I get no time for reading." "Had you thought it, then? That there are two kinds of people--our kind, who live straight from the middle of their heads, and the other kind who can't, because their heads have no middle? They can't say 'I.' They AREN'T in fact, and so they're supermen. Pierpont Morgan has never said 'I' in his life." Leonard roused himself. If his benefactress wanted intellectual conversation, she must have it. She was more important than his ruined past. "I never got on to Nietzsche," he said. "But I always understood that those supermen were rather what you may call egoists." "Oh no, that's wrong," replied Helen. "No superman ever said 'I want,' because 'I want' must lead to the question, 'Who am I?' and so to Pity and to Justice. He only says 'want.' 'Want Europe,' if he's Napoleon; 'want wives,' if he's Bluebeard; 'want Botticelli,' if he's Pierpont Morgan. Never the 'I'; and if you could pierce through the superman, you'd find panic and emptiness in the middle." Leonard was silent for a moment. Then he said: "May I take it, Miss Schlegel, that you and I are both the sort that say 'I'?" "Of course." "And your sister, too?" "Of course," repeated Helen, a little sharply. She was annoyed with Margaret, but did not want her discussed. "All presentable people say 'I.'" "But Mr. Wilcox--he is not perhaps--" "I don't know that it's any good discussing Mr. Wilcox either." "Quite so, quite so," he agreed. Helen asked herself why she had snubbed him. Once or twice during the day she had encouraged him to criticise, and then had pulled him up short. Was she afraid of him presuming? If so, it was disgusting of her. But he was thinking the snub quite natural. Everything she did was natural, and incapable of causing offence. While the Miss Schlegels were together he had felt them scarcely human--a sort of admonitory whirligig. But a Miss Schlegel alone was different. She was in Helen's case unmarried, in Margaret's about to be married, in neither case an echo of her sister. A light had fallen at last into this rich upper world, and he saw that it was full of men and women, some of whom were more friendly to him than others. Helen had become "his" Miss Schlegel, who scolded him and corresponded with him, and had swept down yesterday with grateful vehemence. Margaret, though not unkind, was severe and remote. He would not presume to help her, for instance. He had never liked her, and began to think that his original impression was true, and that her sister did not like her either. Helen was certainly lonely. She, who gave away so much, was receiving too little. Leonard was pleased to think that he could spare her vexation by holding his tongue and concealing what he knew about Mr. Wilcox. Jacky had announced her discovery when he fetched her from the lawn. After the first shock, he did not mind for himself. By now he had no illusions about his wife, and this was only one new stain on the face of a love that had never been pure. To keep perfection perfect, that should be his ideal, if the future gave him time to have ideals. Helen, and Margaret for Helen's sake, must not know. Helen disconcerted him by turning the conversation to his wife. "Mrs. Bast--does she ever say 'I'?" she asked, half mischievously, and then, "Is she very tired?" "It's better she stops in her room," said Leonard. "Shall I sit up with her?" "No, thank you; she does not need company." "Mr. Bast, what kind of woman is your wife?" Leonard blushed up to his eyes. "You ought to know my ways by now. Does that question offend you?" "No, oh no, Miss Schlegel, no." "Because I love honesty. Don't pretend your marriage has been a happy one. You and she can have nothing in common." He did not deny it, but said shyly: "I suppose that's pretty obvious; but Jacky never meant to do anybody any harm. When things went wrong, or I heard things, I used to think it was her fault, but, looking back, it's more mine. I needn't have married her, but as I have I must stick to her and keep her." "How long have you been married?" "Nearly three years." "What did your people say?" "They will not have anything to do with us. They had a sort of family council when they heard I was married, and cut us off altogether." Helen began to pace up and down the room. "My good boy, what a mess!" she said gently. "Who are your people?" He could answer this. His parents, who were dead, had been in trade; his sisters had married commercial travellers; his brother was a lay-reader. "And your grandparents?" Leonard told her a secret that he had held shameful up to now. "They were just nothing at all," he said "agricultural labourers and that sort." "So! From which part?" "Lincolnshire mostly, but my mother's father--he, oddly enough, came from these parts round here." "From this very Shropshire. Yes, that is odd. My mother's people were Lancashire. But why do your brother and your sisters object to Mrs. Bast?" "Oh, I don't know." "Excuse me, you do know. I am not a baby. I can bear anything you tell me, and the more you tell the more I shall be able to help. Have they heard anything against her?" He was silent. "I think I have guessed now," said Helen very gravely. "I don't think so, Miss Schlegel; I hope not." "We must be honest, even over these things. I have guessed. I am frightfully, dreadfully sorry, but it does not make the least difference to me. I shall feel just the same to both of you. I blame, not your wife for these things, but men." Leonard left it at that--so long as she did not guess the man. She stood at the window and slowly pulled up the blinds. The hotel looked over a dark square. The mists had begun. When she turned back to him her eyes were shining. "Don't you worry," he pleaded. "I can't bear that. We shall be all right if I get work. If I could only get work--something regular to do. Then it wouldn't be so bad again. I don't trouble after books as I used. I can imagine that with regular work we should settle down again. It stops one thinking." "Settle down to what?" "Oh, just settle down." "And that's to be life!" said Helen, with a catch in her throat. "How can you, with all the beautiful things to see and do--with music--with walking at night--" "Walking is well enough when a man's in work," he answered. "Oh, I did talk a lot of nonsense once, but there's nothing like a bailiff in the house to drive it out of you. When I saw him fingering my Ruskins and Stevensons, I seemed to see life straight and real, and it isn't a pretty sight. My books are back again, thanks to you, but they'll never be the same to me again, and I shan't ever again think night in the woods is wonderful." "Why not?" asked Helen, throwing up the window. "Because I see one must have money." "Well, you're wrong." "I wish I was wrong, but--the clergyman--he has money of his own, or else he's paid; the poet or the musician--just the same; the tramp--he's no different. The tramp goes to the workhouse in the end, and is paid for with other people's money. Miss Schlegel the real thing's money, and all the rest is a dream." "You're still wrong. You've forgotten Death." Leonard could not understand. "If we lived forever, what you say would be true. But we have to die, we have to leave life presently. Injustice and greed would be the real thing if we lived for ever. As it is, we must hold to other things, because Death is coming. I love Death--not morbidly, but because He explains. He shows me the emptiness of Money. Death and Money are the eternal foes. Not Death and Life. Never mind what lies behind Death, Mr. Bast, but be sure that the poet and the musician and the tramp will be happier in it than the man who has never learnt to say, 'I am I.'" "I wonder." "We are all in a mist--I know, but I can help you this far--men like the Wilcoxes are deeper in the mist than any. Sane, sound Englishmen! building up empires, levelling all the world into what they call common sense. But mention Death to them and they're offended, because Death's really Imperial, and He cries out against them for ever." "I am as afraid of Death as any one." "But not of the idea of Death." "But what is the difference?" "Infinite difference," said Helen, more gravely than before. Leonard looked at her wondering, and had the sense of great things sweeping out of the shrouded night. But he could not receive them, because his heart was still full of little things. As the lost umbrella had spoilt the concert at Queen's Hall, so the lost situation was obscuring the diviner harmonies now. Death, Life, and Materialism were fine words, but would Mr. Wilcox take him on as a clerk? Talk as one would, Mr. Wilcox was king of this world, the superman, with his own morality, whose head remained in the clouds. "I must be stupid," he said apologetically. While to Helen the paradox became clearer and clearer. "Death destroys a man: the idea of Death saves him." Behind the coffins and the skeletons that stay the vulgar mind lies something so immense that all that is great in us responds to it. Men of the world may recoil from the charnel-house that they will one day enter, but Love knows better. Death is his foe, but his peer, and in their age-long struggle the thews of Love have been strengthened, and his vision cleared, until there is no one who can stand against him. "So never give in," continued the girl, and restated again and again the vague yet convincing plea that the Invisible lodges against the Visible. Her excitement grew as she tried to cut the rope that fastened Leonard to the earth. Woven of bitter experience, it resisted her. Presently the waitress entered and gave her a letter from Margaret. Another note, addressed to Leonard, was inside. They read them, listening to the murmurings of the river. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Helen beginnt an sich selbst zu zweifeln - was tut sie überhaupt? Sie geht davon aus, dass am Ende alles gut wird. Helen bemüht sich darum, Leonard Mr. Wilcox zu erklären, nachdem sie den betrunkenen Jacky ins Bett gebracht haben. Sie sagt ihm, dass sie an "persönliche Verantwortung" glaubt, was bedeutet, dass sie denkt, jeder solle sich intensiv mit sich selbst befassen und zu einem persönlichen Verständnis kommen. Die Welt, laut Helen, ist in Menschen unterteilt, die dieses Verantwortungsgefühl und Selbstverständnis haben, und in solche, die es nicht haben - wie Mr. Wilcox und andere mächtige Männer seines Schlags. Leonard hat ziemlich komplizierte Gefühle für Helen - er fühlt sich ein Stück weit als ihr Eigentum und fängt an, zu denken, dass er ihre Schwester nicht mag. Ohne dass Helen es weiß, weiß Leonard bereits von Mr. Wilcox' Beziehung zu Jacky, möchte aber nicht, dass Helen davon erfährt. Helen fragt nach Jacky, was Leonard unbehaglich macht. Das Paar ist seit drei Jahren verheiratet, und es war offensichtlich keine gute Ehe. Leonards Familie hat den Kontakt zu ihm aufgrund dessen komplett abgebrochen. Helen, die nie zurückhaltend war, fragt nach seiner Familie. Helen fragt, warum sie Jacky nicht mögen, und sie findet die Wahrheit heraus - Jacky war eine Prostituierte. Leonard versucht, Helen dazu zu bringen, sich keine Sorgen um seine Probleme zu machen, und sagt ihr, dass er sich nach ihrer Rückkehr nach London einfach dem gewöhnlichen Leben widmen werde. Helen ist davon beunruhigt - schließlich ist er der Mann, der früher nachts herumgelaufen ist und nach etwas Größerem verlangt hat. Leonard selbst verachtet Bücher und sagt, dass er gelernt hat, nicht so viele Fantasien zu haben; um ein Träumer zu sein, muss man auch reich sein. Helen erklärt, dass in ihrer Philosophie Dinge wie Geld und Praktikabilität das Gegenteil von wirklichem Leben sind - und Männer wie Mr. Wilcox verstehen das Große-L Leben nicht wirklich. Leonard ist von all dem verwirrt; er möchte sich auf dieser höheren Ebene engagieren, aber er ist immer noch von den sehr realen Problemen seines Lebens beschäftigt. Wo wird er einen Job finden? Was wird er tun? Reden kann nur begrenzt helfen. Helen spricht ständig über den Tod und versucht zu erklären, dass das Verständnis der Idee des Todes alles in Perspektive rückt und die Menschen lehrt, Liebe und Leben wirklich zu schätzen. Ihre Verallgemeinerungen sind poetisch, aber wir vermuten, extrem naiv. Es trifft ein Brief für Helen ein, sowie eine Notiz für Leonard.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: THE next day, at evening, two men were walking from opposite points towards the same scene, drawn thither by a common memory. The scene was the Grove by Donnithorne Chase: you know who the men were. The old squire's funeral had taken place that morning, the will had been read, and now in the first breathing-space, Arthur Donnithorne had come out for a lonely walk, that he might look fixedly at the new future before him and confirm himself in a sad resolution. He thought he could do that best in the Grove. Adam too had come from Stontion on Monday evening, and to-day he had not left home, except to go to the family at the Hall Farm and tell them everything that Mr. Irwine had left untold. He had agreed with the Poysers that he would follow them to their new neighbourhood, wherever that might be, for he meant to give up the management of the woods, and, as soon as it was practicable, he would wind up his business with Jonathan Burge and settle with his mother and Seth in a home within reach of the friends to whom he felt bound by a mutual sorrow. "Seth and me are sure to find work," he said. "A man that's got our trade at his finger-ends is at home everywhere; and we must make a new start. My mother won't stand in the way, for she's told me, since I came home, she'd made up her mind to being buried in another parish, if I wished it, and if I'd be more comfortable elsewhere. It's wonderful how quiet she's been ever since I came back. It seems as if the very greatness o' the trouble had quieted and calmed her. We shall all be better in a new country, though there's some I shall be loath to leave behind. But I won't part from you and yours, if I can help it, Mr. Poyser. Trouble's made us kin." "Aye, lad," said Martin. "We'll go out o' hearing o' that man's name. But I doubt we shall ne'er go far enough for folks not to find out as we've got them belonging to us as are transported o'er the seas, and were like to be hanged. We shall have that flyin' up in our faces, and our children's after us." That was a long visit to the Hall Farm, and drew too strongly on Adam's energies for him to think of seeing others, or re-entering on his old occupations till the morrow. "But to-morrow," he said to himself, "I'll go to work again. I shall learn to like it again some time, maybe; and it's right whether I like it or not." This evening was the last he would allow to be absorbed by sorrow: suspense was gone now, and he must bear the unalterable. He was resolved not to see Arthur Donnithorne again, if it were possible to avoid him. He had no message to deliver from Hetty now, for Hetty had seen Arthur. And Adam distrusted himself--he had learned to dread the violence of his own feeling. That word of Mr. Irwine's--that he must remember what he had felt after giving the last blow to Arthur in the Grove--had remained with him. These thoughts about Arthur, like all thoughts that are charged with strong feeling, were continually recurring, and they always called up the image of the Grove--of that spot under the overarching boughs where he had caught sight of the two bending figures, and had been possessed by sudden rage. "I'll go and see it again to-night for the last time," he said; "it'll do me good; it'll make me feel over again what I felt when I'd knocked him down. I felt what poor empty work it was, as soon as I'd done it, before I began to think he might be dead." In this way it happened that Arthur and Adam were walking towards the same spot at the same time. Adam had on his working-dress again, now, for he had thrown off the other with a sense of relief as soon as he came home; and if he had had the basket of tools over his shoulder, he might have been taken, with his pale wasted face, for the spectre of the Adam Bede who entered the Grove on that August evening eight months ago. But he had no basket of tools, and he was not walking with the old erectness, looking keenly round him; his hands were thrust in his side pockets, and his eyes rested chiefly on the ground. He had not long entered the Grove, and now he paused before a beech. He knew that tree well; it was the boundary mark of his youth--the sign, to him, of the time when some of his earliest, strongest feelings had left him. He felt sure they would never return. And yet, at this moment, there was a stirring of affection at the remembrance of that Arthur Donnithorne whom he had believed in before he had come up to this beech eight months ago. It was affection for the dead: THAT Arthur existed no longer. He was disturbed by the sound of approaching footsteps, but the beech stood at a turning in the road, and he could not see who was coming until the tall slim figure in deep mourning suddenly stood before him at only two yards' distance. They both started, and looked at each other in silence. Often, in the last fortnight, Adam had imagined himself as close to Arthur as this, assailing him with words that should be as harrowing as the voice of remorse, forcing upon him a just share in the misery he had caused; and often, too, he had told himself that such a meeting had better not be. But in imagining the meeting he had always seen Arthur, as he had met him on that evening in the Grove, florid, careless, light of speech; and the figure before him touched him with the signs of suffering. Adam knew what suffering was--he could not lay a cruel finger on a bruised man. He felt no impulse that he needed to resist. Silence was more just than reproach. Arthur was the first to speak. "Adam," he said, quietly, "it may be a good thing that we have met here, for I wished to see you. I should have asked to see you to-morrow." He paused, but Adam said nothing. "I know it is painful to you to meet me," Arthur went on, "but it is not likely to happen again for years to come." "No, sir," said Adam, coldly, "that was what I meant to write to you to-morrow, as it would be better all dealings should be at an end between us, and somebody else put in my place." Arthur felt the answer keenly, and it was not without an effort that he spoke again. "It was partly on that subject I wished to speak to you. I don't want to lessen your indignation against me, or ask you to do anything for my sake. I only wish to ask you if you will help me to lessen the evil consequences of the past, which is unchangeable. I don't mean consequences to myself, but to others. It is but little I can do, I know. I know the worst consequences will remain; but something may be done, and you can help me. Will you listen to me patiently?" "Yes, sir," said Adam, after some hesitation; "I'll hear what it is. If I can help to mend anything, I will. Anger 'ull mend nothing, I know. We've had enough o' that." "I was going to the Hermitage," said Arthur. "Will you go there with me and sit down? We can talk better there." The Hermitage had never been entered since they left it together, for Arthur had locked up the key in his desk. And now, when he opened the door, there was the candle burnt out in the socket; there was the chair in the same place where Adam remembered sitting; there was the waste-paper basket full of scraps, and deep down in it, Arthur felt in an instant, there was the little pink silk handkerchief. It would have been painful to enter this place if their previous thoughts had been less painful. They sat down opposite each other in the old places, and Arthur said, "I'm going away, Adam; I'm going into the army." Poor Arthur felt that Adam ought to be affected by this announcement--ought to have a movement of sympathy towards him. But Adam's lips remained firmly closed, and the expression of his face unchanged. "What I want to say to you," Arthur continued, "is this: one of my reasons for going away is that no one else may leave Hayslope--may leave their home on my account. I would do anything, there is no sacrifice I would not make, to prevent any further injury to others through my--through what has happened." Arthur's words had precisely the opposite effect to that he had anticipated. Adam thought he perceived in them that notion of compensation for irretrievable wrong, that self-soothing attempt to make evil bear the same fruits as good, which most of all roused his indignation. He was as strongly impelled to look painful facts right in the face as Arthur was to turn away his eyes from them. Moreover, he had the wakeful suspicious pride of a poor man in the presence of a rich man. He felt his old severity returning as he said, "The time's past for that, sir. A man should make sacrifices to keep clear of doing a wrong; sacrifices won't undo it when it's done. When people's feelings have got a deadly wound, they can't be cured with favours." "Favours!" said Arthur, passionately; "no; how can you suppose I meant that? But the Poysers--Mr. Irwine tells me the Poysers mean to leave the place where they have lived so many years--for generations. Don't you see, as Mr. Irwine does, that if they could be persuaded to overcome the feeling that drives them away, it would be much better for them in the end to remain on the old spot, among the friends and neighbours who know them?" "That's true," said Adam coldly. "But then, sir, folks's feelings are not so easily overcome. It'll be hard for Martin Poyser to go to a strange place, among strange faces, when he's been bred up on the Hall Farm, and his father before him; but then it 'ud be harder for a man with his feelings to stay. I don't see how the thing's to be made any other than hard. There's a sort o' damage, sir, that can't be made up for." Arthur was silent some moments. In spite of other feelings dominant in him this evening, his pride winced under Adam's mode of treating him. Wasn't he himself suffering? Was not he too obliged to renounce his most cherished hopes? It was now as it had been eight months ago--Adam was forcing Arthur to feel more intensely the irrevocableness of his own wrong-doing. He was presenting the sort of resistance that was the most irritating to Arthur's eager ardent nature. But his anger was subdued by the same influence that had subdued Adam's when they first confronted each other--by the marks of suffering in a long familiar face. The momentary struggle ended in the feeling that he could bear a great deal from Adam, to whom he had been the occasion of bearing so much; but there was a touch of pleading, boyish vexation in his tone as he said, "But people may make injuries worse by unreasonable conduct--by giving way to anger and satisfying that for the moment, instead of thinking what will be the effect in the future. "If I were going to stay here and act as landlord," he added presently, with still more eagerness--"if I were careless about what I've done--what I've been the cause of, you would have some excuse, Adam, for going away and encouraging others to go. You would have some excuse then for trying to make the evil worse. But when I tell you I'm going away for years--when you know what that means for me, how it cuts off every plan of happiness I've ever formed--it is impossible for a sensible man like you to believe that there is any real ground for the Poysers refusing to remain. I know their feeling about disgrace--Mr. Irwine has told me all; but he is of opinion that they might be persuaded out of this idea that they are disgraced in the eyes of their neighbours, and that they can't remain on my estate, if you would join him in his efforts--if you would stay yourself and go on managing the old woods." Arthur paused a moment and then added, pleadingly, "You know that's a good work to do for the sake of other people, besides the owner. And you don't know but that they may have a better owner soon, whom you will like to work for. If I die, my cousin Tradgett will have the estate and take my name. He is a good fellow." Adam could not help being moved: it was impossible for him not to feel that this was the voice of the honest warm-hearted Arthur whom he had loved and been proud of in old days; but nearer memories would not be thrust away. He was silent; yet Arthur saw an answer in his face that induced him to go on, with growing earnestness. "And then, if you would talk to the Poysers--if you would talk the matter over with Mr. Irwine--he means to see you to-morrow--and then if you would join your arguments to his to prevail on them not to go....I know, of course, that they would not accept any favour from me--I mean nothing of that kind--but I'm sure they would suffer less in the end. Irwine thinks so too. And Mr. Irwine is to have the chief authority on the estate--he has consented to undertake that. They will really be under no man but one whom they respect and like. It would be the same with you, Adam, and it could be nothing but a desire to give me worse pain that could incline you to go." Arthur was silent again for a little while, and then said, with some agitation in his voice, "I wouldn't act so towards you, I know. If you were in my place and I in yours, I should try to help you to do the best." Adam made a hasty movement on his chair and looked on the ground. Arthur went on, "Perhaps you've never done anything you've had bitterly to repent of in your life, Adam; if you had, you would be more generous. You would know then that it's worse for me than for you." Arthur rose from his seat with the last words, and went to one of the windows, looking out and turning his back on Adam, as he continued, passionately, "Haven't I loved her too? Didn't I see her yesterday? Shan't I carry the thought of her about with me as much as you will? And don't you think you would suffer more if you'd been in fault?" There was silence for several minutes, for the struggle in Adam's mind was not easily decided. Facile natures, whose emotions have little permanence, can hardly understand how much inward resistance he overcame before he rose from his seat and turned towards Arthur. Arthur heard the movement, and turning round, met the sad but softened look with which Adam said, "It's true what you say, sir. I'm hard--it's in my nature. I was too hard with my father, for doing wrong. I've been a bit hard t' everybody but her. I felt as if nobody pitied her enough--her suffering cut into me so; and when I thought the folks at the farm were too hard with her, I said I'd never be hard to anybody myself again. But feeling overmuch about her has perhaps made me unfair to you. I've known what it is in my life to repent and feel it's too late. I felt I'd been too harsh to my father when he was gone from me--I feel it now, when I think of him. I've no right to be hard towards them as have done wrong and repent." Adam spoke these words with the firm distinctness of a man who is resolved to leave nothing unsaid that he is bound to say; but he went on with more hesitation. "I wouldn't shake hands with you once, sir, when you asked me--but if you're willing to do it now, for all I refused then..." Arthur's white hand was in Adam's large grasp in an instant, and with that action there was a strong rush, on both sides, of the old, boyish affection. "Adam," Arthur said, impelled to full confession now, "it would never have happened if I'd known you loved her. That would have helped to save me from it. And I did struggle. I never meant to injure her. I deceived you afterwards--and that led on to worse; but I thought it was forced upon me, I thought it was the best thing I could do. And in that letter I told her to let me know if she were in any trouble: don't think I would not have done everything I could. But I was all wrong from the very first, and horrible wrong has come of it. God knows, I'd give my life if I could undo it." They sat down again opposite each other, and Adam said, tremulously, "How did she seem when you left her, sir?" "Don't ask me, Adam," Arthur said; "I feel sometimes as if I should go mad with thinking of her looks and what she said to me, and then, that I couldn't get a full pardon--that I couldn't save her from that wretched fate of being transported--that I can do nothing for her all those years; and she may die under it, and never know comfort any more." "Ah, sir," said Adam, for the first time feeling his own pain merged in sympathy for Arthur, "you and me'll often be thinking o' the same thing, when we're a long way off one another. I'll pray God to help you, as I pray him to help me." "But there's that sweet woman--that Dinah Morris," Arthur said, pursuing his own thoughts and not knowing what had been the sense of Adam's words, "she says she shall stay with her to the very last moment--till she goes; and the poor thing clings to her as if she found some comfort in her. I could worship that woman; I don't know what I should do if she were not there. Adam, you will see her when she comes back. I could say nothing to her yesterday--nothing of what I felt towards her. Tell her," Arthur went on hurriedly, as if he wanted to hide the emotion with which he spoke, while he took off his chain and watch, "tell her I asked you to give her this in remembrance of me--of the man to whom she is the one source of comfort, when he thinks of...I know she doesn't care about such things--or anything else I can give her for its own sake. But she will use the watch--I shall like to think of her using it." "I'll give it to her, sir," Adam said, "and tell her your words. She told me she should come back to the people at the Hall Farm." "And you will persuade the Poysers to stay, Adam?" said Arthur, reminded of the subject which both of them had forgotten in the first interchange of revived friendship. "You will stay yourself, and help Mr. Irwine to carry out the repairs and improvements on the estate?" "There's one thing, sir, that perhaps you don't take account of," said Adam, with hesitating gentleness, "and that was what made me hang back longer. You see, it's the same with both me and the Poysers: if we stay, it's for our own worldly interest, and it looks as if we'd put up with anything for the sake o' that. I know that's what they'll feel, and I can't help feeling a little of it myself. When folks have got an honourable independent spirit, they don't like to do anything that might make 'em seem base-minded." "But no one who knows you will think that, Adam. That is not a reason strong enough against a course that is really more generous, more unselfish than the other. And it will be known--it shall be made known, that both you and the Poysers stayed at my entreaty. Adam, don't try to make things worse for me; I'm punished enough without that." "No, sir, no," Adam said, looking at Arthur with mournful affection. "God forbid I should make things worse for you. I used to wish I could do it, in my passion--but that was when I thought you didn't feel enough. I'll stay, sir, I'll do the best I can. It's all I've got to think of now--to do my work well and make the world a bit better place for them as can enjoy it." "Then we'll part now, Adam. You will see Mr. Irwine to-morrow, and consult with him about everything." "Are you going soon, sir?" said Adam. "As soon as possible--after I've made the necessary arrangements. Good-bye, Adam. I shall think of you going about the old place." "Good-bye, sir. God bless you." The hands were clasped once more, and Adam left the Hermitage, feeling that sorrow was more bearable now hatred was gone. As soon as the door was closed behind him, Arthur went to the waste-paper basket and took out the little pink silk handkerchief. Book Six Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Das Kapitel beginnt am Tag nachdem Hetty zur Hinrichtung angesetzt war; Adam und Captain Donnithorne machen beide einen Spaziergang im Wald am Chase. Sie treffen sich an dem Ort, an dem sie vor mehreren Monaten gekämpft hatten. Adam verurteilt Captain Donnithorne nicht, denn er kann sehen, dass es ihm sehr schlecht geht. Sie gehen zur Einsiedelei, die seit der Nacht ihres Kampfes nicht geöffnet wurde. Captain Donnithorne verkündet Adam, dass er plant, sich der Armee anzuschließen, und er bittet Adam, in Hayslope zu bleiben und die Poysers dazu zu überreden, ebenfalls zu bleiben, obwohl sie alle geplant hatten, zu gehen. Er offenbart Adam, dass er die Situation verbessern will und ärgert sich, als Adam nicht sofort Mitleid mit ihm hat und zustimmt. Nachdem er schließlich zustimmt zu bleiben, versucht Adam auch die Poysers dazu zu überreden, zu bleiben. Captain Donnithorne beklagt auch, dass er Hetty keine volle Begnadigung beschaffen konnte und dass sie wegen ihres Verbrechens aus England weggeschickt wird. Um sich bei Dinah zu bedanken, gibt Captain Donnithorne Adam eine Uhr, die er ihr für alles, was sie für Hetty getan hat, geben soll. Nachdem Adam gegangen ist, geht Captain Donnithorne zum Mülleimer und holt Hetty's Taschentuch heraus, das er dort vor mehreren Monaten versteckt hatte.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: I want now to tell you, gentlemen, whether you care to hear it or not, why I could not even become an insect. I tell you solemnly, that I have many times tried to become an insect. But I was not equal even to that. I swear, gentlemen, that to be too conscious is an illness--a real thorough-going illness. For man's everyday needs, it would have been quite enough to have the ordinary human consciousness, that is, half or a quarter of the amount which falls to the lot of a cultivated man of our unhappy nineteenth century, especially one who has the fatal ill-luck to inhabit Petersburg, the most theoretical and intentional town on the whole terrestrial globe. (There are intentional and unintentional towns.) It would have been quite enough, for instance, to have the consciousness by which all so-called direct persons and men of action live. I bet you think I am writing all this from affectation, to be witty at the expense of men of action; and what is more, that from ill-bred affectation, I am clanking a sword like my officer. But, gentlemen, whoever can pride himself on his diseases and even swagger over them? Though, after all, everyone does do that; people do pride themselves on their diseases, and I do, may be, more than anyone. We will not dispute it; my contention was absurd. But yet I am firmly persuaded that a great deal of consciousness, every sort of consciousness, in fact, is a disease. I stick to that. Let us leave that, too, for a minute. Tell me this: why does it happen that at the very, yes, at the very moments when I am most capable of feeling every refinement of all that is "sublime and beautiful," as they used to say at one time, it would, as though of design, happen to me not only to feel but to do such ugly things, such that ... Well, in short, actions that all, perhaps, commit; but which, as though purposely, occurred to me at the very time when I was most conscious that they ought not to be committed. The more conscious I was of goodness and of all that was "sublime and beautiful," the more deeply I sank into my mire and the more ready I was to sink in it altogether. But the chief point was that all this was, as it were, not accidental in me, but as though it were bound to be so. It was as though it were my most normal condition, and not in the least disease or depravity, so that at last all desire in me to struggle against this depravity passed. It ended by my almost believing (perhaps actually believing) that this was perhaps my normal condition. But at first, in the beginning, what agonies I endured in that struggle! I did not believe it was the same with other people, and all my life I hid this fact about myself as a secret. I was ashamed (even now, perhaps, I am ashamed): I got to the point of feeling a sort of secret abnormal, despicable enjoyment in returning home to my corner on some disgusting Petersburg night, acutely conscious that that day I had committed a loathsome action again, that what was done could never be undone, and secretly, inwardly gnawing, gnawing at myself for it, tearing and consuming myself till at last the bitterness turned into a sort of shameful accursed sweetness, and at last--into positive real enjoyment! Yes, into enjoyment, into enjoyment! I insist upon that. I have spoken of this because I keep wanting to know for a fact whether other people feel such enjoyment? I will explain; the enjoyment was just from the too intense consciousness of one's own degradation; it was from feeling oneself that one had reached the last barrier, that it was horrible, but that it could not be otherwise; that there was no escape for you; that you never could become a different man; that even if time and faith were still left you to change into something different you would most likely not wish to change; or if you did wish to, even then you would do nothing; because perhaps in reality there was nothing for you to change into. And the worst of it was, and the root of it all, that it was all in accord with the normal fundamental laws of over-acute consciousness, and with the inertia that was the direct result of those laws, and that consequently one was not only unable to change but could do absolutely nothing. Thus it would follow, as the result of acute consciousness, that one is not to blame in being a scoundrel; as though that were any consolation to the scoundrel once he has come to realise that he actually is a scoundrel. But enough.... Ech, I have talked a lot of nonsense, but what have I explained? How is enjoyment in this to be explained? But I will explain it. I will get to the bottom of it! That is why I have taken up my pen.... I, for instance, have a great deal of AMOUR PROPRE. I am as suspicious and prone to take offence as a humpback or a dwarf. But upon my word I sometimes have had moments when if I had happened to be slapped in the face I should, perhaps, have been positively glad of it. I say, in earnest, that I should probably have been able to discover even in that a peculiar sort of enjoyment--the enjoyment, of course, of despair; but in despair there are the most intense enjoyments, especially when one is very acutely conscious of the hopelessness of one's position. And when one is slapped in the face--why then the consciousness of being rubbed into a pulp would positively overwhelm one. The worst of it is, look at it which way one will, it still turns out that I was always the most to blame in everything. And what is most humiliating of all, to blame for no fault of my own but, so to say, through the laws of nature. In the first place, to blame because I am cleverer than any of the people surrounding me. (I have always considered myself cleverer than any of the people surrounding me, and sometimes, would you believe it, have been positively ashamed of it. At any rate, I have all my life, as it were, turned my eyes away and never could look people straight in the face.) To blame, finally, because even if I had had magnanimity, I should only have had more suffering from the sense of its uselessness. I should certainly have never been able to do anything from being magnanimous--neither to forgive, for my assailant would perhaps have slapped me from the laws of nature, and one cannot forgive the laws of nature; nor to forget, for even if it were owing to the laws of nature, it is insulting all the same. Finally, even if I had wanted to be anything but magnanimous, had desired on the contrary to revenge myself on my assailant, I could not have revenged myself on any one for anything because I should certainly never have made up my mind to do anything, even if I had been able to. Why should I not have made up my mind? About that in particular I want to say a few words. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Erinnern Sie sich noch daran, als der Untergrundmensch sagte, dass er nichts werden könne? Er erläutert: Er könnte nicht einmal ein Insekt werden, auch wenn er wollte. Warum? Weil er zu bewusst ist. Nicht nur ist er mit Hyper-Bewusstsein verflucht, sondern er ist auch dazu verdammt, in Sankt Petersburg zu leben, der "theoretischsten und absichtlichsten Stadt" der Welt. Sie war auch "theoretisch" im Sinne davon, dass sie bis zum Rand mit romantischen Intellektuellen gefüllt war, die über dumme abstrakte Dinge sprechen würden.) Er fügt hinzu, dass er dies nicht schreibt, um witzig zu sein; schließlich ist sein Hyper-Bewusstsein eine Krankheit, und wer kann stolz auf seine Krankheit sein? Nun, wenn man genauer darüber nachdenkt... jeder. Tatsächlich fügt der Untergrundmensch hinzu, dass jede Art von Bewusstsein eine Krankheit ist. Zum Beispiel: Manchmal kann der Untergrundmensch "das Erhabene und Schöne" fast fühlen und schätzen. Leider beginnt der Untergrundmensch in diesen Momenten damit, hässliche Dinge zu tun. Je mehr er sich der Güte bewusst wird, erklärt er, desto mehr "versinkt er im Schlamm". Es wurde so schlimm, dass er aufhörte, gegen seine eigene Niedertracht anzukämpfen. Das war ziemlich schmerzhaft für eine Weile, besonders weil er dachte, dass er der Einzige sei, der das durchmacht. Aber dann, nach und nach, irgendwie, verwandelte sich die schreckliche Qual in süße, süße Freude. Was? Glücklicherweise erklärt der Untergrundmensch dies etwas genauer: Die Freude kam daher, dass er wusste, dass er degradiert wurde, dass er den Tiefpunkt erreicht hatte, dass es kein Entkommen gab, dass die Dinge so schlecht waren, dass er niemals ein anderer Mensch sein könnte. Außerdem, selbst wenn er sich ändern und die Dinge reparieren könnte, würde er es nicht wollen. Außerdem gibt es nichts, in das er sich verwandeln könnte. Und zu erkennen, dass dies ihm Freude bereitet, ist für ihn angenehm. Der nächste Teil könnte ein wenig knifflig erscheinen, also haltet durch: Der Untergrundmensch hat von seinem Hyper-Bewusstsein gesprochen, was bedeutet, dass er sich jeder kleinen Impulse, Empfindung, Begehren, Emotion und Gedanken bewusst ist und sie analysieren muss. Nun bezieht er sich auf die "grundlegenden Gesetze des übertriebenen Bewusstseins" und sagt, dass sie zu "Trägheit" führen. Was er mit "Gesetzen" meint, ist, dass sein Hyper-Bewusstsein sein Verhalten beeinflusst. Und diese Gesetze führen zur Trägheit, was bedeutet, dass sich die Dinge so halten, wie sie sind. Zusammengefasst: Aufgrund seines Hyper-Bewusstseins kann er sich nicht verändern. Er wird diese Begriffe weiterhin verwenden, also entspannen wir uns einen Moment, während Sie sicherstellen, dass Sie mit diesen Definitionen vertraut sind. Und weiter geht's. Glücklicherweise kann der Untergrundmensch daraus schließen, dass er nicht dafür verantwortlich gemacht werden kann, ein Idiot zu sein; es ist nicht seine Schuld, sondern die Schuld seines übersteigerten Bewusstseins. Der Untergrundmensch erklärt, dass er auch eine gute Portion amour propre hat. Das bedeutet "Liebe zu sich selbst", aber mit der Konnotation desselben übersteigerten Bewusstseins und der Selbstbewusstheit, von der wir bereits gesprochen haben. Trotz dieser Selbstliebe wäre er wahrscheinlich glücklich, ins Gesicht geschlagen zu werden, denn dann würde er das Vergnügen der Verzweiflung empfinden, das man nur erleben kann, wenn man sich seiner eigenen schäbigen Position sehr bewusst ist. Er fügt hinzu, dass er tatsächlich daran schuld ist, aber NICHT wegen seiner eigenen Fehler, sondern wegen "der Gesetze der Natur". Er präzisiert: Er ist schuld, weil er klüger ist als die meisten Menschen, aber das ist nicht seine Schuld. Und selbst wenn er großmütig wäre, würde er unter dem Verständnis leiden, dass Großmütigkeit nutzlos ist, was ihn daran hindern würde, entsprechend seinem guten Willen zu handeln. Gehen wir zurück zum Szenario des Schlags ins Gesicht. Wenn er ins Gesicht geschlagen worden wäre, wüsste er klug genug, dass der Angreifer ihn nur wegen der Gesetze der Natur geschlagen hätte. Da man die Gesetze der Natur nicht vergeben kann, würde er dem Angreifer nicht vergeben können. Außerdem sagt er, selbst wenn er aus seinen verschwommenen, glücklichen Gefühlen der Großmütigkeit handeln wollte, könnte er es nicht, weil er sich nie dazu entschließen kann, irgendetwas zu tun, zum Beispiel den Angreifer zurückzuschlagen. Warum ist das so? Lesen Sie weiter.

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 began the next day with another dive into the Roman bath, and then started for Highgate. I was not dispirited now. I was not afraid of the shabby coat, and had no yearnings after gallant greys. My whole manner of thinking of our late misfortune was changed. What I had to do, was, to show my aunt that her past goodness to me had not been thrown away on an insensible, ungrateful object. What I had to do, was, to turn the painful discipline of my younger days to account, by going to work with a resolute and steady heart. What I had to do, was, to take my woodman's axe in my hand, and clear my own way through the forest of difficulty, by cutting down the trees until I came to Dora. And I went on at a mighty rate, as if it could be done by walking. When I found myself on the familiar Highgate road, pursuing such a different errand from that old one of pleasure, with which it was associated, it seemed as if a complete change had come on my whole life. But that did not discourage me. With the new life, came new purpose, new intention. Great was the labour; priceless the reward. Dora was the reward, and Dora must be won. I got into such a transport, that I felt quite sorry my coat was not a little shabby already. I wanted to be cutting at those trees in the forest of difficulty, under circumstances that should prove my strength. I had a good mind to ask an old man, in wire spectacles, who was breaking stones upon the road, to lend me his hammer for a little while, and let me begin to beat a path to Dora out of granite. I stimulated myself into such a heat, and got so out of breath, that I felt as if I had been earning I don't know how much. In this state, I went into a cottage that I saw was to let, and examined it narrowly,--for I felt it necessary to be practical. It would do for me and Dora admirably: with a little front garden for Jip to run about in, and bark at the tradespeople through the railings, and a capital room upstairs for my aunt. I came out again, hotter and faster than ever, and dashed up to Highgate, at such a rate that I was there an hour too early; and, though I had not been, should have been obliged to stroll about to cool myself, before I was at all presentable. My first care, after putting myself under this necessary course of preparation, was to find the Doctor's house. It was not in that part of Highgate where Mrs. Steerforth lived, but quite on the opposite side of the little town. When I had made this discovery, I went back, in an attraction I could not resist, to a lane by Mrs. Steerforth's, and looked over the corner of the garden wall. His room was shut up close. The conservatory doors were standing open, and Rosa Dartle was walking, bareheaded, with a quick, impetuous step, up and down a gravel walk on one side of the lawn. She gave me the idea of some fierce thing, that was dragging the length of its chain to and fro upon a beaten track, and wearing its heart out. I came softly away from my place of observation, and avoiding that part of the neighbourhood, and wishing I had not gone near it, strolled about until it was ten o'clock. The church with the slender spire, that stands on the top of the hill now, was not there then to tell me the time. An old red-brick mansion, used as a school, was in its place; and a fine old house it must have been to go to school at, as I recollect it. When I approached the Doctor's cottage--a pretty old place, on which he seemed to have expended some money, if I might judge from the embellishments and repairs that had the look of being just completed--I saw him walking in the garden at the side, gaiters and all, as if he had never left off walking since the days of my pupilage. He had his old companions about him, too; for there were plenty of high trees in the neighbourhood, and two or three rooks were on the grass, looking after him, as if they had been written to about him by the Canterbury rooks, and were observing him closely in consequence. Knowing the utter hopelessness of attracting his attention from that distance, I made bold to open the gate, and walk after him, so as to meet him when he should turn round. When he did, and came towards me, he looked at me thoughtfully for a few moments, evidently without thinking about me at all; and then his benevolent face expressed extraordinary pleasure, and he took me by both hands. 'Why, my dear Copperfield,' said the Doctor, 'you are a man! How do you do? I am delighted to see you. My dear Copperfield, how very much you have improved! You are quite--yes--dear me!' I hoped he was well, and Mrs. Strong too. 'Oh dear, yes!' said the Doctor; 'Annie's quite well, and she'll be delighted to see you. You were always her favourite. She said so, last night, when I showed her your letter. And--yes, to be sure--you recollect Mr. Jack Maldon, Copperfield?' 'Perfectly, sir.' 'Of course,' said the Doctor. 'To be sure. He's pretty well, too.' 'Has he come home, sir?' I inquired. 'From India?' said the Doctor. 'Yes. Mr. Jack Maldon couldn't bear the climate, my dear. Mrs. Markleham--you have not forgotten Mrs. Markleham?' Forgotten the Old Soldier! And in that short time! 'Mrs. Markleham,' said the Doctor, 'was quite vexed about him, poor thing; so we have got him at home again; and we have bought him a little Patent place, which agrees with him much better.' I knew enough of Mr. Jack Maldon to suspect from this account that it was a place where there was not much to do, and which was pretty well paid. The Doctor, walking up and down with his hand on my shoulder, and his kind face turned encouragingly to mine, went on: 'Now, my dear Copperfield, in reference to this proposal of yours. It's very gratifying and agreeable to me, I am sure; but don't you think you could do better? You achieved distinction, you know, when you were with us. You are qualified for many good things. You have laid a foundation that any edifice may be raised upon; and is it not a pity that you should devote the spring-time of your life to such a poor pursuit as I can offer?' I became very glowing again, and, expressing myself in a rhapsodical style, I am afraid, urged my request strongly; reminding the Doctor that I had already a profession. 'Well, well,' said the Doctor, 'that's true. Certainly, your having a profession, and being actually engaged in studying it, makes a difference. But, my good young friend, what's seventy pounds a year?' 'It doubles our income, Doctor Strong,' said I. 'Dear me!' replied the Doctor. 'To think of that! Not that I mean to say it's rigidly limited to seventy pounds a-year, because I have always contemplated making any young friend I might thus employ, a present too. Undoubtedly,' said the Doctor, still walking me up and down with his hand on my shoulder. 'I have always taken an annual present into account.' 'My dear tutor,' said I (now, really, without any nonsense), 'to whom I owe more obligations already than I ever can acknowledge--' 'No, no,' interposed the Doctor. 'Pardon me!' 'If you will take such time as I have, and that is my mornings and evenings, and can think it worth seventy pounds a year, you will do me such a service as I cannot express.' 'Dear me!' said the Doctor, innocently. 'To think that so little should go for so much! Dear, dear! And when you can do better, you will? On your word, now?' said the Doctor,--which he had always made a very grave appeal to the honour of us boys. 'On my word, sir!' I returned, answering in our old school manner. 'Then be it so,' said the Doctor, clapping me on the shoulder, and still keeping his hand there, as we still walked up and down. 'And I shall be twenty times happier, sir,' said I, with a little--I hope innocent--flattery, 'if my employment is to be on the Dictionary.' The Doctor stopped, smilingly clapped me on the shoulder again, and exclaimed, with a triumph most delightful to behold, as if I had penetrated to the profoundest depths of mortal sagacity, 'My dear young friend, you have hit it. It IS the Dictionary!' How could it be anything else! His pockets were as full of it as his head. It was sticking out of him in all directions. He told me that since his retirement from scholastic life, he had been advancing with it wonderfully; and that nothing could suit him better than the proposed arrangements for morning and evening work, as it was his custom to walk about in the daytime with his considering cap on. His papers were in a little confusion, in consequence of Mr. Jack Maldon having lately proffered his occasional services as an amanuensis, and not being accustomed to that occupation; but we should soon put right what was amiss, and go on swimmingly. Afterwards, when we were fairly at our work, I found Mr. Jack Maldon's efforts more troublesome to me than I had expected, as he had not confined himself to making numerous mistakes, but had sketched so many soldiers, and ladies' heads, over the Doctor's manuscript, that I often became involved in labyrinths of obscurity. The Doctor was quite happy in the prospect of our going to work together on that wonderful performance, and we settled to begin next morning at seven o'clock. We were to work two hours every morning, and two or three hours every night, except on Saturdays, when I was to rest. On Sundays, of course, I was to rest also, and I considered these very easy terms. Our plans being thus arranged to our mutual satisfaction, the Doctor took me into the house to present me to Mrs. Strong, whom we found in the Doctor's new study, dusting his books,--a freedom which he never permitted anybody else to take with those sacred favourites. They had postponed their breakfast on my account, and we sat down to table together. We had not been seated long, when I saw an approaching arrival in Mrs. Strong's face, before I heard any sound of it. A gentleman on horseback came to the gate, and leading his horse into the little court, with the bridle over his arm, as if he were quite at home, tied him to a ring in the empty coach-house wall, and came into the breakfast parlour, whip in hand. It was Mr. Jack Maldon; and Mr. Jack Maldon was not at all improved by India, I thought. I was in a state of ferocious virtue, however, as to young men who were not cutting down trees in the forest of difficulty; and my impression must be received with due allowance. 'Mr. Jack!' said the Doctor. 'Copperfield!' Mr. Jack Maldon shook hands with me; but not very warmly, I believed; and with an air of languid patronage, at which I secretly took great umbrage. But his languor altogether was quite a wonderful sight; except when he addressed himself to his cousin Annie. 'Have you breakfasted this morning, Mr. Jack?' said the Doctor. 'I hardly ever take breakfast, sir,' he replied, with his head thrown back in an easy-chair. 'I find it bores me.' 'Is there any news today?' inquired the Doctor. 'Nothing at all, sir,' replied Mr. Maldon. 'There's an account about the people being hungry and discontented down in the North, but they are always being hungry and discontented somewhere.' The Doctor looked grave, and said, as though he wished to change the subject, 'Then there's no news at all; and no news, they say, is good news.' 'There's a long statement in the papers, sir, about a murder,' observed Mr. Maldon. 'But somebody is always being murdered, and I didn't read it.' A display of indifference to all the actions and passions of mankind was not supposed to be such a distinguished quality at that time, I think, as I have observed it to be considered since. I have known it very fashionable indeed. I have seen it displayed with such success, that I have encountered some fine ladies and gentlemen who might as well have been born caterpillars. Perhaps it impressed me the more then, because it was new to me, but it certainly did not tend to exalt my opinion of, or to strengthen my confidence in, Mr. Jack Maldon. 'I came out to inquire whether Annie would like to go to the opera tonight,' said Mr. Maldon, turning to her. 'It's the last good night there will be, this season; and there's a singer there, whom she really ought to hear. She is perfectly exquisite. Besides which, she is so charmingly ugly,' relapsing into languor. The Doctor, ever pleased with what was likely to please his young wife, turned to her and said: 'You must go, Annie. You must go.' 'I would rather not,' she said to the Doctor. 'I prefer to remain at home. I would much rather remain at home.' Without looking at her cousin, she then addressed me, and asked me about Agnes, and whether she should see her, and whether she was not likely to come that day; and was so much disturbed, that I wondered how even the Doctor, buttering his toast, could be blind to what was so obvious. But he saw nothing. He told her, good-naturedly, that she was young and ought to be amused and entertained, and must not allow herself to be made dull by a dull old fellow. Moreover, he said, he wanted to hear her sing all the new singer's songs to him; and how could she do that well, unless she went? So the Doctor persisted in making the engagement for her, and Mr. Jack Maldon was to come back to dinner. This concluded, he went to his Patent place, I suppose; but at all events went away on his horse, looking very idle. I was curious to find out next morning, whether she had been. She had not, but had sent into London to put her cousin off; and had gone out in the afternoon to see Agnes, and had prevailed upon the Doctor to go with her; and they had walked home by the fields, the Doctor told me, the evening being delightful. I wondered then, whether she would have gone if Agnes had not been in town, and whether Agnes had some good influence over her too! She did not look very happy, I thought; but it was a good face, or a very false one. I often glanced at it, for she sat in the window all the time we were at work; and made our breakfast, which we took by snatches as we were employed. When I left, at nine o'clock, she was kneeling on the ground at the Doctor's feet, putting on his shoes and gaiters for him. There was a softened shade upon her face, thrown from some green leaves overhanging the open window of the low room; and I thought all the way to Doctors' Commons, of the night when I had seen it looking at him as he read. I was pretty busy now; up at five in the morning, and home at nine or ten at night. But I had infinite satisfaction in being so closely engaged, and never walked slowly on any account, and felt enthusiastically that the more I tired myself, the more I was doing to deserve Dora. I had not revealed myself in my altered character to Dora yet, because she was coming to see Miss Mills in a few days, and I deferred all I had to tell her until then; merely informing her in my letters (all our communications were secretly forwarded through Miss Mills), that I had much to tell her. In the meantime, I put myself on a short allowance of bear's grease, wholly abandoned scented soap and lavender water, and sold off three waistcoats at a prodigious sacrifice, as being too luxurious for my stern career. Not satisfied with all these proceedings, but burning with impatience to do something more, I went to see Traddles, now lodging up behind the parapet of a house in Castle Street, Holborn. Mr. Dick, who had been with me to Highgate twice already, and had resumed his companionship with the Doctor, I took with me. I took Mr. Dick with me, because, acutely sensitive to my aunt's reverses, and sincerely believing that no galley-slave or convict worked as I did, he had begun to fret and worry himself out of spirits and appetite, as having nothing useful to do. In this condition, he felt more incapable of finishing the Memorial than ever; and the harder he worked at it, the oftener that unlucky head of King Charles the First got into it. Seriously apprehending that his malady would increase, unless we put some innocent deception upon him and caused him to believe that he was useful, or unless we could put him in the way of being really useful (which would be better), I made up my mind to try if Traddles could help us. Before we went, I wrote Traddles a full statement of all that had happened, and Traddles wrote me back a capital answer, expressive of his sympathy and friendship. We found him hard at work with his inkstand and papers, refreshed by the sight of the flower-pot stand and the little round table in a corner of the small apartment. He received us cordially, and made friends with Mr. Dick in a moment. Mr. Dick professed an absolute certainty of having seen him before, and we both said, 'Very likely.' The first subject on which I had to consult Traddles was this,--I had heard that many men distinguished in various pursuits had begun life by reporting the debates in Parliament. Traddles having mentioned newspapers to me, as one of his hopes, I had put the two things together, and told Traddles in my letter that I wished to know how I could qualify myself for this pursuit. Traddles now informed me, as the result of his inquiries, that the mere mechanical acquisition necessary, except in rare cases, for thorough excellence in it, that is to say, a perfect and entire command of the mystery of short-hand writing and reading, was about equal in difficulty to the mastery of six languages; and that it might perhaps be attained, by dint of perseverance, in the course of a few years. Traddles reasonably supposed that this would settle the business; but I, only feeling that here indeed were a few tall trees to be hewn down, immediately resolved to work my way on to Dora through this thicket, axe in hand. 'I am very much obliged to you, my dear Traddles!' said I. 'I'll begin tomorrow.' Traddles looked astonished, as he well might; but he had no notion as yet of my rapturous condition. 'I'll buy a book,' said I, 'with a good scheme of this art in it; I'll work at it at the Commons, where I haven't half enough to do; I'll take down the speeches in our court for practice--Traddles, my dear fellow, I'll master it!' 'Dear me,' said Traddles, opening his eyes, 'I had no idea you were such a determined character, Copperfield!' I don't know how he should have had, for it was new enough to me. I passed that off, and brought Mr. Dick on the carpet. 'You see,' said Mr. Dick, wistfully, 'if I could exert myself, Mr. Traddles--if I could beat a drum--or blow anything!' Poor fellow! I have little doubt he would have preferred such an employment in his heart to all others. Traddles, who would not have smiled for the world, replied composedly: 'But you are a very good penman, sir. You told me so, Copperfield?' 'Excellent!' said I. And indeed he was. He wrote with extraordinary neatness. 'Don't you think,' said Traddles, 'you could copy writings, sir, if I got them for you?' Mr. Dick looked doubtfully at me. 'Eh, Trotwood?' I shook my head. Mr. Dick shook his, and sighed. 'Tell him about the Memorial,' said Mr. Dick. I explained to Traddles that there was a difficulty in keeping King Charles the First out of Mr. Dick's manuscripts; Mr. Dick in the meanwhile looking very deferentially and seriously at Traddles, and sucking his thumb. 'But these writings, you know, that I speak of, are already drawn up and finished,' said Traddles after a little consideration. 'Mr. Dick has nothing to do with them. Wouldn't that make a difference, Copperfield? At all events, wouldn't it be well to try?' This gave us new hope. Traddles and I laying our heads together apart, while Mr. Dick anxiously watched us from his chair, we concocted a scheme in virtue of which we got him to work next day, with triumphant success. On a table by the window in Buckingham Street, we set out the work Traddles procured for him--which was to make, I forget how many copies of a legal document about some right of way--and on another table we spread the last unfinished original of the great Memorial. Our instructions to Mr. Dick were that he should copy exactly what he had before him, without the least departure from the original; and that when he felt it necessary to make the slightest allusion to King Charles the First, he should fly to the Memorial. We exhorted him to be resolute in this, and left my aunt to observe him. My aunt reported to us, afterwards, that, at first, he was like a man playing the kettle-drums, and constantly divided his attentions between the two; but that, finding this confuse and fatigue him, and having his copy there, plainly before his eyes, he soon sat at it in an orderly business-like manner, and postponed the Memorial to a more convenient time. In a word, although we took great care that he should have no more to do than was good for him, and although he did not begin with the beginning of a week, he earned by the following Saturday night ten shillings and nine-pence; and never, while I live, shall I forget his going about to all the shops in the neighbourhood to change this treasure into sixpences, or his bringing them to my aunt arranged in the form of a heart upon a waiter, with tears of joy and pride in his eyes. He was like one under the propitious influence of a charm, from the moment of his being usefully employed; and if there were a happy man in the world, that Saturday night, it was the grateful creature who thought my aunt the most wonderful woman in existence, and me the most wonderful young man. 'No starving now, Trotwood,' said Mr. Dick, shaking hands with me in a corner. 'I'll provide for her, Sir!' and he flourished his ten fingers in the air, as if they were ten banks. I hardly know which was the better pleased, Traddles or I. 'It really,' said Traddles, suddenly, taking a letter out of his pocket, and giving it to me, 'put Mr. Micawber quite out of my head!' The letter (Mr. Micawber never missed any possible opportunity of writing a letter) was addressed to me, 'By the kindness of T. Traddles, Esquire, of the Inner Temple.' It ran thus:-- 'MY DEAR COPPERFIELD, 'You may possibly not be unprepared to receive the intimation that something has turned up. I may have mentioned to you on a former occasion that I was in expectation of such an event. 'I am about to establish myself in one of the provincial towns of our favoured island (where the society may be described as a happy admixture of the agricultural and the clerical), in immediate connexion with one of the learned professions. Mrs. Micawber and our offspring will accompany me. Our ashes, at a future period, will probably be found commingled in the cemetery attached to a venerable pile, for which the spot to which I refer has acquired a reputation, shall I say from China to Peru? 'In bidding adieu to the modern Babylon, where we have undergone many vicissitudes, I trust not ignobly, Mrs. Micawber and myself cannot disguise from our minds that we part, it may be for years and it may be for ever, with an individual linked by strong associations to the altar of our domestic life. If, on the eve of such a departure, you will accompany our mutual friend, Mr. Thomas Traddles, to our present abode, and there reciprocate the wishes natural to the occasion, you will confer a Boon 'On 'One 'Who 'Is 'Ever yours, 'WILKINS MICAWBER.' I was glad to find that Mr. Micawber had got rid of his dust and ashes, and that something really had turned up at last. Learning from Traddles that the invitation referred to the evening then wearing away, I expressed my readiness to do honour to it; and we went off together to the lodging which Mr. Micawber occupied as Mr. Mortimer, and which was situated near the top of the Gray's Inn Road. The resources of this lodging were so limited, that we found the twins, now some eight or nine years old, reposing in a turn-up bedstead in the family sitting-room, where Mr. Micawber had prepared, in a wash-hand-stand jug, what he called 'a Brew' of the agreeable beverage for which he was famous. I had the pleasure, on this occasion, of renewing the acquaintance of Master Micawber, whom I found a promising boy of about twelve or thirteen, very subject to that restlessness of limb which is not an unfrequent phenomenon in youths of his age. I also became once more known to his sister, Miss Micawber, in whom, as Mr. Micawber told us, 'her mother renewed her youth, like the Phoenix'. 'My dear Copperfield,' said Mr. Micawber, 'yourself and Mr. Traddles find us on the brink of migration, and will excuse any little discomforts incidental to that position.' Glancing round as I made a suitable reply, I observed that the family effects were already packed, and that the amount of luggage was by no means overwhelming. I congratulated Mrs. Micawber on the approaching change. 'My dear Mr. Copperfield,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'of your friendly interest in all our affairs, I am well assured. My family may consider it banishment, if they please; but I am a wife and mother, and I never will desert Mr. Micawber.' Traddles, appealed to by Mrs. Micawber's eye, feelingly acquiesced. 'That,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'that, at least, is my view, my dear Mr. Copperfield and Mr. Traddles, of the obligation which I took upon myself when I repeated the irrevocable words, "I, Emma, take thee, Wilkins." I read the service over with a flat-candle on the previous night, and the conclusion I derived from it was, that I never could desert Mr. Micawber. And,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'though it is possible I may be mistaken in my view of the ceremony, I never will!' 'My dear,' said Mr. Micawber, a little impatiently, 'I am not conscious that you are expected to do anything of the sort.' 'I am aware, my dear Mr. Copperfield,' pursued Mrs. Micawber, 'that I am now about to cast my lot among strangers; and I am also aware that the various members of my family, to whom Mr. Micawber has written in the most gentlemanly terms, announcing that fact, have not taken the least notice of Mr. Micawber's communication. Indeed I may be superstitious,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'but it appears to me that Mr. Micawber is destined never to receive any answers whatever to the great majority of the communications he writes. I may augur, from the silence of my family, that they object to the resolution I have taken; but I should not allow myself to be swerved from the path of duty, Mr. Copperfield, even by my papa and mama, were they still living.' I expressed my opinion that this was going in the right direction. 'It may be a sacrifice,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'to immure one's-self in a Cathedral town; but surely, Mr. Copperfield, if it is a sacrifice in me, it is much more a sacrifice in a man of Mr. Micawber's abilities.' 'Oh! You are going to a Cathedral town?' said I. Mr. Micawber, who had been helping us all, out of the wash-hand-stand jug, replied: 'To Canterbury. In fact, my dear Copperfield, I have entered into arrangements, by virtue of which I stand pledged and contracted to our friend Heep, to assist and serve him in the capacity of--and to be--his confidential clerk.' I stared at Mr. Micawber, who greatly enjoyed my surprise. 'I am bound to state to you,' he said, with an official air, 'that the business habits, and the prudent suggestions, of Mrs. Micawber, have in a great measure conduced to this result. The gauntlet, to which Mrs. Micawber referred upon a former occasion, being thrown down in the form of an advertisement, was taken up by my friend Heep, and led to a mutual recognition. Of my friend Heep,' said Mr. Micawber, 'who is a man of remarkable shrewdness, I desire to speak with all possible respect. My friend Heep has not fixed the positive remuneration at too high a figure, but he has made a great deal, in the way of extrication from the pressure of pecuniary difficulties, contingent on the value of my services; and on the value of those services I pin my faith. Such address and intelligence as I chance to possess,' said Mr. Micawber, boastfully disparaging himself, with the old genteel air, 'will be devoted to my friend Heep's service. I have already some acquaintance with the law--as a defendant on civil process--and I shall immediately apply myself to the Commentaries of one of the most eminent and remarkable of our English jurists. I believe it is unnecessary to add that I allude to Mr. justice Blackstone.' These observations, and indeed the greater part of the observations made that evening, were interrupted by Mrs. Micawber's discovering that Master Micawber was sitting on his boots, or holding his head on with both arms as if he felt it loose, or accidentally kicking Traddles under the table, or shuffling his feet over one another, or producing them at distances from himself apparently outrageous to nature, or lying sideways with his hair among the wine-glasses, or developing his restlessness of limb in some other form incompatible with the general interests of society; and by Master Micawber's receiving those discoveries in a resentful spirit. I sat all the while, amazed by Mr. Micawber's disclosure, and wondering what it meant; until Mrs. Micawber resumed the thread of the discourse, and claimed my attention. 'What I particularly request Mr. Micawber to be careful of, is,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'that he does not, my dear Mr. Copperfield, in applying himself to this subordinate branch of the law, place it out of his power to rise, ultimately, to the top of the tree. I am convinced that Mr. Micawber, giving his mind to a profession so adapted to his fertile resources, and his flow of language, must distinguish himself. Now, for example, Mr. Traddles,' said Mrs. Micawber, assuming a profound air, 'a judge, or even say a Chancellor. Does an individual place himself beyond the pale of those preferments by entering on such an office as Mr. Micawber has accepted?' 'My dear,' observed Mr. Micawber--but glancing inquisitively at Traddles, too; 'we have time enough before us, for the consideration of those questions.' 'Micawber,' she returned, 'no! Your mistake in life is, that you do not look forward far enough. You are bound, in justice to your family, if not to yourself, to take in at a comprehensive glance the extremest point in the horizon to which your abilities may lead you.' Mr. Micawber coughed, and drank his punch with an air of exceeding satisfaction--still glancing at Traddles, as if he desired to have his opinion. 'Why, the plain state of the case, Mrs. Micawber,' said Traddles, mildly breaking the truth to her. 'I mean the real prosaic fact, you know--' 'Just so,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'my dear Mr. Traddles, I wish to be as prosaic and literal as possible on a subject of so much importance.' '--Is,' said Traddles, 'that this branch of the law, even if Mr. Micawber were a regular solicitor--' 'Exactly so,' returned Mrs. Micawber. ('Wilkins, you are squinting, and will not be able to get your eyes back.') '--Has nothing,' pursued Traddles, 'to do with that. Only a barrister is eligible for such preferments; and Mr. Micawber could not be a barrister, without being entered at an inn of court as a student, for five years.' 'Do I follow you?' said Mrs. Micawber, with her most affable air of business. 'Do I understand, my dear Mr. Traddles, that, at the expiration of that period, Mr. Micawber would be eligible as a Judge or Chancellor?' 'He would be ELIGIBLE,' returned Traddles, with a strong emphasis on that word. 'Thank you,' said Mrs. Micawber. 'That is quite sufficient. If such is the case, and Mr. Micawber forfeits no privilege by entering on these duties, my anxiety is set at rest. I speak,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'as a female, necessarily; but I have always been of opinion that Mr. Micawber possesses what I have heard my papa call, when I lived at home, the judicial mind; and I hope Mr. Micawber is now entering on a field where that mind will develop itself, and take a commanding station.' I quite believe that Mr. Micawber saw himself, in his judicial mind's eye, on the woolsack. He passed his hand complacently over his bald head, and said with ostentatious resignation: 'My dear, we will not anticipate the decrees of fortune. If I am reserved to wear a wig, I am at least prepared, externally,' in allusion to his baldness, 'for that distinction. I do not,' said Mr. Micawber, 'regret my hair, and I may have been deprived of it for a specific purpose. I cannot say. It is my intention, my dear Copperfield, to educate my son for the Church; I will not deny that I should be happy, on his account, to attain to eminence.' 'For the Church?' said I, still pondering, between whiles, on Uriah Heep. 'Yes,' said Mr. Micawber. 'He has a remarkable head-voice, and will commence as a chorister. Our residence at Canterbury, and our local connexion, will, no doubt, enable him to take advantage of any vacancy that may arise in the Cathedral corps.' On looking at Master Micawber again, I saw that he had a certain expression of face, as if his voice were behind his eyebrows; where it presently appeared to be, on his singing us (as an alternative between that and bed) 'The Wood-Pecker tapping'. After many compliments on this performance, we fell into some general conversation; and as I was too full of my desperate intentions to keep my altered circumstances to myself, I made them known to Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. I cannot express how extremely delighted they both were, by the idea of my aunt's being in difficulties; and how comfortable and friendly it made them. When we were nearly come to the last round of the punch, I addressed myself to Traddles, and reminded him that we must not separate, without wishing our friends health, happiness, and success in their new career. I begged Mr. Micawber to fill us bumpers, and proposed the toast in due form: shaking hands with him across the table, and kissing Mrs. Micawber, to commemorate that eventful occasion. Traddles imitated me in the first particular, but did not consider himself a sufficiently old friend to venture on the second. 'My dear Copperfield,' said Mr. Micawber, rising with one of his thumbs in each of his waistcoat pockets, 'the companion of my youth: if I may be allowed the expression--and my esteemed friend Traddles: if I may be permitted to call him so--will allow me, on the part of Mrs. Micawber, myself, and our offspring, to thank them in the warmest and most uncompromising terms for their good wishes. It may be expected that on the eve of a migration which will consign us to a perfectly new existence,' Mr. Micawber spoke as if they were going five hundred thousand miles, 'I should offer a few valedictory remarks to two such friends as I see before me. But all that I have to say in this way, I have said. Whatever station in society I may attain, through the medium of the learned profession of which I am about to become an unworthy member, I shall endeavour not to disgrace, and Mrs. Micawber will be safe to adorn. Under the temporary pressure of pecuniary liabilities, contracted with a view to their immediate liquidation, but remaining unliquidated through a combination of circumstances, I have been under the necessity of assuming a garb from which my natural instincts recoil--I allude to spectacles--and possessing myself of a cognomen, to which I can establish no legitimate pretensions. All I have to say on that score is, that the cloud has passed from the dreary scene, and the God of Day is once more high upon the mountain tops. On Monday next, on the arrival of the four o'clock afternoon coach at Canterbury, my foot will be on my native heath--my name, Micawber!' Mr. Micawber resumed his seat on the close of these remarks, and drank two glasses of punch in grave succession. He then said with much solemnity: 'One thing more I have to do, before this separation is complete, and that is to perform an act of justice. My friend Mr. Thomas Traddles has, on two several occasions, "put his name", if I may use a common expression, to bills of exchange for my accommodation. On the first occasion Mr. Thomas Traddles was left--let me say, in short, in the lurch. The fulfilment of the second has not yet arrived. The amount of the first obligation,' here Mr. Micawber carefully referred to papers, 'was, I believe, twenty-three, four, nine and a half, of the second, according to my entry of that transaction, eighteen, six, two. These sums, united, make a total, if my calculation is correct, amounting to forty-one, ten, eleven and a half. My friend Copperfield will perhaps do me the favour to check that total?' I did so and found it correct. 'To leave this metropolis,' said Mr. Micawber, 'and my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles, without acquitting myself of the pecuniary part of this obligation, would weigh upon my mind to an insupportable extent. I have, therefore, prepared for my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles, and I now hold in my hand, a document, which accomplishes the desired object. I beg to hand to my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles my I.O.U. for forty-one, ten, eleven and a half, and I am happy to recover my moral dignity, and to know that I can once more walk erect before my fellow man!' With this introduction (which greatly affected him), Mr. Micawber placed his I.O.U. in the hands of Traddles, and said he wished him well in every relation of life. I am persuaded, not only that this was quite the same to Mr. Micawber as paying the money, but that Traddles himself hardly knew the difference until he had had time to think about it. Mr. Micawber walked so erect before his fellow man, on the strength of this virtuous action, that his chest looked half as broad again when he lighted us downstairs. We parted with great heartiness on both sides; and when I had seen Traddles to his own door, and was going home alone, I thought, among the other odd and contradictory things I mused upon, that, slippery as Mr. Micawber was, I was probably indebted to some compassionate recollection he retained of me as his boy-lodger, for never having been asked by him for money. I certainly should not have had the moral courage to refuse it; and I have no doubt he knew that (to his credit be it written), quite as well as I did. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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

David fängt langsam an, wieder etwas aufzumuntern. Er hat ein neues Ziel vor Augen: Er will Miss Betsey für all ihre Freundlichkeit ihm gegenüber in früheren Tagen zurückzahlen. Und was noch wichtiger ist, er will genug Geld verdienen, um Dora zu heiraten. David reist nach Highgate, um Doktor Strong zu besuchen. David ist eine Stunde zu früh, also gibt er seiner Neugier nach und geht zuerst zu Mrs. Steerforths Haus. Er schaut durch eine offene Tür und sieht Miss Dartle wie ein gefangenes Tier hin und her gehen. Der Anblick erschreckt ihn und er kehrt zum Haus von Doktor Strong zurück. Doktor Strong sieht genau so aus wie immer. Er begrüßt David herzlich und sagt ihm, dass sowohl Annie als auch Herr Jack Maldon sich freuen werden, David zu sehen. Jack Maldon ist aus Indien zurückgekommen, weil er das Klima nicht mag. Doktor Strong ist glücklich, David einzustellen, aber er will sicherstellen, dass David nichts Besseres tun kann. David versichert ihm, dass er nichts Besseres will - er ist wirklich entschlossen, und hofft, dass er Doktor Strong dienen kann. Er ist dankbar für die Arbeit! Doktor Strong gibt zu, dass seine Papiere ein wenig durcheinander sind; er versuchte, Jack Maldon als Sekretär einzustellen, aber Jack Maldon war schlecht darin. Nachdem er zugestimmt hat, David als Mitarbeiter einzustellen, führt ihn Doktor Strong zu Annie. Gerade in diesem Moment kommt ein Mann mit einem Pferd zum Haus: es ist Jack Maldon selbst. Maldon scheint total faul und desinteressiert - außer wenn er mit Annie spricht. Der faule Mann hat von Hunger im Norden Englands und einem Mord in der Stadt gehört, aber es scheint ihn überhaupt nicht zu interessieren. Er ist nur gekommen, um Annie zum Opernbesuch an diesem Abend einzuladen. Doktor Strong ermutigt sie, zu gehen, aber Annie sagt lieber ab. Sie wechselt sofort das Thema und fragt David nach Agnes. Sogar David kann jetzt endlich sehen, was vor sich geht, aber Doktor Strong ist so gutmütig, dass er blind dafür ist, dass Jack Maldon versucht, seine Frau vor seiner Nase zu stehlen. Annie hält an ihrer Entschlossenheit fest, nicht mit Jack Maldon auszugehen, und David fragt sich, ob Agnes Annie genauso positiv beeinflusst hat, wie sie es bei ihm getan hat. David hat Dora seine Neuigkeiten noch nicht erzählt; er wird warten, bis sie das nächste Mal Miss Mills besucht. David will immer noch mehr tun und geht mit Mr. Dick zu Tommy Traddles. Mr. Dick fängt an, sich Sorgen zu machen, weil er nichts Nützliches beitragen kann. David befürchtet, dass Mr. Dick sich mit all dem Grübeln krank machen wird, also will er etwas finden, was Mr. Dick tun kann. Traddles heißt David willkommen und sie besprechen ihre Pläne. David will über die Debatten im Parlament berichten, um sein Einkommen zu erhöhen. Traddles warnt David, dass er Kurzschrift lernen muss. David verspricht, es zu tun, und Traddles ist erstaunt über seinen Entschluss. Mr. Dick erzählt Mr. Traddles dann, dass er alles tun würde - Schlagzeug spielen, Flöte blasen, alles - um zu helfen. Traddles fragt, wie Mr. Dicks Handschrift ist. Sie ist ausgezeichnet ordentlich, aber das Problem ist, dass König Karl der Erste in all seinen Manuskripten auftaucht. Traddles fragt sich, ob es für Mr. Dick einfacher wäre, ein fertiges Manuskript abzuschreiben. Die beiden Männer beschließen, es auszuprobieren: Sie bringen Mr. Dick am nächsten Morgen in Traddles Büro. Sie geben ihm einige juristische Dokumente, die mehrmals kopiert werden müssen. Sie weisen Mr. Dick an, sein Memorial neben den juristischen Dokumenten abzulegen, die er kopiert. Sie sagen Mr. Dick, dass er jedes Mal, wenn er auch nur den geringsten Drang verspürt, über König Karl den Ersten zu sprechen, das in sein Memorial schreiben muss. Ansonsten soll er die Dokumente genau so kopieren, wie sie auf der Seite erscheinen. Traddles bezahlt Mr. Dick für diese Kopierarbeit pro Seite. Bis Ende der Woche hat Mr. Dick 10 Shillinge und 9 Pence verdient. Mr. Dick ist unglaublich stolz und glücklich. Traddles ist auch sehr erfreut, Mr. Dick geholfen zu haben. Tommy bringt David einen Brief von Mr. Micawber. In dem Brief steht, dass Mr. Micawber einen Job gefunden hat. Er geht in eine ländliche Stadt, um in "einem der gelehrten Berufe" zu arbeiten. David ist erleichtert, dass es aussieht, als ob Mr. Micawber endlich einen Job gefunden hat. Traddles und David machen sich auf den Weg, um Mr. Micawber zu besuchen. Die ganze Familie Micawber ist dort: Die Zwillinge schlafen im Wohnzimmer, und Master Micawber zappelt herum. Miss Micawber, die älteste Tochter, ist auch da. David beglückwünscht Mr. Micawber zur Veränderung. Mrs. Micawber erneuert ihre Versprechen, dass sie Mr. Micawber niemals verlassen wird. Mr. Micawber scheint genervt zu sein: Schließlich erwartet niemand, dass Mrs. Micawber ihn verlässt. Die Micawbers machen sich auf den Weg zurück nach Canterbury. Man mag es glauben oder nicht, aber Mr. Micawber wird als Büroangestellter ausgerechnet bei Uriah Heep arbeiten. Die Zeitungsanzeige, die Mrs. Micawber vorgeschlagen hatte, scheint sich ausgezahlt zu haben: Uriah hat auf die Anzeige geantwortet, und hier ist Mr. Micawber mit einem Job. Mrs. Micawber besteht darauf, dass Mr. Micawber diesen Job als Gelegenheit nutzt, in der Rechtswissenschaft hochzusteigen: vielleicht sogar Richter zu werden. Traddles versucht zu erklären, dass das einfach nicht passieren wird, aber Mrs. Micawber lässt sich nicht abschrecken. David erzählt Mr. und Mrs. Micawber von dem Unglück seiner Tante, und sie scheinen ziemlich zufrieden mit dieser Nachricht zu sein. Sie trinken eine Reihe von Toasts. Mr. Micawber übergibt Traddles ein Schuldanerkenntnis für seine Schulden mit dem Anspruch, dass er sie zurückzahlen werde. Mr. Micawber scheint zu glauben, dass dieses Schuldanerkenntnis im Grunde dasselbe ist wie die tatsächliche Rückzahlung an Traddles.

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: That Friday made the last of our fine days for a month. In the evening the weather broke: the wind shifted from south to north-east, and brought rain first, and then sleet and snow. On the morrow one could hardly imagine that there had been three weeks of summer: the primroses and crocuses were hidden under wintry drifts; the larks were silent, the young leaves of the early trees smitten and blackened. And dreary, and chill, and dismal, that morrow did creep over! My master kept his room; I took possession of the lonely parlour, converting it into a nursery: and there I was, sitting with the moaning doll of a child laid on my knee; rocking it to and fro, and watching, meanwhile, the still driving flakes build up the uncurtained window, when the door opened, and some person entered, out of breath and laughing! My anger was greater than my astonishment for a minute. I supposed it one of the maids, and I cried--'Have done! How dare you show your giddiness here; What would Mr. Linton say if he heard you?' 'Excuse me!' answered a familiar voice; 'but I know Edgar is in bed, and I cannot stop myself.' With that the speaker came forward to the fire, panting and holding her hand to her side. 'I have run the whole way from Wuthering Heights!' she continued, after a pause; 'except where I've flown. I couldn't count the number of falls I've had. Oh, I'm aching all over! Don't be alarmed! There shall be an explanation as soon as I can give it; only just have the goodness to step out and order the carriage to take me on to Gimmerton, and tell a servant to seek up a few clothes in my wardrobe.' The intruder was Mrs. Heathcliff. She certainly seemed in no laughing predicament: her hair streamed on her shoulders, dripping with snow and water; she was dressed in the girlish dress she commonly wore, befitting her age more than her position: a low frock with short sleeves, and nothing on either head or neck. The frock was of light silk, and clung to her with wet, and her feet were protected merely by thin slippers; add to this a deep cut under one ear, which only the cold prevented from bleeding profusely, a white face scratched and bruised, and a frame hardly able to support itself through fatigue; and you may fancy my first fright was not much allayed when I had had leisure to examine her. 'My dear young lady,' I exclaimed, 'I'll stir nowhere, and hear nothing, till you have removed every article of your clothes, and put on dry things; and certainly you shall not go to Gimmerton to-night, so it is needless to order the carriage.' 'Certainly I shall,' she said; 'walking or riding: yet I've no objection to dress myself decently. And--ah, see how it flows down my neck now! The fire does make it smart.' She insisted on my fulfilling her directions, before she would let me touch her; and not till after the coachman had been instructed to get ready, and a maid set to pack up some necessary attire, did I obtain her consent for binding the wound and helping to change her garments. 'Now, Ellen,' she said, when my task was finished and she was seated in an easy-chair on the hearth, with a cup of tea before her, 'you sit down opposite me, and put poor Catherine's baby away: I don't like to see it! You mustn't think I care little for Catherine, because I behaved so foolishly on entering: I've cried, too, bitterly--yes, more than any one else has reason to cry. We parted unreconciled, you remember, and I sha'n't forgive myself. But, for all that, I was not going to sympathise with him--the brute beast! Oh, give me the poker! This is the last thing of his I have about me:' she slipped the gold ring from her third finger, and threw it on the floor. 'I'll smash it!' she continued, striking it with childish spite, 'and then I'll burn it!' and she took and dropped the misused article among the coals. 'There! he shall buy another, if he gets me back again. He'd be capable of coming to seek me, to tease Edgar. I dare not stay, lest that notion should possess his wicked head! And besides, Edgar has not been kind, has he? And I won't come suing for his assistance; nor will I bring him into more trouble. Necessity compelled me to seek shelter here; though, if I had not learned he was out of the way, I'd have halted at the kitchen, washed my face, warmed myself, got you to bring what I wanted, and departed again to anywhere out of the reach of my accursed--of that incarnate goblin! Ah, he was in such a fury! If he had caught me! It's a pity Earnshaw is not his match in strength: I wouldn't have run till I'd seen him all but demolished, had Hindley been able to do it!' 'Well, don't talk so fast, Miss!' I interrupted; 'you'll disorder the handkerchief I have tied round your face, and make the cut bleed again. Drink your tea, and take breath, and give over laughing: laughter is sadly out of place under this roof, and in your condition!' 'An undeniable truth,' she replied. 'Listen to that child! It maintains a constant wail--send it out of my hearing for an hour; I sha'n't stay any longer.' I rang the bell, and committed it to a servant's care; and then I inquired what had urged her to escape from Wuthering Heights in such an unlikely plight, and where she meant to go, as she refused remaining with us. 'I ought, and I wished to remain,' answered she, 'to cheer Edgar and take care of the baby, for two things, and because the Grange is my right home. But I tell you he wouldn't let me! Do you think he could bear to see me grow fat and merry--could bear to think that we were tranquil, and not resolve on poisoning our comfort? Now, I have the satisfaction of being sure that he detests me, to the point of its annoying him seriously to have me within ear-shot or eyesight: I notice, when I enter his presence, the muscles of his countenance are involuntarily distorted into an expression of hatred; partly arising from his knowledge of the good causes I have to feel that sentiment for him, and partly from original aversion. It is strong enough to make me feel pretty certain that he would not chase me over England, supposing I contrived a clear escape; and therefore I must get quite away. I've recovered from my first desire to be killed by him: I'd rather he'd kill himself! He has extinguished my love effectually, and so I'm at my ease. I can recollect yet how I loved him; and can dimly imagine that I could still be loving him, if--no, no! Even if he had doted on me, the devilish nature would have revealed its existence somehow. Catherine had an awfully perverted taste to esteem him so dearly, knowing him so well. Monster! would that he could be blotted out of creation, and out of my memory!' 'Hush, hush! He's a human being,' I said. 'Be more charitable: there are worse men than he is yet!' 'He's not a human being,' she retorted; 'and he has no claim on my charity. I gave him my heart, and he took and pinched it to death, and flung it back to me. People feel with their hearts, Ellen: and since he has destroyed mine, I have not power to feel for him: and I would not, though he groaned from this to his dying day, and wept tears of blood for Catherine! No, indeed, indeed, I wouldn't!' And here Isabella began to cry; but, immediately dashing the water from her lashes, she recommenced. 'You asked, what has driven me to flight at last? I was compelled to attempt it, because I had succeeded in rousing his rage a pitch above his malignity. Pulling out the nerves with red hot pincers requires more coolness than knocking on the head. He was worked up to forget the fiendish prudence he boasted of, and proceeded to murderous violence. I experienced pleasure in being able to exasperate him: the sense of pleasure woke my instinct of self-preservation, so I fairly broke free; and if ever I come into his hands again he is welcome to a signal revenge. 'Yesterday, you know, Mr. Earnshaw should have been at the funeral. He kept himself sober for the purpose--tolerably sober: not going to bed mad at six o'clock and getting up drunk at twelve. Consequently, he rose, in suicidal low spirits, as fit for the church as for a dance; and instead, he sat down by the fire and swallowed gin or brandy by tumblerfuls. 'Heathcliff--I shudder to name him! has been a stranger in the house from last Sunday till to-day. Whether the angels have fed him, or his kin beneath, I cannot tell; but he has not eaten a meal with us for nearly a week. He has just come home at dawn, and gone up-stairs to his chamber; locking himself in--as if anybody dreamt of coveting his company! There he has continued, praying like a Methodist: only the deity he implored is senseless dust and ashes; and God, when addressed, was curiously confounded with his own black father! After concluding these precious orisons--and they lasted generally till he grew hoarse and his voice was strangled in his throat--he would be off again; always straight down to the Grange! I wonder Edgar did not send for a constable, and give him into custody! For me, grieved as I was about Catherine, it was impossible to avoid regarding this season of deliverance from degrading oppression as a holiday. 'I recovered spirits sufficient to bear Joseph's eternal lectures without weeping, and to move up and down the house less with the foot of a frightened thief than formerly. You wouldn't think that I should cry at anything Joseph could say; but he and Hareton are detestable companions. I'd rather sit with Hindley, and hear his awful talk, than with "t' little maister" and his staunch supporter, that odious old man! When Heathcliff is in, I'm often obliged to seek the kitchen and their society, or starve among the damp uninhabited chambers; when he is not, as was the case this week, I establish a table and chair at one corner of the house fire, and never mind how Mr. Earnshaw may occupy himself; and he does not interfere with my arrangements. He is quieter now than he used to be, if no one provokes him: more sullen and depressed, and less furious. Joseph affirms he's sure he's an altered man: that the Lord has touched his heart, and he is saved "so as by fire." I'm puzzled to detect signs of the favourable change: but it is not my business. 'Yester-evening I sat in my nook reading some old books till late on towards twelve. It seemed so dismal to go up-stairs, with the wild snow blowing outside, and my thoughts continually reverting to the kirk-yard and the new-made grave! I dared hardly lift my eyes from the page before me, that melancholy scene so instantly usurped its place. Hindley sat opposite, his head leant on his hand; perhaps meditating on the same subject. He had ceased drinking at a point below irrationality, and had neither stirred nor spoken during two or three hours. There was no sound through the house but the moaning wind, which shook the windows every now and then, the faint crackling of the coals, and the click of my snuffers as I removed at intervals the long wick of the candle. Hareton and Joseph were probably fast asleep in bed. It was very, very sad: and while I read I sighed, for it seemed as if all joy had vanished from the world, never to be restored. 'The doleful silence was broken at length by the sound of the kitchen latch: Heathcliff had returned from his watch earlier than usual; owing, I suppose, to the sudden storm. That entrance was fastened, and we heard him coming round to get in by the other. I rose with an irrepressible expression of what I felt on my lips, which induced my companion, who had been staring towards the door, to turn and look at me. '"I'll keep him out five minutes," he exclaimed. "You won't object?" '"No, you may keep him out the whole night for me," I answered. "Do! put the key in the lock, and draw the bolts." 'Earnshaw accomplished this ere his guest reached the front; he then came and brought his chair to the other side of my table, leaning over it, and searching in my eyes for a sympathy with the burning hate that gleamed from his: as he both looked and felt like an assassin, he couldn't exactly find that; but he discovered enough to encourage him to speak. '"You, and I," he said, "have each a great debt to settle with the man out yonder! If we were neither of us cowards, we might combine to discharge it. Are you as soft as your brother? Are you willing to endure to the last, and not once attempt a repayment?" '"I'm weary of enduring now," I replied; "and I'd be glad of a retaliation that wouldn't recoil on myself; but treachery and violence are spears pointed at both ends; they wound those who resort to them worse than their enemies." '"Treachery and violence are a just return for treachery and violence!" cried Hindley. "Mrs. Heathcliff, I'll ask you to do nothing; but sit still and be dumb. Tell me now, can you? I'm sure you would have as much pleasure as I in witnessing the conclusion of the fiend's existence; he'll be _your_ death unless you overreach him; and he'll be _my_ ruin. Damn the hellish villain! He knocks at the door as if he were master here already! Promise to hold your tongue, and before that clock strikes--it wants three minutes of one--you're a free woman!" 'He took the implements which I described to you in my letter from his breast, and would have turned down the candle. I snatched it away, however, and seized his arm. '"I'll not hold my tongue!" I said; "you mustn't touch him. Let the door remain shut, and be quiet!" '"No! I've formed my resolution, and by God I'll execute it!" cried the desperate being. "I'll do you a kindness in spite of yourself, and Hareton justice! And you needn't trouble your head to screen me; Catherine is gone. Nobody alive would regret me, or be ashamed, though I cut my throat this minute--and it's time to make an end!" 'I might as well have struggled with a bear, or reasoned with a lunatic. The only resource left me was to run to a lattice and warn his intended victim of the fate which awaited him. '"You'd better seek shelter somewhere else to-night!" I exclaimed, in rather a triumphant tone. "Mr. Earnshaw has a mind to shoot you, if you persist in endeavouring to enter." '"You'd better open the door, you--" he answered, addressing me by some elegant term that I don't care to repeat. '"I shall not meddle in the matter," I retorted again. "Come in and get shot, if you please. I've done my duty." 'With that I shut the window and returned to my place by the fire; having too small a stock of hypocrisy at my command to pretend any anxiety for the danger that menaced him. Earnshaw swore passionately at me: affirming that I loved the villain yet; and calling me all sorts of names for the base spirit I evinced. And I, in my secret heart (and conscience never reproached me), thought what a blessing it would be for _him_ should Heathcliff put him out of misery; and what a blessing for _me_ should he send Heathcliff to his right abode! As I sat nursing these reflections, the casement behind me was banged on to the floor by a blow from the latter individual, and his black countenance looked blightingly through. The stanchions stood too close to suffer his shoulders to follow, and I smiled, exulting in my fancied security. His hair and clothes were whitened with snow, and his sharp cannibal teeth, revealed by cold and wrath, gleamed through the dark. '"Isabella, let me in, or I'll make you repent!" he "girned," as Joseph calls it. '"I cannot commit murder," I replied. "Mr. Hindley stands sentinel with a knife and loaded pistol." '"Let me in by the kitchen door," he said. '"Hindley will be there before me," I answered: "and that's a poor love of yours that cannot bear a shower of snow! We were left at peace in our beds as long as the summer moon shone, but the moment a blast of winter returns, you must run for shelter! Heathcliff, if I were you, I'd go stretch myself over her grave and die like a faithful dog. The world is surely not worth living in now, is it? You had distinctly impressed on me the idea that Catherine was the whole joy of your life: I can't imagine how you think of surviving her loss." '"He's there, is he?" exclaimed my companion, rushing to the gap. "If I can get my arm out I can hit him!" 'I'm afraid, Ellen, you'll set me down as really wicked; but you don't know all, so don't judge. I wouldn't have aided or abetted an attempt on even _his_ life for anything. Wish that he were dead, I must; and therefore I was fearfully disappointed, and unnerved by terror for the consequences of my taunting speech, when he flung himself on Earnshaw's weapon and wrenched it from his grasp. 'The charge exploded, and the knife, in springing back, closed into its owner's wrist. Heathcliff pulled it away by main force, slitting up the flesh as it passed on, and thrust it dripping into his pocket. He then took a stone, struck down the division between two windows, and sprang in. His adversary had fallen senseless with excessive pain and the flow of blood, that gushed from an artery or a large vein. The ruffian kicked and trampled on him, and dashed his head repeatedly against the flags, holding me with one hand, meantime, to prevent me summoning Joseph. He exerted preterhuman self-denial in abstaining from finishing him completely; but getting out of breath, he finally desisted, and dragged the apparently inanimate body on to the settle. There he tore off the sleeve of Earnshaw's coat, and bound up the wound with brutal roughness; spitting and cursing during the operation as energetically as he had kicked before. Being at liberty, I lost no time in seeking the old servant; who, having gathered by degrees the purport of my hasty tale, hurried below, gasping, as he descended the steps two at once. '"What is ther to do, now? what is ther to do, now?" '"There's this to do," thundered Heathcliff, "that your master's mad; and should he last another month, I'll have him to an asylum. And how the devil did you come to fasten me out, you toothless hound? Don't stand muttering and mumbling there. Come, I'm not going to nurse him. Wash that stuff away; and mind the sparks of your candle--it is more than half brandy!" '"And so ye've been murthering on him?" exclaimed Joseph, lifting his hands and eyes in horror. "If iver I seed a seeght loike this! May the Lord--" 'Heathcliff gave him a push on to his knees in the middle of the blood, and flung a towel to him; but instead of proceeding to dry it up, he joined his hands and began a prayer, which excited my laughter from its odd phraseology. I was in the condition of mind to be shocked at nothing: in fact, I was as reckless as some malefactors show themselves at the foot of the gallows. '"Oh, I forgot you," said the tyrant. "You shall do that. Down with you. And you conspire with him against me, do you, viper? There, that is work fit for you!" 'He shook me till my teeth rattled, and pitched me beside Joseph, who steadily concluded his supplications, and then rose, vowing he would set off for the Grange directly. Mr. Linton was a magistrate, and though he had fifty wives dead, he should inquire into this. He was so obstinate in his resolution, that Heathcliff deemed it expedient to compel from my lips a recapitulation of what had taken place; standing over me, heaving with malevolence, as I reluctantly delivered the account in answer to his questions. It required a great deal of labour to satisfy the old man that Heathcliff was not the aggressor; especially with my hardly-wrung replies. However, Mr. Earnshaw soon convinced him that he was alive still; Joseph hastened to administer a dose of spirits, and by their succour his master presently regained motion and consciousness. Heathcliff, aware that his opponent was ignorant of the treatment received while insensible, called him deliriously intoxicated; and said he should not notice his atrocious conduct further, but advised him to get to bed. To my joy, he left us, after giving this judicious counsel, and Hindley stretched himself on the hearthstone. I departed to my own room, marvelling that I had escaped so easily. 'This morning, when I came down, about half an hour before noon, Mr. Earnshaw was sitting by the fire, deadly sick; his evil genius, almost as gaunt and ghastly, leant against the chimney. Neither appeared inclined to dine, and, having waited till all was cold on the table, I commenced alone. Nothing hindered me from eating heartily, and I experienced a certain sense of satisfaction and superiority, as, at intervals, I cast a look towards my silent companions, and felt the comfort of a quiet conscience within me. After I had done, I ventured on the unusual liberty of drawing near the fire, going round Earnshaw's seat, and kneeling in the corner beside him. 'Heathcliff did not glance my way, and I gazed up, and contemplated his features almost as confidently as if they had been turned to stone. His forehead, that I once thought so manly, and that I now think so diabolical, was shaded with a heavy cloud; his basilisk eyes were nearly quenched by sleeplessness, and weeping, perhaps, for the lashes were wet then: his lips devoid of their ferocious sneer, and sealed in an expression of unspeakable sadness. Had it been another, I would have covered my face in the presence of such grief. In _his_ case, I was gratified; and, ignoble as it seems to insult a fallen enemy, I couldn't miss this chance of sticking in a dart: his weakness was the only time when I could taste the delight of paying wrong for wrong.' 'Fie, fie, Miss!' I interrupted. 'One might suppose you had never opened a Bible in your life. If God afflict your enemies, surely that ought to suffice you. It is both mean and presumptuous to add your torture to his!' 'In general I'll allow that it would be, Ellen,' she continued; 'but what misery laid on Heathcliff could content me, unless I have a hand in it? I'd rather he suffered less, if I might cause his sufferings and he might _know_ that I was the cause. Oh, I owe him so much. On only one condition can I hope to forgive him. It is, if I may take an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; for every wrench of agony return a wrench: reduce him to my level. As he was the first to injure, make him the first to implore pardon; and then--why then, Ellen, I might show you some generosity. But it is utterly impossible I can ever be revenged, and therefore I cannot forgive him. Hindley wanted some water, and I handed him a glass, and asked him how he was. '"Not as ill as I wish," he replied. "But leaving out my arm, every inch of me is as sore as if I had been fighting with a legion of imps!" '"Yes, no wonder," was my next remark. "Catherine used to boast that she stood between you and bodily harm: she meant that certain persons would not hurt you for fear of offending her. It's well people don't _really_ rise from their grave, or, last night, she might have witnessed a repulsive scene! Are not you bruised, and cut over your chest and shoulders?" '"I can't say," he answered, "but what do you mean? Did he dare to strike me when I was down?" '"He trampled on and kicked you, and dashed you on the ground," I whispered. "And his mouth watered to tear you with his teeth; because he's only half man: not so much, and the rest fiend." 'Mr. Earnshaw looked up, like me, to the countenance of our mutual foe; who, absorbed in his anguish, seemed insensible to anything around him: the longer he stood, the plainer his reflections revealed their blackness through his features. '"Oh, if God would but give me strength to strangle him in my last agony, I'd go to hell with joy," groaned the impatient man, writhing to rise, and sinking back in despair, convinced of his inadequacy for the struggle. '"Nay, it's enough that he has murdered one of you," I observed aloud. "At the Grange, every one knows your sister would have been living now had it not been for Mr. Heathcliff. After all, it is preferable to be hated than loved by him. When I recollect how happy we were--how happy Catherine was before he came--I'm fit to curse the day." 'Most likely, Heathcliff noticed more the truth of what was said, than the spirit of the person who said it. His attention was roused, I saw, for his eyes rained down tears among the ashes, and he drew his breath in suffocating sighs. I stared full at him, and laughed scornfully. The clouded windows of hell flashed a moment towards me; the fiend which usually looked out, however, was so dimmed and drowned that I did not fear to hazard another sound of derision. '"Get up, and begone out of my sight," said the mourner. 'I guessed he uttered those words, at least, though his voice was hardly intelligible. '"I beg your pardon," I replied. "But I loved Catherine too; and her brother requires attendance, which, for her sake, I shall supply. Now, that she's dead, I see her in Hindley: Hindley has exactly her eyes, if you had not tried to gouge them out, and made them black and red; and her--" '"Get up, wretched idiot, before I stamp you to death!" he cried, making a movement that caused me to make one also. '"But then," I continued, holding myself ready to flee, "if poor Catherine had trusted you, and assumed the ridiculous, contemptible, degrading title of Mrs. Heathcliff, she would soon have presented a similar picture! _She_ wouldn't have borne your abominable behaviour quietly: her detestation and disgust must have found voice." 'The back of the settle and Earnshaw's person interposed between me and him; so instead of endeavouring to reach me, he snatched a dinner-knife from the table and flung it at my head. It struck beneath my ear, and stopped the sentence I was uttering; but, pulling it out, I sprang to the door and delivered another; which I hope went a little deeper than his missile. The last glimpse I caught of him was a furious rush on his part, checked by the embrace of his host; and both fell locked together on the hearth. In my flight through the kitchen I bid Joseph speed to his master; I knocked over Hareton, who was hanging a litter of puppies from a chair-back in the doorway; and, blessed as a soul escaped from purgatory, I bounded, leaped, and flew down the steep road; then, quitting its windings, shot direct across the moor, rolling over banks, and wading through marshes: precipitating myself, in fact, towards the beacon-light of the Grange. And far rather would I be condemned to a perpetual dwelling in the infernal regions than, even for one night, abide beneath the roof of Wuthering Heights again.' Isabella ceased speaking, and took a drink of tea; then she rose, and bidding me put on her bonnet, and a great shawl I had brought, and turning a deaf ear to my entreaties for her to remain another hour, she stepped on to a chair, kissed Edgar's and Catherine's portraits, bestowed a similar salute on me, and descended to the carriage, accompanied by Fanny, who yelped wild with joy at recovering her mistress. She was driven away, never to revisit this neighbourhood: but a regular correspondence was established between her and my master when things were more settled. I believe her new abode was in the south, near London; there she had a son born a few months subsequent to her escape. He was christened Linton, and, from the first, she reported him to be an ailing, peevish creature. Mr. Heathcliff, meeting me one day in the village, inquired where she lived. I refused to tell. He remarked that it was not of any moment, only she must beware of coming to her brother: she should not be with him, if he had to keep her himself. Though I would give no information, he discovered, through some of the other servants, both her place of residence and the existence of the child. Still, he didn't molest her: for which forbearance she might thank his aversion, I suppose. He often asked about the infant, when he saw me; and on hearing its name, smiled grimly, and observed: 'They wish me to hate it too, do they?' 'I don't think they wish you to know anything about it,' I answered. 'But I'll have it,' he said, 'when I want it. They may reckon on that!' Fortunately its mother died before the time arrived; some thirteen years after the decease of Catherine, when Linton was twelve, or a little more. On the day succeeding Isabella's unexpected visit I had no opportunity of speaking to my master: he shunned conversation, and was fit for discussing nothing. When I could get him to listen, I saw it pleased him that his sister had left her husband; whom he abhorred with an intensity which the mildness of his nature would scarcely seem to allow. So deep and sensitive was his aversion, that he refrained from going anywhere where he was likely to see or hear of Heathcliff. Grief, and that together, transformed him into a complete hermit: he threw up his office of magistrate, ceased even to attend church, avoided the village on all occasions, and spent a life of entire seclusion within the limits of his park and grounds; only varied by solitary rambles on the moors, and visits to the grave of his wife, mostly at evening, or early morning before other wanderers were abroad. But he was too good to be thoroughly unhappy long. _He_ didn't pray for Catherine's soul to haunt him. Time brought resignation, and a melancholy sweeter than common joy. He recalled her memory with ardent, tender love, and hopeful aspiring to the better world; where he doubted not she was gone. And he had earthly consolation and affections also. For a few days, I said, he seemed regardless of the puny successor to the departed: that coldness melted as fast as snow in April, and ere the tiny thing could stammer a word or totter a step it wielded a despot's sceptre in his heart. It was named Catherine; but he never called it the name in full, as he had never called the first Catherine short: probably because Heathcliff had a habit of doing so. The little one was always Cathy: it formed to him a distinction from the mother, and yet a connection with her; and his attachment sprang from its relation to her, far more than from its being his own. I used to draw a comparison between him and Hindley Earnshaw, and perplex myself to explain satisfactorily why their conduct was so opposite in similar circumstances. They had both been fond husbands, and were both attached to their children; and I could not see how they shouldn't both have taken the same road, for good or evil. But, I thought in my mind, Hindley, with apparently the stronger head, has shown himself sadly the worse and the weaker man. When his ship struck, the captain abandoned his post; and the crew, instead of trying to save her, rushed into riot and confusion, leaving no hope for their luckless vessel. Linton, on the contrary, displayed the true courage of a loyal and faithful soul: he trusted God; and God comforted him. One hoped, and the other despaired: they chose their own lots, and were righteously doomed to endure them. But you'll not want to hear my moralising, Mr. Lockwood; you'll judge, as well as I can, all these things: at least, you'll think you will, and that's the same. The end of Earnshaw was what might have been expected; it followed fast on his sister's: there were scarcely six months between them. We, at the Grange, never got a very succinct account of his state preceding it; all that I did learn was on occasion of going to aid in the preparations for the funeral. Mr. Kenneth came to announce the event to my master. 'Well, Nelly,' said he, riding into the yard one morning, too early not to alarm me with an instant presentiment of bad news, 'it's yours and my turn to go into mourning at present. Who's given us the slip now, do you think?' 'Who?' I asked in a flurry. 'Why, guess!' he returned, dismounting, and slinging his bridle on a hook by the door. 'And nip up the corner of your apron: I'm certain you'll need it.' 'Not Mr. Heathcliff, surely?' I exclaimed. 'What! would you have tears for him?' said the doctor. 'No, Heathcliff's a tough young fellow: he looks blooming to-day. I've just seen him. He's rapidly regaining flesh since he lost his better half.' 'Who is it, then, Mr. Kenneth?' I repeated impatiently. 'Hindley Earnshaw! Your old friend Hindley,' he replied, 'and my wicked gossip: though he's been too wild for me this long while. There! I said we should draw water. But cheer up! He died true to his character: drunk as a lord. Poor lad! I'm sorry, too. One can't help missing an old companion: though he had the worst tricks with him that ever man imagined, and has done me many a rascally turn. He's barely twenty-seven, it seems; that's your own age: who would have thought you were born in one year?' I confess this blow was greater to me than the shock of Mrs. Linton's death: ancient associations lingered round my heart; I sat down in the porch and wept as for a blood relation, desiring Mr. Kenneth to get another servant to introduce him to the master. I could not hinder myself from pondering on the question--'Had he had fair play?' Whatever I did, that idea would bother me: it was so tiresomely pertinacious that I resolved on requesting leave to go to Wuthering Heights, and assist in the last duties to the dead. Mr. Linton was extremely reluctant to consent, but I pleaded eloquently for the friendless condition in which he lay; and I said my old master and foster-brother had a claim on my services as strong as his own. Besides, I reminded him that the child Hareton was his wife's nephew, and, in the absence of nearer kin, he ought to act as its guardian; and he ought to and must inquire how the property was left, and look over the concerns of his brother-in-law. He was unfit for attending to such matters then, but he bid me speak to his lawyer; and at length permitted me to go. His lawyer had been Earnshaw's also: I called at the village, and asked him to accompany me. He shook his head, and advised that Heathcliff should be let alone; affirming, if the truth were known, Hareton would be found little else than a beggar. 'His father died in debt,' he said; 'the whole property is mortgaged, and the sole chance for the natural heir is to allow him an opportunity of creating some interest in the creditor's heart, that he may be inclined to deal leniently towards him.' When I reached the Heights, I explained that I had come to see everything carried on decently; and Joseph, who appeared in sufficient distress, expressed satisfaction at my presence. Mr. Heathcliff said he did not perceive that I was wanted; but I might stay and order the arrangements for the funeral, if I chose. 'Correctly,' he remarked, 'that fool's body should be buried at the cross-roads, without ceremony of any kind. I happened to leave him ten minutes yesterday afternoon, and in that interval he fastened the two doors of the house against me, and he has spent the night in drinking himself to death deliberately! We broke in this morning, for we heard him sporting like a horse; and there he was, laid over the settle: flaying and scalping would not have wakened him. I sent for Kenneth, and he came; but not till the beast had changed into carrion: he was both dead and cold, and stark; and so you'll allow it was useless making more stir about him!' The old servant confirmed this statement, but muttered: 'I'd rayther he'd goan hisseln for t' doctor! I sud ha' taen tent o' t' maister better nor him--and he warn't deead when I left, naught o' t' soart!' I insisted on the funeral being respectable. Mr. Heathcliff said I might have my own way there too: only, he desired me to remember that the money for the whole affair came out of his pocket. He maintained a hard, careless deportment, indicative of neither joy nor sorrow: if anything, it expressed a flinty gratification at a piece of difficult work successfully executed. I observed once, indeed, something like exultation in his aspect: it was just when the people were bearing the coffin from the house. He had the hypocrisy to represent a mourner: and previous to following with Hareton, he lifted the unfortunate child on to the table and muttered, with peculiar gusto, 'Now, my bonny lad, you are _mine_! And we'll see if one tree won't grow as crooked as another, with the same wind to twist it!' The unsuspecting thing was pleased at this speech: he played with Heathcliff's whiskers, and stroked his cheek; but I divined its meaning, and observed tartly, 'That boy must go back with me to Thrushcross Grange, sir. There is nothing in the world less yours than he is!' 'Does Linton say so?' he demanded. 'Of course--he has ordered me to take him,' I replied. 'Well,' said the scoundrel, 'we'll not argue the subject now: but I have a fancy to try my hand at rearing a young one; so intimate to your master that I must supply the place of this with my own, if he attempt to remove it. I don't engage to let Hareton go undisputed; but I'll be pretty sure to make the other come! Remember to tell him.' This hint was enough to bind our hands. I repeated its substance on my return; and Edgar Linton, little interested at the commencement, spoke no more of interfering. I'm not aware that he could have done it to any purpose, had he been ever so willing. The guest was now the master of Wuthering Heights: he held firm possession, and proved to the attorney--who, in his turn, proved it to Mr. Linton--that Earnshaw had mortgaged every yard of land he owned for cash to supply his mania for gaming; and he, Heathcliff, was the mortgagee. In that manner Hareton, who should now be the first gentleman in the neighbourhood, was reduced to a state of complete dependence on his father's inveterate enemy; and lives in his own house as a servant, deprived of the advantage of wages: quite unable to right himself, because of his friendlessness, and his ignorance that he has been wronged. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Ganz unerwartet kommt Isabella in einem physischen Zustand der Unordnung auf dem Grange an. Sie weiß genau, dass Edgar ihr nicht erlauben wird zu bleiben, also sucht sie keinen Zufluchtsort, sondern nur Hilfe. Sie erzählt Nelly, dass Hindley nüchtern geblieben ist, um an der Beerdigung seiner Schwester teilzunehmen, aber am Morgen des Gottesdienstes seinen Mut verloren und angefangen hat zu trinken. Als Heathcliff von der Wache an Catherines Grab nach Wuthering Heights zurückkehrt, sperrt Hindley ihn aus dem Haus aus und erzählt Isabella, dass er Heathcliff töten will. Isabella erzählt Heathcliff von Hindleys Absichten, lässt ihn aber nicht ins Haus. Heathcliff stürmt durch ein Fenster ins Haus und endet damit, Hindley zu schlagen. Am nächsten Morgen beschuldigt Isabella Heathcliff, verantwortlich für das Unglück aller zu sein, und erzählt Hindley, wie Heathcliff ihn geschlagen hat. Heathcliff und Hindley beginnen erneut zu kämpfen, während Isabella ihre Flucht ergreift. Nachdem sie Nelly ihre Geschichte erzählt hat, reist sie nach London ab. Sie bringt einen Sohn namens Linton zur Welt. Edgar und sie beginnen zu korrespondieren, obwohl er sich aus der Gesellschaft zurückzieht. Dreizehn Jahre später stirbt Isabella. Hindley stirbt sechs Monate nach Catherines Tod und Nelly kehrt nach Wuthering Heights zurück, um sich sowohl um die Bestattungsregelungen als auch um Hareton zu kümmern. Nelly erfährt, dass Hindley hoch verschuldet war und dass Heathcliff eine Hypothek hielt. Heathcliff weigert sich, Hareton mit Nelly gehen zu lassen, droht aber, Linton in seinen Besitz zu nehmen.

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 II. Fife. Ein Raum im Schloss von Macduff. [Betreten Sie Lady Macduff, ihren Sohn und Ross.] LADY MACDUFF. Was hat er getan, um aus dem Land zu fliehen? ROSS. Ihr müsst Geduld haben, Madame. LADY MACDUFF. Er hatte keine: Sein Flucht war Wahnsinn: Wenn unsere Taten es nicht tun, Unsere Ängste machen uns zu Verrätern. ROSS. Ihr wisst nicht, Ob es seine Weisheit oder seine Angst war. LADY MACDUFF. Weisheit! Seine Frau, seine Kinder, Sein Anwesen und seine Titel zu verlassen, Von wo er selbst flieht? Er liebt uns nicht: Ihm fehlt das natürliche Gefühl; denn der arme Zaunkönig, Der kleinste aller Vögel, wird kämpfen, Seine Jungen in seinem Nest gegen die Eule. Es ist nur die Angst, und Liebe ist nichts; Ebenso wenig ist die Weisheit vorhanden, wenn die Flucht So gegen alle Vernunft verläuft. ROSS. Meine liebste Cousine, Ich bitte euch, besinnt euch: Aber was euren Ehemann betrifft, Er ist edel, weise, verständig und weiß am besten, Wie man sich den Wendungen der Zeit anpasst. Ich darf nicht weiter sprechen: Aber grausam sind die Zeiten, wenn wir Verräter sind, Und uns selbst nicht erkennen; wenn wir Gerüchten trauen, Vor dem fürchten, was wir nicht wissen, Sondern auf einem wilden und stürmischen Meer Ohne Orientierung treiben. Ich verabschiede mich von euch: Bald werde ich zurück sein: Die Dinge werden in schlechtestem Fall enden, oder aber sich wieder erheben Zu dem, was sie zuvor waren. Segen sei mit euch, meine hübsche Cousine! LADY MACDUFF. Er hatte einen Vater, und dennoch ist er vaterlos. ROSS. Ich bin so ein Dummkopf, wenn ich länger bleiben würde, Wäre es meine Schande und euer Unbehagen: Ich verabschiede mich auf einmal. [Abgang.] LADY MACDUFF. Kind, dein Vater ist tot; Und was wirst du jetzt tun? Wie wirst du leben? SOHN. Wie die Vögel, Mutter. LADY MACDUFF. Was, mit Würmern und Fliegen? SOHN. Mit dem, was ich kriege, meine ich; und so machen sie es auch. LADY MACDUFF. Armer Vogel! Du würdest nie das Netz oder den Klebstoff fürchten, Die Grube oder die Falle. SOHN. Warum sollte ich, Mutter? Arme Vögel sind dafür nicht bestimmt. Mein Vater ist nicht tot, trotz all deiner Behauptungen. LADY MACDUFF. Ja, er ist tot: Wie wirst du ohne Vater zurechtkommen? SOHN. Nun, wie werdet ihr ohne Ehemann zurechtkommen? LADY MACDUFF. Nun, ich kann mir zwanzig Männer auf jedem Markt kaufen. SOHN. Dann werdet ihr sie kaufen, um sie wieder zu verkaufen. LADY MACDUFF. Du redest mit all deinem Verstand; und doch, in Glauben, 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, die dies tun? LADY MACDUFF. Jeder, der das tut, ist ein Verräter und muss gehängt werden. SOHN. Und müssen sie alle gehängt werden, die schwören und lügen? LADY MACDUFF. Jeder einzelne. SOHN. Wer muss sie hängen? LADY MACDUFF. Nun, die ehrlichen Männer. SOHN. Dann sind die Lügner und Schwörer Narren: Denn es gibt Lügner und Schwörer genug, um die ehrlichen Männer zu besiegen und sie aufzuhängen. LADY MACDUFF. Jetzt möge Gott dir, armer Affe, helfen! Aber wie wirst du ohne Vater zurechtkommen? SOHN. Wenn er tot wäre, würdest du um ihn weinen: Wenn nicht, dann wäre es ein gutes Zeichen, dass ich schnell einen neuen Vater hätte. LADY MACDUFF. Armer Schwätzer, wie du redest! [Betrete ein Bote.] BOTE. Segne euch, schöne Dame! Ihr kennt mich nicht, Auch wenn ich in eurem ehrwürdigen Zustand vollkommen bin. Ich fürchte, eine Gefahr nähert sich euch nah: Wenn ihr den Rat eines einfachen Mannes annehmen wollt, Dann bleibt nicht hier; geht fort mit euren Kleinen. So euch zu erschrecken, scheint mir zu brutal; Schlimmeres euch anzutun, wäre grausame Grausamkeit, Die zu nahe bei euch ist. Der Himmel beschütze euch! Ich kann nicht länger bleiben. [Abgang.] LADY MACDUFF. Wohin soll ich fliehen? Ich habe nichts Böses getan. Aber ich erinnere mich jetzt daran, Dass ich in dieser weltlichen Welt bin; wo es Lobenswertes ist, Schaden zuzufügen; Zu Gutes zu tun manchmal Als gefährlicher Unsinn betrachtet wird: Warum also, Darf ich die weibliche Verteidigung erhöhen, Um zu sagen, dass ich nichts Böses getan habe? - Wer sind diese Gestalten? [Betreten Mörder.] ERSTER MÖRDER. Wo ist dein Ehemann? LADY MACDUFF. Ich hoffe, an keinem Ort, der so entheiligt ist, Wo du ihn finden könntest, du Unheilstifter. ERSTER MÖRDER. Er ist ein Verräter. SOHN. Du lügst, du haariges Ungeheuer! ERSTER MÖRDER. Was, du Ei! [Sticht ihn nieder.] Junger Spross des Verrats! SOHN. Er hat mich getötet, Mutter: Lauf weg, bitte! [Stirbt. Lady Macduff geht ab und ruft Mord, von den Mördern verfolgt.] Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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In Macduffs Schloss in Fife wird Lady Macduff von ihrem jungen Sohn getröstet und getröstet, der sich mutig zeigt, als er mit der Möglichkeit konfrontiert wird, dass sein Vater zum Verräter geworden ist. Obwohl sie vom Thane of Ross gewarnt wurde, rechtzeitig zu fliehen, wird Lady Macduff von Macbeths Handlangern angetroffen, die zunächst ihr Kind und dann sie brutal töten.

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: XXIV. CONCLUSION. After many days, when time sufficed for the people to arrange their thoughts in reference to the foregoing scene, there was more than one account of what had been witnessed on the scaffold. Most of the spectators testified to having seen, on the breast of the unhappy minister, a SCARLET LETTER--the very semblance of that worn by Hester Prynne--imprinted in the flesh. As regarded its origin, there were various explanations, all of which must necessarily have been conjectural. Some affirmed that the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, on the very day when Hester Prynne first wore her ignominious badge, had begun a course of penance,--which he afterwards, in so many futile methods, followed out,--by inflicting a hideous torture on himself. Others contended that the stigma had not been produced until a long time subsequent, when old Roger Chillingworth, being a potent necromancer, had caused it to appear, through the agency of magic and poisonous drugs. Others, again,--and those best able to appreciate the minister's peculiar sensibility, and the wonderful operation of his spirit upon the body,--whispered their belief, that the awful symbol was the effect of the ever-active tooth of remorse, gnawing from the inmost heart outwardly, and at last manifesting Heaven's dreadful judgment by the visible presence of the letter. The reader may choose among these theories. We have thrown all the light we could acquire upon the portent, and would gladly, now that it has done its office, erase its deep print out of our own brain; where long meditation has fixed it in very undesirable distinctness. It is singular, nevertheless, that certain persons, who were spectators of the whole scene, and professed never once to have removed their eyes from the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, denied that there was any mark whatever on his breast, more than on a new-born infant's. Neither, by their report, had his dying words acknowledged, nor even remotely implied, any, the slightest connection, on his part, with the guilt for which Hester Prynne had so long worn the scarlet letter. According to these highly respectable witnesses, the minister, conscious that he was dying,--conscious, also, that the reverence of the multitude placed him already among saints and angels,--had desired, by yielding up his breath in the arms of that fallen woman, to express to the world how utterly nugatory is the choicest of man's own righteousness. After exhausting life in his efforts for mankind's spiritual good, he had made the manner of his death a parable, in order to impress on his admirers the mighty and mournful lesson, that, in the view of Infinite Purity, we are sinners all alike. It was to teach them, that the holiest among us has but attained so far above his fellows as to discern more clearly the Mercy which looks down, and repudiate more utterly the phantom of human merit, which would look aspiringly upward. Without disputing a truth so momentous, we must be allowed to consider this version of Mr. Dimmesdale's story as only an instance of that stubborn fidelity with which a man's friends--and especially a clergyman's--will sometimes uphold his character, when proofs, clear as the mid-day sunshine on the scarlet letter, establish him a false and sin-stained creature of the dust. The authority which we have chiefly followed,--a manuscript of old date, drawn up from the verbal testimony of individuals, some of whom had known Hester Prynne, while others had heard the tale from contemporary witnesses,--fully confirms the view taken in the foregoing pages. Among many morals which press upon us from the poor minister's miserable experience, we put only this into a sentence:--"Be true! Be true! Be true! Show freely to the world, if not your worst, yet some trait whereby the worst may be inferred!" Nothing was more remarkable than the change which took place, almost immediately after Mr. Dimmesdale's death, in the appearance and demeanor of the old man known as Roger Chillingworth. All his strength and energy--all his vital and intellectual force--seemed at once to desert him; insomuch that he positively withered up, shrivelled away, and almost vanished from mortal sight, like an uprooted weed that lies wilting in the sun. This unhappy man had made the very principle of his life to consist in the pursuit and systematic exercise of revenge; and when, by its completest triumph and consummation, that evil principle was left with no further material to support it, when, in short, there was no more Devil's work on earth for him to do, it only remained for the unhumanized mortal to betake himself whither his Master would find him tasks enough, and pay him his wages duly. But, to all these shadowy beings, so long our near acquaintances,--as well Roger Chillingworth as his companions,--we would fain be merciful. It is a curious subject of observation and inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same thing at bottom. Each, in its utmost development, supposes a high degree of intimacy and heart-knowledge; each renders one individual dependent for the food of his affections and spiritual life upon another; each leaves the passionate lover, or the no less passionate hater, forlorn and desolate by the withdrawal of his subject. Philosophically considered, therefore, the two passions seem essentially the same, except that one happens to be seen in a celestial radiance, and the other in a dusky and lurid glow. In the spiritual world, the old physician and the minister--mutual victims as they have been--may, unawares, have found their earthly stock of hatred and antipathy transmuted into golden love. Leaving this discussion apart, we have a matter of business to communicate to the reader. At old Roger Chillingworth's decease, (which took place within the year,) and by his last will and testament, of which Governor Bellingham and the Reverend Mr. Wilson were executors, he bequeathed a very considerable amount of property, both here and in England, to little Pearl, the daughter of Hester Prynne. So Pearl--the elf-child,--the demon offspring, as some people, up to that epoch, persisted in considering her,--became the richest heiress of her day, in the New World. Not improbably, this circumstance wrought a very material change in the public estimation; and, had the mother and child remained here, little Pearl, at a marriageable period of life, might have mingled her wild blood with the lineage of the devoutest Puritan among them all. But, in no long time after the physician's death, the wearer of the scarlet letter disappeared, and Pearl along with her. For many years, though a vague report would now and then find its way across the sea,--like a shapeless piece of drift-wood tost ashore, with the initials of a name upon it,--yet no tidings of them unquestionably authentic were received. The story of the scarlet letter grew into a legend. Its spell, however, was still potent, and kept the scaffold awful where the poor minister had died, and likewise the cottage by the sea-shore, where Hester Prynne had dwelt. Near this latter spot, one afternoon, some children were at play, when they beheld a tall woman, in a gray robe, approach the cottage-door. In all those years it had never once been opened; but either she unlocked it, or the decaying wood and iron yielded to her hand, or she glided shadow-like through these impediments,--and, at all events, went in. On the threshold she paused,--turned partly round,--for, perchance, the idea of entering all alone, and all so changed, the home of so intense a former life, was more dreary and desolate than even she could bear. But her hesitation was only for an instant, though long enough to display a scarlet letter on her breast. [Illustration: Hester's Return] And Hester Prynne had returned, and taken up her long-forsaken shame! But where was little Pearl? If still alive, she must now have been in the flush and bloom of early womanhood. None knew--nor ever learned, with the fulness of perfect certainty--whether the elf-child had gone thus untimely to a maiden grave; or whether her wild, rich nature had been softened and subdued, and made capable of a woman's gentle happiness. But, through the remainder of Hester's life, there were indications that the recluse of the scarlet letter was the object of love and interest with some inhabitant of another land. Letters came, with armorial seals upon them, though of bearings unknown to English heraldry. In the cottage there were articles of comfort and luxury such as Hester never cared to use, but which only wealth could have purchased, and affection have imagined for her. There were trifles, too, little ornaments, beautiful tokens of a continual remembrance, that must have been wrought by delicate fingers, at the impulse of a fond heart. And, once, Hester was seen embroidering a baby-garment, with such a lavish richness of golden fancy as would have raised a public tumult, had any infant, thus apparelled, been shown to our sober-hued community. In fine, the gossips of that day believed,--and Mr. Surveyor Pue, who made investigations a century later, believed,--and one of his recent successors in office, moreover, faithfully believes,--that Pearl was not only alive, but married, and happy, and mindful of her mother, and that she would most joyfully have entertained that sad and lonely mother at her fireside. But there was a more real life for Hester Prynne here, in New England, than in that unknown region where Pearl had found a home. Here had been her sin; here, her sorrow; and here was yet to be her penitence. She had returned, therefore, and resumed,--of her own free will, for not the sternest magistrate of that iron period would have imposed it,--resumed the symbol of which we have related so dark a tale. Never afterwards did it quit her bosom. But, in the lapse of the toilsome, thoughtful, and self-devoted years that made up Hester's life, the scarlet letter ceased to be a stigma which attracted the world's scorn and bitterness, and became a type of something to be sorrowed over, and looked upon with awe, yet with reverence too. And, as Hester Prynne had no selfish ends, nor lived in any measure for her own profit and enjoyment, people brought all their sorrows and perplexities, and besought her counsel, as one who had herself gone through a mighty trouble. Women, more especially,--in the continually recurring trials of wounded, wasted, wronged, misplaced, or erring and sinful passion,--or with the dreary burden of a heart unyielded, because unvalued and unsought,--came to Hester's cottage, demanding why they were so wretched, and what the remedy! Hester comforted and counselled them as best she might. She assured them, too, of her firm belief, that, at some brighter period, when the world should have grown ripe for it, in Heaven's own time, a new truth would be revealed, in order to establish the whole relation between man and woman on a surer ground of mutual happiness. Earlier in life, Hester had vainly imagined that she herself might be the destined prophetess, but had long since recognized the impossibility that any mission of divine and mysterious truth should be confided to a woman stained with sin, bowed down with shame, or even burdened with a life-long sorrow. The angel and apostle of the coming revelation must be a woman, indeed, but lofty, pure, and beautiful; and wise, moreover, not through dusky grief, but the ethereal medium of joy; and showing how sacred love should make us happy, by the truest test of a life successful to such an end! So said Hester Prynne, and glanced her sad eyes downward at the scarlet letter. And, after many, many years, a new grave was delved, near an old and sunken one, in that burial-ground beside which King's Chapel has since been built. It was near that old and sunken grave, yet with a space between, as if the dust of the two sleepers had no right to mingle. Yet one tombstone served for both. All around, there were monuments carved with armorial bearings; and on this simple slab of slate--as the curious investigator may still discern, and perplex himself with the purport--there appeared the semblance of an engraved escutcheon. It bore a device, a herald's wording of which might serve for a motto and brief description of our now concluded legend; so sombre is it, and relieved only by one ever-glowing point of light gloomier than the shadow:-- "ON A FIELD, SABLE, THE LETTER A, GULES." [Illustration] Cambridge: Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES Obvious printer's errors have been corrected; for the details, see below. Most illustrations have been linked to the larger versions; to see the larger version, click on the illustration. Typos fixed: page 072--spelling normalized: changed 'midday' to 'mid-day' page 132--inserted a missing closing quote after 'a child of her age' page 137--spelling normalized: changed 'careworn' to 'care-worn' page 147--typo fixed: changed 'physican' to 'physician' page 171--typo fixed: changed 'vocies' to 'voices' page 262--removed an extra closing quote after 'scarlet letter too!' page 291--spelling normalized: changed 'birdlike' to 'bird-like' page 300--typo fixed: changed 'intruments' to 'instruments' page 306--spelling normalized: changed 'deathlike' to 'death-like' Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Fazit: Das scharlachrote Buchstabe hörte auf, ein Stigma zu sein, das den Spott und die Verbitterung der Welt anzog, und wurde zu einer Art von etwas, über das man trauern und mit Ehrfurcht, aber auch mit Ehrfurcht betrachten konnte. Der Erzähler des Buches bespricht die Ereignisse, die auf Dimmesdales Tod folgten, und berichtet über das Schicksal der anderen Hauptfiguren. Offenbar können sich diejenigen, die den Tod des Ministers miterlebt haben, nicht darauf einigen, was genau sie gesehen haben. Die meisten sagen, sie hätten auf seiner Brust einen scharlachroten Buchstaben genau wie Hesters gesehen. In ihren Augen resultierte es aus Chillingworths giftigen Zauber, aus der Selbstquälerei des Ministers oder aus seiner inneren Reue. Andere sagen, sie hätten nichts auf seiner Brust gesehen und dass Dimmesdales "Offenbarung" einfach besagt, dass jeder Mensch, wie heilig oder mächtig er auch sein mag, genauso schuldig an Sünde sein kann wie Hester. Es ist die Meinung des Erzählers, dass diese letztere Gruppe aus Dimmesdales Freunden besteht, die darauf bedacht sind, seinen Ruf zu schützen. Nachdem er kein Objekt für seinen Hass mehr hatte, vergeht Chillingworth und stirbt innerhalb eines Jahres nach dem Tod des Ministers und hinterlässt Pearl ein beträchtliches Erbe. Dann, kurz nach Chillingworths Tod, verschwinden Hester und Pearl. In ihrer Abwesenheit wird die Geschichte des scharlachroten Buchstaben zur Legende. Die Geschichte ist so fesselnd, dass die Stadt das Schafott und Hesters Hütte als materielle Zeugnisse dafür aufbewahrt. Viele Jahre später kehrt Hester allein in die Hütte zurück und setzt ihre Wohltätigkeitsarbeit fort. Zum Zeitpunkt ihres Todes hat das "A", das sie immer noch trägt, jede Stigmatisierung verloren, die es haben könnte. Hester wird auf dem Friedhof der Königskapelle begraben, der als Begräbnisstätte für die puritanischen Patriarchen dient. Ihr Grab befindet sich neben Dimmesdales, jedoch weit genug entfernt, um anzudeuten, dass "der Staub der beiden Schläfer nicht das Recht hatte, sich selbst im Tod zu vermischen". Sie teilen jedoch einen Grabstein. Er trägt ein Symbol, das der Erzähler angemessen findet, um die gesamte Erzählung zusammenzufassen: ein scharlachrotes "A" auf schwarzem Hintergrund.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Act II. Scene I. Elsinore. A room in the house of Polonius. Enter Polonius and Reynaldo. Pol. Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo. Rey. I will, my lord. Pol. You shall do marvell's wisely, good Reynaldo, Before You visit him, to make inquire Of his behaviour. Rey. My lord, I did intend it. Pol. Marry, well said, very well said. Look you, sir, Enquire me first what Danskers are in Paris; And how, and who, what means, and where they keep, What company, at what expense; and finding By this encompassment and drift of question That they do know my son, come you more nearer Than your particular demands will touch it. Take you, as 'twere, some distant knowledge of him; As thus, 'I know his father and his friends, And in part him.' Do you mark this, Reynaldo? Rey. Ay, very well, my lord. Pol. 'And in part him, but,' you may say, 'not well. But if't be he I mean, he's very wild Addicted so and so'; and there put on him What forgeries you please; marry, none so rank As may dishonour him- take heed of that; But, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips As are companions noted and most known To youth and liberty. Rey. As gaming, my lord. Pol. Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, quarrelling, Drabbing. You may go so far. Rey. My lord, that would dishonour him. Pol. Faith, no, as you may season it in the charge. You must not put another scandal on him, That he is open to incontinency. That's not my meaning. But breathe his faults so quaintly That they may seem the taints of liberty, The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind, A savageness in unreclaimed blood, Of general assault. Rey. But, my good lord- Pol. Wherefore should you do this? Rey. Ay, my lord, I would know that. Pol. Marry, sir, here's my drift, And I believe it is a fetch of warrant. You laying these slight sullies on my son As 'twere a thing a little soil'd i' th' working, Mark you, Your party in converse, him you would sound, Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes The youth you breathe of guilty, be assur'd He closes with you in this consequence: 'Good sir,' or so, or 'friend,' or 'gentleman'- According to the phrase or the addition Of man and country- Rey. Very good, my lord. Pol. And then, sir, does 'a this- 'a does- What was I about to say? By the mass, I was about to say something! Where did I leave? Rey. At 'closes in the consequence,' at 'friend or so,' and gentleman.' Pol. At 'closes in the consequence'- Ay, marry! He closes thus: 'I know the gentleman. I saw him yesterday, or t'other day, Or then, or then, with such or such; and, as you say, There was 'a gaming; there o'ertook in's rouse; There falling out at tennis'; or perchance, 'I saw him enter such a house of sale,' Videlicet, a brothel, or so forth. See you now- Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth; And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, With windlasses and with assays of bias, By indirections find directions out. So, by my former lecture and advice, Shall you my son. You have me, have you not? Rey. My lord, I have. Pol. God b' wi' ye, fare ye well! Rey. Good my lord! [Going.] Pol. Observe his inclination in yourself. Rey. I shall, my lord. Pol. And let him ply his music. Rey. Well, my lord. Pol. Farewell! Exit Reynaldo. Enter Ophelia. How now, Ophelia? What's the matter? Oph. O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted! Pol. With what, i' th' name of God? Oph. My lord, as I was sewing in my closet, Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac'd, No hat upon his head, his stockings foul'd, Ungart'red, and down-gyved to his ankle; Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other, And with a look so piteous in purport As if he had been loosed out of hell To speak of horrors- he comes before me. Pol. Mad for thy love? Oph. My lord, I do not know, But truly I do fear it. Pol. What said he? Oph. He took me by the wrist and held me hard; Then goes he to the length of all his arm, And, with his other hand thus o'er his brow, He falls to such perusal of my face As he would draw it. Long stay'd he so. At last, a little shaking of mine arm, And thrice his head thus waving up and down, He rais'd a sigh so piteous and profound As it did seem to shatter all his bulk And end his being. That done, he lets me go, And with his head over his shoulder turn'd He seem'd to find his way without his eyes, For out o' doors he went without their help And to the last bended their light on me. Pol. Come, go with me. I will go seek the King. This is the very ecstasy of love, Whose violent property fordoes itself And leads the will to desperate undertakings As oft as any passion under heaven That does afflict our natures. I am sorry. What, have you given him any hard words of late? Oph. No, my good lord; but, as you did command, I did repel his letters and denied His access to me. Pol. That hath made him mad. I am sorry that with better heed and judgment I had not quoted him. I fear'd he did but trifle And meant to wrack thee; but beshrew my jealousy! By heaven, it is as proper to our age To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions As it is common for the younger sort To lack discretion. Come, go we to the King. This must be known; which, being kept close, might move More grief to hide than hate to utter love. Come. Exeunt. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Polonius schickt seinen Diener Reynaldo mit Geld und schriftlichen Notizen für Laertes nach Frankreich und beauftragt ihn auch, sich nach Laertes' Privatleben zu erkundigen und es auszuspionieren. Er gibt ihm genaue Anweisungen, wie er seine Untersuchungen durchführen soll, und schickt ihn dann auf den Weg. Als Reynaldo geht, betritt Ophelia, offensichtlich aufgebracht, den Raum. Sie erzählt Polonius, dass Hamlet, ungepflegt und wilden Auges, ihr begegnet ist. Hamlet hat sie gepackt, festgehalten und schwer seufzend angesehen, aber nicht mit ihr gesprochen. Polonius sagt, dass Hamlet vor Liebe zu Ophelia verrückt sein muss, denn sie hat sich von ihm distanziert, seit Polonius ihr das befohlen hat. Polonius spekuliert, dass diese Liebesschmerzen die Ursache für Hamlets Stimmungsschwankungen sein könnten, und er eilt davon, um Claudius von seiner Idee zu berichten.

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 brick front was just in a line with the street, or rather the road. Behind the door hung a cloak with a small collar, a bridle, and a black leather cap, and on the floor, in a corner, were a pair of leggings, still covered with dry mud. On the right was the one apartment, that was both dining and sitting room. A canary yellow paper, relieved at the top by a garland of pale flowers, was puckered everywhere over the badly stretched canvas; white calico curtains with a red border hung crossways at the length of the window; and on the narrow mantelpiece a clock with a head of Hippocrates shone resplendent between two plate candlesticks under oval shades. On the other side of the passage was Charles's consulting room, a little room about six paces wide, with a table, three chairs, and an office chair. Volumes of the "Dictionary of Medical Science," uncut, but the binding rather the worse for the successive sales through which they had gone, occupied almost along the six shelves of a deal bookcase. The smell of melted butter penetrated through the walls when he saw patients, just as in the kitchen one could hear the people coughing in the consulting room and recounting their histories. Then, opening on the yard, where the stable was, came a large dilapidated room with a stove, now used as a wood-house, cellar, and pantry, full of old rubbish, of empty casks, agricultural implements past service, and a mass of dusty things whose use it was impossible to guess. The garden, longer than wide, ran between two mud walls with espaliered apricots, to a hawthorn hedge that separated it from the field. In the middle was a slate sundial on a brick pedestal; four flower beds with eglantines surrounded symmetrically the more useful kitchen garden bed. Right at the bottom, under the spruce bushes, was a cure in plaster reading his breviary. Emma went upstairs. The first room was not furnished, but in the second, which was their bedroom, was a mahogany bedstead in an alcove with red drapery. A shell box adorned the chest of drawers, and on the secretary near the window a bouquet of orange blossoms tied with white satin ribbons stood in a bottle. It was a bride's bouquet; it was the other one's. She looked at it. Charles noticed it; he took it and carried it up to the attic, while Emma seated in an arm-chair (they were putting her things down around her) thought of her bridal flowers packed up in a bandbox, and wondered, dreaming, what would be done with them if she were to die. During the first days she occupied herself in thinking about changes in the house. She took the shades off the candlesticks, had new wallpaper put up, the staircase repainted, and seats made in the garden round the sundial; she even inquired how she could get a basin with a jet fountain and fishes. Finally her husband, knowing that she liked to drive out, picked up a second-hand dogcart, which, with new lamps and splashboard in striped leather, looked almost like a tilbury. He was happy then, and without a care in the world. A meal together, a walk in the evening on the highroad, a gesture of her hands over her hair, the sight of her straw hat hanging from the window-fastener, and many another thing in which Charles had never dreamed of pleasure, now made up the endless round of his happiness. In bed, in the morning, by her side, on the pillow, he watched the sunlight sinking into the down on her fair cheek, half hidden by the lappets of her night-cap. Seen thus closely, her eyes looked to him enlarged, especially when, on waking up, she opened and shut them rapidly many times. Black in the shade, dark blue in broad daylight, they had, as it were, depths of different colours, that, darker in the centre, grew paler towards the surface of the eye. His own eyes lost themselves in these depths; he saw himself in miniature down to the shoulders, with his handkerchief round his head and the top of his shirt open. He rose. She came to the window to see him off, and stayed leaning on the sill between two pots of geranium, clad in her dressing gown hanging loosely about her. Charles, in the street buckled his spurs, his foot on the mounting stone, while she talked to him from above, picking with her mouth some scrap of flower or leaf that she blew out at him. Then this, eddying, floating, described semicircles in the air like a bird, and was caught before it reached the ground in the ill-groomed mane of the old white mare standing motionless at the door. Charles from horseback threw her a kiss; she answered with a nod; she shut the window, and he set off. And then along the highroad, spreading out its long ribbon of dust, along the deep lanes that the trees bent over as in arbours, along paths where the corn reached to the knees, with the sun on his back and the morning air in his nostrils, his heart full of the joys of the past night, his mind at rest, his flesh at ease, he went on, re-chewing his happiness, like those who after dinner taste again the truffles which they are digesting. Until now what good had he had of his life? His time at school, when he remained shut up within the high walls, alone, in the midst of companions richer than he or cleverer at their work, who laughed at his accent, who jeered at his clothes, and whose mothers came to the school with cakes in their muffs? Later on, when he studied medicine, and never had his purse full enough to treat some little work-girl who would have become his mistress? Afterwards, he had lived fourteen months with the widow, whose feet in bed were cold as icicles. But now he had for life this beautiful woman whom he adored. For him the universe did not extend beyond the circumference of her petticoat, and he reproached himself with not loving her. He wanted to see her again; he turned back quickly, ran up the stairs with a beating heart. Emma, in her room, was dressing; he came up on tiptoe, kissed her back; she gave a cry. He could not keep from constantly touching her comb, her ring, her fichu; sometimes he gave her great sounding kisses with all his mouth on her cheeks, or else little kisses in a row all along her bare arm from the tip of her fingers up to her shoulder, and she put him away half-smiling, half-vexed, as you do a child who hangs about you. Before marriage she thought herself in love; but the happiness that should have followed this love not having come, she must, she thought, have been mistaken. And Emma tried to find out what one meant exactly in life by the words felicity, passion, rapture, that had seemed to her so beautiful in books. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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

Das Haus wird ausführlich beschrieben: die Tapete, die Vorhänge und die Bücherregale tragen alle zum "Gefühl" des Ortes bei. Emma scheint nichts dagegen zu haben, dass der Garten nicht besonders bemerkenswert ist; es ist das Schlafzimmer, das sie begeistert untersucht. Als sie Heloises Brautstrauß bemerkt, grübelt sie düster über die Möglichkeit ihres eigenen Todes. Emma verbringt die nächsten Tage damit, das Haus nach ihrem Geschmack zu verändern, und Charles erfüllt ihr jeden Wunsch. Er kauft ihr einen gebrauchten Wagen, damit sie alleine fahren kann. Charles ist über sein neu gefundenes Glück mit Emma begeistert. "Ein gemeinsames Essen, ein Spaziergang entlang der Landstraße am Abend, eine Art, wie sie sich die Hand ans Haar legte, der Anblick ihres Strohhuts, der am Fensterhaken hing, und noch viele andere Dinge, an denen Charles nie gedacht hätte, Freude zu finden, machen jetzt die regelmäßige Glückseligkeit aus". Er schätzt jeden Moment mit Emma. Während Charles in seiner Liebe zu seiner Frau schwelgt, wird Emma schnell müde von ihrem Ehemann und dem Eheleben. Sie hatte von "Glückseligkeit", "Leidenschaft" und "Extase" geträumt, weit entfernt von dem, was sie bei Charles gefunden hat.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: "Then went the jury out whose names were Mr. Blindman, Mr. No-good, Mr. Malice, Mr. Love-lust, Mr. Live-loose, Mr. Heady, Mr. High-mind, Mr. Enmity, Mr. Liar, Mr. Cruelty, Mr. Hate-light, Mr. Implacable, who every one gave in his private verdict against him among themselves, and afterwards unanimously concluded to bring him in guilty before the judge. And first among themselves, Mr. Blindman, the foreman, said, I see clearly that this man is a heretic. Then said Mr. No-good, Away with such a fellow from the earth! Ay, said Mr. Malice, for I hate the very look of him. Then said Mr. Love-lust, I could never endure him. Nor I, said Mr. Live-loose; for he would be always condemning my way. Hang him, hang him, said Mr. Heady. A sorry scrub, said Mr. High-mind. My heart riseth against him, said Mr. Enmity. He is a rogue, said Mr. Liar. Hanging is too good for him, said Mr. Cruelty. Let us despatch him out of the way said Mr. Hate-light. Then said Mr. Implacable, Might I have all the world given me, I could not be reconciled to him; therefore let us forthwith bring him in guilty of death." --Pilgrim's Progress. When immortal Bunyan makes his picture of the persecuting passions bringing in their verdict of guilty, who pities Faithful? That is a rare and blessed lot which some greatest men have not attained, to know ourselves guiltless before a condemning crowd--to be sure that what we are denounced for is solely the good in us. The pitiable lot is that of the man who could not call himself a martyr even though he were to persuade himself that the men who stoned him were but ugly passions incarnate--who knows that he is stoned, not for professing the Right, but for not being the man he professed to be. This was the consciousness that Bulstrode was withering under while he made his preparations for departing from Middlemarch, and going to end his stricken life in that sad refuge, the indifference of new faces. The duteous merciful constancy of his wife had delivered him from one dread, but it could not hinder her presence from being still a tribunal before which he shrank from confession and desired advocacy. His equivocations with himself about the death of Raffles had sustained the conception of an Omniscience whom he prayed to, yet he had a terror upon him which would not let him expose them to judgment by a full confession to his wife: the acts which he had washed and diluted with inward argument and motive, and for which it seemed comparatively easy to win invisible pardon--what name would she call them by? That she should ever silently call his acts Murder was what he could not bear. He felt shrouded by her doubt: he got strength to face her from the sense that she could not yet feel warranted in pronouncing that worst condemnation on him. Some time, perhaps--when he was dying--he would tell her all: in the deep shadow of that time, when she held his hand in the gathering darkness, she might listen without recoiling from his touch. Perhaps: but concealment had been the habit of his life, and the impulse to confession had no power against the dread of a deeper humiliation. He was full of timid care for his wife, not only because he deprecated any harshness of judgment from her, but because he felt a deep distress at the sight of her suffering. She had sent her daughters away to board at a school on the coast, that this crisis might be hidden from them as far as possible. Set free by their absence from the intolerable necessity of accounting for her grief or of beholding their frightened wonder, she could live unconstrainedly with the sorrow that was every day streaking her hair with whiteness and making her eyelids languid. "Tell me anything that you would like to have me do, Harriet," Bulstrode had said to her; "I mean with regard to arrangements of property. It is my intention not to sell the land I possess in this neighborhood, but to leave it to you as a safe provision. If you have any wish on such subjects, do not conceal it from me." A few days afterwards, when she had returned from a visit to her brother's, she began to speak to her husband on a subject which had for some time been in her mind. "I _should_ like to do something for my brother's family, Nicholas; and I think we are bound to make some amends to Rosamond and her husband. Walter says Mr. Lydgate must leave the town, and his practice is almost good for nothing, and they have very little left to settle anywhere with. I would rather do without something for ourselves, to make some amends to my poor brother's family." Mrs. Bulstrode did not wish to go nearer to the facts than in the phrase "make some amends;" knowing that her husband must understand her. He had a particular reason, which she was not aware of, for wincing under her suggestion. He hesitated before he said-- "It is not possible to carry out your wish in the way you propose, my dear. Mr. Lydgate has virtually rejected any further service from me. He has returned the thousand pounds which I lent him. Mrs. Casaubon advanced him the sum for that purpose. Here is his letter." The letter seemed to cut Mrs. Bulstrode severely. The mention of Mrs. Casaubon's loan seemed a reflection of that public feeling which held it a matter of course that every one would avoid a connection with her husband. She was silent for some time; and the tears fell one after the other, her chin trembling as she wiped them away. Bulstrode, sitting opposite to her, ached at the sight of that grief-worn face, which two months before had been bright and blooming. It had aged to keep sad company with his own withered features. Urged into some effort at comforting her, he said-- "There is another means, Harriet, by which I might do a service to your brother's family, if you like to act in it. And it would, I think, be beneficial to you: it would be an advantageous way of managing the land which I mean to be yours." She looked attentive. "Garth once thought of undertaking the management of Stone Court in order to place your nephew Fred there. The stock was to remain as it is, and they were to pay a certain share of the profits instead of an ordinary rent. That would be a desirable beginning for the young man, in conjunction with his employment under Garth. Would it be a satisfaction to you?" "Yes, it would," said Mrs. Bulstrode, with some return of energy. "Poor Walter is so cast down; I would try anything in my power to do him some good before I go away. We have always been brother and sister." "You must make the proposal to Garth yourself, Harriet," said Mr. Bulstrode, not liking what he had to say, but desiring the end he had in view, for other reasons besides the consolation of his wife. "You must state to him that the land is virtually yours, and that he need have no transactions with me. Communications can be made through Standish. I mention this, because Garth gave up being my agent. I can put into your hands a paper which he himself drew up, stating conditions; and you can propose his renewed acceptance of them. I think it is not unlikely that he will accept when you propose the thing for the sake of your nephew." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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

Die Bulstrodes bereiten sich darauf vor, Middlemarch dauerhaft zu verlassen, und Bulstrode fragt seine Frau, ob es etwas gibt, das sie gerne hätte, dass er in Bezug auf das Grundstück, das sie zurücklassen, tut. Sie sagt, dass sie etwas für die Familie ihres Bruders, der Vincys, tun möchte - besonders für Rosamond und Lydgate. Da Lydgate jedoch jegliche weitere Geschäftsbeziehung mit ihm abgelehnt hat, schlägt Bulstrode vor, dass sie Stone Court Fred geben. Mrs. Bulstrode muss das Geschäft jedoch selbst abwickeln, da Caleb Garth nicht mit Mr. Bulstrode zusammenarbeiten möchte.

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 III (SCENE.—The editorial office of the "People's Messenger." The entrance door is on the left-hand side of the back wall; on the right-hand side is another door with glass panels through which the printing room can be seen. Another door in the right-hand wall. In the middle of the room is a large table covered with papers, newspapers and books. In the foreground on the left a window, before which stands a desk and a high stool. There are a couple of easy chairs by the table, and other chairs standing along the wall. The room is dingy and uncomfortable; the furniture is old, the chairs stained and torn. In the printing room the compositors are seen at work, and a printer is working a handpress. HOVSTAD is sitting at the desk, writing. BILLING comes in from the right with DR. STOCKMANN'S manuscript in his hand.) Billing. Well, I must say! Hovstad (still writing). Have you read it through? Billing (laying the MS. on the desk). Yes, indeed I have. Hovstad. Don't you think the Doctor hits them pretty hard? Billing. Hard? Bless my soul, he's crushing! Every word falls like—how shall I put it?—like the blow of a sledgehammer. Hovstad. Yes, but they are not the people to throw up the sponge at the first blow. Billing. That is true; and for that reason we must strike blow upon blow until the whole of this aristocracy tumbles to pieces. As I sat in there reading this, I almost seemed to see a revolution in being. Hovstad (turning round). Hush!—Speak so that Aslaksen cannot hear you. Billing (lowering his voice). Aslaksen is a chicken-hearted chap, a coward; there is nothing of the man in him. But this time you will insist on your own way, won't you? You will put the Doctor's article in? Hovstad. Yes, and if the Mayor doesn't like it— Billing. That will be the devil of a nuisance. Hovstad. Well, fortunately we can turn the situation to good account, whatever happens. If the Mayor will not fall in with the Doctor's project, he will have all the small tradesmen down on him—the whole of the Householders' Association and the rest of them. And if he does fall in with it, he will fall out with the whole crowd of large shareholders in the Baths, who up to now have been his most valuable supporters— Billing. Yes, because they will certainly have to fork out a pretty penny— Hovstad. Yes, you may be sure they will. And in this way the ring will be broken up, you see, and then in every issue of the paper we will enlighten the public on the Mayor's incapability on one point and another, and make it clear that all the positions of trust in the town, the whole control of municipal affairs, ought to be put in the hands of the Liberals. Billing. That is perfectly true! I see it coming—I see it coming; we are on the threshold of a revolution! (A knock is heard at the door.) Hovstad. Hush! (Calls out.) Come in! (DR. STOCKMANN comes in by the street door. HOVSTAD goes to meet him.) Ah, it is you, Doctor! Well? Dr. Stockmann. You may set to work and print it, Mr. Hovstad! Hovstad. Has it come to that, then? Billing. Hurrah! Dr. Stockmann. Yes, print away. Undoubtedly it has come to that. Now they must take what they get. There is going to be a fight in the town, Mr. Billing! Billing. War to the knife, I hope! We will get our knives to their throats, Doctor! Dr. Stockmann. This article is only a beginning. I have already got four or five more sketched out in my head. Where is Aslaksen? Billing (calls into the printing-room). Aslaksen, just come here for a minute! Hovstad. Four or five more articles, did you say? On the same subject? Dr. Stockmann. No—far from it, my dear fellow. No, they are about quite another matter. But they all spring from the question of the water supply and the drainage. One thing leads to another, you know. It is like beginning to pull down an old house, exactly. Billing. Upon my soul, it's true; you find you are not done till you have pulled all the old rubbish down. Aslaksen (coming in). Pulled down? You are not thinking of pulling down the Baths surely, Doctor? Hovstad. Far from it, don't be afraid. Dr. Stockmann. No, we meant something quite different. Well, what do you think of my article, Mr. Hovstad? Hovstad. I think it is simply a masterpiece. Dr. Stockmann. Do you really think so? Well, I am very pleased, very pleased. Hovstad. It is so clear and intelligible. One need have no special knowledge to understand the bearing of it. You will have every enlightened man on your side. Aslaksen. And every prudent man too, I hope? Billing. The prudent and the imprudent—almost the whole town. Aslaksen. In that case we may venture to print it. Dr. Stockmann. I should think so! Hovstad. We will put it in tomorrow morning. Dr. Stockmann. Of course—you must not lose a single day. What I wanted to ask you, Mr. Aslaksen, was if you would supervise the printing of it yourself. Aslaksen. With pleasure. Dr. Stockmann. Take care of it as if it were a treasure! No misprints—every word is important. I will look in again a little later; perhaps you will be able to let me see a proof. I can't tell you how eager I am to see it in print, and see it burst upon the public— Billing. Burst upon them—yes, like a flash of lightning! Dr. Stockmann. —and to have it submitted to the judgment of my intelligent fellow townsmen. You cannot imagine what I have gone through today. I have been threatened first with one thing and then with another; they have tried to rob me of my most elementary rights as a man— Billing. What! Your rights as a man! Dr. Stockmann. —they have tried to degrade me, to make a coward of me, to force me to put personal interests before my most sacred convictions. Billing. That is too much—I'm damned if it isn't. Hovstad. Oh, you mustn't be surprised at anything from that quarter. Dr. Stockmann. Well, they will get the worst of it with me; they may assure themselves of that. I shall consider the "People's Messenger" my sheet-anchor now, and every single day I will bombard them with one article after another, like bombshells— Aslaksen. Yes, but Billing. Hurrah!—it is war, it is war! Dr. Stockmann. I shall smite them to the ground—I shall crush them—I shall break down all their defenses, before the eyes of the honest public! That is what I shall do! Aslaksen, Yes, but in moderation, Doctor—proceed with moderation. Billing. Not a bit of it, not a bit of it! Don't spare the dynamite! Dr. Stockmann. Because it is not merely a question of water-supply and drains now, you know. No—it is the whole of our social life that we have got to purify and disinfect— Billing. Spoken like a deliverer! Dr. Stockmann. All the incapables must be turned out, you understand—and that in every walk of life! Endless vistas have opened themselves to my mind's eye today. I cannot see it all quite clearly yet, but I shall in time. Young and vigorous standard-bearers—those are what we need and must seek, my friends; we must have new men in command at all our outposts. Billing. Hear hear! Dr. Stockmann. We only need to stand by one another, and it will all be perfectly easy. The revolution will be launched like a ship that runs smoothly off the stocks. Don't you think so? Hovstad. For my part I think we have now a prospect of getting the municipal authority into the hands where it should lie. Aslaksen. And if only we proceed with moderation, I cannot imagine that there will be any risk. Dr. Stockmann. Who the devil cares whether there is any risk or not! What I am doing, I am doing in the name of truth and for the sake of my conscience. Hovstad. You are a man who deserves to be supported, Doctor. Aslaksen. Yes, there is no denying that the Doctor is a true friend to the town—a real friend to the community, that he is. Billing. Take my word for it, Aslaksen, Dr. Stockmann is a friend of the people. Aslaksen. I fancy the Householders' Association will make use of that expression before long. Dr. Stockmann (affected, grasps their hands). Thank you, thank you, my dear staunch friends. It is very refreshing to me to hear you say that; my brother called me something quite different. By Jove, he shall have it back, with interest! But now I must be off to see a poor devil—I will come back, as I said. Keep a very careful eye on the manuscript, Aslaksen, and don't for worlds leave out any of my notes of exclamation! Rather put one or two more in! Capital, capital! Well, good-bye for the present—goodbye, goodbye! (They show him to the door, and bow him out.) Hovstad. He may prove an invaluably useful man to us. Aslaksen. Yes, so long as he confines himself to this matter of the Baths. But if he goes farther afield, I don't think it would be advisable to follow him. Hovstad. Hm!—that all depends— Billing. You are so infernally timid, Aslaksen! Aslaksen. Timid? Yes, when it is a question of the local authorities, I am timid, Mr. Billing; it is a lesson I have learned in the school of experience, let me tell you. But try me in higher politics, in matters that concern the government itself, and then see if I am timid. Billing. No, you aren't, I admit. But this is simply contradicting yourself. Aslaksen. I am a man with a conscience, and that is the whole matter. If you attack the government, you don't do the community any harm, anyway; those fellows pay no attention to attacks, you see—they go on just as they are, in spite of them. But local authorities are different; they can be turned out, and then perhaps you may get an ignorant lot into office who may do irreparable harm to the householders and everybody else. Hovstad. But what of the education of citizens by self government—don't you attach any importance to that? Aslaksen. When a man has interests of his own to protect, he cannot think of everything, Mr. Hovstad. Hovstad. Then I hope I shall never have interests of my own to protect! Billing. Hear, hear! Aslaksen (with a smile). Hm! (Points to the desk.) Mr. Sheriff Stensgaard was your predecessor at that editorial desk. Billing (spitting). Bah! That turncoat. Hovstad. I am not a weathercock—and never will be. Aslaksen. A politician should never be too certain of anything, Mr. Hovstad. And as for you, Mr. Billing, I should think it is time for you to be taking in a reef or two in your sails, seeing that you are applying for the post of secretary to the Bench. Billing. I—! Hovstad. Are you, Billing? Billing. Well, yes—but you must clearly understand I am only doing it to annoy the bigwigs. Aslaksen. Anyhow, it is no business of mine. But if I am to be accused of timidity and of inconsistency in my principles, this is what I want to point out: my political past is an open book. I have never changed, except perhaps to become a little more moderate, you see. My heart is still with the people; but I don't deny that my reason has a certain bias towards the authorities—the local ones, I mean. (Goes into the printing room.) Billing. Oughtn't we to try and get rid of him, Hovstad? Hovstad. Do you know anyone else who will advance the money for our paper and printing bill? Billing. It is an infernal nuisance that we don't possess some capital to trade on. Hovstad (sitting down at his desk). Yes, if we only had that, then— Billing. Suppose you were to apply to Dr. Stockmann? Hovstad (turning over some papers). What is the use? He has got nothing. Billing. No, but he has got a warm man in the background, old Morten Kiil—"the Badger," as they call him. Hovstad (writing). Are you so sure he has got anything? Billing. Good Lord, of course he has! And some of it must come to the Stockmanns. Most probably he will do something for the children, at all events. Hovstad (turning half round). Are you counting on that? Billing. Counting on it? Of course I am not counting on anything. Hovstad. That is right. And I should not count on the secretaryship to the Bench either, if I were you; for I can assure you—you won't get it. Billing. Do you think I am not quite aware of that? My object is precisely not to get it. A slight of that kind stimulates a man's fighting power—it is like getting a supply of fresh bile—and I am sure one needs that badly enough in a hole-and-corner place like this, where it is so seldom anything happens to stir one up. Hovstad (writing). Quite so, quite so. Billing. Ah, I shall be heard of yet!—Now I shall go and write the appeal to the Householders' Association. (Goes into the room on the right.) Hovstad (sitting al his desk, biting his penholder, says slowly). Hm!—that's it, is it. (A knock is heard.) Come in! (PETRA comes in by the outer door. HOVSTAD gets up.) What, you!—here? Petra. Yes, you must forgive me— Hovstad (pulling a chair forward). Won't you sit down? Petra. No, thank you; I must go again in a moment. Hovstad. Have you come with a message from your father, by any chance? Petra. No, I have come on my own account. (Takes a book out of her coat pocket.) Here is the English story. Hovstad. Why have you brought it back? Petra. Because I am not going to translate it. Hovstad. But you promised me faithfully. Petra. Yes, but then I had not read it, I don't suppose you have read it either? Hovstad. No, you know quite well I don't understand English; but— Petra. Quite so. That is why I wanted to tell you that you must find something else. (Lays the book on the table.) You can't use this for the "People's Messenger." Hovstad. Why not? Petra. Because it conflicts with all your opinions. Hovstad. Oh, for that matter— Petra. You don't understand me. The burden of this story is that there is a supernatural power that looks after the so-called good people in this world and makes everything happen for the best in their case—while all the so-called bad people are punished. Hovstad. Well, but that is all right. That is just what our readers want. Petra. And are you going to be the one to give it to them? For myself, I do not believe a word of it. You know quite well that things do not happen so in reality. Hovstad. You are perfectly right; but an editor cannot always act as he would prefer. He is often obliged to bow to the wishes of the public in unimportant matters. Politics are the most important thing in life—for a newspaper, anyway; and if I want to carry my public with me on the path that leads to liberty and progress, I must not frighten them away. If they find a moral tale of this sort in the serial at the bottom of the page, they will be all the more ready to read what is printed above it; they feel more secure, as it were. Petra. For shame! You would never go and set a snare like that for your readers; you are not a spider! Hovstad (smiling). Thank you for having such a good opinion of me. No; as a matter of fact that is Billing's idea and not mine. Petra. Billing's! Hovstad. Yes; anyway, he propounded that theory here one day. And it is Billing who is so anxious to have that story in the paper; I don't know anything about the book. Petra. But how can Billing, with his emancipated views— Hovstad. Oh, Billing is a many-sided man. He is applying for the post of secretary to the Bench, too, I hear. Petra. I don't believe it, Mr. Hovstad. How could he possibly bring himself to do such a thing? Hovstad. Ah, you must ask him that. Petra. I should never have thought it of him. Hovstad (looking more closely at her). No? Does it really surprise you so much? Petra. Yes. Or perhaps not altogether. Really, I don't quite know Hovstad. We journalists are not much worth, Miss Stockmann. Petra. Do you really mean that? Hovstad. I think so sometimes. Petra. Yes, in the ordinary affairs of everyday life, perhaps; I can understand that. But now, when you have taken a weighty matter in hand— Hovstad. This matter of your father's, you mean? Petra. Exactly. It seems to me that now you must feel you are a man worth more than most. Hovstad. Yes, today I do feel something of that sort. Petra. Of course you do, don't you? It is a splendid vocation you have chosen—to smooth the way for the march of unappreciated truths, and new and courageous lines of thought. If it were nothing more than because you stand fearlessly in the open and take up the cause of an injured man— Hovstad. Especially when that injured man is—ahem!—I don't rightly know how to— Petra. When that man is so upright and so honest, you mean? Hovstad (more gently). Especially when he is your father I meant. Petra (suddenly checked). That? Hovstad. Yes, Petra—Miss Petra. Petra. Is it that, that is first and foremost with you? Not the matter itself? Not the truth?—not my father's big generous heart? Hovstad. Certainly—of course—that too. Petra. No, thank you; you have betrayed yourself, Mr. Hovstad, and now I shall never trust you again in anything. Hovstad. Can you really take it so amiss in me that it is mostly for your sake—? Petra. What I am angry with you for, is for not having been honest with my father. You talked to him as if the truth and the good of the community were what lay nearest to your heart. You have made fools of both my father and me. You are not the man you made yourself out to be. And that I shall never forgive you-never! Hovstad. You ought not to speak so bitterly, Miss Petra—least of all now. Petra. Why not now, especially? Hovstad. Because your father cannot do without my help. Petra (looking him up and down). Are you that sort of man too? For shame! Hovstad. No, no, I am not. This came upon me so unexpectedly—you must believe that. Petra. I know what to believe. Goodbye. Aslaksen (coming from the printing room, hurriedly and with an air of mystery). Damnation, Hovstad!—(Sees PETRA.) Oh, this is awkward— Petra. There is the book; you must give it to some one else. (Goes towards the door.) Hovstad (following her). But, Miss Stockmann— Petra. Goodbye. (Goes out.) Aslaksen. I say—Mr. Hovstad— Hovstad. Well well!—what is it? Aslaksen. The Mayor is outside in the printing room. Hovstad. The Mayor, did you say? Aslaksen. Yes he wants to speak to you. He came in by the back door—didn't want to be seen, you understand. Hovstad. What can he want? Wait a bit—I will go myself. (Goes to the door of the printing room, opens it, bows and invites PETER STOCKMANN in.) Just see, Aslaksen, that no one— Aslaksen. Quite so. (Goes into the printing-room.) Peter Stockmann. You did not expect to see me here, Mr. Hovstad? Hovstad. No, I confess I did not. Peter Stockmann (looking round). You are very snug in here—very nice indeed. Hovstad. Oh— Peter Stockmann. And here I come, without any notice, to take up your time! Hovstad. By all means, Mr. Mayor. I am at your service. But let me relieve you of your—(takes STOCKMANN's hat and stick and puts them on a chair). Won't you sit down? Peter Stockmann (sitting down by the table). Thank you. (HOVSTAD sits down.) I have had an extremely annoying experience to-day, Mr. Hovstad. Hovstad. Really? Ah well, I expect with all the various business you have to attend to— Peter Stockmann. The Medical Officer of the Baths is responsible for what happened today. Hovstad. Indeed? The Doctor? Peter Stockmann. He has addressed a kind of report to the Baths Committee on the subject of certain supposed defects in the Baths. Hovstad. Has he indeed? Peter Stockmann. Yes—has he not told you? I thought he said— Hovstad. Ah, yes—it is true he did mention something about— Aslaksen (coming from the printing-room). I ought to have that copy. Hovstad (angrily). Ahem!—there it is on the desk. Aslaksen (taking it). Right. Peter Stockmann. But look there—that is the thing I was speaking of! Aslaksen. Yes, that is the Doctor's article, Mr. Mayor. Hovstad. Oh, is THAT what you were speaking about? Peter Stockmann. Yes, that is it. What do you think of it? Hovstad. Oh, I am only a layman—and I have only taken a very cursory glance at it. Peter Stockmann. But you are going to print it? Hovstad. I cannot very well refuse a distinguished man. Aslaksen. I have nothing to do with editing the paper, Mr. Mayor— Peter Stockmann. I understand. Aslaksen. I merely print what is put into my hands. Peter Stockmann. Quite so. Aslaksen. And so I must— (moves off towards the printing-room). Peter Stockmann. No, but wait a moment, Mr. Aslaksen. You will allow me, Mr. Hovstad? Hovstad. If you please, Mr. Mayor. Peter Stockmann. You are a discreet and thoughtful man, Mr. Aslaksen. Aslaksen. I am delighted to hear you think so, sir. Peter Stockmann. And a man of very considerable influence. Aslaksen. Chiefly among the small tradesmen, sir. Peter Stockmann. The small tax-payers are the majority—here as everywhere else. Aslaksen. That is true. Peter Stockmann. And I have no doubt you know the general trend of opinion among them, don't you? Aslaksen. Yes I think I may say I do, Mr. Mayor. Peter Stockmann. Yes. Well, since there is such a praiseworthy spirit of self-sacrifice among the less wealthy citizens of our town— Aslaksen. What? Hovstad. Self-sacrifice? Peter Stockmann. It is pleasing evidence of a public-spirited feeling, extremely pleasing evidence. I might almost say I hardly expected it. But you have a closer knowledge of public opinion than I. Aslaksen. But, Mr. Mayor— Peter Stockmann. And indeed it is no small sacrifice that the town is going to make. Hovstad. The town? Aslaksen. But I don't understand. Is it the Baths—? Peter Stockmann. At a provisional estimate, the alterations that the Medical Officer asserts to be desirable will cost somewhere about twenty thousand pounds. Aslaksen. That is a lot of money, but— Peter Stockmann. Of course it will be necessary to raise a municipal loan. Hovstad (getting up). Surely you never mean that the town must pay—? Aslaksen. Do you mean that it must come out of the municipal funds?—out of the ill-filled pockets of the small tradesmen? Peter Stockmann. Well, my dear Mr. Aslaksen, where else is the money to come from? Aslaksen. The gentlemen who own the Baths ought to provide that. Peter Stockmann. The proprietors of the Baths are not in a position to incur any further expense. Aslaksen. Is that absolutely certain, Mr. Mayor? Peter Stockmann. I have satisfied myself that it is so. If the town wants these very extensive alterations, it will have to pay for them. Aslaksen. But, damn it all—I beg your pardon—this is quite another matter, Mr. Hovstad! Hovstad. It is, indeed. Peter Stockmann. The most fatal part of it is that we shall be obliged to shut the Baths for a couple of years. Hovstad. Shut them? Shut them altogether? Aslaksen. For two years? Peter Stockmann. Yes, the work will take as long as that—at least. Aslaksen. I'm damned if we will stand that, Mr. Mayor! What are we householders to live upon in the meantime? Peter Stockmann. Unfortunately, that is an extremely difficult question to answer, Mr. Aslaksen. But what would you have us do? Do you suppose we shall have a single visitor in the town, if we go about proclaiming that our water is polluted, that we are living over a plague spot, that the entire town— Aslaksen. And the whole thing is merely imagination? Peter Stockmann. With the best will in the world, I have not been able to come to any other conclusion. Aslaksen. Well then I must say it is absolutely unjustifiable of Dr. Stockmann—I beg your pardon, Mr. Mayor. Peter Stockmann. What you say is lamentably true, Mr. Aslaksen. My brother has unfortunately always been a headstrong man. Aslaksen. After this, do you mean to give him your support, Mr. Hovstad? Hovstad. Can you suppose for a moment that I—? Peter Stockmann. I have drawn up a short resume of the situation as it appears from a reasonable man's point of view. In it I have indicated how certain possible defects might suitably be remedied without outrunning the resources of the Baths Committee. Hovstad. Have you got it with you, Mr. Mayor? Peter Stockmann (fumbling in his pocket). Yes, I brought it with me in case you should— Aslaksen. Good Lord, there he is! Peter Stockmann. Who? My brother? Hovstad. Where? Where? Aslaksen. He has just gone through the printing room. Peter Stockmann. How unlucky! I don't want to meet him here, and I had still several things to speak to you about. Hovstad (pointing to the door on the right). Go in there for the present. Peter Stockmann. But—? Hovstad. You will only find Billing in there. Aslaksen. Quick, quick, Mr. Mayor—he is just coming. Peter Stockmann. Yes, very well; but see that you get rid of him quickly. (Goes out through the door on the right, which ASLAKSEN opens for him and shuts after him.) Hovstad. Pretend to be doing something, Aslaksen. (Sits down and writes. ASLAKSEN begins foraging among a heap of newspapers that are lying on a chair.) Dr. Stockmann (coming in from the printing room). Here I am again. (Puts down his hat and stick.) Hovstad (writing). Already, Doctor? Hurry up with what we were speaking about, Aslaksen. We are very pressed for time today. Dr. Stockmann (to ASLAKSEN). No proof for me to see yet, I hear. Aslaksen (without turning round). You couldn't expect it yet, Doctor. Dr. Stockmann. No, no; but I am impatient, as you can understand. I shall not know a moment's peace of mind until I see it in print. Hovstad. Hm!—It will take a good while yet, won't it, Aslaksen? Aslaksen. Yes, I am almost afraid it will. Dr. Stockmann. All right, my dear friends; I will come back. I do not mind coming back twice if necessary. A matter of such great importance—the welfare of the town at stake—it is no time to shirk trouble, (is just going, but stops and comes back.) Look here—there is one thing more I want to speak to you about. Hovstad. Excuse me, but could it not wait till some other time? Dr. Stockmann. I can tell you in half a dozen words. It is only this. When my article is read tomorrow and it is realised that I have been quietly working the whole winter for the welfare of the town— Hovstad. Yes but, Doctor— Dr. Stockmann. I know what you are going to say. You don't see how on earth it was any more than my duty—my obvious duty as a citizen. Of course it wasn't; I know that as well as you. But my fellow citizens, you know—! Good Lord, think of all the good souls who think so highly of me—! Aslaksen. Yes, our townsfolk have had a very high opinion of you so far, Doctor. Dr. Stockmann. Yes, and that is just why I am afraid they—. Well, this is the point; when this reaches them, especially the poorer classes, and sounds in their ears like a summons to take the town's affairs into their own hands for the future... Hovstad (getting up). Ahem! Doctor, I won't conceal from you the fact— Dr. Stockmann. Ah I—I knew there was something in the wind! But I won't hear a word of it. If anything of that sort is being set on foot— Hovstad. Of what sort? Dr. Stockmann. Well, whatever it is—whether it is a demonstration in my honour, or a banquet, or a subscription list for some presentation to me—whatever it is, you most promise me solemnly and faithfully to put a stop to it. You too, Mr. Aslaksen; do you understand? Hovstad. You must forgive me, Doctor, but sooner or later we must tell you the plain truth— (He is interrupted by the entrance Of MRS. STOCKMANN, who comes in from the street door.) Mrs. Stockmann (seeing her husband). Just as I thought! Hovstad (going towards her). You too, Mrs. Stockmann? Dr. Stockmann. What on earth do you want here, Katherine? Mrs. Stockmann. I should think you know very well what I want. Hovstad, Won't you sit down? Or perhaps— Mrs. Stockmann. No, thank you; don't trouble. And you must not be offended at my coming to fetch my husband; I am the mother of three children, you know. Dr. Stockmann. Nonsense!—we know all about that. Mrs. Stockmann. Well, one would not give you credit for much thought for your wife and children today; if you had had that, you would not have gone and dragged us all into misfortune. Dr. Stockmann. Are you out of your senses, Katherine! Because a man has a wife and children, is he not to be allowed to proclaim the truth-is he not to be allowed to be an actively useful citizen—is he not to be allowed to do a service to his native town! Mrs. Stockmann. Yes, Thomas—in reason. Aslaksen. Just what I say. Moderation in everything. Mrs. Stockmann. And that is why you wrong us, Mr. Hovstad, in enticing my husband away from his home and making a dupe of him in all this. Hovstad. I certainly am making a dupe of no one— Dr. Stockmann. Making a dupe of me! Do you suppose I should allow myself to be duped! Mrs. Stockmann. It is just what you do. I know quite well you have more brains than anyone in the town, but you are extremely easily duped, Thomas. (To Hovstad.) Please do realise that he loses his post at the Baths if you print what he has written. Aslaksen. What! Hovstad. Look here, Doctor! Dr. Stockmann (laughing). Ha-ha!—just let them try! No, no—they will take good care not to. I have got the compact majority behind me, let me tell you! Mrs. Stockmann. Yes, that is just the worst of it—your having any such horrid thing behind you. Dr. Stockmann. Rubbish, Katherine!—Go home and look after your house and leave me to look after the community. How can you be so afraid, when I am so confident and happy? (Walks up and down, rubbing his hands.) Truth and the People will win the fight, you may be certain! I see the whole of the broad-minded middle class marching like a victorious army—! (Stops beside a chair.) What the deuce is that lying there? Aslaksen Good Lord! Hovstad. Ahem! Dr. Stockmann. Here we have the topmost pinnacle of authority! (Takes the Mayor's official hat carefully between his finger-tips and holds it up in the air.) Mrs. Stockmann. The Mayor's hat! Dr. Stockmann. And here is the staff of office too. How in the name of all that's wonderful—? Hovstad. Well, you see— Dr. Stockmann. Oh, I understand. He has been here trying to talk you over. Ha-ha!—he made rather a mistake there! And as soon as he caught sight of me in the printing room. (Bursts out laughing.) Did he run away, Mr. Aslaksen? Aslaksen (hurriedly). Yes, he ran away, Doctor. Dr. Stockmann. Ran away without his stick or his—. Fiddlesticks! Peter doesn't run away and leave his belongings behind him. But what the deuce have you done with him? Ah!—in there, of course. Now you shall see, Katherine! Mrs. Stockmann. Thomas—please don't—! Aslaksen. Don't be rash, Doctor. (DR. STOCKMANN has put on the Mayor's hat and taken his stick in his hand. He goes up to the door, opens it, and stands with his hand to his hat at the salute. PETER STOCKMANN comes in, red with anger. BILLING follows him.) Peter Stockmann. What does this tomfoolery mean? Dr. Stockmann. Be respectful, my good Peter. I am the chief authority in the town now. (Walks up and down.) Mrs. Stockmann (almost in tears). Really, Thomas! Peter Stockmann (following him about). Give me my hat and stick. Dr. Stockmann (in the same tone as before). If you are chief constable, let me tell you that I am the Mayor—I am the master of the whole town, please understand! Peter Stockmann. Take off my hat, I tell you. Remember it is part of an official uniform. Dr. Stockmann. Pooh! Do you think the newly awakened lionhearted people are going to be frightened by an official hat? There is going to be a revolution in the town tomorrow, let me tell you. You thought you could turn me out; but now I shall turn you out—turn you out of all your various offices. Do you think I cannot? Listen to me. I have triumphant social forces behind me. Hovstad and Billing will thunder in the "People's Messenger," and Aslaksen will take the field at the head of the whole Householders' Association— Aslaksen. That I won't, Doctor. Dr. Stockmann. Of course you will— Peter Stockmann. Ah!—may I ask then if Mr. Hovstad intends to join this agitation? Hovstad. No, Mr. Mayor. Aslaksen. No, Mr. Hovstad is not such a fool as to go and ruin his paper and himself for the sake of an imaginary grievance. Dr. Stockmann (looking round him). What does this mean? Hovstad. You have represented your case in a false light, Doctor, and therefore I am unable to give you my support. Billing. And after what the Mayor was so kind as to tell me just now, I— Dr. Stockmann. A false light! Leave that part of it to me. Only print my article; I am quite capable of defending it. Hovstad. I am not going to print it. I cannot and will not and dare not print it. Dr. Stockmann. You dare not? What nonsense!—you are the editor; and an editor controls his paper, I suppose! Aslaksen. No, it is the subscribers, Doctor. Peter Stockmann. Fortunately, yes. Aslaksen. It is public opinion—the enlightened public—householders and people of that kind; they control the newspapers. Dr. Stockmann (composedly). And I have all these influences against me? Aslaksen. Yes, you have. It would mean the absolute ruin of the community if your article were to appear. Dr. Stockmann. Indeed. Peter Stockmann. My hat and stick, if you please. (DR. STOCKMANN takes off the hat and lays it on the table with the stick. PETER STOCKMANN takes them up.) Your authority as mayor has come to an untimely end. Dr. Stockmann. We have not got to the end yet. (To HOVSTAD.) Then it is quite impossible for you to print my article in the "People's Messenger"? Hovstad. Quite impossible—out of regard for your family as well. Mrs. Stockmann. You need not concern yourself about his family, thank you, Mr. Hovstad. Peter Stockmann (taking a paper from his pocket). It will be sufficient, for the guidance of the public, if this appears. It is an official statement. May I trouble you? Hovstad (taking the paper). Certainly; I will see that it is printed. Dr. Stockmann. But not mine. Do you imagine that you can silence me and stifle the truth! You will not find it so easy as you suppose. Mr. Aslaksen, kindly take my manuscript at once and print it as a pamphlet—at my expense. I will have four hundred copies—no, five or six hundred. Aslaksen. If you offered me its weight in gold, I could not lend my press for any such purpose, Doctor. It would be flying in the face of public opinion. You will not get it printed anywhere in the town. Dr. Stockmann. Then give it me back. Hovstad (giving him the MS.). Here it is. Dr. Stockmann (taking his hat and stick). It shall be made public all the same. I will read it out at a mass meeting of the townspeople. All my fellow-citizens shall hear the voice of truth! Peter Stockmann. You will not find any public body in the town that will give you the use of their hall for such a purpose. Aslaksen. Not a single one, I am certain. Billing. No, I'm damned if you will find one. Mrs. Stockmann. But this is too shameful! Why should every one turn against you like that? Dr. Stockmann (angrily). I will tell you why. It is because all the men in this town are old women—like you; they all think of nothing but their families, and never of the community. Mrs. Stockmann (putting her arm into his). Then I will show them that an old woman can be a man for once. I am going to stand by you, Thomas! Dr. Stockmann. Bravely said, Katherine! It shall be made public—as I am a living soul! If I can't hire a hall, I shall hire a drum, and parade the town with it and read it at every street-corner. Peter Stockmann. You are surely not such an errant fool as that! Dr. Stockmann. Yes, I am. Aslaksen. You won't find a single man in the whole town to go with you. Billing. No, I'm damned if you will. Mrs. Stockmann. Don't give in, Thomas. I will tell the boys to go with you. Dr. Stockmann. That is a splendid idea! Mrs. Stockmann. Morten will be delighted; and Ejlif will do whatever he does. Dr. Stockmann. Yes, and Petra!—and you too, Katherine! Mrs. Stockmann. No, I won't do that; but I will stand at the window and watch you, that's what I will do. Dr. Stockmann (puts his arms round her and kisses her). Thank you, my dear! Now you and I are going to try a fall, my fine gentlemen! I am going to see whether a pack of cowards can succeed in gagging a patriot who wants to purify society! (He and his wife go out by the street door.) Peter Stockmann (shaking his head seriously). Now he has sent her out of her senses, too. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Dieses Stück spielt im Büro des Herausgebers in der Redaktion des Herald. Eine Tür führt ins Druckereibüro und eine andere in den Rest der Büros. In der Mitte steht ein großer Tisch, bedeckt mit Büchern, Papieren und Zeitungen, und es gibt einen Schreibtisch am Fenster. Der Raum wird als "düster und trostlos" beschrieben. Hovstad sitzt am Schreibtisch und schreibt, als Billing mit Thomas' Manuskript hereinkommt. Hovstad fragt, ob er denkt, dass Doktor Stockmann ein harter Kämpfer ist, und Billing stimmt zu und sagt: "Jedes Wort trifft wie ein Vorschlaghammer". Hovstad sagt, dass es mehr braucht, "um diese Kerle auszuschalten", und Billing stimmt zu, aber sagt, dass er beim Lesen des Artikels "das erste leise Grollen der Revolution" hören konnte. Hovstad sagt ihm, dass er nicht möchte, dass Aslaksen ihn so reden hört. Hovstad spricht dann davon, wie sie diese Situation nutzen können, unabhängig davon, ob der Bürgermeister nachgibt oder nicht, und dass jeder Tag zeigen wird, wie unfähig der Bürgermeister ist. Er möchte auch die Zeitung nutzen, um darauf zu bestehen, dass der Stadtrat und andere verantwortliche Positionen "mit Männern mit liberaleren Ideen" besetzt werden sollten. Sie hören auf zu reden, als an die Tür geklopft wird und Thomas hereinkommt. Er sagt ihnen, dass sie drucken können und sagt, dass es "offener Krieg" ist. Er fügt hinzu, dass dies erst der Anfang ist und er vier oder fünf weitere Artikel im Kopf hat und fragt, wo Aslaksen sei. Aslaksen erscheint und Hovstad sagt, wie die Leute auf Thomas Seite sein werden, wenn sie den Artikel lesen, und Aslaksen sagt, dass sie es wagen könnten, ihn zu drucken. Thomas erzählt ihnen, wie von ihm erwartet wurde, sich heute zu erniedrigen und dem Pragmatismus zu frönen, und sagt, dass der Herald von nun an seine Artillerie sein wird, um sie mit seinen Artikeln zu bombardieren. Er sagt, er werde sie zermalmen, und Aslaksen ermahnt ihn, aufzupassen und sagt, wie das mit Maß und Ziel geschehen muss. Thomas sagt, dass alle "alten Stümper" gehen müssen und ihre "so genannte Revolution" reibungslos starten wird, wenn sie zusammenhalten. Aslaksen sagt noch einmal, dass Maß und Ziel wichtig sind, und Thomas sagt, dass er sich um Gefahr nicht kümmert, da er dies für die Wahrheit und sein Gewissen tut. Aslaksen nennt ihn einen "wirklichen Freund der Gemeinschaft" und Billing sagt, er sei ein "Freund des Volkes". Thomas ist gerührt, ergreift ihre Hände und bittet noch einmal darum, sorgfältig mit seinem Artikel umzugehen. Als Thomas den Raum verlässt, sagt Aslaksen, dass er nützlich sein wird, solange er sich auf die Bäder beschränkt, und Billing beschuldigt ihn, zu viel Angst zu haben. Aslaksen argumentiert, dass er nur praktisch ist. Er sagt, Regierungen können so oft angegriffen werden, wie er möchte, aber lokale Behörden können "ausgetauscht" und an ihrer Stelle eine noch unwissendere Gruppe eingesetzt werden. Hovstad fragt, was er von der "progressiven Schulung des Bürgers in staatsbürgerlichen Verantwortlichkeiten" hält. Aslaksen sagt, ein Mann könne nicht an alles denken, wenn er "solide Interessen zu schützen" hat, und dass ein Politiker sich niemals zu sicher sein sollte. Dann sagt er zu Billing, dass er mäßiger sein sollte, da er sich für den Posten des Generalsekretärs im Stadtrat beworben hat. Billing gibt dies zu und sagt zu Hovstad, dass er dies nur getan hat, um sie zu verärgern. Aslaksen geht von diesem Thema ab und wiederholt, wie sehr er Maß und Ziel schätzt, und obwohl sein Herz bei den einfachen Leuten liegt, hat er auch ein wenig Sympathie für die Behörden. Wenn er den Raum verlässt, fragt Billing, ob es nicht an der Zeit wäre, ihn loszuwerden, und Hovstad weist darauf hin, wie niemand sonst ihre Zeitung und Druckrechnungen bezahlen würde. Billing schlägt vor, dass Dr. Stockmann dies tun könnte, und sagt, dass sein Schwiegervater hinter ihm steht und sicher auch Geld hat. Hovstad sagt ihm, dass er sich darauf nicht verlassen soll, genauso wenig wie auf das Sekretariat. Nachdem Billing den Raum verlassen hat, betritt Petra ihn und sagt Hovstad, dass sie die Geschichte nicht übersetzen kann und gibt sie ihm zurück. Sie sagt ihm, dass er sie nicht im Herald verwenden kann, da sie seinen Prinzipien widerspricht. Sie nimmt die Sichtweise einer "liebevollen Vorsehung" ein und wie böse Menschen bestraft werden. Er sagt, dass die Öffentlichkeit dies mögen würde und dass ein Herausgeber manchmal den Schwächen der Leser nachgeben müsse. Er sagt auch, dass die Veröffentlichung dieser Geschichte Vertrauen schaffen würde. Sie sagt ihm, dass er sich schämen solle und beschuldigt ihn, ein Heuchler zu sein.

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. The King of Navarre's park. [Enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL.] HOLOFERNES. Satis quod sufficit. NATHANIEL. I praise God for you, sir: your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious; pleasant without scurrility, witty without affection, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange without heresy. I did converse this quondam day with a companion of the king's who is intituled, nominated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado. HOLOFERNES. Novi hominem tanquam te: his humour is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his eye ambitious, his gait majestical and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. He is too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, as it were, too peregrinate, as I may call it. NATHANIEL. A most singular and choice epithet. [Draws out his table-book.] HOLOFERNES. He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument. I abhor such fanatical phantasimes, such insociable and point-devise companions; such rackers of orthography, as to speak dout, fine, when he should say doubt; det when he should pronounce debt,--d, e, b, t, not d, e, t: he clepeth a calf, cauf; half, hauf; neighbour vocatur nebour, neigh abbreviated ne. This is abhominable, which he would call abominable,--it insinuateth me of insanie: anne intelligis, domine? to make frantic, lunatic. NATHANIEL. Laus Deo, bone intelligo. HOLOFERNES. Bone? bone for bene: Priscian a little scratch'd; 'twill serve. [Enter ARMADO, MOTH, and COSTARD.] NATHANIEL. Videsne quis venit? HOLOFERNES. Video, et gaudeo. ARMADO. [To MOTH] Chirrah! HOLOFERNES. Quare chirrah, not sirrah? ARMADO. Men of peace, well encountered. HOLOFERNES. Most military sir, salutation. MOTH. [Aside to COSTARD.] They have been at a great feast of languages and stolen the scraps. COSTARD. O! they have lived long on the alms-basket of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word, for thou are not so long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus; thou art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon. MOTH. Peace! the peal begins. ARMADO. [To HOLOFERNES.] Monsieur, are you not lettered? MOTH. Yes, yes; he teaches boys the hornbook. What is a, b, spelt backward with the horn on his head? HOLOFERNES. Ba, pueritia, with a horn added. MOTH. Ba! most silly sheep with a horn. You hear his learning. HOLOFERNES. Quis, quis, thou consonant? MOTH. The third of the five vowels, if you repeat them; or the fifth, if I. HOLOFERNES. I will repeat them,--a, e, i,-- MOTH. The sheep; the other two concludes it,--o, u. ARMADO. Now, by the salt wave of the Mediterraneum, a sweet touch, a quick venue of wit! snip, snap, quick and home! It rejoiceth my intellect: true wit! MOTH. Offered by a child to an old man; which is wit-old. HOLOFERNES. What is the figure? What is the figure? MOTH. Horns. HOLOFERNES. Thou disputes like an infant; go, whip thy gig. MOTH. Lend me your horn to make one, and I will whip about your infamy circum circa. A gig of a cuckold's horn. COSTARD. An I had but one penny in the world, thou shouldst have it to buy gingerbread. Hold, there is the very remuneration I had of thy master, thou half-penny purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion. O! an the heavens were so pleased that thou wert but my bastard, what a joyful father wouldst thou make me. Go to; thou hast it ad dunghill, at the fingers' ends, as they say. HOLOFERNES. O, I smell false Latin! 'dunghill' for unguem. ARMADO. Arts-man, praeambula; we will be singled from the barbarous. Do you not educate youth at the charge-house on the top of the mountain? HOLOFERNES. Or mons, the hill. ARMADO. At your sweet pleasure, for the mountain. HOLOFERNES. I do, sans question. ARMADO. Sir, it is the King's most sweet pleasure and affection to congratulate the princess at her pavilion, in the posteriors of this day, which the rude multitude call the afternoon. HOLOFERNES. The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is liable, congruent, and measurable, for the afternoon. The word is well culled, chose, sweet, and apt, I do assure you, sir; I do assure. ARMADO. Sir, the King is a noble gentleman, and my familiar, I do assure ye, very good friend. For what is inward between us, let it pass: I do beseech thee, remember thy courtsy; I beseech thee, apparel thy head: and among other importunate and most serious designs, and of great import indeed, too, but let that pass: for I must tell thee it will please his Grace, by the world, sometime to lean upon my poor shoulder, and with his royal finger thus dally with my excrement, with my mustachio: but, sweet heart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no fable: some certain special honours it pleaseth his greatness to impart to Armado, a soldier, a man of travel, that hath seen the world: but let that pass. The very all of all is, but, sweet heart, I do implore secrecy, that the King would have me present the princess, sweet chuck, with some delightful ostentation, or show, or pageant, or antic, or firework. Now, understanding that the curate and your sweet self are good at such eruptions and sudden breaking-out of mirth, as it were, I have acquainted you withal, to the end to crave your assistance. HOLOFERNES. Sir, you shall present before her the Nine Worthies. Sir Nathaniel, as concerning some entertainment of time, some show in the posterior of this day, to be rendered by our assistance, the King's command, and this most gallant, illustrate, and learned gentleman, before the princess, I say none so fit as to present the Nine Worthies. NATHANIEL. Where will you find men worthy enough to present them? HOLOFERNES. Joshua, yourself; myself, Alexander; this gallant gentleman, Judas Maccabaeus; this swain, because of his great limb or joint, shall pass Pompey the Great; the page, Hercules,-- ARMADO. Pardon, sir; error: he is not quantity enough for that Worthy's thumb; he is not so big as the end of his club. HOLOFERNES. Shall I have audience? He shall present Hercules in minority: his enter and exit shall be strangling a snake; and I will have an apology for that purpose. MOTH. An excellent device! So, if any of the audience hiss, you may cry 'Well done, Hercules; now thou crushest the snake!' That is the way to make an offence gracious, though few have the grace to do it. ARMADO. For the rest of the Worthies?-- HOLOFERNES. I will play three myself. MOTH. Thrice-worthy gentleman! ARMADO. Shall I tell you a thing? HOLOFERNES. We attend. ARMADO. We will have, if this fadge not, an antic. I beseech you, follow. HOLOFERNES. Via, goodman Dull! Thou has spoken no word all this while. DULL. Nor understood none neither, sir. HOLOFERNES. Allons! we will employ thee. DULL. I'll make one in a dance, or so, or I will play on the tabor to the Worthies, and let them dance the hay. HOLOFERNES. Most langweiliger, ehrlicher Langweiler! Weg mit unserem Spiel. [Abgang.] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Der Anhänger, der Wachtmeister und der Kaplan sitzen beim Abendessen und sprechen über verschiedene Dinge. Ihre Unterhaltung kommt auf den Lord Armando, den sie nicht mögen. Armando kommt mit dem Jungen herein und sagt den Männern, dass er für die Abendveranstaltung verantwortlich ist, die der König für die Prinzessin von Frankreich ausrichtet. Er bittet die Männer um ihre Unterstützung bei der Unterhaltung und sie sagen zu, ihm zu helfen. Gemeinsam beschließen sie, das Stück "Die neun Würdigen" aufzuführen und jedem eine andere Rolle zuzuweisen.

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 made what change I could in my appearance; and blithe was I to look in the glass and find the beggarman a thing of the past, and David Balfour come to life again. And yet I was ashamed of the change too, and, above all, of the borrowed clothes. When I had done, Mr. Rankeillor caught me on the stair, made me his compliments, and had me again into the cabinet. "Sit ye down, Mr. David," said he, "and now that you are looking a little more like yourself, let me see if I can find you any news. You will be wondering, no doubt, about your father and your uncle? To be sure it is a singular tale; and the explanation is one that I blush to have to offer you. For," says he, really with embarrassment, "the matter hinges on a love affair." "Truly," said I, "I cannot very well join that notion with my uncle." "But your uncle, Mr. David, was not always old," replied the lawyer, "and what may perhaps surprise you more, not always ugly. He had a fine, gallant air; people stood in their doors to look after him, as he went by upon a mettle horse. I have seen it with these eyes, and I ingenuously confess, not altogether without envy; for I was a plain lad myself and a plain man's son; and in those days it was a case of Odi te, qui bellus es, Sabelle." "It sounds like a dream," said I. "Ay, ay," said the lawyer, "that is how it is with youth and age. Nor was that all, but he had a spirit of his own that seemed to promise great things in the future. In 1715, what must he do but run away to join the rebels? It was your father that pursued him, found him in a ditch, and brought him back multum gementem; to the mirth of the whole country. However, majora canamus--the two lads fell in love, and that with the same lady. Mr. Ebenezer, who was the admired and the beloved, and the spoiled one, made, no doubt, mighty certain of the victory; and when he found he had deceived himself, screamed like a peacock. The whole country heard of it; now he lay sick at home, with his silly family standing round the bed in tears; now he rode from public-house to public-house, and shouted his sorrows into the lug of Tom, Dick, and Harry. Your father, Mr. David, was a kind gentleman; but he was weak, dolefully weak; took all this folly with a long countenance; and one day--by your leave!--resigned the lady. She was no such fool, however; it's from her you must inherit your excellent good sense; and she refused to be bandied from one to another. Both got upon their knees to her; and the upshot of the matter for that while was that she showed both of them the door. That was in August; dear me! the same year I came from college. The scene must have been highly farcical." I thought myself it was a silly business, but I could not forget my father had a hand in it. "Surely, sir, it had some note of tragedy," said I. "Why, no, sir, not at all," returned the lawyer. "For tragedy implies some ponderable matter in dispute, some dignus vindice nodus; and this piece of work was all about the petulance of a young ass that had been spoiled, and wanted nothing so much as to be tied up and soundly belted. However, that was not your father's view; and the end of it was, that from concession to concession on your father's part, and from one height to another of squalling, sentimental selfishness upon your uncle's, they came at last to drive a sort of bargain, from whose ill results you have recently been smarting. The one man took the lady, the other the estate. Now, Mr. David, they talk a great deal of charity and generosity; but in this disputable state of life, I often think the happiest consequences seem to flow when a gentleman consults his lawyer, and takes all the law allows him. Anyhow, this piece of Quixotry on your father's part, as it was unjust in itself, has brought forth a monstrous family of injustices. Your father and mother lived and died poor folk; you were poorly reared; and in the meanwhile, what a time it has been for the tenants on the estate of Shaws! And I might add (if it was a matter I cared much about) what a time for Mr. Ebenezer!" "And yet that is certainly the strangest part of all," said I, "that a man's nature should thus change." "True," said Mr. Rankeillor. "And yet I imagine it was natural enough. He could not think that he had played a handsome part. Those who knew the story gave him the cold shoulder; those who knew it not, seeing one brother disappear, and the other succeed in the estate, raised a cry of murder; so that upon all sides he found himself evited. Money was all he got by his bargain; well, he came to think the more of money. He was selfish when he was young, he is selfish now that he is old; and the latter end of all these pretty manners and fine feelings you have seen for yourself." "Well, sir," said I, "and in all this, what is my position?" "The estate is yours beyond a doubt," replied the lawyer. "It matters nothing what your father signed, you are the heir of entail. But your uncle is a man to fight the indefensible; and it would be likely your identity that he would call in question. A lawsuit is always expensive, and a family lawsuit always scandalous; besides which, if any of your doings with your friend Mr. Thomson were to come out, we might find that we had burned our fingers. The kidnapping, to be sure, would be a court card upon our side, if we could only prove it. But it may be difficult to prove; and my advice (upon the whole) is to make a very easy bargain with your uncle, perhaps even leaving him at Shaws where he has taken root for a quarter of a century, and contenting yourself in the meanwhile with a fair provision." I told him I was very willing to be easy, and that to carry family concerns before the public was a step from which I was naturally much averse. In the meantime (thinking to myself) I began to see the outlines of that scheme on which we afterwards acted. "The great affair," I asked, "is to bring home to him the kidnapping?" "Surely," said Mr. Rankeillor, "and if possible, out of court. For mark you here, Mr. David: we could no doubt find some men of the Covenant who would swear to your reclusion; but once they were in the box, we could no longer check their testimony, and some word of your friend Mr. Thomson must certainly crop out. Which (from what you have let fall) I cannot think to be desirable." "Well, sir," said I, "here is my way of it." And I opened my plot to him. "But this would seem to involve my meeting the man Thomson?" says he, when I had done. "I think so, indeed, sir," said I. "Dear doctor!" cries he, rubbing his brow. "Dear doctor! No, Mr. David, I am afraid your scheme is inadmissible. I say nothing against your friend, Mr. Thomson: I know nothing against him; and if I did--mark this, Mr. David!--it would be my duty to lay hands on him. Now I put it to you: is it wise to meet? He may have matters to his charge. He may not have told you all. His name may not be even Thomson!" cries the lawyer, twinkling; "for some of these fellows will pick up names by the roadside as another would gather haws." "You must be the judge, sir," said I. But it was clear my plan had taken hold upon his fancy, for he kept musing to himself till we were called to dinner and the company of Mrs. Rankeillor; and that lady had scarce left us again to ourselves and a bottle of wine, ere he was back harping on my proposal. When and where was I to meet my friend Mr. Thomson; was I sure of Mr. T.'s discretion; supposing we could catch the old fox tripping, would I consent to such and such a term of an agreement--these and the like questions he kept asking at long intervals, while he thoughtfully rolled his wine upon his tongue. When I had answered all of them, seemingly to his contentment, he fell into a still deeper muse, even the claret being now forgotten. Then he got a sheet of paper and a pencil, and set to work writing and weighing every word; and at last touched a bell and had his clerk into the chamber. "Torrance," said he, "I must have this written out fair against to-night; and when it is done, you will be so kind as put on your hat and be ready to come along with this gentleman and me, for you will probably be wanted as a witness." "What, sir," cried I, as soon as the clerk was gone, "are you to venture it?" "Why, so it would appear," says he, filling his glass. "But let us speak no more of business. The very sight of Torrance brings in my head a little droll matter of some years ago, when I had made a tryst with the poor oaf at the cross of Edinburgh. Each had gone his proper errand; and when it came four o'clock, Torrance had been taking a glass and did not know his master, and I, who had forgot my spectacles, was so blind without them, that I give you my word I did not know my own clerk." And thereupon he laughed heartily. I said it was an odd chance, and smiled out of politeness; but what held me all the afternoon in wonder, he kept returning and dwelling on this story, and telling it again with fresh details and laughter; so that I began at last to be quite put out of countenance and feel ashamed for my friend's folly. Towards the time I had appointed with Alan, we set out from the house, Mr. Rankeillor and I arm in arm, and Torrance following behind with the deed in his pocket and a covered basket in his hand. All through the town, the lawyer was bowing right and left, and continually being button-holed by gentlemen on matters of burgh or private business; and I could see he was one greatly looked up to in the county. At last we were clear of the houses, and began to go along the side of the haven and towards the Hawes Inn and the Ferry pier, the scene of my misfortune. I could not look upon the place without emotion, recalling how many that had been there with me that day were now no more: Ransome taken, I could hope, from the evil to come; Shuan passed where I dared not follow him; and the poor souls that had gone down with the brig in her last plunge. All these, and the brig herself, I had outlived; and come through these hardships and fearful perils without scath. My only thought should have been of gratitude; and yet I could not behold the place without sorrow for others and a chill of recollected fear. I was so thinking when, upon a sudden, Mr. Rankeillor cried out, clapped his hand to his pockets, and began to laugh. "Why," he cries, "if this be not a farcical adventure! After all that I said, I have forgot my glasses!" At that, of course, I understood the purpose of his anecdote, and knew that if he had left his spectacles at home, it had been done on purpose, so that he might have the benefit of Alan's help without the awkwardness of recognising him. And indeed it was well thought upon; for now (suppose things to go the very worst) how could Rankeillor swear to my friend's identity, or how be made to bear damaging evidence against myself? For all that, he had been a long while of finding out his want, and had spoken to and recognised a good few persons as we came through the town; and I had little doubt myself that he saw reasonably well. As soon as we were past the Hawes (where I recognised the landlord smoking his pipe in the door, and was amazed to see him look no older) Mr. Rankeillor changed the order of march, walking behind with Torrance and sending me forward in the manner of a scout. I went up the hill, whistling from time to time my Gaelic air; and at length I had the pleasure to hear it answered and to see Alan rise from behind a bush. He was somewhat dashed in spirits, having passed a long day alone skulking in the county, and made but a poor meal in an alehouse near Dundas. But at the mere sight of my clothes, he began to brighten up; and as soon as I had told him in what a forward state our matters were and the part I looked to him to play in what remained, he sprang into a new man. "And that is a very good notion of yours," says he; "and I dare to say that you could lay your hands upon no better man to put it through than Alan Breck. It is not a thing (mark ye) that any one could do, but takes a gentleman of penetration. But it sticks in my head your lawyer-man will be somewhat wearying to see me," says Alan. Accordingly I cried and waved on Mr. Rankeillor, who came up alone and was presented to my friend, Mr. Thomson. "Mr. Thomson, I am pleased to meet you," said he. "But I have forgotten my glasses; and our friend, Mr. David here" (clapping me on the shoulder), "will tell you that I am little better than blind, and that you must not be surprised if I pass you by to-morrow." This he said, thinking that Alan would be pleased; but the Highlandman's vanity was ready to startle at a less matter than that. "Why, sir," says he, stiffly, "I would say it mattered the less as we are met here for a particular end, to see justice done to Mr. Balfour; and by what I can see, not very likely to have much else in common. But I accept your apology, which was a very proper one to make." "And that is more than I could look for, Mr. Thomson," said Rankeillor, heartily. "And now as you and I are the chief actors in this enterprise, I think we should come into a nice agreement; to which end, I propose that you should lend me your arm, for (what with the dusk and the want of my glasses) I am not very clear as to the path; and as for you, Mr. David, you will find Torrance a pleasant kind of body to speak with. Only let me remind you, it's quite needless he should hear more of your adventures or those of--ahem--Mr. Thomson." Accordingly these two went on ahead in very close talk, and Torrance and I brought up the rear. Night was quite come when we came in view of the house of Shaws. Ten had been gone some time; it was dark and mild, with a pleasant, rustling wind in the south-west that covered the sound of our approach; and as we drew near we saw no glimmer of light in any portion of the building. It seemed my uncle was already in bed, which was indeed the best thing for our arrangements. We made our last whispered consultations some fifty yards away; and then the lawyer and Torrance and I crept quietly up and crouched down beside the corner of the house; and as soon as we were in our places, Alan strode to the door without concealment and began to knock. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Nachdem er das Land erreicht hat, geht David in Richtung Queensferry, um zum Wohnsitz von Mr. Rankeillor, seinem Anwalt, zu gelangen. In der Zwischenzeit versteckt sich Alan auf den Feldern am Straßenrand. David trifft den Anwalt, der sich nach seiner Herkunft und seinen Eltern erkundigt, bevor er ihn zum Essen einlädt. Mr. Rankeillor hört sich die Abenteuergeschichten des Jungen an und bezeichnet sie als "große Odyssee".

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 VOYAGE All that night we were in a great bustle getting things stowed in their place, and boatfuls of the squire's friends, Mr. Blandly and the like, coming off to wish him a good voyage and a safe return. We never had a night at the "Admiral Benbow" when I had half the work; and I was dog-tired when, a little before dawn, the boatswain sounded his pipe, and the crew began to man the capstan bars. I might have been twice as weary, yet I would not have left the deck, all was so new and interesting to me--the brief commands, the shrill notes of the whistle, the men bustling to their places in the glimmer of the ship's lanterns. "Now, Barbecue, tip us a stave," cried one voice. "The old one," cried another. "Ay, ay, mates," said Long John, who was standing by, with his crutch under his arm, and at once broke out in the air and words I knew so well: "Fifteen men on the dead man's chest"-- And then the whole crew bore chorus: "Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!" And at the third "ho!" drove the bars before them with a will. Even at that exciting moment it carried me back to the old "Admiral Benbow" in a second, and I seemed to hear the voice of the captain piping in the chorus. But soon the anchor was short up; soon it was hanging dripping at the bows; soon the sails began to draw, and the land and shipping to flit by on either side, and before I could lie down to snatch an hour of slumber the _Hispaniola_ had begun her voyage to the Isle of Treasure. I am not going to relate the voyage in detail. It was fairly prosperous. The ship proved to be a good ship, the crew were capable seamen, and the captain thoroughly understood his business. But before we came the length of Treasure Island, two or three things had happened which require to be known. Mr. Arrow, first of all, turned out even worse than the captain had feared. He had no command among the men, and people did what they pleased with him. But that was by no means the worst of it; for after a day or two at sea he began to appear on deck with hazy eye, red cheeks, stuttering tongue, and other marks of drunkenness. Time after time he was ordered below in disgrace. Sometimes he fell and cut himself; sometimes he lay all day long in his little bunk at one side of the companion; sometimes for a day or two he would be almost sober and attend to his work at least passably. In the meantime we could never make out where he got the drink. That was the ship's mystery. Watch him as we pleased, we could do nothing to solve it, and when we asked him to his face, he would only laugh, if he were drunk, and if he were sober, deny solemnly that he ever tasted anything but water. He was not only useless as an officer, and a bad influence among the men, but it was plain that at this rate he must soon kill himself outright, so nobody was much surprised, nor very sorry, when one dark night, with a head sea, he disappeared entirely and was seen no more. "Overboard!" said the captain. "Well, gentlemen, that saves the trouble of putting him in irons." But there we were, without a mate, and it was necessary, of course, to advance one of the men. The boatswain, Job Anderson, was the likeliest man aboard, and though he kept his old title, he served in a way as mate. Mr. Trelawney had followed the sea, and his knowledge made him very useful, for he often took a watch himself in easy weather. And the coxswain, Israel Hands, was a careful, wily, old, experienced seaman, who could be trusted at a pinch with almost anything. He was a great confidant of Long John Silver, and so the mention of his name leads me on to speak of our ship's cook, Barbecue, as the men called him. [Illustration: _It was something to see him get on with his cooking like someone safe ashore_ (Page 71)] Aboard ship he carried his crutch by a lanyard round his neck, to have both hands as free as possible. It was something to see him wedge the foot of the crutch against a bulkhead, and, propped against it, yielding to every movement of the ship, get on with his cooking like someone safe ashore. Still more strange was it to see him in the heaviest of weather cross the deck. He had a line or two rigged up to help him across the widest spaces--Long John's earrings, they were called--and he would hand himself from one place to another, now using the crutch, now trailing it alongside by the lanyard, as quickly as another man could walk. Yet some of the men who had sailed with him before expressed their pity to see him so reduced. "He's no common man, Barbecue," said the coxswain to me. "He had good schooling in his young days, and can speak like a book when so minded; and brave--a lion's nothing alongside of Long John! I seen him grapple four and knock their heads together--him unarmed." All the crew respected and even obeyed him. He had a way of talking to each, and doing everybody some particular service. To me he was unweariedly kind, and always glad to see me in the galley, which he kept as clean as a new pin; the dishes hanging up burnished, and his parrot in a cage in the corner. "Come away, Hawkins," he would say; "come and have a yarn with John. Nobody more welcome than yourself, my son. Sit you down and hear the news. Here's Cap'n Flint--I calls my parrot Cap'n Flint, after the famous buccaneer--here's Cap'n Flint predicting success to our v'yage. Wasn't you, Cap'n?" And the parrot would say, with great rapidity: "Pieces of eight! pieces of eight! pieces of eight!" till you wondered that it was not out of breath or till John threw his handkerchief over the cage. "Now, that bird," he would say, "is, may be, two hundred years old, Hawkins--they live forever mostly, and if anybody's seen more wickedness it must be the devil himself. She's sailed with England--the great Cap'n England, the pirate. She's been at Madagascar, and at Malabar, and Surinam, and Providence, and Portobello. She was at the fishing up of the wrecked plate ships. It's there she learned 'Pieces of eight,' and little wonder; three hundred and fifty thousand of 'em, Hawkins! She was at the boarding of the _Viceroy of the Indies_ out of Goa, she was, and to look at her you would think she was a babby. But you smelt powder--didn't you, cap'n?" "Stand by to go about," the parrot would scream. "Ah, she's a handsome craft, she is," the cook would say, and give her sugar from his pocket, and then the bird would peck at the bars and swear straight on, passing belief for wickedness. "There," John would add, "you can't touch pitch and not be mucked, lad. Here's this poor old innocent bird of mine swearing blue fire and none the wiser, you may lay to that. She would swear the same, in a manner of speaking, before the chaplain." And John would touch his forelock with a solemn way he had, that made me think he was the best of men. In the meantime the squire and Captain Smollett were still on pretty distant terms with one another. The squire made no bones about the matter; he despised the captain. The captain, on his part, never spoke but when he was spoken to, and then sharp and short and dry, and not a word wasted. He owned, when driven into a corner, that he seemed to have been wrong about the crew; that some of them were as brisk as he wanted to see, and all had behaved fairly well. As for the ship, he had taken a downright fancy to her. "She'll lie a point nearer the wind than a man has a right to expect of his own married wife, sir. But," he would add, "all I say is, we're not home again, and I don't like the cruise." The squire, at this, would turn away and march up and down the deck, chin in air. "A trifle more of that man," he would say, "and I should explode." We had some heavy weather, which only proved the qualities of the _Hispaniola_. Every man on board seemed well content, and they must have been hard to please if they had been otherwise, for it is my belief there was never a ship's company so spoiled since Noah put to sea. Double grog was going on the least excuse; there was duff on odd days, as, for instance, if the squire heard it was any man's birthday; and always a barrel of apples standing broached in the waist, for anyone to help himself that had a fancy. "Never knew good to come of it yet," the captain said to Doctor Livesey. "Spoil foc's'le hands, make devils. That's my belief." But good did come of the apple barrel, as you shall hear, for if it had not been for that we should have had no note of warning and might all have perished by the hand of treachery. This is how it came about. We had run up the trades to get the wind of the island we were after--I am not allowed to be more plain--and now we were running down for it with a bright lookout day and night. It was about the last day of our outward voyage, by the largest computation; some time that night, or, at latest, before noon of the morrow, we should sight the Treasure Island. We were heading south-southwest, and had a steady breeze abeam and a quiet sea. The _Hispaniola_ rolled steadily, dipping her bowsprit now and then with a whiff of spray. All was drawing alow and aloft; everyone was in the bravest spirits, because we were now so near an end of the first part of our adventure. Now, just after sundown, when all my work was over and I was on my way to my berth, it occurred to me that I should like an apple. I ran on deck. The watch was all forward looking out for the island. The man at the helm was watching the luff of the sail and whistling away gently to himself, and that was the only sound excepting the swish of the sea against the bows and around the sides of the ship. In I got bodily into the apple barrel, and found there was scarce an apple left; but, sitting down there in the dark, what with the sound of the waters and the rocking movement of the ship, I had either fallen asleep, or was on the point of doing so, when a heavy man sat down with rather a clash close by. The barrel shook as he leaned his shoulders against it, and I was just about to jump up when the man began to speak. It was Silver's voice, and, before I had heard a dozen words, I would not have shown myself for all the world, but lay there, trembling and listening, in the extreme of fear and curiosity; for from these dozen words I understood that the lives of all the honest men aboard depended upon me alone. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Nach einer geschäftigen Nacht, in der sie sich auf die Reise vorbereitet haben, stachen sie in See. Jim findet das alles sehr aufregend. Auf Bitten seiner Kameraden singt Long John Silver das alte Seelied, das Jim so gut kennt. Jim reist in seiner Erinnerung zurück zur Admiral Benbow und wird an den Kapitän erinnert. Der Anker wird gelichtet und sie nehmen Kurs auf die Insel. Die Reise war recht angenehm, abgesehen von einigen Zwischenfällen, berichtet Jim. Mr. Arrow entpuppt sich als völlig übermäßiger Trinker, der keinerlei Kontrolle über die ihm unterstellten Leute hat. Niemand hat eine Ahnung, woher er den Rum bekommt. Im Laufe der Zeit erweist er sich auch als schlechter Einfluss auf die anderen. Eines schönen Morgens verschwindet er und wird nie wieder gesehen, was kaum jemanden überrascht. Job Anderson, der Schiffszimmermann, übernimmt Arrows Position und Mr. Trelawney behält das Wetter im Auge. Jim beobachtet Silver auf dem Deck. Seine Aktivitäten machen ihn zum Liebling der Matrosen und sie nennen ihn Barbecue. Israel Hands, ein Freund von Silver, erzählt Jim, dass Silver kein gewöhnlicher Mann ist. Er sagt, dass Silver auf den besten Schulen ausgebildet wurde und genauso tapfer sei wie ein Löwe. Jim mag ihn und das Gefühl ist gegenseitig. Silver lädt Jim oft ein, seinem Papagei Captain Flint zuzuhören. Der Papagei antwortet immer mit "Pieces of eight", wenn er eine Frage gestellt bekommt. Silver erzählt oft von dem Vogel und der Boshaftigkeit, die er in seinem 200 Jahre langen Leben gesehen hat. Der Squire und der Kapitän liegen wie am Anfang der Reise immer im Streit. Der Squire verliert oft die Kontrolle über sich selbst. Das Wetter ändert sich drastisch, aber das Schiff beweist seine Stärke, als es den Naturgewalten standhält. Die Crew ist müde von der Reise und verwöhnt, da sie aus jedem Kleinigkeitsgrund doppelt so viel Rum bekommen. Auch ein Fass Äpfel steht bereit, doch niemand kümmert sich darum. Jim sagt, dass das Fass mit Äpfeln doch von Nutzen war, als die Hispaniola sich ihrem Ziel näherte. Nach Sonnenuntergang, als Jim in das Fass stieg, um sich einen Apfel zu holen, findet er das gesamte Fass leer vor. Er schläft in dem Fass ein, beruhigt durch die sanften Bewegungen und die Ruhe des Schiffes. Jim wacht auf, als ein Mann sich neben dem Fass setzt. Er hört die Stimme von Silver. Seine Worte überraschen und ängstigen ihn und Jim ist überzeugt, dass das Leben der Männer an Bord in Gefahr ist und allein von ihm abhängt.

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 fresh beauty of the following morning did something to efface from our minds the grim and gray impression which had been left upon both of us by our first experience of Baskerville Hall. As Sir Henry and I sat at breakfast the sunlight flooded in through the high mullioned windows, throwing watery patches of colour from the coats of arms which covered them. The dark panelling glowed like bronze in the golden rays, and it was hard to realize that this was indeed the chamber which had struck such a gloom into our souls upon the evening before. "I guess it is ourselves and not the house that we have to blame!" said the baronet. "We were tired with our journey and chilled by our drive, so we took a gray view of the place. Now we are fresh and well, so it is all cheerful once more." "And yet it was not entirely a question of imagination," I answered. "Did you, for example, happen to hear someone, a woman I think, sobbing in the night?" "That is curious, for I did when I was half asleep fancy that I heard something of the sort. I waited quite a time, but there was no more of it, so I concluded that it was all a dream." "I heard it distinctly, and I am sure that it was really the sob of a woman." "We must ask about this right away." He rang the bell and asked Barrymore whether he could account for our experience. It seemed to me that the pallid features of the butler turned a shade paler still as he listened to his master's question. "There are only two women in the house, Sir Henry," he answered. "One is the scullery-maid, who sleeps in the other wing. The other is my wife, and I can answer for it that the sound could not have come from her." And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that after breakfast I met Mrs. Barrymore in the long corridor with the sun full upon her face. She was a large, impassive, heavy-featured woman with a stern set expression of mouth. But her telltale eyes were red and glanced at me from between swollen lids. It was she, then, who wept in the night, and if she did so her husband must know it. Yet he had taken the obvious risk of discovery in declaring that it was not so. Why had he done this? And why did she weep so bitterly? Already round this pale-faced, handsome, black-bearded man there was gathering an atmosphere of mystery and of gloom. It was he who had been the first to discover the body of Sir Charles, and we had only his word for all the circumstances which led up to the old man's death. Was it possible that it was Barrymore, after all, whom we had seen in the cab in Regent Street? The beard might well have been the same. The cabman had described a somewhat shorter man, but such an impression might easily have been erroneous. How could I settle the point forever? Obviously the first thing to do was to see the Grimpen postmaster and find whether the test telegram had really been placed in Barrymore's own hands. Be the answer what it might, I should at least have something to report to Sherlock Holmes. Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine after breakfast, so that the time was propitious for my excursion. It was a pleasant walk of four miles along the edge of the moor, leading me at last to a small gray hamlet, in which two larger buildings, which proved to be the inn and the house of Dr. Mortimer, stood high above the rest. The postmaster, who was also the village grocer, had a clear recollection of the telegram. "Certainly, sir," said he, "I had the telegram delivered to Mr. Barrymore exactly as directed." "Who delivered it?" "My boy here. James, you delivered that telegram to Mr. Barrymore at the Hall last week, did you not?" "Yes, father, I delivered it." "Into his own hands?" I asked. "Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so that I could not put it into his own hands, but I gave it into Mrs. Barrymore's hands, and she promised to deliver it at once." "Did you see Mr. Barrymore?" "No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft." "If you didn't see him, how do you know he was in the loft?" "Well, surely his own wife ought to know where he is," said the postmaster testily. "Didn't he get the telegram? If there is any mistake it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to complain." It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any farther, but it was clear that in spite of Holmes's ruse we had no proof that Barrymore had not been in London all the time. Suppose that it were so--suppose that the same man had been the last who had seen Sir Charles alive, and the first to dog the new heir when he returned to England. What then? Was he the agent of others or had he some sinister design of his own? What interest could he have in persecuting the Baskerville family? I thought of the strange warning clipped out of the leading article of the Times. Was that his work or was it possibly the doing of someone who was bent upon counteracting his schemes? The only conceivable motive was that which had been suggested by Sir Henry, that if the family could be scared away a comfortable and permanent home would be secured for the Barrymores. But surely such an explanation as that would be quite inadequate to account for the deep and subtle scheming which seemed to be weaving an invisible net round the young baronet. Holmes himself had said that no more complex case had come to him in all the long series of his sensational investigations. I prayed, as I walked back along the gray, lonely road, that my friend might soon be freed from his preoccupations and able to come down to take this heavy burden of responsibility from my shoulders. Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running feet behind me and by a voice which called me by name. I turned, expecting to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a stranger who was pursuing me. He was a small, slim, clean-shaven, prim-faced man, flaxen-haired and leanjawed, between thirty and forty years of age, dressed in a gray suit and wearing a straw hat. A tin box for botanical specimens hung over his shoulder and he carried a green butterfly-net in one of his hands. "You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson," said he as he came panting up to where I stood. "Here on the moor we are homely folk and do not wait for formal introductions. You may possibly have heard my name from our mutual friend, Mortimer. I am Stapleton, of Merripit House." "Your net and box would have told me as much," said I, "for I knew that Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist. But how did you know me?" "I have been calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me from the window of his surgery as you passed. As our road lay the same way I thought that I would overtake you and introduce myself. I trust that Sir Henry is none the worse for his journey?" "He is very well, thank you." "We were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir Charles the new baronet might refuse to live here. It is asking much of a wealthy man to come down and bury himself in a place of this kind, but I need not tell you that it means a very great deal to the countryside. Sir Henry has, I suppose, no superstitious fears in the matter?" "I do not think that it is likely." "Of course you know the legend of the fiend dog which haunts the family?" "I have heard it." "It is extraordinary how credulous the peasants are about here! Any number of them are ready to swear that they have seen such a creature upon the moor." He spoke with a smile, but I seemed to read in his eyes that he took the matter more seriously. "The story took a great hold upon the imagination of Sir Charles, and I have no doubt that it led to his tragic end." "But how?" "His nerves were so worked up that the appearance of any dog might have had a fatal effect upon his diseased heart. I fancy that he really did see something of the kind upon that last night in the yew alley. I feared that some disaster might occur, for I was very fond of the old man, and I knew that his heart was weak." "How did you know that?" "My friend Mortimer told me." "You think, then, that some dog pursued Sir Charles, and that he died of fright in consequence?" "Have you any better explanation?" "I have not come to any conclusion." "Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" The words took away my breath for an instant but a glance at the placid face and steadfast eyes of my companion showed that no surprise was intended. "It is useless for us to pretend that we do not know you, Dr. Watson," said he. "The records of your detective have reached us here, and you could not celebrate him without being known yourself. When Mortimer told me your name he could not deny your identity. If you are here, then it follows that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is interesting himself in the matter, and I am naturally curious to know what view he may take." "I am afraid that I cannot answer that question." "May I ask if he is going to honour us with a visit himself?" "He cannot leave town at present. He has other cases which engage his attention." "What a pity! He might throw some light on that which is so dark to us. But as to your own researches, if there is any possible way in which I can be of service to you I trust that you will command me. If I had any indication of the nature of your suspicions or how you propose to investigate the case, I might perhaps even now give you some aid or advice." "I assure you that I am simply here upon a visit to my friend, Sir Henry, and that I need no help of any kind." "Excellent!" said Stapleton. "You are perfectly right to be wary and discreet. I am justly reproved for what I feel was an unjustifiable intrusion, and I promise you that I will not mention the matter again." We had come to a point where a narrow grassy path struck off from the road and wound away across the moor. A steep, boulder-sprinkled hill lay upon the right which had in bygone days been cut into a granite quarry. The face which was turned towards us formed a dark cliff, with ferns and brambles growing in its niches. From over a distant rise there floated a gray plume of smoke. "A moderate walk along this moor-path brings us to Merripit House," said he. "Perhaps you will spare an hour that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to my sister." My first thought was that I should be by Sir Henry's side. But then I remembered the pile of papers and bills with which his study table was littered. It was certain that I could not help with those. And Holmes had expressly said that I should study the neighbours upon the moor. I accepted Stapleton's invitation, and we turned together down the path. "It is a wonderful place, the moor," said he, looking round over the undulating downs, long green rollers, with crests of jagged granite foaming up into fantastic surges. "You never tire of the moor. You cannot think the wonderful secrets which it contains. It is so vast, and so barren, and so mysterious." "You know it well, then?" "I have only been here two years. The residents would call me a newcomer. We came shortly after Sir Charles settled. But my tastes led me to explore every part of the country round, and I should think that there are few men who know it better than I do." "Is it hard to know?" "Very hard. You see, for example, this great plain to the north here with the queer hills breaking out of it. Do you observe anything remarkable about that?" "It would be a rare place for a gallop." "You would naturally think so and the thought has cost several their lives before now. You notice those bright green spots scattered thickly over it?" "Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest." Stapleton laughed. "That is the great Grimpen Mire," said he. "A false step yonder means death to man or beast. Only yesterday I saw one of the moor ponies wander into it. He never came out. I saw his head for quite a long time craning out of the bog-hole, but it sucked him down at last. Even in dry seasons it is a danger to cross it, but after these autumn rains it is an awful place. And yet I can find my way to the very heart of it and return alive. By George, there is another of those miserable ponies!" Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green sedges. Then a long, agonized, writhing neck shot upward and a dreadful cry echoed over the moor. It turned me cold with horror, but my companion's nerves seemed to be stronger than mine. "It's gone!" said he. "The mire has him. Two in two days, and many more, perhaps, for they get in the way of going there in the dry weather and never know the difference until the mire has them in its clutches. It's a bad place, the great Grimpen Mire." "And you say you can penetrate it?" "Yes, there are one or two paths which a very active man can take. I have found them out." "But why should you wish to go into so horrible a place?" "Well, you see the hills beyond? They are really islands cut off on all sides by the impassable mire, which has crawled round them in the course of years. That is where the rare plants and the butterflies are, if you have the wit to reach them." "I shall try my luck some day." He looked at me with a surprised face. "For God's sake put such an idea out of your mind," said he. "Your blood would be upon my head. I assure you that there would not be the least chance of your coming back alive. It is only by remembering certain complex landmarks that I am able to do it." "Halloa!" I cried. "What is that?" A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It filled the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it came. From a dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then sank back into a melancholy, throbbing murmur once again. Stapleton looked at me with a curious expression in his face. "Queer place, the moor!" said he. "But what is it?" "The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles calling for its prey. I've heard it once or twice before, but never quite so loud." I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the huge swelling plain, mottled with the green patches of rushes. Nothing stirred over the vast expanse save a pair of ravens, which croaked loudly from a tor behind us. "You are an educated man. You don't believe such nonsense as that?" said I. "What do you think is the cause of so strange a sound?" "Bogs make queer noises sometimes. It's the mud settling, or the water rising, or something." "No, no, that was a living voice." "Well, perhaps it was. Did you ever hear a bittern booming?" "No, I never did." "It's a very rare bird--practically extinct--in England now, but all things are possible upon the moor. Yes, I should not be surprised to learn that what we have heard is the cry of the last of the bitterns." "It's the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I heard in my life." "Yes, it's rather an uncanny place altogether. Look at the hillside yonder. What do you make of those?" The whole steep slope was covered with gray circular rings of stone, a score of them at least. "What are they? Sheep-pens?" "No, they are the homes of our worthy ancestors. Prehistoric man lived thickly on the moor, and as no one in particular has lived there since, we find all his little arrangements exactly as he left them. These are his wigwams with the roofs off. You can even see his hearth and his couch if you have the curiosity to go inside. "But it is quite a town. When was it inhabited?" "Neolithic man--no date." "What did he do?" "He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he learned to dig for tin when the bronze sword began to supersede the stone axe. Look at the great trench in the opposite hill. That is his mark. Yes, you will find some very singular points about the moor, Dr. Watson. Oh, excuse me an instant! It is surely Cyclopides." A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an instant Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy and speed in pursuit of it. To my dismay the creature flew straight for the great mire, and my acquaintance never paused for an instant, bounding from tuft to tuft behind it, his green net waving in the air. His gray clothes and jerky, zigzag, irregular progress made him not unlike some huge moth himself. I was standing watching his pursuit with a mixture of admiration for his extraordinary activity and fear lest he should lose his footing in the treacherous mire, when I heard the sound of steps and, turning round, found a woman near me upon the path. She had come from the direction in which the plume of smoke indicated the position of Merripit House, but the dip of the moor had hid her until she was quite close. I could not doubt that this was the Miss Stapleton of whom I had been told, since ladies of any sort must be few upon the moor, and I remembered that I had heard someone describe her as being a beauty. The woman who approached me was certainly that, and of a most uncommon type. There could not have been a greater contrast between brother and sister, for Stapleton was neutral tinted, with light hair and gray eyes, while she was darker than any brunette whom I have seen in England--slim, elegant, and tall. She had a proud, finely cut face, so regular that it might have seemed impassive were it not for the sensitive mouth and the beautiful dark, eager eyes. With her perfect figure and elegant dress she was, indeed, a strange apparition upon a lonely moorland path. Her eyes were on her brother as I turned, and then she quickened her pace towards me. I had raised my hat and was about to make some explanatory remark when her own words turned all my thoughts into a new channel. "Go back!" she said. "Go straight back to London, instantly." I could only stare at her in stupid surprise. Her eyes blazed at me, and she tapped the ground impatiently with her foot. "Why should I go back?" I asked. "I cannot explain." She spoke in a low, eager voice, with a curious lisp in her utterance. "But for God's sake do what I ask you. Go back and never set foot upon the moor again." "But I have only just come." "Man, man!" she cried. "Can you not tell when a warning is for your own good? Go back to London! Start tonight! Get away from this place at all costs! Hush, my brother is coming! Not a word of what I have said. Would you mind getting that orchid for me among the mare's-tails yonder? We are very rich in orchids on the moor, though, of course, you are rather late to see the beauties of the place." Stapleton had abandoned the chase and came back to us breathing hard and flushed with his exertions. "Halloa, Beryl!" said he, and it seemed to me that the tone of his greeting was not altogether a cordial one. "Well, Jack, you are very hot." "Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. He is very rare and seldom found in the late autumn. What a pity that I should have missed him!" He spoke unconcernedly, but his small light eyes glanced incessantly from the girl to me. "You have introduced yourselves, I can see." "Yes. I was telling Sir Henry that it was rather late for him to see the true beauties of the moor." "Why, who do you think this is?" "I imagine that it must be Sir Henry Baskerville." "No, no," said I. "Only a humble commoner, but his friend. My name is Dr. Watson." A flush of vexation passed over her expressive face. "We have been talking at cross purposes," said she. "Why, you had not very much time for talk," her brother remarked with the same questioning eyes. "I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident instead of being merely a visitor," said she. "It cannot much matter to him whether it is early or late for the orchids. But you will come on, will you not, and see Merripit House?" A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moorland house, once the farm of some grazier in the old prosperous days, but now put into repair and turned into a modern dwelling. An orchard surrounded it, but the trees, as is usual upon the moor, were stunted and nipped, and the effect of the whole place was mean and melancholy. We were admitted by a strange, wizened, rusty-coated old manservant, who seemed in keeping with the house. Inside, however, there were large rooms furnished with an elegance in which I seemed to recognize the taste of the lady. As I looked from their windows at the interminable granite-flecked moor rolling unbroken to the farthest horizon I could not but marvel at what could have brought this highly educated man and this beautiful woman to live in such a place. "Queer spot to choose, is it not?" said he as if in answer to my thought. "And yet we manage to make ourselves fairly happy, do we not, Beryl?" "Quite happy," said she, but there was no ring of conviction in her words. "I had a school," said Stapleton. "It was in the north country. The work to a man of my temperament was mechanical and uninteresting, but the privilege of living with youth, of helping to mould those young minds, and of impressing them with one's own character and ideals was very dear to me. However, the fates were against us. A serious epidemic broke out in the school and three of the boys died. It never recovered from the blow, and much of my capital was irretrievably swallowed up. And yet, if it were not for the loss of the charming companionship of the boys, I could rejoice over my own misfortune, for, with my strong tastes for botany and zoology, I find an unlimited field of work here, and my sister is as devoted to Nature as I am. All this, Dr. Watson, has been brought upon your head by your expression as you surveyed the moor out of our window." "It certainly did cross my mind that it might be a little dull--less for you, perhaps, than for your sister." "No, no, I am never dull," said she quickly. "We have books, we have our studies, and we have interesting neighbours. Dr. Mortimer is a most learned man in his own line. Poor Sir Charles was also an admirable companion. We knew him well and miss him more than I can tell. Do you think that I should intrude if I were to call this afternoon and make the acquaintance of Sir Henry?" "I am sure that he would be delighted." "Then perhaps you would mention that I propose to do so. We may in our humble way do something to make things more easy for him until he becomes accustomed to his new surroundings. Will you come upstairs, Dr. Watson, and inspect my collection of Lepidoptera? I think it is the most complete one in the south-west of England. By the time that you have looked through them lunch will be almost ready." But I was eager to get back to my charge. The melancholy of the moor, the death of the unfortunate pony, the weird sound which had been associated with the grim legend of the Baskervilles, all these things tinged my thoughts with sadness. Then on the top of these more or less vague impressions there had come the definite and distinct warning of Miss Stapleton, delivered with such intense earnestness that I could not doubt that some grave and deep reason lay behind it. I resisted all pressure to stay for lunch, and I set off at once upon my return journey, taking the grass-grown path by which we had come. It seems, however, that there must have been some short cut for those who knew it, for before I had reached the road I was astounded to see Miss Stapleton sitting upon a rock by the side of the track. Her face was beautifully flushed with her exertions and she held her hand to her side. "I have run all the way in order to cut you off, Dr. Watson," said she. "I had not even time to put on my hat. I must not stop, or my brother may miss me. I wanted to say to you how sorry I am about the stupid mistake I made in thinking that you were Sir Henry. Please forget the words I said, which have no application whatever to you." "But I can't forget them, Miss Stapleton," said I. "I am Sir Henry's friend, and his welfare is a very close concern of mine. Tell me why it was that you were so eager that Sir Henry should return to London." "A woman's whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me better you will understand that I cannot always give reasons for what I say or do." Nein, nein. Ich erinnere mich an den Nervenkitzel in deiner Stimme. Ich erinnere mich an den Blick in deinen Augen. Bitte sei ehrlich zu mir, Miss Stapleton, denn seit ich hier bin, bin ich mir bewusst, dass überall um mich herum Schatten sind. Das Leben ist wie der große Grimpen Sumpf geworden, mit kleinen grünen Flecken, in die man überall einsinken kann und ohne einen Wegweiser. Sagen Sie mir also, was Sie damit gemeint haben, und ich verspreche, Ihre Warnung an Sir Henry weiterzugeben. On our way back we stayed for lunch at Merripit House, and it was there that Sir Henry made the acquaintance of Miss Stapleton. From the first moment that he saw her he appeared to be strongly attracted by her, and I am much mistaken if the feeling was not mutual. He referred to her again and again on our walk home, and since then hardly a day has passed that we have not seen something of the brother and sister. They dine here tonight, and there is some talk of our going to them next week. One would imagine that such a match would be very welcome to Stapleton, and yet I have more than once caught a look of the strongest disapprobation in his face when Sir Henry has been paying some attention to his sister. He is much attached to her, no doubt, and would lead a lonely life without her, but it would seem the height of selfishness if he were to stand in the way of her making so brilliant a marriage. Yet I am certain that he does not wish their intimacy to ripen into love, and I have several times observed that he has taken pains to prevent them from being tete-a-tete. By the way, your instructions to me never to allow Sir Henry to go out alone will become very much more onerous if a love affair were to be added to our other difficulties. My popularity would soon suffer if I were to carry out your orders to the letter. The other day--Thursday, to be more exact--Dr. Mortimer lunched with us. He has been excavating a barrow at Long Down and has got a prehistoric skull which fills him with great joy. Never was there such a single-minded enthusiast as he! The Stapletons came in afterwards, and the good doctor took us all to the yew alley at Sir Henry's request to show us exactly how everything occurred upon that fatal night. It is a long, dismal walk, the yew alley, between two high walls of clipped hedge, with a narrow band of grass upon either side. At the far end is an old tumble-down summer-house. Halfway down is the moor-gate, where the old gentleman left his cigar-ash. It is a white wooden gate with a latch. Beyond it lies the wide moor. I remembered your theory of the affair and tried to picture all that had occurred. As the old man stood there he saw something coming across the moor, something which terrified him so that he lost his wits and ran and ran until he died of sheer horror and exhaustion. There was the long, gloomy tunnel down which he fled. And from what? A sheep-dog of the moor? Or a spectral hound, black, silent, and monstrous? Was there a human agency in the matter? Did the pale, watchful Barrymore know more than he cared to say? It was all dim and vague, but always there is the dark shadow of crime behind it. One other neighbour I have met since I wrote last. This is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who lives some four miles to the south of us. He is an elderly man, red-faced, white-haired, and choleric. His passion is for the British law, and he has spent a large fortune in litigation. He fights for the mere pleasure of fighting and is equally ready to take up either side of a question, so that it is no wonder that he has found it a costly amusement. Sometimes he will shut up a right of way and defy the parish to make him open it. At others he will with his own hands tear down some other man's gate and declare that a path has existed there from time immemorial, defying the owner to prosecute him for trespass. He is learned in old manorial and communal rights, and he applies his knowledge sometimes in favour of the villagers of Fernworthy and sometimes against them, so that he is periodically either carried in triumph down the village street or else burned in effigy, according to his latest exploit. He is said to have about seven lawsuits upon his hands at present, which will probably swallow up the remainder of his fortune and so draw his sting and leave him harmless for the future. Apart from the law he seems a kindly, good-natured person, and I only mention him because you were particular that I should send some description of the people who surround us. He is curiously employed at present, for, being an amateur astronomer, he has an excellent telescope, with which he lies upon the roof of his own house and sweeps the moor all day in the hope of catching a glimpse of the escaped convict. If he would confine his energies to this all would be well, but there are rumours that he intends to prosecute Dr. Mortimer for opening a grave without the consent of the next of kin because he dug up the Neolithic skull in the barrow on Long Down. He helps to keep our lives from being monotonous and gives a little comic relief where it is badly needed. And now, having brought you up to date in the escaped convict, the Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer, and Frankland, of Lafter Hall, let me end on that which is most important and tell you more about the Barrymores, and especially about the surprising development of last night. First of all about the test telegram, which you sent from London in order to make sure that Barrymore was really here. I have already explained that the testimony of the postmaster shows that the test was worthless and that we have no proof one way or the other. I told Sir Henry how the matter stood, and he at once, in his downright fashion, had Barrymore up and asked him whether he had received the telegram himself. Barrymore said that he had. "Did the boy deliver it into your own hands?" asked Sir Henry. Barrymore looked surprised, and considered for a little time. "No," said he, "I was in the box-room at the time, and my wife brought it up to me." "Did you answer it yourself?" "No; I told my wife what to answer and she went down to write it." In the evening he recurred to the subject of his own accord. "I could not quite understand the object of your questions this morning, Sir Henry," said he. "I trust that they do not mean that I have done anything to forfeit your confidence?" Sir Henry had to assure him that it was not so and pacify him by giving him a considerable part of his old wardrobe, the London outfit having now all arrived. Mrs. Barrymore is of interest to me. She is a heavy, solid person, very limited, intensely respectable, and inclined to be puritanical. You could hardly conceive a less emotional subject. Yet I have told you how, on the first night here, I heard her sobbing bitterly, and since then I have more than once observed traces of tears upon her face. Some deep sorrow gnaws ever at her heart. Sometimes I wonder if she has a guilty memory which haunts her, and sometimes I suspect Barrymore of being a domestic tyrant. I have always felt that there was something singular and questionable in this man's character, but the adventure of last night brings all my suspicions to a head. And yet it may seem a small matter in itself. You are aware that I am not a very sound sleeper, and since I have been on guard in this house my slumbers have been lighter than ever. Last night, about two in the morning, I was aroused by a stealthy step passing my room. I rose, opened my door, and peeped out. A long black shadow was trailing down the corridor. It was thrown by a man who walked softly down the passage with a candle held in his hand. He was in shirt and trousers, with no covering to his feet. I could merely see the outline, but his height told me that it was Barrymore. He walked very slowly and circumspectly, and there was something indescribably guilty and furtive in his whole appearance. I have told you that the corridor is broken by the balcony which runs round the hall, but that it is resumed upon the farther side. I waited until he had passed out of sight and then I followed him. When I came round the balcony he had reached the end of the farther corridor, and I could see from the glimmer of light through an open door that he had entered one of the rooms. Now, all these rooms are unfurnished and unoccupied so that his expedition became more mysterious than ever. The light shone steadily as if he were standing motionless. I crept down the passage as noiselessly as I could and peeped round the corner of the door. Barrymore was crouching at the window with the candle held against the glass. His profile was half turned towards me, and his face seemed to be rigid with expectation as he stared out into the blackness of the moor. For some minutes he stood watching intently. Then he gave a deep groan and with an impatient gesture he put out the light. Instantly I made my way back to my room, and very shortly came the stealthy steps passing once more upon their return journey. Long afterwards when I had fallen into a light sleep I heard a key turn somewhere in a lock, but I could not tell whence the sound came. What it all means I cannot guess, but there is some secret business going on in this house of gloom which sooner or later we shall get to the bottom of. I do not trouble you with my theories, for you asked me to furnish you only with facts. I have had a long talk with Sir Henry this morning, and we have made a plan of campaign founded upon my observations of last night. I will not speak about it just now, but it should make my next report interesting reading. Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th. MY DEAR HOLMES: If I was compelled to leave you without much news during the early days of my mission you must acknowledge that I am making up for lost time, and that events are now crowding thick and fast upon us. In my last report I ended upon my top note with Barrymore at the window, and now I have quite a budget already which will, unless I am much mistaken, considerably surprise you. Things have taken a turn which I could not have anticipated. In some ways they have within the last forty-eight hours become much clearer and in some ways they have become more complicated. But I will tell you all and you shall judge for yourself. Before breakfast on the morning following my adventure I went down the corridor and examined the room in which Barrymore had been on the night before. The western window through which he had stared so intently has, I noticed, one peculiarity above all other windows in the house--it commands the nearest outlook on to the moor. There is an opening between two trees which enables one from this point of view to look right down upon it, while from all the other windows it is only a distant glimpse which can be obtained. It follows, therefore, that Barrymore, since only this window would serve the purpose, must have been looking out for something or somebody upon the moor. The night was very dark, so that I can hardly imagine how he could have hoped to see anyone. It had struck me that it was possible that some love intrigue was on foot. That would have accounted for his stealthy movements and also for the uneasiness of his wife. The man is a striking-looking fellow, very well equipped to steal the heart of a country girl, so that this theory seemed to have something to support it. That opening of the door which I had heard after I had returned to my room might mean that he had gone out to keep some clandestine appointment. So I reasoned with myself in the morning, and I tell you the direction of my suspicions, however much the result may have shown that they were unfounded. But whatever the true explanation of Barrymore's movements might be, I felt that the responsibility of keeping them to myself until I could explain them was more than I could bear. I had an interview with the baronet in his study after breakfast, and I told him all that I had seen. He was less surprised than I had expected. "I knew that Barrymore walked about nights, and I had a mind to speak to him about it," said he. "Two or three times I have heard his steps in the passage, coming and going, just about the hour you name." "Perhaps then he pays a visit every night to that particular window," I suggested. "Perhaps he does. If so, we should be able to shadow him and see what it is that he is after. I wonder what your friend Holmes would do if he were here." "I believe that he would do exactly what you now suggest," said I. "He would follow Barrymore and see what he did." "Then we shall do it together." "But surely he would hear us." "The man is rather deaf, and in any case we must take our chance of that. We'll sit up in my room tonight and wait until he passes." Sir Henry rubbed his hands with pleasure, and it was evident that he hailed the adventure as a relief to his somewhat quiet life upon the moor. The baronet has been in communication with the architect who prepared the plans for Sir Charles, and with a contractor from London, so that we may expect great changes to begin here soon. There have been decorators and furnishers up from Plymouth, and it is evident that our friend has large ideas and means to spare no pains or expense to restore the grandeur of his family. When the house is renovated and refurnished, all that he will need will be a wife to make it complete. Between ourselves there are pretty clear signs that this will not be wanting if the lady is willing, for I have seldom seen a man more infatuated with a woman than he is with our beautiful neighbour, Miss Stapleton. And yet the course of true love does not run quite as smoothly as one would under the circumstances expect. Today, for example, its surface was broken by a very unexpected ripple, which has caused our friend considerable perplexity and annoyance. After the conversation which I have quoted about Barrymore, Sir Henry put on his hat and prepared to go out. As a matter of course I did the same. "What, are you coming, Watson?" he asked, looking at me in a curious way. "That depends on whether you are going on the moor," said I. "Yes, I am." "Well, you know what my instructions are. I am sorry to intrude, but you heard how earnestly Holmes insisted that I should not leave you, and especially that you should not go alone upon the moor." Sir Henry put his hand upon my shoulder with a pleasant smile. "My dear fellow," said he, "Holmes, with all his wisdom, did not foresee some things which have happened since I have been on the moor. You understand me? I am sure that you are the last man in the world who would wish to be a spoil-sport. I must go out alone." It put me in a most awkward position. I was at a loss what to say or what to do, and before I had made up my mind he picked up his cane and was gone. But when I came to think the matter over my conscience reproached me bitterly for having on any pretext allowed him to go out of my sight. I imagined what my feelings would be if I had to return to you and to confess that some misfortune had occurred through my disregard for your instructions. I assure you my cheeks flushed at the very thought. It might not even now be too late to overtake him, so I set off at once in the direction of Merripit House. I hurried along the road at the top of my speed without seeing anything of Sir Henry, until I came to the point where the moor path branches off. There, fearing that perhaps I had come in the wrong direction after all, I mounted a hill from which I could command a view--the same hill which is cut into the dark quarry. Thence I saw him at once. He was on the moor path about a quarter of a mile off, and a lady was by his side who could only be Miss Stapleton. It was clear that there was already an understanding between them and that they had met by appointment. They were walking slowly along in deep conversation, and I saw her making quick little movements of her hands as if she were very earnest in what she was saying, while he listened intently, and once or twice shook his head in strong dissent. I stood among the rocks watching them, very much puzzled as to what I should do next. To follow them and break into their intimate conversation seemed to be an outrage, and yet my clear duty was never for an instant to let him out of my sight. To act the spy upon a friend was a hateful task. Still, I could see no better course than to observe him from the hill, and to clear my conscience by confessing to him afterwards what I had done. It is true that if any sudden danger had threatened him I was too far away to be of use, and yet I am sure that you will agree with me that the position was very difficult, and that there was nothing more which I could do. Our friend, Sir Henry, and the lady had halted on the path and were standing deeply absorbed in their conversation, when I was suddenly aware that I was not the only witness of their interview. A wisp of green floating in the air caught my eye, and another glance showed me that it was carried on a stick by a man who was moving among the broken ground. It was Stapleton with his butterfly-net. He was very much closer to the pair than I was, and he appeared to be moving in their direction. At this instant Sir Henry suddenly drew Miss Stapleton to his side. His arm was round her, but it seemed to me that she was straining away from him with her face averted. He stooped his head to hers, and she raised one hand as if in protest. Next moment I saw them spring apart and turn hurriedly round. Stapleton was the cause of the interruption. He was running wildly towards them, his absurd net dangling behind him. He gesticulated and almost danced with excitement in front of the lovers. What the scene meant I could not imagine, but it seemed to me that Stapleton was abusing Sir Henry, who offered explanations, which became more angry as the other refused to accept them. The lady stood by in haughty silence. Finally Stapleton turned upon his heel and beckoned in a peremptory way to his sister, who, after an irresolute glance at Sir Henry, walked off by the side of her brother. The naturalist's angry gestures showed that the lady was included in his displeasure. The baronet stood for a minute looking after them, and then he walked slowly back the way that he had come, his head hanging, the very picture of dejection. What all this meant I could not imagine, but I was deeply ashamed to have witnessed so intimate a scene without my friend's knowledge. I ran down the hill therefore and met the baronet at the bottom. His face was flushed with anger and his brows were wrinkled, like one who is at his wit's ends what to do. "Halloa, Watson! Where have you dropped from?" said he. "You don't mean to say that you came after me in spite of all?" I explained everything to him: how I had found it impossible to remain behind, how I had followed him, and how I had witnessed all that had occurred. For an instant his eyes blazed at me, but my frankness disarmed his anger, and he broke at last into a rather rueful laugh. "You would have thought the middle of that prairie a fairly safe place for a man to be private," said he, "but, by thunder, the whole countryside seems to have been out to see me do my wooing--and a mighty poor wooing at that! Where had you engaged a seat?" "I was on that hill." "Quite in the back row, eh? But her brother was well up to the front. Did you see him come out on us?" "Yes, I did." "Did he ever strike you as being crazy--this brother of hers?" "I can't say that he ever did." "I dare say not. I always thought him sane enough until today, but you can take it from me that either he or I ought to be in a straitjacket. What's the matter with me, anyhow? You've lived near me for some weeks, Watson. Tell me straight, now! Is there anything that would prevent me from making a good husband to a woman that I loved?" "I should say not." "He can't object to my worldly position, so it must be myself that he has this down on. What has he against me? I never hurt man or woman in my life that I know of. And yet he would not so much as let me touch the tips of her fingers." "Did he say so?" "That, and a deal more. I tell you, Watson, I've only known her these few weeks, but from the first I just felt that she was made for me, and she, too--she was happy when she was with me, and that I'll swear. There's a light in a woman's eyes that speaks louder than words. But he has never let us get together and it was only today for the first time that I saw a chance of having a few words with her alone. She was glad to meet me, but when she did it was not love that she would talk about, and she wouldn't have let me talk about it either if she could have stopped it. She kept coming back to it that this was a place of danger, and that she would never be happy until I had left it. I told her that since I had seen her I was in no hurry to leave it, and that if she really wanted me to go, the only way to work it was for her to arrange to go with me. With that I offered in as many words to marry her, but before she could answer, down came this brother of hers, running at us with a face on him like a madman. He was just white with rage, and those light eyes of his were blazing with fury. What was I doing with the lady? How dared I offer her attentions which were distasteful to her? Did I think that because I was a baronet I could do what I liked? If he had not been her brother I should have known better how to answer him. As it was I told him that my feelings towards his sister were such as I was not ashamed of, and that I hoped that she might honour me by becoming my wife. That seemed to make the matter no better, so then I lost my temper too, and I answered him rather more hotly than I should perhaps, considering that she was standing by. So it ended by his going off with her, as you saw, and here am I as badly puzzled a man as any in this county. Just tell me what it all means, Watson, and I'll owe you more than ever I can hope to pay." I tried one or two explanations, but, indeed, I was completely puzzled myself. Our friend's title, his fortune, his age, his character, and his appearance are all in his favour, and I know nothing against him unless it be this dark fate which runs in his family. That his advances should be rejected so brusquely without any reference to the lady's own wishes and that the lady should accept the situation without protest is very amazing. However, our conjectures were set at rest by a visit from Stapleton himself that very afternoon. He had come to offer apologies for his rudeness of the morning, and after a long private interview with Sir Henry in his study the upshot of their conversation was that the breach is quite healed, and that we are to dine at Merripit House next Friday as a sign of it. "I don't say now that he isn't a crazy man," said Sir Henry; "I can't forget the look in his eyes when he ran at me this morning, but I must allow that no man could make a more handsome apology than he has done." "Did he give any explanation of his conduct?" "His sister is everything in his life, he says. That is natural enough, and I am glad that he should understand her value. They have always been together, and according to his account he has been a very lonely man with only her as a companion, so that the thought of losing her was really terrible to him. He had not understood, he said, that I was becoming attached to her, but when he saw with his own eyes that it was really so, and that she might be taken away from him, it gave him such a shock that for a time he was not responsible for what he said or did. He was very sorry for all that had passed, and he recognized how foolish and how selfish it was that he should imagine that he could hold a beautiful woman like his sister to himself for her whole life. If she had to leave him he had rather it was to a neighbour like myself than to anyone else. But in any case it was a blow to him and it would take him some time before he could prepare himself to meet it. He would withdraw all opposition upon his part if I would promise for three months to let the matter rest and to be content with cultivating the lady's friendship during that time without claiming her love. This I promised, and so the matter rests." So there is one of our small mysteries cleared up. It is something to have touched bottom anywhere in this bog in which we are floundering. We know now why Stapleton looked with disfavour upon his sister's suitor--even when that suitor was so eligible a one as Sir Henry. And now I pass on to another thread which I have extricated out of the tangled skein, the mystery of the sobs in the night, of the tear-stained face of Mrs. Barrymore, of the secret journey of the butler to the western lattice window. Congratulate me, my dear Holmes, and tell me that I have not disappointed you as an agent--that you do not regret the confidence which you showed in me when you sent me down. All these things have by one night's work been thoroughly cleared. I have said "by one night's work," but, in truth, it was by two nights' work, for on the first we drew entirely blank. I sat up with Sir Henry in his rooms until nearly three o'clock in the morning, but no sound of any sort did we hear except the chiming clock upon the stairs. It was a most melancholy vigil and ended by each of us falling asleep in our chairs. Fortunately we were not discouraged, and we determined to try again. The next night we lowered the lamp and sat smoking cigarettes without making the least sound. It was incredible how slowly the hours crawled by, and yet we were helped through it by the same sort of patient interest which the hunter must feel as he watches the trap into which he hopes the game may wander. One struck, and two, and we had almost for the second time given it up in despair when in an instant we both sat bolt upright in our chairs with all our weary senses keenly on the alert once more. We had heard the creak of a step in the passage. Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it died away in the distance. Then the baronet gently opened his door and we set out in pursuit. Already our man had gone round the gallery and the corridor was all in darkness. Softly we stole along until we had come into the other wing. We were just in time to catch a glimpse of the tall, black-bearded figure, his shoulders rounded as he tiptoed down the passage. Then he passed through the same door as before, and the light of the candle framed it in the darkness and shot one single yellow beam across the gloom of the corridor. We shuffled cautiously towards it, trying every plank before we dared to put our whole weight upon it. We had taken the precaution of leaving our boots behind us, but, even so, the old boards snapped and creaked beneath our tread. Sometimes it seemed impossible that he should fail to hear our approach. However, the man is fortunately rather deaf, and he was entirely preoccupied in that which he was doing. When at last we reached the door and peeped through we found him crouching at the window, candle in hand, his white, intent face pressed against the pane, exactly as I had seen him two nights before. We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the baronet is a man to whom the most direct way is always the most natural. He walked into the room, and as he did so Barrymore sprang up from the window with a sharp hiss of his breath and stood, livid and trembling, before us. His dark eyes, glaring out of the white mask of his face, were full of horror and astonishment as he gazed from Sir Henry to me. "What are you doing here, Barrymore?" "Nothing, sir." His agitation was so great that he could hardly speak, and the shadows sprang up and down from the shaking of his candle. "It was the window, sir. I go round at night to see that they are fastened." "On the second floor?" "Yes, sir, all the windows." "Look here, Barrymore," said Sir Henry sternly, "we have made up our minds to have the truth out of you, so it will save you trouble to tell it sooner rather than later. Come, now! No lies! What were you doing at that window?" The fellow looked at us in a helpless way, and he wrung his hands together like one who is in the last extremity of doubt and misery. "I was doing no harm, sir. I was holding a candle to the window." "And why were you holding a candle to the window?" "Don't ask me, Sir Henry--don't ask me! I give you my word, sir, that it is not my secret, and that I cannot tell it. If it concerned no one but myself I would not try to keep it from you." A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the candle from the trembling hand of the butler. "He must have been holding it as a signal," said I. "Let us see if there is any answer." I held it as he had done, and stared out into the darkness of the night. Vaguely I could discern the black bank of the trees and the lighter expanse of the moor, for the moon was behind the clouds. And then I gave a cry of exultation, for a tiny pinpoint of yellow light had suddenly transfixed the dark veil, and glowed steadily in the centre of the black square framed by the window. "There it is!" I cried. "No, no, sir, it is nothing--nothing at all!" the butler broke in; "I assure you, sir--" "Move your light across the window, Watson!" cried the baronet. "See, the other moves also! Now, you rascal, do you deny that it is a signal? Come, speak up! Who is your confederate out yonder, and what is this conspiracy that is going on?" The man's face became openly defiant. "It is my business, and not yours. I will not tell." "Then you leave my employment right away." "Very good, sir. If I must I must." "And you go in disgrace. By thunder, you may well be ashamed of yourself. Your family has lived with mine for over a hundred years under this roof, and here I find you deep in some dark plot against me." "No, no, sir; no, not against you!" It was a woman's voice, and Mrs. Barrymore, paler and more horror-struck than her husband, was standing at the door. Her bulky figure in a shawl and skirt might have been comic were it not for the intensity of feeling upon her face. "We have to go, Eliza. This is the end of it. You can pack our things," said the butler. "Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this? It is my doing, Sir Henry--all mine. He has done nothing except for my sake and because I asked him." "Speak out, then! What does it mean?" "My unhappy brother is starving on the moor. We cannot let him perish at our very gates. The light is a signal to him that food is ready for him, and his light out yonder is to show the spot to which to bring it." "Then your brother is--" "The escaped convict, sir--Selden, the criminal." "That's the truth, sir," said Barrymore. "I said that it was not my secret and that I could not tell it to you. But now you have heard it, and you will see that if there was a plot it was not against you." This, then, was the explanation of the stealthy expeditions at night and the light at the window. Sir Henry and I both stared at the woman in amazement. Was it possible that this stolidly respectable person was of the same blood as one of the most notorious criminals in the country? "Yes, sir, my name was Selden, and he is my younger brother. We humoured him too much when he was a lad and gave him his own way in everything until he came to think that the world was made for his pleasure, and that he could do what he liked in it. Then as he grew older he met wicked companions, and the devil entered into him until he broke my mother's heart and dragged our name in the dirt. From crime to crime he sank lower and lower until it is only the mercy of God which has snatched him from the scaffold; but to me, sir, he was always the little curly-headed boy that I had nursed and played with as an elder sister would. That was why he broke prison, sir. He knew that I was here and that we could not refuse to help him. When he dragged himself here one night, weary and starving, with the warders hard at his heels, what could we do? We took him in and fed him and cared for him. Then you returned, sir, and my brother thought he would be safer on the moor than anywhere else until the hue and cry was over, so he lay in hiding there. But every second night we made sure if he was still there by putting a light in the window, and if there was an answer my husband took out some bread and meat to him. Every day we hoped that he was gone, but as long as he was there we could not desert him. That is the whole truth, as I am an honest Christian woman and you will see that if there is blame in the matter it does not lie with my husband but with me, for whose sake he has done all that he has." The woman's words came with an intense earnestness which carried conviction with them. "Is this true, Barrymore?" "Yes, Sir Henry. Every word of it." "Well, I cannot blame you for standing by your own wife. Forget what I have said. Go to your room, you two, and we shall talk further about this matter in the morning." When they were gone we looked out of the window again. Sir Henry had flung it open, and the cold night wind beat in upon our faces. Far away in the black distance there still glowed that one tiny point of yellow light. "I wonder he dares," said Sir Henry. "It may be so placed as to be only visible from here." "Very likely. How far do you think it is?" "Out by the Cleft Tor, I think." "Not more than a mile or two off." "Hardly that." "Well, it cannot be far if Barrymore had to carry out the food to it. And he is waiting, this villain, beside that candle. By thunder, Watson, I am going out to take that man!" The same thought had crossed my own mind. It was not as if the Barrymores had taken us into their confidence. Their secret had been forced from them. The man was a danger to the community, an unmitigated scoundrel for whom there was neither pity nor excuse. We were only doing our duty in taking this chance of putting him back where he could do no harm. With his brutal and violent nature, others would have to pay the price if we held our hands. Any night, for example, our neighbours the Stapletons might be attacked by him, and it may have been the thought of this which made Sir Henry so keen upon the adventure. "I will come," said I. "Then get your revolver and put on your boots. The sooner we start the better, as the fellow may put out his light and be off." In five minutes we were outside the door, starting upon our expedition. We hurried through the dark shrubbery, amid the dull moaning of the autumn wind and the rustle of the falling leaves. The night air was heavy with the smell of damp and decay. Now and again the moon peeped out for an instant, but clouds were driving over the face of the sky, and just as we came out on the moor a thin rain began to fall. The light still burned steadily in front. "Are you armed?" I asked. "I have a hunting-crop." "We must close in on him rapidly, for he is said to be a desperate fellow. We shall take him by surprise and have him at our mercy before he can resist." "I say, Watson," said the baronet, "what would Holmes say to this? How about that hour of darkness in which the power of evil is exalted?" As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the vast gloom of the moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon the borders of the great Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind through the silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it died away. Again and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild, and menacing. The baronet caught my sleeve and his face glimmered white through the darkness. "My God, what's that, Watson?" "I don't know. It's a sound they have on the moor. I heard it once before." It died away, and an absolute silence closed in upon us. We stood straining our ears, but nothing came. "Watson," said the baronet, "it was the cry of a hound." My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was a break in his voice which told of the sudden horror which had seized him. "What do they call this sound?" he asked. "Who?" "The folk on the countryside." "Oh, they are ignorant people. Why should you mind what they call it?" "Tell me, Watson. What do they say of it?" I hesitated but could not escape the question. "They say it is the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles." He groaned and was silent for a few moments. "A hound it was," he said at last, "but it seemed to come from miles away, over yonder, I think." "It was hard to say whence it came." "It rose and fell with the wind. Isn't that the direction of the great Grimpen Mire?" "Yes, it is." "Well, it was up there. Come now, Watson, didn't you think yourself that it was the cry of a hound? I am not a child. You need not fear to speak the truth." "Stapleton was with me when I heard it last. He said that it might be the calling of a strange bird." "No, no, it was a hound. My God, can there be some truth in all these stories? Is it possible that I am really in danger from so dark a cause? You don't believe it, do you, Watson?" "No, no." "And yet it was one thing to laugh about it in London, and it is another to stand out here in the darkness of the moor and to hear such a cry as that. And my uncle! There was the footprint of the hound beside him as he lay. It all fits together. I don't think that I am a coward, Watson, but that sound seemed to freeze my very blood. Feel my hand!" It was as cold as a block of marble. "You'll be all right tomorrow." "I don't think I'll get that cry out of my head. What do you advise that we do now?" "Shall we turn back?" "No, by thunder; we have come out to get our man, and we will do it. We after the convict, and a hell-hound, as likely as not, after us. Come on! We'll see it through if all the fiends of the pit were loose upon the moor." We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, with the black loom of the craggy hills around us, and the yellow speck of light burning steadily in front. There is nothing so deceptive as the distance of a light upon a pitch-dark night, and sometimes the glimmer seemed to be far away upon the horizon and sometimes it might have been within a few yards of us. But at last we could see whence it came, and then we knew that we were indeed very close. A guttering candle was stuck in a crevice of the rocks which flanked it on each side so as to keep the wind from it and also to prevent it from being visible, save in the direction of Baskerville Hall. A boulder of granite concealed our approach, and crouching behind it we gazed over it at the signal light. It was strange to see this single candle burning there in the middle of the moor, with no sign of life near it--just the one straight yellow flame and the gleam of the rock on each side of it. "What shall we do now?" whispered Sir Henry. "Wait here. He must be near his light. Let us see if we can get a glimpse of him." The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him. Over the rocks, in the crevice of which the candle burned, there was thrust out an evil yellow face, a terrible animal face, all seamed and scored with vile passions. Foul with mire, with a bristling beard, and hung with matted hair, it might well have belonged to one of those old savages who dwelt in the burrows on the hillsides. The light beneath him was reflected in his small, cunning eyes which peered fiercely to right and left through the darkness like a crafty and savage animal who has heard the steps of the hunters. Something had evidently aroused his suspicions. It may have been that Barrymore had some private signal which we had neglected to give, or the fellow may have had some other reason for thinking that all was not well, but I could read his fears upon his wicked face. Any instant he might dash out the light and vanish in the darkness. I sprang forward therefore, and Sir Henry did the same. At the same moment the convict screamed out a curse at us and hurled a rock which splintered up against the boulder which had sheltered us. I caught one glimpse of his short, squat, strongly built figure as he sprang to his feet and turned to run. At the same moment by a lucky chance the moon broke through the clouds. We rushed over the brow of the hill, and there was our man running with great speed down the other side, springing over the stones in his way with the activity of a mountain goat. A lucky long shot of my revolver might have crippled him, but I had brought it only to defend myself if attacked and not to shoot an unarmed man who was running away. We were both swift runners and in fairly good training, but we soon found that we had no chance of overtaking him. We saw him for a long time in the moonlight until he was only a small speck moving swiftly among the boulders upon the side of a distant hill. We ran and ran until we were completely blown, but the space between us grew ever wider. Finally we stopped and sat panting on two rocks, while we watched him disappearing in the distance. And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and unexpected thing. We had risen from our rocks and were turning to go home, having abandoned the hopeless chase. The moon was low upon the right, and the jagged pinnacle of a granite tor stood up against the lower curve of its silver disc. There, outlined as black as an ebony statue on that shining background, I saw the figure of a man upon the tor. Do not think that it was a delusion, Holmes. I assure you that I have never in my life seen anything more clearly. As far as I could judge, the figure was that of a tall, thin man. He stood with his legs a little separated, his arms folded, his head bowed, as if he were brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite which lay before him. He might have been the very spirit of that terrible place. It was not the convict. This man was far from the place where the latter had disappeared. Besides, he was a much taller man. With a cry of surprise I pointed him out to the baronet, but in the instant during which I had turned to grasp his arm the man was gone. There was the sharp pinnacle of granite still cutting the lower edge of the moon, but its peak bore no trace of that silent and motionless figure. I wished to go in that direction and to search the tor, but it was some distance away. The baronet's nerves were still quivering from that cry, which recalled the dark story of his family, and he was not in the mood for fresh adventures. He had not seen this lonely man upon the tor and could not feel the thrill which his strange presence and his commanding attitude had given to me. "A warder, no doubt," said he. "The moor has been thick with them since this fellow escaped." Well, perhaps his explanation may be the right one, but I should like to have some further proof of it. Today we mean to communicate to the Princetown people where they should look for their missing man, but it is hard lines that we have not actually had the triumph of bringing him back as our own prisoner. Such are the adventures of last night, and you must acknowledge, my dear Holmes, that I have done you very well in the matter of a report. Much of what I tell you is no doubt quite irrelevant, but still I feel that it is best that I should let you have all the facts and leave you to select for yourself those which will be of most service to you in helping you to your conclusions. We are certainly making some progress. So far as the Barrymores go we have found the motive of their actions, and that has cleared up the situation very much. But the moor with its mysteries and its strange inhabitants remains as inscrutable as ever. Perhaps in my next I may be able to throw some light upon this also. Best of all would it be if you could come down to us. In any case you will hear from me again in the course of the next few days. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Die Familie Stapleton von Merripit House Das Haus erscheint im frischen Licht des nächsten Tages fröhlicher, und so vermutet Sir Henry, dass die düstere Stimmung nur unserer Einbildung entsprungen war. Als Watson den Schrei der Frau erwähnt, erinnert sich Sir Henry an den Klang, hatte ihn jedoch als Traum abgetan. Sie befragen Barrymore, um herauszufinden, dass es nur zwei Frauen im Haus gibt; er ist sich sicher, dass Mrs. Barrymore nicht die Schreierin war. Als Watson jedoch Mrs. Barrymore trifft, bemerkt er Anzeichen dafür, dass sie am Vorabend geweint hat, und vermutet, dass Mr. Barrymore ihnen gegenüber gelogen hat. Watson beschließt daher zu ermitteln, ob Barrymore tatsächlich in Baskerville war, wie sein Telegramm angegeben hatte. Er besucht den Postmeister in der nahegelegenen Stadt Grimpen, der darauf besteht, dass er das erste Telegramm persönlich Barrymore übergeben hat. Bei der Befragung gibt er jedoch zu, dass er das Telegramm tatsächlich an Mrs. Barrymore übergeben hat, die versprochen hat, es ihrem Mann weiterzuleiten. Unter der Annahme, dass Barrymore der bärtige Mann war, ist Watsons einzige Theorie, dass Barrymore versucht hat, Sir Henry von London fernzuhalten, damit er und Mrs. Barrymore das Anwesen für sich alleine haben konnten, aber er gibt zu, dass diese Theorie unzureichend ist. Als Watson auf dem Rückweg nach Baskerville ist, überholt ihn Stapleton "der Naturforscher". Nachdem er von Dr. Mortimer etwas über Watson erfahren hat, teilt Stapleton seine eigene Theorie über Sir Charles' Tod mit: Die Ängste des Mannes seien so groß geworden, dass sein Tod durch das Auftauchen eines zufälligen Hundes verursacht wurde. Stapleton überrascht Watson auch, indem er nach Holmes' Meinung zu der Angelegenheit fragt; er behauptet, der Detektiv sei selbst auf dem Moor bekannt. Watson zögert, als Stapleton ihn bittet, seine Schwester, Miss Stapleton, zu Hause kennenzulernen, entscheidet sich dann aber mitzugehen. Als sie dorthin gehen, zeigt Stapleton auf den Grimpen Sumpf, einen Ort, an dem Menschen oder Tiere im quicksand-artigen Boden verschwinden können, wenn sie nicht vorsichtig sind. Damit prahlt er, dass er die beiden sicheren Wege durch den Sumpf entdeckt hat, und beschreibt die friedliche Naturlandschaft auf der anderen Seite. Als Watson Interesse zeigt, es zu sehen, besteht Stapleton darauf, dass man sich nicht ohne Kenntnis der Wahrzeichen, wie er sie hat, der Gefahr aussetzen sollte. Plötzlich hört Watson ein dumpfes Murmeln, das zu einem tiefen Brüllen anschwillt. Obwohl Stapleton zugibt, dass die Einheimischen glauben, dass dies der Klang des gefürchteten Hundes ist, entkräftet er solche Mutmaßungen und behauptet, dass der Klang eine völlig natürliche Ursache haben muss. Als sie sich Merripit House nähern, sieht Watson Miss Stapleton draußen und bemerkt, dass sie schön ist, fast das Gegenteil ihres Bruders. Sofort entdeckt Stapleton ein Insekt und stürzt sich darauf, während Miss Stapleton unbeobachtet, noch bevor sie sich selbst vorstellt, Watson befiehlt, nach London zurückzukehren. Er hat kaum Zeit, sie zu befragen, bevor Stapleton zurückkehrt und sie offiziell vorstellt, zu diesem Zeitpunkt ist sie überrascht zu erfahren, dass er nicht Sir Henry ist, wie sie geglaubt hatte. Sie gehen in Richtung des Hauses, und Stapleton enthüllt, dass er einst eine Schule geleitet hatte, sie aber verlor, als eine Epidemie drei Schüler tötete. Er hatte bei dem Unternehmen den Großteil seines Geldes verloren, und Miss Stapleton ist jetzt unglücklich, so weit weg von der Zivilisation zu leben. Nachdem er um Erlaubnis gebeten hat, Sir Henry zu besuchen, lädt Stapleton Watson ein, seine Insektensammlung anzusehen. Watson besteht jedoch darauf, dass er zurückkehren sollte, und macht sich auf den Weg nach Baskerville Hall. Er ist nicht weit von Merripit entfernt, als ihn Miss Stapleton abfängt und ihn bittet, ihre Warnung zu ignorieren. Watson bietet an, die Warnung an Sir Henry weiterzugeben, wenn sie sie erklärt, aber sie sagt nichts außer einer Wiederholung ihrer Angst. Sie bittet ihn auch, dieses Geheimnis vor ihrem Bruder zu bewahren, da er glaubt, dass jemand in Baskerville Hall leben muss, da die Einheimischen auf die Wohltätigkeit der Baskervilles angewiesen sind. Kapitel VIII: Erster Bericht von Dr. Watson Dies ist das erste von zwei Kapiteln, die aus Watsons Briefen an Holmes bestehen. Er merkt jedoch an, dass eine Seite des Briefes fehlt. Dieser erste Brief datiert vom 13. Oktober und wurde vom Baskerville Hall aus geschrieben. Watson beschreibt zunächst die Auswirkungen des Moores auf die Seele: Er fühlt sich, als ob er sich unter prähistorischen Menschen anstatt im modernen England befindet. Watson erklärt, dass die Einheimischen glauben, dass Selden die Gegend verlassen hat, da es seit seiner Flucht zwei Wochen her ist. Er sorgt sich auch um die Stapletons, die weit von ihrem nächsten Nachbarn entfernt leben. Dann bemerkt er, dass Sir Henry romantisches Interesse an Beryl Stapleton zu haben scheint. Er sorgt sich jedoch, dass Stapleton selbst - der Watson kürzlich den Ort des legendären Todes von Hugo Baskerville gezeigt hatte - einer Verbindung zwischen ihnen nicht zustimmen würde. Watson beschreibt dann seine Interaktionen mit anderen. Dr. Mortimer hatte ihn vor Kurzem durch die Eibenallee geführt, wo Sir Charles gestorben war. Inzwischen hat Watson Mr. Frankland von Lafter Hall besucht, der wegen seiner streitsüchtigen Natur allgemein bekannt und oft misstrauisch beäugt wird. Er verprasst langsam sein Vermögen mit Prozessen, von denen viele willkürlich und auf veralteten Gesetzen beruhen. Frankland ist auch ein Amateur-Astronom; er besitzt ein Teleskop. Im letzten Abschnitt des Briefes beschreibt Watson das seiner Meinung nach wichtigste Element seines bisherigen Aufenthalts: das anhaltende Rätsel um die Barrymores. Sir Henry hatte Barrymore direkt gefragt, ob er das Telegramm erhalten habe, und der Mann bestätigte überrascht, dass Mrs. Barrymore es ihm gegeben habe. Watson erwähnt weiterhin die Anzeichen von Tränen bei Mrs. Barrymore und sorgt sich, dass ihr Mann gewalttätig ist. In der Nacht vor dem Schreiben dieses Briefes war Watson um 2 Uhr morgens aufgewacht und hatte einen Mann gesehen, der wie Barrymore über das Moor zum Haus ging und dann einen unbewohnten Teil des Hauses betrat. Watson schlich ihm nach und sah, wie der Mann aus dem Fenster schaute. Nach einer Weile stöhnte Barrymore und ging dann zurück in sein Zimmer. Später in dieser Nacht hörte Watson, wie sich ein Schlüssel im Schloss drehte. Kapitel IX: Der zweite Bericht von Dr. Watson: Das Licht auf dem Moor Dieser Brief ist vom 15. Oktober datiert. Zwei Tage nachdem er Barrymore im Zimmer gesehen hatte, untersuchte Watson es und fand heraus, dass es "die beste Aussicht auf das Moor" hat. Daher glaubt er, dass Mr. Barrymore auf dem Moor nach etwas gesucht hat. Zunächst glaubte er, der Mann würde sich mit einer Geliebten treffen, verwarf diese Vermutung dann jedoch als unbegründet. Sir Henry war nicht überrascht, von Watsons Bericht über die Ereignisse der vergangenen Nacht zu hören, und sie beschlossen, dem Mann eine Nacht lang auf das Moor zu folgen. Nachdem sie den Plan vereinbart hatten, bereitete sich Sir Henry darauf vor, aufzubrechen, und verweigerte Watson die Erlaubnis, ihn als Schutz zu begleiten. Dennoch folgte Watson ihm, um herauszufinden, dass er sich mit Miss Stapleton traf. Aus der Ferne beobachtete Watson sie in einem hitzigen Streit. Als Sir Henry versuchte, sie zu küssen, erschien Stapleton selbst plötzlich und beteiligte sich an dem Streit. Nachdem die Stapletons gegangen waren, näherte sich Watson Sir Henry und entschuld

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: OF THE USE OF FEET The suburb of Cottonville bordered a creek, a starveling, wet-weather stream which offered the sole suggestion of sewerage. The village was cut in two by this natural division. It clung to the shelving sides of the shallow ravine; it was scattered like bits of refuse on the numerous railroad embankments, where building was unhandy and streets almost impossible, to be convenient to the mills. Six big factories in all, some on one side of the state line and some on the other, daily breathed in their live current of operatives and exhaled them again to fill the litter of flimsy shanties. The road which wound down from the heights ran through the middle of the village and formed its main street. Across the ravine from it, reached by a wooden bridge, stood a pretentious frame edifice, a boarding-house built by the Gloriana mill for the use of its office force and mechanics. Men were lounging on the wide porches of this structure in Sabbath-afternoon leisure, smoking and singing. The young Southern male of any class is usually melodious. Across the hollow came the sounds of a guitar and a harmonica. "Listen a minute, Shade. Ain't that pretty? I know that tune," said Johnnie, and she began to hum softly under her breath, her girlish heart responding to the call. "Hush," admonished Buckheath harshly. "You don't want to be runnin' after them fellers. It's some of the loom-fixers." In silence he led the way past the great mill buildings of red brick, square and unlovely but many-windowed and glowing, alight, throbbing with the hum of pent industry. Johnnie gazed steadily up at those windows; the glow within was other than that which gilded turret and pinnacle and fairy isle in the Western sky, yet perchance this light might be a lamp to the feet of one who wished to climb that way. Her adventurous spirit rose to the challenge, and she said softly, more to herself than to the man: "I'm a-goin' to be a boss hand in there. I'm goin' to get the highest wages of any girl in the mill, time I learn my trade, because I'm goin' to try harder 'n anybody." Shade looked around at her, curiously. Her beauty, her air of superiority, still repelled him--such fancy articles were not apt to be of much use--but this sounded like a woman who might be valuable to her master. Johnnie returned his gaze with the frank good will of a child, and suddenly he forgot everything but the adorable lift of her pink lip over the shining white teeth. The young fellow now halted at the step of a big frame house. The outside was of an extent to seem fairly pretentious; yet so mean was the construction, so sparing of window and finish, that the building showed itself instantly for what it was--the cheap boarding-house of a mill town. A group of tired-looking girls sitting on the step in blessed Sunday idleness and cheap Sunday finery stared as he and Johnnie ascended and crossed the porch. One of these, a tall lank woman of perhaps thirty years, got up and followed a few hesitating paces, apparently more as a matter of curiosity than with any hospitable intent. A man with a round red face and a bald pate whose curly fringe of grizzled, reddish hair made him look like a clown in a pantomime, motioned them with a surly thumb toward the back of the house, where clattering preparations for supper were audible and odoriferous. The old fellow sat in a splint-bottomed chair of extra size and with arms. This he had kicked back against the wall of the house, so that his short legs did not reach the floor, the big carpet-slippered feet finding rest on the rung of the chair. His attitude was one of relaxation. The face, broad, flat, small of eye and wide of mouth, did indeed suggest the clown countenance; yet there was in it, and in the whole personality, something of the Eastern idol, the journeyman attempt of crude humanity to represent power. And the potential cruelty of the type slept in his placid countenance as surely as ever in the dreaming face of Shiva, the destroyer. "Mrs. Bence--Aunt Mavity," called Shade, advancing into the narrow hall. In answer a tired-faced woman came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her checked apron. "Good Lord, if it ain't Johnnie! I was 'feared she Wouldn't git here to-night," she ejaculated when she saw the girl. "Take her out on the porch, Shade; I ain't got a minute now. Pap's poorly again, and I'm obliged to put the late supper on the table for them thar gals--the night shift's done eat and gone. I'll show her whar she's to sleep at, after while. I don't just rightly know whar Pap aimed to have her stay," she concluded hastily, as something boiled over on the stove. Johnnie set her bundle down in the corner of the kitchen. "I'll help," she said simply, as she drew the excited coffee-pot to a corner of the range and dosed it judiciously with cold water. "Well, now, that's mighty good of you," panted worried Mavity Bence. "How queer things comes 'round," she ruminated as they dished up the biscuits and fried pork. "I helped you into the very world, Johnnie. I lived neighbour to your maw, and they wasn't nobody else to be with her when you was born, and I went over. I never suspicioned that you would be helpin' me git supper down here in the settlement inside o' twenty year." Johnnie ran and fetched and carried, as though she had never done anything else in her life, intent on the one task. She was alive in every fibre of her young body; she saw, she heard, as these words cannot always be truthfully applied to people. "Did Shade tell you anything about Louvania?" inquired the woman at length. "No," replied Johnnie softly, "but I seen it in the paper." Louvania Bence, the only remaining child of the widow, had, two weeks before, left her work at the mill, taken the trolley in to Watauga, walked out upon the county bridge across the Tennessee and jumped off. Johnnie had read the published account, passed from hand to hand in the mountains where Pap Himes and Mavity Bence had troops of kin and where Louvania was born. The statement ran that there was no love affair, and that the girl's distaste for her work at the cotton mill must have been the reason for the suicide. "That there talk in the newspaper wasn't right," Louvania's mother choked. "They wasn't a word of truth in it. You know in reason that if Louvany hated to work in the mill as bad as all that she'd have named it to me--her own mother--and she never did. She never spoke a word like it, only to say now and ag'in, as we all do, that it was hard, and that she'd--well, she did 'low she'd ruther be dead, as gals will; but she couldn't have meant it. Do you think she could have meant it, Johnnie?" The faded eyes, clouded now by tears, stared up into Johnnie's clear young orbs. "Of course she couldn't have meant it," Johnnie comforted her. "Why, I'm sure it's fine to work in the mill. If she didn't feel so, she'd have told you the thing. She must have been out of her mind. People always are when they--do that." "That's what I keep a-thinkin'," the poor mother said, clinging pathetically to that which gave her consolation and cheer. "I say to myself that it must have been some brain disease took her all of a sudden and made her crazy that-a-way; because God knows she had nothing to fret her nor drive her to such." By this time the meal was on the table, and the girls trooped in from the porch. The old man with the bald pate was seating himself at the head of the board, and Johnnie asked the privilege of helping wait on table. "No, you ain't a-goin' to," Mrs. Bence said hospitably, pushing her into a seat. "If you start in to work in the morning, like I reckon you will, you ain't got no other time to get acquainted with the gals but right now. You set down. We don't take much waitin' on. We all pass things, and reach for what we want." In the smoky illumination of the two ill-cleaned lamps which stood one at each end of the table, Johnnie's fair face shone out like a star. The tall woman who had shown a faint interest in them on the porch was seated just opposite. Her bulging light-blue eyes scarcely left the newcomer's countenance as she absent-mindedly filled her mouth. She was a scant, stringy-looking creature, despite her height; the narrow back was hooped like that of an old woman and the shoulders indrawn, so that the chest was cramped, and sent forth a wheezy, flatted voice that sorted ill with her inches; her round eyes had no speculation in them; her short chin was obstinate without power; the thin, half-gray hair that wanted to curl feebly about her lined forehead was stripped away and twisted in a knot no bigger than a walnut, at the back of a bent head. For some time the old man at the end of the table stowed himself methodically with victuals; his air was that of a man packing a box; then he brought his implements to half-rest, as it were, and gave a divided attention to the new boarder. "What did I hear them call yo' name?" he inquired gruffly. Johnnie repeated her title and gave him one of those smiles that went with most of her speeches. It seemed to suggest things to the old sinner. "Huh," he grunted; "I riccollect ye now. Yo' pap was a Consadine, but you're old Virgil Passmore's grandchild. One of the borryin' Passmores," he added, staring coolly at Johnnie. "Virge was a fine, upstandin' old man. You've got the favour of him--if you wasn't a gal." He evidently shared Schopenhauer's distaste for "the low-statured, wide-hipped, narrow-shouldered sex." The girls about the table were all listening eagerly. Johnnie had the sensation of a freshman who has walked out on the campus too well dressed. "Virge was a great beau in his day," continued Pap, reminiscently. "He liked to wear good clothes, too. I mind how he borried Abner Wimberly's weddin' coat and wore it something like ten year--showed it off fine--it fitted him enough sight better than it ever fitted little old Ab. Then he comes back to Wimberly at the end of so long a time with the buttons. He says, says he, 'Looks like that thar cloth yo' coat was made of wasn't much 'count, Ab,' says he. 'I think Jeeters cheated ye on it. But the buttons was good. The buttons wore well. And them I'm bringin' back, 'caze you may have use for 'em, and I have none, now the coat's gone. Also, what I borry I return, as everybody knows.' That was your granddaddy." There was a tremendous giggling about the board as the old man made an end. Johnnie herself smiled, though her face was scarlet. She had no words to tell her tormentor that the borrowing trait in her tribe which had earned them the name of the borrowing Passmores proceeded not from avarice, which ate into Pap Himes's very marrow, but from its reverse trait of generosity. She knew vaguely that they would have shared with a neighbour their last bite or dollar, and had thus never any doubt of being shared with nor any shame in the asking. "Yes," pursued Himes, surveying Johnnie chucklingly, "I mind when you was born. Has your Uncle Pros found his silver mine yet?" "My mother has often told me how good you and Mrs. Bence was to us when I was little," answered Johnnie mildly. "No, sir, Uncle Pros hasn't found his silver mine yet--but he's still a-hunting for it." The reply appeared to delight Himes. He laughed immoderately, even as Buckheath had done. "I'll bet he is," he agreed. "Pros Passmore's goin' to hunt that there silver mine till he finds another hole in the ground about six feet long and six feet deep--that's what he's a-goin' to do." The hasty supper was well under way now. Mrs. Bence brought the last of the hot bread, and shuffled into a seat. The old man at the head of the board returned to his feeding, but with somewhat moderated voracity. At length, pretty fully gorged, he raised his head from over his plate and looked about him for diversion. Again his attention was directed to the new girl. "Air ye wedded?" he challenged suddenly. She shook her head and laughed. "Got your paigs sot for to git any one?" he followed up his investigations. Johnnie laughed more than ever, and blushed again. "How old air ye?" demanded her inquisitor. "Eighteen? 'Most nineteen? Good Lord! You're a old maid right now. Well, don't you let twenty go by without gittin' your hooks on a man. My experience is that when a gal gits to be twenty an' ain't wedded--or got her paigs sot for to wed--she's left. Left," he concluded impressively. That quick smile of Johnnie's responded. "I reckon I'll do my best," she agreed reasonably; "but some folks can do that and miss it." Himes nodded till he set the little red curls all bobbing around the bare spot. "Uh-huh," he approved, "I reckon that's so. Women is plenty, and men hard to git. Here's Mandy Meacham, been puttin' in her best licks for thirty year or more, an' won't never make it." Johnnie did not need to be told which one was Mandy. The sallow cheek of the tall woman across from her reddened; the short chin wabbled a bit more than the mastication of the biscuit in hand demanded; a moisture appeared in the inexpressive blue eyes; but she managed a shaky laugh to assist the chorus which always followed Pap Himes's little jokes. The old man held a sort of state among these poor girls, and took tribute of admiration, as he had taken tribute of life and happiness from daughter and granddaughter. Gideon Himes was not actively a bad man; he was as without personal malice as malaria. When it makes miserable those about it, or robs a girl of her pink cheeks, her bright eyes, her joy of life, wearing the elasticity out of her step and making an old woman of her before her time, we do not fly into a rage at it--we avoid it. The Pap Himeses of this world are to be avoided if possible. Mandy stared at her plate in mortified silence. Johnnie wished she could think of something pleasant to say to the poor thing, when her attention was diverted by the old man once more addressing herself. "You look stout and hearty; if you learn to weave as fast as you ort, and git so you can tend five or six looms, I'll bet you git a husband," he remarked in a burst of generosity. "I'll bet you do; and what's more, I'll speak a good word for ye. A gal that's a peart weaver's mighty apt to find a man. You learn your looms if you want to git wedded--and I know in reason you do--it's about all gals of your age thinks of." When supper was over Johnnie was a little surprised to see the tall woman approach Pap Himes like a small child begging a favour of a harsh taskmaster. "Can't that there new girl bunk with me?" she inquired earnestly. "I had the intention to give her Louvany's bed," Pap returned promptly. "As long as nobody's with you, I reckon I don't care; but if one comes in, you take 'em, and she goes with Mavity, mind. I cain't waste room, poor as I am." Piloted by the tall girl, Johnnie climbed the narrow stair to a long bare room where a row of double beds accommodated eight girls. The couch she was to occupy had been slept in during the day by a mill hand who was on night turn, and it had not been remade. Deftly Johnnie straightened and spread it, while her partner grumbled. "What's the use o' doin' that?" Mandy inquired, stretching herself and yawning portentously. "We'll jist muss it all up in about two minutes. When you've worked in a mill as long as I have you'll git over the notion of makin' your bed, for hit's _but_ a notion." Johnnie laughed across her shoulder. "I'd just as soon do it," she reassured her companion. "I do love smooth bedclothes; looks like I dream better on 'em and under 'em." Mandy sat down on the edge of the bed, interfering considerably with the final touches Johnnie was putting to it. "You're a right good gal," she opined patronizingly, "but foolish. The new ones always is foolish. I can put you up to a-many a thing that'll help you along, though, and I'm willin' to do it." Again Johnnie smiled at her, that smile of enveloping sweetness and tenderness. It made something down in the left side of poor Mandy's slovenly dress-bodice vibrate and tingle. "I'll thank you mightily," said Johnnie Consadine, "mightily." And knew not how true a word she spoke. "You see," counselled Mandy from the bed into which she had rolled with most of her clothes on, "you want to get in with Miss Lydia Sessions and the Uplift ladies, and them thar swell folks." Johnnie nodded, busily at work making a more elaborated night toilet than the others, who were going to bed all about them, paying little attention to their conversation. "Miss Lyddy she ain't as young as she once was, and the boys has quit hangin' 'round her as much as they used to; so now she has took up with good works," the girl on the bed explained with a directness which Miss Sessions would not perhaps have appreciated. "Her and some other of the nobby folks has started what they call a Uplift club amongst the mill girls. Thar's a big room whar you dance--if you can--and whar they give little suppers for us with not much to eat; and thar's a place where they sorter preach to ye--lecture she calls it. I don't know what-all Miss Lyddy hain't got for her club. But you jist go, and listen, and say how much obliged you are, an she'll do a lot for you, besides payin' your wages to get you out of the mill any day she wants you for the Upliftin' business." Mandy had a gasp, which occurred between sentences and at the end of certain words, with grotesque effect. Johnnie was to find that this gasp was always very much to the fore when Mandy was being uplifted. It then served variously as the gasp of humility, gratitude, admiration; the gasp of chaste emotion, the gasp of reprobation toward others who did not come forward to be uplifted. "Did you say there was books at that club?" inquired Johnnie out of the darkness--she had now extinguished the light. "Can a body learn things from the lectures?" "Uh-huh," agreed Mandy sleepily; "but you don't have to read 'em--the books. They lend 'em to you, and you take 'em home, and after so long a time you take 'em back sayin' how much good they done you. That's the way. If Mr. Stoddard's 'round, he'll ask you questions about 'em; but Miss Lyddy won't--she hates to find out that any of her plans ain't workin'." For a long time there was silence. Mandy was just dropping off into her first heavy sleep, when a whispering voice asked, "Is Mr. Stoddard--has he got right brown eyes and right brown hair, and does he ride in one of these--one of these--" "Good land!" grumbled the addressed, "I thought it was mornin' and I had to git up! You ort to been asleep long ago. Yes, Mr. Stoddard's got sorter brown eyes and hair, and he rides in a otty-mobile. How did you know?" But Mandy was too tired to stay awake to marvel over that. Her rhythmic snores soon proved that she slept, while Johnnie lay thinking of the various proffers she had that evening received of a lamp to her feet, a light on her path. And she would climb--yes, she would climb. Not by the road Pap Himes pointed out; not by the devious path Mandy Meacham suggested; but by the rugged road of good, honest toil, to heights where was the power and the glory, she would certainly strive. She conned over the new things which this day had brought. Again she saw the auto swing around the curve and halt; she got the outline of the man's bent head against the evening sky. They were singing again over at the mechanics' boarding-house; the sound came across to her window; the vibrant wires, the chorus of deep male voices, even the words she knew they were using but could not distinguish, linked themselves in some fashion with memory of a man's eyes, his smile, his air of tender deference as he cherished her broken flower. Something caught in her throat and choked. Her mind veered to the figures on the porch of that Palace of Pleasure; the girl with the ball tossing it to the young fellow below on the lawn. In memory she descended the hill, coming down into the shadows with each step, looking back to the heights and the light. Well, she had said that if one had feet one might climb, and to-night the old man had tried to train her to his pace for attaining heart's desire. In the midst of a jumble of autos and shining mill windows, she watched the room grow ghostly with the light of a late-risen moon. Suddenly afar off she heard the "honk! honk! honk!" which had preceded the advent of the car on the ridge road. Getting up, she stole, to the one window which the long room afforded. It gave upon the main street of the village. "Honk! honk! honk!" She gazed toward the steep from which the sounds seemed to come. There, flashing in and out of the greenery, appeared half a dozen pairs of fiery eyes. A party of motorists were going in to Watauga, starting from the Country Club on the Ridge crest. Johnnie watched them, fascinated. As the foremost car swept down the road and directly beneath her window, its driver, whom she recognized with a little shiver, by the characteristic carriage of his head, swerved the machine out and stopped it at the curb below. The others passed, calling gay inquiries to him. "We're all right," she heard a well-remembered voice reply. "You go ahead--we'll be there before you." The slim, gray-clad figure in the seat beside him laughed softly and fluttered a white handkerchief as the last car went on. "Now!" exulted the voice. "I'll put on my goggles and cap and we'll show them what running is. 'It's they'll take the high road and we'll take the low, And we'll be in Watauga befo-o-ore them!'" Even as he spoke he adjusted his costume, and Johnnie saw the car shoot forward like a living creature eager on the trail. She sighed as she looked after them. Feet--of what use were feet to follow such a flight as that? Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Das abschließende Kapitel von Teil Eins bringt den Leser zu den Geschichten von Mr. Tench, Padre Jose, der frommen Mutter, Coral Fellows und dem Lieutenant zurück - Menschen, deren Leben vom whisky Priest beeinflusst wird. Mr. Tench möchte denen, die ihn kannten, mitteilen, dass er noch am Leben ist, und schreibt daher einen Brief an seine entfremdete Frau Silvia, die, vermutet er, in Westcliff, England lebt. Er weiß nicht, was er sagen soll. Er kann sich nicht einmal daran erinnern, wie sie aussah. Wir erfahren, dass Mr. Tench versucht hat, Mexiko ein paar Mal zu verlassen, aber die Ausbrüche der Revolution hatten den Wert des Peso gemindert, und das gesparte Geld hatte seinen Wert und seine Macht, ihn herauszubringen, verloren. Das Geräusch des zurückkehrenden Generals Obregon aus Vera Cruz erinnert ihn an etwas, aber er kann es nicht zuordnen. Ein Klopfen an der Tür von einem Patienten lenkt ihn von seinen Gedanken und seinem Brief ab. Padre Jose geht zwischen Grabsteinen auf einem Friedhof umher, der früher als der Garten Gottes bezeichnet wurde. Es ist ein Ort, an dem er normalerweise alleine mit seinen Erinnerungen sein kann. Unter den Gräbern befinden sich Menschen, die er begraben hat. In der Nähe des Grabsteins für Lopez trifft er auf eine Familie, die ein fünfjähriges Mädchen begräbt. Der Großvater bittet Padre Jose um ein einfaches Gebet. Da er befürchtet, dass die Familie sich rühmen würde, dass ihr Kind mit einem offiziellen Gebet in die Erde gelegt wurde, kann Padre Jose ihnen nicht vertrauen, ein Gebet von ihm geheim zu halten. Angespornt von der erneuten Anerkennung, ist er versucht, das Gesetz zu brechen und das Gebet zu sprechen, aber die Angst kehrt "wie eine Droge" zurück. Er weiß, dass er von Verzweiflung erfasst ist. Die Mutter liest ihren Kindern weiterhin aus dem verbotenen Buch über den jungen Märtyrer Juan vor. Wie zuvor sind die Mädchen begeistert, während der mürrische Junge Luis genervt ist und schließlich ruft, dass er kein Wort davon glaubt. Die Mutter schickt ihn zu seinem Vater. Er verlässt den Raum und knallt die Tür zu. Der Vater des Jungen ist verständnisvoller. Er sagt seinem Sohn, dass das Buch seine Mutter an die Zeit erinnere, als die Kirche blühte, als sie Musik, Licht, eine Flucht vor der Hitze und einfach etwas zu tun bot. Das Ansehen von Soldaten, die aus dem Takt zur Kaserne marschieren, ist alles Aufregung, die Luis erlebt, aber es gibt ihm Hoffnung. Frau Fellows unterrichtet ihre Tochter mit Büchern einer privaten Nachhilfefirma, aber ein Kopfschmerz zwingt sie dazu, die Lektion für den Tag abzubrechen. Coral sagt, dass sie auch Bauchschmerzen hat. Sie fragt ihre Mutter, ob sie an Gott und die Jungfrauengeburt glaubt. Frau Fellows möchte wissen, mit wem sie gesprochen hat, dass sie diese Fragen stellt. Coral antwortet, dass sie nur nachgedacht hat. Als sie merkt, dass heute Donnerstag ist und dass ihr Vater, der jetzt auf der Plantage ist, vergessen hat, die Bananen zum Kai zu bringen, übernimmt Coral die Verantwortung, um sicherzustellen, dass der Laden leer ist. Sie ist nicht verbittert. Sie ist ein Kind, aber ihr ganzes Leben ist erwachsen. Coral verspürt schreckliche Schmerzen in ihrem Magen, aber sie arbeitet weiter. Beim Überprüfen, ob alles ordnungsgemäß erledigt wurde, kommt sie an den Ort, an dem der Priester geschlafen hat, und sieht, dass er Kreuze an die Wand gezeichnet hat. Der Polizeichef ist in der Kneipe und spielt Billard und verliert, als der Lieutenant ihn findet und sich nach dem Stand seines Antrags erkundigt, Geiseln aus Städten, die den Priester beherbergen, mitzunehmen und zu erschießen. Der Chief sagt, er vertraue ihm, dass sie sich kennen und er tun könne, was er für das Beste hält. Nicht ganz zufrieden bittet der Lieutenant um etwas Schriftliches oder etwas Schriftliches vom Gouverneur. Der Chief sagt, dass der Gouverneur ihm dasselbe gesagt hat. Bewusst, dass er keine Unterstützung von Vorgesetzten haben wird, wenn sein Plan scheitert oder Verurteilung auf sich zieht, aber gleichgültig gegenüber seiner eigenen Zukunft, bekräftigt der Lieutenant seine Entschlossenheit, so viele Menschen wie nötig zu erschießen. Als er ins Büro zurückkehrt, läuft der Lieutenant an einer Gruppe spielender Kinder vorbei. Eine leere Flasche, die von einem von ihnen geworfen wird, landet vor seinen Füßen und zerschellt. Ein mürrischer Junge gibt zu, sie geworfen zu haben und sagt, es sei eine Bombe für einen Gringo gewesen. Um diesen Jugendlichen zu verdeutlichen, dass sie und er auf derselben Seite stehen, zeigt der Lieutenant dem Jungen, Luis, seine geladene Waffe. Luis sabbert bei dem Anblick und die anderen Kinder versammeln sich. Hier nimmt uns der Autor mit in den verdrehten Kopf des Lieutenants und seine Begierden werden offenbart: die Welt von Falschheit und denen, die sie verbreiten - die Kirche, den Ausländer und den Politiker - zu befreien. Selbst sein Chef, überlegt er, muss schließlich gehen, damit er die Welt von vorne anfangen kann. Wo ist James Bond, wenn man ihn braucht?

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 V. Elsinore. A room in the Castle. Enter Horatio, Queen, and a Gentleman. Queen. I will not speak with her. Gent. She is importunate, indeed distract. Her mood will needs be pitied. Queen. What would she have? Gent. She speaks much of her father; says she hears There's tricks i' th' world, and hems, and beats her heart; Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt, That carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts; Which, as her winks and nods and gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. Hor. 'Twere good she were spoken with; for she may strew Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds. Queen. Let her come in. [Exit Gentleman.] [Aside] To my sick soul (as sin's true nature is) Each toy seems Prologue to some great amiss. So full of artless jealousy is guilt It spills itself in fearing to be spilt. Enter Ophelia distracted. Oph. Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark? Queen. How now, Ophelia? Oph. (sings) How should I your true-love know From another one? By his cockle bat and' staff And his sandal shoon. Queen. Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song? Oph. Say you? Nay, pray You mark. (Sings) He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone. O, ho! Queen. Nay, but Ophelia- Oph. Pray you mark. (Sings) White his shroud as the mountain snow- Enter King. Queen. Alas, look here, my lord! Oph. (Sings) Larded all with sweet flowers; Which bewept to the grave did not go With true-love showers. King. How do you, pretty lady? Oph. Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker's daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table! King. Conceit upon her father. Oph. Pray let's have no words of this; but when they ask, you what it means, say you this: (Sings) To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day, All in the morning bedtime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine. Then up he rose and donn'd his clo'es And dupp'd the chamber door, Let in the maid, that out a maid Never departed more. King. Pretty Ophelia! Oph. Indeed, la, without an oath, I'll make an end on't! [Sings] By Gis and by Saint Charity, Alack, and fie for shame! Young men will do't if they come to't By Cock, they are to blame. Quoth she, 'Before you tumbled me, You promis'd me to wed.' He answers: 'So would I 'a' done, by yonder sun, An thou hadst not come to my bed.' King. How long hath she been thus? Oph. I hope all will be well. We must be patient; but I cannot choose but weep to think they would lay him i' th' cold ground. My brother shall know of it; and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies. Good night, sweet ladies. Good night, good night. Exit King. Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you. [Exit Horatio.] O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father's death. O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they come not single spies. But in battalions! First, her father slain; Next, your son gone, and he most violent author Of his own just remove; the people muddied, Thick and and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers For good Polonius' death, and we have done but greenly In hugger-mugger to inter him; poor Ophelia Divided from herself and her fair judgment, Without the which we are pictures or mere beasts; Last, and as much containing as all these, Her brother is in secret come from France; And wants not buzzers to infect his ear Feeds on his wonder, keep, himself in clouds, With pestilent speeches of his father's death, Wherein necessity, of matter beggar'd, Will nothing stick our person to arraign In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this, Like to a murd'ring piece, in many places Give me superfluous death. A noise within. Queen. Alack, what noise is this? King. Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door. Enter a Messenger. What is the matter? Mess. Save Yourself, my lord: The ocean, overpeering of his list, Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste Than Young Laertes, in a riotous head, O'erbears Your offices. The rabble call him lord; And, as the world were now but to begin, Antiquity forgot, custom not known, The ratifiers and props of every word, They cry 'Choose we! Laertes shall be king!' Caps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the clouds, 'Laertes shall be king! Laertes king!' A noise within. Queen. How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs! King. The doors are broke. Enter Laertes with others. Laer. Where is this king?- Sirs, staid you all without. All. No, let's come in! Laer. I pray you give me leave. All. We will, we will! Laer. I thank you. Keep the door. [Exeunt his Followers.] O thou vile king, Give me my father! Queen. Calmly, good Laertes. Laer. That drop of blood that's calm proclaims me bastard; Cries cuckold to my father; brands the harlot Even here between the chaste unsmirched brows Of my true mother. King. What is the cause, Laertes, That thy rebellion looks so giantlike? Let him go, Gertrude. Do not fear our person. There's such divinity doth hedge a king That treason can but peep to what it would, Acts little of his will. Tell me, Laertes, Why thou art thus incens'd. Let him go, Gertrude. Speak, man. Laer. Where is my father? King. Dead. Queen. But not by him! King. Let him demand his fill. Laer. How came he dead? I'll not be juggled with: To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation. To this point I stand, That both the world, I give to negligence, Let come what comes; only I'll be reveng'd Most throughly for my father. King. Who shall stay you? Laer. My will, not all the world! And for my means, I'll husband them so well They shall go far with little. King. Good Laertes, If you desire to know the certainty Of your dear father's death, is't writ in your revenge That sweepstake you will draw both friend and foe, Winner and loser? Laer. None but his enemies. King. Will you know them then? Laer. To his good friends thus wide I'll ope my arms And, like the kind life-rend'ring pelican, Repast them with my blood. King. Why, now You speak Like a good child and a true gentleman. That I am guiltless of your father's death, And am most sensibly in grief for it, It shall as level to your judgment pierce As day does to your eye. A noise within: 'Let her come in.' Laer. How now? What noise is that? Enter Ophelia. O heat, dry up my brains! Tears seven times salt Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye! By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May! Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! O heavens! is't possible a young maid's wits Should be as mortal as an old man's life? Nature is fine in love, and where 'tis fine, It sends some precious instance of itself After the thing it loves. Oph. (sings) They bore him barefac'd on the bier (Hey non nony, nony, hey nony) And in his grave rain'd many a tear. Fare you well, my dove! Laer. Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, It could not move thus. Oph. You must sing 'A-down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.' O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master's daughter. Laer. This nothing's more than matter. Oph. There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts. Laer. A document in madness! Thoughts and remembrance fitted. Oph. There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you, and here's some for me. We may call it herb of grace o' Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference! There's a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither'd all when my father died. They say he made a good end. [Sings] For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy. Laer. Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favour and to prettiness. Oph. (sings) And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead; Go to thy deathbed; He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow, All flaxen was his poll. He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan. God 'a'mercy on his soul! And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God b' wi' you. Exit. Laer. Do you see this, O God? King. Laertes, I must commune with your grief, Or you deny me right. Go but apart, Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will, And they shall hear and judge 'twixt you and me. If by direct or by collateral hand They find us touch'd, we will our kingdom give, Our crown, our life, and all that we call ours, To you in satisfaction; but if not, Be you content to lend your patience to us, And we shall jointly labour with your soul To give it due content. Laer. Let this be so. His means of death, his obscure funeral- No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o'er his bones, No noble rite nor formal ostentation,- Cry to be heard, as 'twere from heaven to earth, That I must call't in question. King. So you shall; And where th' offence is let the great axe fall. I pray you go with me. Exeunt Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Horatio bittet Gertrude eindringlich, mit Ophelia zu sprechen, die über den Tod ihres Vaters bestürzt ist. Er sagt der Königin, dass Ophelia offenbar den Verstand verloren hat und herumirrt und verwirrt darüber spricht, wie ihr Vater ermordet wurde. Ihre Handlungen veranlassen die Leute, über den Grund für den Tod des Polonius zu spekulieren. Als die Königin einwilligt, bringt Horatio Ophelia herein, die scheinbar einen Zusammenbruch erlitten hat. Claudius tritt ein und versucht ebenfalls, mit dem Mädchen zu sprechen, aber ihre Antworten sind bedeutungslos. Claudius sagt Horatio, dass er sie genau beobachten soll. Sobald Claudius allein mit Gertrude ist, beklagt er den Zustand der Dinge und erwähnt die geheime Bestattung von Polonius, die offensichtliche Verwirrung von Ophelia und das seltsame Verhalten von Hamlet. Außerdem fürchtet er, dass Laertes, der zurückgekehrt ist, um den Tod seines Vaters zu untersuchen, die Wahrheit herausfinden wird. Plötzlich dringt Laertes mit einem wütenden Mob ins Schloss ein. Laertes fragt nach dem Aufenthaltsort seines Vaters. Gertrude wirft sich in einem fehlgeleiteten Versuch, Claudius zu schützen, auf Laertes. Der König, immer cool und gelassen, sagt Laertes, dass er nicht für den Tod des Polonius verantwortlich ist. Gerade als er erklären will, tritt Ophelia wieder ein und Laertes wird von ihrem erbärmlichen Zustand überwältigt. Sie spricht unverständlich und gibt jedem Blumen, auf eine leblose Weise sprechend. Laertes schwört, Rache an der Person zu üben, die für die Zerstörung seiner Familie verantwortlich ist. Claudius versichert Laertes, dass auch er tief betrübt über den Tod des Polonius und die Geisteskrankheit von Ophelia ist. Er versichert Laertes heimtückisch, dass die Axt der Justiz auf die schuldige Person fallen wird, wohl wissend, dass Laertes Hamlet für den Tod seines Vaters verantwortlich machen wird. So sät Claudius die Saat der Feindschaft zwischen Laertes und Hamlet - eine Art Backup-Plan, falls sein Mord in England scheitert.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: It was a new idea--the ecclesiastical and altruistic life as distinct from the intellectual and emulative life. A man could preach and do good to his fellow-creatures without taking double-firsts in the schools of Christminster, or having anything but ordinary knowledge. The old fancy which had led on to the culminating vision of the bishopric had not been an ethical or theological enthusiasm at all, but a mundane ambition masquerading in a surplice. He feared that his whole scheme had degenerated to, even though it might not have originated in, a social unrest which had no foundation in the nobler instincts; which was purely an artificial product of civilization. There were thousands of young men on the same self-seeking track at the present moment. The sensual hind who ate, drank, and lived carelessly with his wife through the days of his vanity was a more likable being than he. But to enter the Church in such an unscholarly way that he could not in any probability rise to a higher grade through all his career than that of the humble curate wearing his life out in an obscure village or city slum--that might have a touch of goodness and greatness in it; that might be true religion, and a purgatorial course worthy of being followed by a remorseful man. The favourable light in which this new thought showed itself by contrast with his foregone intentions cheered Jude, as he sat there, shabby and lonely; and it may be said to have given, during the next few days, the _coup de grace_ to his intellectual career--a career which had extended over the greater part of a dozen years. He did nothing, however, for some long stagnant time to advance his new desire, occupying himself with little local jobs in putting up and lettering headstones about the neighbouring villages, and submitting to be regarded as a social failure, a returned purchase, by the half-dozen or so of farmers and other country-people who condescended to nod to him. The human interest of the new intention--and a human interest is indispensable to the most spiritual and self-sacrificing--was created by a letter from Sue, bearing a fresh postmark. She evidently wrote with anxiety, and told very little about her own doings, more than that she had passed some sort of examination for a Queen's Scholarship, and was going to enter a training college at Melchester to complete herself for the vocation she had chosen, partly by his influence. There was a theological college at Melchester; Melchester was a quiet and soothing place, almost entirely ecclesiastical in its tone; a spot where worldly learning and intellectual smartness had no establishment; where the altruistic feeling that he did possess would perhaps be more highly estimated than a brilliancy which he did not. As it would be necessary that he should continue for a time to work at his trade while reading up Divinity, which he had neglected at Christminster for the ordinary classical grind, what better course for him than to get employment at the further city, and pursue this plan of reading? That his excessive human interest in the new place was entirely of Sue's making, while at the same time Sue was to be regarded even less than formerly as proper to create it, had an ethical contradictoriness to which he was not blind. But that much he conceded to human frailty, and hoped to learn to love her only as a friend and kinswoman. He considered that he might so mark out his coming years as to begin his ministry at the age of thirty--an age which much attracted him as being that of his exemplar when he first began to teach in Galilee. This would allow him plenty of time for deliberate study, and for acquiring capital by his trade to help his aftercourse of keeping the necessary terms at a theological college. Christmas had come and passed, and Sue had gone to the Melchester Normal School. The time was just the worst in the year for Jude to get into new employment, and he had written suggesting to her that he should postpone his arrival for a month or so, till the days had lengthened. She had acquiesced so readily that he wished he had not proposed it--she evidently did not much care about him, though she had never once reproached him for his strange conduct in coming to her that night, and his silent disappearance. Neither had she ever said a word about her relations with Mr. Phillotson. Suddenly, however, quite a passionate letter arrived from Sue. She was quite lonely and miserable, she told him. She hated the place she was in; it was worse than the ecclesiastical designer's; worse than anywhere. She felt utterly friendless; could he come immediately?--though when he did come she would only be able to see him at limited times, the rules of the establishment she found herself in being strict to a degree. It was Mr. Phillotson who had advised her to come there, and she wished she had never listened to him. Phillotson's suit was not exactly prospering, evidently; and Jude felt unreasonably glad. He packed up his things and went to Melchester with a lighter heart than he had known for months. This being the turning over a new leaf he duly looked about for a temperance hotel, and found a little establishment of that description in the street leading from the station. When he had had something to eat he walked out into the dull winter light over the town bridge, and turned the corner towards the Close. The day was foggy, and standing under the walls of the most graceful architectural pile in England he paused and looked up. The lofty building was visible as far as the roofridge; above, the dwindling spire rose more and more remotely, till its apex was quite lost in the mist drifting across it. The lamps now began to be lighted, and turning to the west front he walked round. He took it as a good omen that numerous blocks of stone were lying about, which signified that the cathedral was undergoing restoration or repair to a considerable extent. It seemed to him, full of the superstitions of his beliefs, that this was an exercise of forethought on the part of a ruling Power, that he might find plenty to do in the art he practised while waiting for a call to higher labours. Then a wave of warmth came over him as he thought how near he now stood to the bright-eyed vivacious girl with the broad forehead and pile of dark hair above it; the girl with the kindling glance, daringly soft at times--something like that of the girls he had seen in engravings from paintings of the Spanish school. She was here--actually in this Close--in one of the houses confronting this very west facade. He went down the broad gravel path towards the building. It was an ancient edifice of the fifteenth century, once a palace, now a training-school, with mullioned and transomed windows, and a courtyard in front shut in from the road by a wall. Jude opened the gate and went up to the door through which, on inquiring for his cousin, he was gingerly admitted to a waiting-room, and in a few minutes she came. Though she had been here such a short while, she was not as he had seen her last. All her bounding manner was gone; her curves of motion had become subdued lines. The screens and subtleties of convention had likewise disappeared. Yet neither was she quite the woman who had written the letter that summoned him. That had plainly been dashed off in an impulse which second thoughts had somewhat regretted; thoughts that were possibly of his recent self-disgrace. Jude was quite overcome with emotion. "You don't--think me a demoralized wretch--for coming to you as I was--and going so shamefully, Sue?" "Oh, I have tried not to! You said enough to let me know what had caused it. I hope I shall never have any doubt of your worthiness, my poor Jude! And I am glad you have come!" She wore a murrey-coloured gown with a little lace collar. It was made quite plain, and hung about her slight figure with clinging gracefulness. Her hair, which formerly she had worn according to the custom of the day was now twisted up tightly, and she had altogether the air of a woman clipped and pruned by severe discipline, an under-brightness shining through from the depths which that discipline had not yet been able to reach. She had come forward prettily, but Jude felt that she had hardly expected him to kiss her, as he was burning to do, under other colours than those of cousinship. He could not perceive the least sign that Sue regarded him as a lover, or ever would do so, now that she knew the worst of him, even if he had the right to behave as one; and this helped on his growing resolve to tell her of his matrimonial entanglement, which he had put off doing from time to time in sheer dread of losing the bliss of her company. Sue came out into the town with him, and they walked and talked with tongues centred only on the passing moments. Jude said he would like to buy her a little present of some sort, and then she confessed, with something of shame, that she was dreadfully hungry. They were kept on very short allowances in the college, and a dinner, tea, and supper all in one was the present she most desired in the world. Jude thereupon took her to an inn and ordered whatever the house afforded, which was not much. The place, however, gave them a delightful opportunity for a _tete-a-tete_, nobody else being in the room, and they talked freely. She told him about the school as it was at that date, and the rough living, and the mixed character of her fellow-students, gathered together from all parts of the diocese, and how she had to get up and work by gas-light in the early morning, with all the bitterness of a young person to whom restraint was new. To all this he listened; but it was not what he wanted especially to know--her relations with Phillotson. That was what she did not tell. When they had sat and eaten, Jude impulsively placed his hand upon hers; she looked up and smiled, and took his quite freely into her own little soft one, dividing his fingers and coolly examining them, as if they were the fingers of a glove she was purchasing. "Your hands are rather rough, Jude, aren't they?" she said. "Yes. So would yours be if they held a mallet and chisel all day." "I don't dislike it, you know. I think it is noble to see a man's hands subdued to what he works in... Well, I'm rather glad I came to this training-school, after all. See how independent I shall be after the two years' training! I shall pass pretty high, I expect, and Mr. Phillotson will use his influence to get me a big school." She had touched the subject at last. "I had a suspicion, a fear," said Jude, "that he--cared about you rather warmly, and perhaps wanted to marry you." "Now don't be such a silly boy!" "He has said something about it, I expect." "If he had, what would it matter? An old man like him!" "Oh, come, Sue; he's not so very old. And I know what I saw him doing--" "Not kissing me--that I'm certain!" "No. But putting his arm round your waist." "Ah--I remember. But I didn't know he was going to." "You are wriggling out if it, Sue, and it isn't quite kind!" Her ever-sensitive lip began to quiver, and her eye to blink, at something this reproof was deciding her to say. "I know you'll be angry if I tell you everything, and that's why I don't want to!" "Very well, then, dear," he said soothingly. "I have no real right to ask you, and I don't wish to know." "I shall tell you!" said she, with the perverseness that was part of her. "This is what I have done: I have promised--I have promised--that I will marry him when I come out of the training-school two years hence, and have got my certificate; his plan being that we shall then take a large double school in a great town--he the boys' and I the girls'--as married school-teachers often do, and make a good income between us." "Oh, Sue! ... But of course it is right--you couldn't have done better!" He glanced at her and their eyes met, the reproach in his own belying his words. Then he drew his hand quite away from hers, and turned his face in estrangement from her to the window. Sue regarded him passively without moving. "I knew you would be angry!" she said with an air of no emotion whatever. "Very well--I am wrong, I suppose! I ought not to have let you come to see me! We had better not meet again; and we'll only correspond at long intervals, on purely business matters!" This was just the one thing he would not be able to bear, as she probably knew, and it brought him round at once. "Oh yes, we will," he said quickly. "Your being engaged can make no difference to me whatever. I have a perfect right to see you when I want to; and I shall!" "Then don't let us talk of it any more. It is quite spoiling our evening together. What does it matter about what one is going to do two years hence!" She was something of a riddle to him, and he let the subject drift away. "Shall we go and sit in the cathedral?" he asked, when their meal was finished. "Cathedral? Yes. Though I think I'd rather sit in the railway station," she answered, a remnant of vexation still in her voice. "That's the centre of the town life now. The cathedral has had its day!" "How modern you are!" "So would you be if you had lived so much in the Middle Ages as I have done these last few years! The cathedral was a very good place four or five centuries ago; but it is played out now... I am not modern, either. I am more ancient than mediaevalism, if you only knew." Jude looked distressed. "There--I won't say any more of that!" she cried. "Only you don't know how bad I am, from your point of view, or you wouldn't think so much of me, or care whether I was engaged or not. Now there's just time for us to walk round the Close, then I must go in, or I shall be locked out for the night." He took her to the gate and they parted. Jude had a conviction that his unhappy visit to her on that sad night had precipitated this marriage engagement, and it did anything but add to his happiness. Her reproach had taken that shape, then, and not the shape of words. However, next day he set about seeking employment, which it was not so easy to get as at Christminster, there being, as a rule, less stone-cutting in progress in this quiet city, and hands being mostly permanent. But he edged himself in by degrees. His first work was some carving at the cemetery on the hill; and ultimately he became engaged on the labour he most desired--the cathedral repairs, which were very extensive, the whole interior stonework having been overhauled, to be largely replaced by new. It might be a labour of years to get it all done, and he had confidence enough in his own skill with the mallet and chisel to feel that it would be a matter of choice with himself how long he would stay. The lodgings he took near the Close Gate would not have disgraced a curate, the rent representing a higher percentage on his wages than mechanics of any sort usually care to pay. His combined bed and sitting-room was furnished with framed photographs of the rectories and deaneries at which his landlady had lived as trusted servant in her time, and the parlour downstairs bore a clock on the mantelpiece inscribed to the effect that it was presented to the same serious-minded woman by her fellow-servants on the occasion of her marriage. Jude added to the furniture of his room by unpacking photographs of the ecclesiastical carvings and monuments that he had executed with his own hands; and he was deemed a satisfactory acquisition as tenant of the vacant apartment. He found an ample supply of theological books in the city book-shops, and with these his studies were recommenced in a different spirit and direction from his former course. As a relaxation from the Fathers, and such stock works as Paley and Butler, he read Newman, Pusey, and many other modern lights. He hired a harmonium, set it up in his lodging, and practised chants thereon, single and double. "To-morrow is our grand day, you know. Where shall we go?" "I have leave from three till nine. Wherever we can get to and come back from in that time. Not ruins, Jude--I don't care for them." "Well--Wardour Castle. And then we can do Fonthill if we like--all in the same afternoon." "Wardour is Gothic ruins--and I hate Gothic!" "No. Quite otherwise. It is a classic building--Corinthian, I think; with a lot of pictures." "Ah--that will do. I like the sound of Corinthian. We'll go." Their conversation had run thus some few weeks later, and next morning they prepared to start. Every detail of the outing was a facet reflecting a sparkle to Jude, and he did not venture to meditate on the life of inconsistency he was leading. His Sue's conduct was one lovely conundrum to him; he could say no more. There duly came the charm of calling at the college door for her; her emergence in a nunlike simplicity of costume that was rather enforced than desired; the traipsing along to the station, the porters' "B'your leave!," the screaming of the trains--everything formed the basis of a beautiful crystallization. Nobody stared at Sue, because she was so plainly dressed, which comforted Jude in the thought that only himself knew the charms those habiliments subdued. A matter of ten pounds spent in a drapery-shop, which had no connection with her real life or her real self, would have set all Melchester staring. The guard of the train thought they were lovers, and put them into a compartment all by themselves. "That's a good intention wasted!" said she. Jude did not respond. He thought the remark unnecessarily cruel, and partly untrue. They reached the park and castle and wandered through the picture-galleries, Jude stopping by preference in front of the devotional pictures by Del Sarto, Guido Reni, Spagnoletto, Sassoferrato, Carlo Dolci, and others. Sue paused patiently beside him, and stole critical looks into his face as, regarding the Virgins, Holy Families, and Saints, it grew reverent and abstracted. When she had thoroughly estimated him at this, she would move on and wait for him before a Lely or Reynolds. It was evident that her cousin deeply interested her, as one might be interested in a man puzzling out his way along a labyrinth from which one had one's self escaped. When they came out a long time still remained to them and Jude proposed that as soon as they had had something to eat they should walk across the high country to the north of their present position, and intercept the train of another railway leading back to Melchester, at a station about seven miles off. Sue, who was inclined for any adventure that would intensify the sense of her day's freedom, readily agreed; and away they went, leaving the adjoining station behind them. It was indeed open country, wide and high. They talked and bounded on, Jude cutting from a little covert a long walking-stick for Sue as tall as herself, with a great crook, which made her look like a shepherdess. About half-way on their journey they crossed a main road running due east and west--the old road from London to Land's End. They paused, and looked up and down it for a moment, and remarked upon the desolation which had come over this once lively thoroughfare, while the wind dipped to earth and scooped straws and hay-stems from the ground. They crossed the road and passed on, but during the next half-mile Sue seemed to grow tired, and Jude began to be distressed for her. They had walked a good distance altogether, and if they could not reach the other station it would be rather awkward. For a long time there was no cottage visible on the wide expanse of down and turnip-land; but presently they came to a sheepfold, and next to the shepherd, pitching hurdles. He told them that the only house near was his mother's and his, pointing to a little dip ahead from which a faint blue smoke arose, and recommended them to go on and rest there. This they did, and entered the house, admitted by an old woman without a single tooth, to whom they were as civil as strangers can be when their only chance of rest and shelter lies in the favour of the householder. "A nice little cottage," said Jude. "Oh, I don't know about the niceness. I shall have to thatch it soon, and where the thatch is to come from I can't tell, for straw do get that dear, that 'twill soon be cheaper to cover your house wi' chainey plates than thatch." They sat resting, and the shepherd came in. "Don't 'ee mind I," he said with a deprecating wave of the hand; "bide here as long as ye will. But mid you be thinking o' getting back to Melchester to-night by train? Because you'll never do it in this world, since you don't know the lie of the country. I don't mind going with ye some o' the ways, but even then the train mid be gone." They started up. "You can bide here, you know, over the night--can't 'em, Mother? The place is welcome to ye. 'Tis hard lying, rather, but volk may do worse." He turned to Jude and asked privately: "Be you a married couple?" "Hsh--no!" said Jude. "Oh--I meant nothing ba'dy--not I! Well then, she can go into Mother's room, and you and I can lie in the outer chimmer after they've gone through. I can call ye soon enough to catch the first train back. You've lost this one now." On consideration they decided to close with this offer, and drew up and shared with the shepherd and his mother the boiled bacon and greens for supper. "I rather like this," said Sue, while their entertainers were clearing away the dishes. "Outside all laws except gravitation and germination." "You only think you like it; you don't: you are quite a product of civilization," said Jude, a recollection of her engagement reviving his soreness a little. "Indeed I am not, Jude. I like reading and all that, but I crave to get back to the life of my infancy and its freedom." "Do you remember it so well? You seem to me to have nothing unconventional at all about you." "Oh, haven't I! You don't know what's inside me." "What?" "The Ishmaelite." "An urban miss is what you are." She looked severe disagreement, and turned away. The shepherd aroused them the next morning, as he had said. It was bright and clear, and the four miles to the train were accomplished pleasantly. When they had reached Melchester, and walked to the Close, and the gables of the old building in which she was again to be immured rose before Sue's eyes, she looked a little scared. "I expect I shall catch it!" she murmured. They rang the great bell and waited. "Oh, I bought something for you, which I had nearly forgotten," she said quickly, searching her pocket. "It is a new little photograph of me. Would you like it?" "WOULD I!" He took it gladly, and the porter came. There seemed to be an ominous glance on his face when he opened the gate. She passed in, looking back at Jude, and waving her hand. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Jude glaubt, dass sein ursprünglicher Plan mehr aus Ehrgeiz als aus dem Wunsch, zu dienen, entstanden sein könnte und dass sein Eintritt in die Kirche als Lizentiat es ihm ermöglichen wird, sowohl Gutes zu tun als auch sich von Sünde zu reinigen. Er unternimmt nichts in Bezug auf seine neue Idee, bis er von Sue erfährt, dass sie nach Melchester an ein Ausbildungskolleg geht, und er beschließt, dorthin zu gehen, zu arbeiten und zu studieren und schließlich ins theologische Kolleg zu gehen. Er wird in der Nähe von Sue sein, die er als Freundin lieben lernen wird, und seinen neuen Plan verwirklichen. Auf einen dringenden Brief von Sue hin, die sich jetzt in Melchester befindet und einsam ist und es bereut, dass sie sich von Phillotson überreden ließ zu kommen, verlässt Jude Marygreen und fährt nach Melchester. Als Jude Sue im Kolleg besucht, stellt er fest, dass sie sich äußerlich und vom Verhalten her verändert hat, aber nicht in anderer Hinsicht. Fest entschlossen, ihr endlich von seiner Ehe mit Arabella zu erzählen, ist Jude ebenso entschlossen, die Natur ihrer Beziehung zu Phillotson herauszufinden. Nachdem sie über alles andere geredet haben, erzählt Sue Jude schließlich, dass sie versprochen hat, Phillotson am Ende ihrer zweijährigen Ausbildung zu heiraten. Jude ist aufgebracht, aber entschlossen, sie weiterhin zu sehen, egal was passiert, und ist sich sicher, dass sein nächtlicher Besuch bei ihr in Lumsdon ihre Verlobung verursacht hat. Jude findet Arbeit und Unterkunft und beginnt sein theologisches Studium. Bei einem gemeinsamen Nachmittag besuchen Jude und Sue eine alte Burg, ein Beispiel für korinthische Architektur statt gotische, auf Sues Wunsch hin. Und sie schauen sich die Gemälde dort an, wobei Jude religiöse Bilder bevorzugt und Sue weltliche. Auf Judes Vorschlag hin machen sie einen langen Spaziergang und planen, mit einem anderen Zug zurück nach Melchester zu fahren. Doch leider stellen sie zu spät fest, dass sie es nicht schaffen werden. Gezwungen, die Nacht bei einem Schäfer zu verbringen, sind sie uneins über Sues Bemerkung, dass sie ein solches ländliches Leben mag. Jude besteht darauf, dass sie eigentlich ein Stadtmensch ist. Sie kehren am nächsten Tag zurück und natürlich hat Sue ihre Erlaubnis überschritten. Bevor sie ihn am Kolleg verlässt, gibt sie ihm ein neues Foto von sich.

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: We came at last to the foot of an exceeding steep wood, which scrambled up a craggy hillside, and was crowned by a naked precipice. "It's here," said one of the guides, and we struck up hill. The trees clung upon the slope, like sailors on the shrouds of a ship, and their trunks were like the rounds of a ladder, by which we mounted. Quite at the top, and just before the rocky face of the cliff sprang above the foliage, we found that strange house which was known in the country as "Cluny's Cage." The trunks of several trees had been wattled across, the intervals strengthened with stakes, and the ground behind this barricade levelled up with earth to make the floor. A tree, which grew out from the hillside, was the living centre-beam of the roof. The walls were of wattle and covered with moss. The whole house had something of an egg shape; and it half hung, half stood in that steep, hillside thicket, like a wasp's nest in a green hawthorn. Within, it was large enough to shelter five or six persons with some comfort. A projection of the cliff had been cunningly employed to be the fireplace; and the smoke rising against the face of the rock, and being not dissimilar in colour, readily escaped notice from below. This was but one of Cluny's hiding-places; he had caves, besides, and underground chambers in several parts of his country; and following the reports of his scouts, he moved from one to another as the soldiers drew near or moved away. By this manner of living, and thanks to the affection of his clan, he had not only stayed all this time in safety, while so many others had fled or been taken and slain: but stayed four or five years longer, and only went to France at last by the express command of his master. There he soon died; and it is strange to reflect that he may have regretted his Cage upon Ben Alder. When we came to the door he was seated by his rock chimney, watching a gillie about some cookery. He was mighty plainly habited, with a knitted nightcap drawn over his ears, and smoked a foul cutty pipe. For all that he had the manners of a king, and it was quite a sight to see him rise out of his place to welcome us. "Well, Mr. Stewart, come awa', sir!" said he, "and bring in your friend that as yet I dinna ken the name of." "And how is yourself, Cluny?" said Alan. "I hope ye do brawly, sir. And I am proud to see ye, and to present to ye my friend the Laird of Shaws, Mr. David Balfour." Alan never referred to my estate without a touch of a sneer, when we were alone; but with strangers, he rang the words out like a herald. "Step in by, the both of ye, gentlemen," says Cluny. "I make ye welcome to my house, which is a queer, rude place for certain, but one where I have entertained a royal personage, Mr. Stewart--ye doubtless ken the personage I have in my eye. We'll take a dram for luck, and as soon as this handless man of mine has the collops ready, we'll dine and take a hand at the cartes as gentlemen should. My life is a bit driegh," says he, pouring out the brandy; "I see little company, and sit and twirl my thumbs, and mind upon a great day that is gone by, and weary for another great day that we all hope will be upon the road. And so here's a toast to ye: The Restoration!" Thereupon we all touched glasses and drank. I am sure I wished no ill to King George; and if he had been there himself in proper person, it's like he would have done as I did. No sooner had I taken out the drain than I felt hugely better, and could look on and listen, still a little mistily perhaps, but no longer with the same groundless horror and distress of mind. It was certainly a strange place, and we had a strange host. In his long hiding, Cluny had grown to have all manner of precise habits, like those of an old maid. He had a particular place, where no one else must sit; the Cage was arranged in a particular way, which none must disturb; cookery was one of his chief fancies, and even while he was greeting us in, he kept an eye to the collops. It appears, he sometimes visited or received visits from his wife and one or two of his nearest friends, under the cover of night; but for the more part lived quite alone, and communicated only with his sentinels and the gillies that waited on him in the Cage. The first thing in the morning, one of them, who was a barber, came and shaved him, and gave him the news of the country, of which he was immoderately greedy. There was no end to his questions; he put them as earnestly as a child; and at some of the answers, laughed out of all bounds of reason, and would break out again laughing at the mere memory, hours after the barber was gone. To be sure, there might have been a purpose in his questions; for though he was thus sequestered, and like the other landed gentlemen of Scotland, stripped by the late Act of Parliament of legal powers, he still exercised a patriarchal justice in his clan. Disputes were brought to him in his hiding-hole to be decided; and the men of his country, who would have snapped their fingers at the Court of Session, laid aside revenge and paid down money at the bare word of this forfeited and hunted outlaw. When he was angered, which was often enough, he gave his commands and breathed threats of punishment like any king; and his gillies trembled and crouched away from him like children before a hasty father. With each of them, as he entered, he ceremoniously shook hands, both parties touching their bonnets at the same time in a military manner. Altogether, I had a fair chance to see some of the inner workings of a Highland clan; and this with a proscribed, fugitive chief; his country conquered; the troops riding upon all sides in quest of him, sometimes within a mile of where he lay; and when the least of the ragged fellows whom he rated and threatened, could have made a fortune by betraying him. On that first day, as soon as the collops were ready, Cluny gave them with his own hand a squeeze of a lemon (for he was well supplied with luxuries) and bade us draw in to our meal. "They," said he, meaning the collops, "are such as I gave his Royal Highness in this very house; bating the lemon juice, for at that time we were glad to get the meat and never fashed for kitchen.* Indeed, there were mair dragoons than lemons in my country in the year forty-six." * Condiment. I do not know if the collops were truly very good, but my heart rose against the sight of them, and I could eat but little. All the while Cluny entertained us with stories of Prince Charlie's stay in the Cage, giving us the very words of the speakers, and rising from his place to show us where they stood. By these, I gathered the Prince was a gracious, spirited boy, like the son of a race of polite kings, but not so wise as Solomon. I gathered, too, that while he was in the Cage, he was often drunk; so the fault that has since, by all accounts, made such a wreck of him, had even then begun to show itself. We were no sooner done eating than Cluny brought out an old, thumbed, greasy pack of cards, such as you may find in a mean inn; and his eyes brightened in his face as he proposed that we should fall to playing. Now this was one of the things I had been brought up to eschew like disgrace; it being held by my father neither the part of a Christian nor yet of a gentleman to set his own livelihood and fish for that of others, on the cast of painted pasteboard. To be sure, I might have pleaded my fatigue, which was excuse enough; but I thought it behoved that I should bear a testimony. I must have got very red in the face, but I spoke steadily, and told them I had no call to be a judge of others, but for my own part, it was a matter in which I had no clearness. Cluny stopped mingling the cards. "What in deil's name is this?" says he. "What kind of Whiggish, canting talk is this, for the house of Cluny Macpherson?" "I will put my hand in the fire for Mr. Balfour," says Alan. "He is an honest and a mettle gentleman, and I would have ye bear in mind who says it. I bear a king's name," says he, cocking his hat; "and I and any that I call friend are company for the best. But the gentleman is tired, and should sleep; if he has no mind to the cartes, it will never hinder you and me. And I'm fit and willing, sir, to play ye any game that ye can name." "Sir," says Cluny, "in this poor house of mine I would have you to ken that any gentleman may follow his pleasure. If your friend would like to stand on his head, he is welcome. And if either he, or you, or any other man, is not preceesely satisfied, I will be proud to step outside with him." I had no will that these two friends should cut their throats for my sake. "Sir," said I, "I am very wearied, as Alan says; and what's more, as you are a man that likely has sons of your own, I may tell you it was a promise to my father." "Say nae mair, say nae mair," said Cluny, and pointed me to a bed of heather in a corner of the Cage. For all that he was displeased enough, looked at me askance, and grumbled when he looked. And indeed it must be owned that both my scruples and the words in which I declared them, smacked somewhat of the Covenanter, and were little in their place among wild Highland Jacobites. What with the brandy and the venison, a strange heaviness had come over me; and I had scarce lain down upon the bed before I fell into a kind of trance, in which I continued almost the whole time of our stay in the Cage. Sometimes I was broad awake and understood what passed; sometimes I only heard voices, or men snoring, like the voice of a silly river; and the plaids upon the wall dwindled down and swelled out again, like firelight shadows on the roof. I must sometimes have spoken or cried out, for I remember I was now and then amazed at being answered; yet I was conscious of no particular nightmare, only of a general, black, abiding horror--a horror of the place I was in, and the bed I lay in, and the plaids on the wall, and the voices, and the fire, and myself. The barber-gillie, who was a doctor too, was called in to prescribe for me; but as he spoke in the Gaelic, I understood not a word of his opinion, and was too sick even to ask for a translation. I knew well enough I was ill, and that was all I cared about. I paid little heed while I lay in this poor pass. But Alan and Cluny were most of the time at the cards, and I am clear that Alan must have begun by winning; for I remember sitting up, and seeing them hard at it, and a great glittering pile of as much as sixty or a hundred guineas on the table. It looked strange enough, to see all this wealth in a nest upon a cliff-side, wattled about growing trees. And even then, I thought it seemed deep water for Alan to be riding, who had no better battle-horse than a green purse and a matter of five pounds. The luck, it seems, changed on the second day. About noon I was wakened as usual for dinner, and as usual refused to eat, and was given a dram with some bitter infusion which the barber had prescribed. The sun was shining in at the open door of the Cage, and this dazzled and offended me. Cluny sat at the table, biting the pack of cards. Alan had stooped over the bed, and had his face close to my eyes; to which, troubled as they were with the fever, it seemed of the most shocking bigness. He asked me for a loan of my money. "What for?" said I. "O, just for a loan," said he. "But why?" I repeated. "I don't see." "Hut, David!" said Alan, "ye wouldnae grudge me a loan?" I would, though, if I had had my senses! But all I thought of then was to get his face away, and I handed him my money. On the morning of the third day, when we had been forty-eight hours in the Cage, I awoke with a great relief of spirits, very weak and weary indeed, but seeing things of the right size and with their honest, everyday appearance. I had a mind to eat, moreover, rose from bed of my own movement, and as soon as we had breakfasted, stepped to the entry of the Cage and sat down outside in the top of the wood. It was a grey day with a cool, mild air: and I sat in a dream all morning, only disturbed by the passing by of Cluny's scouts and servants coming with provisions and reports; for as the coast was at that time clear, you might almost say he held court openly. When I returned, he and Alan had laid the cards aside, and were questioning a gillie; and the chief turned about and spoke to me in the Gaelic. "I have no Gaelic, sir," said I. Now since the card question, everything I said or did had the power of annoying Cluny. "Your name has more sense than yourself, then," said he angrily, "for it's good Gaelic. But the point is this. My scout reports all clear in the south, and the question is, have ye the strength to go?" I saw cards on the table, but no gold; only a heap of little written papers, and these all on Cluny's side. Alan, besides, had an odd look, like a man not very well content; and I began to have a strong misgiving. "I do not know if I am as well as I should be," said I, looking at Alan; "but the little money we have has a long way to carry us." Alan took his under-lip into his mouth, and looked upon the ground. "David," says he at last, "I've lost it; there's the naked truth." "My money too?" said I. "Your money too," says Alan, with a groan. "Ye shouldnae have given it me. I'm daft when I get to the cartes." "Hoot-toot! hoot-toot!" said Cluny. "It was all daffing; it's all nonsense. Of course you'll have your money back again, and the double of it, if ye'll make so free with me. It would be a singular thing for me to keep it. It's not to be supposed that I would be any hindrance to gentlemen in your situation; that would be a singular thing!" cries he, and began to pull gold out of his pocket with a mighty red face. Alan said nothing, only looked on the ground. "Will you step to the door with me, sir?" said I. Cluny said he would be very glad, and followed me readily enough, but he looked flustered and put out. "And now, sir," says I, "I must first acknowledge your generosity." "Nonsensical nonsense!" cries Cluny. "Where's the generosity? This is just a most unfortunate affair; but what would ye have me do--boxed up in this bee-skep of a cage of mine--but just set my friends to the cartes, when I can get them? And if they lose, of course, it's not to be supposed----" And here he came to a pause. "Yes," said I, "if they lose, you give them back their money; and if they win, they carry away yours in their pouches! I have said before that I grant your generosity; but to me, sir, it's a very painful thing to be placed in this position." There was a little silence, in which Cluny seemed always as if he was about to speak, but said nothing. All the time he grew redder and redder in the face. "I am a young man," said I, "and I ask your advice. Advise me as you would your son. My friend fairly lost his money, after having fairly gained a far greater sum of yours; can I accept it back again? Would that be the right part for me to play? Whatever I do, you can see for yourself it must be hard upon a man of any pride." "It's rather hard on me, too, Mr. Balfour," said Cluny, "and ye give me very much the look of a man that has entrapped poor people to their hurt. I wouldnae have my friends come to any house of mine to accept affronts; no," he cried, with a sudden heat of anger, "nor yet to give them!" "Und so sehen Sie, Sir", sagte ich, "es gibt durchaus etwas für meine Seite zu sagen; und dieses Glücksspiel ist eine sehr schlechte Beschäftigung für Leute von Stand. Aber ich warte immer noch auf Ihre Meinung." Ich bin sicher, dass, wenn Cluny jemals jemanden gehasst hat, es David Balfour war. Er betrachtete mich mit kriegerischem Blick und ich sah die Herausforderung auf seinen Lippen. Aber entweder entwaffnete mich meine Jugend oder vielleicht sein eigener Gerechtigkeitssinn. Es war sicherlich eine demütigende Angelegenheit für alle Beteiligten, und nicht zuletzt für Cluny; umso mehr Anerkennung verdient er dafür, wie er damit umging. "Herr Balfour", sagte er, "ich denke, Sie sind zu fein und gewissenhaft, aber trotzdem haben Sie den Geist eines sehr vornehmen Gentleman. Bei meinem ehrlichen Wort, Sie können dieses Geld nehmen - das ist es, was ich meinem Sohn sagen würde - und hier ist meine Hand dazu!" Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Clunys Haus, auf der Spitze einer felsigen Klippe, ist als "Clunys Käfig" bekannt und wurde um eine dicke Gruppe von Bäumen herum gebaut, die als lebende Unterstützung für die Struktur dienen. Seit dem Ende des Jakobitenaufstandes im Jahr 1746 hat Cluny seine Zeit damit verbracht, von Versteck zu Versteck zu ziehen, von Höhlen zu den Häusern seiner Klansmitglieder und schließlich in diesen Käfig, wenn die Soldaten zu nahe kamen. Cluny begrüßt Alan. Alan stellt Davie vor und betont, dass er der Laird von Shaws ist. Cluny kommentiert, dass, obwohl sein Käfig etwas rau ist, er schon mal Royalty dort hatte. Als passionierter Jakobit trinkt Cluny auf die "Restoration" - die Wiederherstellung der Stuart-Familie auf den Thron von England und Irland. Wie auch immer, Cluny ist nach all den Jahren des Versteckens etwas seltsam geworden. Er verbringt die meiste Zeit alleine, da er, wie du weißt, auf der Flucht ist, und das macht die Leute ein bisschen verrückt. Davie kann nicht viel von der ihm gegebenen Mahlzeit essen, aber er hört mit Interesse Clunys Geschichten von Prinz Charlie zu. Nach dem Abendessen holt Cluny ein Kartenspiel heraus. Davie wurde gelehrt, dass es weder christlich noch gentlemännisch ist, um Geld zu spielen. Er sagt Cluny und Alan, dass er sie nicht verurteilt, aber er hält es für unmoralisch zu spielen. Cluny ist beleidigt. Alan verteidigt Davie und sagt, dass er ein guter Mann ist, aber wahrscheinlich ein bisschen erschöpft. Davie soll ins Bett gehen und Alan wird gegen Cluny in jedem Spiel antreten, das er wählt. Cluny sagt, dass das alles in Ordnung ist, dass jeder Gast von ihm tun kann, was er will, und wenn es an seiner Gastfreundschaft mangelt, wird er gerne nach draußen gehen und die Sache klären. Davie stimmt zu, dass er nur müde ist und dass seine Proteste das Ergebnis eines Versprechens an seinen Vater sind. Cluny schickt Davie wütend ins Bett. Davie fällt praktisch um, sobald er das Bett berührt. Ein Barbier wird gerufen, um Davie zu untersuchen, aber da der Barbier auf Gälisch spricht, hat Davie keine Ahnung, was er sagt. In der Zwischenzeit verbringen Cluny und Alan die meiste Zeit mit Kartenspielen. Am zweiten Tag von Davies Krankheit kommt Alan vorbei und bittet Davie um einen Kredit. Wenn Davie nicht so krank gewesen wäre, hätte er es wahrscheinlich nicht getan, aber so gibt er Alan seine Geldbörse. Davie wacht schließlich am dritten Tag schwach, aber besser auf und ist bereit zu essen. Davie sieht Karten auf dem Tisch zwischen Alan und Cluny, aber kein Gold. Alan hat sein eigenes Geld und auch das von Davie beim Spielen verspielt. Cluny wird wütend und sagt, dass er natürlich nicht vorhat, das Geld zu behalten! Er war nur einsam in seinem Käfig und wollte ein bisschen Spaß haben. Davie bittet Cluny, mit ihm nach draußen zu kommen und überredet ihn im Grunde genommen dazu, das Gold tatsächlich und legitim zurückzugeben.

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. The plains of Philippi. [Enter Octavius, Antony, and their Army.] OCTAVIUS. Now, Antony, our hopes are answered. You said the enemy would not come down, But keep the hills and upper regions: It proves not so; their battles are at hand: They mean to warn us at Philippi here, Answering before we do demand of them. ANTONY. Tut, I am in their bosoms, and I know Wherefore they do it: they could be content To visit other places; and come down With fearful bravery, thinking by this face To fasten in our thoughts that they have courage; But 'tis not so. [Enter a Messenger.] MESSENGER. Prepare you, generals: The enemy comes on in gallant show; Their bloody sign of battle is hung out, And something to be done immediately. ANTONY. Octavius, lead your battle softly on, Upon the left hand of the even field. OCTAVIUS. Upon the right hand I; keep thou the left. ANTONY. Why do you cross me in this exigent? OCTAVIUS. I do not cross you; but I will do so. [March. Drum. Enter Brutus, Cassius, and their Army; Lucilius, Titinius, Messala, and Others.] BRUTUS. They stand, and would have parley. CASSIUS. Stand fast, Titinius: we must out and talk. OCTAVIUS. Mark Antony, shall we give sign of battle? ANTONY. No, Caesar, we will answer on their charge. Make forth; the generals would have some words. OCTAVIUS. Stir not until the signal. BRUTUS. Words before blows: is it so, countrymen? OCTAVIUS. Not that we love words better, as you do. BRUTUS. Good words are better than bad strokes, Octavius. ANTONY. In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give good words: Witness the hole you made in Caesar's heart, Crying, "Long live! Hail, Caesar!" CASSIUS. Antony, The posture of your blows are yet unknown; But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees, And leave them honeyless. ANTONY. Not stingless too. BRUTUS. O, yes, and soundless too, For you have stol'n their buzzing, Antony, And very wisely threat before you sting. ANTONY. Villains, you did not so when your vile daggers Hack'd one another in the sides of Caesar: You show'd your teeth like apes, and fawn'd like hounds, And bow'd like bondmen, kissing Caesar's feet; Whilst damned Casca, like a cur, behind Struck Caesar on the neck. O flatterers! CASSIUS. Flatterers!--Now, Brutus, thank yourself: This tongue had not offended so to-day, If Cassius might have ruled. OCTAVIUS. Come, come, the cause: if arguing makes us sweat, The proof of it will turn to redder drops. Look,-- I draw a sword against conspirators: When think you that the sword goes up again? Never, till Caesar's three and thirty wounds Be well avenged; or till another Caesar Have added slaughter to the sword of traitors. BRUTUS. Caesar, thou canst not die by traitors' hands, Unless thou bring'st them with thee. OCTAVIUS. So I hope; I was not born to die on Brutus' sword. BRUTUS. O, if thou wert the noblest of thy strain, Young man, thou couldst not die more honourably. CASSIUS. A peevish school boy, worthless of such honour, Join'd with a masker and a reveller! ANTONY. Old Cassius still! OCTAVIUS. Come, Antony; away!-- Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth: If you dare fight today, come to the field; If not, when you have stomachs. [Exeunt Octavius, Antony, and their Army.] CASSIUS. Why, now, blow wind, swell billow, and swim bark! The storm is up, and all is on the hazard. BRUTUS. Ho, Lucilius! Hark, a word with you. LUCILIUS. My lord? [Brutus and Lucilius talk apart.] CASSIUS. Messala,-- MESSALA. What says my General? CASSIUS. Messala, This is my birth-day; as this very day Was Cassius born. Give me thy hand, Messala: Be thou my witness that against my will, As Pompey was, am I compell'd to set Upon one battle all our liberties. You know that I held Epicurus strong, And his opinion: now I change my mind, And partly credit things that do presage. Coming from Sardis, on our former ensign Two mighty eagles fell; and there they perch'd, Gorging and feeding from our soldiers' hands; Who to Philippi here consorted us: This morning are they fled away and gone; And in their steads do ravens, crows, and kites Fly o'er our heads and downward look on us, As we were sickly prey: their shadows seem A canopy most fatal, under which Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost. MESSALA. Believe not so. CASSIUS. I but believe it partly; For I am fresh of spirit, and resolved To meet all perils very constantly. BRUTUS. Even so, Lucilius. CASSIUS. Now, most noble Brutus, The gods to-day stand friendly, that we may, Lovers in peace, lead on our days to age! But, since th' affairs of men rest still incertain, Let's reason with the worst that may befall. If we do lose this battle, then is this The very last time we shall speak together: What are you then determined to do? BRUTUS. Even by the rule of that philosophy By which I did blame Cato for the death Which he did give himself;--I know not how, But I do find it cowardly and vile, For fear of what might fall, so to prevent The time of life;--arming myself with patience To stay the providence of some high powers That govern us below. CASSIUS. Then, if we lose this battle, You are contented to be led in triumph Thorough the streets of Rome? BRUTUS. No, Cassius, no: think not, thou noble Roman, That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome; He bears too great a mind. But this same day Must end that work the Ides of March begun; And whether we shall meet again I know not. Therefore our everlasting farewell take: For ever, and for ever, farewell, Cassius! If we do meet again, why, we shall smile; If not, why, then this parting was well made. CASSIUS. For ever and for ever farewell, Brutus! If we do meet again, we'll smile indeed; If not, 'tis true this parting was well made. BRUTUS. Why then, lead on. O, that a man might know The end of this day's business ere it come! But it sufficeth that the day will end, And then the end is known.--Come, ho! away! [Exeunt.] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Als Octavius und Antony mit ihren Armeen die Ebenen von Philippi betreten, berichtet Octavius aufgeregt, dass die feindlichen Truppen auf sie zukommen. Antony sagt Octavius, er solle seine Armee auf die linke Seite des Schlachtfeldes führen. Octavius besteht darauf, dass er die rechte Seite des Feldes übernehmen wird. Es ist offensichtlich, dass diese beiden Anführer immer noch nicht bei allem einer Meinung sind. Zu diesem Zeitpunkt treffen Brutus und Cassius mit ihrer Armee ein und konfrontieren Antony und Octavius verbal. Antony tadelt Brutus für die Ermordung von Caesar und wirft ihm Heuchelei vor. Er verspottet die schurkische und hinterhältige Art und Weise, in der die Verschwörer Caesar von hinten erstochen haben. Cassius ist wütend über den Kommentar und erinnert Brutus daran, dass sie diese Art von Gespräch nicht hören müssten, wenn sie auch Antony zusammen mit Caesar getötet hätten. Dann beschuldigt er Antony der Heuchelei bei seinem Treffen mit den Verschwörern nach der Ermordung. Octavius und Antony ziehen sich dann zurück, um sich auf die Schlacht vorzubereiten, und fordern Brutus und Cassius heraus, zu kämpfen, sobald sie genug Mut aufgebracht haben. Cassius spürt ein allgemeines Unbehagen und vertraut Messala an, dass er fürchtet, dass sie die Schlacht verlieren werden. Er erklärt, dass auf dem Weg von Sardes zwei mächtige Adler sie nach Philippi begleitet hatten, was er als gutes Omen ansah; aber heute Morgen flogen die Adler weg, und Krähen, Raben und Habichte begannen ihr Lager zu umkreisen. Cassius interpretiert dieses Omen als ein Zeichen für den Tod. Messala versucht, Cassius' Ängste zu besänftigen, aber ohne Erfolg. Brutus und Cassius beschließen, sich das Leben zu nehmen, falls sie besiegt werden, anstatt vom Feind gefangen genommen zu werden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: "One evening as I was lying flat on the deck of my steamboat, I heard voices approaching--and there were the nephew and the uncle strolling along the bank. I laid my head on my arm again, and had nearly lost myself in a doze, when somebody said in my ear, as it were: 'I am as harmless as a little child, but I don't like to be dictated to. Am I the manager--or am I not? I was ordered to send him there. It's incredible.' ... I became aware that the two were standing on the shore alongside the forepart of the steamboat, just below my head. I did not move; it did not occur to me to move: I was sleepy. 'It _is_ unpleasant,' grunted the uncle. 'He has asked the Administration to be sent there,' said the other, 'with the idea of showing what he could do; and I was instructed accordingly. Look at the influence that man must have. Is it not frightful?' They both agreed it was frightful, then made several bizarre remarks: 'Make rain and fine weather--one man--the Council--by the nose'--bits of absurd sentences that got the better of my drowsiness, so that I had pretty near the whole of my wits about me when the uncle said, 'The climate may do away with this difficulty for you. Is he alone there?' 'Yes,' answered the manager; 'he sent his assistant down the river with a note to me in these terms: "Clear this poor devil out of the country, and don't bother sending more of that sort. I had rather be alone than have the kind of men you can dispose of with me." It was more than a year ago. Can you imagine such impudence!' 'Anything since then?' asked the other hoarsely. 'Ivory,' jerked the nephew; 'lots of it--prime sort--lots--most annoying, from him.' 'And with that?' questioned the heavy rumble. 'Invoice,' was the reply fired out, so to speak. Then silence. They had been talking about Kurtz. "I was broad awake by this time, but, lying perfectly at ease, remained still, having no inducement to change my position. 'How did that ivory come all this way?' growled the elder man, who seemed very vexed. The other explained that it had come with a fleet of canoes in charge of an English half-caste clerk Kurtz had with him; that Kurtz had apparently intended to return himself, the station being by that time bare of goods and stores, but after coming three hundred miles, had suddenly decided to go back, which he started to do alone in a small dugout with four paddlers, leaving the half-caste to continue down the river with the ivory. The two fellows there seemed astounded at anybody attempting such a thing. They were at a loss for an adequate motive. As to me, I seemed to see Kurtz for the first time. It was a distinct glimpse: the dugout, four paddling savages, and the lone white man turning his back suddenly on the headquarters, on relief, on thoughts of home--perhaps; setting his face towards the depths of the wilderness, towards his empty and desolate station. I did not know the motive. Perhaps he was just simply a fine fellow who stuck to his work for its own sake. His name, you understand, had not been pronounced once. He was 'that man.' The half-caste, who, as far as I could see, had conducted a difficult trip with great prudence and pluck, was invariably alluded to as 'that scoundrel.' The 'scoundrel' had reported that the 'man' had been very ill--had recovered imperfectly.... The two below me moved away then a few paces, and strolled back and forth at some little distance. I heard: 'Military post--doctor--two hundred miles--quite alone now--unavoidable delays--nine months--no news--strange rumours.' They approached again, just as the manager was saying, 'No one, as far as I know, unless a species of wandering trader--a pestilential fellow, snapping ivory from the natives.' Who was it they were talking about now? I gathered in snatches that this was some man supposed to be in Kurtz's district, and of whom the manager did not approve. 'We will not be free from unfair competition till one of these fellows is hanged for an example,' he said. 'Certainly,' grunted the other; 'get him hanged! Why not? Anything--anything can be done in this country. That's what I say; nobody here, you understand, _here_, can endanger your position. And why? You stand the climate--you outlast them all. The danger is in Europe; but there before I left I took care to--' They moved off and whispered, then their voices rose again. 'The extraordinary series of delays is not my fault. I did my best.' The fat man sighed. 'Very sad.' 'And the pestiferous absurdity of his talk,' continued the other; 'he bothered me enough when he was here. "Each station should be like a beacon on the road towards better things, a centre for trade of course, but also for humanizing, improving, instructing." Conceive you--that ass! And he wants to be manager! No, it's--' Here he got choked by excessive indignation, and I lifted my head the least bit. I was surprised to see how near they were--right under me. I could have spat upon their hats. They were looking on the ground, absorbed in thought. The manager was switching his leg with a slender twig: his sagacious relative lifted his head. 'You have been well since you came out this time?' he asked. The other gave a start. 'Who? I? Oh! Like a charm--like a charm. But the rest--oh, my goodness! All sick. They die so quick, too, that I haven't the time to send them out of the country--it's incredible!' 'Hm'm. Just so,' grunted the uncle. 'Ah! my boy, trust to this--I say, trust to this.' I saw him extend his short flipper of an arm for a gesture that took in the forest, the creek, the mud, the river--seemed to beckon with a dishonouring flourish before the sunlit face of the land a treacherous appeal to the lurking death, to the hidden evil, to the profound darkness of its heart. It was so startling that I leaped to my feet and looked back at the edge of the forest, as though I had expected an answer of some sort to that black display of confidence. You know the foolish notions that come to one sometimes. The high stillness confronted these two figures with its ominous patience, waiting for the passing away of a fantastic invasion. "They swore aloud together--out of sheer fright, I believe--then pretending not to know anything of my existence, turned back to the station. The sun was low; and leaning forward side by side, they seemed to be tugging painfully uphill their two ridiculous shadows of unequal length, that trailed behind them slowly over the tall grass without bending a single blade. "In a few days the Eldorado Expedition went into the patient wilderness, that closed upon it as the sea closes over a diver. Long afterwards the news came that all the donkeys were dead. I know nothing as to the fate of the less valuable animals. They, no doubt, like the rest of us, found what they deserved. I did not inquire. I was then rather excited at the prospect of meeting Kurtz very soon. When I say very soon I mean it comparatively. It was just two months from the day we left the creek when we came to the bank below Kurtz's station. "Going up that river was like traveling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings. An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The air was warm, thick, heavy, sluggish. There was no joy in the brilliance of sunshine. The long stretches of the waterway ran on, deserted, into the gloom of overshadowed distances. On silvery sand-banks hippos and alligators sunned themselves side by side. The broadening waters flowed through a mob of wooded islands; you lost your way on that river as you would in a desert, and butted all day long against shoals, trying to find the channel, till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from everything you had known once--somewhere--far away--in another existence perhaps. There were moments when one's past came back to one, as it will sometimes when you have not a moment to spare for yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream, remembered with wonder amongst the overwhelming realities of this strange world of plants, and water, and silence. And this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a vengeful aspect. I got used to it afterwards; I did not see it any more; I had no time. I had to keep guessing at the channel; I had to discern, mostly by inspiration, the signs of hidden banks; I watched for sunken stones; I was learning to clap my teeth smartly before my heart flew out, when I shaved by a fluke some infernal sly old snag that would have ripped the life out of the tin-pot steamboat and drowned all the pilgrims; I had to keep a lookout for the signs of dead wood we could cut up in the night for next day's steaming. When you have to attend to things of that sort, to the mere incidents of the surface, the reality--the reality, I tell you--fades. The inner truth is hidden--luckily, luckily. But I felt it all the same; I felt often its mysterious stillness watching me at my monkey tricks, just as it watches you fellows performing on your respective tight-ropes for--what is it? half-a-crown a tumble--" "Try to be civil, Marlow," growled a voice, and I knew there was at least one listener awake besides myself. "I beg your pardon. I forgot the heartache which makes up the rest of the price. And indeed what does the price matter, if the trick be well done? You do your tricks very well. And I didn't do badly either, since I managed not to sink that steamboat on my first trip. It's a wonder to me yet. Imagine a blindfolded man set to drive a van over a bad road. I sweated and shivered over that business considerably, I can tell you. After all, for a seaman, to scrape the bottom of the thing that's supposed to float all the time under his care is the unpardonable sin. No one may know of it, but you never forget the thump--eh? A blow on the very heart. You remember it, you dream of it, you wake up at night and think of it--years after--and go hot and cold all over. I don't pretend to say that steamboat floated all the time. More than once she had to wade for a bit, with twenty cannibals splashing around and pushing. We had enlisted some of these chaps on the way for a crew. Fine fellows--cannibals--in their place. They were men one could work with, and I am grateful to them. And, after all, they did not eat each other before my face: they had brought along a provision of hippo-meat which went rotten, and made the mystery of the wilderness stink in my nostrils. Phoo! I can sniff it now. I had the manager on board and three or four pilgrims with their staves--all complete. Sometimes we came upon a station close by the bank, clinging to the skirts of the unknown, and the white men rushing out of a tumble-down hovel, with great gestures of joy and surprise and welcome, seemed very strange--had the appearance of being held there captive by a spell. The word ivory would ring in the air for a while--and on we went again into the silence, along empty reaches, round the still bends, between the high walls of our winding way, reverberating in hollow claps the ponderous beat of the stern-wheel. Trees, trees, millions of trees, massive, immense, running up high; and at their foot, hugging the bank against the stream, crept the little begrimed steamboat, like a sluggish beetle crawling on the floor of a lofty portico. It made you feel very small, very lost, and yet it was not altogether depressing, that feeling. After all, if you were small, the grimy beetle crawled on--which was just what you wanted it to do. Where the pilgrims imagined it crawled to I don't know. To some place where they expected to get something. I bet! For me it crawled towards Kurtz--exclusively; but when the steam-pipes started leaking we crawled very slow. The reaches opened before us and closed behind, as if the forest had stepped leisurely across the water to bar the way for our return. We penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness. It was very quiet there. At night sometimes the roll of drums behind the curtain of trees would run up the river and remain sustained faintly, as if hovering in the air high over our heads, till the first break of day. Whether it meant war, peace, or prayer we could not tell. The dawns were heralded by the descent of a chill stillness; the wood-cutters slept, their fires burned low; the snapping of a twig would make you start. We were wanderers on a prehistoric earth, on an earth that wore the aspect of an unknown planet. We could have fancied ourselves the first of men taking possession of an accursed inheritance, to be subdued at the cost of profound anguish and of excessive toil. But suddenly, as we struggled round a bend, there would be a glimpse of rush walls, of peaked grass-roofs, a burst of yells, a whirl of black limbs, a mass of hands clapping of feet stamping, of bodies swaying, of eyes rolling, under the droop of heavy and motionless foliage. The steamer toiled along slowly on the edge of a black and incomprehensible frenzy. The prehistoric man was cursing us, praying to us, welcoming us--who could tell? We were cut off from the comprehension of our surroundings; we glided past like phantoms, wondering and secretly appalled, as sane men would be before an enthusiastic outbreak in a madhouse. We could not understand because we were too far and could not remember because we were travelling in the night of first ages, of those ages that are gone, leaving hardly a sign--and no memories. "The earth seemed unearthly. We are accustomed to look upon the shackled form of a conquered monster, but there--there you could look at a thing monstrous and free. It was unearthly, and the men were--No, they were not inhuman. Well, you know, that was the worst of it--this suspicion of their not being inhuman. It would come slowly to one. They howled and leaped, and spun, and made horrid faces; but what thrilled you was just the thought of their humanity--like yours--the thought of your remote kinship with this wild and passionate uproar. Ugly. Yes, it was ugly enough; but if you were man enough you would admit to yourself that there was in you just the faintest trace of a response to the terrible frankness of that noise, a dim suspicion of there being a meaning in it which you--you so remote from the night of first ages--could comprehend. And why not? The mind of man is capable of anything--because everything is in it, all the past as well as all the future. What was there after all? Joy, fear, sorrow, devotion, valour, rage--who can tell?--but truth--truth stripped of its cloak of time. Let the fool gape and shudder--the man knows, and can look on without a wink. But he must at least be as much of a man as these on the shore. He must meet that truth with his own true stuff--with his own inborn strength. Principles won't do. Acquisitions, clothes, pretty rags--rags that would fly off at the first good shake. No; you want a deliberate belief. An appeal to me in this fiendish row--is there? Very well; I hear; I admit, but I have a voice, too, and for good or evil mine is the speech that cannot be silenced. Of course, a fool, what with sheer fright and fine sentiments, is always safe. Who's that grunting? You wonder I didn't go ashore for a howl and a dance? Well, no--I didn't. Fine sentiments, you say? Fine sentiments, be hanged! I had no time. I had to mess about with white-lead and strips of woolen blanket helping to put bandages on those leaky steam-pipes--I tell you. I had to watch the steering, and circumvent those snags, and get the tin-pot along by hook or by crook. There was surface-truth enough in these things to save a wiser man. And between whiles I had to look after the savage who was fireman. He was an improved specimen; he could fire up a vertical boiler. He was there below me, and, upon my word, to look at him was as edifying as seeing a dog in a parody of breeches and a feather hat, walking on his hind-legs. A few months of training had done for that really fine chap. He squinted at the steam-gauge and at the water-gauge with an evident effort of intrepidity--and he had filed teeth, too, the poor devil, and the wool of his pate shaved into queer patterns, and three ornamental scars on each of his cheeks. He ought to have been clapping his hands and stamping his feet on the bank, instead of which he was hard at work, a thrall to strange witchcraft, full of improving knowledge. He was useful because he had been instructed; and what he knew was this--that should the water in that transparent thing disappear, the evil spirit inside the boiler would get angry through the greatness of his thirst, and take a terrible vengeance. So he sweated and fired up and watched the glass fearfully (with an impromptu charm, made of rags, tied to his arm, and a piece of polished bone, as big as a watch, stuck flatways through his lower lip), while the wooded banks slipped past us slowly, the short noise was left behind, the interminable miles of silence--and we crept on, towards Kurtz. But the snags were thick, the water was treacherous and shallow, the boiler seemed indeed to have a sulky devil in it, and thus neither that fireman nor I had any time to peer into our creepy thoughts. "Some fifty miles below the Inner Station we came upon a hut of reeds, an inclined and melancholy pole, with the unrecognizable tatters of what had been a flag of some sort flying from it, and a neatly stacked wood-pile. This was unexpected. We came to the bank, and on the stack of firewood found a flat piece of board with some faded pencil-writing on it. When deciphered it said: 'Wood for you. Hurry up. Approach cautiously.' There was a signature, but it was illegible--not Kurtz--a much longer word. 'Hurry up.' Where? Up the river? 'Approach cautiously.' We had not done so. But the warning could not have been meant for the place where it could be only found after approach. Something was wrong above. But what--and how much? That was the question. We commented adversely upon the imbecility of that telegraphic style. The bush around said nothing, and would not let us look very far, either. A torn curtain of red twill hung in the doorway of the hut, and flapped sadly in our faces. The dwelling was dismantled; but we could see a white man had lived there not very long ago. There remained a rude table--a plank on two posts; a heap of rubbish reposed in a dark corner, and by the door I picked up a book. It had lost its covers, and the pages had been thumbed into a state of extremely dirty softness; but the back had been lovingly stitched afresh with white cotton thread, which looked clean yet. It was an extraordinary find. Its title was, _An Inquiry into some Points of Seamanship_, by a man Towser, Towson--some such name--Master in his Majesty's Navy. The matter looked dreary reading enough, with illustrative diagrams and repulsive tables of figures, and the copy was sixty years old. I handled this amazing antiquity with the greatest possible tenderness, lest it should dissolve in my hands. Within, Towson or Towser was inquiring earnestly into the breaking strain of ships' chains and tackle, and other such matters. Not a very enthralling book; but at the first glance you could see there a singleness of intention, an honest concern for the right way of going to work, which made these humble pages, thought out so many years ago, luminous with another than a professional light. The simple old sailor, with his talk of chains and purchases, made me forget the jungle and the pilgrims in a delicious sensation of having come upon something unmistakably real. Such a book being there was wonderful enough; but still more astounding were the notes pencilled in the margin, and plainly referring to the text. I couldn't believe my eyes! They were in cipher! Yes, it looked like cipher. Fancy a man lugging with him a book of that description into this nowhere and studying it--and making notes--in cipher at that! It was an extravagant mystery. "I had been dimly aware for some time of a worrying noise, and when I lifted my eyes I saw the wood-pile was gone, and the manager, aided by all the pilgrims, was shouting at me from the riverside. I slipped the book into my pocket. I assure you to leave off reading was like tearing myself away from the shelter of an old and solid friendship. "I started the lame engine ahead. 'It must be this miserable trader--this intruder,' exclaimed the manager, looking back malevolently at the place we had left. 'He must be English,' I said. 'It will not save him from getting into trouble if he is not careful,' muttered the manager darkly. I observed with assumed innocence that no man was safe from trouble in this world. "The current was more rapid now, the steamer seemed at her last gasp, the stern-wheel flopped languidly, and I caught myself listening on tiptoe for the next beat of the boat, for in sober truth I expected the wretched thing to give up every moment. It was like watching the last flickers of a life. But still we crawled. Sometimes I would pick out a tree a little way ahead to measure our progress towards Kurtz by, but I lost it invariably before we got abreast. To keep the eyes so long on one thing was too much for human patience. The manager displayed a beautiful resignation. I fretted and fumed and took to arguing with myself whether or no I would talk openly with Kurtz; but before I could come to any conclusion it occurred to me that my speech or my silence, indeed any action of mine, would be a mere futility. What did it matter what any one knew or ignored? What did it matter who was manager? One gets sometimes such a flash of insight. The essentials of this affair lay deep under the surface, beyond my reach, and beyond my power of meddling. "Towards the evening of the second day we judged ourselves about eight miles from Kurtz's station. I wanted to push on; but the manager looked grave, and told me the navigation up there was so dangerous that it would be advisable, the sun being very low already, to wait where we were till next morning. Moreover, he pointed out that if the warning to approach cautiously were to be followed, we must approach in daylight--not at dusk or in the dark. This was sensible enough. Eight miles meant nearly three hours' steaming for us, and I could also see suspicious ripples at the upper end of the reach. Nevertheless, I was annoyed beyond expression at the delay, and most unreasonably, too, since one night more could not matter much after so many months. As we had plenty of wood, and caution was the word, I brought up in the middle of the stream. The reach was narrow, straight, with high sides like a railway cutting. The dusk came gliding into it long before the sun had set. The current ran smooth and swift, but a dumb immobility sat on the banks. The living trees, lashed together by the creepers and every living bush of the undergrowth, might have been changed into stone, even to the slenderest twig, to the lightest leaf. It was not sleep--it seemed unnatural, like a state of trance. Not the faintest sound of any kind could be heard. You looked on amazed, and began to suspect yourself of being deaf--then the night came suddenly, and struck you blind as well. About three in the morning some large fish leaped, and the loud splash made me jump as though a gun had been fired. When the sun rose there was a white fog, very warm and clammy, and more blinding than the night. It did not shift or drive; it was just there, standing all round you like something solid. At eight or nine, perhaps, it lifted as a shutter lifts. We had a glimpse of the towering multitude of trees, of the immense matted jungle, with the blazing little ball of the sun hanging over it--all perfectly still--and then the white shutter came down again, smoothly, as if sliding in greased grooves. I ordered the chain, which we had begun to heave in, to be paid out again. Before it stopped running with a muffled rattle, a cry, a very loud cry, as of infinite desolation, soared slowly in the opaque air. It ceased. A complaining clamour, modulated in savage discords, filled our ears. The sheer unexpectedness of it made my hair stir under my cap. I don't know how it struck the others: to me it seemed as though the mist itself had screamed, so suddenly, and apparently from all sides at once, did this tumultuous and mournful uproar arise. It culminated in a hurried outbreak of almost intolerably excessive shrieking, which stopped short, leaving us stiffened in a variety of silly attitudes, and obstinately listening to the nearly as appalling and excessive silence. 'Good God! What is the meaning--' stammered at my elbow one of the pilgrims--a little fat man, with sandy hair and red whiskers, who wore sidespring boots, and pink pyjamas tucked into his socks. Two others remained open-mouthed a while minute, then dashed into the little cabin, to rush out incontinently and stand darting scared glances, with Winchesters at 'ready' in their hands. What we could see was just the steamer we were on, her outlines blurred as though she had been on the point of dissolving, and a misty strip of water, perhaps two feet broad, around her--and that was all. The rest of the world was nowhere, as far as our eyes and ears were concerned. Just nowhere. Gone, disappeared; swept off without leaving a whisper or a shadow behind. "I went forward, and ordered the chain to be hauled in short, so as to be ready to trip the anchor and move the steamboat at once if necessary. 'Will they attack?' whispered an awed voice. 'We will be all butchered in this fog,' murmured another. The faces twitched with the strain, the hands trembled slightly, the eyes forgot to wink. It was very curious to see the contrast of expressions of the white men and of the black fellows of our crew, who were as much strangers to that part of the river as we, though their homes were only eight hundred miles away. The whites, of course greatly discomposed, had besides a curious look of being painfully shocked by such an outrageous row. The others had an alert, naturally interested expression; but their faces were essentially quiet, even those of the one or two who grinned as they hauled at the chain. Several exchanged short, grunting phrases, which seemed to settle the matter to their satisfaction. Their headman, a young, broad-chested black, severely draped in dark-blue fringed cloths, with fierce nostrils and his hair all done up artfully in oily ringlets, stood near me. 'Aha!' I said, just for good fellowship's sake. 'Catch 'im,' he snapped, with a bloodshot widening of his eyes and a flash of sharp teeth--'catch 'im. Give 'im to us.' 'To you, eh?' I asked; 'what would you do with them?' 'Eat 'im!' he said curtly, and, leaning his elbow on the rail, looked out into the fog in a dignified and profoundly pensive attitude. I would no doubt have been properly horrified, had it not occurred to me that he and his chaps must be very hungry: that they must have been growing increasingly hungry for at least this month past. They had been engaged for six months (I don't think a single one of them had any clear idea of time, as we at the end of countless ages have. They still belonged to the beginnings of time--had no inherited experience to teach them as it were), and of course, as long as there was a piece of paper written over in accordance with some farcical law or other made down the river, it didn't enter anybody's head to trouble how they would live. Certainly they had brought with them some rotten hippo-meat, which couldn't have lasted very long, anyway, even if the pilgrims hadn't, in the midst of a shocking hullabaloo, thrown a considerable quantity of it overboard. It looked like a high-handed proceeding; but it was really a case of legitimate self-defence. You can't breathe dead hippo waking, sleeping, and eating, and at the same time keep your precarious grip on existence. Besides that, they had given them every week three pieces of brass wire, each about nine inches long; and the theory was they were to buy their provisions with that currency in riverside villages. You can see how _that_ worked. There were either no villages, or the people were hostile, or the director, who like the rest of us fed out of tins, with an occasional old he-goat thrown in, didn't want to stop the steamer for some more or less recondite reason. So, unless they swallowed the wire itself, or made loops of it to snare the fishes with, I don't see what good their extravagant salary could be to them. I must say it was paid with a regularity worthy of a large and honourable trading company. For the rest, the only thing to eat--though it didn't look eatable in the least--I saw in their possession was a few lumps of some stuff like half-cooked dough, of a dirty lavender colour, they kept wrapped in leaves, and now and then swallowed a piece of, but so small that it seemed done more for the looks of the thing than for any serious purpose of sustenance. Why in the name of all the gnawing devils of hunger they didn't go for us--they were thirty to five--and have a good tuck-in for once, amazes me now when I think of it. They were big powerful men, with not much capacity to weigh the consequences, with courage, with strength, even yet, though their skins were no longer glossy and their muscles no longer hard. And I saw that something restraining, one of those human secrets that baffle probability, had come into play there. I looked at them with a swift quickening of interest--not because it occurred to me I might be eaten by them before very long, though I own to you that just then I perceived--in a new light, as it were--how unwholesome the pilgrims looked, and I hoped, yes, I positively hoped, that my aspect was not so--what shall I say?--so--unappetizing: a touch of fantastic vanity which fitted well with the dream-sensation that pervaded all my days at that time. Perhaps I had a little fever, too. One can't live with one's finger everlastingly on one's pulse. I had often 'a little fever,' or a little touch of other things--the playful paw-strokes of the wilderness, the preliminary trifling before the more serious onslaught which came in due course. Yes; I looked at them as you would on any human being, with a curiosity of their impulses, motives, capacities, weaknesses, when brought to the test of an inexorable physical necessity. Restraint! What possible restraint? Was it superstition, disgust, patience, fear--or some kind of primitive honour? No fear can stand up to hunger, no patience can wear it out, disgust simply does not exist where hunger is; and as to superstition, beliefs, and what you may call principles, they are less than chaff in a breeze. Don't you know the devilry of lingering starvation, its exasperating torment, its black thoughts, its sombre and brooding ferocity? Well, I do. It takes a man all his inborn strength to fight hunger properly. It's really easier to face bereavement, dishonour, and the perdition of one's soul--than this kind of prolonged hunger. Sad, but true. And these chaps, too, had no earthly reason for any kind of scruple. Restraint! I would just as soon have expected restraint from a hyena prowling amongst the corpses of a battlefield. But there was the fact facing me--the fact dazzling, to be seen, like the foam on the depths of the sea, like a ripple on an unfathomable enigma, a mystery greater--when I thought of it--than the curious, inexplicable note of desperate grief in this savage clamour that had swept by us on the river-bank, behind the blind whiteness of the fog. "Two pilgrims were quarrelling in hurried whispers as to which bank. 'Left.' 'no, no; how can you? Right, right, of course.' 'It is very serious,' said the manager's voice behind me; 'I would be desolated if anything should happen to Mr. Kurtz before we came up.' I looked at him, and had not the slightest doubt he was sincere. He was just the kind of man who would wish to preserve appearances. That was his restraint. But when he muttered something about going on at once, I did not even take the trouble to answer him. I knew, and he knew, that it was impossible. Were we to let go our hold of the bottom, we would be absolutely in the air--in space. We wouldn't be able to tell where we were going to--whether up or down stream, or across--till we fetched against one bank or the other--and then we wouldn't know at first which it was. Of course I made no move. I had no mind for a smash-up. You couldn't imagine a more deadly place for a shipwreck. Whether we drowned at once or not, we were sure to perish speedily in one way or another. 'I authorize you to take all the risks,' he said, after a short silence. 'I refuse to take any,' I said shortly; which was just the answer he expected, though its tone might have surprised him. 'Well, I must defer to your judgment. You are captain,' he said with marked civility. I turned my shoulder to him in sign of my appreciation, and looked into the fog. How long would it last? It was the most hopeless lookout. The approach to this Kurtz grubbing for ivory in the wretched bush was beset by as many dangers as though he had been an enchanted princess sleeping in a fabulous castle. 'Will they attack, do you think?' asked the manager, in a confidential tone. "I did not think they would attack, for several obvious reasons. The thick fog was one. If they left the bank in their canoes they would get lost in it, as we would be if we attempted to move. Still, I had also judged the jungle of both banks quite impenetrable--and yet eyes were in it, eyes that had seen us. The riverside bushes were certainly very thick; but the undergrowth behind was evidently penetrable. However, during the short lift I had seen no canoes anywhere in the reach--certainly not abreast of the steamer. But what made the idea of attack inconceivable to me was the nature of the noise--of the cries we had heard. They had not the fierce character boding immediate hostile intention. Unexpected, wild, and violent as they had been, they had given me an irresistible impression of sorrow. The glimpse of the steamboat had for some reason filled those savages with unrestrained grief. The danger, if any, I expounded, was from our proximity to a great human passion let loose. Even extreme grief may ultimately vent itself in violence--but more generally takes the form of apathy.... "You should have seen the pilgrims stare! They had no heart to grin, or even to revile me: but I believe they thought me gone mad--with fright, maybe. I delivered a regular lecture. My dear boys, it was no good bothering. Keep a lookout? Well, you may guess I watched the fog for the signs of lifting as a cat watches a mouse; but for anything else our eyes were of no more use to us than if we had been buried miles deep in a heap of cotton-wool. It felt like it, too--choking, warm, stifling. Besides, all I said, though it sounded extravagant, was absolutely true to fact. What we afterwards alluded to as an attack was really an attempt at repulse. The action was very far from being aggressive--it was not even defensive, in the usual sense: it was undertaken under the stress of desperation, and in its essence was purely protective. "It developed itself, I should say, two hours after the fog lifted, and its commencement was at a spot, roughly speaking, about a mile and a half below Kurtz's station. We had just floundered and flopped round a bend, when I saw an islet, a mere grassy hummock of bright green, in the middle of the stream. It was the only thing of the kind; but as we opened the reach more, I perceived it was the head of a long sand-bank, or rather of a chain of shallow patches stretching down the middle of the river. They were discoloured, just awash, and the whole lot was seen just under the water, exactly as a man's backbone is seen running down the middle of his back under the skin. Now, as far as I did see, I could go to the right or to the left of this. I didn't know either channel, of course. The banks looked pretty well alike, the depth appeared the same; but as I had been informed the station was on the west side, I naturally headed for the western passage. "No sooner had we fairly entered it than I became aware it was much narrower than I had supposed. To the left of us there was the long uninterrupted shoal, and to the right a high, steep bank heavily overgrown with bushes. Above the bush the trees stood in serried ranks. The twigs overhung the current thickly, and from distance to distance a large limb of some tree projected rigidly over the stream. It was then well on in the afternoon, the face of the forest was gloomy, and a broad strip of shadow had already fallen on the water. In this shadow we steamed up--very slowly, as you may imagine. I sheered her well inshore--the water being deepest near the bank, as the sounding-pole informed me. "One of my hungry and forbearing friends was sounding in the bows just below me. This steamboat was exactly like a decked scow. On the deck, there were two little teakwood houses, with doors and windows. The boiler was in the fore-end, and the machinery right astern. Over the whole there was a light roof, supported on stanchions. The funnel projected through that roof, and in front of the funnel a small cabin built of light planks served for a pilot-house. It contained a couch, two camp-stools, a loaded Martini-Henry leaning in one corner, a tiny table, and the steering-wheel. It had a wide door in front and a broad shutter at each side. All these were always thrown open, of course. I spent my days perched up there on the extreme fore-end of that roof, before the door. At night I slept, or tried to, on the couch. An athletic black belonging to some coast tribe and educated by my poor predecessor, was the helmsman. He sported a pair of brass earrings, wore a blue cloth wrapper from the waist to the ankles, and thought all the world of himself. He was the most unstable kind of fool I had ever seen. He steered with no end of a swagger while you were by; but if he lost sight of you, he became instantly the prey of an abject funk, and would let that cripple of a steamboat get the upper hand of him in a minute. "I was looking down at the sounding-pole, and feeling much annoyed to see at each try a little more of it stick out of that river, when I saw my poleman give up on the business suddenly, and stretch himself flat on the deck, without even taking the trouble to haul his pole in. He kept hold on it though, and it trailed in the water. At the same time the fireman, whom I could also see below me, sat down abruptly before his furnace and ducked his head. I was amazed. Then I had to look at the river mighty quick, because there was a snag in the fairway. Sticks, little sticks, were flying about--thick: they were whizzing before my nose, dropping below me, striking behind me against my pilot-house. All this time the river, the shore, the woods, were very quiet--perfectly quiet. I could only hear the heavy splashing thump of the stern-wheel and the patter of these things. We cleared the snag clumsily. Arrows, by Jove! We were being shot at! I stepped in quickly to close the shutter on the landside. That fool-helmsman, his hands on the spokes, was lifting his knees high, stamping his feet, champing his mouth, like a reined-in horse. Confound him! And we were staggering within ten feet of the bank. I had to lean right out to swing the heavy shutter, and I saw a face amongst the leaves on the level with my own, looking at me very fierce and steady; and then suddenly, as though a veil had been removed from my eyes, I made out, deep in the tangled gloom, naked breasts, arms, legs, glaring eyes--the bush was swarming with human limbs in movement, glistening of bronze colour. The twigs shook, swayed, and rustled, the arrows flew out of them, and then the shutter came to. 'Steer her straight,' I said to the helmsman. He held his head rigid, face forward; but his eyes rolled, he kept on lifting and setting down his feet gently, his mouth foamed a little. 'Keep quiet!' I said in a fury. I might just as well have ordered a tree not to sway in the wind. I darted out. Below me there was a great scuffle of feet on the iron deck; confused exclamations; a voice screamed, 'Can you turn back?' I caught sight of a V-shaped ripple on the water ahead. What? Another snag! A fusillade burst out under my feet. The pilgrims had opened with their Winchesters, and were simply squirting lead into that bush. A deuce of a lot of smoke came up and drove slowly forward. I swore at it. Now I couldn't see the ripple or the snag either. I stood in the doorway, peering, and the arrows came in swarms. They might have been poisoned, but they looked as though they wouldn't kill a cat. The bush began to howl. Our wood-cutters raised a warlike whoop; the report of a rifle just at my back deafened me. I glanced over my shoulder, and the pilot-house was yet full of noise and smoke when I made a dash at the wheel. The fool-nigger had dropped everything, to throw the shutter open and let off that Martini-Henry. He stood before the wide opening, glaring, and I yelled at him to come back, while I straightened the sudden twist out of that steamboat. There was no room to turn even if I had wanted to, the snag was somewhere very near ahead in that confounded smoke, there was no time to lose, so I just crowded her into the bank--right into the bank, where I knew the water was deep. "We tore slowly along the overhanging bushes in a whirl of broken twigs and flying leaves. The fusillade below stopped short, as I had foreseen it would when the squirts got empty. I threw my head back to a glinting whizz that traversed the pilot-house, in at one shutter-hole and out at the other. Looking past that mad helmsman, who was shaking the empty rifle and yelling at the shore, I saw vague forms of men running bent double, leaping, gliding, distinct, incomplete, evanescent. Something big appeared in the air before the shutter, the rifle went overboard, and the man stepped back swiftly, looked at me over his shoulder in an extraordinary, profound, familiar manner, and fell upon my feet. The side of his head hit the wheel twice, and the end of what appeared a long cane clattered round and knocked over a little camp-stool. It looked as though after wrenching that thing from somebody ashore he had lost his balance in the effort. The thin smoke had blown away, we were clear of the snag, and looking ahead I could see that in another hundred yards or so I would be free to sheer off, away from the bank; but my feet felt so very warm and wet that I had to look down. The man had rolled on his back and stared straight up at me; both his hands clutched that cane. It was the shaft of a spear that, either thrown or lunged through the opening, had caught him in the side, just below the ribs; the blade had gone in out of sight, after making a frightful gash; my shoes were full; a pool of blood lay very still, gleaming dark-red under the wheel; his eyes shone with an amazing lustre. The fusillade burst out again. He looked at me anxiously, gripping the spear like something precious, with an air of being afraid I would try to take it away from him. I had to make an effort to free my eyes from his gaze and attend to the steering. With one hand I felt above my head for the line of the steam whistle, and jerked out screech after screech hurriedly. The tumult of angry and warlike yells was checked instantly, and then from the depths of the woods went out such a tremulous and prolonged wail of mournful fear and utter despair as may be imagined to follow the flight of the last hope from the earth. There was a great commotion in the bush; the shower of arrows stopped, a few dropping shots rang out sharply--then silence, in which the languid beat of the stern-wheel came plainly to my ears. I put the helm hard a-starboard at the moment when the pilgrim in pink pyjamas, very hot and agitated, appeared in the doorway. 'The manager sends me--' he began in an official tone, and stopped short. 'Good God!' he said, glaring at the wounded man. "We two whites stood over him, and his lustrous and inquiring glance enveloped us both. I declare it looked as though he would presently put to us some questions in an understandable language; but he died without uttering a sound, without moving a limb, without twitching a muscle. Only in the very last moment, as though in response to some sign we could not see, to some whisper we could not hear, he frowned heavily, and that frown gave to his black death-mask an inconceivably sombre, brooding, and menacing expression. The lustre of inquiring glance faded swiftly into vacant glassiness. 'Can you steer?' I asked the agent eagerly. He looked very dubious; but I made a grab at his arm, and he understood at once I meant him to steer whether or no. To tell you the truth, I was morbidly anxious to change my shoes and socks. 'He is dead,' murmured the fellow, immensely impressed. 'No doubt about it,' said I, tugging like mad at the shoe-laces. 'And by the way, I suppose Mr. Kurtz is dead as well by this time.' "For the moment that was the dominant thought. There was a sense of extreme disappointment, as though I had found out I had been striving after something altogether without a substance. I couldn't have been more disgusted if I had travelled all this way for the sole purpose of talking with Mr. Kurtz. Talking with... I flung one shoe overboard, and became aware that that was exactly what I had been looking forward to--a talk with Kurtz. I made the strange discovery that I had never imagined him as doing, you know, but as discoursing. I didn't say to myself, 'Now I will never see him,' or 'Now I will never shake him by the hand,' but, 'Now I will never hear him.' The man presented himself as a voice. Not of course that I did not connect him with some sort of action. Hadn't I been told in all the tones of jealousy and admiration that he had collected, bartered, swindled, or stolen more ivory than all the other agents together? That was not the point. The point was in his being a gifted creature, and that of all his gifts the one that stood out preeminently, that carried with it a sense of real presence, was his ability to talk, his words--the gift of expression, the bewildering, the illuminating, the most exalted and the most contemptible, the pulsating stream of light, or the deceitful flow from the heart of an impenetrable darkness. "The other shoe went flying unto the devil-god of that river. I thought, 'By Jove! it's all over. We are too late; he has vanished--the gift has vanished, by means of some spear, arrow, or club. I will never hear that chap speak after all'--and my sorrow had a startling extravagance of emotion, even such as I had noticed in the howling sorrow of these savages in the bush. I couldn't have felt more of lonely desolation somehow, had I been robbed of a belief or had missed my destiny in life.... Why do you sigh in this beastly way, somebody? Absurd? Well, absurd. Good Lord! mustn't a man ever--Here, give me some tobacco."... There was a pause of profound stillness, then a match flared, and Marlow's lean face appeared, worn, hollow, with downward folds and dropped eyelids, with an aspect of concentrated attention; and as he took vigorous draws at his pipe, it seemed to retreat and advance out of the night in the regular flicker of tiny flame. The match went out. "Absurd!" he cried. "This is the worst of trying to tell.... Here you all are, each moored with two good addresses, like a hulk with two anchors, a butcher round one corner, a policeman round another, excellent appetites, and temperature normal--you hear--normal from year's end to year's end. And you say, Absurd! Absurd be--exploded! Absurd! My dear boys, what can you expect from a man who out of sheer nervousness had just flung overboard a pair of new shoes! Now I think of it, it is amazing I did not shed tears. I am, upon the whole, proud of my fortitude. I was cut to the quick at the idea of having lost the inestimable privilege of listening to the gifted Kurtz. Of course I was wrong. The privilege was waiting for me. Oh, yes, I heard more than enough. And I was right, too. A voice. He was very little more than a voice. And I heard--him--it--this voice--other voices--all of them were so little more than voices--and the memory of that time itself lingers around me, impalpable, like a dying vibration of one immense jabber, silly, atrocious, sordid, savage, or simply mean, without any kind of sense. Voices, voices--even the girl herself--now--" He was silent for a long time. "I laid the ghost of his gifts at last with a lie," he began, suddenly. "Girl! What? Did I mention a girl? Oh, she is out of it--completely. They--the women, I mean--are out of it--should be out of it. We must help them to stay in that beautiful world of their own, lest ours gets worse. Oh, she had to be out of it. You should have heard the disinterred body of Mr. Kurtz saying, 'My Intended.' You would have perceived directly then how completely she was out of it. And the lofty frontal bone of Mr. Kurtz! They say the hair goes on growing sometimes, but this--ah--specimen, was impressively bald. The wilderness had patted him on the head, and, behold, it was like a ball--an ivory ball; it had caressed him, and--lo!--he had withered; it had taken him, loved him, embraced him, got into his veins, consumed his flesh, and sealed his soul to its own by the inconceivable ceremonies of some devilish initiation. He was its spoiled and pampered favourite. Ivory? I should think so. Heaps of it, stacks of it. The old mud shanty was bursting with it. You would think there was not a single tusk left either above or below the ground in the whole country. 'Mostly fossil,' the manager had remarked, disparagingly. It was no more fossil than I am; but they call it fossil when it is dug up. It appears these niggers do bury the tusks sometimes--but evidently they couldn't bury this parcel deep enough to save the gifted Mr. Kurtz from his fate. We filled the steamboat with it, and had to pile a lot on the deck. Thus he could see and enjoy as long as he could see, because the appreciation of this favour had remained with him to the last. You should have heard him say, 'My ivory.' Oh, yes, I heard him. 'My Intended, my ivory, my station, my river, my--' everything belonged to him. It made me hold my breath in expectation of hearing the wilderness burst into a prodigious peal of laughter that would shake the fixed stars in their places. Everything belonged to him--but that was a trifle. The thing was to know what he belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him for their own. That was the reflection that made you creepy all over. It was impossible--it was not good for one either--trying to imagine. He had taken a high seat amongst the devils of the land--I mean literally. You can't understand. How could you?--with solid pavement under your feet, surrounded by kind neighbours ready to cheer you or to fall on you, stepping delicately between the butcher and the policeman, in the holy terror of scandal and gallows and lunatic asylums--how can you imagine what particular region of the first ages a man's untrammelled feet may take him into by the way of solitude--utter solitude without a policeman--by the way of silence--utter silence, where no warning voice of a kind neighbour can be heard whispering of public opinion? These little things make all the great difference. When they are gone you must fall back upon your own innate strength, upon your own capacity for faithfulness. Of course you may be too much of a fool to go wrong--too dull even to know you are being assaulted by the powers of darkness. I take it, no fool ever made a bargain for his soul with the devil; the fool is too much of a fool, or the devil too much of a devil--I don't know which. Or you may be such a thunderingly exalted creature as to be altogether deaf and blind to anything but heavenly sights and sounds. Then the earth for you is only a standing place--and whether to be like this is your loss or your gain I won't pretend to say. But most of us are neither one nor the other. The earth for us is a place to live in, where we must put up with sights, with sounds, with smells, too, by Jove!--breathe dead hippo, so to speak, and not be contaminated. And there, don't you see? Your strength comes in, the faith in your ability for the digging of unostentatious holes to bury the stuff in--your power of devotion, not to yourself, but to an obscure, back-breaking business. And that's difficult enough. Mind, I am not trying to excuse or even explain--I am trying to account to myself for--for--Mr. Kurtz--for the shade of Mr. Kurtz. This initiated wraith from the back of Nowhere honoured me with its amazing confidence before it vanished altogether. This was because it could speak English to me. The original Kurtz had been educated partly in England, and--as he was good enough to say himself--his sympathies were in the right place. His mother was half-English, his father was half-French. All Europe contributed to the making of Kurtz; and by and by I learned that, most appropriately, the International Society for the Suppression of Savage Customs had intrusted him with the making of a report, for its future guidance. And he had written it, too. I've seen it. I've read it. It was eloquent, vibrating with eloquence, but too high-strung, I think. Seventeen pages of close writing he had found time for! But this must have been before his--let us say--nerves, went wrong, and caused him to preside at certain midnight dances ending with unspeakable rites, which--as far as I reluctantly gathered from what I heard at various times--were offered up to him--do you understand?--to Mr. Kurtz himself. But it was a beautiful piece of writing. The opening paragraph, however, in the light of later information, strikes me now as ominous. He began with the argument that we whites, from the point of development we had arrived at, 'must necessarily appear to them [savages] in the nature of supernatural beings--we approach them with the might of a deity,' and so on, and so on. 'By the simple exercise of our will we can exert a power for good practically unbounded,' etc., etc. From that point he soared and took me with him. The peroration was magnificent, though difficult to remember, you know. It gave me the notion of an exotic Immensity ruled by an august Benevolence. It made me tingle with enthusiasm. This was the unbounded power of eloquence--of words--of burning noble words. There were no practical hints to interrupt the magic current of phrases, unless a kind of note at the foot of the last page, scrawled evidently much later, in an unsteady hand, may be regarded as the exposition of a method. It was very simple, and at the end of that moving appeal to every altruistic sentiment it blazed at you, luminous and terrifying, like a flash of lightning in a serene sky: 'Exterminate all the brutes!' The curious part was that he had apparently forgotten all about that valuable postscriptum, because, later on, when he in a sense came to himself, he repeatedly entreated me to take good care of 'my pamphlet' (he called it), as it was sure to have in the future a good influence upon his career. I had full information about all these things, and, besides, as it turned out, I was to have the care of his memory. I've done enough for it to give me the indisputable right to lay it, if I choose, for an everlasting rest in the dust-bin of progress, amongst all the sweepings and, figuratively speaking, all the dead cats of civilization. But then, you see, I can't choose. He won't be forgotten. Whatever he was, he was not common. He had the power to charm or frighten rudimentary souls into an aggravated witch-dance in his honour; he could also fill the small souls of the pilgrims with bitter misgivings: he had one devoted friend at least, and he had conquered one soul in the world that was neither rudimentary nor tainted with self-seeking. No; I can't forget him, though I am not prepared to affirm the fellow was exactly worth the life we lost in getting to him. I missed my late helmsman awfully--I missed him even while his body was still lying in the pilot-house. Perhaps you will think it passing strange this regret for a savage who was no more account than a grain of sand in a black Sahara. Well, don't you see, he had done something, he had steered; for months I had him at my back--a help--an instrument. It was a kind of partnership. He steered for me--I had to look after him, I worried about his deficiencies, and thus a subtle bond had been created, von dem ich erst gewahr wurde, als es plötzlich zerbrach. Und die tiefe Intimität dieses Blickes, den er mir schenkte, als er verletzt wurde, bleibt bis heute in meiner Erinnerung - wie eine Behauptung entfernter Verwandtschaft, bestätigt in einem bedeutenden Moment. "Poor fool! If he had only left that shutter alone. He had no restraint, no restraint--just like Kurtz--a tree swayed by the wind. As soon as I had put on a dry pair of slippers, I dragged him out, after first jerking the spear out of his side, which operation I confess I performed with my eyes shut tight. His heels leaped together over the little doorstep; his shoulders were pressed to my breast; I hugged him from behind desperately. Oh! he was heavy, heavy; heavier than any man on earth, I should imagine. Then without more ado I tipped him overboard. The current snatched him as though he had been a wisp of grass, and I saw the body roll over twice before I lost sight of it for ever. All the pilgrims and the manager were then congregated on the awning-deck about the pilot-house, chattering at each other like a flock of excited magpies, and there was a scandalized murmur at my heartless promptitude. What they wanted to keep that body hanging about for I can't guess. Embalm it, maybe. But I had also heard another, and a very ominous, murmur on the deck below. My friends the wood-cutters were likewise scandalized, and with a better show of reason--though I admit that the reason itself was quite inadmissible. Oh, quite! I had made up my mind that if my late helmsman was to be eaten, the fishes alone should have him. He had been a very second-rate helmsman while alive, but now he was dead he might have become a first-class temptation, and possibly cause some startling trouble. Besides, I was anxious to take the wheel, the man in pink pyjamas showing himself a hopeless duffer at the business. "This I did directly the simple funeral was over. We were going half-speed, keeping right in the middle of the stream, and I listened to the talk about me. They had given up Kurtz, they had given up the station; Kurtz was dead, and the station had been burnt--and so on--and so on. The red-haired pilgrim was beside himself with the thought that at least this poor Kurtz had been properly avenged. 'Say! We must have made a glorious slaughter of them in the bush. Eh? What do you think? Say?' He positively danced, the bloodthirsty little gingery beggar. And he had nearly fainted when he saw the wounded man! I could not help saying, 'You made a glorious lot of smoke, anyhow.' I had seen, from the way the tops of the bushes rustled and flew, that almost all the shots had gone too high. You can't hit anything unless you take aim and fire from the shoulder; but these chaps fired from the hip with their eyes shut. The retreat, I maintained--and I was right--was caused by the screeching of the steam whistle. Upon this they forgot Kurtz, and began to howl at me with indignant protests. "The manager stood by the wheel murmuring confidentially about the necessity of getting well away down the river before dark at all events, when I saw in the distance a clearing on the riverside and the outlines of some sort of building. 'What's this?' I asked. He clapped his hands in wonder. 'The station!' he cried. I edged in at once, still going half-speed. "Through my glasses I saw the slope of a hill interspersed with rare trees and perfectly free from undergrowth. A long decaying building on the summit was half buried in the high grass; the large holes in the peaked roof gaped black from afar; the jungle and the woods made a background. There was no enclosure or fence of any kind; but there had been one apparently, for near the house half-a-dozen slim posts remained in a row, roughly trimmed, and with their upper ends ornamented with round carved balls. The rails, or whatever there had been between, had disappeared. Of course the forest surrounded all that. The river-bank was clear, and on the waterside I saw a white man under a hat like a cart-wheel beckoning persistently with his whole arm. Examining the edge of the forest above and below, I was almost certain I could see movements--human forms gliding here and there. I steamed past prudently, then stopped the engines and let her drift down. The man on the shore began to shout, urging us to land. 'We have been attacked,' screamed the manager. 'I know--I know. It's all right,' yelled back the other, as cheerful as you please. 'Come along. It's all right. I am glad.' "His aspect reminded me of something I had seen--something funny I had seen somewhere. As I manoeuvred to get alongside, I was asking myself, 'What does this fellow look like?' Suddenly I got it. He looked like a harlequin. His clothes had been made of some stuff that was brown holland probably, but it was covered with patches all over, with bright patches, blue, red, and yellow--patches on the back, patches on the front, patches on elbows, on knees; coloured binding around his jacket, scarlet edging at the bottom of his trousers; and the sunshine made him look extremely gay and wonderfully neat withal, because you could see how beautifully all this patching had been done. A beardless, boyish face, very fair, no features to speak of, nose peeling, little blue eyes, smiles and frowns chasing each other over that open countenance like sunshine and shadow on a wind-swept plain. 'Look out, captain!' he cried; 'there's a snag lodged in here last night.' What! Another snag? I confess I swore shamefully. I had nearly holed my cripple, to finish off that charming trip. The harlequin on the bank turned his little pug-nose up to me. 'You English?' he asked, all smiles. 'Are you?' I shouted from the wheel. The smiles vanished, and he shook his head as if sorry for my disappointment. Then he brightened up. 'Never mind!' he cried encouragingly. 'Are we in time?' I asked. 'He is up there,' he replied, with a toss of the head up the hill, and becoming gloomy all of a sudden. His face was like the autumn sky, overcast one moment and bright the next. "When the manager, escorted by the pilgrims, all of them armed to the teeth, had gone to the house this chap came on board. 'I say, I don't like this. These natives are in the bush,' I said. He assured me earnestly it was all right. 'They are simple people,' he added; 'well, I am glad you came. It took me all my time to keep them off.' 'But you said it was all right,' I cried. 'Oh, they meant no harm,' he said; and as I stared he corrected himself, 'Not exactly.' Then vivaciously, 'My faith, your pilot-house wants a clean-up!' In the next breath he advised me to keep enough steam on the boiler to blow the whistle in case of any trouble. 'One good screech will do more for you than all your rifles. They are simple people,' he repeated. He rattled away at such a rate he quite overwhelmed me. He seemed to be trying to make up for lots of silence, and actually hinted, laughing, that such was the case. 'Don't you talk with Mr. Kurtz?' I said. 'You don't talk with that man--you listen to him,' he exclaimed with severe exaltation. 'But now--' He waved his arm, and in the twinkling of an eye was in the uttermost depths of despondency. In a moment he came up again with a jump, possessed himself of both my hands, shook them continuously, while he gabbled: 'Brother sailor... honour... pleasure... delight... introduce myself... Russian... son of an arch-priest... Government of Tambov... What? Tobacco! English tobacco; the excellent English tobacco! Now, that's brotherly. Smoke? Where's a sailor that does not smoke?" "The pipe soothed him, and gradually I made out he had run away from school, had gone to sea in a Russian ship; ran away again; served some time in English ships; was now reconciled with the arch-priest. He made a point of that. 'But when one is young one must see things, gather experience, ideas; enlarge the mind.' 'Here!' I interrupted. 'You can never tell! Here I met Mr. Kurtz,' he said, youthfully solemn and reproachful. I held my tongue after that. It appears he had persuaded a Dutch trading-house on the coast to fit him out with stores and goods, and had started for the interior with a light heart and no more idea of what would happen to him than a baby. He had been wandering about that river for nearly two years alone, cut off from everybody and everything. 'I am not so young as I look. I am twenty-five,' he said. 'At first old Van Shuyten would tell me to go to the devil,' he narrated with keen enjoyment; 'but I stuck to him, and talked and talked, till at last he got afraid I would talk the hind-leg off his favourite dog, so he gave me some cheap things and a few guns, and told me he hoped he would never see my face again. Good old Dutchman, Van Shuyten. I've sent him one small lot of ivory a year ago, so that he can't call me a little thief when I get back. I hope he got it. And for the rest I don't care. I had some wood stacked for you. That was my old house. Did you see?' "I gave him Towson's book. He made as though he would kiss me, but restrained himself. 'The only book I had left, and I thought I had lost it,' he said, looking at it ecstatically. 'So many accidents happen to a man going about alone, you know. Canoes get upset sometimes--and sometimes you've got to clear out so quick when the people get angry.' He thumbed the pages. 'You made notes in Russian?' I asked. He nodded. 'I thought they were written in cipher,' I said. He laughed, then became serious. 'I had lots of trouble to keep these people off,' he said. 'Did they want to kill you?' I asked. 'Oh, no!' he cried, and checked himself. 'Why did they attack us?' I pursued. He hesitated, then said shamefacedly, 'They don't want him to go.' 'Don't they?' I said curiously. He nodded a nod full of mystery and wisdom. 'I tell you,' he cried, 'this man has enlarged my mind.' He opened his arms wide, staring at me with his little blue eyes that were perfectly round." Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Abschnitt II beginnt damit, dass Marlow abends auf dem Deck seines Dampfers ruht. Er hört mehrere Stimmen näherkommen und erkennt sie als die des Stationsleiters und des Onkels des Leiters, Anführer der Eldorado-Expedition. Marlow belauscht, wie der Manager bemerkt, dass ihm befohlen wurde, Kurtz zur Inneren Station zu schicken. Der Onkel antwortet, dass Kurtz darum gebeten habe, zur Inneren Station geschickt zu werden, um zu beweisen, was er leisten könne. Marlow kann nicht alles verstehen, was sie sagen, aber das Duo ist sich einig, dass Kurtz enormen Einfluss in der Firma haben muss. Der Manager deutet an, dass Kurtz ein Problem für ihn sei. Es scheint, dass Kurtz sogar die Frechheit besessen hat, seinen Assistenten mit einer Notiz zurückzuschicken, in der der Manager angewiesen wird, keine anderen zu schicken. Der Onkel fragt, ob Kurtz allein in der Wildnis ist, und als der Manager antwortet, dass er es ist, stellt der Onkel fest, dass "das Klima ihm ein Ende bereiten könnte". Der Manager bemerkt jedoch, dass Kurtz viel Elfenbein losschickt. Der Onkel erkundigt sich, wie das Elfenbein zur Station kommt, und der Manager erwidert, dass es von einer Gruppe von Eingeborenen per Kanu den Fluss hinuntertransportiert wird, angeführt von einem "Mischling" und Schreiber, der für Kurtz arbeitet. Kurtz war anfangs mit der Gruppe unterwegs, hatte aber auf halbem Weg umgedreht und war mit einem einzigen Kanu und vier Eingeborenen zurück in die Wildnis gefahren. Der Manager und sein Onkel wundern sich über die Vorstellung einer solchen Tat. Marlow bemerkt, dass sie Kurtz nie bei seinem Namen nennen, sondern nur als "diesen Mann" bezeichnen, und sein Interesse an Kurtz vertieft sich, als er diese Geschichte hört. Der Manager nennt Kurtz' Schreiber "diesen Schurken" und erzählt seinem Onkel, dass der Schreiber ihm mitgeteilt habe, dass Kurtz krank sei. Während sich das Duo am Flussufer auf und ab bewegt, hört Marlow nur Bruchteile ihres Gesprächs und versteht, dass Kurtz nun seit etwa neun Monaten isoliert ist, ohne wirkliche Neuigkeiten über ihn, nur ein paar seltsame Gerüchte. Marlow kann nicht alle Puzzlestücke zusammenfügen, aber er hört etwas über "unfairen Wettbewerb". Der Manager schlägt vor, dass entweder Kurtz oder "der Schurke" gehängt werden muss, als Beispiel. Der Onkel stimmt zu, dass solche Handlungen hier möglich sind, und betont, dass der Manager keine Angst vor jemandem in der Wildnis haben muss; nur diejenigen in Europa stellen eine echte Bedrohung dar. Das Paar entfernt sich wieder aus Hörweite, und als es zurückkehrt, behauptet der Manager, dass die Verzögerungen bei der Beschaffung des Elfenbeins nicht seine Schuld seien. Der Manager erzählt dann, wie Kurtz ihm das letzte Mal, als er auf der Station war, Ärger bereitet hat, indem er eine Überzeugung zum Ausdruck brachte, dass alle Stationen "'wie ein Leitstern auf dem Weg zu besseren Dingen sein sollten, ein Handelszentrum natürlich, aber auch zur Humanisierung, Verbesserung, Unterrichtung'". Der Onkel des Managers betont, dass seine Fähigkeit, gesund zu bleiben, ihm zugute kommen wird; er zeigt auf die Wildnis und bekräftigt, dass diese sich um das Problem kümmern wird. Bei dieser Offenbarung springt Marlow versehentlich auf und enthüllt seine Anwesenheit. Der Manager und sein Onkel sind überrascht von Marlows Anwesenheit und kehren ins Dorf zurück. Mehrere Tage später bricht die Eldorado-Expedition in die Wildnis auf. Später erfährt Marlow, dass alle Esel der Expedition gestorben sind; er fragt sich nach den anderen Mitgliedern der Gruppe, erfährt jedoch nichts. Inzwischen ist sein Boot repariert und er geht flussaufwärts zu Kurtz' Station. Marlow bemerkt, dass die Reise flussaufwärts zu Kurtz' Station war wie eine Reise in die Vergangenheit. Der Manager und mehrere andere Stationsarbeiter sind an Bord. Marlow bemerkt, dass die Landschaft urwüchsig erscheint. Obwohl seine Umgebung still und ruhig ist, wirkt sie nicht friedlich. Eine gewisse Vorahnung des Untergangs liegt in der Luft, doch Marlow schafft es, diese Gefühle in Schach zu halten, indem er sich den zahlreichen Pflichten widmet, die erforderlich sind, um das Boot sicher zu steuern. Mehrmals setzt das Boot auf, aber mit Hilfe mehrerer Eingeborener, die sie auf dem Weg angeworben haben, "Kannibalen" nennt Marlow sie, schaffen sie es, das Boot zu befreien. Sie halten an mehreren kleinen Stationen an, wo weiße Männer aus ihren Hütten stolpern und überrascht und glücklich aussehen. Marlow bemerkt, dass ihn die massiven Bäume am Ufer des Flusses und das dichte Waldbewuchs sehr klein und verloren fühlen lassen. Aber dennoch, sie "drangen immer tiefer in das Herz der Dunkelheit ein". Manchmal hörten sie nachts in der Ferne Trommeln schlagen. Gelegentlich passierten sie ein einheimisches Dorf, und die Bewohner liefen heraus und stampften und schrien auf eine Weise, die Marlow nicht verstehen konnte. Marlow kommentiert die ungezähmte Natur der Landschaft. Obwohl die Engländer sie als erobertes Gebiet betrachteten, war sie immer noch wild und ungezähmt - wie auch ihre Bewohner. Als Marlow die Bewohner der Wildnis betrachtet, erkennt er eine gewisse Menschlichkeit in ihnen, gibt aber auch zu, dass sie ihn daran erinnern, dass es Wildheit in allen Menschen gibt. Marlow stellt fest, dass er einen Einheimischen damit beauftragt hat, den Dampfmaschinen des Bootes zu bedienen, und wenn er den Mann ansieht, sieht er "einen Hund in einer Parodie von Beinkleidern und einem Federhut, der auf seinen Hinterbeinen geht". Ungefähr fünfzig Meilen unterhalb von Kurtz' Innerer Station stoßen sie unerwartet auf eine kleine Hütte. Als sie landen, entdecken sie einen Holzhaufen und einen seltsamen Zettel, auf dem steht, dass das Holz für sie bestimmt war und dass sie so schnell wie möglich kommen sollten, aber die Innere Station vorsichtig angehen sollten. Der Bewohner der Hütte fehlt, aber Marlow vermutet, dass es sich um einen Weißen handelte. Marlow findet ein Buch über die Schiffsführung und entdeckt, dass es mysteriöse Notizen, in "Geheimschrift", gibt. Er nimmt das Buch mit. Der Manager schließt daraus, dass der Besitzer der Hütte der "Eindringling" ist, von dem er vermutete, dass er mit Kurtz zusammengearbeitet hat. Etwa acht Meilen unterhalb von Kurtz' Station entscheidet sich Marlow mit dem Manager, das Boot für den Abend anzuhalten und in der Mitte des Flusses vor Anker zu gehen. Am Morgen gerät das Boot in einen dichten Nebel. Der Nebel lichtet sich vorübergehend, aber als Marlow sich darauf vorbereitet, flussaufwärts zu fahren, kehrt er zurück. Er befiehlt, den Anker erneut zu setzen, und ein lauter Schrei, gefolgt von einer Reihe von Schreien, ist aus dem Dschungel zu hören. Die Männer der Gesellschaft werden nervös, und mehrere von ihnen stürzen sich mit ihren Gewehren bewaffnet in die Büsche, in der Erwartung eines Angriffs. Marlow bemerkt einen deutlichen Unterschied in den Reaktionen seiner englischen Kollegen und der Eingeborenen bei ihnen. Während die Engländer verwirrt über den Lärm sind, reagieren die Eingeborenen auf neugierige Weise. Tatsächlich sagt einer der Eingeborenen zu Marlow, dass sie die Fremden fangen sollten, damit sie sie essen könnten. Marlow lässt sich von dem Kommentar nicht beunruhigen und stellt fest, dass die Männer extrem hungrig gewesen sein müssen, denn ihr Fleischvorrat - ein faulender Fleischkloß von Flusspferdfleisch - war über Bord geworfen worden. Marlow weist darauf hin, dass die Eingeborenen wöchentlich mit Metallfäden bezahlt wurden, in der Hoffnung, dass sie entlang des Weges mit anderen Eingeborenen handeln würden, um an Essen zu kommen. Doch es gab kaum Gelegenheit für sie, dies zu tun. Marlow wundert sich über die Dummheit des Plans der Firma und fragt sich, warum die Eingeborenen, die die Männer der Gesellschaft zahlenmäßig überlegen sind, sie nicht einfach essen. Er führt es auf eine große "Zurückhaltung" zurück, die auf etwas gründet, das er nicht ganz begreifen kann. Obwohl der Nebel sich nicht gelichtet hat, drängt der Manager Marlow zum Weiterfahren. Marlow weigert sich jedoch und argumentiert, dass es dumm wäre, unter solchen Bedingungen weiterzufahren. Der Manager fragt Marlow, ob er glaubt, dass sie angegriffen werden, und Marlow antwortet, dass er das nicht glaubt und bemerkt, dass die Eingeborenen in der Wildnis ebenfalls durch den Nebel behindert werden. Er bemerkt auch, dass ihre Schreie etwas Trauerhaftes, nicht Konfrontatives haben. Es scheint, als ob die Eingeborenen im Wald versuchen, sich selbst zu schützen und sie einfach zu vertreiben. Als der Nebel schließlich wieder verschwindet, fahren sie flussaufwärts, bis sie etwa eine Meile unterhalb von Kurtz' Station an einer Reihe von Sandbänken ankommen, die den Fluss in flache Kanäle teilen. Hier gerät das Boot unter Beschuss von einer Salve kleiner Pfeile. Während Marlow versucht, das Boot wieder flott zu machen, schaut er ins dichte Gestrüpp am Ufer und sieht zahlreiche Eingeborene, die sich zwischen den Bäumen verstecken. Einer der Männer fragt Marlow, ob er das Boot herumdrehen kann, und gleichzeitig beginnen mehrere Männer wahllos in das Gebüsch zu schießen. Bei einem zweiten Schusswechsel schnappt sich der Steuermann ein Gewehr aus dem Steuerhaus und schießt an Land. Einen Moment später wird er von einem Speer getroffen. Marlow bläst wiederholt die Pfeife des Bootes, und die Angreifer fliehen; jedoch ist der Steuermann tödlich verwundet worden. Marlow und ein anderer Mitarbeiter der Gesellschaft beobachten, wie der Steuermann stirbt, eine Blutlache sammelt sich zu Marlows Füßen. Mit dem Tod des Steuermanns fragt sich Marlow, ob nicht auch Kurtz tot sein könnte. Der Gedanke beunruhigt Marlow, der realisiert, dass er sich danach gesehnt hat, mit Kurtz zu sprechen. Genauer gesagt, er hat sich danach gesehnt, "zu hören", was Kurtz zu sagen hat. Dieses Verlangen ruft in ihm dieselbe Art von Emotion hervor, die anscheinend in den Schreien zum Ausdruck kommt, die er zuvor aus dem Nebel gehört hat. In einer verzweifelten Handlung wirft Marlow beide seiner blutbeschmierten Schuhe in den Fluss. An diesem Punkt hält Marlow einen Moment inne und gesteht den Männern an Bord der Nellie, dass sein Verlangen, Kurtz zu treffen, auf eine gewisse Weise absurd ist, er akzeptiert es jedoch trotzdem. Er erwähnt auch ein Mädchen, eine Frau, von der Kurtz als seine "Verlobte" spricht. Marlow setzt seine Erzählung fort und bemerkt die beträchtliche Menge an Elfenbein, die sie an der Inneren Station von Kurtz finden, genug, um das Deck des Dampfers vollständig zu bedecken. Der Manager bezeichnet das Elfenbein als "fossilisiert", was bedeutet, dass es ausgegraben wurde, aber Marlow sieht es immer noch als wertvoll an. Marlow stellt fest, dass Kurtz die Angewohnheit hatte, alles in der Gegend als sein Eigentum zu betrachten: "mein Elfenbein, meine Station, mein Fluss". Marlow schreibt dieses Besitzgefühl oder diese Eigentumsansprüche Kurtz zu, der einsam in der Wildnis gelebt hat. Marlow spricht dann über Kurtz' Geschichte. Als Sohn einer halbenglischen Mutter und eines halbfranzösischen Vaters wurde er teilweise in England ausgebildet. Marlow bemerkt, dass "ganz Europa zur Entstehung von Kurtz beigetragen hat" und bemerkt, dass eine bestimmte Organisation, die Internationale Gesellschaft zur Unterdrückung wilder Bräuche, Kurtz beauftragt hat, einen Bericht über das Gebiet zu schreiben. Kurtz tat dies, und Marlow behauptet, den Bericht gelesen zu haben. Marlow glaubt, dass Kurtz in der inneren Wildnis irgendwie verwandelt wurde, und stellt fest, dass bestimmte Rituale von den Eingeborenen nicht nur für ihn, sondern auch an ihn durchgeführt wurden. Marlow kommentiert erneut, dass er Kurtz' Bericht gelesen hat, und er erzählt den Männern der Nellie, dass der Bericht damit beginnt, dass Weiße den Eingeborenen als übernatürliche Wesen erscheinen müssen. Der Bericht spricht von einer Art göttlicher Wohlwollen, den Europäer dem Kongo bringen können. Doch am Ende des Berichts befindet sich ein Kommentar, offenbar viel später als der ursprüngliche Bericht geschrieben, der besagt: "Auslöschung aller Ungeheuer". Marlow berichtet, wie das Dampfboot schließlich an Kurtz' Innerer Station ankommt. Er stellt fest, dass kein Zaun die Station umgibt, vermutet aber, dass es einmal einen gegeben haben muss, da in der Nähe des Haupthauses eine Reihe von Pfählen steht, die von geschnitzten Holzkugeln gekrönt sind. Als das Boot sich dem Ufer nähert, entdecken sie einen weißen Mann, der am Ufer steht. Der Manager ruft aus, dass sie angegriffen worden seien, und der Mann sagt ihnen, dass sie sich keine Sorgen machen sollen. Der Mann erinnert Marlow an einen Harlekin, denn seine Kleidung ist mit vielen bunten Flicken repariert worden. Während der Manager und die anderen Mitarbeiter der Gesellschaft sich auf den Weg zum Haupthaus machen, bleibt Marlow auf dem Boot und spricht mit dem Harlekin. Marlow äußert seine Besorgnis über die Eingeborenen, und der Harlekin betont, dass sie "ein einfaches Volk" seien. Als Marlow den Harlekin fragt, ob er jemals mit Kurtz spricht, bemerkt der Harlekin: "'Mit diesem Mann spricht man nicht - man hört ihm zu.'" Marlow erfährt, dass es die Hütte des Harlekins war, an der sie zuvor vorbeigekommen sind, und er war es auch, der das Holz für sie gelagert hat; außerdem erfährt er, dass die Randbemerkungen in dem gefundenen Buch nicht in Geheimschrift, sondern in russischer Sprache verfasst sind. Marlow entdeckt, warum die Dorfbewohner das Boot angegriffen haben: Sie wollen nicht, dass jemand Kurtz mitnimmt. Der Abschnitt endet damit, dass der Harlekin eine sehr eigenartige Aussage über Kurtz macht: "'Ich sage euch', rief er, 'dieser Mann hat meinen Geist erweitert.'"

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> 1--A Face on Which Time Makes but Little Impression A Saturday afternoon in November was approaching the time of twilight, and the vast tract of unenclosed wild known as Egdon Heath embrowned itself moment by moment. Overhead the hollow stretch of whitish cloud shutting out the sky was as a tent which had the whole heath for its floor. The heaven being spread with this pallid screen and the earth with the darkest vegetation, their meeting-line at the horizon was clearly marked. In such contrast the heath wore the appearance of an instalment of night which had taken up its place before its astronomical hour was come: darkness had to a great extent arrived hereon, while day stood distinct in the sky. Looking upwards, a furze-cutter would have been inclined to continue work; looking down, he would have decided to finish his faggot and go home. The distant rims of the world and of the firmament seemed to be a division in time no less than a division in matter. The face of the heath by its mere complexion added half an hour to evening; it could in like manner retard the dawn, sadden noon, anticipate the frowning of storms scarcely generated, and intensify the opacity of a moonless midnight to a cause of shaking and dread. In fact, precisely at this transitional point of its nightly roll into darkness the great and particular glory of the Egdon waste began, and nobody could be said to understand the heath who had not been there at such a time. It could best be felt when it could not clearly be seen, its complete effect and explanation lying in this and the succeeding hours before the next dawn; then, and only then, did it tell its true tale. The spot was, indeed, a near relation of night, and when night showed itself an apparent tendency to gravitate together could be perceived in its shades and the scene. The sombre stretch of rounds and hollows seemed to rise and meet the evening gloom in pure sympathy, the heath exhaling darkness as rapidly as the heavens precipitated it. And so the obscurity in the air and the obscurity in the land closed together in a black fraternization towards which each advanced halfway. The place became full of a watchful intentness now; for when other things sank brooding to sleep the heath appeared slowly to awake and listen. Every night its Titanic form seemed to await something; but it had waited thus, unmoved, during so many centuries, through the crises of so many things, that it could only be imagined to await one last crisis--the final overthrow. It was a spot which returned upon the memory of those who loved it with an aspect of peculiar and kindly congruity. Smiling champaigns of flowers and fruit hardly do this, for they are permanently harmonious only with an existence of better reputation as to its issues than the present. Twilight combined with the scenery of Egdon Heath to evolve a thing majestic without severity, impressive without showiness, emphatic in its admonitions, grand in its simplicity. The qualifications which frequently invest the facade of a prison with far more dignity than is found in the facade of a palace double its size lent to this heath a sublimity in which spots renowned for beauty of the accepted kind are utterly wanting. Fair prospects wed happily with fair times; but alas, if times be not fair! Men have oftener suffered from, the mockery of a place too smiling for their reason than from the oppression of surroundings oversadly tinged. Haggard Egdon appealed to a subtler and scarcer instinct, to a more recently learnt emotion, than that which responds to the sort of beauty called charming and fair. Indeed, it is a question if the exclusive reign of this orthodox beauty is not approaching its last quarter. The new Vale of Tempe may be a gaunt waste in Thule; human souls may find themselves in closer and closer harmony with external things wearing a sombreness distasteful to our race when it was young. The time seems near, if it has not actually arrived, when the chastened sublimity of a moor, a sea, or a mountain will be all of nature that is absolutely in keeping with the moods of the more thinking among mankind. And ultimately, to the commonest tourist, spots like Iceland may become what the vineyards and myrtle gardens of South Europe are to him now; and Heidelberg and Baden be passed unheeded as he hastens from the Alps to the sand dunes of Scheveningen. The most thoroughgoing ascetic could feel that he had a natural right to wander on Egdon--he was keeping within the line of legitimate indulgence when he laid himself open to influences such as these. Colours and beauties so far subdued were, at least, the birthright of all. Only in summer days of highest feather did its mood touch the level of gaiety. Intensity was more usually reached by way of the solemn than by way of the brilliant, and such a sort of intensity was often arrived at during winter darkness, tempests, and mists. Then Egdon was aroused to reciprocity; for the storm was its lover, and the wind its friend. Then it became the home of strange phantoms; and it was found to be the hitherto unrecognized original of those wild regions of obscurity which are vaguely felt to be compassing us about in midnight dreams of flight and disaster, and are never thought of after the dream till revived by scenes like this. It was at present a place perfectly accordant with man's nature--neither ghastly, hateful, nor ugly; neither commonplace, unmeaning, nor tame; but, like man, slighted and enduring; and withal singularly colossal and mysterious in its swarthy monotony. As with some persons who have long lived apart, solitude seemed to look out of its countenance. It had a lonely face, suggesting tragical possibilities. This obscure, obsolete, superseded country figures in Domesday. Its condition is recorded therein as that of heathy, furzy, briary wilderness--"Bruaria." Then follows the length and breadth in leagues; and, though some uncertainty exists as to the exact extent of this ancient lineal measure, it appears from the figures that the area of Egdon down to the present day has but little diminished. "Turbaria Bruaria"--the right of cutting heath-turf--occurs in charters relating to the district. "Overgrown with heth and mosse," says Leland of the same dark sweep of country. Here at least were intelligible facts regarding landscape--far-reaching proofs productive of genuine satisfaction. The untameable, Ishmaelitish thing that Egdon now was it always had been. Civilization was its enemy; and ever since the beginning of vegetation its soil had worn the same antique brown dress, the natural and invariable garment of the particular formation. In its venerable one coat lay a certain vein of satire on human vanity in clothes. A person on a heath in raiment of modern cut and colours has more or less an anomalous look. We seem to want the oldest and simplest human clothing where the clothing of the earth is so primitive. To recline on a stump of thorn in the central valley of Egdon, between afternoon and night, as now, where the eye could reach nothing of the world outside the summits and shoulders of heathland which filled the whole circumference of its glance, and to know that everything around and underneath had been from prehistoric times as unaltered as the stars overhead, gave ballast to the mind adrift on change, and harassed by the irrepressible New. The great inviolate place had an ancient permanence which the sea cannot claim. Who can say of a particular sea that it is old? Distilled by the sun, kneaded by the moon, it is renewed in a year, in a day, or in an hour. The sea changed, the fields changed, the rivers, the villages, and the people changed, yet Egdon remained. Those surfaces were neither so steep as to be destructible by weather, nor so flat as to be the victims of floods and deposits. With the exception of an aged highway, and a still more aged barrow presently to be referred to--themselves almost crystallized to natural products by long continuance--even the trifling irregularities were not caused by pickaxe, plough, or spade, but remained as the very finger-touches of the last geological change. The above-mentioned highway traversed the lower levels of the heath, from one horizon to another. In many portions of its course it overlaid an old vicinal way, which branched from the great Western road of the Romans, the Via Iceniana, or Ikenild Street, hard by. On the evening under consideration it would have been noticed that, though the gloom had increased sufficiently to confuse the minor features of the heath, the white surface of the road remained almost as clear as ever. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> 2--Humanity Appears upon the Scene, Hand in Hand with Trouble Along the road walked an old man. He was white-headed as a mountain, bowed in the shoulders, and faded in general aspect. He wore a glazed hat, an ancient boat-cloak, and shoes; his brass buttons bearing an anchor upon their face. In his hand was a silver-headed walking stick, which he used as a veritable third leg, perseveringly dotting the ground with its point at every few inches' interval. One would have said that he had been, in his day, a naval officer of some sort or other. Before him stretched the long, laborious road, dry, empty, and white. It was quite open to the heath on each side, and bisected that vast dark surface like the parting-line on a head of black hair, diminishing and bending away on the furthest horizon. The old man frequently stretched his eyes ahead to gaze over the tract that he had yet to traverse. At length he discerned, a long distance in front of him, a moving spot, which appeared to be a vehicle, and it proved to be going the same way as that in which he himself was journeying. It was the single atom of life that the scene contained, and it only served to render the general loneliness more evident. Its rate of advance was slow, and the old man gained upon it sensibly. When he drew nearer he perceived it to be a spring van, ordinary in shape, but singular in colour, this being a lurid red. The driver walked beside it; and, like his van, he was completely red. One dye of that tincture covered his clothes, the cap upon his head, his boots, his face, and his hands. He was not temporarily overlaid with the colour; it permeated him. The old man knew the meaning of this. The traveller with the cart was a reddleman--a person whose vocation it was to supply farmers with redding for their sheep. He was one of a class rapidly becoming extinct in Wessex, filling at present in the rural world the place which, during the last century, the dodo occupied in the world of animals. He is a curious, interesting, and nearly perished link between obsolete forms of life and those which generally prevail. The decayed officer, by degrees, came up alongside his fellow-wayfarer, and wished him good evening. The reddleman turned his head, and replied in sad and occupied tones. He was young, and his face, if not exactly handsome, approached so near to handsome that nobody would have contradicted an assertion that it really was so in its natural colour. His eye, which glared so strangely through his stain, was in itself attractive--keen as that of a bird of prey, and blue as autumn mist. He had neither whisker nor moustache, which allowed the soft curves of the lower part of his face to be apparent. His lips were thin, and though, as it seemed, compressed by thought, there was a pleasant twitch at their corners now and then. He was clothed throughout in a tight-fitting suit of corduroy, excellent in quality, not much worn, and well-chosen for its purpose, but deprived of its original colour by his trade. It showed to advantage the good shape of his figure. A certain well-to-do air about the man suggested that he was not poor for his degree. The natural query of an observer would have been, Why should such a promising being as this have hidden his prepossessing exterior by adopting that singular occupation? After replying to the old man's greeting he showed no inclination to continue in talk, although they still walked side by side, for the elder traveller seemed to desire company. There were no sounds but that of the booming wind upon the stretch of tawny herbage around them, the crackling wheels, the tread of the men, and the footsteps of the two shaggy ponies which drew the van. They were small, hardy animals, of a breed between Galloway and Exmoor, and were known as "heath-croppers" here. Now, as they thus pursued their way, the reddleman occasionally left his companion's side, and, stepping behind the van, looked into its interior through a small window. The look was always anxious. He would then return to the old man, who made another remark about the state of the country and so on, to which the reddleman again abstractedly replied, and then again they would lapse into silence. The silence conveyed to neither any sense of awkwardness; in these lonely places wayfarers, after a first greeting, frequently plod on for miles without speech; contiguity amounts to a tacit conversation where, otherwise than in cities, such contiguity can be put an end to on the merest inclination, and where not to put an end to it is intercourse in itself. Possibly these two might not have spoken again till their parting, had it not been for the reddleman's visits to his van. When he returned from his fifth time of looking in the old man said, "You have something inside there besides your load?" "Yes." "Somebody who wants looking after?" "Yes." Not long after this a faint cry sounded from the interior. The reddleman hastened to the back, looked in, and came away again. "You have a child there, my man?" "No, sir, I have a woman." "The deuce you have! Why did she cry out?" "Oh, she has fallen asleep, and not being used to traveling, she's uneasy, and keeps dreaming." "A young woman?" "Yes, a young woman." "That would have interested me forty years ago. Perhaps she's your wife?" "My wife!" said the other bitterly. "She's above mating with such as I. But there's no reason why I should tell you about that." "That's true. And there's no reason why you should not. What harm can I do to you or to her?" The reddleman looked in the old man's face. "Well, sir," he said at last, "I knew her before today, though perhaps it would have been better if I had not. But she's nothing to me, and I am nothing to her; and she wouldn't have been in my van if any better carriage had been there to take her." "Where, may I ask?" "At Anglebury." "I know the town well. What was she doing there?" "Oh, not much--to gossip about. However, she's tired to death now, and not at all well, and that's what makes her so restless. She dropped off into a nap about an hour ago, and 'twill do her good." "A nice-looking girl, no doubt?" "You would say so." The other traveller turned his eyes with interest towards the van window, and, without withdrawing them, said, "I presume I might look in upon her?" "No," said the reddleman abruptly. "It is getting too dark for you to see much of her; and, more than that, I have no right to allow you. Thank God she sleeps so well, I hope she won't wake till she's home." "Who is she? One of the neighbourhood?" "'Tis no matter who, excuse me." "It is not that girl of Blooms-End, who has been talked about more or less lately? If so, I know her; and I can guess what has happened." "'Tis no matter.... Now, sir, I am sorry to say that we shall soon have to part company. My ponies are tired, and I have further to go, and I am going to rest them under this bank for an hour." The elder traveller nodded his head indifferently, and the reddleman turned his horses and van in upon the turf, saying, "Good night." The old man replied, and proceeded on his way as before. The reddleman watched his form as it diminished to a speck on the road and became absorbed in the thickening films of night. He then took some hay from a truss which was slung up under the van, and, throwing a portion of it in front of the horses, made a pad of the rest, which he laid on the ground beside his vehicle. Upon this he sat down, leaning his back against the wheel. From the interior a low soft breathing came to his ear. It appeared to satisfy him, and he musingly surveyed the scene, as if considering the next step that he should take. To do things musingly, and by small degrees, seemed, indeed, to be a duty in the Egdon valleys at this transitional hour, for there was that in the condition of the heath itself which resembled protracted and halting dubiousness. It was the quality of the repose appertaining to the scene. This was not the repose of actual stagnation, but the apparent repose of incredible slowness. A condition of healthy life so nearly resembling the torpor of death is a noticeable thing of its sort; to exhibit the inertness of the desert, and at the same time to be exercising powers akin to those of the meadow, and even of the forest, awakened in those who thought of it the attentiveness usually engendered by understatement and reserve. The scene before the reddleman's eyes was a gradual series of ascents from the level of the road backward into the heart of the heath. It embraced hillocks, pits, ridges, acclivities, one behind the other, till all was finished by a high hill cutting against the still light sky. The traveller's eye hovered about these things for a time, and finally settled upon one noteworthy object up there. It was a barrow. This bossy projection of earth above its natural level occupied the loftiest ground of the loneliest height that the heath contained. Although from the vale it appeared but as a wart on an Atlantean brow, its actual bulk was great. It formed the pole and axis of this heathery world. As the resting man looked at the barrow he became aware that its summit, hitherto the highest object in the whole prospect round, was surmounted by something higher. It rose from the semiglobular mound like a spike from a helmet. The first instinct of an imaginative stranger might have been to suppose it the person of one of the Celts who built the barrow, so far had all of modern date withdrawn from the scene. It seemed a sort of last man among them, musing for a moment before dropping into eternal night with the rest of his race. There the form stood, motionless as the hill beneath. Above the plain rose the hill, above the hill rose the barrow, and above the barrow rose the figure. Above the figure was nothing that could be mapped elsewhere than on a celestial globe. Such a perfect, delicate, and necessary finish did the figure give to the dark pile of hills that it seemed to be the only obvious justification of their outline. Without it, there was the dome without the lantern; with it the architectural demands of the mass were satisfied. The scene was strangely homogeneous, in that the vale, the upland, the barrow, and the figure above it amounted only to unity. Looking at this or that member of the group was not observing a complete thing, but a fraction of a thing. The form was so much like an organic part of the entire motionless structure that to see it move would have impressed the mind as a strange phenomenon. Immobility being the chief characteristic of that whole which the person formed portion of, the discontinuance of immobility in any quarter suggested confusion. Yet that is what happened. The figure perceptibly gave up its fixity, shifted a step or two, and turned round. As if alarmed, it descended on the right side of the barrow, with the glide of a water-drop down a bud, and then vanished. The movement had been sufficient to show more clearly the characteristics of the figure, and that it was a woman's. The reason of her sudden displacement now appeared. With her dropping out of sight on the right side, a newcomer, bearing a burden, protruded into the sky on the left side, ascended the tumulus, and deposited the burden on the top. A second followed, then a third, a fourth, a fifth, and ultimately the whole barrow was peopled with burdened figures. The only intelligible meaning in this sky-backed pantomime of silhouettes was that the woman had no relation to the forms who had taken her place, was sedulously avoiding these, and had come thither for another object than theirs. The imagination of the observer clung by preference to that vanished, solitary figure, as to something more interesting, more important, more likely to have a history worth knowing than these newcomers, and unconsciously regarded them as intruders. But they remained, and established themselves; and the lonely person who hitherto had been queen of the solitude did not at present seem likely to return. </CHAPTER> Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Die Dämmerung bricht über der Egdon Heath herein. Es ist Samstag, der fünfte November. Die Egdon Heath, die im Domesday Book aus dem Jahr 1086 erwähnt wird, hat sich seitdem kaum verändert. Die Anwesenheit von Menschen ist nur durch eine Straße und die prähistorischen Grabhügel erkennbar, die die Heath übersäen. Ein alter Mann in Navalbekleidung geht die Straße entlang und kommt an einem Springwagen an, neben dem ein Rot-Stein-Sammler entlanggeht. Obwohl der Rot-Stein-Sammler nicht der gesprächige Typ ist, ist der alte Mann neugierig und schafft es, genug Informationen aus dem Rot-Stein-Sammler herauszubekommen, um zu erfahren, dass der Wagen eine junge Frau enthält. Aber der Rot-Stein-Sammler will nichts weiter sagen und sie trennen sich bald. Der alte Mann setzt seinen Weg fort und der junge Mann wendet seinen Wagen und die Pferde auf das Grasland und ruht eine Weile aus. Während er ruht, bemerkt der Rot-Stein-Sammler die Gestalt einer Frau auf Rainbarrow, dem höchsten Punkt der Heath. Sehr bald wird diese Gestalt von anderen ersetzt, die ein Feuer anzünden.

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: Knights, with a long retinue of their squires, In gaudy liveries march and quaint attires; One laced the helm, another held the lance, A third the shining buckler did advance. The courser paw'd the ground with restless feet, And snorting foam'd and champ'd the golden bit. The smiths and armourers on palfreys ride, Files in their hands, and hammers at their side; And nails for loosen'd spears, and thongs for shields provide. The yeomen guard the streets in seemly bands; And clowns come crowding on, with cudgels in their hands. --Palamon and Arcite The condition of the English nation was at this time sufficiently miserable. King Richard was absent a prisoner, and in the power of the perfidious and cruel Duke of Austria. Even the very place of his captivity was uncertain, and his fate but very imperfectly known to the generality of his subjects, who were, in the meantime, a prey to every species of subaltern oppression. Prince John, in league with Philip of France, Coeur-de-Lion's mortal enemy, was using every species of influence with the Duke of Austria, to prolong the captivity of his brother Richard, to whom he stood indebted for so many favours. In the meantime, he was strengthening his own faction in the kingdom, of which he proposed to dispute the succession, in case of the King's death, with the legitimate heir, Arthur Duke of Brittany, son of Geoffrey Plantagenet, the elder brother of John. This usurpation, it is well known, he afterwards effected. His own character being light, profligate, and perfidious, John easily attached to his person and faction, not only all who had reason to dread the resentment of Richard for criminal proceedings during his absence, but also the numerous class of "lawless resolutes," whom the crusades had turned back on their country, accomplished in the vices of the East, impoverished in substance, and hardened in character, and who placed their hopes of harvest in civil commotion. To these causes of public distress and apprehension, must be added, the multitude of outlaws, who, driven to despair by the oppression of the feudal nobility, and the severe exercise of the forest laws, banded together in large gangs, and, keeping possession of the forests and the wastes, set at defiance the justice and magistracy of the country. The nobles themselves, each fortified within his own castle, and playing the petty sovereign over his own dominions, were the leaders of bands scarce less lawless and oppressive than those of the avowed depredators. To maintain these retainers, and to support the extravagance and magnificence which their pride induced them to affect, the nobility borrowed sums of money from the Jews at the most usurious interest, which gnawed into their estates like consuming cankers, scarce to be cured unless when circumstances gave them an opportunity of getting free, by exercising upon their creditors some act of unprincipled violence. Under the various burdens imposed by this unhappy state of affairs, the people of England suffered deeply for the present, and had yet more dreadful cause to fear for the future. To augment their misery, a contagious disorder of a dangerous nature spread through the land; and, rendered more virulent by the uncleanness, the indifferent food, and the wretched lodging of the lower classes, swept off many whose fate the survivors were tempted to envy, as exempting them from the evils which were to come. Yet amid these accumulated distresses, the poor as well as the rich, the vulgar as well as the noble, in the event of a tournament, which was the grand spectacle of that age, felt as much interested as the half-starved citizen of Madrid, who has not a real left to buy provisions for his family, feels in the issue of a bull-feast. Neither duty nor infirmity could keep youth or age from such exhibitions. The Passage of Arms, as it was called, which was to take place at Ashby, in the county of Leicester, as champions of the first renown were to take the field in the presence of Prince John himself, who was expected to grace the lists, had attracted universal attention, and an immense confluence of persons of all ranks hastened upon the appointed morning to the place of combat. The scene was singularly romantic. On the verge of a wood, which approached to within a mile of the town of Ashby, was an extensive meadow, of the finest and most beautiful green turf, surrounded on one side by the forest, and fringed on the other by straggling oak-trees, some of which had grown to an immense size. The ground, as if fashioned on purpose for the martial display which was intended, sloped gradually down on all sides to a level bottom, which was enclosed for the lists with strong palisades, forming a space of a quarter of a mile in length, and about half as broad. The form of the enclosure was an oblong square, save that the corners were considerably rounded off, in order to afford more convenience for the spectators. The openings for the entry of the combatants were at the northern and southern extremities of the lists, accessible by strong wooden gates, each wide enough to admit two horsemen riding abreast. At each of these portals were stationed two heralds, attended by six trumpets, as many pursuivants, and a strong body of men-at-arms for maintaining order, and ascertaining the quality of the knights who proposed to engage in this martial game. On a platform beyond the southern entrance, formed by a natural elevation of the ground, were pitched five magnificent pavilions, adorned with pennons of russet and black, the chosen colours of the five knights challengers. The cords of the tents were of the same colour. Before each pavilion was suspended the shield of the knight by whom it was occupied, and beside it stood his squire, quaintly disguised as a salvage or silvan man, or in some other fantastic dress, according to the taste of his master, and the character he was pleased to assume during the game. [16] The central pavilion, as the place of honour, had been assigned to Brian be Bois-Guilbert, whose renown in all games of chivalry, no less than his connexions with the knights who had undertaken this Passage of Arms, had occasioned him to be eagerly received into the company of the challengers, and even adopted as their chief and leader, though he had so recently joined them. On one side of his tent were pitched those of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf and Richard de Malvoisin, and on the other was the pavilion of Hugh de Grantmesnil, a noble baron in the vicinity, whose ancestor had been Lord High Steward of England in the time of the Conqueror, and his son William Rufus. Ralph de Vipont, a knight of St John of Jerusalem, who had some ancient possessions at a place called Heather, near Ashby-de-la-Zouche, occupied the fifth pavilion. From the entrance into the lists, a gently sloping passage, ten yards in breadth, led up to the platform on which the tents were pitched. It was strongly secured by a palisade on each side, as was the esplanade in front of the pavilions, and the whole was guarded by men-at-arms. The northern access to the lists terminated in a similar entrance of thirty feet in breadth, at the extremity of which was a large enclosed space for such knights as might be disposed to enter the lists with the challengers, behind which were placed tents containing refreshments of every kind for their accommodation, with armourers, tarriers, and other attendants, in readiness to give their services wherever they might be necessary. The exterior of the lists was in part occupied by temporary galleries, spread with tapestry and carpets, and accommodated with cushions for the convenience of those ladies and nobles who were expected to attend the tournament. A narrow space, betwixt these galleries and the lists, gave accommodation for yeomanry and spectators of a better degree than the mere vulgar, and might be compared to the pit of a theatre. The promiscuous multitude arranged themselves upon large banks of turf prepared for the purpose, which, aided by the natural elevation of the ground, enabled them to overlook the galleries, and obtain a fair view into the lists. Besides the accommodation which these stations afforded, many hundreds had perched themselves on the branches of the trees which surrounded the meadow; and even the steeple of a country church, at some distance, was crowded with spectators. It only remains to notice respecting the general arrangement, that one gallery in the very centre of the eastern side of the lists, and consequently exactly opposite to the spot where the shock of the combat was to take place, was raised higher than the others, more richly decorated, and graced by a sort of throne and canopy, on which the royal arms were emblazoned. Squires, pages, and yeomen in rich liveries, waited around this place of honour, which was designed for Prince John and his attendants. Opposite to this royal gallery was another, elevated to the same height, on the western side of the lists; and more gaily, if less sumptuously decorated, than that destined for the Prince himself. A train of pages and of young maidens, the most beautiful who could be selected, gaily dressed in fancy habits of green and pink, surrounded a throne decorated in the same colours. Among pennons and flags bearing wounded hearts, burning hearts, bleeding hearts, bows and quivers, and all the commonplace emblems of the triumphs of Cupid, a blazoned inscription informed the spectators, that this seat of honour was designed for "La Royne de las Beaulte et des Amours". But who was to represent the Queen of Beauty and of Love on the present occasion no one was prepared to guess. Meanwhile, spectators of every description thronged forward to occupy their respective stations, and not without many quarrels concerning those which they were entitled to hold. Some of these were settled by the men-at-arms with brief ceremony; the shafts of their battle-axes, and pummels of their swords, being readily employed as arguments to convince the more refractory. Others, which involved the rival claims of more elevated persons, were determined by the heralds, or by the two marshals of the field, William de Wyvil, and Stephen de Martival, who, armed at all points, rode up and down the lists to enforce and preserve good order among the spectators. Gradually the galleries became filled with knights and nobles, in their robes of peace, whose long and rich-tinted mantles were contrasted with the gayer and more splendid habits of the ladies, who, in a greater proportion than even the men themselves, thronged to witness a sport, which one would have thought too bloody and dangerous to afford their sex much pleasure. The lower and interior space was soon filled by substantial yeomen and burghers, and such of the lesser gentry, as, from modesty, poverty, or dubious title, durst not assume any higher place. It was of course amongst these that the most frequent disputes for precedence occurred. "Dog of an unbeliever," said an old man, whose threadbare tunic bore witness to his poverty, as his sword, and dagger, and golden chain intimated his pretensions to rank,--"whelp of a she-wolf! darest thou press upon a Christian, and a Norman gentleman of the blood of Montdidier?" This rough expostulation was addressed to no other than our acquaintance Isaac, who, richly and even magnificently dressed in a gaberdine ornamented with lace and lined with fur, was endeavouring to make place in the foremost row beneath the gallery for his daughter, the beautiful Rebecca, who had joined him at Ashby, and who was now hanging on her father's arm, not a little terrified by the popular displeasure which seemed generally excited by her parent's presumption. But Isaac, though we have seen him sufficiently timid on other occasions, knew well that at present he had nothing to fear. It was not in places of general resort, or where their equals were assembled, that any avaricious or malevolent noble durst offer him injury. At such meetings the Jews were under the protection of the general law; and if that proved a weak assurance, it usually happened that there were among the persons assembled some barons, who, for their own interested motives, were ready to act as their protectors. On the present occasion, Isaac felt more than usually confident, being aware that Prince John was even then in the very act of negotiating a large loan from the Jews of York, to be secured upon certain jewels and lands. Isaac's own share in this transaction was considerable, and he well knew that the Prince's eager desire to bring it to a conclusion would ensure him his protection in the dilemma in which he stood. Emboldened by these considerations, the Jew pursued his point, and jostled the Norman Christian, without respect either to his descent, quality, or religion. The complaints of the old man, however, excited the indignation of the bystanders. One of these, a stout well-set yeoman, arrayed in Lincoln green, having twelve arrows stuck in his belt, with a baldric and badge of silver, and a bow of six feet length in his hand, turned short round, and while his countenance, which his constant exposure to weather had rendered brown as a hazel nut, grew darker with anger, he advised the Jew to remember that all the wealth he had acquired by sucking the blood of his miserable victims had but swelled him like a bloated spider, which might be overlooked while he kept in a corner, but would be crushed if it ventured into the light. This intimation, delivered in Norman-English with a firm voice and a stern aspect, made the Jew shrink back; and he would have probably withdrawn himself altogether from a vicinity so dangerous, had not the attention of every one been called to the sudden entrance of Prince John, who at that moment entered the lists, attended by a numerous and gay train, consisting partly of laymen, partly of churchmen, as light in their dress, and as gay in their demeanour, as their companions. Among the latter was the Prior of Jorvaulx, in the most gallant trim which a dignitary of the church could venture to exhibit. Fur and gold were not spared in his garments; and the points of his boots, out-heroding the preposterous fashion of the time, turned up so very far, as to be attached, not to his knees merely, but to his very girdle, and effectually prevented him from putting his foot into the stirrup. This, however, was a slight inconvenience to the gallant Abbot, who, perhaps, even rejoicing in the opportunity to display his accomplished horsemanship before so many spectators, especially of the fair sex, dispensed with the use of these supports to a timid rider. The rest of Prince John's retinue consisted of the favourite leaders of his mercenary troops, some marauding barons and profligate attendants upon the court, with several Knights Templars and Knights of St John. It may be here remarked, that the knights of these two orders were accounted hostile to King Richard, having adopted the side of Philip of France in the long train of disputes which took place in Palestine betwixt that monarch and the lion-hearted King of England. It was the well-known consequence of this discord that Richard's repeated victories had been rendered fruitless, his romantic attempts to besiege Jerusalem disappointed, and the fruit of all the glory which he had acquired had dwindled into an uncertain truce with the Sultan Saladin. With the same policy which had dictated the conduct of their brethren in the Holy Land, the Templars and Hospitallers in England and Normandy attached themselves to the faction of Prince John, having little reason to desire the return of Richard to England, or the succession of Arthur, his legitimate heir. For the opposite reason, Prince John hated and contemned the few Saxon families of consequence which subsisted in England, and omitted no opportunity of mortifying and affronting them; being conscious that his person and pretensions were disliked by them, as well as by the greater part of the English commons, who feared farther innovation upon their rights and liberties, from a sovereign of John's licentious and tyrannical disposition. Attended by this gallant equipage, himself well mounted, and splendidly dressed in crimson and in gold, bearing upon his hand a falcon, and having his head covered by a rich fur bonnet, adorned with a circle of precious stones, from which his long curled hair escaped and overspread his shoulders, Prince John, upon a grey and high-mettled palfrey, caracoled within the lists at the head of his jovial party, laughing loud with his train, and eyeing with all the boldness of royal criticism the beauties who adorned the lofty galleries. Those who remarked in the physiognomy of the Prince a dissolute audacity, mingled with extreme haughtiness and indifference to the feelings of others could not yet deny to his countenance that sort of comeliness which belongs to an open set of features, well formed by nature, modelled by art to the usual rules of courtesy, yet so far frank and honest, that they seemed as if they disclaimed to conceal the natural workings of the soul. Such an expression is often mistaken for manly frankness, when in truth it arises from the reckless indifference of a libertine disposition, conscious of superiority of birth, of wealth, or of some other adventitious advantage, totally unconnected with personal merit. To those who did not think so deeply, and they were the greater number by a hundred to one, the splendour of Prince John's "rheno", (i.e. fur tippet,) the richness of his cloak, lined with the most costly sables, his maroquin boots and golden spurs, together with the grace with which he managed his palfrey, were sufficient to merit clamorous applause. In his joyous caracole round the lists, the attention of the Prince was called by the commotion, not yet subsided, which had attended the ambitious movement of Isaac towards the higher places of the assembly. The quick eye of Prince John instantly recognised the Jew, but was much more agreeably attracted by the beautiful daughter of Zion, who, terrified by the tumult, clung close to the arm of her aged father. The figure of Rebecca might indeed have compared with the proudest beauties of England, even though it had been judged by as shrewd a connoisseur as Prince John. Her form was exquisitely symmetrical, and was shown to advantage by a sort of Eastern dress, which she wore according to the fashion of the females of her nation. Her turban of yellow silk suited well with the darkness of her complexion. The brilliancy of her eyes, the superb arch of her eyebrows, her well-formed aquiline nose, her teeth as white as pearl, and the profusion of her sable tresses, which, each arranged in its own little spiral of twisted curls, fell down upon as much of a lovely neck and bosom as a simarre of the richest Persian silk, exhibiting flowers in their natural colours embossed upon a purple ground, permitted to be visible--all these constituted a combination of loveliness, which yielded not to the most beautiful of the maidens who surrounded her. It is true, that of the golden and pearl-studded clasps, which closed her vest from the throat to the waist, the three uppermost were left unfastened on account of the heat, which somewhat enlarged the prospect to which we allude. A diamond necklace, with pendants of inestimable value, were by this means also made more conspicuous. The feather of an ostrich, fastened in her turban by an agraffe set with brilliants, was another distinction of the beautiful Jewess, scoffed and sneered at by the proud dames who sat above her, but secretly envied by those who affected to deride them. "By the bald scalp of Abraham," said Prince John, "yonder Jewess must be the very model of that perfection, whose charms drove frantic the wisest king that ever lived! What sayest thou, Prior Aymer?--By the Temple of that wise king, which our wiser brother Richard proved unable to recover, she is the very Bride of the Canticles!" "The Rose of Sharon and the Lily of the Valley,"--answered the Prior, in a sort of snuffling tone; "but your Grace must remember she is still but a Jewess." "Ay!" added Prince John, without heeding him, "and there is my Mammon of unrighteousness too--the Marquis of Marks, the Baron of Byzants, contesting for place with penniless dogs, whose threadbare cloaks have not a single cross in their pouches to keep the devil from dancing there. By the body of St Mark, my prince of supplies, with his lovely Jewess, shall have a place in the gallery!--What is she, Isaac? Thy wife or thy daughter, that Eastern houri that thou lockest under thy arm as thou wouldst thy treasure-casket?" "My daughter Rebecca, so please your Grace," answered Isaac, with a low congee, nothing embarrassed by the Prince's salutation, in which, however, there was at least as much mockery as courtesy. "The wiser man thou," said John, with a peal of laughter, in which his gay followers obsequiously joined. "But, daughter or wife, she should be preferred according to her beauty and thy merits.--Who sits above there?" he continued, bending his eye on the gallery. "Saxon churls, lolling at their lazy length!--out upon them!--let them sit close, and make room for my prince of usurers and his lovely daughter. I'll make the hinds know they must share the high places of the synagogue with those whom the synagogue properly belongs to." Those who occupied the gallery to whom this injurious and unpolite speech was addressed, were the family of Cedric the Saxon, with that of his ally and kinsman, Athelstane of Coningsburgh, a personage, who, on account of his descent from the last Saxon monarchs of England, was held in the highest respect by all the Saxon natives of the north of England. But with the blood of this ancient royal race, many of their infirmities had descended to Athelstane. He was comely in countenance, bulky and strong in person, and in the flower of his age--yet inanimate in expression, dull-eyed, heavy-browed, inactive and sluggish in all his motions, and so slow in resolution, that the soubriquet of one of his ancestors was conferred upon him, and he was very generally called Athelstane the Unready. His friends, and he had many, who, as well as Cedric, were passionately attached to him, contended that this sluggish temper arose not from want of courage, but from mere want of decision; others alleged that his hereditary vice of drunkenness had obscured his faculties, never of a very acute order, and that the passive courage and meek good-nature which remained behind, were merely the dregs of a character that might have been deserving of praise, but of which all the valuable parts had flown off in the progress of a long course of brutal debauchery. It was to this person, such as we have described him, that the Prince addressed his imperious command to make place for Isaac and Rebecca. Athelstane, utterly confounded at an order which the manners and feelings of the times rendered so injuriously insulting, unwilling to obey, yet undetermined how to resist, opposed only the "vis inertiae" to the will of John; and, without stirring or making any motion whatever of obedience, opened his large grey eyes, and stared at the Prince with an astonishment which had in it something extremely ludicrous. But the impatient John regarded it in no such light. "The Saxon porker," he said, "is either asleep or minds me not--Prick him with your lance, De Bracy," speaking to a knight who rode near him, the leader of a band of Free Companions, or Condottieri; that is, of mercenaries belonging to no particular nation, but attached for the time to any prince by whom they were paid. There was a murmur even among the attendants of Prince John; but De Bracy, whose profession freed him from all scruples, extended his long lance over the space which separated the gallery from the lists, and would have executed the commands of the Prince before Athelstane the Unready had recovered presence of mind sufficient even to draw back his person from the weapon, had not Cedric, as prompt as his companion was tardy, unsheathed, with the speed of lightning, the short sword which he wore, and at a single blow severed the point of the lance from the handle. The blood rushed into the countenance of Prince John. He swore one of his deepest oaths, and was about to utter some threat corresponding in violence, when he was diverted from his purpose, partly by his own attendants, who gathered around him conjuring him to be patient, partly by a general exclamation of the crowd, uttered in loud applause of the spirited conduct of Cedric. The Prince rolled his eyes in indignation, as if to collect some safe and easy victim; and chancing to encounter the firm glance of the same archer whom we have already noticed, and who seemed to persist in his gesture of applause, in spite of the frowning aspect which the Prince bent upon him, he demanded his reason for clamouring thus. "I always add my hollo," said the yeoman, "when I see a good shot, or a gallant blow." "Sayst thou?" answered the Prince; "then thou canst hit the white thyself, I'll warrant." "A woodsman's mark, and at woodsman's distance, I can hit," answered the yeoman. "And Wat Tyrrel's mark, at a hundred yards," said a voice from behind, but by whom uttered could not be discerned. This allusion to the fate of William Rufus, his Relative, at once incensed and alarmed Prince John. He satisfied himself, however, with commanding the men-at-arms, who surrounded the lists, to keep an eye on the braggart, pointing to the yeoman. "By St Grizzel," he added, "we will try his own skill, who is so ready to give his voice to the feats of others!" "I shall not fly the trial," said the yeoman, with the composure which marked his whole deportment. "Meanwhile, stand up, ye Saxon churls," said the fiery Prince; "for, by the light of Heaven, since I have said it, the Jew shall have his seat amongst ye!" "By no means, an it please your Grace!--it is not fit for such as we to sit with the rulers of the land," said the Jew; whose ambition for precedence though it had led him to dispute Place with the extenuated and impoverished descendant of the line of Montdidier, by no means stimulated him to an intrusion upon the privileges of the wealthy Saxons. "Up, infidel dog when I command you," said Prince John, "or I will have thy swarthy hide stript off, and tanned for horse-furniture." Thus urged, the Jew began to ascend the steep and narrow steps which led up to the gallery. "Let me see," said the Prince, "who dare stop him," fixing his eye on Cedric, whose attitude intimated his intention to hurl the Jew down headlong. The catastrophe was prevented by the clown Wamba, who, springing betwixt his master and Isaac, and exclaiming, in answer to the Prince's defiance, "Marry, that will I!" opposed to the beard of the Jew a shield of brawn, which he plucked from beneath his cloak, and with which, doubtless, he had furnished himself, lest the tournament should have proved longer than his appetite could endure abstinence. Finding the abomination of his tribe opposed to his very nose, while the Jester, at the same time, flourished his wooden sword above his head, the Jew recoiled, missed his footing, and rolled down the steps,--an excellent jest to the spectators, who set up a loud laughter, in which Prince John and his attendants heartily joined. "Deal me the prize, cousin Prince," said Wamba; "I have vanquished my foe in fair fight with sword and shield," he added, brandishing the brawn in one hand and the wooden sword in the other. "Who, and what art thou, noble champion?" said Prince John, still laughing. "A fool by right of descent," answered the Jester; "I am Wamba, the son of Witless, who was the son of Weatherbrain, who was the son of an Alderman." "Make room for the Jew in front of the lower ring," said Prince John, not unwilling perhaps to, seize an apology to desist from his original purpose; "to place the vanquished beside the victor were false heraldry." "Knave upon fool were worse," answered the Jester, "and Jew upon bacon worst of all." "Gramercy! good fellow," cried Prince John, "thou pleasest me--Here, Isaac, lend me a handful of byzants." As the Jew, stunned by the request, afraid to refuse, and unwilling to comply, fumbled in the furred bag which hung by his girdle, and was perhaps endeavouring to ascertain how few coins might pass for a handful, the Prince stooped from his jennet and settled Isaac's doubts by snatching the pouch itself from his side; and flinging to Wamba a couple of the gold pieces which it contained, he pursued his career round the lists, leaving the Jew to the derision of those around him, and himself receiving as much applause from the spectators as if he had done some honest and honourable action. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Das Turnier findet in Ashby, in Leicestershire, statt. Prinz John wird anwesend sein, und sowohl Reiche als auch Arme freuen sich auf das Spektakel. Alle berühmten Ritter werden gegeneinander antreten. Die Zuschauer sind nach ihrem Rang im Sitz geordnet, aber es gibt einige Streitereien und Auseinandersetzungen. Isaac wird heftig beschimpft, weil er versucht, sich und Rebecca einen der besten Plätze zu verschaffen. Er fühlt sich jedoch sicher an einem öffentlichen Ort, weil er weiß, dass Prinz John gerade einen großen Kredit von den Juden aus York verhandelt, und Isaac ist darin sehr involviert. Prinz John betritt dann die Szene; Prior Aymer von Jorvaulx ist einer seiner Begleiter. Prinz John entdeckt Rebecca und bewundert ihr Aussehen sehr. Er befiehlt den Sachsen auf den guten Plätzen in der Galerie, Platz für Isaac und seine Tochter zu machen. Die Sachsen sind zufällig Cedric und sein Verwandter Athelstane von Coningsburgh. Athelstane weigert sich, sich zu bewegen, und John befiehlt De Bracy, einem Söldnerritter, der Prinz John angehört, ihn mit seiner Lanze zu stechen. Cedric greift ein und trennt die Spitze von De Bracys Lanze vom Griff ab. Für einen Moment sieht es so aus, als ob Gewalt ausbrechen könnte, aber die Gefahr ist vorüber. Prinz John ruft erneut nach Isaac, damit er in der Galerie bei den Mächtigen sitzt. Cedric wagt es nicht, ihn aufzuhalten, aber eine Dummheit von Wamba führt dazu, dass Isaac stolpert und die Treppe hinunterfällt. Als er sich erholt, sucht er sich einen weniger bedeutenden Platz. Als zusätzliche Beleidigung verlangt Prinz John dann von Isaac, sofort Geld herauszugeben.

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: Mrs. Gardiners Warnung an Elizabeth wurde pünktlich und wohlwollend genutzt, um sie alleine anzusprechen; nachdem sie ihr ehrlich ihre Meinung gesagt hatte, fuhr sie folgendermaßen fort: "Du bist ein zu vernünftiges Mädchen, Lizzy, um dich nur deshalb zu verlieben, weil man dich davor warnt; und deshalb habe ich keine Angst, offen zu sprechen. Ernsthaft, ich möchte, dass du auf der Hut bist. Verwickle dich nicht in etwas, oder versuche ihn in eine Zuneigung einzubeziehen, die aufgrund des Mangels an Vermögen so unklug wäre. Ich habe nichts gegen _ihn_; er ist ein äußerst interessanter junger Mann; und wenn er das Vermögen hätte, das er haben sollte, würde ich denken, dass du es nicht besser treffen könntest. Aber so wie es ist - du darfst deiner Fantasie nicht freien Lauf lassen. Du hast Verstand und wir alle erwarten, dass du ihn nutzt. Dein Vater würde auf _deine_ Entschlossenheit und gutes Verhalten zählen, da bin ich mir sicher. Du darfst deinen Vater nicht enttäuschen." "Meine liebe Tante, das ist wirklich ernsthaft." "Ja, und ich hoffe, dass ich dich dazu bringen kann, ebenfalls ernsthaft zu sein." "Nun gut, dann brauchst du keine Sorge zu haben. Ich werde auf mich selbst und auch auf Mr. Wickham aufpassen. Wenn ich es verhindern kann, wird er sich nicht in mich verlieben." "Elizabeth, du meinst das nicht ernst." "Ich bitte um Verzeihung. Ich werde es noch einmal versuchen. Gegenwärtig bin ich nicht in Mr. Wickham verliebt; nein, das bin ich sicher nicht. Aber er ist jenseits jedes Vergleichs der angenehmste Mann, den ich je gesehen habe - und wenn er wirklich an mir hängt - glaube ich, es wäre besser, wenn er es nicht wäre. Ich sehe die Unklugheit darin. Oh! _dieser_ abscheuliche Mr. Darcy! Die Meinung meines Vaters über mich ehrt mich sehr, und es würde mich elend machen, sie zu verlieren. Mein Vater ist jedoch zugeneigt zu Mr. Wickham. Kurz gesagt, meine liebe Tante, ich wäre sehr traurig, wenn ich der Grund dafür wäre, dass einer von euch unglücklich ist; aber da wir jeden Tag sehen, dass wo Zuneigung vorhanden ist, junge Leute selten durch unmittelbare Geldnot daran gehindert werden, Verpflichtungen eingehen, wie kann ich versprechen klüger zu sein als so viele meiner Mitmenschen, wenn ich in Versuchung gerate, oder wie soll ich überhaupt wissen, dass es Weisheit wäre, Widerstand zu leisten? Alles, was ich dir versprechen kann, ist deshalb, dass ich keine Eile haben werde. Ich werde nicht in Eile sein, zu glauben, dass ich sein Hauptinteresse bin. Wenn ich in seiner Gesellschaft bin, werde ich nicht wünschen. Kurz gesagt, ich werde mein Bestes tun." "Vielleicht ist es besser, wenn du ihn nicht so oft hierher einlädst. Zumindest solltest du deine Mutter nicht daran erinnern, ihn einzuladen." "Wie ich es neulich gemacht habe", sagte Elizabeth mit einem bewussten Lächeln; "sehr wahr, es wäre klug von mir, _das_ zu unterlassen. Aber stelle dir nicht vor, dass er immer so oft hier ist. Es ist deinetwegen, dass er diese Woche so oft eingeladen wurde. Du kennst ja die Vorstellungen meiner Mutter von der Notwendigkeit ständiger Gesellschaft für ihre Freunde. Aber wirklich, und auf mein Ehrenwort, ich werde versuchen, das zu tun, was ich für das Klügste halte; und jetzt hoffe ich, dass du zufrieden bist." Ihre Tante versicherte ihr, dass sie es sei; und Elizabeth bedankte sich für die Freundlichkeit ihrer Ratschläge und sie verabschiedeten sich voneinander; ein wunderbares Beispiel dafür, dass Ratschläge zu diesem Thema gegeben wurden, ohne dass sie erwidert wurden. Mr. Collins kehrte bald nach Hertfordshire zurück, nachdem die Gardiners und Jane abgereist waren; aber da er bei den Lucases untergekommen war, war seine Ankunft für Mrs. Bennet keine große Unannehmlichkeit. Seine Hochzeit stand nun kurz bevor, und sie hatte sich endlich so weit damit abgefunden, dass sie es für unvermeidlich hielt und sogar wiederholt mit bösem Ton sagte, sie "_wünschte_, dass sie glücklich sein könnten." Donnerstag sollte der Hochzeitstag sein, und am Mittwoch zahlte Miss Lucas ihren Abschiedsbesuch; und als sie aufstand, um sich zu verabschieden, begleitete Elizabeth sie aus dem Zimmer, beschämt über die unhöflichen und widerwilligen guten Wünsche ihrer Mutter und in aufrichtiger Ehrlichkeit betroffen. Als sie gemeinsam die Treppe hinuntergingen, sagte Charlotte: "Ich werde mich darauf verlassen, oft von dir zu hören, Eliza." "_Das_ wirst du auf jeden Fall." "Und ich habe noch eine Bitte. Wirst du mich besuchen?" "Wir werden uns hoffentlich oft in Hertfordshire treffen." "Ich werde Kent wahrscheinlich noch eine Weile nicht verlassen. Versprech mir also, nach Hunsford zu kommen." Elizabeth konnte nicht ablehnen, obwohl sie wenig Vergnügen in dem Besuch erwartete. "Mein Vater und Maria werden im März zu mir kommen", fügte Charlotte hinzu, "und ich hoffe, dass du zustimmst, mitzukommen. Tatsächlich wärst du mir genauso willkommen wie jeder von ihnen." Die Hochzeit fand statt; Braut und Bräutigam setzten sich von der Kirchentür aus nach Kent in Bewegung, und jeder hatte so viel zu sagen oder zu hören wie gewöhnlich. Elizabeth hörte bald darauf von ihrer Freundin, und ihr Briefwechsel war so regelmäßig und häufig wie immer; dass er genauso uneingeschränkt sein würde, war jedoch unmöglich. Elizabeth konnte ihre Freundin nie ansprechen, ohne zu spüren, dass der Komfort der Vertrautheit vorbei war, und obwohl sie sich entschloss, als Korrespondentin nicht nachzulassen, geschah dies eher wegen dessen, was gewesen war, als wegen dessen, was war. Charlottes erste Briefe wurden mit großer Spannung erwartet; Neugierde überkam jeden, um zu erfahren, wie sie von ihrem neuen Zuhause sprechen würde, wie sie Lady Catherine mögen würde und wie glücklich sie es wagen würde, sich selbst zu nennen; obwohl Elizabeth, als sie die Briefe las, spürte, dass Charlotte sich zu jedem Punkt genau so ausdrückte, wie sie es vorausgesehen hätte. Sie schrieb fröhlich, schien von Bequemlichkeiten umgeben zu sein und erwähnte nichts, was sie nicht loben konnte. Das Haus, die Möbel, die Nachbarschaft und die Straßen waren alle nach ihrem Geschmack, und Lady Catherines Verhalten war sehr freundlich und entgegenkommend. Es war Mr. Collins' Darstellung von Hunsford und Rosings, die vernünftig abgemildert wurde; und Elizabeth erkannte, dass sie ihren eigenen Besuch dort abwarten musste, um den Rest zu erfahren. Jane hatte bereits einige Zeilen an ihre Schwester geschrieben, um ihre sichere Ankunft in London bekanntzugeben; und als sie erneut schrieb, hoffte Elizabeth, dass es ihr möglich sein würde, etwas über die Bingleys zu sagen. Ihre Ungeduld auf diesen zweiten Brief wurde ebenso belohnt wie Ungeduld normalerweise belohnt wird. Jane war eine Woche in der Stadt gewesen, ohne dass sie entweder Caroline gesehen oder von ihr gehört hatte. Sie erklärte es jedoch damit, dass ihr letzter Brief an ihre Freundin von Longbourn aus aus irgendeinem Grund verloren gegangen war. "Meine Tante", fuhr sie fort, "will morgen in diesen Teil der Stadt gehen, und ich werde die Gelegenheit nutzen, um in der Grosvenor Street vorbeizuschauen." Sie schrieb erneut, als der Besuch stattgefunden hatte und sie Miss Bingley gesehen hatte. "Ich dachte nicht, dass Caroline gute Laune hätte", waren ihre Worte, "aber sie war sehr froh, mich zu sehen, und tadelte mich dafür, ihr keine Ankündigung meiner Reise nach London gemacht zu haben. Ich hatte also recht, mein letzter Brief war nie bei ihr angekommen. Natürlich habe ich nach ihrem Bruder gefragt. Es geht ihm gut, aber er ist so beschäftigt mit Mr. Darcy, dass sie ihn kaum zu sehen bekommen. Ich erfuhr, dass Miss Darcy zum Abendessen erwartet wurde. Ich wünschte, ich könnte sie sehen. Mein Besuch war nicht lange, da Caroline und Mrs. Hurst ausgehen wollten. Ich bin sicher, ich werde sie hier Meine liebste Lizzy wird, da bin ich sicher, unfähig sein, bei meinem eigenen Urteilsspruch, über meine Kosten, zu triumphieren, wenn ich gestehe, dass ich völlig über Miss Bingleys Zuneigung zu mir getäuscht war. Aber, meine liebe Schwester, obwohl sich gezeigt hat, dass du Recht hattest, denke nicht, ich sei stur, wenn ich immer noch behaupte, dass mein Vertrauen angesichts ihres Verhaltens genauso natürlich war wie dein Misstrauen. Ich verstehe ihr Grund für den Wunsch, mit mir vertraut zu sein, überhaupt nicht, aber wenn sich die gleichen Umstände wiederholen würden, bin ich sicher, dass ich wieder getäuscht werden würde. Caroline hat meinen Besuch erst gestern erwidert; und in der Zwischenzeit habe ich nicht einen Brief, nicht eine Zeile von ihr erhalten. Als sie dann kam, war es offensichtlich, dass sie keinen Spaß daran hatte; sie entschuldigte sich höflich und oberflächlich dafür, dass sie nicht früher gekommen war, erwähnte kein einziges Wort, dass sie mich wiedersehen möchte, und sie war in jeder Hinsicht eine so veränderte Person, dass ich entschlossen war, den Kontakt nicht länger aufrechtzuerhalten. Ich bemitleide sie, obwohl ich ihr Vorwürfe mache. Es war sehr falsch von ihr, mich so auszuwählen; ich kann sicher sagen, dass jeder Schritt zur Vertrautheit von ihrer Seite ausging. Aber ich bemitleide sie, weil sie fühlen muss, dass sie falsch gehandelt hat, und weil ich mir sehr sicher bin, dass ihre Sorge um ihren Bruder der Grund dafür ist. Ich muss mich nicht weiter erklären; und obwohl _wir_ wissen, dass diese Sorge völlig unnötig ist, würde sie ihre Handlungsweise mir gegenüber leicht erklären, und so verdient, wie ihr Bruder für sie ist, ist es natürlich und liebenswert, dass sie um seinetwillen besorgt ist. Ich wundere mich jedoch, dass sie jetzt solche Ängste hat, denn wenn ihm wirklich etwas an mir gelegen hätte, hätten wir uns schon lange, lange getroffen. Er weiß von meinem Aufenthalt in der Stadt, davon bin ich durch etwas, das sie selbst gesagt hat, sicher; und dennoch scheint es, wenn sie spricht, als wolle sie sich selbst davon überzeugen, dass er wirklich an Miss Darcy interessiert ist. Ich kann es nicht verstehen. Wenn ich nicht befürchten würde, hart zu urteilen, würde ich fast versucht sein zu sagen, dass all dies den starken Anschein von Heuchelei hat. Aber ich werde versuchen, jeden schmerzhaften Gedanken zu verbannen und nur daran zu denken, was mich glücklich machen wird - deine Zuneigung und die stete Freundlichkeit meines lieben Onkels und meiner lieben Tante. Lass mich bald von dir hören. Miss Bingley hat etwas davon gesagt, dass er nicht nach Netherfield zurückkehren würde, dass er das Haus aufgibt, aber ohne Gewissheit. Wir sollten nicht davon sprechen. Ich freue mich sehr, dass du solch angenehme Nachrichten von unseren Freunden in Hunsford hast. Bitte geh sie besuchen, mit Sir William und Maria. Ich bin sicher, du wirst dich dort sehr wohl fühlen. "Deine, usw." Dieser Brief bereitete Elizabeth Schmerzen, aber ihre Stimmung hellte sich auf, als sie bedachte, dass Jane nicht länger von ihrer Schwester getäuscht werden konnte. Jede Hoffnung auf den Bruder war nun endgültig vorbei. Sie wünschte nicht einmal eine Wiederbelebung seiner Aufmerksamkeiten. Sein Charakter sank bei jeder Betrachtung dessen, und als Strafe für ihn und zum möglichen Vorteil für Jane hoffte sie ernsthaft, dass er wirklich bald Mr. Darcys Schwester heiraten würde, denn nach Wickhams Angaben würde er sicherlich bereuen, was er weggeworfen hatte. Um diese Zeit erinnerte Mrs. Gardiner Elizabeth an ihr Versprechen in Bezug auf diesen Gentleman und verlangte Informationen; und Elizabeth hatte welche zu geben, die ihrer Tante mehr Zufriedenheit als ihr selbst bereiten könnten. Sein offensichtliches Wohlwollen hatte abgenommen, seine Aufmerksamkeiten waren vorbei, er war der Verehrer einer anderen geworden. Elizabeth war aufmerksam genug, um das alles zu erkennen, aber sie konnte es sehen und darüber schreiben, ohne dabei materielle Schmerzen zu empfinden. Ihr Herz war nur leicht berührt worden, und ihre Eitelkeit war zufrieden damit, zu glauben, dass sie seine einzige Wahl gewesen wäre, wenn das Schicksal es erlaubt hätte. Der plötzliche Erwerb von zehntausend Pfund war der bemerkenswerteste Reiz der jungen Dame, der ihm nun gefiel; aber Elizabeth war in seinem Fall vielleicht nicht so klar-sichtig wie in Charlottes, sie stritt nicht mit ihm über seinen Wunsch nach Unabhängigkeit. Nichts könnte natürlicher sein; und während sie annahm, dass es ihn ein paar Kämpfe gekostet haben musste, sie aufzugeben, war sie bereit, es für klug und wünschenswert für beide zu halten und ihm von Herzen Glück zu wünschen. Das alles gestand sie Mrs. Gardiner; und nachdem sie die Umstände geschildert hatte, fuhr sie fort: "Ich bin jetzt überzeugt, meine liebe Tante, dass ich nie wirklich verliebt war; denn wenn ich wirklich diese reine und erhebende Leidenschaft erfahren hätte, würde ich seinen Namen gegenwärtig verabscheuen und ihm alles Böse wünschen. Aber meine Gefühle sind nicht nur herzlich ihm gegenüber, sondern sogar unparteiisch gegenüber Miss King. Ich kann nicht feststellen, dass ich sie überhaupt hasse oder dass ich auch nur im Geringsten zur Annahme bereit bin, dass sie ein sehr guter Mensch ist. Es kann keine Liebe in alldem liegen. Meine Wachsamkeit war wirksam; und obwohl ich für alle meine Bekannten sicherlich ein interessanteres Objekt wäre, wenn ich wahnsinnig in ihn verliebt wäre, kann ich nicht behaupten, dass ich mein vergleichsweise unbedeutendes Leben bedaure. Bedeutsamkeit kann manchmal zu teuer erworben werden. Kitty und Lydia nehmen seine Abkehr viel mehr zu Herzen als ich. Sie sind noch jung in den Wegen der Welt und noch nicht bereit für die enttäuschende Erkenntnis, dass gutaussehende junge Männer etwas zum Leben brauchen, genauso wie die normalen." Mit keinen größeren Ereignissen als diesen in der Familie Longbourn und abgesehen von den Spaziergängen nach Meryton, manchmal schmutzig und manchmal kalt, vergingen der Januar und der Februar. Im März sollte Elizabeth nach Hunsford reisen. Sie hatte zunächst nicht sehr ernsthaft daran gedacht, dorthin zu gehen; aber sie merkte bald, dass Charlotte auf den Plan angewiesen war, und sie gewöhnte sich allmählich daran, ihn auch selbst mit größerem Vergnügen und größerer Sicherheit zu betrachten. Die Abwesenheit hatte ihr Verlangen verstärkt, Charlotte wiederzusehen, und ihre Abneigung gegen Mr. Collins geschwächt. In dem Plan steckte etwas Neuartiges, und da das Zuhause bei einer solchen Mutter und solchen ungeselligen Schwestern nicht fehlerlos sein konnte, war eine kleine Veränderung aus eigenem Interesse nicht unwillkommen. Die Reise würde ihr außerdem die Möglichkeit geben, Jane zu sehen, und kurz gesagt, je näher der Termin rückte, desto unglücklicher wäre sie über jede Verzögerung gewesen. Alles ging jedoch reibungslos voran und wurde schließlich nach Charlottes ersten Skizzen abgeschlossen. Sie sollte Sir William und seine zweite Tochter begleiten. Die Möglichkeit, eine Nacht in London zu verbringen, wurde rechtzeitig hinzugefügt, und der Plan wurde perfekt, soweit ein Plan perfekt sein kann. Der einzige Kummer bestand darin, ihren Vater zurückzulassen, der sie sicherlich vermissen würde und der, als es darauf ankam, so wenig Lust hatte, dass sie ging, dass er ihr auftrug, ihm zu schreiben, und fast versprach, ihr auf ihren Brief zu antworten. Der Abschied zwischen ihr und Mr. Wickham war völlig freundschaftlich, von seiner Seite sogar noch mehr. Seine gegenwärtige Verfolgung konnte ihn nicht vergessen lassen, dass Elizabeth diejenige war, die zuerst seine Aufmerksamkeit erregt und verdient hatte, diejenige, die zuerst zugehört und Es war eine Reise von nur vierundzwanzig Meilen und sie begannen so früh, dass sie bis zum Mittag in der Gracechurch Street waren. Als sie zu Mr. Gardiners Tür fuhren, sah Jane aus dem Fenster des Salons, wie sie ankamen; als sie den Flur betraten, war sie da, um sie willkommen zu heißen, und Elizabeth, die ihr Gesicht aufmerksam betrachtete, freute sich, es so gesund und liebenswert wie immer zu sehen. Auf der Treppe befand sich eine Gruppe von kleinen Jungen und Mädchen, deren Ungeduld aufgrund des Erscheinens ihres Cousins es ihnen nicht erlaubte, im Salon zu warten, und deren Schüchternheit daraufhin, dass sie sie ein Jahr lang nicht gesehen hatten, sie daran hinderte, weiter herunterzukommen. Alles war Freude und Freundlichkeit. Der Tag verging äußerst angenehm; der Morgen war turbulent und mit Einkäufen gefüllt und den Abend verbrachten sie in einem der Theater. Elizabeth schaffte es dann, sich neben ihre Tante zu setzen. Ihr erstes Thema war ihre Schwester; und sie war mehr betrübt als erstaunt, zu hören, als Antwort auf ihre genauen Fragen, dass obwohl Jane immer darauf bedacht war, ihre Stimmung zu verbessern, es Zeiten der Niedergeschlagenheit gab. Es war jedoch vernünftig zu hoffen, dass diese Zeiten nicht lange anhalten würden. Mrs. Gardiner gab ihr auch Einzelheiten über den Besuch von Miss Bingley in der Gracechurch Street und wiederholte Gespräche, die zu verschiedenen Zeiten zwischen Jane und ihr stattfanden, was bewies, dass Erstere die Bekanntschaft von ganzem Herzen aufgegeben hatte. Dann neckte Mrs. Gardiner ihre Nichte wegen Wickhams Verschwinden und lobte sie dafür, dass sie es so gut ertrug. "Aber, meine liebe Elizabeth", fügte sie hinzu, "was für ein Mädchen ist Miss King? Es wäre mir leid zu denken, dass unsere Freundin geldgierig ist." "Ich bitte dich, meine liebe Tante, was ist der Unterschied in ehelichen Angelegenheiten zwischen einer geldgierigen und einer vernünftigen Absicht? Wo hört die Vorsicht auf und wo fängt die Habgier an? Letztes Weihnachten hattest du Angst, dass er mich heiratet, weil es unklug wäre; und jetzt, weil er versucht, ein Mädchen mit nur zehntausend Pfund zu bekommen, möchtest du herausfinden, dass er geldgierig ist." "Wenn du mir nur sagst, was für ein Mädchen Miss King ist, werde ich wissen, was ich denken soll." "Ich glaube, sie ist ein sehr nettes Mädchen. Ich weiß nichts Schlechtes über sie." "Aber er hat ihr keine Aufmerksamkeit geschenkt, bis der Tod ihres Großvaters sie zur Herrin dieses Vermögens machte." "Nein, warum sollte er? Wenn es ihm nicht erlaubt war, meine Zuneigung zu gewinnen, weil ich kein Geld hatte, wozu sollte er dann eine Liebe zu einem Mädchen vortäuschen, das ihm gleichgültig war und genauso arm war?" "Aber es scheint eine Geschmacklosigkeit zu sein, seine Aufmerksamkeit so bald auf sie zu richten, nach diesem Ereignis." "Ein Mann in schwierigen Verhältnissen hat keine Zeit für all die eleganten Dekorationen, die andere Menschen beobachten können. Wenn es _ihr_ nichts ausmacht, warum sollte es _uns_ stören?" "_Ihr_ Schweigen rechtfertigt _ihn_ nicht. Es zeigt nur, dass sie selbst in einem gewissen Maße mangelhaft ist - Verstand oder Gefühl." "Nun gut", rief Elizabeth, "wie du willst. _Er_ soll geldgierig sein und _sie_ soll töricht sein." "Nein, Lizzy, das ist es, was ich _nicht_ will. Es würde mir leid tun, du weißt schon, schlecht von einem jungen Mann zu denken, der so lange in Derbyshire gelebt hat." "Oh! wenn das alles ist, habe ich eine sehr niedrige Meinung von jungen Männern, die in Derbyshire leben; und ihre engen Freunde, die in Hertfordshire leben, sind auch nicht viel besser. Ich habe genug von ihnen allen. Gott sei Dank! Ich fahre morgen dorthin, wo ich einen Mann finden werde, der keine angenehmen Eigenschaften hat, der weder Manieren noch Verstand hat, um ihn zu empfehlen. Dumme Männer sind letztendlich die Einzigen, die es wert sind, gekannt zu werden." "Pass auf, Lizzy, diese Worte klingen sehr nach Enttäuschung." Bevor sie durch das Ende des Stücks getrennt wurden, hatte sie das unerwartete Glück, zu einer Einladung mit ihrem Onkel und ihrer Tante zu einer Vergnügungsreise eingeladen zu werden, die sie im Sommer unternehmen wollten. "Wir haben noch nicht ganz entschieden, wie weit es uns bringen wird," sagte Mrs. Gardiner, "aber vielleicht zu den Seen." Kein Plan hätte für Elizabeth angenehmer sein können, und ihre Annahme der Einladung war bereitwillig und dankbar. "Meine liebe, liebe Tante", rief sie freudig, "welche Freude! Welches Glück! Sie geben mir neues Leben und Elan. Adieu Enttäuschung und Groll. Was bedeuten Männer im Vergleich zu Felsen und Bergen? Oh! welche Stunden des Glücks werden wir verbringen! Und wenn wir zurückkehren, wird es nicht sein wie bei anderen Reisenden, ohne eine genaue Vorstellung von irgendetwas geben zu können. Wir _werden_ wissen, wo wir gewesen sind - wir _werden_ uns daran erinnern, was wir gesehen haben. Seen, Berge und Flüsse werden nicht in unserer Vorstellung durcheinander gebracht werden; und wenn wir versuchen, eine bestimmte Szene zu beschreiben, werden wir nicht darüber streiten, wo sie sich befindet. Lass _unsere_ ersten Eindrücke weniger unerträglich sein als die der meisten Reisenden." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Charlotte Lucas und Mr. Collins heiraten und verlassen seine Gemeinde in Kent. Elizabeth stimmt widerwillig zu, sie bald zu besuchen. Im Frühling machen Elizabeth, Charlottes Vater Sir William und ihre Schwester Maria die Reise nach Kent und machen einen Zwischenstopp in London bei den Gardiners. Elizabeth erfährt, dass Wickham eine reiche junge Erbin namens Miss King trifft und Mrs. Gardiner sein Verhalten als Jagd nach dem Glück ansieht. Überraschenderweise verteidigt Elizabeth Wickham und sagt, dass er jedes Recht hat, eine wohlhabende Braut zu suchen. Elizabeth stimmt zu, ihre Tante und ihren Onkel auf eine Reise nach Nordengland im Sommer zu begleiten. Die Gruppe setzt ihre Reise nach Kent fort.

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. THE LEECH AND HIS PATIENT. Old Roger Chillingworth, throughout life, had been calm in temperament, kindly, though not of warm affections, but ever, and in all his relations with the world, a pure and upright man. He had begun an investigation, as he imagined, with the severe and equal integrity of a judge, desirous only of truth, even as if the question involved no more than the air-drawn lines and figures of a geometrical problem, instead of human passions, and wrongs inflicted on himself. But, as he proceeded, a terrible fascination, a kind of fierce, though still calm, necessity, seized the old man within its gripe, and never set him free again, until he had done all its bidding. He now dug into the poor clergyman's heart, like a miner searching for gold; or, rather, like a sexton delving into a grave, possibly in quest of a jewel that had been buried on the dead man's bosom, but likely to find nothing save mortality and corruption. Alas for his own soul, if these were what he sought! Sometimes, a light glimmered out of the physician's eyes, burning blue and ominous, like the reflection of a furnace, or, let us say, like one of those gleams of ghastly fire that darted from Bunyan's awful doorway in the hillside, and quivered on the pilgrim's face. The soil where this dark miner was working had perchance shown indications that encouraged him. "This man," said he, at one such moment, to himself, "pure as they deem him,--all spiritual as he seems,--hath inherited a strong animal nature from his father or his mother. Let us dig a little further in the direction of this vein!" Then, after long search into the minister's dim interior, and turning over many precious materials, in the shape of high aspirations for the welfare of his race, warm love of souls, pure sentiments, natural piety, strengthened by thought and study, and illuminated by revelation,--all of which invaluable gold was perhaps no better than rubbish to the seeker,--he would turn back, discouraged, and begin his quest towards another point. He groped along as stealthily, with as cautious a tread, and as wary an outlook, as a thief entering a chamber where a man lies only half asleep,--or, it may be, broad awake,--with purpose to steal the very treasure which this man guards as the apple of his eye. In spite of his premeditated carefulness, the floor would now and then creak; his garments would rustle; the shadow of his presence, in a forbidden proximity, would be thrown across his victim. In other words, Mr. Dimmesdale, whose sensibility of nerve often produced the effect of spiritual intuition, would become vaguely aware that something inimical to his peace had thrust itself into relation with him. But old Roger Chillingworth, too, had perceptions that were almost intuitive; and when the minister threw his startled eyes towards him, there the physician sat; his kind, watchful, sympathizing, but never intrusive friend. Yet Mr. Dimmesdale would perhaps have seen this individual's character more perfectly, if a certain morbidness, to which, sick hearts are liable, had not rendered him suspicious of all mankind. Trusting no man as his friend, he could not recognize his enemy when the latter actually appeared. He therefore still kept up a familiar intercourse with him, daily receiving the old physician in his study; or visiting the laboratory, and, for recreation's sake, watching the processes by which weeds were converted into drugs of potency. One day, leaning his forehead on his hand, and his elbow on the sill of the open window, that looked towards the graveyard, he talked with Roger Chillingworth, while the old man was examining a bundle of unsightly plants. "Where," asked he, with a look askance at them,--for it was the clergyman's peculiarity that he seldom, nowadays, looked straightforth at any object, whether human or inanimate,--"where, my kind doctor, did you gather those herbs, with such a dark, flabby leaf?" "Even in the graveyard here at hand," answered the physician, continuing his employment. "They are new to me. I found them growing on a grave, which bore no tombstone, nor other memorial of the dead man, save these ugly weeds, that have taken upon themselves to keep him in remembrance. They grew out of his heart, and typify, it may be, some hideous secret that was buried with him, and which he had done better to confess during his lifetime." "Perchance," said Mr. Dimmesdale, "he earnestly desired it, but could not." "And wherefore?" rejoined the physician. "Wherefore not; since all the powers of nature call so earnestly for the confession of sin, that these black weeds have sprung up out of a buried heart, to make manifest an unspoken crime?" "That, good Sir, is but a fantasy of yours," replied the minister. "There can be, if I forebode aright, no power, short of the Divine mercy, to disclose, whether by uttered words, or by type or emblem, the secrets that may be buried with a human heart. The heart, making itself guilty of such secrets, must perforce hold them, until the day when all hidden things shall be revealed. Nor have I so read or interpreted Holy Writ, as to understand that the disclosure of human thoughts and deeds, then to be made, is intended as a part of the retribution. That, surely, were a shallow view of it. No; these revelations, unless I greatly err, are meant merely to promote the intellectual satisfaction of all intelligent beings, who will stand waiting, on that day, to see the dark problem of this life made plain. A knowledge of men's hearts will be needful to the completest solution of that problem. And I conceive, moreover, that the hearts holding such miserable secrets as you speak of will yield them up, at that last day, not with reluctance, but with a joy unutterable." "Then why not reveal them here?" asked Roger Chillingworth, glancing quietly aside at the minister. "Why should not the guilty ones sooner avail themselves of this unutterable solace?" "They mostly do," said the clergyman, griping hard at his breast as if afflicted with an importunate throb of pain. "Many, many a poor soul hath given its confidence to me, not only on the death-bed, but while strong in life, and fair in reputation. And ever, after such an outpouring, O, what a relief have I witnessed in those sinful brethren! even as in one who at last draws free air, after long stifling with his own polluted breath. How can it be otherwise? Why should a wretched man, guilty, we will say, of murder, prefer to keep the dead corpse buried in his own heart, rather than fling it forth at once, and let the universe take care of it!" "Yet some men bury their secrets thus," observed the calm physician. "True; there are such men," answered Mr. Dimmesdale. "But, not to suggest more obvious reasons, it may be that they are kept silent by the very constitution of their nature. Or,--can we not suppose it?--guilty as they may be, retaining, nevertheless, a zeal for God's glory and man's welfare, they shrink from displaying themselves black and filthy in the view of men; because, thenceforward, no good can be achieved by them; no evil of the past be redeemed by better service. So, to their own unutterable torment, they go about among their fellow-creatures, looking pure as new-fallen snow while their hearts are all speckled and spotted with iniquity of which they cannot rid themselves." "These men deceive themselves," said Roger Chillingworth, with somewhat more emphasis than usual, and making a slight gesture with his forefinger. "They fear to take up the shame that rightfully belongs to them. Their love for man, their zeal for God's service,--these holy impulses may or may not coexist in their hearts with the evil inmates to which their guilt has unbarred the door, and which must needs propagate a hellish breed within them. But, if they seek to glorify God, let them not lift heavenward their unclean hands! If they would serve their fellow-men, let them do it by making manifest the power and reality of conscience, in constraining them to penitential self-abasement! Wouldst thou have me to believe, O wise and pious friend, that a false show can be better--can be more for God's glory, or man's welfare--than God's own truth? Trust me, such men deceive themselves!" "It may be so," said the young clergyman, indifferently, as waiving a discussion that he considered irrelevant or unseasonable. He had a ready faculty, indeed, of escaping from any topic that agitated his too sensitive and nervous temperament.--"But, now, I would ask of my well-skilled physician, whether, in good sooth, he deems me to have profited by his kindly care of this weak frame of mine?" Before Roger Chillingworth could answer, they heard the clear, wild laughter of a young child's voice, proceeding from the adjacent burial-ground. Looking instinctively from the open window,--for it was summer-time,--the minister beheld Hester Prynne and little Pearl passing along the footpath that traversed the enclosure. Pearl looked as beautiful as the day, but was in one of those moods of perverse merriment which, whenever they occurred, seemed to remove her entirely out of the sphere of sympathy or human contact. She now skipped irreverently from one grave to another; until, coming to the broad, flat, armorial tombstone of a departed worthy,--perhaps of Isaac Johnson himself,--she began to dance upon it. In reply to her mother's command and entreaty that she would behave more decorously, little Pearl paused to gather the prickly burrs from a tall burdock which grew beside the tomb. Taking a handful of these, she arranged them along the lines of the scarlet letter that decorated the maternal bosom, to which the burrs, as their nature was, tenaciously adhered. Hester did not pluck them off. Roger Chillingworth had by this time approached the window, and smiled grimly down. "There is no law, nor reverence for authority, no regard for human ordinances or opinions, right or wrong, mixed up with that child's composition," remarked he, as much to himself as to his companion. "I saw her, the other day, bespatter the Governor himself with water, at the cattle-trough in Spring Lane. What, in Heaven's name, is she? Is the imp altogether evil? Hath she affections? Hath she any discoverable principle of being?" "None, save the freedom of a broken law," answered Mr. Dimmesdale, in a quiet way, as if he had been discussing the point within himself. "Whether capable of good, I know not." The child probably overheard their voices; for, looking up to the window, with a bright, but naughty smile of mirth and intelligence, she threw one of the prickly burrs at the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. The sensitive clergyman shrunk, with nervous dread, from the light missile. Detecting his emotion, Pearl clapped her little hands, in the most extravagant ecstasy. Hester Prynne, likewise, had involuntarily looked up; and all these four persons, old and young, regarded one another in silence, till the child laughed aloud, and shouted,--"Come away, mother! Come away, or yonder old Black Man will catch you! He hath got hold of the minister already. Come away, mother, or he will catch you! But he cannot catch little Pearl!" So she drew her mother away, skipping, dancing, and frisking fantastically, among the hillocks of the dead people, like a creature that had nothing in common with a bygone and buried generation, nor owned herself akin to it. It was as if she had been made afresh, out of new elements, and must perforce be permitted to live her own life, and be a law unto herself, without her eccentricities being reckoned to her for a crime. "There goes a woman," resumed Roger Chillingworth, after a pause, "who, be her demerits what they may, hath none of that mystery of hidden sinfulness which you deem so grievous to be borne. Is Hester Prynne the less miserable, think you, for that scarlet letter on her breast?" "I do verily believe it," answered the clergyman. "Nevertheless, I cannot answer for her. There was a look of pain in her face, which I would gladly have been spared the sight of. But still, methinks, it must needs be better for the sufferer to be free to show his pain, as this poor woman Hester is, than to cover it all up in his heart." There was another pause; and the physician began anew to examine and arrange the plants which he had gathered. "You inquired of me, a little time agone," said he, at length, "my judgment as touching your health." "I did," answered the clergyman, "and would gladly learn it. Speak frankly, I pray you, be it for life or death." "Freely, then, and plainly," said the physician, still busy with his plants, but keeping a wary eye on Mr. Dimmesdale, "the disorder is a strange one; not so much in itself, nor as outwardly manifested,--in so far, at least, as the symptoms have been laid open to my observation. Looking daily at you, my good Sir, and watching the tokens of your aspect, now for months gone by, I should deem you a man sore sick, it may be, yet not so sick but that an instructed and watchful physician might well hope to cure you. But--I know not what to say--the disease is what I seem to know, yet know it not." "You speak in riddles, learned Sir," said the pale minister, glancing aside out of the window. "Then, to speak more plainly," continued the physician, "and I crave pardon, Sir,--should it seem to require pardon,--for this needful plainness of my speech. Let me ask,--as your friend,--as one having charge, under Providence, of your life and physical well-being,--hath all the operation of this disorder been fairly laid open and recounted to me?" "How can you question it?" asked the minister. "Surely, it were child's play, to call in a physician, and then hide the sore!" "You would tell me, then, that I know all?" said Roger Chillingworth, deliberately, and fixing an eye, bright with intense and concentrated intelligence, on the minister's face. "Be it so! But, again! He to whom only the outward and physical evil is laid open, knoweth, oftentimes, but half the evil which he is called upon to cure. A bodily disease, which we look upon as whole and entire within itself, may, after all, be but a symptom of some ailment in the spiritual part. Your pardon, once again, good Sir, if my speech give the shadow of offence. You, Sir, of all men whom I have known, are he whose body is the closest conjoined, and imbued, and identified, so to speak, with the spirit whereof it is the instrument." "Then I need ask no further," said the clergyman, somewhat hastily rising from his chair. "You deal not, I take it, in medicine for the soul!" "Thus, a sickness," continued Roger Chillingworth, going on, in an unaltered tone, without heeding the interruption,--but standing up, and confronting the emaciated and white-cheeked minister, with his low, dark, and misshapen figure,--"a sickness, a sore place, if we may so call it, in your spirit, hath immediately its appropriate manifestation in your bodily frame. Would you, therefore, that your physician heal the bodily evil? How may this be, unless you first lay open to him the wound or trouble in your soul?" "No!--not to thee!--not to an earthly physician!" cried Mr. Dimmesdale, passionately, and turning his eyes, full and bright, and with a kind of fierceness, on old Roger Chillingworth. "Not to thee! But if it be the soul's disease, then do I commit myself to the one Physician of the soul! He, if it stand with his good pleasure, can cure; or he can kill! Let him do with me as, in his justice and wisdom, he shall see good. But who art thou, that meddlest in this matter?--that dares thrust himself between the sufferer and his God?" With a frantic gesture he rushed out of the room. "It is as well to have made this step," said Roger Chillingworth to himself, looking after the minister with a grave smile. "There is nothing lost. We shall be friends again anon. But see, now, how passion takes hold upon this man, and hurrieth him out of himself! As with one passion, so with another! He hath done a wild thing erenow, this pious Master Dimmesdale, in the hot passion of his heart!" [Illustration: The Leech and his Patient] It proved not difficult to re-establish the intimacy of the two companions, on the same footing and in the same degree as heretofore. The young clergyman, after a few hours of privacy, was sensible that the disorder of his nerves had hurried him into an unseemly outbreak of temper, which there had been nothing in the physician's words to excuse or palliate. He marvelled, indeed, at the violence with which he had thrust back the kind old man, when merely proffering the advice which it was his duty to bestow, and which the minister himself had expressly sought. With these remorseful feelings, he lost no time in making the amplest apologies, and besought his friend still to continue the care, which, if not successful in restoring him to health, had, in all probability, been the means of prolonging his feeble existence to that hour. Roger Chillingworth readily assented, and went on with his medical supervision of the minister; doing his best for him, in all good faith, but always quitting the patient's apartment, at the close of a professional interview, with a mysterious and puzzled smile upon his lips. This expression was invisible in Mr. Dimmesdale's presence, but grew strongly evident as the physician crossed the threshold. "A rare case!" he muttered. "I must needs look deeper into it. A strange sympathy betwixt soul and body! Were it only for the art's sake, I must search this matter to the bottom!" It came to pass, not long after the scene above recorded, that the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, at noonday, and entirely unawares, fell into a deep, deep slumber, sitting in his chair, with a large black-letter volume open before him on the table. It must have been a work of vast ability in the somniferous school of literature. The profound depth of the minister's repose was the more remarkable, inasmuch as he was one of those persons whose sleep, ordinarily, is as light, as fitful, and as easily scared away, as a small bird hopping on a twig. To such an unwonted remoteness, however, had his spirit now withdrawn into itself, that he stirred not in his chair, when old Roger Chillingworth, without any extraordinary precaution, came into the room. The physician advanced directly in front of his patient, laid his hand upon his bosom, and thrust aside the vestment, that, hitherto, had always covered it even from the professional eye. Then, indeed, Mr. Dimmesdale shuddered, and slightly stirred. After a brief pause, the physician turned away. But, with what a wild look of wonder, joy, and horror! With what a ghastly rapture, as it were, too mighty to be expressed only by the eye and features, and therefore bursting forth through the whole ugliness of his figure, and making itself even riotously manifest by the extravagant gestures with which he threw up his arms towards the ceiling, and stamped his foot upon the floor! Had a man seen old Roger Chillingworth, at that moment of his ecstasy, he would have had no need to ask how Satan comports himself, when a precious human soul is lost to heaven, and won into his kingdom. But what distinguished the physician's ecstasy from Satan's was the trait of wonder in it! [Illustration] [Illustration] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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In diesem und den nächsten Kapiteln erforscht Chillingworth die Identität von Pearls Vater einzig und allein aus Rache. Indem er die Haltung eines Richters einnimmt, der nach Wahrheit und Gerechtigkeit strebt, wird er schnell von seiner Suche nach Dimmesdales Herz besessen. Häufig wird er in seinen Versuchen, Dimmesdales Geheimnis zu ergründen, entmutigt, kehrt jedoch immer wieder mit all seiner Intelligenz und Leidenschaft zu seinem "Graben" zurück. Der Großteil von Kapitel 10 beschäftigt sich mit dem Ziehen und Zerren von Chillingworth an Dimmesdales Herz und Seele. Eines Tages werden sie in Chillingworths Arbeitszimmer durch die Stimmen von Pearl und Hester, die draußen auf dem Friedhof sind, bei ihrer ernsten Diskussion unterbrochen. Sie kommentieren Pearls seltsames Verhalten und kehren dann zu ihrer Diskussion zurück. Als Hester und Pearl gehen, stimmt Dimmesdale Chillingworth zu, dass es für Hester besser ist, ihre Sünde öffentlich zur Schau zu stellen, als sie zu verbergen. Als Chillingworth seinen Versuch erneuert, Dimmesdales Gewissen zu durchdringen, und vorschlägt, dass er Dimmesdale niemals heilen kann, solange der Pfarrer etwas verbirgt, erklärt der Pfarrer, dass seine Krankheit eine "Krankheit der Seele" ist, und ruft leidenschaftlich aus, dass er sein Geheimnis keinem "irdischen Arzt" offenbaren wird. Dimmesdale stürzt aus dem Raum, und Chillingworth lächelt über seinen Erfolg. Eines Tages, nicht lange danach, findet Chillingworth Dimmesdale in einem Stuhl schlafend vor. Er zieht den Mantel des Ministers beiseite und starrt auf dessen Brust. Was er dort sieht, verursacht "einen wilden Ausdruck von Staunen, Freude und Schrecken", und er tanzt spontan vor Ekstase.

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 Eins, Szene Eins. König Richard tritt auf, begleitet von John of Gaunt und anderen Adligen und Bediensteten. König Richard. Alter John of Gaunt, ehrenwerter Lancaster, Hast du gemäß deinem Eid und deinem Bündnis Henry Herford, deinen tapferen Sohn, hierher gebracht: Um hier die stürmische späte Anklage zu unterstützen, Die damals unsere Muße uns nicht erlaubte zu hören, Gegen den Herzog von Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray? Gaunt. Ja, ich habe, mein König. König. Sag mir außerdem, hast du ihn ausgehorcht, Ob er den Herzog aus alter Feindschaft anklagt, Oder würdig als guter Untertan Aufgrund bekannter Verräterei in ihm? Gaunt. So weit wie möglich habe ich ihn zu diesem Argument ausgesiebt, Aufgrund einiger offensichtlicher Gefahr, die ich in ihm gesehen habe, Die sich gegen Eure Hoheit richtete, nicht aus tief verwurzelter Feindschaft. König. Dann lass sie uns von Angesicht zu Angesicht vor uns rufen, Und mit zorniger Stirn werden wir Den Ankläger und den Angeklagten frei sprechen lassen; Beide sind hochmütig und voller Wut, In Rage taub wie das Meer; hektisch wie Feuer. Bullingbrooke und Mowbray treten auf. Bul. Viele Jahre glücklicher Tage mögen Meinem gnädigen Herrscher zuteilwerden, meinem geliebten König. Mow. Jeder Tag erfreue die Glückseligkeit des anderen, Bis die Himmel von der Glückseligkeit der Erde neidisch werden Und deiner Krone einen unsterblichen Titel hinzufügen. König. Wir danken euch beiden, doch einer schmeichelt uns nur, Wie deutlich wird, durch den Grund, weswegen ihr gekommen seid, Um euch gegenseitig wegen Hochverrats anzuklagen. Cousin of Hereford, was wirfst du vor Gegen den Herzog von Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray? Bul. Zuerst sei der Himmel Zeuge meiner Rede, In Hingabe der Liebe eines Untertanen, Der kostbaren Sicherheit meines Prinzen, Und frei von anderem ungeborenen Hass, Komme ich als Kläger in diese fürstliche Gegenwart. Nun wende ich mich zu dir, Thomas Mowbray, Und merke dir meinen Gruß gut: Denn was ich sage, Wird mein Körper auf dieser Erde beweisen, Oder meine göttliche Seele wird es im Himmel erwidern. Du bist ein Verräter und ein Schurke; Zu gut, um so zu sein, und zu schlecht, um zu leben, Denn je schöner und klarer der Himmel ist, Desto hässlicher erscheinen die Wolken, die in ihm fliegen: Noch einmal, um den Vorwurf zu verschlimmern, Stopfe ich dir mit einem schmutzigen Verräternamen den Hals, Und wünsche (so möge es meinem Souverän gefallen), bevor ich mich bewege, Dass meine Zunge, was sie sagt, mein gezogener rechter Schwert beweisen kann. Mow. Lass nicht meine kalten Worte meine Hingabe beschuldigen: Es ist keine Prüfung eines Frauenkrieges, Das bittere Geschrei von zwei gierigen Zungen, Kann diese Ursache zwischen uns beiden schlichten: Das Blut ist heiß, das für diese Sache gekühlt werden muss. Aber ich kann von solcher geduldiger Gelassenheit nicht prahlen, Als dass ich schweige und nichts zu sagen habe. Zuerst hält mich die edle Reverenz Eurer Hoheit davon ab, Zügel und Sporen für meine freie Rede zu setzen, Die sonst voranstürmen würde, bis sie Diese Termini des Verrats, doppelt in seinen Hals zurückgekehrt, Ausgesprochen hätte. Die Rücksicht auf seine königliche Abstammung beiseite gelassen, Und lasst ihn kein Verwandter meines Herrschers sein, Ich fordere ihn heraus und spucke ihn an, Nenne ihn einen verleumderischen Feigling und einen Schurken: Um das zu beweisen, würde ich ihm Vorteile gewähren, Und ihn treffen, wäre ich zu Fuß gebunden, Selbst bis zu den gefrorenen Gipfeln der Alpen, Oder zu einem anderen bewohnbaren Gebiet, Wohin auch immer ein Engländer seinen Fuß setzen würde. In der Zwischenzeit möge das meine Loyalität verteidigen, Bei all meinen Hoffnungen lügt er am schlimmsten. Bul. Blasse zitternde Feigling, dort werfe ich meinen Handschuh, Verleugne hier die Verwandtschaft eines Königs, Und lege meine königliche Abstammung beiseite, Die Furcht, nicht Ehrfurcht, bringt dich zum Ausnahmefall. Wenn die schuldige Furcht dir so viel Kraft gelassen hat, Dass du meine Ehre als Pfand aufnimmst, dann beuge dich. Damit und aufgrund aller Riten der Ritterschaft, Werden ich dich arm gegen dich verteidigen, Was ich gesagt habe, oder was auch immer du dir ausdenken kannst. Mow. Ich nehme es auf und bei dem Schwert schwöre ich, Das sanft meine Ritterlichkeit auf meine Schulter legte, Werden ich dir in jeder fairen Art antworten, Oder in ritterlichen Kämpfen, Und wenn ich lebendig aufsteige, werde ich nicht landen, Wenn ich ein Verräter bin oder ungerecht kämpfe. König. Was legt unser Cousin Mowbray zur Last? Es muss groß sein, um uns zu erben, Auch nur einen Hauch von schlechtem Gedanken gegen ihn zu haben. Bul. Sieh, was ich gesagt habe, mein Leben wird es wahr beweisen, Dass Mowbray achthundert Edelsteine erhalten hat, Im Namen als Darlehen für die Soldaten Eurer Hoheit, Die er für schändliche Tätigkeiten zurückgehalten hat, Wie ein falscher Verräter und ein unrechtschaffener Schurke. Außerdem sage ich und werde es im Kampf beweisen, Ob hier oder anderswo bis an den äußersten Rand, Der je von englischem Auge vermessen wurde, Dass alle Verschwörungen in diesen achtzehn Jahren In diesem Land erdacht und geschmiedet wurden, Von dem falschen Mowbray, ihrem ersten Anführer und Ursprung. Weiter sage ich und werde weiterhin behaupten, Aufgrund seines schlechten Lebens, all das bestätigen. Dass er den Tod des Herzogs von Gloucester geplant hat, Seine leichtgläubigen Widersacher angeregt hat, Und folglich, wie ein verräterischer Feigling, Seine unschuldige Seele in einem Strom von Blut auslöschte: Das Blut, wie die rufenden Abels Opfer, (Selbst aus den zungenlosen Höhlen der Erde) Fordert von mir Gerechtigkeit und raue Bestrafung: Und durch den ruhmreichen Wert meiner Abstammung, Wird dieser Arm es tun oder dieses Leben dabei lassen. König. Wie hoch sich sein Entschluss erhebt: Thomas von Norfolk, was sagst du dazu? Mow. Oh, lass meinen Souverän sein Gesicht abwenden, Und siehe für eine kurze Zeit taub zu, Bis ich ihm diese Verleumdung seines Blutes erzählt habe, Wie Gott und gute Menschen einen so schmutzigen Lügner hassen. König. Mowbray, unsere Augen und Ohren sind unparteiisch, Wäre er mein Bruder, ja der Erbe unserer Reiche, So wie er nur der Sohn meines Vaters Bruders ist; Jetzt schwöre ich bei der Ehrfurcht meines Zepters, Dass eine solche Nähe zu unserem heiligen Gaunt. Friedfertig sein, das soll mein Alter sein, Wirf (mein Sohn) den Handschuh des Herzogs von Norfolk nieder. König. Und Norfolk, wirf seinen nieder. Gaunt. Wann, Harry, wann? Gehorsam gebietet, Gehorsam gebietet, dass ich nicht erneut fordern soll. König. Norfolk, wirf nieder, wir gebieten es; es gibt keine Alternative. Mow. Ich selbst werfe mich (gefürchteter Souverän) zu deinen Füßen. Mein Leben kannst du befehlen, aber nicht meine Schande, Die eine schuldet mir meine Pflicht, aber meinen guten Namen Trotz des Todes, der sich auf meinem Grab nährt, Für dunkle Schande benutzen wirst du es nicht. Ich bin hier gedemütigt, beschuldigt und verhöhnt, Durchdrungen bis in die Seele von Lästerschmeichelei: Die von keinem Balsam geheilt werden kann, außer von seinem Herzblut, Das dieses Gift atmete. König. Wut muss widerstanden werden: Gib mir seinen Handschuh: Löwen machen Leoparden zahm. Mo. Ja, aber verändert nicht seine Flecken: Nimm nur meine Schande, Und ich lege meinen Handschuh nieder. Mein lieber, lieber Herr, Der reinste Schatz, den sterbliche Zeiten bieten Ist der makellose Ruf: Wenn er weggenommen wird, Sind Männer nichts als vergoldeter Lehm oder bemalter Ton. Ein Juwel in einer zehnmal verschlossenen Truhe Ist ein kühner Geist in einer treuen Brust. Meine Ehre ist mein Leben; beide wachsen zusammen: Nehmt mir die Ehre und mein Leben ist vorbei. Dann, mein lieber König, lasst mich meine Ehre prüfen, In der ich lebe; und dafür werde ich sterben. König. Cousin, leg deinen Handschuh nieder, Fang an. Bul. Oh, möge der Himmel meine Seele vor solch schlimmer Sünde bewahren. Soll ich vor meinem Vater niedergeschlagen erscheinen Oder mit blasser Bettlerfurcht meine Größe beschuldigen, Vor diesem herausgeforderten Feigling? Ehe meine Zunge, Meine Ehre mit solch schwacher Beleidigung verletzen soll, Oder so eine niederträchtige Unterhaltung klingen lässt: Meine Zähne werden Das sklavische Motiv der widerrufenden Furcht zerreissen Und es in seiner tiefen Schande blutend ausspucken, Wo die Schande hausen, sogar in Mowbrays Gesicht. Gaunt verlässt die Szene. König. Wir wurden nicht geboren, um zu bitten, sondern um zu befehlen, Und da wir euch nicht versöhnen können, werdet bereit sein, (Wie euer Leben dafür bürgt) In Coventry, am Tag des Heiligen Lambert: Dort sollen eure Schwerter und Lanzen entscheiden Die aufgeheizte Auseinandersetzung eures tiefen Hasses: Da wir euch nicht versöhnen können, werdet ihr sehen, Dass die Gerechtigkeit den Siegern den Ritterschlag erteilen wird. Herr Marschall, befehlt unseren Offizieren der Waffen, Bereit zu sein, diese Auseinandersetzungen zu leiten. Sie verlassen die Bühne. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Szene 1 mit Notizen Akt I Die Szene eröffnet im Schloss Windsor. König Richard fragt seinen Onkel, John of Gaunt, "zeitgeehrt Lancaster", ob dieser gemäß seinem Eid seinen Sohn, Henry Bolingbroke, Herzog von Hereford, dazu gebracht hat, seine Behauptung zu beweisen, dass Thomas Mowbray, Herzog von Norfolk, des Verrats schuldig sei. Richard fragt Gaunt weiter, ob er Bolingbroke zu dieser Angelegenheit befragt und herausgefunden hat, ob die Vorwürfe aus einer echten Sorge um die nationale Sicherheit entstanden oder ob er persönlich eine Feindschaft zu Thomas Mowbray hegt. Als Gaunt Richard versichert, dass Henry keinen persönlichen Groll gegen Mowbray hegt und dass seine Anschuldigungen tatsächlich auf seiner Treue als Untertan beruhen, fordert Richard die beiden Männer auf und sagt, dass er "den Ankläger und den Angeklagten frei sprechen" hören wird. Als die beiden Männer eintreten, begrüßen sie Richard auf traditionelle Weise und beten für seine Gesundheit und Glück. Richard bedankt sich bei ihnen und geht sofort auf die heikle Frage ein, indem er Henry Bolingbroke auffordert, seinen Hochverratsvorwurf gegen Thomas Mowbray zu belegen. Bolingbroke verteidigt seine Anschuldigungen gegen Mowbray. Er sagt, er sei aus Sorge um "die kostbare Sicherheit des Prinzen" hierher gekommen und nicht aus "unerwünschtem Hass". Er beschuldigt Mowbray, "ein Verräter und Übeltäter zu sein, / Zu gut, um so zu sein, und zu böse, um zu leben..." Er nennt ihn einen "gemeinen Verräter" und sagt, dass sein Schwert beweisen werde, was seine Zunge ausspricht. Mowbray unterbricht und sagt, dass dies kein "Frauenkrieg" sei, der durch Zänkerei gelöst werden könnte. Mowbray sagt, Bolingbrokes königlicher Status verhindere, dass er frei sprechen könne, aber er behauptet dennoch: "Ich trotze ihm und spucke ihm ins Gesicht; / Nenne ihn einen verleumderischen Feigling und einen Schurken...". Mowbray verteidigt also seine Loyalität, indem er sagt, dass er überall gegen Bolingbroke kämpfen würde, um seine Unschuld zu beweisen. Bolingbroke wirft seinen Handschuh hin, um seine Zustimmung zu einem Zweikampf zu signalisieren. Mowbray nimmt den Handschuh auf, um die Herausforderung anzunehmen. Daraufhin bittet Richard Bolingbroke, seine Anschuldigungen gegen Mowbray zu konkretisieren. Bolingbroke beschuldigt Mowbray, königliche Gelder veruntreut zu haben und den Tod von Gloucester geplant zu haben. Bolingbroke behauptet tatsächlich, dass Mowbray hinter all der Verräterei der letzten achtzehn Jahre steckt. Bolingbroke sagt, dass das Blut des unschuldigen Gloucester aus den stummen Höhlen der Erde nach Gerechtigkeit schreit. Mowbray reagiert auf diese Anschuldigungen, indem er Richard bittet, nichts zu glauben, was sein Cousin Henry gesagt hat. Richard versichert ihm eine unparteiische Anhörung und sagt, dass Henrys Verwandtschaft zu ihm weder ihm "Privilegien noch Vorlieben" gewähren werde. Mowbray beginnt dann eine Verteidigung seiner Unschuld und erklärt, dass er das erhaltene Geld an die Soldaten seiner Hoheit verteilt habe und einen Teil des Betrags als Zustimmung behalten habe, da sein "höchster Herrscher" ihm für einige Ausgaben in Frankreich, als er seine Königin zurückholte, schuldig war. Als er zur zweiten Anklage übergeht, erklärt er vehement, dass er nichts mit der Planung von Gloucesters Mord zu tun hatte. Mowbray gesteht allerdings, dass es einen Mordkomplott gegen Gloucester gab und dass er leider keine Rolle darin spielte. Mowbray gesteht eine Verfehlung in der Vergangenheit, für die er sich seitdem bekehrt hat: Er hat versucht, John of Gaunt zu töten. Mowbray sagt, dass der Rest der Anschuldigungen ihre Quelle in der "Galligkeit eines Schurken..." haben. Er akzeptiert Bolingbrokes Herausforderung zu einem Duell und bittet König Richard, einen Tag für ihren Zweikampf festzulegen. Richard versucht, sie zu besänftigen, und bittet sie, dieses Problem ohne Kampf zu lösen. Er bittet John of Gaunt, seinem Sohn zu helfen, während er selbst sich um den Herzog von Norfolk kümmern wird. Die Versuche von Richard und John of Gaunt, eine Versöhnung zwischen den beiden Männern herbeizuführen, sind jedoch vergeblich. Mowbray weigert sich nachzugeben. Als Richard versucht, ihn weiter zu überreden, sagt Mowbray: "...meine Ehre erlaubt mir, es zu versuchen; / In der lebe ich und dafür werde ich sterben." Bolingbroke reagiert in ähnlichem Geist. Als er erkennt, dass es nichts gibt, was er tun kann, um das Duell zu verhindern, verlässt John of Gaunt den Raum. Richard erkennt, dass die Männer nicht versöhnlich gestimmt sind, und ordnet daraufhin an, dass der Zweikampf am Saint Lambert's Day in Coventry stattfinden soll, um den Streit beizulegen.

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. Sechstens, der Souverän ist der Richter darüber, was für den Frieden und die Verteidigung seiner Untertanen notwendig ist. Da die Untertanen durch den Vertrag dem Souverän die Autorität übertragen haben, obliegt es ihm, zu entscheiden, welche Maßnahmen erforderlich sind, um den Frieden und die Sicherheit des Staates zu gewährleisten. Daher kann der Souverän nach eigenem Ermessen handeln und muss nicht von den Untertanen für seine Entscheidungen verantwortlich gemacht werden. And because the End of this Institution, is the Peace and Defence of them all; and whosoever has right to the End, has right to the Means; it belongeth of Right, to whatsoever Man, or Assembly that hath the Soveraignty, to be Judge both of the meanes of Peace and Defence; and also of the hindrances, and disturbances of the same; and to do whatsoever he shall think necessary to be done, both beforehand, for the preserving of Peace and Security, by prevention of discord at home and Hostility from abroad; and, when Peace and Security are lost, for the recovery of the same. And therefore, And Judge Of What Doctrines Are Fit To Be Taught Them Sixtly, it is annexed to the Soveraignty, to be Judge of what Opinions and Doctrines are averse, and what conducing to Peace; and consequently, on what occasions, how farre, and what, men are to be trusted withall, in speaking to Multitudes of people; and who shall examine the Doctrines of all bookes before they be published. For the Actions of men proceed from their Opinions; and in the wel governing of Opinions, consisteth the well governing of mens Actions, in order to their Peace, and Concord. And though in matter of Doctrine, nothing ought to be regarded but the Truth; yet this is not repugnant to regulating of the same by Peace. For Doctrine Repugnant to Peace, can no more be True, than Peace and Concord can be against the Law of Nature. It is true, that in a Common-wealth, where by the negligence, or unskilfullnesse of Governours, and Teachers, false Doctrines are by time generally received; the contrary Truths may be generally offensive; Yet the most sudden, and rough busling in of a new Truth, that can be, does never breake the Peace, but onely somtimes awake the Warre. For those men that are so remissely governed, that they dare take up Armes, to defend, or introduce an Opinion, are still in Warre; and their condition not Peace, but only a Cessation of Armes for feare of one another; and they live as it were, in the procincts of battaile continually. It belongeth therefore to him that hath the Soveraign Power, to be Judge, or constitute all Judges of Opinions and Doctrines, as a thing necessary to Peace, thereby to prevent Discord and Civill Warre. 7. The Right Of Making Rules, Whereby The Subject May Every Man Know What Is So His Owne, As No Other Subject Can Without Injustice Take It From Him Seventhly, is annexed to the Soveraigntie, the whole power of prescribing the Rules, whereby every man may know, what Goods he may enjoy and what Actions he may doe, without being molested by any of his fellow Subjects: And this is it men Call Propriety. For before constitution of Soveraign Power (as hath already been shewn) all men had right to all things; which necessarily causeth Warre: and therefore this Proprietie, being necessary to Peace, and depending on Soveraign Power, is the Act of the Power, in order to the publique peace. These Rules of Propriety (or Meum and Tuum) and of Good, Evill, Lawfull and Unlawfull in the actions of subjects, are the Civill Lawes, that is to say, the lawes of each Commonwealth in particular; though the name of Civill Law be now restrained to the antient Civill Lawes of the City of Rome; which being the head of a great part of the World, her Lawes at that time were in these parts the Civill Law. 8. To Him Also Belongeth The Right Of All Judicature And Decision Of Controversies: Eightly, is annexed to the Soveraigntie, the Right of Judicature; that is to say, of hearing and deciding all Controversies, which may arise concerning Law, either Civill, or naturall, or concerning Fact. For without the decision of Controversies, there is no protection of one Subject, against the injuries of another; the Lawes concerning Meum and Tuum are in vaine; and to every man remaineth, from the naturall and necessary appetite of his own conservation, the right of protecting himselfe by his private strength, which is the condition of Warre; and contrary to the end for which every Common-wealth is instituted. 9. And Of Making War, And Peace, As He Shall Think Best: Ninthly, is annexed to the Soveraignty, the Right of making Warre, and Peace with other Nations, and Common-wealths; that is to say, of Judging when it is for the publique good, and how great forces are to be assembled, armed, and payd for that end; and to levy mony upon the Subjects, to defray the expenses thereof. For the Power by which the people are to be defended, consisteth in their Armies; and the strength of an Army, in the union of their strength under one Command; which Command the Soveraign Instituted, therefore hath; because the command of the Militia, without other Institution, maketh him that hath it Soveraign. And therefore whosoever is made Generall of an Army, he that hath the Soveraign Power is alwayes Generallissimo. 10. And Of Choosing All Counsellours, And Ministers, Both Of Peace, And Warre: Tenthly, is annexed to the Soveraignty, the choosing of all Councellours, Ministers, Magistrates, and Officers, both in peace, and War. For seeing the Soveraign is charged with the End, which is the common Peace and Defence; he is understood to have Power to use such Means, as he shall think most fit for his discharge. 11. And Of Rewarding, And Punishing, And That (Where No Former Law hath Determined The Measure Of It) Arbitrary: Eleventhly, to the Soveraign is committed the Power of Rewarding with riches, or honour; and of Punishing with corporall, or pecuniary punishment, or with ignominy every Subject according to the Lawe he hath formerly made; or if there be no Law made, according as he shall judge most to conduce to the encouraging of men to serve the Common-wealth, or deterring of them from doing dis-service to the same. 12. And Of Honour And Order Lastly, considering what values men are naturally apt to set upon themselves; what respect they look for from others; and how little they value other men; from whence continually arise amongst them, Emulation, Quarrells, Factions, and at last Warre, to the destroying of one another, and diminution of their strength against a Common Enemy; It is necessary that there be Lawes of Honour, and a publique rate of the worth of such men as have deserved, or are able to deserve well of the Common-wealth; and that there be force in the hands of some or other, to put those Lawes in execution. But it hath already been shown, that not onely the whole Militia, or forces of the Common-wealth; but also the Judicature of all Controversies, is annexed to the Soveraignty. To the Soveraign therefore it belongeth also to give titles of Honour; and to appoint what Order of place, and dignity, each man shall hold; and what signes of respect, in publique or private meetings, they shall give to one another. These Rights Are Indivisible These are the Rights, which make the Essence of Soveraignty; and which are the markes, whereby a man may discern in what Man, or Assembly of men, the Soveraign Power is placed, and resideth. For these are incommunicable, and inseparable. The Power to coyn Mony; to dispose of the estate and persons of Infant heires; to have praeemption in Markets; and all other Statute Praerogatives, may be transferred by the Soveraign; and yet the Power to protect his Subject be retained. But if he transferre the Militia, he retains the Judicature in vain, for want of execution of the Lawes; Or if he grant away the Power of raising Mony; the Militia is in vain: or if he give away the government of doctrines, men will be frighted into rebellion with the feare of Spirits. And so if we consider any one of the said Rights, we shall presently see, that the holding of all the rest, will produce no effect, in the conservation of Peace and Justice, the end for which all Common-wealths are Instituted. And this division is it, whereof it is said, "A kingdome divided in it selfe cannot stand:" For unlesse this division precede, division into opposite Armies can never happen. If there had not first been an opinion received of the greatest part of England, that these Powers were divided between the King, and the Lords, and the House of Commons, the people had never been divided, and fallen into this Civill Warre; first between those that disagreed in Politiques; and after between the Dissenters about the liberty of Religion; which have so instructed men in this point of Soveraign Right, that there be few now (in England,) that do not see, that these Rights are inseparable, and will be so generally acknowledged, at the next return of Peace; and so continue, till their miseries are forgotten; and no longer, except the vulgar be better taught than they have hetherto been. And Can By No Grant Passe Away Without Direct Renouncing Of The Soveraign Power And because they are essentiall and inseparable Rights, it follows necessarily, that in whatsoever, words any of them seem to be granted away, yet if the Soveraign Power it selfe be not in direct termes renounced, and the name of Soveraign no more given by the Grantees to him that Grants them, the Grant is voyd: for when he has granted all he can, if we grant back the Soveraignty, all is restored, as inseparably annexed thereunto. The Power And Honour Of Subjects Vanisheth In The Presence Of The Power Soveraign This great Authority being indivisible, and inseparably annexed to the Soveraignty, there is little ground for the opinion of them, that say of Soveraign Kings, though they be Singulis Majores, of greater Power than every one of their Subjects, yet they be Universis Minores, of lesse power than them all together. For if by All Together, they mean not the collective body as one person, then All Together, and Every One, signifie the same; and the speech is absurd. But if by All Together, they understand them as one Person (which person the Soveraign bears,) then the power of all together, is the same with the Soveraigns power; and so again the speech is absurd; which absurdity they see well enough, when the Soveraignty is in an Assembly of the people; but in a Monarch they see it not; and yet the power of Soveraignty is the same in whomsoever it be placed. And as the Power, so also the Honour of the Soveraign, ought to be greater, than that of any, or all the Subjects. For in the Soveraignty is the fountain of Honour. The dignities of Lord, Earle, Duke, and Prince are his Creatures. As in the presence of the Master, the Servants are equall, and without any honour at all; So are the Subjects, in the presence of the Soveraign. And though they shine some more, some lesse, when they are out of his sight; yet in his presence, they shine no more than the Starres in presence of the Sun. Soveraigne Power Not Hurtfull As The Want Of It, And The Hurt Proceeds For The Greatest Part From Not Submitting Readily, To A Lesse But a man may here object, that the Condition of Subjects is very miserable; as being obnoxious to the lusts, and other irregular passions of him, or them that have so unlimited a Power in their hands. And commonly they that live under a Monarch, think it the fault of Monarchy; and they that live under the government of Democracy, or other Soveraign Assembly, attribute all the inconvenience to that forme of Common-wealth; whereas the Power in all formes, if they be perfect enough to protect them, is the same; not considering that the estate of Man can never be without some incommodity or other; and that the greatest, that in any forme of Government can possibly happen to the people in generall, is scarce sensible, in respect of the miseries, and horrible calamities, that accompany a Civill Warre; or that dissolute condition of masterlesse men, without subjection to Lawes, and a coercive Power to tye their hands from rapine, and revenge: nor considering that the greatest pressure of Soveraign Governours, proceedeth not from any delight, or profit they can expect in the dammage, or weakening of their subjects, in whose vigor, consisteth their own selves, that unwillingly contributing to their own defence, make it necessary for their Governours to draw from them what they can in time of Peace, that they may have means on any emergent occasion, or sudden need, to resist, or take advantage on their Enemies. For all men are by nature provided of notable multiplying glasses, (that is their Passions and Self-love,) through which, every little payment appeareth a great grievance; but are destitute of those prospective glasses, (namely Morall and Civill Science,) to see a farre off the miseries that hang over them, and cannot without such payments be avoyded. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Phosphorlichter ziehen über uns hinweg, als die Deutschen ihre Verfolgung aufnehmen. Sechs kleine Ein-Mann-Wanderer jagen Alek hinterher und schießen Phosphorlichter ab. Aleks Besatzung weiß nicht, was vor sich geht, bis eines der Phosphorlichter an dem Wanderer kleben bleibt. Das Licht sendet konstanten Rauch in die Luft und macht sie dadurch sehr leicht zu verfolgen. Oh oh. Da es keinen einfachen Weg gibt, Phosphor zu löschen, wissen die Jungs nicht so recht, was sie tun sollen, bis Alek realisiert, dass er es abschlagen muss. Was er dann mit einem zweihundert Jahre alten Familienerbstück-Schwert macht, das sie zufälligerweise an Bord haben. Warum befindet sich dieses Schwert dort? Wir wissen es nicht. Dann wirft Alek das Schwert in den Wald, weil es phosphort und Rauch abgibt. Wir mögen es einfach nicht, wenn das unseren guten Schwertern passiert. Da die Deutschen glauben, dass das rauchende Schwert der gefallene Wanderer ist, schießen sie weiter darauf, während Alek und seine Crew entkommen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: There was no after-theatre lark, however, so far as Carrie was concerned. She made her way homeward, thinking about her absence. Hurstwood was asleep, but roused up to look as she passed through to her own bed. "Is that you?" he said. "Yes," she answered. The next morning at breakfast she felt like apologising. "I couldn't get home last evening," she said. "Ah, Carrie," he answered, "what's the use saying that? I don't care. You needn't tell me that, though." "I couldn't," said Carrie, her colour rising. Then, seeing that he looked as if he said "I know," she exclaimed: "Oh, all right. I don't care." From now on, her indifference to the flat was even greater. There seemed no common ground on which they could talk to one another. She let herself be asked for expenses. It became so with him that he hated to do it. He preferred standing off the butcher and baker. He ran up a grocery bill of sixteen dollars with Oeslogge, laying in a supply of staple articles, so that they would not have to buy any of those things for some time to come. Then he changed his grocery. It was the same with the butcher and several others. Carrie never heard anything of this directly from him. He asked for such as he could expect, drifting farther and farther into a situation which could have but one ending. In this fashion, September went by. "Isn't Mr. Drake going to open his hotel?" Carrie asked several times. "Yes. He won't do it before October, though, now." Carrie became disgusted. "Such a man," she said to herself frequently. More and more she visited. She put most of her spare money in clothes, which, after all, was not an astonishing amount. At last the opera she was with announced its departure within four weeks. "Last two weeks of the Great Comic Opera success ---- The --------," etc., was upon all billboards and in the newspapers, before she acted. "I'm not going out on the road," said Miss Osborne. Carrie went with her to apply to another manager. "Ever had any experience?" was one of his questions. "I'm with the company at the Casino now." "Oh, you are?" he said. The end of this was another engagement at twenty per week. Carrie was delighted. She began to feel that she had a place in the world. People recognised ability. So changed was her state that the home atmosphere became intolerable. It was all poverty and trouble there, or seemed to be, because it was a load to bear. It became a place to keep away from. Still she slept there, and did a fair amount of work, keeping it in order. It was a sitting place for Hurstwood. He sat and rocked, rocked and read, enveloped in the gloom of his own fate. October went by, and November. It was the dead of winter almost before he knew it, and there he sat. Carrie was doing better, that he knew. Her clothes were improved now, even fine. He saw her coming and going, sometimes picturing to himself her rise. Little eating had thinned him somewhat. He had no appetite. His clothes, too, were a poor man's clothes. Talk about getting something had become even too threadbare and ridiculous for him. So he folded his hands and waited--for what, he could not anticipate. At last, however, troubles became too thick. The hounding of creditors, the indifference of Carrie, the silence of the flat, and presence of winter, all joined to produce a climax. It was effected by the arrival of Oeslogge, personally, when Carrie was there. "I call about my bill," said Mr. Oeslogge. Carrie was only faintly surprised. "How much is it?" she asked. "Sixteen dollars," he replied. "Oh, that much?" said Carrie. "Is this right?" she asked, turning to Hurstwood. "Yes," he said. "Well, I never heard anything about it." She looked as if she thought he had been contracting some needless expense. "Well, we had it all right," he answered. Then he went to the door. "I can't pay you anything on that to-day," he said, mildly. "Well, when can you?" said the grocer. "Not before Saturday, anyhow," said Hurstwood. "Huh!" returned the grocer. "This is fine. I must have that. I need the money." Carrie was standing farther back in the room, hearing it all. She was greatly distressed. It was so bad and commonplace. Hurstwood was annoyed also. "Well," he said, "there's no use talking about it now. If you'll come in Saturday, I'll pay you something on it." The grocery man went away. "How are we going to pay it?" asked Carrie, astonished by the bill. "I can't do it." "Well, you don't have to," he said. "He can't get what he can't get. He'll have to wait." "I don't see how we ran up such a bill as that," said Carrie. "Well, we ate it," said Hurstwood. "It's funny," she replied, still doubting. "What's the use of your standing there and talking like that, now?" he asked. "Do you think I've had it alone? You talk as if I'd taken something." "Well, it's too much, anyhow," said Carrie. "I oughtn't to be made to pay for it. I've got more than I can pay for now." "All right," replied Hurstwood, sitting down in silence. He was sick of the grind of this thing. Carrie went out and there he sat, determining to do something. There had been appearing in the papers about this time rumours and notices of an approaching strike on the trolley lines in Brooklyn. There was general dissatisfaction as to the hours of labour required and the wages paid. As usual--and for some inexplicable reason--the men chose the winter for the forcing of the hand of their employers and the settlement of their difficulties. Hurstwood had been reading of this thing, and wondering concerning the huge tie-up which would follow. A day or two before this trouble with Carrie, it came. On a cold afternoon, when everything was grey and it threatened to snow, the papers announced that the men had been called out on all the lines. Being so utterly idle, and his mind filled with the numerous predictions which had been made concerning the scarcity of labour this winter and the panicky state of the financial market, Hurstwood read this with interest. He noted the claims of the striking motormen and conductors, who said that they had been wont to receive two dollars a day in times past, but that for a year or more "trippers" had been introduced, which cut down their chance of livelihood one-half, and increased their hours of servitude from ten to twelve, and even fourteen. These "trippers" were men put on during the busy and rush hours, to take a car out for one trip. The compensation paid for such a trip was only twenty-five cents. When the rush or busy hours were over, they were laid off. Worst of all, no man might know when he was going to get a car. He must come to the barns in the morning and wait around in fair and foul weather until such time as he was needed. Two trips were an average reward for so much waiting--a little over three hours' work for fifty cents. The work of waiting was not counted. The men complained that this system was extending, and that the time was not far off when but a few out of 7,000 employees would have regular two-dollar-a-day work at all. They demanded that the system be abolished, and that ten hours be considered a day's work, barring unavoidable delays, with $2.25 pay. They demanded immediate acceptance of these terms, which the various trolley companies refused. Hurstwood at first sympathised with the demands of these men--indeed, it is a question whether he did not always sympathise with them to the end, belie him as his actions might. Reading nearly all the news, he was attracted first by the scare-heads with which the trouble was noted in the "World." He read it fully--the names of the seven companies involved, the number of men. "They're foolish to strike in this sort of weather," he thought to himself. "Let 'em win if they can, though." The next day there was even a larger notice of it. "Brooklynites Walk," said the "World." "Knights of Labour Tie up the Trolley Lines Across the Bridge." "About Seven Thousand Men Out." Hurstwood read this, formulating to himself his own idea of what would be the outcome. He was a great believer in the strength of corporations. "They can't win," he said, concerning the men. "They haven't any money. The police will protect the companies. They've got to. The public has to have its cars." He didn't sympathise with the corporations, but strength was with them. So was property and public utility. "Those fellows can't win," he thought. Among other things, he noticed a circular issued by one of the companies, which read: ATLANTIC AVENUE RAILROAD SPECIAL NOTICE The motormen and conductors and other employees of this company having abruptly left its service, an opportunity is now given to all loyal men who have struck against their will to be reinstated, providing they will make their applications by twelve o'clock noon on Wednesday, January 16th. Such men will be given employment (with guaranteed protection) in the order in which such applications are received, and runs and positions assigned them accordingly. Otherwise, they will be considered discharged, and every vacancy will be filled by a new man as soon as his services can be secured. (Signed) Benjamin Norton, President He also noted among the want ads. one which read: WANTED.--50 skilled motormen, accustomed to Westinghouse system, to run U.S. mail cars only, in the City of Brooklyn; protection guaranteed. He noted particularly in each the "protection guaranteed." It signified to him the unassailable power of the companies. "They've got the militia on their side," he thought. "There isn't anything those men can do." While this was still in his mind, the incident with Oeslogge and Carrie occurred. There had been a good deal to irritate him, but this seemed much the worst. Never before had she accused him of stealing--or very near that. She doubted the naturalness of so large a bill. And he had worked so hard to make expenses seem light. He had been "doing" butcher and baker in order not to call on her. He had eaten very little--almost nothing. "Damn it all!" he said. "I can get something. I'm not down yet." He thought that he really must do something now. It was too cheap to sit around after such an insinuation as this. Why, after a little, he would be standing anything. He got up and looked out the window into the chilly street. It came gradually into his mind, as he stood there, to go to Brooklyn. "Why not?" his mind said. "Any one can get work over there. You'll get two a day." "How about accidents?" said a voice. "You might get hurt." "Oh, there won't be much of that," he answered. "They've called out the police. Any one who wants to run a car will be protected all right." "You don't know how to run a car," rejoined the voice. "I won't apply as a motorman," he answered. "I can ring up fares all right." "They'll want motormen, mostly." "They'll take anybody; that I know." For several hours he argued pro and con with this mental counsellor, feeling no need to act at once in a matter so sure of profit. In the morning he put on his best clothes, which were poor enough, and began stirring about, putting some bread and meat into a page of a newspaper. Carrie watched him, interested in this new move. "Where are you going?" she asked. "Over to Brooklyn," he answered. Then, seeing her still inquisitive, he added: "I think I can get on over there." "On the trolley lines?" said Carrie, astonished. "Yes," he rejoined. "Aren't you afraid?" she asked. "What of?" he answered. "The police are protecting them." "The paper said four men were hurt yesterday." "Yes," he returned; "but you can't go by what the papers say. They'll run the cars all right." He looked rather determined now, in a desolate sort of way, and Carrie felt very sorry. Something of the old Hurstwood was here--the least shadow of what was once shrewd and pleasant strength. Outside, it was cloudy and blowing a few flakes of snow. "What a day to go over there," thought Carrie. Now he left before she did, which was a remarkable thing, and tramped eastward to Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, where he took the car. He had read that scores of applicants were applying at the office of the Brooklyn City Railroad building and were being received. He made his way there by horse-car and ferry--a dark, silent man--to the offices in question. It was a long way, for no cars were running, and the day was cold; but he trudged along grimly. Once in Brooklyn, he could clearly see and feel that a strike was on. People showed it in their manner. Along the routes of certain tracks not a car was running. About certain corners and nearby saloons small groups of men were lounging. Several spring wagons passed him, equipped with plain wooden chairs, and labelled "Flatbush" or "Prospect Park. Fare, Ten Cents." He noticed cold and even gloomy faces. Labour was having its little war. When he came near the office in question, he saw a few men standing about, and some policemen. On the far corners were other men--whom he took to be strikers--watching. All the houses were small and wooden, the streets poorly paved. After New York, Brooklyn looked actually poor and hard-up. He made his way into the heart of the small group, eyed by policemen and the men already there. One of the officers addressed him. "What are you looking for?" "I want to see if I can get a place." "The offices are up those steps," said the bluecoat. His face was a very neutral thing to contemplate. In his heart of hearts, he sympathised with the strikers and hated this "scab." In his heart of hearts, also, he felt the dignity and use of the police force, which commanded order. Of its true social significance, he never once dreamed. His was not the mind for that. The two feelings blended in him--neutralised one another and him. He would have fought for this man as determinedly as for himself, and yet only so far as commanded. Strip him of his uniform, and he would have soon picked his side. Hurstwood ascended a dusty flight of steps and entered a small, dust-coloured office, in which were a railing, a long desk, and several clerks. "Well, sir?" said a middle-aged man, looking up at him from the long desk. "Do you want to hire any men?" inquired Hurstwood. "What are you--a motorman?" "No; I'm not anything," said Hurstwood. He was not at all abashed by his position. He knew these people needed men. If one didn't take him, another would. This man could take him or leave him, just as he chose. "Well, we prefer experienced men, of course," said the man. He paused, while Hurstwood smiled indifferently. Then he added: "Still, I guess you can learn. What is your name?" "Wheeler," said Hurstwood. The man wrote an order on a small card. "Take that to our barns," he said, "and give it to the foreman. He'll show you what to do." Hurstwood went down and out. He walked straight away in the direction indicated, while the policemen looked after. "There's another wants to try it," said Officer Kiely to Officer Macey. "I have my mind he'll get his fill," returned the latter, quietly. They had been in strikes before. The barn at which Hurstwood applied was exceedingly short-handed, and was being operated practically by three men as directors. There were a lot of green hands around--queer, hungry-looking men, who looked as if want had driven them to desperate means. They tried to be lively and willing, but there was an air of hang-dog diffidence about the place. Hurstwood went back through the barns and out into a large, enclosed lot, where were a series of tracks and loops. A half-dozen cars were there, manned by instructors, each with a pupil at the lever. More pupils were waiting at one of the rear doors of the barn. In silence Hurstwood viewed this scene, and waited. His companions took his eye for a while, though they did not interest him much more than the cars. They were an uncomfortable-looking gang, however. One or two were very thin and lean. Several were quite stout. Several others were rawboned and sallow, as if they had been beaten upon by all sorts of rough weather. "Did you see by the paper they are going to call out the militia?" Hurstwood heard one of them remark. "Oh, they'll do that," returned the other. "They always do." "Think we're liable to have much trouble?" said another, whom Hurstwood did not see. "Not very." "That Scotchman that went out on the last car," put in a voice, "told me that they hit him in the ear with a cinder." A small, nervous laugh accompanied this. "One of those fellows on the Fifth Avenue line must have had a hell of a time, according to the papers," drawled another. "They broke his car windows and pulled him off into the street 'fore the police could stop 'em." "Yes; but there are more police around to-day," was added by another. Hurstwood hearkened without much mental comment. These talkers seemed scared to him. Their gabbling was feverish--things said to quiet their own minds. He looked out into the yard and waited. Two of the men got around quite near him, but behind his back. They were rather social, and he listened to what they said. "Are you a railroad man?" said one. "Me? No. I've always worked in a paper factory." "I had a job in Newark until last October," returned the other, with reciprocal feeling. There were some words which passed too low to hear. Then the conversation became strong again. "I don't blame these fellers for striking," said one. "They've got the right of it, all right, but I had to get something to do." "Same here," said the other. "If I had any job in Newark I wouldn't be over here takin' chances like these." "It's hell these days, ain't it?" said the man. "A poor man ain't nowhere. You could starve, by God, right in the streets, and there ain't most no one would help you." "Right you are," said the other. "The job I had I lost 'cause they shut down. They run all summer and lay up a big stock, and then shut down." Hurstwood paid some little attention to this. Somehow, he felt a little superior to these two--a little better off. To him these were ignorant and commonplace, poor sheep in a driver's hand. "Poor devils," he thought, speaking out of the thoughts and feelings of a bygone period of success. "Next," said one of the instructors. "You're next," said a neighbour, touching him. He went out and climbed on the platform. The instructor took it for granted that no preliminaries were needed. "You see this handle," he said, reaching up to an electric cut-off, which was fastened to the roof. "This throws the current off or on. If you want to reverse the car you turn it over here. If you want to send it forward, you put it over here. If you want to cut off the power, you keep it in the middle." Hurstwood smiled at the simple information. "Now, this handle here regulates your speed. To here," he said, pointing with his finger, "gives you about four miles an hour. This is eight. When it's full on, you make about fourteen miles an hour." Hurstwood watched him calmly. He had seen motormen work before. He knew just about how they did it, and was sure he could do as well, with a very little practice. The instructor explained a few more details, and then said: "Now, we'll back her up." Hurstwood stood placidly by, while the car rolled back into the yard. "One thing you want to be careful about, and that is to start easy. Give one degree time to act before you start another. The one fault of most men is that they always want to throw her wide open. That's bad. It's dangerous, too. Wears out the motor. You don't want to do that." "I see," said Hurstwood. He waited and waited, while the man talked on. "Now you take it," he said, finally. The ex-manager laid hand to the lever and pushed it gently, as he thought. It worked much easier than he imagined, however, with the result that the car jerked quickly forward, throwing him back against the door. He straightened up sheepishly, while the instructor stopped the car with the brake. "You want to be careful about that," was all he said. Hurstwood found, however, that handling a brake and regulating speed were not so instantly mastered as he had imagined. Once or twice he would have ploughed through the rear fence if it had not been for the hand and word of his companion. The latter was rather patient with him, but he never smiled. "You've got to get the knack of working both arms at once," he said. "It takes a little practice." One o'clock came while he was still on the car practising, and he began to feel hungry. The day set in snowing, and he was cold. He grew weary of running to and fro on the short track. They ran the car to the end and both got off. Hurstwood went into the barn and sought a car step, pulling out his paper-wrapped lunch from his pocket. There was no water and the bread was dry, but he enjoyed it. There was no ceremony about dining. He swallowed and looked about, contemplating the dull, homely labour of the thing. It was disagreeable--miserably disagreeable--in all its phases. Not because it was bitter, but because it was hard. It would be hard to any one, he thought. After eating, he stood about as before, waiting until his turn came. The intention was to give him an afternoon of practice, but the greater part of the time was spent in waiting about. At last evening came, and with it hunger and a debate with himself as to how he should spend the night. It was half-past five. He must soon eat. If he tried to go home, it would take him two hours and a half of cold walking and riding. Besides he had orders to report at seven the next morning, and going home would necessitate his rising at an unholy and disagreeable hour. He had only something like a dollar and fifteen cents of Carrie's money, with which he had intended to pay the two weeks' coal bill before the present idea struck him. "They must have some place around here," he thought. "Where does that fellow from Newark stay?" Finally he decided to ask. There was a young fellow standing near one of the doors in the cold, waiting a last turn. He was a mere boy in years--twenty-one about--but with a body lank and long, because of privation. A little good living would have made this youth plump and swaggering. "How do they arrange this, if a man hasn't any money?" inquired Hurstwood, discreetly. The fellow turned a keen, watchful face on the inquirer. "You mean eat?" he replied. "Yes, and sleep. I can't go back to New York to-night." "The foreman 'll fix that if you ask him, I guess. He did me." "That so?" "Yes. I just told him I didn't have anything. Gee, I couldn't go home. I live way over in Hoboken." Hurstwood only cleared his throat by way of acknowledgment. "They've got a place upstairs here, I understand. I don't know what sort of a thing it is. Purty tough, I guess. He gave me a meal ticket this noon. I know that wasn't much." Hurstwood smiled grimly, and the boy laughed. "It ain't no fun, is it?" he inquired, wishing vainly for a cheery reply. "Not much," answered Hurstwood. "I'd tackle him now," volunteered the youth. "He may go 'way." Hurstwood did so. "Isn't there some place I can stay around here to-night?" he inquired. "If I have to go back to New York, I'm afraid I won't." "There're some cots upstairs," interrupted the man, "if you want one of them." "That'll do," he assented. He meant to ask for a meal ticket, but the seemingly proper moment never came, and he decided to pay himself that night. "I'll ask him in the morning." He ate in a cheap restaurant in the vicinity, and, being cold and lonely, went straight off to seek the loft in question. The company was not attempting to run cars after nightfall. It was so advised by the police. The room seemed to have been a lounging place for night workers. There were some nine cots in the place, two or three wooden chairs, a soap box, and a small, round-bellied stove, in which a fire was blazing. Early as he was, another man was there before him. The latter was sitting beside the stove warming his hands. Hurstwood approached and held out his own toward the fire. He was sick of the bareness and privation of all things connected with his venture, but was steeling himself to hold out. He fancied he could for a while. "Cold, isn't it?" said the early guest. "Rather." A long silence. "Not much of a place to sleep in, is it?" said the man. "Better than nothing," replied Hurstwood. Another silence. "I believe I'll turn in," said the man. Rising, he went to one of the cots and stretched himself, removing only his shoes, and pulling the one blanket and dirty old comforter over him in a sort of bundle. The sight disgusted Hurstwood, but he did not dwell on it, choosing to gaze into the stove and think of something else. Presently he decided to retire, and picked a cot, also removing his shoes. While he was doing so, the youth who had advised him to come here entered, and, seeing Hurstwood, tried to be genial. "Better'n nothin'," he observed, looking around. Hurstwood did not take this to himself. He thought it to be an expression of individual satisfaction, and so did not answer. The youth imagined he was out of sorts, and set to whistling softly. Seeing another man asleep, he quit that and lapsed into silence. Hurstwood made the best of a bad lot by keeping on his clothes and pushing away the dirty covering from his head, but at last he dozed in sheer weariness. The covering became more and more comfortable, its character was forgotten, and he pulled it about his neck and slept. In the morning he was aroused out of a pleasant dream by several men stirring about in the cold, cheerless room. He had been back in Chicago in fancy, in his own comfortable home. Jessica had been arranging to go somewhere, and he had been talking with her about it. This was so clear in his mind, that he was startled now by the contrast of this room. He raised his head, and the cold, bitter reality jarred him into wakefulness. "Guess I'd better get up," he said. There was no water on this floor. He put on his shoes in the cold and stood up, shaking himself in his stiffness. His clothes felt disagreeable, his hair bad. "Hell!" he muttered, as he put on his hat. Downstairs things were stirring again. He found a hydrant, with a trough which had once been used for horses, but there was no towel here, and his handkerchief was soiled from yesterday. He contented himself with wetting his eyes with the ice-cold water. Then he sought the foreman, who was already on the ground. "Had your breakfast yet?" inquired that worthy. "No," said Hurstwood. "Better get it, then; your car won't be ready for a little while." Hurstwood hesitated. "Could you let me have a meal ticket?" he asked with an effort. "Here you are," said the man, handing him one. He breakfasted as poorly as the night before on some fried steak and bad coffee. Then he went back. "Here," said the foreman, motioning him, when he came in. "You take this car out in a few minutes." Hurstwood climbed up on the platform in the gloomy barn and waited for a signal. He was nervous, and yet the thing was a relief. Anything was better than the barn. On this the fourth day of the strike, the situation had taken a turn for the worse. The strikers, following the counsel of their leaders and the newspapers, had struggled peaceably enough. There had been no great violence done. Cars had been stopped, it is true, and the men argued with. Some crews had been won over and led away, some windows broken, some jeering and yelling done; but in no more than five or six instances had men been seriously injured. These by crowds whose acts the leaders disclaimed. Idleness, however, and the sight of the company, backed by the police, triumphing, angered the men. They saw that each day more cars were going on, each day more declarations were being made by the company officials that the effective opposition of the strikers was broken. This put desperate thoughts in the minds of the men. Peaceful methods meant, they saw, that the companies would soon run all their cars and those who had complained would be forgotten. There was nothing so helpful to the companies as peaceful methods. All at once they blazed forth, and for a week there was storm and stress. Cars were assailed, men attacked, policemen struggled with, tracks torn up, and shots fired, until at last street fights and mob movements became frequent, and the city was invested with militia. Hurstwood knew nothing of the change of temper. "Run your car out," called the foreman, waving a vigorous hand at him. A green conductor jumped up behind and rang the bell twice as a signal to start. Hurstwood turned the lever and ran the car out through the door into the street in front of the barn. Here two brawny policemen got up beside him on the platform--one on either hand. At the sound of a gong near the barn door, two bells were given by the conductor and Hurstwood opened his lever. The two policemen looked about them calmly. "'Tis cold, all right, this morning," said the one on the left, who possessed a rich brogue. "I had enough of it yesterday," said the other. "I wouldn't want a steady job of this." "Nor I." Neither paid the slightest attention to Hurstwood, who stood facing the cold wind, which was chilling him completely, and thinking of his orders. "Keep a steady gait," the foreman had said. "Don't stop for any one who doesn't look like a real passenger. Whatever you do, don't stop for a crowd." The two officers kept silent for a few moments. "The last man must have gone through all right," said the officer on the left. "I don't see his car anywhere." "Who's on there?" asked the second officer, referring, of course, to its complement of policemen. "Schaeffer and Ryan." There was another silence, in which the car ran smoothly along. There were not so many houses along this part of the way. Hurstwood did not see many people either. The situation was not wholly disagreeable to him. If he were not so cold, he thought he would do well enough. He was brought out of this feeling by the sudden appearance of a curve ahead, which he had not expected. He shut off the current and did an energetic turn at the brake, but not in time to avoid an unnaturally quick turn. It shook him up and made him feel like making some apologetic remarks, but he refrained. "You want to look out for them things," said the officer on the left, condescendingly. "That's right," agreed Hurstwood, shamefacedly. "There's lots of them on this line," said the officer on the right. Around the corner a more populated way appeared. One or two pedestrians were in view ahead. A boy coming out of a gate with a tin milk bucket gave Hurstwood his first objectionable greeting. "Scab!" he yelled. "Scab!" Hurstwood heard it, but tried to make no comment, even to himself. He knew he would get that, and much more of the same sort, probably. At a corner farther up a man stood by the track and signalled the car to stop. "Never mind him," said one of the officers. "He's up to some game." Hurstwood obeyed. At the corner he saw the wisdom of it. No sooner did the man perceive the intention to ignore him, than he shook his fist. "Ah, you bloody coward!" he yelled. Some half dozen men, standing on the corner, flung taunts and jeers after the speeding car. Hurstwood winced the least bit. The real thing was slightly worse than the thoughts of it had been. Now came in sight, three or four blocks farther on, a heap of something on the track. "They've been at work, here, all right," said one of the policemen. "We'll have an argument, maybe," said the other. Hurstwood ran the car close and stopped. He had not done so wholly, however, before a crowd gathered about. It was composed of ex-motormen and conductors in part, with a sprinkling of friends and sympathisers. "Come off the car, pardner," said one of the men in a voice meant to be conciliatory. "You don't want to take the bread out of another man's mouth, do you?" Hurstwood held to his brake and lever, pale and very uncertain what to do. "Stand back," yelled one of the officers, leaning over the platform railing. "Clear out of this, now. Give the man a chance to do his work." "Listen, pardner," said the leader, ignoring the policeman and addressing Hurstwood. "We're all working men, like yourself. If you were a regular motorman, and had been treated as we've been, you wouldn't want any one to come in and take your place, would you? You wouldn't want any one to do you out of your chance to get your rights, would you?" "Shut her off! shut her off!" urged the other of the policemen, roughly. "Get out of this, now," and he jumped the railing and landed before the crowd and began shoving. Instantly the other officer was down beside him. "Stand back, now," they yelled. "Get out of this. What the hell do you mean? Out, now." It was like a small swarm of bees. "Don't shove me," said one of the strikers, determinedly. "I'm not doing anything." "Get out of this!" cried the officer, swinging his club. "I'll give ye a bat on the sconce. Back, now." "What the hell!" cried another of the strikers, pushing the other way, adding at the same time some lusty oaths. Crack came an officer's club on his forehead. He blinked his eyes blindly a few times, wabbled on his legs, threw up his hands, and staggered back. In return, a swift fist landed on the officer's neck. Infuriated by this, the latter plunged left and right, laying about madly with his club. He was ably assisted by his brother of the blue, who poured ponderous oaths upon the troubled waters. No severe damage was done, owing to the agility of the strikers in keeping out of reach. They stood about the sidewalk now and jeered. "Where is the conductor?" yelled one of the officers, getting his eye on that individual, who had come nervously forward to stand by Hurstwood. The latter had stood gazing upon the scene with more astonishment than fear. "Why don't you come down here and get these stones off the track?" inquired the officer. "What you standing there for? Do you want to stay here all day? Get down." Hurstwood breathed heavily in excitement and jumped down with the nervous conductor as if he had been called. "Hurry up, now," said the other policeman. Cold as it was, these officers were hot and mad. Hurstwood worked with the conductor, lifting stone after stone and warming himself by the work. "Ah, you scab, you!" yelled the crowd. "You coward! Steal a man's job, will you? Rob the poor, will you, you thief? We'll get you yet, now. Wait." Not all of this was delivered by one man. It came from here and there, incorporated with much more of the same sort and curses. "Work, you blackguards," yelled a voice. "Do the dirty work. You're the suckers that keep the poor people down!" "May God starve ye yet," yelled an old Irish woman, who now threw open a nearby window and stuck out her head. "Yes, and you," she added, catching the eye of one of the policemen. "You bloody, murtherin' thafe! Crack my son over the head, will you, you hardhearted, murtherin' divil? Ah, ye----" But the officer turned a deaf ear. "Go to the devil, you old hag," he half muttered as he stared round upon the scattered company. Now the stones were off, and Hurstwood took his place again amid a continued chorus of epithets. Both officers got up beside him and the conductor rang the bell, when, bang! bang! through window and door came rocks and stones. One narrowly grazed Hurstwood's head. Another shattered the window behind. "Throw open your lever," yelled one of the officers, grabbing at the handle himself. Hurstwood complied and the car shot away, followed by a rattle of stones and a rain of curses. "That --- --- --- ---- hit me in the neck," said one of the officers. "I gave him a good crack for it, though." "I think I must have left spots on some of them," said the other. "I know that big guy that called us a --- --- --- ----" said the first. "I'll get him yet for that." "I thought we were in for it sure, once there," said the second. Hurstwood, warmed and excited, gazed steadily ahead. It was an astonishing experience for him. He had read of these things, but the reality seemed something altogether new. He was no coward in spirit. The fact that he had suffered this much now rather operated to arouse a stolid determination to stick it out. He did not recur in thought to New York or the flat. This one trip seemed a consuming thing. They now ran into the business heart of Brooklyn uninterrupted. People gazed at the broken windows of the car and at Hurstwood in his plain clothes. Voices called "scab" now and then, as well as other epithets, but no crowd attacked the car. At the downtown end of the line, one of the officers went to call up his station and report the trouble. "There's a gang out there," he said, "laying for us yet. Better send some one over there and clean them out." The car ran back more quietly--hooted, watched, flung at, but not attacked. Hurstwood breathed freely when he saw the barns. "Well," he observed to himself, "I came out of that all right." The car was turned in and he was allowed to loaf a while, but later he was again called. This time a new team of officers was aboard. Slightly more confident, he sped the car along the commonplace streets and felt somewhat less fearful. On one side, however, he suffered intensely. The day was raw, with a sprinkling of snow and a gusty wind, made all the more intolerable by the speed of the car. His clothing was not intended for this sort of work. He shivered, stamped his feet, and beat his arms as he had seen other motormen do in the past, but said nothing. The novelty and danger of the situation modified in a way his disgust and distress at being compelled to be here, but not enough to prevent him from feeling grim and sour. This was a dog's life, he thought. It was a tough thing to have to come to. The one thought that strengthened him was the insult offered by Carrie. He was not down so low as to take all that, he thought. He could do something--this, even--for a while. It would get better. He would save a little. A boy threw a clod of mud while he was thus reflecting and hit him upon the arm. It hurt sharply and angered him more than he had been any time since morning. "The little cur!" he muttered. "Hurt you?" asked one of the policemen. "No," he answered. At one of the corners, where the car slowed up because of a turn, an ex-motorman, standing on the sidewalk, called to him: "Won't you come out, pardner, and be a man? Remember we're fighting for decent day's wages, that's all. We've got families to support." The man seemed most peaceably inclined. Hurstwood pretended not to see him. He kept his eyes straight on before and opened the lever wide. The voice had something appealing in it. All morning this went on and long into the afternoon. He made three such trips. The dinner he had was no stay for such work and the cold was telling on him. At each end of the line he stopped to thaw out, but he could have groaned at the anguish of it. One of the barnmen, out of pity, loaned him a heavy cap and a pair of sheepskin gloves, and for once he was extremely thankful. On the second trip of the afternoon he ran into a crowd about half way along the line, that had blocked the car's progress with an old telegraph pole. "Get that thing off the track," shouted the two policemen. "Yah, yah, yah!" yelled the crowd. "Get it off yourself." The two policemen got down and Hurstwood started to follow. "You stay there," one called. "Some one will run away with your car." Amid the babel of voices, Hurstwood heard one close beside him. "Come down, pardner, and be a man. Don't fight the poor. Leave that to the corporations." He saw the same fellow who had called to him from the corner. Now, as before, he pretended not to hear him. "Come down," the man repeated gently. "You don't want to fight poor men. Don't fight at all." It was a most philosophic and jesuitical motorman. A third policeman joined the other two from somewhere and some one ran to telephone for more officers. Hurstwood gazed about, determined but fearful. A man grabbed him by the coat. "Come off of that," he exclaimed, jerking at him and trying to pull him over the railing. "Let go," said Hurstwood, savagely. "I'll show you--you scab!" cried a young Irishman, jumping up on the car and aiming a blow at Hurstwood. The latter ducked and caught it on the shoulder instead of the jaw. "Away from here," shouted an officer, hastening to the rescue, and adding, of course, the usual oaths. Hurstwood recovered himself, pale and trembling. It was becoming serious with him now. People were looking up and jeering at him. One girl was making faces. He began to waver in his resolution, when a patrol wagon rolled up and more officers dismounted. Now the track was quickly cleared and the release effected. "Let her go now, quick," said the officer, and again he was off. The end came with a real mob, which met the car on its return trip a mile or two from the barns. It was an exceedingly poor-looking neighbourhood. He wanted to run fast through it, but again the track was blocked. He saw men carrying something out to it when he was yet a half-dozen blocks away. "There they are again!" exclaimed one policeman. "I'll give them something this time," said the second officer, whose patience was becoming worn. Hurstwood suffered a qualm of body as the car rolled up. As before, the crowd began hooting, but now, rather than come near, they threw things. One or two windows were smashed and Hurstwood dodged a stone. Both policemen ran out toward the crowd, but the latter replied by running toward the car. A woman--a mere girl in appearance--was among these, bearing a rough stick. She was exceedingly wrathful and struck at Hurstwood, who dodged. Thereupon, her companions, duly encouraged, jumped on the car and pulled Hurstwood over. He had hardly time to speak or shout before he fell. "Let go of me," he said, falling on his side. "Ah, you sucker," he heard some one say. Kicks and blows rained on him. He seemed to be suffocating. Then two men seemed to be dragging him off and he wrestled for freedom. "Let up," said a voice, "you're all right. Stand up." He was let loose and recovered himself. Now he recognised two officers. He felt as if he would faint from exhaustion. Something was wet on his chin. He put up his hand and felt, then looked. It was red. "They cut me," he said, foolishly, fishing for his handkerchief. "Now, now," said one of the officers. "It's only a scratch." His senses became cleared now and he looked around. He was standing in a little store, where they left him for the moment. Outside, he could see, as he stood wiping his chin, the car and the excited crowd. A patrol wagon was there, and another. He walked over and looked out. It was an ambulance, backing in. He saw some energetic charging by the police and arrests being made. "Come on, now, if you want to take your car," said an officer, opening the door and looking in. He walked out, feeling rather uncertain of himself. He was very cold and frightened. "Where's the conductor?" he asked. "Oh, he's not here now," said the policeman. Hurstwood went toward the car and stepped nervously on. As he did so there was a pistol shot. Something stung his shoulder. "Who fired that?" he heard an officer exclaim. "By God! who did that?" Both left him, running toward a certain building. He paused a moment and then got down. "George!" exclaimed Hurstwood, weakly, "this is too much for me." He walked nervously to the corner and hurried down a side street. "Whew!" he said, drawing in his breath. A half block away, a small girl gazed at him. "You'd better sneak," she called. He walked homeward in a blinding snowstorm, reaching the ferry by dusk. The cabins were filled with comfortable souls, who studied him curiously. His head was still in such a whirl that he felt confused. All the wonder of the twinkling lights of the river in a white storm passed for nothing. He trudged doggedly on until he reached the flat. There he entered and found the room warm. Carrie was gone. A couple of evening papers were lying on the table where she left them. He lit the gas and sat down. Then he got up and stripped to examine his shoulder. It was a mere scratch. He washed his hands and face, still in a brown study, apparently, and combed his hair. Then he looked for something to eat, and finally, his hunger gone, sat down in his comfortable rocking-chair. It was a wonderful relief. He put his hand to his chin, forgetting, for the moment, the papers. "Well," he said, after a time, his nature recovering itself, "that's a pretty tough game over there." Then he turned and saw the papers. With half a sigh he picked up the "World." "Strike Spreading in Brooklyn," he read. "Rioting Breaks Out in all Parts of the City." He adjusted his paper very comfortably and continued. It was the one thing he read with absorbing interest. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Der Rest des Sommers und der Herbst vergehen. Carrie erhält eine weitere Rolle zu einem höheren Gehalt, wenn die Oper, in der sie mitspielt, auf Tour geht. Hurstwood sitzt weiterhin im Schaukelstuhl und liest seine Zeitung, mit der Hoffnung, dass es für ihn besser wird. Natürlich wird der Hoteljob, über den er gesprochen hat, nie Realität. Eines Wintertags beschwert sich Carrie bei Hurstwood, dass sie alleine unmöglich alle Rechnungen bezahlen kann. Hurstwood liest eine Anzeige in der Zeitung, in der bekannt gegeben wird, dass aufgrund eines Streiks eine Straßenbahnlinie in Brooklyn nach Fahrern und Schaffnern sucht. Obwohl er auf der Seite der Streikenden steht, entscheidet er sich, nach Brooklyn zu gehen, um Arbeit zu finden, weil Carrie ihn anscheinend verdächtigt, ihr Geld zu stehlen. Er macht sich bei der Kälte auf den Weg zum Straßenbahnhof und bietet seine Dienste an. Der Manager der Linie hat so großen Bedarf an Arbeitern, dass er beschließt, Hurstwood als Straßenbahnfahrer einzustellen und auszubilden. Nach einem Tag Unterricht und einer kalten Nacht auf dem Dachboden der Wagenhalle beginnt Hurstwood seinen ersten Arbeitstag nach vielen Monaten. Die Arbeitszeiten sind lang und das Wetter ist kalt, aber der härteste und gefährlichste Teil der Arbeit ist der Umgang mit den wütenden Streikenden. Obwohl Polizisten an Bord des Wagens zum Schutz sind, wird Hurstwood während eines Zusammenstoßes angegriffen und weggezogen. Schließlich wird er von den Polizisten gerettet, aber als er versucht, wieder in den Wagen zu steigen, wird er von einer Kugel getroffen. Die Gewalt und das Leid sind zu viel für Hurstwood und er flieht ängstlich. Nach einem langen Spaziergang im Schnee kommt er zu Hause an, versorgt die leichte Wunde an seinem Arm und lässt sich erleichtert nieder, um seine Zeitung zu lesen.

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 weather was bad during the latter days of the voyage. The wind, obstinately remaining in the north-west, blew a gale, and retarded the steamer. The Rangoon rolled heavily and the passengers became impatient of the long, monstrous waves which the wind raised before their path. A sort of tempest arose on the 3rd of November, the squall knocking the vessel about with fury, and the waves running high. The Rangoon reefed all her sails, and even the rigging proved too much, whistling and shaking amid the squall. The steamer was forced to proceed slowly, and the captain estimated that she would reach Hong Kong twenty hours behind time, and more if the storm lasted. Phileas Fogg gazed at the tempestuous sea, which seemed to be struggling especially to delay him, with his habitual tranquillity. He never changed countenance for an instant, though a delay of twenty hours, by making him too late for the Yokohama boat, would almost inevitably cause the loss of the wager. But this man of nerve manifested neither impatience nor annoyance; it seemed as if the storm were a part of his programme, and had been foreseen. Aouda was amazed to find him as calm as he had been from the first time she saw him. Fix did not look at the state of things in the same light. The storm greatly pleased him. His satisfaction would have been complete had the Rangoon been forced to retreat before the violence of wind and waves. Each delay filled him with hope, for it became more and more probable that Fogg would be obliged to remain some days at Hong Kong; and now the heavens themselves became his allies, with the gusts and squalls. It mattered not that they made him sea-sick--he made no account of this inconvenience; and, whilst his body was writhing under their effects, his spirit bounded with hopeful exultation. Passepartout was enraged beyond expression by the unpropitious weather. Everything had gone so well till now! Earth and sea had seemed to be at his master's service; steamers and railways obeyed him; wind and steam united to speed his journey. Had the hour of adversity come? Passepartout was as much excited as if the twenty thousand pounds were to come from his own pocket. The storm exasperated him, the gale made him furious, and he longed to lash the obstinate sea into obedience. Poor fellow! Fix carefully concealed from him his own satisfaction, for, had he betrayed it, Passepartout could scarcely have restrained himself from personal violence. Passepartout remained on deck as long as the tempest lasted, being unable to remain quiet below, and taking it into his head to aid the progress of the ship by lending a hand with the crew. He overwhelmed the captain, officers, and sailors, who could not help laughing at his impatience, with all sorts of questions. He wanted to know exactly how long the storm was going to last; whereupon he was referred to the barometer, which seemed to have no intention of rising. Passepartout shook it, but with no perceptible effect; for neither shaking nor maledictions could prevail upon it to change its mind. On the 4th, however, the sea became more calm, and the storm lessened its violence; the wind veered southward, and was once more favourable. Passepartout cleared up with the weather. Some of the sails were unfurled, and the Rangoon resumed its most rapid speed. The time lost could not, however, be regained. Land was not signalled until five o'clock on the morning of the 6th; the steamer was due on the 5th. Phileas Fogg was twenty-four hours behind-hand, and the Yokohama steamer would, of course, be missed. The pilot went on board at six, and took his place on the bridge, to guide the Rangoon through the channels to the port of Hong Kong. Passepartout longed to ask him if the steamer had left for Yokohama; but he dared not, for he wished to preserve the spark of hope, which still remained till the last moment. He had confided his anxiety to Fix who--the sly rascal!--tried to console him by saying that Mr. Fogg would be in time if he took the next boat; but this only put Passepartout in a passion. Mr. Fogg, bolder than his servant, did not hesitate to approach the pilot, and tranquilly ask him if he knew when a steamer would leave Hong Kong for Yokohama. "At high tide to-morrow morning," answered the pilot. "Ah!" said Mr. Fogg, without betraying any astonishment. Passepartout, who heard what passed, would willingly have embraced the pilot, while Fix would have been glad to twist his neck. "What is the steamer's name?" asked Mr. Fogg. "The Carnatic." "Ought she not to have gone yesterday?" "Yes, sir; but they had to repair one of her boilers, and so her departure was postponed till to-morrow." "Thank you," returned Mr. Fogg, descending mathematically to the saloon. Passepartout clasped the pilot's hand and shook it heartily in his delight, exclaiming, "Pilot, you are the best of good fellows!" The pilot probably does not know to this day why his responses won him this enthusiastic greeting. He remounted the bridge, and guided the steamer through the flotilla of junks, tankas, and fishing boats which crowd the harbour of Hong Kong. At one o'clock the Rangoon was at the quay, and the passengers were going ashore. Chance had strangely favoured Phileas Fogg, for had not the Carnatic been forced to lie over for repairing her boilers, she would have left on the 6th of November, and the passengers for Japan would have been obliged to await for a week the sailing of the next steamer. Mr. Fogg was, it is true, twenty-four hours behind his time; but this could not seriously imperil the remainder of his tour. The steamer which crossed the Pacific from Yokohama to San Francisco made a direct connection with that from Hong Kong, and it could not sail until the latter reached Yokohama; and if Mr. Fogg was twenty-four hours late on reaching Yokohama, this time would no doubt be easily regained in the voyage of twenty-two days across the Pacific. He found himself, then, about twenty-four hours behind-hand, thirty-five days after leaving London. The Carnatic was announced to leave Hong Kong at five the next morning. Mr. Fogg had sixteen hours in which to attend to his business there, which was to deposit Aouda safely with her wealthy relative. On landing, he conducted her to a palanquin, in which they repaired to the Club Hotel. A room was engaged for the young woman, and Mr. Fogg, after seeing that she wanted for nothing, set out in search of her cousin Jeejeeh. He instructed Passepartout to remain at the hotel until his return, that Aouda might not be left entirely alone. Mr. Fogg repaired to the Exchange, where, he did not doubt, every one would know so wealthy and considerable a personage as the Parsee merchant. Meeting a broker, he made the inquiry, to learn that Jeejeeh had left China two years before, and, retiring from business with an immense fortune, had taken up his residence in Europe--in Holland the broker thought, with the merchants of which country he had principally traded. Phileas Fogg returned to the hotel, begged a moment's conversation with Aouda, and without more ado, apprised her that Jeejeeh was no longer at Hong Kong, but probably in Holland. Aouda at first said nothing. She passed her hand across her forehead, and reflected a few moments. Then, in her sweet, soft voice, she said: "What ought I to do, Mr. Fogg?" "It is very simple," responded the gentleman. "Go on to Europe." "But I cannot intrude--" "You do not intrude, nor do you in the least embarrass my project. Passepartout!" "Monsieur." "Go to the Carnatic, and engage three cabins." Passepartout, delighted that the young woman, who was very gracious to him, was going to continue the journey with them, went off at a brisk gait to obey his master's order. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Das Wetter ist stürmisch in den letzten Tagen der Reise nach Hongkong. Fogg bleibt ruhig, Passepartout ist wütend und Fix freut sich über die Verzögerung. Passepartout leistet an Bord des Schiffes Hilfe. Die Rangoon erreicht Hongkong einen Tag später. Ein Lotse informiert Fogg, dass die Carnatic Hongkong in Richtung Yokohama verlassen wird und Fogg ist erfreut, da er dachte, er hätte das Schiff verpasst. Fogg hat einige Stunden, bevor er auf die Carnatic geht, also bringt er Aouda in der Zwischenzeit ins Club Hotel. In der Zwischenzeit geht er auf die Suche nach ihrem Verwandten, findet aber heraus, dass dieser die Stadt verlassen hat. Es wird dann beschlossen, dass Aouda Fogg nach Europa begleiten wird, und Passepartout bekommt den Auftrag, drei Kabinen auf der Carnatic zu buchen.

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: Alexandra did not find time to go to her neighbor's the next day, nor the next. It was a busy season on the farm, with the corn-plowing going on, and even Emil was in the field with a team and cultivator. Carl went about over the farms with Alexandra in the morning, and in the afternoon and evening they found a great deal to talk about. Emil, for all his track practice, did not stand up under farmwork very well, and by night he was too tired to talk or even to practise on his cornet. On Wednesday morning Carl got up before it was light, and stole downstairs and out of the kitchen door just as old Ivar was making his morning ablutions at the pump. Carl nodded to him and hurried up the draw, past the garden, and into the pasture where the milking cows used to be kept. The dawn in the east looked like the light from some great fire that was burning under the edge of the world. The color was reflected in the globules of dew that sheathed the short gray pasture grass. Carl walked rapidly until he came to the crest of the second hill, where the Bergson pasture joined the one that had belonged to his father. There he sat down and waited for the sun to rise. It was just there that he and Alexandra used to do their milking together, he on his side of the fence, she on hers. He could remember exactly how she looked when she came over the close-cropped grass, her skirts pinned up, her head bare, a bright tin pail in either hand, and the milky light of the early morning all about her. Even as a boy he used to feel, when he saw her coming with her free step, her upright head and calm shoulders, that she looked as if she had walked straight out of the morning itself. Since then, when he had happened to see the sun come up in the country or on the water, he had often remembered the young Swedish girl and her milking pails. Carl sat musing until the sun leaped above the prairie, and in the grass about him all the small creatures of day began to tune their tiny instruments. Birds and insects without number began to chirp, to twitter, to snap and whistle, to make all manner of fresh shrill noises. The pasture was flooded with light; every clump of ironweed and snow-on-the-mountain threw a long shadow, and the golden light seemed to be rippling through the curly grass like the tide racing in. He crossed the fence into the pasture that was now the Shabatas' and continued his walk toward the pond. He had not gone far, however, when he discovered that he was not the only person abroad. In the draw below, his gun in his hands, was Emil, advancing cautiously, with a young woman beside him. They were moving softly, keeping close together, and Carl knew that they expected to find ducks on the pond. At the moment when they came in sight of the bright spot of water, he heard a whirr of wings and the ducks shot up into the air. There was a sharp crack from the gun, and five of the birds fell to the ground. Emil and his companion laughed delightedly, and Emil ran to pick them up. When he came back, dangling the ducks by their feet, Marie held her apron and he dropped them into it. As she stood looking down at them, her face changed. She took up one of the birds, a rumpled ball of feathers with the blood dripping slowly from its mouth, and looked at the live color that still burned on its plumage. As she let it fall, she cried in distress, "Oh, Emil, why did you?" "I like that!" the boy exclaimed indignantly. "Why, Marie, you asked me to come yourself." "Yes, yes, I know," she said tearfully, "but I didn't think. I hate to see them when they are first shot. They were having such a good time, and we've spoiled it all for them." Emil gave a rather sore laugh. "I should say we had! I'm not going hunting with you any more. You're as bad as Ivar. Here, let me take them." He snatched the ducks out of her apron. "Don't be cross, Emil. Only--Ivar's right about wild things. They're too happy to kill. You can tell just how they felt when they flew up. They were scared, but they didn't really think anything could hurt them. No, we won't do that any more." "All right," Emil assented. "I'm sorry I made you feel bad." As he looked down into her tearful eyes, there was a curious, sharp young bitterness in his own. Carl watched them as they moved slowly down the draw. They had not seen him at all. He had not overheard much of their dialogue, but he felt the import of it. It made him, somehow, unreasonably mournful to find two young things abroad in the pasture in the early morning. He decided that he needed his breakfast. At dinner that day Alexandra said she thought they must really manage to go over to the Shabatas' that afternoon. "It's not often I let three days go by without seeing Marie. She will think I have forsaken her, now that my old friend has come back." After the men had gone back to work, Alexandra put on a white dress and her sun-hat, and she and Carl set forth across the fields. "You see we have kept up the old path, Carl. It has been so nice for me to feel that there was a friend at the other end of it again." Carl smiled a little ruefully. "All the same, I hope it hasn't been QUITE the same." Alexandra looked at him with surprise. "Why, no, of course not. Not the same. She could not very well take your place, if that's what you mean. I'm friendly with all my neighbors, I hope. But Marie is really a companion, some one I can talk to quite frankly. You wouldn't want me to be more lonely than I have been, would you?" Carl laughed and pushed back the triangular lock of hair with the edge of his hat. "Of course I don't. I ought to be thankful that this path hasn't been worn by--well, by friends with more pressing errands than your little Bohemian is likely to have." He paused to give Alexandra his hand as she stepped over the stile. "Are you the least bit disappointed in our coming together again?" he asked abruptly. "Is it the way you hoped it would be?" Alexandra smiled at this. "Only better. When I've thought about your coming, I've sometimes been a little afraid of it. You have lived where things move so fast, and everything is slow here; the people slowest of all. Our lives are like the years, all made up of weather and crops and cows. How you hated cows!" She shook her head and laughed to herself. "I didn't when we milked together. I walked up to the pasture corners this morning. I wonder whether I shall ever be able to tell you all that I was thinking about up there. It's a strange thing, Alexandra; I find it easy to be frank with you about everything under the sun except--yourself!" "You are afraid of hurting my feelings, perhaps." Alexandra looked at him thoughtfully. "No, I'm afraid of giving you a shock. You've seen yourself for so long in the dull minds of the people about you, that if I were to tell you how you seem to me, it would startle you. But you must see that you astonish me. You must feel when people admire you." Alexandra blushed and laughed with some confusion. "I felt that you were pleased with me, if you mean that." "And you've felt when other people were pleased with you?" he insisted. "Well, sometimes. The men in town, at the banks and the county offices, seem glad to see me. I think, myself, it is more pleasant to do business with people who are clean and healthy-looking," she admitted blandly. Carl gave a little chuckle as he opened the Shabatas' gate for her. "Oh, do you?" he asked dryly. There was no sign of life about the Shabatas' house except a big yellow cat, sunning itself on the kitchen doorstep. Alexandra took the path that led to the orchard. "She often sits there and sews. I didn't telephone her we were coming, because I didn't want her to go to work and bake cake and freeze ice-cream. She'll always make a party if you give her the least excuse. Do you recognize the apple trees, Carl?" Linstrum looked about him. "I wish I had a dollar for every bucket of water I've carried for those trees. Poor father, he was an easy man, but he was perfectly merciless when it came to watering the orchard." "That's one thing I like about Germans; they make an orchard grow if they can't make anything else. I'm so glad these trees belong to some one who takes comfort in them. When I rented this place, the tenants never kept the orchard up, and Emil and I used to come over and take care of it ourselves. It needs mowing now. There she is, down in the corner. Maria-a-a!" she called. A recumbent figure started up from the grass and came running toward them through the flickering screen of light and shade. "Look at her! Isn't she like a little brown rabbit?" Alexandra laughed. Maria ran up panting and threw her arms about Alexandra. "Oh, I had begun to think you were not coming at all, maybe. I knew you were so busy. Yes, Emil told me about Mr. Linstrum being here. Won't you come up to the house?" "Why not sit down there in your corner? Carl wants to see the orchard. He kept all these trees alive for years, watering them with his own back." Marie turned to Carl. "Then I'm thankful to you, Mr. Linstrum. We'd never have bought the place if it hadn't been for this orchard, and then I wouldn't have had Alexandra, either." She gave Alexandra's arm a little squeeze as she walked beside her. "How nice your dress smells, Alexandra; you put rosemary leaves in your chest, like I told you." She led them to the northwest corner of the orchard, sheltered on one side by a thick mulberry hedge and bordered on the other by a wheatfield, just beginning to yellow. In this corner the ground dipped a little, and the blue-grass, which the weeds had driven out in the upper part of the orchard, grew thick and luxuriant. Wild roses were flaming in the tufts of bunchgrass along the fence. Under a white mulberry tree there was an old wagon-seat. Beside it lay a book and a workbasket. "You must have the seat, Alexandra. The grass would stain your dress," the hostess insisted. She dropped down on the ground at Alexandra's side and tucked her feet under her. Carl sat at a little distance from the two women, his back to the wheatfield, and watched them. Alexandra took off her shade-hat and threw it on the ground. Marie picked it up and played with the white ribbons, twisting them about her brown fingers as she talked. They made a pretty picture in the strong sunlight, the leafy pattern surrounding them like a net; the Swedish woman so white and gold, kindly and amused, but armored in calm, and the alert brown one, her full lips parted, points of yellow light dancing in her eyes as she laughed and chattered. Carl had never forgotten little Marie Tovesky's eyes, and he was glad to have an opportunity to study them. The brown iris, he found, was curiously slashed with yellow, the color of sunflower honey, or of old amber. In each eye one of these streaks must have been larger than the others, for the effect was that of two dancing points of light, two little yellow bubbles, such as rise in a glass of champagne. Sometimes they seemed like the sparks from a forge. She seemed so easily excited, to kindle with a fierce little flame if one but breathed upon her. "What a waste," Carl reflected. "She ought to be doing all that for a sweetheart. How awkwardly things come about!" It was not very long before Marie sprang up out of the grass again. "Wait a moment. I want to show you something." She ran away and disappeared behind the low-growing apple trees. "What a charming creature," Carl murmured. "I don't wonder that her husband is jealous. But can't she walk? does she always run?" Alexandra nodded. "Always. I don't see many people, but I don't believe there are many like her, anywhere." Marie came back with a branch she had broken from an apricot tree, laden with pale yellow, pink-cheeked fruit. She dropped it beside Carl. "Did you plant those, too? They are such beautiful little trees." Carl fingered the blue-green leaves, porous like blotting-paper and shaped like birch leaves, hung on waxen red stems. "Yes, I think I did. Are these the circus trees, Alexandra?" "Shall I tell her about them?" Alexandra asked. "Sit down like a good girl, Marie, and don't ruin my poor hat, and I'll tell you a story. A long time ago, when Carl and I were, say, sixteen and twelve, a circus came to Hanover and we went to town in our wagon, with Lou and Oscar, to see the parade. We hadn't money enough to go to the circus. We followed the parade out to the circus grounds and hung around until the show began and the crowd went inside the tent. Then Lou was afraid we looked foolish standing outside in the pasture, so we went back to Hanover feeling very sad. There was a man in the streets selling apricots, and we had never seen any before. He had driven down from somewhere up in the French country, and he was selling them twenty-five cents a peck. We had a little money our fathers had given us for candy, and I bought two pecks and Carl bought one. They cheered us a good deal, and we saved all the seeds and planted them. Up to the time Carl went away, they hadn't borne at all." "And now he's come back to eat them," cried Marie, nodding at Carl. "That IS a good story. I can remember you a little, Mr. Linstrum. I used to see you in Hanover sometimes, when Uncle Joe took me to town. I remember you because you were always buying pencils and tubes of paint at the drug store. Once, when my uncle left me at the store, you drew a lot of little birds and flowers for me on a piece of wrapping-paper. I kept them for a long while. I thought you were very romantic because you could draw and had such black eyes." Carl smiled. "Yes, I remember that time. Your uncle bought you some kind of a mechanical toy, a Turkish lady sitting on an ottoman and smoking a hookah, wasn't it? And she turned her head backwards and forwards." "Oh, yes! Wasn't she splendid! I knew well enough I ought not to tell Uncle Joe I wanted it, for he had just come back from the saloon and was feeling good. You remember how he laughed? She tickled him, too. But when we got home, my aunt scolded him for buying toys when she needed so many things. We wound our lady up every night, and when she began to move her head my aunt used to laugh as hard as any of us. It was a music-box, you know, and the Turkish lady played a tune while she smoked. That was how she made you feel so jolly. As I remember her, she was lovely, and had a gold crescent on her turban." Half an hour later, as they were leaving the house, Carl and Alexandra were met in the path by a strapping fellow in overalls and a blue shirt. He was breathing hard, as if he had been running, and was muttering to himself. Marie ran forward, and, taking him by the arm, gave him a little push toward her guests. "Frank, this is Mr. Linstrum." Frank took off his broad straw hat and nodded to Alexandra. When he spoke to Carl, he showed a fine set of white teeth. He was burned a dull red down to his neckband, and there was a heavy three-days' stubble on his face. Even in his agitation he was handsome, but he looked a rash and violent man. Barely saluting the callers, he turned at once to his wife and began, in an outraged tone, "I have to leave my team to drive the old woman Hiller's hogs out-a my wheat. I go to take dat old woman to de court if she ain't careful, I tell you!" His wife spoke soothingly. "But, Frank, she has only her lame boy to help her. She does the best she can." Alexandra looked at the excited man and offered a suggestion. "Why don't you go over there some afternoon and hog-tight her fences? You'd save time for yourself in the end." Frank's neck stiffened. "Not-a-much, I won't. I keep my hogs home. Other peoples can do like me. See? If that Louis can mend shoes, he can mend fence." "Maybe," said Alexandra placidly; "but I've found it sometimes pays to mend other people's fences. Good-bye, Marie. Come to see me soon." Alexandra walked firmly down the path and Carl followed her. Frank went into the house and threw himself on the sofa, his face to the wall, his clenched fist on his hip. Marie, having seen her guests off, came in and put her hand coaxingly on his shoulder. "Poor Frank! You've run until you've made your head ache, now haven't you? Let me make you some coffee." "What else am I to do?" he cried hotly in Bohemian. "Am I to let any old woman's hogs root up my wheat? Is that what I work myself to death for?" "Don't worry about it, Frank. I'll speak to Mrs. Hiller again. But, really, she almost cried last time they got out, she was so sorry." Frank bounced over on his other side. "That's it; you always side with them against me. They all know it. Anybody here feels free to borrow the mower and break it, or turn their hogs in on me. They know you won't care!" Marie hurried away to make his coffee. When she came back, he was fast asleep. She sat down and looked at him for a long while, very thoughtfully. When the kitchen clock struck six she went out to get supper, closing the door gently behind her. She was always sorry for Frank when he worked himself into one of these rages, and she was sorry to have him rough and quarrelsome with his neighbors. She was perfectly aware that the neighbors had a good deal to put up with, and that they bore with Frank for her sake. Marie's father, Albert Tovesky, was one of the more intelligent Bohemians who came West in the early seventies. He settled in Omaha and became a leader and adviser among his people there. Marie was his youngest child, by a second wife, and was the apple of his eye. She was barely sixteen, and was in the graduating class of the Omaha High School, when Frank Shabata arrived from the old country and set all the Bohemian girls in a flutter. He was easily the buck of the beer-gardens, and on Sunday he was a sight to see, with his silk hat and tucked shirt and blue frock-coat, wearing gloves and carrying a little wisp of a yellow cane. He was tall and fair, with splendid teeth and close-cropped yellow curls, and he wore a slightly disdainful expression, proper for a young man with high connections, whose mother had a big farm in the Elbe valley. There was often an interesting discontent in his blue eyes, and every Bohemian girl he met imagined herself the cause of that unsatisfied expression. He had a way of drawing out his cambric handkerchief slowly, by one corner, from his breast-pocket, that was melancholy and romantic in the extreme. He took a little flight with each of the more eligible Bohemian girls, but it was when he was with little Marie Tovesky that he drew his handkerchief out most slowly, and, after he had lit a fresh cigar, dropped the match most despairingly. Any one could see, with half an eye, that his proud heart was bleeding for somebody. One Sunday, late in the summer after Marie's graduation, she met Frank at a Bohemian picnic down the river and went rowing with him all the afternoon. When she got home that evening she went straight to her father's room and told him that she was engaged to Shabata. Old Tovesky was having a comfortable pipe before he went to bed. When he heard his daughter's announcement, he first prudently corked his beer bottle and then leaped to his feet and had a turn of temper. He characterized Frank Shabata by a Bohemian expression which is the equivalent of stuffed shirt. "Why don't he go to work like the rest of us did? His farm in the Elbe valley, indeed! Ain't he got plenty brothers and sisters? It's his mother's farm, and why don't he stay at home and help her? Haven't I seen his mother out in the morning at five o'clock with her ladle and her big bucket on wheels, putting liquid manure on the cabbages? Don't I know the look of old Eva Shabata's hands? Like an old horse's hoofs they are--and this fellow wearing gloves and rings! Engaged, indeed! You aren't fit to be out of school, and that's what's the matter with you. I will send you off to the Sisters of the Sacred Heart in St. Louis, and they will teach you some sense, _I_ guess!" Accordingly, the very next week, Albert Tovesky took his daughter, pale and tearful, down the river to the convent. But the way to make Frank want anything was to tell him he couldn't have it. He managed to have an interview with Marie before she went away, and whereas he had been only half in love with her before, he now persuaded himself that he would not stop at anything. Marie took with her to the convent, under the canvas lining of her trunk, the results of a laborious and satisfying morning on Frank's part; no less than a dozen photographs of himself, taken in a dozen different love-lorn attitudes. There was a little round photograph for her watch-case, photographs for her wall and dresser, and even long narrow ones to be used as bookmarks. More than once the handsome gentleman was torn to pieces before the French class by an indignant nun. Marie pined in the convent for a year, until her eighteenth birthday was passed. Then she met Frank Shabata in the Union Station in St. Louis and ran away with him. Old Tovesky forgave his daughter because there was nothing else to do, and bought her a farm in the country that she had loved so well as a child. Since then her story had been a part of the history of the Divide. She and Frank had been living there for five years when Carl Linstrum came back to pay his long deferred visit to Alexandra. Frank had, on the whole, done better than one might have expected. He had flung himself at the soil with savage energy. Once a year he went to Hastings or to Omaha, on a spree. He stayed away for a week or two, and then came home and worked like a demon. He did work; if he felt sorry for himself, that was his own affair. On the evening of the day of Alexandra's call at the Shabatas', a heavy rain set in. Frank sat up until a late hour reading the Sunday newspapers. One of the Goulds was getting a divorce, and Frank took it as a personal affront. In printing the story of the young man's marital troubles, the knowing editor gave a sufficiently colored account of his career, stating the amount of his income and the manner in which he was supposed to spend it. Frank read English slowly, and the more he read about this divorce case, the angrier he grew. At last he threw down the page with a snort. He turned to his farm-hand who was reading the other half of the paper. "By God! if I have that young feller in de hayfield once, I show him someting. Listen here what he do wit his money." And Frank began the catalogue of the young man's reputed extravagances. Marie sighed. She thought it hard that the Goulds, for whom she had nothing but good will, should make her so much trouble. She hated to see the Sunday newspapers come into the house. Frank was always reading about the doings of rich people and feeling outraged. He had an inexhaustible stock of stories about their crimes and follies, how they bribed the courts and shot down their butlers with impunity whenever they chose. Frank and Lou Bergson had very similar ideas, and they were two of the political agitators of the county. The next morning broke clear and brilliant, but Frank said the ground was too wet to plough, so he took the cart and drove over to Sainte-Agnes to spend the day at Moses Marcel's saloon. After he was gone, Marie went out to the back porch to begin her butter-making. A brisk wind had come up and was driving puffy white clouds across the sky. The orchard was sparkling and rippling in the sun. Marie stood looking toward it wistfully, her hand on the lid of the churn, when she heard a sharp ring in the air, the merry sound of the whetstone on the scythe. That invitation decided her. She ran into the house, put on a short skirt and a pair of her husband's boots, caught up a tin pail and started for the orchard. Emil had already begun work and was mowing vigorously. When he saw her coming, he stopped and wiped his brow. His yellow canvas leggings and khaki trousers were splashed to the knees. "Don't let me disturb you, Emil. I'm going to pick cherries. Isn't everything beautiful after the rain? Oh, but I'm glad to get this place mowed! When I heard it raining in the night, I thought maybe you would come and do it for me to-day. The wind wakened me. Didn't it blow dreadfully? Just smell the wild roses! They are always so spicy after a rain. We never had so many of them in here before. I suppose it's the wet season. Will you have to cut them, too?" "If I cut the grass, I will," Emil said teasingly. "What's the matter with you? What makes you so flighty?" "Am I flighty? I suppose that's the wet season, too, then. It's exciting to see everything growing so fast,--and to get the grass cut! Please leave the roses till last, if you must cut them. Oh, I don't mean all of them, I mean that low place down by my tree, where there are so many. Aren't you splashed! Look at the spider-webs all over the grass. Good-bye. I'll call you if I see a snake." She tripped away and Emil stood looking after her. In a few moments he heard the cherries dropping smartly into the pail, and he began to swing his scythe with that long, even stroke that few American boys ever learn. Marie picked cherries and sang softly to herself, stripping one glittering branch after another, shivering when she caught a shower of raindrops on her neck and hair. And Emil mowed his way slowly down toward the cherry trees. That summer the rains had been so many and opportune that it was almost more than Shabata and his man could do to keep up with the corn; the orchard was a neglected wilderness. All sorts of weeds and herbs and flowers had grown up there; splotches of wild larkspur, pale green-and-white spikes of hoarhound, plantations of wild cotton, tangles of foxtail and wild wheat. South of the apricot trees, cornering on the wheatfield, was Frank's alfalfa, where myriads of white and yellow butterflies were always fluttering above the purple blossoms. When Emil reached the lower corner by the hedge, Marie was sitting under her white mulberry tree, the pailful of cherries beside her, looking off at the gentle, tireless swelling of the wheat. "Emil," she said suddenly--he was mowing quietly about under the tree so as not to disturb her--"what religion did the Swedes have away back, before they were Christians?" Emil paused and straightened his back. "I don't know. About like the Germans', wasn't it?" Marie went on as if she had not heard him. "The Bohemians, you know, were tree worshipers before the missionaries came. Father says the people in the mountains still do queer things, sometimes,--they believe that trees bring good or bad luck." Emil looked superior. "Do they? Well, which are the lucky trees? I'd like to know." "I don't know all of them, but I know lindens are. The old people in the mountains plant lindens to purify the forest, and to do away with the spells that come from the old trees they say have lasted from heathen times. I'm a good Catholic, but I think I could get along with caring for trees, if I hadn't anything else." "That's a poor saying," said Emil, stooping over to wipe his hands in the wet grass. "Why is it? If I feel that way, I feel that way. I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do. I feel as if this tree knows everything I ever think of when I sit here. When I come back to it, I never have to remind it of anything; I begin just where I left off." Emil had nothing to say to this. He reached up among the branches and began to pick the sweet, insipid fruit,--long ivory-colored berries, tipped with faint pink, like white coral, that fall to the ground unheeded all summer through. He dropped a handful into her lap. "Do you like Mr. Linstrum?" Marie asked suddenly. "Yes. Don't you?" "Oh, ever so much; only he seems kind of staid and school-teachery. But, of course, he is older than Frank, even. I'm sure I don't want to live to be more than thirty, do you? Do you think Alexandra likes him very much?" "I suppose so. They were old friends." "Oh, Emil, you know what I mean!" Marie tossed her head impatiently. "Does she really care about him? When she used to tell me about him, I always wondered whether she wasn't a little in love with him." "Who, Alexandra?" Emil laughed and thrust his hands into his trousers pockets. "Alexandra's never been in love, you crazy!" He laughed again. "She wouldn't know how to go about it. The idea!" Marie shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, you don't know Alexandra as well as you think you do! If you had any eyes, you would see that she is very fond of him. It would serve you all right if she walked off with Carl. I like him because he appreciates her more than you do." Emil frowned. "What are you talking about, Marie? Alexandra's all right. She and I have always been good friends. What more do you want? I like to talk to Carl about New York and what a fellow can do there." "Oh, Emil! Surely you are not thinking of going off there?" "Why not? I must go somewhere, mustn't I?" The young man took up his scythe and leaned on it. "Would you rather I went off in the sand hills and lived like Ivar?" Marie's face fell under his brooding gaze. She looked down at his wet leggings. "I'm sure Alexandra hopes you will stay on here," she murmured. "Then Alexandra will be disappointed," the young man said roughly. "What do I want to hang around here for? Alexandra can run the farm all right, without me. I don't want to stand around and look on. I want to be doing something on my own account." "That's so," Marie sighed. "There are so many, many things you can do. Almost anything you choose." "And there are so many, many things I can't do." Emil echoed her tone sarcastically. "Sometimes I don't want to do anything at all, and sometimes I want to pull the four corners of the Divide together,"--he threw out his arm and brought it back with a jerk,--"so, like a table-cloth. I get tired of seeing men and horses going up and down, up and down." Marie looked up at his defiant figure and her face clouded. "I wish you weren't so restless, and didn't get so worked up over things," she said sadly. "Thank you," he returned shortly. She sighed despondently. "Everything I say makes you cross, don't it? And you never used to be cross to me." Emil took a step nearer and stood frowning down at her bent head. He stood in an attitude of self-defense, his feet well apart, his hands clenched and drawn up at his sides, so that the cords stood out on his bare arms. "I can't play with you like a little boy any more," he said slowly. "That's what you miss, Marie. You'll have to get some other little boy to play with." He stopped and took a deep breath. Then he went on in a low tone, so intense that it was almost threatening: "Sometimes you seem to understand perfectly, and then sometimes you pretend you don't. You don't help things any by pretending. It's then that I want to pull the corners of the Divide together. If you WON'T understand, you know, I could make you!" Marie clasped her hands and started up from her seat. She had grown very pale and her eyes were shining with excitement and distress. "But, Emil, if I understand, then all our good times are over, we can never do nice things together any more. We shall have to behave like Mr. Linstrum. And, anyhow, there's nothing to understand!" She struck the ground with her little foot fiercely. "That won't last. It will go away, and things will be just as they used to. I wish you were a Catholic. The Church helps people, indeed it does. I pray for you, but that's not the same as if you prayed yourself." She spoke rapidly and pleadingly, looked entreatingly into his face. Emil stood defiant, gazing down at her. "I can't pray to have the things I want," he said slowly, "and I won't pray not to have them, not if I'm damned for it." "Alexandra, are you crazy? You can't be serious about this." "I am serious, Oscar. I have made up my mind and I will not be swayed." Lou slammed his fist on the windowsill. "You're being foolish, Alexandra. We won't stand by and watch you ruin yourself." Alexandra remained calm. "I appreciate your concern, but I am capable of making my own decisions. Now, if there is nothing else, I have work to do." Oscar and Lou exchanged frustrated glances and left without another word. Alexandra sighed and returned to her account-books, determined to not let their words affect her. She knew what she wanted, and she would follow her own path, no matter what others said. "Give him?" Lou shouted. "Our property, our homestead?" "I don't know about the homestead," said Alexandra quietly. "I know you and Oscar have always expected that it would be left to your children, and I'm not sure but what you're right. But I'll do exactly as I please with the rest of my land, boys." "The rest of your land!" cried Lou, growing more excited every minute. "Didn't all the land come out of the homestead? It was bought with money borrowed on the homestead, and Oscar and me worked ourselves to the bone paying interest on it." "Yes, you paid the interest. But when you married we made a division of the land, and you were satisfied. I've made more on my farms since I've been alone than when we all worked together." "Everything you've made has come out of the original land that us boys worked for, hasn't it? The farms and all that comes out of them belongs to us as a family." Alexandra waved her hand impatiently. "Come now, Lou. Stick to the facts. You are talking nonsense. Go to the county clerk and ask him who owns my land, and whether my titles are good." Lou turned to his brother. "This is what comes of letting a woman meddle in business," he said bitterly. "We ought to have taken things in our own hands years ago. But she liked to run things, and we humored her. We thought you had good sense, Alexandra. We never thought you'd do anything foolish." Alexandra rapped impatiently on her desk with her knuckles. "Listen, Lou. Don't talk wild. You say you ought to have taken things into your own hands years ago. I suppose you mean before you left home. But how could you take hold of what wasn't there? I've got most of what I have now since we divided the property; I've built it up myself, and it has nothing to do with you." Oscar spoke up solemnly. "The property of a family really belongs to the men of the family, no matter about the title. If anything goes wrong, it's the men that are held responsible." "Yes, of course," Lou broke in. "Everybody knows that. Oscar and me have always been easy-going and we've never made any fuss. We were willing you should hold the land and have the good of it, but you got no right to part with any of it. We worked in the fields to pay for the first land you bought, and whatever's come out of it has got to be kept in the family." Oscar reinforced his brother, his mind fixed on the one point he could see. "The property of a family belongs to the men of the family, because they are held responsible, and because they do the work." Alexandra looked from one to the other, her eyes full of indignation. She had been impatient before, but now she was beginning to feel angry. "And what about my work?" she asked in an unsteady voice. Lou looked at the carpet. "Oh, now, Alexandra, you always took it pretty easy! Of course we wanted you to. You liked to manage round, and we always humored you. We realize you were a great deal of help to us. There's no woman anywhere around that knows as much about business as you do, and we've always been proud of that, and thought you were pretty smart. But, of course, the real work always fell on us. Good advice is all right, but it don't get the weeds out of the corn." "Maybe not, but it sometimes puts in the crop, and it sometimes keeps the fields for corn to grow in," said Alexandra dryly. "Why, Lou, I can remember when you and Oscar wanted to sell this homestead and all the improvements to old preacher Ericson for two thousand dollars. If I'd consented, you'd have gone down to the river and scraped along on poor farms for the rest of your lives. When I put in our first field of alfalfa you both opposed me, just because I first heard about it from a young man who had been to the University. You said I was being taken in then, and all the neighbors said so. You know as well as I do that alfalfa has been the salvation of this country. You all laughed at me when I said our land here was about ready for wheat, and I had to raise three big wheat crops before the neighbors quit putting all their land in corn. Why, I remember you cried, Lou, when we put in the first big wheat-planting, and said everybody was laughing at us." Lou turned to Oscar. "That's the woman of it; if she tells you to put in a crop, she thinks she's put it in. It makes women conceited to meddle in business. I shouldn't think you'd want to remind us how hard you were on us, Alexandra, after the way you baby Emil." "Hard on you? I never meant to be hard. Conditions were hard. Maybe I would never have been very soft, anyhow; but I certainly didn't choose to be the kind of girl I was. If you take even a vine and cut it back again and again, it grows hard, like a tree." Lou felt that they were wandering from the point, and that in digression Alexandra might unnerve him. He wiped his forehead with a jerk of his handkerchief. "We never doubted you, Alexandra. We never questioned anything you did. You've always had your own way. But you can't expect us to sit like stumps and see you done out of the property by any loafer who happens along, and making yourself ridiculous into the bargain." Oscar rose. "Yes," he broke in, "everybody's laughing to see you get took in; at your age, too. Everybody knows he's nearly five years younger than you, and is after your money. Why, Alexandra, you are forty years old!" "All that doesn't concern anybody but Carl and me. Go to town and ask your lawyers what you can do to restrain me from disposing of my own property. And I advise you to do what they tell you; for the authority you can exert by law is the only influence you will ever have over me again." Alexandra rose. "I think I would rather not have lived to find out what I have to-day," she said quietly, closing her desk. Lou and Oscar looked at each other questioningly. There seemed to be nothing to do but to go, and they walked out. "You can't do business with women," Oscar said heavily as he clambered into the cart. "But anyhow, we've had our say, at last." Lou scratched his head. "Talk of that kind might come too high, you know; but she's apt to be sensible. You hadn't ought to said that about her age, though, Oscar. I'm afraid that hurt her feelings; and the worst thing we can do is to make her sore at us. She'd marry him out of contrariness." "I only meant," said Oscar, "that she is old enough to know better, and she is. If she was going to marry, she ought to done it long ago, and not go making a fool of herself now." Lou looked anxious, nevertheless. "Of course," he reflected hopefully and inconsistently, "Alexandra ain't much like other women-folks. Maybe it won't make her sore. Maybe she'd as soon be forty as not!" Emil came home at about half-past seven o'clock that evening. Old Ivar met him at the windmill and took his horse, and the young man went directly into the house. He called to his sister and she answered from her bedroom, behind the sitting-room, saying that she was lying down. Emil went to her door. "Can I see you for a minute?" he asked. "I want to talk to you about something before Carl comes." Alexandra rose quickly and came to the door. "Where is Carl?" "Lou and Oscar met us and said they wanted to talk to him, so he rode over to Oscar's with them. Are you coming out?" Emil asked impatiently. "Yes, sit down. I'll be dressed in a moment." Alexandra closed her door, and Emil sank down on the old slat lounge and sat with his head in his hands. When his sister came out, he looked up, not knowing whether the interval had been short or long, and he was surprised to see that the room had grown quite dark. That was just as well; it would be easier to talk if he were not under the gaze of those clear, deliberate eyes, that saw so far in some directions and were so blind in others. Alexandra, too, was glad of the dusk. Her face was swollen from crying. Emil started up and then sat down again. "Alexandra," he said slowly, in his deep young baritone, "I don't want to go away to law school this fall. Let me put it off another year. I want to take a year off and look around. It's awfully easy to rush into a profession you don't really like, and awfully hard to get out of it. Linstrum and I have been talking about that." "Very well, Emil. Only don't go off looking for land." She came up and put her hand on his shoulder. "I've been wishing you could stay with me this winter." "That's just what I don't want to do, Alexandra. I'm restless. I want to go to a new place. I want to go down to the City of Mexico to join one of the University fellows who's at the head of an electrical plant. He wrote me he could give me a little job, enough to pay my way, and I could look around and see what I want to do. I want to go as soon as harvest is over. I guess Lou and Oscar will be sore about it." "I suppose they will." Alexandra sat down on the lounge beside him. "They are very angry with me, Emil. We have had a quarrel. They will not come here again." Emil scarcely heard what she was saying; he did not notice the sadness of her tone. He was thinking about the reckless life he meant to live in Mexico. "What about?" he asked absently. "About Carl Linstrum. They are afraid I am going to marry him, and that some of my property will get away from them." Emil shrugged his shoulders. "What nonsense!" he murmured. "Just like them." Alexandra drew back. "Why nonsense, Emil?" "Why, you've never thought of such a thing, have you? They always have to have something to fuss about." "Emil," said his sister slowly, "you ought not to take things for granted. Do you agree with them that I have no right to change my way of living?" Emil looked at the outline of his sister's head in the dim light. They were sitting close together and he somehow felt that she could hear his thoughts. He was silent for a moment, and then said in an embarrassed tone, "Why, no, certainly not. You ought to do whatever you want to. I'll always back you." "But it would seem a little bit ridiculous to you if I married Carl?" Emil fidgeted. The issue seemed to him too far-fetched to warrant discussion. "Why, no. I should be surprised if you wanted to. I can't see exactly why. But that's none of my business. You ought to do as you please. Certainly you ought not to pay any attention to what the boys say." Alexandra sighed. "I had hoped you might understand, a little, why I do want to. But I suppose that's too much to expect. I've had a pretty lonely life, Emil. Besides Marie, Carl is the only friend I have ever had." Emil was awake now; a name in her last sentence roused him. He put out his hand and took his sister's awkwardly. "You ought to do just as you wish, and I think Carl's a fine fellow. He and I would always get on. I don't believe any of the things the boys say about him, honest I don't. They are suspicious of him because he's intelligent. You know their way. They've been sore at me ever since you let me go away to college. They're always trying to catch me up. If I were you, I wouldn't pay any attention to them. There's nothing to get upset about. Carl's a sensible fellow. He won't mind them." "I don't know. If they talk to him the way they did to me, I think he'll go away." Emil grew more and more uneasy. "Think so? Well, Marie said it would serve us all right if you walked off with him." "Did she? Bless her little heart! SHE would." Alexandra's voice broke. Emil began unlacing his leggings. "Why don't you talk to her about it? There's Carl, I hear his horse. I guess I'll go upstairs and get my boots off. No, I don't want any supper. We had supper at five o'clock, at the fair." Emil was glad to escape and get to his own room. He was a little ashamed for his sister, though he had tried not to show it. He felt that there was something indecorous in her proposal, and she did seem to him somewhat ridiculous. There was trouble enough in the world, he reflected, as he threw himself upon his bed, without people who were forty years old imagining they wanted to get married. In the darkness and silence Emil was not likely to think long about Alexandra. Every image slipped away but one. He had seen Marie in the crowd that afternoon. She sold candy at the fair. WHY had she ever run away with Frank Shabata, and how could she go on laughing and working and taking an interest in things? Why did she like so many people, and why had she seemed pleased when all the French and Bohemian boys, and the priest himself, crowded round her candy stand? Why did she care about any one but him? Why could he never, never find the thing he looked for in her playful, affectionate eyes? Then he fell to imagining that he looked once more and found it there, and what it would be like if she loved him,--she who, as Alexandra said, could give her whole heart. In that dream he could lie for hours, as if in a trance. His spirit went out of his body and crossed the fields to Marie Shabata. At the University dances the girls had often looked wonderingly at the tall young Swede with the fine head, leaning against the wall and frowning, his arms folded, his eyes fixed on the ceiling or the floor. All the girls were a little afraid of him. He was distinguished-looking, and not the jollying kind. They felt that he was too intense and preoccupied. There was something queer about him. Emil's fraternity rather prided itself upon its dances, and sometimes he did his duty and danced every dance. But whether he was on the floor or brooding in a corner, he was always thinking about Marie Shabata. For two years the storm had been gathering in him. Carl came into the sitting-room while Alexandra was lighting the lamp. She looked up at him as she adjusted the shade. His sharp shoulders stooped as if he were very tired, his face was pale, and there were bluish shadows under his dark eyes. His anger had burned itself out and left him sick and disgusted. "You have seen Lou and Oscar?" Alexandra asked. "Yes." His eyes avoided hers. Alexandra took a deep breath. "And now you are going away. I thought so." Carl threw himself into a chair and pushed the dark lock back from his forehead with his white, nervous hand. "What a hopeless position you are in, Alexandra!" he exclaimed feverishly. "It is your fate to be always surrounded by little men. And I am no better than the rest. I am too little to face the criticism of even such men as Lou and Oscar. Yes, I am going away; to-morrow. I cannot even ask you to give me a promise until I have something to offer you. I thought, perhaps, I could do that; but I find I can't." "What good comes of offering people things they don't need?" Alexandra asked sadly. "I don't need money. But I have needed you for a great many years. I wonder why I have been permitted to prosper, if it is only to take my friends away from me." "I don't deceive myself," Carl said frankly. "I know that I am going away on my own account. I must make the usual effort. I must have something to show for myself. To take what you would give me, I should have to be either a very large man or a very small one, and I am only in the middle class." Alexandra sighed. "I have a feeling that if you go away, you will not come back. Something will happen to one of us, or to both. People have to snatch at happiness when they can, in this world. It is always easier to lose than to find. What I have is yours, if you care enough about me to take it." Carl rose and looked up at the picture of John Bergson. "But I can't, my dear, I can't! I will go North at once. Instead of idling about in California all winter, I shall be getting my bearings up there. I won't waste another week. Be patient with me, Alexandra. Give me a year!" "Wie du willst", sagte Alexandra müde. "Auf einen Schlag verliere ich alles an einem einzigen Tag, und ich weiß nicht warum. Emil geht auch weg." Carl studierte immer noch John Bergsons Gesicht und Alexandras Augen folgten seinem Blick. "Ja", sagte sie, "wenn er all das hätte sehen können, was aus der Aufgabe geworden ist, die er mir gegeben hat, wäre er traurig gewesen. Ich hoffe, er sieht mich jetzt nicht. Ich hoffe, er ist bei den alten Menschen seines Blutes und Landes und dass ihm keine Nachrichten aus der Neuen Welt erreichen." TEIL III. Wintererinnerungen Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Eines Morgens während seines Aufenthalts auf Alexandras Farm steht Carl Linstrum früh auf, um durch die Felder zu gehen. Unbemerkt beobachtet er, wie Emil Bergson mit Marie Shabata Enten jagt. Später an diesem Tag besuchen Carl und Alexandra Marie in ihrem Obstgarten. Maries energetische Freundlichkeit steht im starken Kontrast zu der melancholischen Zurückhaltung ihres Mannes Frank. Der Leser erfährt, dass Marie die Tochter eines böhmischen Einwanderers nach Omaha, Nebraska war. Sie verliebte sich in Frank und rannte mit ihm weg von zu Hause; damals schien er ein Gentleman zu sein, gutaussehend und romantisch. Aber nach ihrer Hochzeit und dem Umzug zum Divide offenbarte sich Franks wahre Natur. Er ist ein fleißiger Arbeiter, aber ein ewiger Nörgler. Er missgönnt jedem und allem sein hartes Leben als Bauer. Zwischen Marie und Emil entwickelt sich eine Romanze, die jedoch ins Wanken gerät, als Emil Marie während eines schwierigen und angespannten Gesprächs auf dem Feld sagt, dass sie realistisch sein müssen und der Unmöglichkeit ihrer Situation ins Auge sehen müssen. Er äußert seinen wachsenden Entschluss, den Divide zu verlassen. Als er auf einer Messe in der örtlichen französisch-katholischen Kirche ist, ermutigt ihn sein bester Freund Amedee Chevalier, der von Emils verbotener Liebe zu Marie nichts ahnt, eine Liebesaffäre zu finden. Er hält Emils Zurückhaltung für Herzlosigkeit. Während Emil auf der Messe ist, wird Alexandra von ihren anderen Brüdern Lou und Oscar besucht. Sie sind besorgt, dass Alexandra Carl heiraten wird, von dem sie glauben, dass er ein unzuverlässiger Goldgräber ist. Sie behaupten, dass Alexandra keinen Anteil an der Farm mit Carl haben sollte; sie argumentieren stattdessen, dass das Anwesen den Männern der Familie gehört und Alexandras entscheidende Rolle bei der Wohlstandsschaffung für sie alle ignorieren. Darüber hinaus sagen sie ihr, dass gesellschaftliche Anstandsregeln vorschreiben, dass sie Carl fort schicken muss. Alexandra lehnt diese offensichtlich haltlosen Argumente wütend ab und erklärt effektiv, dass alle Bande der Zuneigung zwischen ihr und ihren Brüdern gekappt sind. Emil kehrt von der Messe zurück, um Alexandra mitzuteilen, dass er plant, nach Mexiko zu gehen. Sie ist von ihrem Streit mit Lou und Oscar abgelenkt und er verfängt sich im Sehnen nach Marie. Kurz nach Emil's Rückkehr kehrt Carl von seinem Gespräch mit Lou und Oscar zurück. Carl glaubt nun, dass er den Divide verlassen muss und sein Glück in Alaska versuchen muss. Tief getroffen von Carl und Emil, den beiden Menschen, die ihr wirklich wichtig waren, ist Alexandra am Boden zerstört.

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 height of the reign of terror. McMurdo, who had already been appointed Inner Deacon, with every prospect of some day succeeding McGinty as Bodymaster, was now so necessary to the councils of his comrades that nothing was done without his help and advice. The more popular he became, however, with the Freemen, the blacker were the scowls which greeted him as he passed along the streets of Vermissa. In spite of their terror the citizens were taking heart to band themselves together against their oppressors. Rumours had reached the lodge of secret gatherings in the Herald office and of distribution of firearms among the law-abiding people. But McGinty and his men were undisturbed by such reports. They were numerous, resolute, and well armed. Their opponents were scattered and powerless. It would all end, as it had done in the past, in aimless talk and possibly in impotent arrests. So said McGinty, McMurdo, and all the bolder spirits. It was a Saturday evening in May. Saturday was always the lodge night, and McMurdo was leaving his house to attend it when Morris, the weaker brother of the order, came to see him. His brow was creased with care, and his kindly face was drawn and haggard. "Can I speak with you freely, Mr. McMurdo?" "Sure." "I can't forget that I spoke my heart to you once, and that you kept it to yourself, even though the Boss himself came to ask you about it." "What else could I do if you trusted me? It wasn't that I agreed with what you said." "I know that well. But you are the one that I can speak to and be safe. I've a secret here," he put his hand to his breast, "and it is just burning the life out of me. I wish it had come to any one of you but me. If I tell it, it will mean murder, for sure. If I don't, it may bring the end of us all. God help me, but I am near out of my wits over it!" McMurdo looked at the man earnestly. He was trembling in every limb. He poured some whisky into a glass and handed it to him. "That's the physic for the likes of you," said he. "Now let me hear of it." Morris drank, and his white face took a tinge of colour. "I can tell it to you all in one sentence," said he. "There's a detective on our trail." McMurdo stared at him in astonishment. "Why, man, you're crazy," he said. "Isn't the place full of police and detectives and what harm did they ever do us?" "No, no, it's no man of the district. As you say, we know them, and it is little that they can do. But you've heard of Pinkerton's?" "I've read of some folk of that name." "Well, you can take it from me you've no show when they are on your trail. It's not a take-it-or-miss-it government concern. It's a dead earnest business proposition that's out for results and keeps out till by hook or crook it gets them. If a Pinkerton man is deep in this business, we are all destroyed." "We must kill him." "Ah, it's the first thought that came to you! So it will be up at the lodge. Didn't I say to you that it would end in murder?" "Sure, what is murder? Isn't it common enough in these parts?" "It is, indeed; but it's not for me to point out the man that is to be murdered. I'd never rest easy again. And yet it's our own necks that may be at stake. In God's name what shall I do?" He rocked to and fro in his agony of indecision. But his words had moved McMurdo deeply. It was easy to see that he shared the other's opinion as to the danger, and the need for meeting it. He gripped Morris's shoulder and shook him in his earnestness. "See here, man," he cried, and he almost screeched the words in his excitement, "you won't gain anything by sitting keening like an old wife at a wake. Let's have the facts. Who is the fellow? Where is he? How did you hear of him? Why did you come to me?" "I came to you; for you are the one man that would advise me. I told you that I had a store in the East before I came here. I left good friends behind me, and one of them is in the telegraph service. Here's a letter that I had from him yesterday. It's this part from the top of the page. You can read it yourself." This was what McMurdo read: How are the Scowrers getting on in your parts? We read plenty of them in the papers. Between you and me I expect to hear news from you before long. Five big corporations and the two railroads have taken the thing up in dead earnest. They mean it, and you can bet they'll get there! They are right deep down into it. Pinkerton has taken hold under their orders, and his best man, Birdy Edwards, is operating. The thing has got to be stopped right now. "Now read the postscript." Of course, what I give you is what I learned in business; so it goes no further. It's a queer cipher that you handle by the yard every day and can get no meaning from. McMurdo sat in silence for some time, with the letter in his listless hands. The mist had lifted for a moment, and there was the abyss before him. "Does anyone else know of this?" he asked. "I have told no one else." "But this man--your friend--has he any other person that he would be likely to write to?" "Well, I dare say he knows one or two more." "Of the lodge?" "It's likely enough." "I was asking because it is likely that he may have given some description of this fellow Birdy Edwards--then we could get on his trail." "Well, it's possible. But I should not think he knew him. He is just telling me the news that came to him by way of business. How would he know this Pinkerton man?" McMurdo gave a violent start. "By Gar!" he cried, "I've got him. What a fool I was not to know it. Lord! but we're in luck! We will fix him before he can do any harm. See here, Morris, will you leave this thing in my hands?" "Sure, if you will only take it off mine." "I'll do that. You can stand right back and let me run it. Even your name need not be mentioned. I'll take it all on myself, as if it were to me that this letter has come. Will that content you?" "It's just what I would ask." "Then leave it at that and keep your head shut. Now I'll get down to the lodge, and we'll soon make old man Pinkerton sorry for himself." "You wouldn't kill this man?" "The less you know, Friend Morris, the easier your conscience will be, and the better you will sleep. Ask no questions, and let these things settle themselves. I have hold of it now." Morris shook his head sadly as he left. "I feel that his blood is on my hands," he groaned. "Self-protection is no murder, anyhow," said McMurdo, smiling grimly. "It's him or us. I guess this man would destroy us all if we left him long in the valley. Why, Brother Morris, we'll have to elect you Bodymaster yet; for you've surely saved the lodge." And yet it was clear from his actions that he thought more seriously of this new intrusion than his words would show. It may have been his guilty conscience, it may have been the reputation of the Pinkerton organization, it may have been the knowledge that great, rich corporations had set themselves the task of clearing out the Scowrers; but, whatever his reason, his actions were those of a man who is preparing for the worst. Every paper which would incriminate him was destroyed before he left the house. After that he gave a long sigh of satisfaction; for it seemed to him that he was safe. And yet the danger must still have pressed somewhat upon him; for on his way to the lodge he stopped at old man Shafter's. The house was forbidden him; but when he tapped at the window Ettie came out to him. The dancing Irish deviltry had gone from her lover's eyes. She read his danger in his earnest face. "Something has happened!" she cried. "Oh, Jack, you are in danger!" "Sure, it is not very bad, my sweetheart. And yet it may be wise that we make a move before it is worse." "Make a move?" "I promised you once that I would go some day. I think the time is coming. I had news to-night, bad news, and I see trouble coming." "The police?" "Well, a Pinkerton. But, sure, you wouldn't know what that is, acushla, nor what it may mean to the likes of me. I'm too deep in this thing, and I may have to get out of it quick. You said you would come with me if I went." "Oh, Jack, it would be the saving of you!" "I'm an honest man in some things, Ettie. I wouldn't hurt a hair of your bonny head for all that the world can give, nor ever pull you down one inch from the golden throne above the clouds where I always see you. Would you trust me?" She put her hand in his without a word. "Well, then, listen to what I say, and do as I order you, for indeed it's the only way for us. Things are going to happen in this valley. I feel it in my bones. There may be many of us that will have to look out for ourselves. I'm one, anyhow. If I go, by day or night, it's you that must come with me!" "I'd come after you, Jack." "No, no, you shall come WITH me. If this valley is closed to me and I can never come back, how can I leave you behind, and me perhaps in hiding from the police with never a chance of a message? It's with me you must come. I know a good woman in the place I come from, and it's there I'd leave you till we can get married. Will you come?" "Yes, Jack, I will come." "God bless you for your trust in me! It's a fiend out of hell that I should be if I abused it. Now, mark you, Ettie, it will be just a word to you, and when it reaches you, you will drop everything and come right down to the waiting room at the depot and stay there till I come for you." "Day or night, I'll come at the word, Jack." Somewhat eased in mind, now that his own preparations for escape had been begun, McMurdo went on to the lodge. It had already assembled, and only by complicated signs and countersigns could he pass through the outer guard and inner guard who close-tiled it. A buzz of pleasure and welcome greeted him as he entered. The long room was crowded, and through the haze of tobacco smoke he saw the tangled black mane of the Bodymaster, the cruel, unfriendly features of Baldwin, the vulture face of Harraway, the secretary, and a dozen more who were among the leaders of the lodge. He rejoiced that they should all be there to take counsel over his news. "Indeed, it's glad we are to see you, Brother!" cried the chairman. "There's business here that wants a Solomon in judgment to set it right." "It's Lander and Egan," explained his neighbour as he took his seat. "They both claim the head money given by the lodge for the shooting of old man Crabbe over at Stylestown, and who's to say which fired the bullet?" McMurdo rose in his place and raised his hand. The expression of his face froze the attention of the audience. There was a dead hush of expectation. "Eminent Bodymaster," he said, in a solemn voice, "I claim urgency!" "Brother McMurdo claims urgency," said McGinty. "It's a claim that by the rules of this lodge takes precedence. Now Brother, we attend you." McMurdo took the letter from his pocket. "Eminent Bodymaster and Brethren," he said, "I am the bearer of ill news this day; but it is better that it should be known and discussed, than that a blow should fall upon us without warning which would destroy us all. I have information that the most powerful and richest organizations in this state have bound themselves together for our destruction, and that at this very moment there is a Pinkerton detective, one Birdy Edwards, at work in the valley collecting the evidence which may put a rope round the necks of many of us, and send every man in this room into a felon's cell. That is the situation for the discussion of which I have made a claim of urgency." There was a dead silence in the room. It was broken by the chairman. "What is your evidence for this, Brother McMurdo?" he asked. "It is in this letter which has come into my hands," said McMurdo. He read the passage aloud. "It is a matter of honour with me that I can give no further particulars about the letter, nor put it into your hands; but I assure you that there is nothing else in it which can affect the interests of the lodge. I put the case before you as it has reached me." "Let me say, Mr. Chairman," said one of the older brethren, "that I have heard of Birdy Edwards, and that he has the name of being the best man in the Pinkerton service." "Does anyone know him by sight?" asked McGinty. "Yes," said McMurdo, "I do." There was a murmur of astonishment through the hall. "I believe we hold him in the hollow of our hands," he continued with an exulting smile upon his face. "If we act quickly and wisely, we can cut this thing short. If I have your confidence and your help, it is little that we have to fear." "What have we to fear, anyhow? What can he know of our affairs?" "You might say so if all were as stanch as you, Councillor. But this man has all the millions of the capitalists at his back. Do you think there is no weaker brother among all our lodges that could not be bought? He will get at our secrets--maybe has got them already. There's only one sure cure." "That he never leaves the valley," said Baldwin. McMurdo nodded. "Good for you, Brother Baldwin," he said. "You and I have had our differences, but you have said the true word to-night." "Where is he, then? Where shall we know him?" "Eminent Bodymaster," said McMurdo, earnestly, "I would put it to you that this is too vital a thing for us to discuss in open lodge. God forbid that I should throw a doubt on anyone here; but if so much as a word of gossip got to the ears of this man, there would be an end of any chance of our getting him. I would ask the lodge to choose a trusty committee, Mr. Chairman--yourself, if I might suggest it, and Brother Baldwin here, and five more. Then I can talk freely of what I know and of what I advise should be done." The proposition was at once adopted, and the committee chosen. Besides the chairman and Baldwin there were the vulture-faced secretary, Harraway, Tiger Cormac, the brutal young assassin, Carter, the treasurer, and the brothers Willaby, fearless and desperate men who would stick at nothing. The usual revelry of the lodge was short and subdued: for there was a cloud upon the men's spirits, and many there for the first time began to see the cloud of avenging Law drifting up in that serene sky under which they had dwelt so long. The horrors they had dealt out to others had been so much a part of their settled lives that the thought of retribution had become a remote one, and so seemed the more startling now that it came so closely upon them. They broke up early and left their leaders to their council. "Now, McMurdo!" said McGinty when they were alone. The seven men sat frozen in their seats. "I said just now that I knew Birdy Edwards," McMurdo explained. "I need not tell you that he is not here under that name. He's a brave man, but not a crazy one. He passes under the name of Steve Wilson, and he is lodging at Hobson's Patch." "How do you know this?" "Because I fell into talk with him. I thought little of it at the time, nor would have given it a second thought but for this letter; but now I'm sure it's the man. I met him on the cars when I went down the line on Wednesday--a hard case if ever there was one. He said he was a reporter. I believed it for the moment. Wanted to know all he could about the Scowrers and what he called 'the outrages' for a New York paper. Asked me every kind of question so as to get something. You bet I was giving nothing away. 'I'd pay for it and pay well,' said he, 'if I could get some stuff that would suit my editor.' I said what I thought would please him best, and he handed me a twenty-dollar bill for my information. 'There's ten times that for you,' said he, 'if you can find me all that I want.'" "What did you tell him, then?" "Any stuff I could make up." "How do you know he wasn't a newspaper man?" "I'll tell you. He got out at Hobson's Patch, and so did I. I chanced into the telegraph bureau, and he was leaving it. "'See here,' said the operator after he'd gone out, 'I guess we should charge double rates for this.'--'I guess you should,' said I. He had filled the form with stuff that might have been Chinese, for all we could make of it. 'He fires a sheet of this off every day,' said the clerk. 'Yes,' said I; 'it's special news for his paper, and he's scared that the others should tap it.' That was what the operator thought and what I thought at the time; but I think differently now." "By Gar! I believe you are right," said McGinty. "But what do you allow that we should do about it?" "Why not go right down now and fix him?" someone suggested. "Ay, the sooner the better." "I'd start this next minute if I knew where we could find him," said McMurdo. "He's in Hobson's Patch; but I don't know the house. I've got a plan, though, if you'll only take my advice." "Well, what is it?" "I'll go to the Patch to-morrow morning. I'll find him through the operator. He can locate him, I guess. Well, then I'll tell him that I'm a Freeman myself. I'll offer him all the secrets of the lodge for a price. You bet he'll tumble to it. I'll tell him the papers are at my house, and that it's as much as my life would be worth to let him come while folk were about. He'll see that that's horse sense. Let him come at ten o'clock at night, and he shall see everything. That will fetch him sure." "Well?" "You can plan the rest for yourselves. Widow MacNamara's is a lonely house. She's as true as steel and as deaf as a post. There's only Scanlan and me in the house. If I get his promise--and I'll let you know if I do--I'd have the whole seven of you come to me by nine o'clock. We'll get him in. If ever he gets out alive--well, he can talk of Birdy Edwards's luck for the rest of his days!" "There's going to be a vacancy at Pinkerton's or I'm mistaken. Leave it at that, McMurdo. At nine to-morrow we'll be with you. You once get the door shut behind him, and you can leave the rest with us." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Es ist der Höhepunkt der Schreckensherrschaft der Scowrers, und selbst die Bürger versuchen sich zu bewaffnen und dagegen anzukämpfen. McMurdo steigt weiter in der Organisation auf. An einem Samstagabend vor dem Logentreffen kommt Morris zu McMurdo. Er ist sichtlich ängstlich und besorgt und sagt, dass er ein Geheimnis in sich trägt, das in ihm brennt. Schließlich platzt es aus ihm heraus, dass ein Detektiv auf der Spur der Gewerkschaft ist. Verblüfft sagt McMurdo, dass immer Leute versuchen, sie zu bekommen. Morris antwortet, dass es sich um einen berüchtigten Pinkerton-Detektiv handelt und daher sehr ernst ist. McMurdo packt Morris eindringlich und sagt, er müsse ihm alles erzählen. Morris erklärt, er habe einen Freund im Osten gehabt, der ein Telegramm geschickt habe und wissen wollte, wie es den Scowrers geht, und dass er gehört habe, dass die Pinkertons und ihr bester Detektiv, Birdy Edwards, den Fall untersuchen würden. McMurdo fühlt, als ob ein Abgrund vor ihm liegt. Er fragt Morris, ob er wüsste, wie Edwards aussieht, und Morris antwortet nein; nicht einmal sein Freund würde das wissen. Plötzlich platzt es aus McMurdo heraus, dass er wisse, wer es ist, und schwört, es zu erledigen. Zum Erleichterung von Morris sagt er, er werde Morris' Namen aus allem heraushalten, was als Nächstes passiert. Bevor das Treffen stattfindet, sagt McMurdo Ettie, dass er endlich bereit sei zu gehen und auf sein Wort zu warten. An diesem Abend beginnt das Treffen. McMurdo erhebt sich und erklärt, dass er eine dringende Angelegenheit habe. Dies bringt alle zum Schweigen; gemäß den Regeln muss sich jeder dieser Angelegenheit widmen, bevor etwas anderes geschieht. McMurdo erklärt, dass er einen Brief erhalten hat, der ihm von Edwards und den Pinkertons erzählt, und dass er genau weiß, wer der Mann ist. Eine Welle der Verblüffung und Angst erfasst den Saal. McGinty sagt, der Mann dürfe nicht erlaubt werden, das Tal zu verlassen. McMurdo stimmt zu und bittet um Erlaubnis, einen Ausschuss zu bilden, um den Plan zu besprechen. An diesem Abend ist die Feier der Loge gedämpft; zum ersten Mal sehen die Männer den Arm des Gesetzes näher an sich herankommen. McGinty, McMurdo, Baldwin und die anderen Männer, die für den Ausschuss ausgewählt wurden, treffen sich, um den Plan zu besprechen. McMurdo identifiziert den Mann als Steve Wilson, der bei Hobson's Patch logiert; Wilson gab vor, ein Reporter zu sein. McMurdo sagt dann, dass sein Plan darin besteht, zu Wilson zu gehen und ihm seine "Geheimnisse" der Loge gegen Bezahlung anzubieten. Dies könnte im bewährten Haus der Witwe MacNamara stattfinden. Die sieben Männer werden sich dort um neun Uhr treffen; Edwards wird auftauchen, und sie werden sich um ihn kümmern.

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: Cyrano, Le Bret, the cadets, Christian de Neuvillette. A CADET (seated at a table, glass in hand): Cyrano! (Cyrano turns round): The story! CYRANO: In its time! (He goes up on Le Bret's arm. They talk in low voices.) THE CADET (rising and coming down): The story of the fray! 'Twill lesson well (He stops before the table where Christian is seated): This timid young apprentice! CHRISTIAN (raising his head): 'Prentice! Who? ANOTHER CADET: This sickly Northern greenhorn! CHRISTIAN: Sickly! FIRST CADET (mockingly): Hark! Monsieur de Neuvillette, this in your ear: There's somewhat here, one no more dares to name, Than to say 'rope' to one whose sire was hanged! CHRISTIAN: What may that be? ANOTHER CADET (in a terrible voice): See here! (He puts his finger three times, mysteriously, on his nose): Do you understand? CHRISTIAN: Oh! 'tis the. . . ANOTHER: Hush! oh, never breathe that word, Unless you'd reckon with him yonder! (He points to Cyrano, who is talking with Le Bret.) ANOTHER (who has meanwhile come up noiselessly to sit on the table--whispering behind him): Hark! He put two snuffling men to death, in rage, For the sole reason they spoke through their nose! ANOTHER (in a hollow voice, darting on all-fours from under the table, where he had crept): And if you would not perish in flower o' youth, --Oh, mention not the fatal cartilage! ANOTHER (clapping him on the shoulder): A word? A gesture! For the indiscreet His handkerchief may prove his winding-sheet! (Silence. All, with crossed arms, look at Christian. He rises and goes over to Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, who is talking to an officer, and feigns to see nothing.) CHRISTIAN: Captain! CARBON (turning and looking at him from head to foot): Sir! CHRISTIAN: Pray, what skills it best to do To Southerners who swagger?. . . CARBON: Give them proof That one may be a Northerner, yet brave! (He turns his back on him.) CHRISTIAN: I thank you. FIRST CADET (to Cyrano): Now the tale! ALL: The tale! CYRANO (coming toward them): The tale?. . . (All bring their stools up, and group round him, listening eagerly. Christian is astride a chair): Well! I went all alone to meet the band. The moon was shining, clock-like, full i' th' sky, When, suddenly, some careful clockwright passed A cloud of cotton-wool across the case That held this silver watch. And, presto! heigh! The night was inky black, and all the quays Were hidden in the murky dark. Gadsooks! One could see nothing further. . . CHRISTIAN: Than one's nose! (Silence. All slowly rise, looking in terror at Cyrano, who has stopped-- dumfounded. Pause.) CYRANO: Who on God's earth is that? A CADET (whispering): It is a man Who joined to-day. CYRANO (making a step toward Christian): To-day? CARBON (in a low voice): Yes. . .his name is The Baron de Neuvil. . . CYRANO (checking himself): Good! It is well. . . (He turns pale, flushes, makes as if to fall on Christian): I. . . (He controls himself): What said I?. . . (With a burst of rage): MORDIOUS!. . . (Then continues calmly): That it was dark. (Astonishment. The cadets reseat themselves, staring at him): On I went, thinking, 'For a knavish cause I may provoke some great man, some great prince, Who certainly could break'. . . CHRISTIAN: My nose!. . . (Every one starts up. Christian balances on his chair.) CYRANO (in a choked voice): . . .'My teeth! Who would break my teeth, and I, imprudent-like, Was poking. . .' CHRISTIAN: My nose!. . . CYRANO: 'My finger,. . .in the crack Between the tree and bark! He may prove strong And rap me. . .' CHRISTIAN: Over the nose. . . CYRANO (wiping his forehead): . . .'O' th' knuckles! Ay,' But I cried, 'Forward, Gascon! Duty calls! On, Cyrano!' And thus I ventured on. . . When, from the shadow, came. . . CHRISTIAN: A crack o' th' nose. CYRANO: I parry it--find myself. . . CHRISTIAN: Nose to nose. . . CYRANO (bounding on to him): Heaven and earth! (All the Gascons leap up to see, but when he is close to Christian he controls himself and continues): . . .With a hundred brawling sots, Who stank. . . CHRISTIAN: A noseful. . . CYRANO (white, but smiling): Onions, brandy-cups! I leapt out, head well down. . . CHRISTIAN: Nosing the wind! CYRANO: I charge!--gore two, impale one--run him through, One aims at me--Paf! and I parry. . . CHRISTIAN: Pif! CYRANO (bursting out): Great God! Out! all of you! (The cadets rush to the doors.) FIRST CADET: The tiger wakes! CYRANO: Every man, out! Leave me alone with him! SECOND CADET: We shall find him minced fine, minced into hash In a big pasty! RAGUENEAU: I am turning pale, And curl up, like a napkin, limp and white! CARBON: Let us be gone. ANOTHER: He will not leave a crumb! ANOTHER: I die of fright to think what will pass here! ANOTHER (shutting door right): Something too horrible! (All have gone out by different doors, some by the staircase. Cyrano and Christian are face to face, looking at each other for a moment.) Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die anderen Wachen, die nichts von Cyrano's Schwur gegenüber Roxane wissen, hänseln Christian und warnen ihn davor, jemals über Cyrano's Nase zu sprechen. Christian, verärgert über das Geplänkel, fragt Carbon, was er tun soll, wenn Gascones zu überheblich werden. Carbon antwortet, dass er beweisen müsse, dass ein Mann auch ein Normanne sein kann und dennoch Mut habe. Als Cyrano beginnt, die Geschichte seines Kampfes gegen die hundert Männer zu erzählen, unterbricht ihn Christian wiederholt mit Hinweisen auf seine Nase. Cyrano füllt sich mit Wut an und die Kadetten erwarten, dass er Christian angreift. Doch er erinnert sich an sein Versprechen, Christian zu beschützen, und beherrscht sich. Christians Beleidigungen gehen weiter, bis Cyrano schließlich wütend die Kadetten fortschickt. In der Erwartung, dass er Christian töten wird, verlassen sie eilig den Raum.

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: Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never known how much of her happiness depended on being _first_ with Mr. Knightley, first in interest and affection.--Satisfied that it was so, and feeling it her due, she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the dread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had been.--Long, very long, she felt she had been first; for, having no female connexions of his own, there had been only Isabella whose claims could be compared with hers, and she had always known exactly how far he loved and esteemed Isabella. She had herself been first with him for many years past. She had not deserved it; she had often been negligent or perverse, slighting his advice, or even wilfully opposing him, insensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him because he would not acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her own--but still, from family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of mind, he had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an endeavour to improve her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which no other creature had at all shared. In spite of all her faults, she knew she was dear to him; might she not say, very dear?--When the suggestions of hope, however, which must follow here, presented themselves, she could not presume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might think herself not unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately loved by Mr. Knightley. _She_ could not. She could not flatter herself with any idea of blindness in his attachment to _her_. She had received a very recent proof of its impartiality.--How shocked had he been by her behaviour to Miss Bates! How directly, how strongly had he expressed himself to her on the subject!--Not too strongly for the offence--but far, far too strongly to issue from any feeling softer than upright justice and clear-sighted goodwill.--She had no hope, nothing to deserve the name of hope, that he could have that sort of affection for herself which was now in question; but there was a hope (at times a slight one, at times much stronger,) that Harriet might have deceived herself, and be overrating his regard for _her_.--Wish it she must, for his sake--be the consequence nothing to herself, but his remaining single all his life. Could she be secure of that, indeed, of his never marrying at all, she believed she should be perfectly satisfied.--Let him but continue the same Mr. Knightley to her and her father, the same Mr. Knightley to all the world; let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of their precious intercourse of friendship and confidence, and her peace would be fully secured.--Marriage, in fact, would not do for her. It would be incompatible with what she owed to her father, and with what she felt for him. Nothing should separate her from her father. She would not marry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley. It must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be disappointed; and she hoped, that when able to see them together again, she might at least be able to ascertain what the chances for it were.--She should see them henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know how to admit that she could be blinded here.--He was expected back every day. The power of observation would be soon given--frightfully soon it appeared when her thoughts were in one course. In the meanwhile, she resolved against seeing Harriet.--It would do neither of them good, it would do the subject no good, to be talking of it farther.--She was resolved not to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, and yet had no authority for opposing Harriet's confidence. To talk would be only to irritate.--She wrote to her, therefore, kindly, but decisively, to beg that she would not, at present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it to be her conviction, that all farther confidential discussion of _one_ topic had better be avoided; and hoping, that if a few days were allowed to pass before they met again, except in the company of others--she objected only to a tete-a-tete--they might be able to act as if they had forgotten the conversation of yesterday.--Harriet submitted, and approved, and was grateful. This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma's thoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them, sleeping or waking, the last twenty-four hours--Mrs. Weston, who had been calling on her daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her way home, almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to relate all the particulars of so interesting an interview. Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates's, and gone through his share of this essential attention most handsomely; but she having then induced Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returned with much more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a quarter of an hour spent in Mrs. Bates's parlour, with all the encumbrance of awkward feelings, could have afforded. A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it while her friend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visit in a good deal of agitation herself; and in the first place had wished not to go at all at present, to be allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and to defer this ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and Mr. Churchill could be reconciled to the engagement's becoming known; as, considering every thing, she thought such a visit could not be paid without leading to reports:--but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he was extremely anxious to shew his approbation to Miss Fairfax and her family, and did not conceive that any suspicion could be excited by it; or if it were, that it would be of any consequence; for "such things," he observed, "always got about." Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston had very good reason for saying so. They had gone, in short--and very great had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady. She had hardly been able to speak a word, and every look and action had shewn how deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her daughter--who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They were both so truly respectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation; thought so much of Jane; so much of every body, and so little of themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them. Miss Fairfax's recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and declined at first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her embarrassment, as to bring her to converse on the important subject. Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject. "On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so many months," continued Mrs. Weston, "she was energetic. This was one of her expressions. 'I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'--and the quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart." "Poor girl!" said Emma. "She thinks herself wrong, then, for having consented to a private engagement?" "Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself. 'The consequence,' said she, 'has been a state of perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought not to be.' 'Do not imagine, madam,' she continued, 'that I was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought me up. The error has been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel Campbell.'" "Poor girl!" said Emma again. "She loves him then excessively, I suppose. It must have been from attachment only, that she could be led to form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her judgment." "Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him." "I am afraid," returned Emma, sighing, "that I must often have contributed to make her unhappy." "On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she probably had something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. One natural consequence of the evil she had involved herself in," she said, "was that of making her _unreasonable_. The consciousness of having done amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious and irritable to a degree that must have been--that had been--hard for him to bear. 'I did not make the allowances,' said she, 'which I ought to have done, for his temper and spirits--his delightful spirits, and that gaiety, that playfulness of disposition, which, under any other circumstances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to me, as they were at first.' She then began to speak of you, and of the great kindness you had shewn her during her illness; and with a blush which shewed me how it was all connected, desired me, whenever I had an opportunity, to thank you--I could not thank you too much--for every wish and every endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you had never received any proper acknowledgment from herself." "If I did not know her to be happy now," said Emma, seriously, "which, in spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience, she must be, I could not bear these thanks;--for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if there were an account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done Miss Fairfax!--Well (checking herself, and trying to be more lively), this is all to be forgotten. You are very kind to bring me these interesting particulars. They shew her to the greatest advantage. I am sure she is very good--I hope she will be very happy. It is fit that the fortune should be on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers." Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston. She thought well of Frank in almost every respect; and, what was more, she loved him very much, and her defence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with a great deal of reason, and at least equal affection--but she had too much to urge for Emma's attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick Square or to Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and when Mrs. Weston ended with, "We have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for, you know, but I hope it will soon come," she was obliged to pause before she answered, and at last obliged to answer at random, before she could at all recollect what letter it was which they were so anxious for. "Are you well, my Emma?" was Mrs. Weston's parting question. "Oh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to give me intelligence of the letter as soon as possible." Mrs. Weston's communications furnished Emma with more food for unpleasant reflection, by increasing her esteem and compassion, and her sense of past injustice towards Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted not having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the envious feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the cause. Had she followed Mr. Knightley's known wishes, in paying that attention to Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had she tried to know her better; had she done her part towards intimacy; had she endeavoured to find a friend there instead of in Harriet Smith; she must, in all probability, have been spared from every pain which pressed on her now.--Birth, abilities, and education, had been equally marking one as an associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and the other--what was she?--Supposing even that they had never become intimate friends; that she had never been admitted into Miss Fairfax's confidence on this important matter--which was most probable--still, in knowing her as she ought, and as she might, she must have been preserved from the abominable suspicions of an improper attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so unpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had been made a subject of material distress to the delicacy of Jane's feelings, by the levity or carelessness of Frank Churchill's. Of all the sources of evil surrounding the former, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded that she must herself have been the worst. She must have been a perpetual enemy. They never could have been all three together, without her having stabbed Jane Fairfax's peace in a thousand instances; and on Box Hill, perhaps, it had been the agony of a mind that would bear no more. The evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, at Hartfield. The weather added what it could of gloom. A cold stormy rain set in, and nothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the wind was despoiling, and the length of the day, which only made such cruel sights the longer visible. The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably comfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter's side, and by exertions which had never cost her half so much before. It reminded her of their first forlorn tete-a-tete, on the evening of Mrs. Weston's wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea, and dissipated every melancholy fancy. Alas! such delightful proofs of Hartfield's attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might shortly be over. The picture which she had then drawn of the privations of the approaching winter, had proved erroneous; no friends had deserted them, no pleasures had been lost.--But her present forebodings she feared would experience no similar contradiction. The prospect before her now, was threatening to a degree that could not be entirely dispelled--that might not be even partially brightened. If all took place that might take place among the circle of her friends, Hartfield must be comparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the spirits only of ruined happiness. The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even dearer than herself; and Mrs. Weston's heart and time would be occupied by it. They should lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her husband also.--Frank Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss Fairfax, it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to Highbury. They would be married, and settled either at or near Enscombe. All that were good would be withdrawn; and if to these losses, the loss of Donwell were to be added, what would remain of cheerful or of rational society within their reach? Mr. Knightley to be no longer coming there for his evening comfort!--No longer walking in at all hours, as if ever willing to change his own home for their's!--How was it to be endured? And if he were to be lost to them for Harriet's sake; if he were to be thought of hereafter, as finding in Harriet's society all that he wanted; if Harriet were to be the chosen, the first, the dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he looked for all the best blessings of existence; what could be increasing Emma's wretchedness but the reflection never far distant from her mind, that it had been all her own work? Als es zu solch einem Punkt kam, konnte sie es nicht lassen, zusammenzuzucken, einen schweren Seufzer auszustoßen oder sogar für ein paar Sekunden im Raum umherzugehen. Die einzige Quelle, aus der sie Trost oder Ruhe schöpfen konnte, war der Vorsatz zu einem besseren Verhalten ihrerseits und die Hoffnung, dass, egal wie viel weniger spirituell und fröhlich die kommenden und jeden zukünftigen Winter ihres Lebens im Vergleich zur Vergangenheit sein mögen, sie dennoch vernünftiger, besser mit sich selbst vertraut sein würde und weniger bedauern würde, wenn er vorüber wäre. 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Emma gibt die Hoffnung auf, dass Mr. Knightley in sie verliebt ist. Selbst wenn er es wäre, könnte sie ihn aufgrund ihres Vaters, der ständige Aufmerksamkeit benötigt, nicht heiraten. Frau Weston erzählt Emma, dass Jane Fairfax bedauert, in eine verdächtige private Verlobung verwickelt zu sein und wünscht, sie hätte die Situation mit mehr Anstand gehandhabt. Emma fühlt sich entmutigt und allein, da die schwangere Frau Weston bald mit ihrem Kind beschäftigt sein wird und Frank Churchill nicht mehr regelmäßig zu Besuch kommt.

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 Mrs. Wix's retreat Miss Overmore appeared to recognise that she was not exactly in a position to denounce Ida Farange's second union; but she drew from a table-drawer the photograph of Sir Claude and, standing there before Maisie, studied it at some length. "Isn't he beautiful?" the child ingenuously asked. Her companion hesitated. "No--he's horrid," she, to Maisie's surprise, sharply returned. But she debated another minute, after which she handed back the picture. It appeared to Maisie herself to exhibit a fresh attraction, and she was troubled, having never before had occasion to differ from her lovely friend. So she only could ask what, such being the case, she should do with it: should she put it quite away--where it wouldn't be there to offend? On this Miss Overmore again cast about; after which she said unexpectedly: "Put it on the schoolroom mantelpiece." Maisie felt a fear. "Won't papa dislike to see it there?" "Very much indeed; but that won't matter NOW." Miss Overmore spoke with peculiar significance and to her pupil's mystification. "On account of the marriage?" Maisie risked. Miss Overmore laughed, and Maisie could see that in spite of the irritation produced by Mrs. Wix she was in high spirits. "Which marriage do you mean?" With the question put to her it suddenly struck the child she didn't know, so that she felt she looked foolish. So she took refuge in saying: "Shall YOU be different--" This was a full implication that the bride of Sir Claude would be. "As your father's wedded wife? Utterly!" Miss Overmore replied. And the difference began of course in her being addressed, even by Maisie, from that day and by her particular request, as Mrs. Beale. It was there indeed principally that it ended, for except that the child could reflect that she should presently have four parents in all, and also that at the end of three months the staircase, for a little girl hanging over banisters, sent up the deepening rustle of more elaborate advances, everything made the same impression as before. Mrs. Beale had very pretty frocks, but Miss Overmore's had been quite as good, and if papa was much fonder of his second wife than he had been of his first Maisie had foreseen that fondness, had followed its development almost as closely as the person more directly involved. There was little indeed in the commerce of her companions that her precocious experience couldn't explain, for if they struck her as after all rather deficient in that air of the honeymoon of which she had so often heard--in much detail, for instance, from Mrs. Wix--it was natural to judge the circumstance in the light of papa's proved disposition to contest the empire of the matrimonial tie. His honeymoon, when he came back from Brighton--not on the morrow of Mrs. Wix's visit, and not, oddly, till several days later--his honeymoon was perhaps perceptibly tinged with the dawn of a later stage of wedlock. There were things dislike of which, as the child knew it, wouldn't matter to Mrs. Beale now, and their number increased so that such a trifle as his hostility to the photograph of Sir Claude quite dropped out of view. This pleasing object found a conspicuous place in the schoolroom, which in truth Mr. Farange seldom entered and in which silent admiration formed, during the time I speak of, almost the sole scholastic exercise of Mrs. Beale's pupil. Maisie was not long in seeing just what her stepmother had meant by the difference she should show in her new character. If she was her father's wife she was not her own governess, and if her presence had had formerly to be made regular by the theory of a humble function she was now on a footing that dispensed with all theories and was inconsistent with all servitude. That was what she had meant by the drop of the objection to a school; her small companion was no longer required at home as--it was Mrs. Beale's own amusing word--a little duenna. The argument against a successor to Miss Overmore remained: it was composed frankly of the fact, of which Mrs. Beale granted the full absurdity, that she was too awfully fond of her stepdaughter to bring herself to see her in vulgar and mercenary hands. The note of this particular danger emboldened Maisie to put in a word for Mrs. Wix, the modest measure of whose avidity she had taken from the first; but Mrs. Beale disposed afresh and effectually of a candidate who would be sure to act in some horrible and insidious way for Ida's interest and who moreover was personally loathsome and as ignorant as a fish. She made also no more of a secret of the awkward fact that a good school would be hideously expensive, and of the further circumstance, which seemed to put an end to everything, that when it came to the point papa, in spite of his previous clamour, was really most nasty about paying. "Would you believe," Mrs. Beale confidentially asked of her little charge, "that he says I'm a worse expense than ever, and that a daughter and a wife together are really more than he can afford?" It was thus that the splendid school at Brighton lost itself in the haze of larger questions, though the fear that it would provoke Ida to leap into the breach subsided with her prolonged, her quite shameless non-appearance. Her daughter and her successor were therefore left to gaze in united but helpless blankness at all Maisie was not learning. This quantity was so great as to fill the child's days with a sense of intermission to which even French Lisette gave no accent--with finished games and unanswered questions and dreaded tests; with the habit, above all, in her watch for a change, of hanging over banisters when the door-bell sounded. This was the great refuge of her impatience, but what she heard at such times was a clatter of gaiety downstairs; the impression of which, from her earliest childhood, had built up in her the belief that the grown-up time was the time of real amusement and above all of real intimacy. Even Lisette, even Mrs. Wix had never, she felt, in spite of hugs and tears, been so intimate with her as so many persons at present were with Mrs. Beale and as so many others of old had been with Mrs. Farange. The note of hilarity brought people together still more than the note of melancholy, which was the one exclusively sounded, for instance, by poor Mrs. Wix. Maisie in these days preferred none the less that domestic revels should be wafted to her from a distance: she felt sadly unsupported for facing the inquisition of the drawing-room. That was a reason the more for making the most of Susan Ash, who in her quality of under-housemaid moved at a very different level and who, none the less, was much depended upon out of doors. She was a guide to peregrinations that had little in common with those intensely definite airings that had left with the child a vivid memory of the regulated mind of Moddle. There had been under Moddle's system no dawdles at shop-windows and no nudges, in Oxford Street, of "I SAY, look at 'ER!" There had been an inexorable treatment of crossings and a serene exemption from the fear that--especially at corners, of which she was yet weakly fond--haunted the housemaid, the fear of being, as she ominously said, "spoken to." The dangers of the town equally with its diversions added to Maisie's sense of being untutored and unclaimed. The situation however, had taken a twist when, on another of her returns, at Susan's side, extremely tired, from the pursuit of exercise qualified by much hovering, she encountered another emotion. She on this occasion learnt at the door that her instant attendance was requested in the drawing-room. Crossing the threshold in a cloud of shame she discerned through the blur Mrs. Beale seated there with a gentleman who immediately drew the pain from her predicament by rising before her as the original of the photograph of Sir Claude. She felt the moment she looked at him that he was by far the most shining presence that had ever made her gape, and her pleasure in seeing him, in knowing that he took hold of her and kissed her, as quickly throbbed into a strange shy pride in him, a perception of his making up for her fallen state, for Susan's public nudges, which quite bruised her, and for all the lessons that, in the dead schoolroom, where at times she was almost afraid to stay alone, she was bored with not having. It was as if he had told her on the spot that he belonged to her, so that she could already show him off and see the effect he produced. No, nothing else that was most beautiful ever belonging to her could kindle that particular joy--not Mrs. Beale at that very moment, not papa when he was gay, nor mamma when she was dressed, nor Lisette when she was new. The joy almost overflowed in tears when he laid his hand on her and drew her to him, telling her, with a smile of which the promise was as bright as that of a Christmas-tree, that he knew her ever so well by her mother, but had come to see her now so that he might know her for himself. She could see that his view of this kind of knowledge was to make her come away with him, and, further, that it was just what he was there for and had already been some time: arranging it with Mrs. Beale and getting on with that lady in a manner evidently not at all affected by her having on the arrival of his portrait thought of him so ill. They had grown almost intimate--or had the air of it--over their discussion; and it was still further conveyed to Maisie that Mrs. Beale had made no secret, and would make yet less of one, of all that it cost to let her go. "You seem so tremendously eager," she said to the child, "that I hope you're at least clear about Sir Claude's relation to you. It doesn't appear to occur to him to give you the necessary reassurance." Maisie, a trifle mystified, turned quickly to her new friend. "Why it's of course that you're MARRIED to her, isn't it?" Her anxious emphasis started them off, as she had learned to call it; this was the echo she infallibly and now quite resignedly produced; moreover Sir Claude's laughter was an indistinguishable part of the sweetness of his being there. "We've been married, my dear child, three months, and my interest in you is a consequence, don't you know? of my great affection for your mother. In coming here it's of course for your mother I'm acting." "Oh I know," Maisie said with all the candour of her competence. "She can't come herself--except just to the door." Then as she thought afresh: "Can't she come even to the door now?" "There you are!" Mrs. Beale exclaimed to Sir Claude. She spoke as if his dilemma were ludicrous. His kind face, in a hesitation, seemed to recognise it; but he answered the child with a frank smile. "No--not very well." "Because she has married you?" He promptly accepted this reason. "Well, that has a good deal to do with it." He was so delightful to talk to that Maisie pursued the subject. "But papa--HE has married Miss Overmore." "Ah you'll see that he won't come for you at your mother's," that lady interposed. "Yes, but that won't be for a long time," Maisie hastened to respond. "We won't talk about it now--you've months and months to put in first." And Sir Claude drew her closer. "Oh that's what makes it so hard to give her up!" Mrs. Beale made this point with her arms out to her stepdaughter. Maisie, quitting Sir Claude, went over to them and, clasped in a still tenderer embrace, felt entrancingly the extension of the field of happiness. "I'LL come for you," said her stepmother, "if Sir Claude keeps you too long: we must make him quite understand that! Don't talk to me about her ladyship!" she went on to their visitor so familiarly that it was almost as if they must have met before. "I know her ladyship as if I had made her. They're a pretty pair of parents!" cried Mrs. Beale. Maisie had so often heard them called so that the remark diverted her but an instant from the agreeable wonder of this grand new form of allusion to her mother; and that, in its turn, presently left her free to catch at the pleasant possibility, in connexion with herself, of a relation much happier as between Mrs. Beale and Sir Claude than as between mamma and papa. Still the next thing that happened was that her interest in such a relation brought to her lips a fresh question. "Have you seen papa?" she asked of Sir Claude. It was the signal for their going off again, as her small stoicism had perfectly taken for granted that it would be. All that Mrs. Beale had nevertheless to add was the vague apparent sarcasm: "Oh papa!" "I'm assured he's not at home," Sir Claude replied to the child; "but if he had been I should have hoped for the pleasure of seeing him." "Won't he mind your coming?" Maisie asked as with need of the knowledge. "Oh you bad little girl!" Mrs. Beale humorously protested. The child could see that at this Sir Claude, though still moved to mirth, coloured a little; but he spoke to her very kindly. "That's just what I came to see, you know--whether your father WOULD mind. But Mrs. Beale appears strongly of the opinion that he won't." This lady promptly justified that view to her stepdaughter. "It will be very interesting, my dear, you know, to find out what it is to-day that your father does mind. I'm sure _I_ don't know!"--and she seemed to repeat, though with perceptible resignation, her plaint of a moment before. "Your father, darling, is a very odd person indeed." She turned with this, smiling, to Sir Claude. "But perhaps it's hardly civil for me to say that of his not objecting to have YOU in the house. If you knew some of the people he does have!" Maisie knew them all, and none indeed were to be compared to Sir Claude. He laughed back at Mrs. Beale; he looked at such moments quite as Mrs. Wix, in the long stories she told her pupil, always described the lovers of her distressed beauties--"the perfect gentleman and strikingly handsome." He got up, to the child's regret, as if he were going. "Oh I dare say we should be all right!" Mrs. Beale once more gathered in her little charge, holding her close and looking thoughtfully over her head at their visitor. "It's so charming--for a man of your type--to have wanted her so much!" "What do you know about my type?" Sir Claude laughed. "Whatever it may be I dare say it deceives you. The truth about me is simply that I'm the most unappreciated of--what do you call the fellows?--'family-men.' Yes, I'm a family-man; upon my honour I am!" "Then why on earth," cried Mrs. Beale, "didn't you marry a family-woman?" Sir Claude looked at her hard. "YOU know who one marries, I think. Besides, there ARE no family-women--hanged if there are! None of them want any children--hanged if they do!" His account of the matter was most interesting, and Maisie, as if it were of bad omen for her, stared at the picture in some dismay. At the same time she felt, through encircling arms, her protectress hesitate. "You do come out with things! But you mean her ladyship doesn't want any--really?" "Won't hear of them--simply. But she can't help the one she HAS got." And with this Sir Claude's eyes rested on the little girl in a way that seemed to her to mask her mother's attitude with the consciousness of his own. "She must make the best of her, don't you see? If only for the look of the thing, don't you know? one wants one's wife to take the proper line about her child." "Oh I know what one wants!" Mrs. Beale cried with a competence that evidently impressed her interlocutor. "Well, if you keep HIM up--and I dare say you've had worry enough--why shouldn't I keep Ida? What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander--or the other way round, don't you know? I mean to see the thing through." Mrs. Beale, for a minute, still with her eyes on him as he leaned upon the chimneypiece, appeared to turn this over. "You're just a wonder of kindness--that's what you are!" she said at last. "A lady's expected to have natural feelings. But YOUR horrible sex--! Isn't it a horrible sex, little love?" she demanded with her cheek upon her stepdaughter's. "Oh I like gentlemen best," Maisie lucidly replied. The words were taken up merrily. "That's a good one for YOU!" Sir Claude exclaimed to Mrs. Beale. "No," said that lady: "I've only to remember the women she sees at her mother's." "Ah they're very nice now," Sir Claude returned. "What do you call 'nice'?" "Well, they're all right." "That doesn't answer me," said Mrs. Beale; "but I dare say you do take care of them. That makes you more of an angel to want this job too." And she playfully whacked her smaller companion. "I'm not an angel--I'm an old grandmother," Sir Claude declared. "I like babies--I always did. If we go to smash I shall look for a place as responsible nurse." Maisie, in her charmed mood, drank in an imputation on her years which at another moment might have been bitter; but the charm was sensibly interrupted by Mrs. Beale's screwing her round and gazing fondly into her eyes, "You're willing to leave me, you wretch?" The little girl deliberated; even this consecrated tie had become as a cord she must suddenly snap. But she snapped it very gently. "Isn't it my turn for mamma?" "You're a horrible little hypocrite! The less, I think, now said about 'turns' the better," Mrs. Beale made answer. "_I_ know whose turn it is. You've not such a passion for your mother!" "I say, I say: DO look out!" Sir Claude quite amiably protested. "There's nothing she hasn't heard. But it doesn't matter--it hasn't spoiled her. If you knew what it costs me to part with you!" she pursued to Maisie. Sir Claude watched her as she charmingly clung to the child. "I'm so glad you really care for her. That's so much to the good." Mrs. Beale slowly got up, still with her hands on Maisie, but emitting a soft exhalation. "Well, if you're glad, that may help us; for I assure you that I shall never give up any rights in her that I may consider I've acquired by my own sacrifices. I shall hold very fast to my interest in her. What seems to have happened is that she has brought you and me together." "She has brought you and me together," said Sir Claude. His cheerful echo prolonged the happy truth, and Maisie broke out almost with enthusiasm: "I've brought you and her together!" Her companions of course laughed anew and Mrs. Beale gave her an affectionate shake. "You little monster--take care what you do! But that's what she does do," she continued to Sir Claude. "She did it to me and Beale." "Well then," he said to Maisie, "you must try the trick at OUR place." He held out his hand to her again. "Will you come now?" "Now--just as I am?" She turned with an immense appeal to her stepmother, taking a leap over the mountain of "mending," the abyss of packing that had loomed and yawned before her. "Oh MAY I?" Mrs. Beale addressed her assent to Sir Claude. "As well so as any other way. I'll send on her things to-morrow." Then she gave a tug to the child's coat, glancing at her up and down with some ruefulness. "She's not turned out as I should like--her mother will pull her to pieces. But what's one to do--with nothing to do it on? And she's better than when she came--you can tell her mother that. I'm sorry to have to say it to you--but the poor child was a sight." "Oh I'll turn her out myself!" the visitor cordially said. "I shall like to see how!"--Mrs. Beale appeared much amused. "You must bring her to show me--we can manage that. Good-bye, little fright!" And her last word to Sir Claude was that she would keep him up to the mark. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Miss Overmore fängt an, sich als Mrs. Beale zu bezeichnen. Maisie erkennt, dass sie jetzt insgesamt vier Elternteile hat. Maisies Studium wird vernachlässigt; "ungebildet und unbeachtet" verbringt sie die meiste Zeit zuhause und hört den Erwachsenen unten zu, wie sie es sich gut gehen lassen. Eine Dienstmagd namens Susan Ash beginnt, Maisie spazieren zu führen. Als Maisie von einem dieser Spaziergänge zurückkehrt, findet sie Sir Claude bei ihrem Vater zu Hause auf sie wartend. Maisie denkt, dass er das schönste Wesen ist, das sie je gesehen hat, als sie Sir Claude trifft. Sir Claude und Mrs. Beale verstehen sich blendend - was seltsam ist, da ihre Ehepartner erbitterte Feinde sind. Mrs. Beale, Sir Claude und Maisie sind sich alle einig, dass Maisie die beiden Stiefeltern zusammengebracht hat. Hier verwendet James noch mehr Vorahnung. Maisie geht mit Sir Claude zu ihrer Mutter nach Hause.

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 Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of the sails, and was at rest. The flood had made, the wind was nearly calm, and being bound down the river, the only thing for it was to come to and wait for the turn of the tide. The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits. A haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness. The air was dark above Gravesend, and farther back still seemed condensed into a mournful gloom, brooding motionless over the biggest, and the greatest, town on earth. The Director of Companies was our captain and our host. We four affectionately watched his back as he stood in the bows looking to seaward. On the whole river there was nothing that looked half so nautical. He resembled a pilot, which to a seaman is trustworthiness personified. It was difficult to realize his work was not out there in the luminous estuary, but behind him, within the brooding gloom. Between us there was, as I have already said somewhere, the bond of the sea. Besides holding our hearts together through long periods of separation, it had the effect of making us tolerant of each other's yarns--and even convictions. The Lawyer--the best of old fellows--had, because of his many years and many virtues, the only cushion on deck, and was lying on the only rug. The Accountant had brought out already a box of dominoes, and was toying architecturally with the bones. Marlow sat cross-legged right aft, leaning against the mizzen-mast. He had sunken cheeks, a yellow complexion, a straight back, an ascetic aspect, and, with his arms dropped, the palms of hands outwards, resembled an idol. The director, satisfied the anchor had good hold, made his way aft and sat down amongst us. We exchanged a few words lazily. Afterwards there was silence on board the yacht. For some reason or other we did not begin that game of dominoes. We felt meditative, and fit for nothing but placid staring. The day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex marsh was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more sombre every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun. And at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank low, and from glowing white changed to a dull red without rays and without heat, as if about to go out suddenly, stricken to death by the touch of that gloom brooding over a crowd of men. Forthwith a change came over the waters, and the serenity became less brilliant but more profound. The old river in its broad reach rested unruffled at the decline of day, after ages of good service done to the race that peopled its banks, spread out in the tranquil dignity of a waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth. We looked at the venerable stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that comes and departs for ever, but in the august light of abiding memories. And indeed nothing is easier for a man who has, as the phrase goes, "followed the sea" with reverence and affection, than to evoke the great spirit of the past upon the lower reaches of the Thames. The tidal current runs to and fro in its unceasing service, crowded with memories of men and ships it had borne to the rest of home or to the battles of the sea. It had known and served all the men of whom the nation is proud, from Sir Francis Drake to Sir John Franklin, knights all, titled and untitled--the great knights-errant of the sea. It had borne all the ships whose names are like jewels flashing in the night of time, from the _Golden Hind_ returning with her rotund flanks full of treasure, to be visited by the Queen's Highness and thus pass out of the gigantic tale, to the _Erebus_ and _Terror_, bound on other conquests--and that never returned. It had known the ships and the men. They had sailed from Deptford, from Greenwich, from Erith--the adventurers and the settlers; kings' ships and the ships of men on 'Change; captains, admirals, the dark "interlopers" of the Eastern trade, and the commissioned "generals" of East India fleets. Hunters for gold or pursuers of fame, they all had gone out on that stream, bearing the sword, and often the torch, messengers of the might within the land, bearers of a spark from the sacred fire. What greatness had not floated on the ebb of that river into the mystery of an unknown earth!... The dreams of men, the seed of commonwealths, the germs of empires. The sun set; the dusk fell on the stream, and lights began to appear along the shore. The Chapman light-house, a three-legged thing erect on a mud-flat, shone strongly. Lights of ships moved in the fairway--a great stir of lights going up and going down. And farther west on the upper reaches the place of the monstrous town was still marked ominously on the sky, a brooding gloom in sunshine, a lurid glare under the stars. "And this also," said Marlow suddenly, "has been one of the dark places of the earth." He was the only man of us who still "followed the sea." The worst that could be said of him was that he did not represent his class. He was a seaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most seamen lead, if one may so express it, a sedentary life. Their minds are of the stay-at-home order, and their home is always with them--the ship; and so is their country--the sea. One ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same. In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past, veiled not by a sense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as Destiny. For the rest, after his hours of work, a casual stroll or a casual spree on shore suffices to unfold for him the secret of a whole continent, and generally he finds the secret not worth knowing. The yarns of seamen have a direct simplicity, the whole meaning of which lies within the shell of a cracked nut. But Marlow was not typical (if his propensity to spin yarns be excepted), and to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it out only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of these misty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illumination of moonshine. His remark did not seem at all surprising. It was just like Marlow. It was accepted in silence. No one took the trouble to grunt even; and presently he said, very slow--"I was thinking of very old times, when the Romans first came here, nineteen hundred years ago--the other day .... Light came out of this river since--you say Knights? Yes; but it is like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in the flicker--may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! But darkness was here yesterday. Imagine the feelings of a commander of a fine--what d'ye call 'em?--trireme in the Mediterranean, ordered suddenly to the north; run overland across the Gauls in a hurry; put in charge of one of these craft the legionaries--a wonderful lot of handy men they must have been, too--used to build, apparently by the hundred, in a month or two, if we may believe what we read. Imagine him here--the very end of the world, a sea the colour of lead, a sky the colour of smoke, a kind of ship about as rigid as a concertina--and going up this river with stores, or orders, or what you like. Sand-banks, marshes, forests, savages,--precious little to eat fit for a civilized man, nothing but Thames water to drink. No Falernian wine here, no going ashore. Here and there a military camp lost in a wilderness, like a needle in a bundle of hay--cold, fog, tempests, disease, exile, and death--death skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush. They must have been dying like flies here. Oh, yes--he did it. Did it very well, too, no doubt, and without thinking much about it either, except afterwards to brag of what he had gone through in his time, perhaps. They were men enough to face the darkness. And perhaps he was cheered by keeping his eye on a chance of promotion to the fleet at Ravenna by and by, if he had good friends in Rome and survived the awful climate. Or think of a decent young citizen in a toga--perhaps too much dice, you know--coming out here in the train of some prefect, or tax-gatherer, or trader even, to mend his fortunes. Land in a swamp, march through the woods, and in some inland post feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him--all that mysterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men. There's no initiation either into such mysteries. He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable. And it has a fascination, too, that goes to work upon him. The fascination of the abomination--you know, imagine the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate." He paused. "Mind," he began again, lifting one arm from the elbow, the palm of the hand outwards, so that, with his legs folded before him, he had the pose of a Buddha preaching in European clothes and without a lotus-flower--"Mind, none of us would feel exactly like this. What saves us is efficiency--the devotion to efficiency. But these chaps were not much account, really. They were no colonists; their administration was merely a squeeze, and nothing more, I suspect. They were conquerors, and for that you want only brute force--nothing to boast of, when you have it, since your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others. They grabbed what they could get for the sake of what was to be got. It was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men going at it blind--as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness. The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretence but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea--something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to...." He broke off. Flames glided in the river, small green flames, red flames, white flames, pursuing, overtaking, joining, crossing each other--then separating slowly or hastily. The traffic of the great city went on in the deepening night upon the sleepless river. We looked on, waiting patiently--there was nothing else to do till the end of the flood; but it was only after a long silence, when he said, in a hesitating voice, "I suppose you fellows remember I did once turn fresh-water sailor for a bit," that we knew we were fated, before the ebb began to run, to hear about one of Marlow's inconclusive experiences. "I don't want to bother you much with what happened to me personally," he began, showing in this remark the weakness of many tellers of tales who seem so often unaware of what their audience would like best to hear; "yet to understand the effect of it on me you ought to know how I got out there, what I saw, how I went up that river to the place where I first met the poor chap. It was the farthest point of navigation and the culminating point of my experience. It seemed somehow to throw a kind of light on everything about me--and into my thoughts. It was sombre enough, too--and pitiful--not extraordinary in any way--not very clear either. No, not very clear. And yet it seemed to throw a kind of light. "I had then, as you remember, just returned to London after a lot of Indian Ocean, Pacific, China Seas--a regular dose of the East--six years or so, and I was loafing about, hindering you fellows in your work and invading your homes, just as though I had got a heavenly mission to civilize you. It was very fine for a time, but after a bit I did get tired of resting. Then I began to look for a ship--I should think the hardest work on earth. But the ships wouldn't even look at me. And I got tired of that game, too. "Now when I was a little chap I had a passion for maps. I would look for hours at South America, or Africa, or Australia, and lose myself in all the glories of exploration. At that time there were many blank spaces on the earth, and when I saw one that looked particularly inviting on a map (but they all look that) I would put my finger on it and say, 'When I grow up I will go there.' The North Pole was one of these places, I remember. Well, I haven't been there yet, and shall not try now. The glamour's off. Other places were scattered about the hemispheres. I have been in some of them, and... well, we won't talk about that. But there was one yet--the biggest, the most blank, so to speak--that I had a hankering after. "True, by this time it was not a blank space any more. It had got filled since my boyhood with rivers and lakes and names. It had ceased to be a blank space of delightful mystery--a white patch for a boy to dream gloriously over. It had become a place of darkness. But there was in it one river especially, a mighty big river, that you could see on the map, resembling an immense snake uncoiled, with its head in the sea, its body at rest curving afar over a vast country, and its tail lost in the depths of the land. And as I looked at the map of it in a shop-window, it fascinated me as a snake would a bird--a silly little bird. Then I remembered there was a big concern, a Company for trade on that river. Dash it all! I thought to myself, they can't trade without using some kind of craft on that lot of fresh water--steamboats! Why shouldn't I try to get charge of one? I went on along Fleet Street, but could not shake off the idea. The snake had charmed me. "You understand it was a Continental concern, that Trading society; but I have a lot of relations living on the Continent, because it's cheap and not so nasty as it looks, they say. "I am sorry to own I began to worry them. This was already a fresh departure for me. I was not used to get things that way, you know. I always went my own road and on my own legs where I had a mind to go. I wouldn't have believed it of myself; but, then--you see--I felt somehow I must get there by hook or by crook. So I worried them. The men said 'My dear fellow,' and did nothing. Then--would you believe it?--I tried the women. I, Charlie Marlow, set the women to work--to get a job. Heavens! Well, you see, the notion drove me. I had an aunt, a dear enthusiastic soul. She wrote: 'It will be delightful. I am ready to do anything, anything for you. It is a glorious idea. I know the wife of a very high personage in the Administration, and also a man who has lots of influence with,' etc. She was determined to make no end of fuss to get me appointed skipper of a river steamboat, if such was my fancy. "I got my appointment--of course; and I got it very quick. It appears the Company had received news that one of their captains had been killed in a scuffle with the natives. This was my chance, and it made me the more anxious to go. It was only months and months afterwards, when I made the attempt to recover what was left of the body, that I heard the original quarrel arose from a misunderstanding about some hens. Yes, two black hens. Fresleven--that was the fellow's name, a Dane--thought himself wronged somehow in the bargain, so he went ashore and started to hammer the chief of the village with a stick. Oh, it didn't surprise me in the least to hear this, and at the same time to be told that Fresleven was the gentlest, quietest creature that ever walked on two legs. No doubt he was; but he had been a couple of years already out there engaged in the noble cause, you know, and he probably felt the need at last of asserting his self-respect in some way. Therefore he whacked the old nigger mercilessly, while a big crowd of his people watched him, thunderstruck, till some man--I was told the chief's son--in desperation at hearing the old chap yell, made a tentative jab with a spear at the white man--and of course it went quite easy between the shoulder-blades. Then the whole population cleared into the forest, expecting all kinds of calamities to happen, while, on the other hand, the steamer Fresleven commanded left also in a bad panic, in charge of the engineer, I believe. Afterwards nobody seemed to trouble much about Fresleven's remains, till I got out and stepped into his shoes. I couldn't let it rest, though; but when an opportunity offered at last to meet my predecessor, the grass growing through his ribs was tall enough to hide his bones. They were all there. The supernatural being had not been touched after he fell. And the village was deserted, the huts gaped black, rotting, all askew within the fallen enclosures. A calamity had come to it, sure enough. The people had vanished. Mad terror had scattered them, men, women, and children, through the bush, and they had never returned. What became of the hens I don't know either. I should think the cause of progress got them, anyhow. However, through this glorious affair I got my appointment, before I had fairly begun to hope for it. "I flew around like mad to get ready, and before forty-eight hours I was crossing the Channel to show myself to my employers, and sign the contract. In a very few hours I arrived in a city that always makes me think of a whited sepulchre. Prejudice no doubt. I had no difficulty in finding the Company's offices. It was the biggest thing in the town, and everybody I met was full of it. They were going to run an over-sea empire, and make no end of coin by trade. "A narrow and deserted street in deep shadow, high houses, innumerable windows with venetian blinds, a dead silence, grass sprouting right and left, immense double doors standing ponderously ajar. I slipped through one of these cracks, went up a swept and ungarnished staircase, as arid as a desert, and opened the first door I came to. Two women, one fat and the other slim, sat on straw-bottomed chairs, knitting black wool. The slim one got up and walked straight at me--still knitting with downcast eyes--and only just as I began to think of getting out of her way, as you would for a somnambulist, stood still, and looked up. Her dress was as plain as an umbrella-cover, and she turned round without a word and preceded me into a waiting-room. I gave my name, and looked about. Deal table in the middle, plain chairs all round the walls, on one end a large shining map, marked with all the colours of a rainbow. There was a vast amount of red--good to see at any time, because one knows that some real work is done in there, a deuce of a lot of blue, a little green, smears of orange, and, on the East Coast, a purple patch, to show where the jolly pioneers of progress drink the jolly lager-beer. However, I wasn't going into any of these. I was going into the yellow. Dead in the centre. And the river was there--fascinating--deadly--like a snake. Ough! A door opened, a white-haired secretarial head, but wearing a compassionate expression, appeared, and a skinny forefinger beckoned me into the sanctuary. Its light was dim, and a heavy writing-desk squatted in the middle. From behind that structure came out an impression of pale plumpness in a frock-coat. The great man himself. He was five feet six, I should judge, and had his grip on the handle-end of ever so many millions. He shook hands, I fancy, murmured vaguely, was satisfied with my French. _Bon Voyage_. "In about forty-five seconds I found myself again in the waiting-room with the compassionate secretary, who, full of desolation and sympathy, made me sign some document. I believe I undertook amongst other things not to disclose any trade secrets. Well, I am not going to. "I began to feel slightly uneasy. You know I am not used to such ceremonies, and there was something ominous in the atmosphere. It was just as though I had been let into some conspiracy--I don't know--something not quite right; and I was glad to get out. In the outer room the two women knitted black wool feverishly. People were arriving, and the younger one was walking back and forth introducing them. The old one sat on her chair. Her flat cloth slippers were propped up on a foot-warmer, and a cat reposed on her lap. She wore a starched white affair on her head, had a wart on one cheek, and silver-rimmed spectacles hung on the tip of her nose. She glanced at me above the glasses. The swift and indifferent placidity of that look troubled me. Two youths with foolish and cheery countenances were being piloted over, and she threw at them the same quick glance of unconcerned wisdom. She seemed to know all about them and about me, too. An eerie feeling came over me. She seemed uncanny and fateful. Often far away there I thought of these two, guarding the door of Darkness, knitting black wool as for a warm pall, one introducing, introducing continuously to the unknown, the other scrutinizing the cheery and foolish faces with unconcerned old eyes. _Ave!_ Old knitter of black wool. _Morituri te salutant_. Not many of those she looked at ever saw her again--not half, by a long way. "There was yet a visit to the doctor. 'A simple formality,' assured me the secretary, with an air of taking an immense part in all my sorrows. Accordingly a young chap wearing his hat over the left eyebrow, some clerk I suppose--there must have been clerks in the business, though the house was as still as a house in a city of the dead--came from somewhere up-stairs, and led me forth. He was shabby and careless, with inkstains on the sleeves of his jacket, and his cravat was large and billowy, under a chin shaped like the toe of an old boot. It was a little too early for the doctor, so I proposed a drink, and thereupon he developed a vein of joviality. As we sat over our vermouths he glorified the Company's business, and by and by I expressed casually my surprise at him not going out there. He became very cool and collected all at once. 'I am not such a fool as I look, quoth Plato to his disciples,' he said sententiously, emptied his glass with great resolution, and we rose. "The old doctor felt my pulse, evidently thinking of something else the while. 'Good, good for there,' he mumbled, and then with a certain eagerness asked me whether I would let him measure my head. Rather surprised, I said Yes, when he produced a thing like calipers and got the dimensions back and front and every way, taking notes carefully. He was an unshaven little man in a threadbare coat like a gaberdine, with his feet in slippers, and I thought him a harmless fool. 'I always ask leave, in the interests of science, to measure the crania of those going out there,' he said. 'And when they come back, too?' I asked. 'Oh, I never see them,' he remarked; 'and, moreover, the changes take place inside, you know.' He smiled, as if at some quiet joke. 'So you are going out there. Famous. Interesting, too.' He gave me a searching glance, and made another note. 'Ever any madness in your family?' he asked, in a matter-of-fact tone. I felt very annoyed. 'Is that question in the interests of science, too?' 'It would be,' he said, without taking notice of my irritation, 'interesting for science to watch the mental changes of individuals, on the spot, but...' 'Are you an alienist?' I interrupted. 'Every doctor should be--a little,' answered that original, imperturbably. 'I have a little theory which you messieurs who go out there must help me to prove. This is my share in the advantages my country shall reap from the possession of such a magnificent dependency. The mere wealth I leave to others. Pardon my questions, but you are the first Englishman coming under my observation...' I hastened to assure him I was not in the least typical. 'If I were,' said I, 'I wouldn't be talking like this with you.' 'What you say is rather profound, and probably erroneous,' he said, with a laugh. 'Avoid irritation more than exposure to the sun. _Adieu_. How do you English say, eh? Good-bye. Ah! Good-bye. _Adieu_. In the tropics one must before everything keep calm.'... He lifted a warning forefinger.... '_Du calme, du calme_.' "One thing more remained to do--say good-bye to my excellent aunt. I found her triumphant. I had a cup of tea--the last decent cup of tea for many days--and in a room that most soothingly looked just as you would expect a lady's drawing-room to look, we had a long quiet chat by the fireside. In the course of these confidences it became quite plain to me I had been represented to the wife of the high dignitary, and goodness knows to how many more people besides, as an exceptional and gifted creature--a piece of good fortune for the Company--a man you don't get hold of every day. Good heavens! and I was going to take charge of a two-penny-half-penny river-steamboat with a penny whistle attached! It appeared, however, I was also one of the Workers, with a capital--you know. Something like an emissary of light, something like a lower sort of apostle. There had been a lot of such rot let loose in print and talk just about that time, and the excellent woman, living right in the rush of all that humbug, got carried off her feet. She talked about 'weaning those ignorant millions from their horrid ways,' till, upon my word, she made me quite uncomfortable. I ventured to hint that the Company was run for profit. "'You forget, dear Charlie, that the labourer is worthy of his hire,' she said, brightly. It's queer how out of touch with truth women are. They live in a world of their own, and there has never been anything like it, and never can be. It is too beautiful altogether, and if they were to set it up it would go to pieces before the first sunset. Some confounded fact we men have been living contentedly with ever since the day of creation would start up and knock the whole thing over. "After this I got embraced, told to wear flannel, be sure to write often, and so on--and I left. In the street--I don't know why--a queer feeling came to me that I was an imposter. Odd thing that I, who used to clear out for any part of the world at twenty-four hours' notice, with less thought than most men give to the crossing of a street, had a moment--I won't say of hesitation, but of startled pause, before this commonplace affair. The best way I can explain it to you is by saying that, for a second or two, I felt as though, instead of going to the centre of a continent, I were about to set off for the centre of the earth. "I left in a French steamer, and she called in every blamed port they have out there, for, as far as I could see, the sole purpose of landing soldiers and custom-house officers. I watched the coast. Watching a coast as it slips by the ship is like thinking about an enigma. There it is before you--smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, mean, insipid, or savage, and always mute with an air of whispering, 'Come and find out.' This one was almost featureless, as if still in the making, with an aspect of monotonous grimness. The edge of a colossal jungle, so dark-green as to be almost black, fringed with white surf, ran straight, like a ruled line, far, far away along a blue sea whose glitter was blurred by a creeping mist. The sun was fierce, the land seemed to glisten and drip with steam. Here and there greyish-whitish specks showed up clustered inside the white surf, with a flag flying above them perhaps. Settlements some centuries old, and still no bigger than pinheads on the untouched expanse of their background. We pounded along, stopped, landed soldiers; went on, landed custom-house clerks to levy toll in what looked like a God-forsaken wilderness, with a tin shed and a flag-pole lost in it; landed more soldiers--to take care of the custom-house clerks, presumably. Some, I heard, got drowned in the surf; but whether they did or not, nobody seemed particularly to care. They were just flung out there, and on we went. Every day the coast looked the same, as though we had not moved; but we passed various places--trading places--with names like Gran' Bassam, Little Popo; names that seemed to belong to some sordid farce acted in front of a sinister back-cloth. The idleness of a passenger, my isolation amongst all these men with whom I had no point of contact, the oily and languid sea, the uniform sombreness of the coast, seemed to keep me away from the truth of things, within the toil of a mournful and senseless delusion. The voice of the surf heard now and then was a positive pleasure, like the speech of a brother. It was something natural, that had its reason, that had a meaning. Now and then a boat from the shore gave one a momentary contact with reality. It was paddled by black fellows. You could see from afar the white of their eyeballs glistening. They shouted, sang; their bodies streamed with perspiration; they had faces like grotesque masks--these chaps; but they had bone, muscle, a wild vitality, an intense energy of movement, that was as natural and true as the surf along their coast. They wanted no excuse for being there. They were a great comfort to look at. For a time I would feel I belonged still to a world of straightforward facts; but the feeling would not last long. Something would turn up to scare it away. Once, I remember, we came upon a man-of-war anchored off the coast. There wasn't even a shed there, and she was shelling the bush. It appears the French had one of their wars going on thereabouts. Her ensign dropped limp like a rag; the muzzles of the long six-inch guns stuck out all over the low hull; the greasy, slimy swell swung her up lazily and let her down, swaying her thin masts. In the empty immensity of earth, sky, and water, there she was, incomprehensible, firing into a continent. Pop, would go one of the six-inch guns; a small flame would dart and vanish, a little white smoke would disappear, a tiny projectile would give a feeble screech--and nothing happened. Nothing could happen. There was a touch of insanity in the proceeding, a sense of lugubrious drollery in the sight; and it was not dissipated by somebody on board assuring me earnestly there was a camp of natives--he called them enemies!--hidden out of sight somewhere. "We gave her her letters (I heard the men in that lonely ship were dying of fever at the rate of three a day) and went on. We called at some more places with farcical names, where the merry dance of death and trade goes on in a still and earthy atmosphere as of an overheated catacomb; all along the formless coast bordered by dangerous surf, as if Nature herself had tried to ward off intruders; in and out of rivers, streams of death in life, whose banks were rotting into mud, whose waters, thickened into slime, invaded the contorted mangroves, that seemed to writhe at us in the extremity of an impotent despair. Nowhere did we stop long enough to get a particularized impression, but the general sense of vague and oppressive wonder grew upon me. It was like a weary pilgrimage amongst hints for nightmares. "It was upward of thirty days before I saw the mouth of the big river. We anchored off the seat of the government. But my work would not begin till some two hundred miles farther on. So as soon as I could I made a start for a place thirty miles higher up. "I had my passage on a little sea-going steamer. Her captain was a Swede, and knowing me for a seaman, invited me on the bridge. He was a young man, lean, fair, and morose, with lanky hair and a shuffling gait. As we left the miserable little wharf, he tossed his head contemptuously at the shore. 'Been living there?' he asked. I said, 'Yes.' 'Fine lot these government chaps--are they not?' he went on, speaking English with great precision and considerable bitterness. 'It is funny what some people will do for a few francs a month. I wonder what becomes of that kind when it goes upcountry?' I said to him I expected to see that soon. 'So-o-o!' he exclaimed. He shuffled athwart, keeping one eye ahead vigilantly. 'Don't be too sure,' he continued. 'The other day I took up a man who hanged himself on the road. He was a Swede, too.' 'Hanged himself! Why, in God's name?' I cried. He kept on looking out watchfully. 'Who knows? The sun too much for him, or the country perhaps.' "At last we opened a reach. A rocky cliff appeared, mounds of turned-up earth by the shore, houses on a hill, others with iron roofs, amongst a waste of excavations, or hanging to the declivity. A continuous noise of the rapids above hovered over this scene of inhabited devastation. A lot of people, mostly black and naked, moved about like ants. A jetty projected into the river. A blinding sunlight drowned all this at times in a sudden recrudescence of glare. 'There's your Company's station,' said the Swede, pointing to three wooden barrack-like structures on the rocky slope. 'I will send your things up. Four boxes did you say? So. Farewell.' "I came upon a boiler wallowing in the grass, then found a path leading up the hill. It turned aside for the boulders, and also for an undersized railway-truck lying there on its back with its wheels in the air. One was off. The thing looked as dead as the carcass of some animal. I came upon more pieces of decaying machinery, a stack of rusty rails. To the left a clump of trees made a shady spot, where dark things seemed to stir feebly. I blinked, the path was steep. A horn tooted to the right, and I saw the black people run. A heavy and dull detonation shook the ground, a puff of smoke came out of the cliff, and that was all. No change appeared on the face of the rock. They were building a railway. The cliff was not in the way or anything; but this objectless blasting was all the work going on. "A slight clinking behind me made me turn my head. Six black men advanced in a file, toiling up the path. They walked erect and slow, balancing small baskets full of earth on their heads, and the clink kept time with their footsteps. Black rags were wound round their loins, and the short ends behind waggled to and fro like tails. I could see every rib, the joints of their limbs were like knots in a rope; each had an iron collar on his neck, and all were connected together with a chain whose bights swung between them, rhythmically clinking. Another report from the cliff made me think suddenly of that ship of war I had seen firing into a continent. It was the same kind of ominous voice; but these men could by no stretch of imagination be called enemies. They were called criminals, and the outraged law, like the bursting shells, had come to them, an insoluble mystery from the sea. All their meagre breasts panted together, the violently dilated nostrils quivered, the eyes stared stonily uphill. They passed me within six inches, without a glance, with that complete, deathlike indifference of unhappy savages. Behind this raw matter one of the reclaimed, the product of the new forces at work, strolled despondently, carrying a rifle by its middle. He had a uniform jacket with one button off, and seeing a white man on the path, hoisted his weapon to his shoulder with alacrity. This was simple prudence, white men being so much alike at a distance that he could not tell who I might be. He was speedily reassured, and with a large, white, rascally grin, and a glance at his charge, seemed to take me into partnership in his exalted trust. After all, I also was a part of the great cause of these high and just proceedings. "Instead of going up, I turned and descended to the left. My idea was to let that chain-gang get out of sight before I climbed the hill. You know I am not particularly tender; I've had to strike and to fend off. I've had to resist and to attack sometimes--that's only one way of resisting--without counting the exact cost, according to the demands of such sort of life as I had blundered into. I've seen the devil of violence, and the devil of greed, and the devil of hot desire; but, by all the stars! these were strong, lusty, red-eyed devils, that swayed and drove men--men, I tell you. But as I stood on this hillside, I foresaw that in the blinding sunshine of that land I would become acquainted with a flabby, pretending, weak-eyed devil of a rapacious and pitiless folly. How insidious he could be, too, I was only to find out several months later and a thousand miles farther. For a moment I stood appalled, as though by a warning. Finally I descended the hill, obliquely, towards the trees I had seen. "I avoided a vast artificial hole somebody had been digging on the slope, the purpose of which I found it impossible to divine. It wasn't a quarry or a sandpit, anyhow. It was just a hole. It might have been connected with the philanthropic desire of giving the criminals something to do. I don't know. Then I nearly fell into a very narrow ravine, almost no more than a scar in the hillside. I discovered that a lot of imported drainage-pipes for the settlement had been tumbled in there. There wasn't one that was not broken. It was a wanton smash-up. At last I got under the trees. My purpose was to stroll into the shade for a moment; but no sooner within than it seemed to me I had stepped into the gloomy circle of some Inferno. The rapids were near, and an uninterrupted, uniform, headlong, rushing noise filled the mournful stillness of the grove, where not a breath stirred, not a leaf moved, with a mysterious sound--as though the tearing pace of the launched earth had suddenly become audible. "Black shapes crouched, lay, sat between the trees leaning against the trunks, clinging to the earth, half coming out, half effaced within the dim light, in all the attitudes of pain, abandonment, and despair. Another mine on the cliff went off, followed by a slight shudder of the soil under my feet. The work was going on. The work! And this was the place where some of the helpers had withdrawn to die. "They were dying slowly--it was very clear. They were not enemies, they were not criminals, they were nothing earthly now--nothing but black shadows of disease and starvation, lying confusedly in the greenish gloom. Brought from all the recesses of the coast in all the legality of time contracts, lost in uncongenial surroundings, fed on unfamiliar food, they sickened, became inefficient, and were then allowed to crawl away and rest. These moribund shapes were free as air--and nearly as thin. I began to distinguish the gleam of the eyes under the trees. Then, glancing down, I saw a face near my hand. The black bones reclined at full length with one shoulder against the tree, and slowly the eyelids rose and the sunken eyes looked up at me, enormous and vacant, a kind of blind, white flicker in the depths of the orbs, which died out slowly. The man seemed young--almost a boy--but you know with them it's hard to tell. I found nothing else to do but to offer him one of my good Swede's ship's biscuits I had in my pocket. The fingers closed slowly on it and held--there was no other movement and no other glance. He had tied a bit of white worsted round his neck--Why? Where did he get it? Was it a badge--an ornament--a charm--a propitiatory act? Was there any idea at all connected with it? It looked startling round his black neck, this bit of white thread from beyond the seas. "Near the same tree two more bundles of acute angles sat with their legs drawn up. One, with his chin propped on his knees, stared at nothing, in an intolerable and appalling manner: his brother phantom rested its forehead, as if overcome with a great weariness; and all about others were scattered in every pose of contorted collapse, as in some picture of a massacre or a pestilence. While I stood horror-struck, one of these creatures rose to his hands and knees, and went off on all-fours towards the river to drink. He lapped out of his hand, then sat up in the sunlight, crossing his shins in front of him, and after a time let his woolly head fall on his breastbone. "I didn't want any more loitering in the shade, and I made haste towards the station. When near the buildings I met a white man, in such an unexpected elegance of get-up that in the first moment I took him for a sort of vision. I saw a high starched collar, white cuffs, a light alpaca jacket, snowy trousers, a clean necktie, and varnished boots. No hat. Hair parted, brushed, oiled, under a green-lined parasol held in a big white hand. He was amazing, and had a penholder behind his ear. "I shook hands with this miracle, and I learned he was the Company's chief accountant, and that all the book-keeping was done at this station. He had come out for a moment, he said, 'to get a breath of fresh air. The expression sounded wonderfully odd, with its suggestion of sedentary desk-life. I wouldn't have mentioned the fellow to you at all, only it was from his lips that I first heard the name of the man who is so indissolubly connected with the memories of that time. Moreover, I respected the fellow. Yes; I respected his collars, his vast cuffs, his brushed hair. His appearance was certainly that of a hairdresser's dummy; but in the great demoralization of the land he kept up his appearance. That's backbone. His starched collars and got-up shirt-fronts were achievements of character. He had been out nearly three years; and, later, I could not help asking him how he managed to sport such linen. He had just the faintest blush, and said modestly, 'I've been teaching one of the native women about the station. It was difficult. She had a distaste for the work.' Thus this man had verily accomplished something. And he was devoted to his books, which were in apple-pie order. "Everything else in the station was in a muddle--heads, things, buildings. Strings of dusty niggers with splay feet arrived and departed; a stream of manufactured goods, rubbishy cottons, beads, and brass-wire sent into the depths of darkness, and in return came a precious trickle of ivory. "I had to wait in the station for ten days--an eternity. I lived in a hut in the yard, but to be out of the chaos I would sometimes get into the accountant's office. It was built of horizontal planks, and so badly put together that, as he bent over his high desk, he was barred from neck to heels with narrow strips of sunlight. There was no need to open the big shutter to see. It was hot there, too; big flies buzzed fiendishly, and did not sting, but stabbed. I sat generally on the floor, while, of faultless appearance (and even slightly scented), perching on a high stool, he wrote, he wrote. Sometimes he stood up for exercise. When a truckle-bed with a sick man (some invalid agent from upcountry) was put in there, he exhibited a gentle annoyance. 'The groans of this sick person,' he said, 'distract my attention. And without that it is extremely difficult to guard against clerical errors in this climate.' "One day he remarked, without lifting his head, 'In the interior you will no doubt meet Mr. Kurtz.' On my asking who Mr. Kurtz was, he said he was a first-class agent; and seeing my disappointment at this information, he added slowly, laying down his pen, 'He is a very remarkable person.' Further questions elicited from him that Mr. Kurtz was at present in charge of a trading-post, a very important one, in the true ivory-country, at 'the very bottom of there. Sends in as much ivory as all the others put together...' He began to write again. The sick man was too ill to groan. The flies buzzed in a great peace. "Suddenly there was a growing murmur of voices and a great tramping of feet. A caravan had come in. A violent babble of uncouth sounds burst out on the other side of the planks. All the carriers were speaking together, and in the midst of the uproar the lamentable voice of the chief agent was heard 'giving it up' tearfully for the twentieth time that day.... He rose slowly. 'What a frightful row,' he said. He crossed the room gently to look at the sick man, and returning, said to me, 'He does not hear.' 'What! Dead?' I asked, startled. 'No, not yet,' he answered, with great composure. Then, alluding with a toss of the head to the tumult in the station-yard, 'When one has got to make correct entries, one comes to hate those savages--hate them to the death.' He remained thoughtful for a moment. 'When you see Mr. Kurtz' he went on, 'tell him from me that everything here'--he glanced at the deck--' is very satisfactory. I don't like to write to him--with those messengers of ours you never know who may get hold of your letter--at that Central Station.' He stared at me for a moment with his mild, bulging eyes. 'Oh, he will go far, very far,' he began again. 'He will be a somebody in the Administration before long. They, above--the Council in Europe, you know--mean him to be.' "He turned to his work. The noise outside had ceased, and presently in going out I stopped at the door. In the steady buzz of flies the homeward-bound agent was lying finished and insensible; the other, bent over his books, was making correct entries of perfectly correct transactions; and fifty feet below the doorstep I could see the still tree-tops of the grove of death. "Next day I left that station at last, with a caravan of sixty men, for a two-hundred-mile tramp. "No use telling you much about that. Paths, paths, everywhere; a stamped-in network of paths spreading over the empty land, through the long grass, through burnt grass, through thickets, down and up chilly ravines, up and down stony hills ablaze with heat; and a solitude, a solitude, nobody, not a hut. The population had cleared out a long time ago. Well, if a lot of mysterious niggers armed with all kinds of fearful weapons suddenly took to travelling on the road between Deal and Gravesend, catching the yokels right and left to carry heavy loads for them, I fancy every farm and cottage thereabouts would get empty very soon. Only here the dwellings were gone, too. Still I passed through several abandoned villages. There's something pathetically childish in the ruins of grass walls. Day after day, with the stamp and shuffle of sixty pair of bare feet behind me, each pair under a 60-lb. load. Camp, cook, sleep, strike camp, march. Now and then a carrier dead in harness, at rest in the long grass near the path, with an empty water-gourd and his long staff lying by his side. A great silence around and above. Perhaps on some quiet night the tremor of far-off drums, sinking, swelling, a tremor vast, faint; a sound weird, appealing, suggestive, and wild--and perhaps with as profound a meaning as the sound of bells in a Christian country. Once a white man in an unbuttoned uniform, camping on the path with an armed escort of lank Zanzibaris, very hospitable and festive--not to say drunk. Was looking after the upkeep of the road, he declared. Can't say I saw any road or any upkeep, unless the body of a middle-aged negro, with a bullet-hole in the forehead, upon which I absolutely stumbled three miles farther on, may be considered as a permanent improvement. I had a white companion, too, not a bad chap, but rather too fleshy and with the exasperating habit of fainting on the hot hillsides, miles away from the least bit of shade and water. Annoying, you know, to hold your own coat like a parasol over a man's head while he is coming to. I couldn't help asking him once what he meant by coming there at all. 'To make money, of course. What do you think?' he said, scornfully. Then he got fever, and had to be carried in a hammock slung under a pole. As he weighed sixteen stone I had no end of rows with the carriers. They jibbed, ran away, sneaked off with their loads in the night--quite a mutiny. So, one evening, I made a speech in English with gestures, not one of which was lost to the sixty pairs of eyes before me, and the next morning I started the hammock off in front all right. An hour afterwards I came upon the whole concern wrecked in a bush--man, hammock, groans, blankets, horrors. The heavy pole had skinned his poor nose. He was very anxious for me to kill somebody, but there wasn't the shadow of a carrier near. I remembered the old doctor--'It would be interesting for science to watch the mental changes of individuals, on the spot.' I felt I was becoming scientifically interesting. However, all that is to no purpose. On the fifteenth day I came in sight of the big river again, and hobbled into the Central Station. It was on a back water surrounded by scrub and forest, with a pretty border of smelly mud on one side, and on the three others enclosed by a crazy fence of rushes. A neglected gap was all the gate it had, and the first glance at the place was enough to let you see the flabby devil was running that show. White men with long staves in their hands appeared languidly from amongst the buildings, strolling up to take a look at me, and then retired out of sight somewhere. One of them, a stout, excitable chap with black moustaches, informed me with great volubility and many digressions, as soon as I told him who I was, that my steamer was at the bottom of the river. I was thunderstruck. What, how, why? Oh, it was 'all right.' The 'manager himself' was there. All quite correct. 'Everybody had behaved splendidly! splendidly!'--'you must,' he said in agitation, 'go and see the general manager at once. He is waiting!' "I did not see the real significance of that wreck at once. I fancy I see it now, but I am not sure--not at all. Certainly the affair was too stupid--when I think of it--to be altogether natural. Still... But at the moment it presented itself simply as a confounded nuisance. The steamer was sunk. They had started two days before in a sudden hurry up the river with the manager on board, in charge of some volunteer skipper, and before they had been out three hours they tore the bottom out of her on stones, and she sank near the south bank. I asked myself what I was to do there, now my boat was lost. As a matter of fact, I had plenty to do in fishing my command out of the river. I had to set about it the very next day. That, and the repairs when I brought the pieces to the station, took some months. "My first interview with the manager was curious. He did not ask me to sit down after my twenty-mile walk that morning. He was commonplace in complexion, in features, in manners, and in voice. He was of middle size and of ordinary build. His eyes, of the usual blue, were perhaps remarkably cold, and he certainly could make his glance fall on one as trenchant and heavy as an axe. But even at these times the rest of his person seemed to disclaim the intention. Otherwise there was only an indefinable, faint expression of his lips, something stealthy--a smile--not a smile--I remember it, but I can't explain. It was unconscious, this smile was, though just after he had said something it got intensified for an instant. It came at the end of his speeches like a seal applied on the words to make the meaning of the commonest phrase appear absolutely inscrutable. He was a common trader, from his youth up employed in these parts--nothing more. He was obeyed, yet he inspired neither love nor fear, nor even respect. He inspired uneasiness. That was it! Uneasiness. Not a definite mistrust--just uneasiness--nothing more. You have no idea how effective such a... a... faculty can be. He had no genius for organizing, for initiative, or for order even. That was evident in such things as the deplorable state of the station. He had no learning, and no intelligence. His position had come to him--why? Perhaps because he was never ill... He had served three terms of three years out there... Because triumphant health in the general rout of constitutions is a kind of power in itself. When he went home on leave he rioted on a large scale--pompously. Jack ashore--with a difference--in externals only. This one could gather from his casual talk. He originated nothing, he could keep the routine going--that's all. But he was great. He was great by this little thing that it was impossible to tell what could control such a man. He never gave that secret away. Perhaps there was nothing within him. Such a suspicion made one pause--for out there there were no external checks. Once when various tropical diseases had laid low almost every 'agent' in the station, he was heard to say, 'Men who come out here should have no entrails.' He sealed the utterance with that smile of his, as though it had been a door opening into a darkness he had in his keeping. You fancied you had seen things--but the seal was on. When annoyed at meal-times by the constant quarrels of the white men about precedence, he ordered an immense round table to be made, for which a special house had to be built. This was the station's mess-room. Where he sat was the first place--the rest were nowhere. One felt this to be his unalterable conviction. He was neither civil nor uncivil. He was quiet. He allowed his 'boy'--an overfed young negro from the coast--to treat the white men, under his very eyes, with provoking insolence. "He began to speak as soon as he saw me. I had been very long on the road. He could not wait. Had to start without me. The up-river stations had to be relieved. There had been so many delays already that he did not know who was dead and who was alive, and how they got on--and so on, and so on. He paid no attention to my explanations, and, playing with a stick of sealing-wax, repeated several times that the situation was 'very grave, very grave.' There were rumours that a very important station was in jeopardy, and its chief, Mr. Kurtz, was ill. Hoped it was not true. Mr. Kurtz was... I felt weary and irritable. Hang Kurtz, I thought. I interrupted him by saying I had heard of Mr. Kurtz on the coast. 'Ah! So they talk of him down there,' he murmured to himself. Then he began again, assuring me Mr. Kurtz was the best agent he had, an exceptional man, of the greatest importance to the Company; therefore I could understand his anxiety. He was, he said, 'very, very uneasy.' Certainly he fidgeted on his chair a good deal, exclaimed, 'Ah, Mr. Kurtz!' broke the stick of sealing-wax and seemed dumfounded by the accident. Next thing he wanted to know 'how long it would take to'... I interrupted him again. Being hungry, you know, and kept on my feet too. I was getting savage. 'How can I tell?' I said. 'I haven't even seen the wreck yet--some months, no doubt.' All this talk seemed to me so futile. 'Some months,' he said. 'Well, let us say three months before we can make a start. Yes. That ought to do the affair.' I flung out of his hut (he lived all alone in a clay hut with a sort of verandah) muttering to myself my opinion of him. He was a chattering idiot. Afterwards I took it back when it was borne in upon me startlingly with what extreme nicety he had estimated the time requisite for the 'affair.' "I went to work the next day, turning, so to speak, my back on that station. In that way only it seemed to me I could keep my hold on the redeeming facts of life. Still, one must look about sometimes; and then I saw this station, these men strolling aimlessly about in the sunshine of the yard. I asked myself sometimes what it all meant. They wandered here and there with their absurd long staves in their hands, like a lot of faithless pilgrims bewitched inside a rotten fence. The word 'ivory' rang in the air, was whispered, was sighed. You would think they were praying to it. A taint of imbecile rapacity blew through it all, like a whiff from some corpse. By Jove! I've never seen anything so unreal in my life. And outside, the silent wilderness surrounding this cleared speck on the earth struck me as something great and invincible, like evil or truth, waiting patiently for the passing away of this fantastic invasion. "Oh, these months! Well, never mind. Various things happened. One evening a grass shed full of calico, cotton prints, beads, and I don't know what else, burst into a blaze so suddenly that you would have thought the earth had opened to let an avenging fire consume all that trash. I was smoking my pipe quietly by my dismantled steamer, and saw them all cutting capers in the light, with their arms lifted high, when the stout man with moustaches came tearing down to the river, a tin pail in his hand, assured me that everybody was 'behaving splendidly, splendidly,' dipped about a quart of water and tore back again. I noticed there was a hole in the bottom of his pail. "I strolled up. There was no hurry. You see the thing had gone off like a box of matches. It had been hopeless from the very first. The flame had leaped high, driven everybody back, lighted up everything--and collapsed. The shed was already a heap of embers glowing fiercely. A nigger was being beaten near by. They said he had caused the fire in some way; be that as it may, he was screeching most horribly. I saw him, later, for several days, sitting in a bit of shade looking very sick and trying to recover himself; afterwards he arose and went out--and the wilderness without a sound took him into its bosom again. As I approached the glow from the dark I found myself at the back of two men, talking. I heard the name of Kurtz pronounced, then the words, 'take advantage of this unfortunate accident.' One of the men was the manager. I wished him a good evening. 'Did you ever see anything like it--eh? it is incredible,' he said, and walked off. The other man remained. He was a first-class agent, young, gentlemanly, a bit reserved, with a forked little beard and a hooked nose. He was stand-offish with the other agents, and they on their side said he was the manager's spy upon them. As to me, I had hardly ever spoken to him before. We got into talk, and by and by we strolled away from the hissing ruins. Then he asked me to his room, which was in the main building of the station. He struck a match, and I perceived that this young aristocrat had not only a silver-mounted dressing-case but also a whole candle all to himself. Just at that time the manager was the only man supposed to have any right to candles. Native mats covered the clay walls; a collection of spears, assegais, shields, knives was hung up in trophies. The business intrusted to this fellow was the making of bricks--so I had been informed; but there wasn't a fragment of a brick anywhere in the station, and he had been there more than a year--waiting. It seems he could not make bricks without something, I don't know what--straw maybe. Anyway, it could not be found there and as it was not likely to be sent from Europe, it did not appear clear to me what he was waiting for. An act of special creation perhaps. However, they were all waiting--all the sixteen or twenty pilgrims of them--for something; and upon my word it did not seem an uncongenial occupation, from the way they took it, though the only thing that ever came to them was disease--as far as I could see. They beguiled the time by back-biting and intriguing against each other in a foolish kind of way. There was an air of plotting about that station, but nothing came of it, of course. It was as unreal as everything else--as the philanthropic pretence of the whole concern, as their talk, as their government, as their show of work. The only real feeling was a desire to get appointed to a trading-post where ivory was to be had, so that they could earn percentages. They intrigued and slandered and hated each other only on that account--but as to effectually lifting a little finger--oh, no. By heavens! there is something after all in the world allowing one man to steal a horse while another must not look at a halter. Steal a horse straight out. Very well. He has done it. Perhaps he can ride. But there is a way of looking at a halter that would provoke the most charitable of saints into a kick. "I had no idea why he wanted to be sociable, but as we chatted in there it suddenly occurred to me the fellow was trying to get at something--in fact, pumping me. He alluded constantly to Europe, to the people I was supposed to know there--putting leading questions as to my acquaintances in the sepulchral city, and so on. His little eyes glittered like mica discs--with curiosity--though he tried to keep up a bit of superciliousness. At first I was astonished, but very soon I became awfully curious to see what he would find out from me. I couldn't possibly imagine what I had in me to make it worth his while. It was very pretty to see how he baffled himself, for in truth my body was full only of chills, and my head had nothing in it but that wretched steamboat business. It was evident he took me for a perfectly shameless prevaricator. At last he got angry, and, to conceal a movement of furious annoyance, he yawned. I rose. Then I noticed a small sketch in oils, on a panel, representing a woman, draped and blindfolded, carrying a lighted torch. The background was sombre--almost black. The movement of the woman was stately, and the effect of the torchlight on the face was sinister. "It arrested me, and he stood by civilly, holding an empty half-pint champagne bottle (medical comforts) with the candle stuck in it. To my question he said Mr. Kurtz had painted this--in this very station more than a year ago--while waiting for means to go to his trading post. 'Tell me, pray,' said I, 'who is this Mr. Kurtz?' "'The chief of the Inner Station,' he answered in a short tone, looking away. 'Much obliged,' I said, laughing. 'And you are the brickmaker of the Central Station. Every one knows that.' He was silent for a while. 'He is a prodigy,' he said at last. 'He is an emissary of pity and science and progress, and devil knows what else. We want,' he began to declaim suddenly, 'for the guidance of the cause intrusted to us by Europe, so to speak, higher intelligence, wide sympathies, a singleness of purpose.' 'Who says that?' I asked. 'Lots of them,' he replied. 'Some even write that; and so _he_ comes here, a special being, as you ought to know.' 'Why ought I to know?' I interrupted, really surprised. He paid no attention. 'Yes. Today he is chief of the best station, next year he will be assistant-manager, two years more and... but I dare-say you know what he will be in two years' time. You are of the new gang--the gang of virtue. The same people who sent him specially also recommended you. Oh, don't say no. I've my own eyes to trust.' Light dawned upon me. My dear aunt's influential acquaintances were producing an unexpected effect upon that young man. I nearly burst into a laugh. 'Do you read the Company's confidential correspondence?' I asked. He hadn't a word to say. It was great fun. 'When Mr. Kurtz,' I continued, severely, 'is General Manager, you won't have the opportunity.' "He blew the candle out suddenly, and we went outside. The moon had risen. Black figures strolled about listlessly, pouring water on the glow, whence proceeded a sound of hissing; steam ascended in the moonlight, the beaten nigger groaned somewhere. 'What a row the brute makes!' said the indefatigable man with the moustaches, appearing near us. 'Serve him right. Transgression--punishment--bang! Pitiless, pitiless. That's the only way. This will prevent all conflagrations for the future. I was just telling the manager...' He noticed my companion, and became crestfallen all at once. 'Not in bed yet,' he said, with a kind of servile heartiness; 'it's so natural. Ha! Danger--agitation.' He vanished. I went on to the riverside, and the other followed me. I heard a scathing murmur at my ear, 'Heap of muffs--go to.' The pilgrims could be seen in knots gesticulating, discussing. Several had still their staves in their hands. I verily believe they took these sticks to bed with them. Beyond the fence the forest stood up spectrally in the moonlight, and through that dim stir, through the faint sounds of that lamentable courtyard, the silence of the land went home to one's very heart--its mystery, its greatness, the amazing reality of its concealed life. The hurt nigger moaned feebly somewhere near by, and then fetched a deep sigh that made me mend my pace away from there. I felt a hand introducing itself under my arm. 'My dear sir,' said the fellow, 'I don't want to be misunderstood, and especially by you, who will see Mr. Kurtz long before I can have that pleasure. I wouldn't like him to get a false idea of my disposition....' "I let him run on, this _papier-mache_ Mephistopheles, and it seemed to me that if I tried I could poke my forefinger through him, and would find nothing inside but a little loose dirt, maybe. He, don't you see, had been planning to be assistant-manager by and by under the present man, and I could see that the coming of that Kurtz had upset them both not a little. He talked precipitately, and I did not try to stop him. I had my shoulders against the wreck of my steamer, hauled up on the slope like a carcass of some big river animal. The smell of mud, of primeval mud, by Jove! was in my nostrils, the high stillness of primeval forest was before my eyes; there were shiny patches on the black creek. The moon had spread over everything a thin layer of silver--over the rank grass, over the mud, upon the wall of matted vegetation standing higher than the wall of a temple, over the great river I could see through a sombre gap glittering, glittering, as it flowed broadly by without a murmur. All this was great, expectant, mute, while the man jabbered about himself. I wondered whether the stillness on the face of the immensity looking at us two were meant as an appeal or as a menace. What were we who had strayed in here? Could we handle that dumb thing, or would it handle us? I felt how big, how confoundedly big, was that thing that couldn't talk, and perhaps was deaf as well. What was in there? I could see a little ivory coming out from there, and I had heard Mr. Kurtz was in there. I had heard enough about it, too--God knows! Yet somehow it didn't bring any image with it--no more than if I had been told an angel or a fiend was in there. I believed it in the same way one of you might believe there are inhabitants in the planet Mars. I knew once a Scotch sailmaker who was certain, dead sure, there were people in Mars. If you asked him for some idea how they looked and behaved, he would get shy and mutter something about 'walking on all-fours.' If you as much as smiled, he would--though a man of sixty--offer to fight you. I would not have gone so far as to fight for Kurtz, but I went for him near enough to a lie. You know I hate, detest, and can't bear a lie, not because I am straighter than the rest of us, but simply because it appalls me. There is a taint of death, a flavour of mortality in lies--which is exactly what I hate and detest in the world--what I want to forget. It makes me miserable and sick, like biting something rotten would do. Temperament, I suppose. Well, I went near enough to it by letting the young fool there believe anything he liked to imagine as to my influence in Europe. I became in an instant as much of a pretence as the rest of the bewitched pilgrims. This simply because I had a notion it somehow would be of help to that Kurtz whom at the time I did not see--you understand. He was just a word for me. I did not see the man in the name any more than you do. Do you see him? Do you see the story? Do you see anything? It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream--making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams...." He was silent for a while. "... No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence--that which makes its truth, its meaning--its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream--alone...." He paused again as if reflecting, then added: "Of course in this you fellows see more than I could then. You see me, whom you know...." It had become so pitch dark that we listeners could hardly see one another. For a long time already he, sitting apart, had been no more to us than a voice. There was not a word from anybody. The others might have been asleep, but I was awake. I listened, I listened on the watch for the sentence, for the word, that would give me the clue to the faint uneasiness inspired by this narrative that seemed to shape itself without human lips in the heavy night-air of the river. "... Yes--I let him run on," Marlow began again, "and think what he pleased about the powers that were behind me. I did! And there was nothing behind me! There was nothing but that wretched, old, mangled steamboat I was leaning against, while he talked fluently about 'the necessity for every man to get on.' 'And when one comes out here, you conceive, it is not to gaze at the moon.' Mr. Kurtz was a 'universal genius,' but even a genius would find it easier to work with 'adequate tools--intelligent men.' He did not make bricks--why, there was a physical impossibility in the way--as I was well aware; and if he did secretarial work for the manager, it was because 'no sensible man rejects wantonly the confidence of his superiors.' Did I see it? I saw it. What more did I want? What I really wanted was rivets, by heaven! Rivets. To get on with the work--to stop the hole. Rivets I wanted. There were cases of them down at the coast--cases--piled up--burst--split! You kicked a loose rivet at every second step in that station-yard on the hillside. Rivets had rolled into the grove of death. You could fill your pockets with rivets for the trouble of stooping down--and there wasn't one rivet to be found where it was wanted. We had plates that would do, but nothing to fasten them with. And every week the messenger, a long negro, letter-bag on shoulder and staff in hand, left our station for the coast. And several times a week a coast caravan came in with trade goods--ghastly glazed calico that made you shudder only to look at it, glass beads value about a penny a quart, confounded spotted cotton handkerchiefs. And no rivets. Three carriers could have brought all that was wanted to set that steamboat afloat. "He was becoming confidential now, but I fancy my unresponsive attitude must have exasperated him at last, for he judged it necessary to inform me he feared neither God nor devil, let alone any mere man. I said I could see that very well, but what I wanted was a certain quantity of rivets--and rivets were what really Mr. Kurtz wanted, if he had only known it. Now letters went to the coast every week.... 'My dear sir,' he cried, 'I write from dictation.' I demanded rivets. There was a way--for an intelligent man. He changed his manner; became very cold, and suddenly began to talk about a hippopotamus; wondered whether sleeping on board the steamer (I stuck to my salvage night and day) I wasn't disturbed. There was an old hippo that had the bad habit of getting out on the bank and roaming at night over the station grounds. The pilgrims used to turn out in a body and empty every rifle they could lay hands on at him. Some even had sat up o' nights for him. All this energy was wasted, though. 'That animal has a charmed life,' he said; 'but you can say this only of brutes in this country. No man--you apprehend me?--no man here bears a charmed life.' He stood there for a moment in the moonlight with his delicate hooked nose set a little askew, and his mica eyes glittering without a wink, then, with a curt Good-night, he strode off. I could see he was disturbed and considerably puzzled, which made me feel more hopeful than I had been for days. It was a great comfort to turn from that chap to my influential friend, the battered, twisted, ruined, tin-pot steamboat. I clambered on board. She rang under my feet like an empty Huntley & Palmer biscuit-tin kicked along a gutter; she was nothing so solid in make, and rather less pretty in shape, but I had expended enough hard work on her to make me love her. No influential friend would have served me better. She had given me a chance to come out a bit--to find out what I could do. No, I don't like work. I had rather laze about and think of all the fine things that can be done. I don't like work--no man does--but I like what is in the work--the chance to find yourself. Your own reality--for yourself, not for others--what no other man can ever know. They can only see the mere show, and never can tell what it really means. "I was not surprised to see somebody sitting aft, on the deck, with his legs dangling over the mud. You see I rather chummed with the few mechanics there were in that station, whom the other pilgrims naturally despised--on account of their imperfect manners, I suppose. This was the foreman--a boiler-maker by trade--a good worker. He was a lank, bony, yellow-faced man, with big intense eyes. His aspect was worried, and his head was as bald as the palm of my hand; but his hair in falling seemed to have stuck to his chin, and had prospered in the new locality, for his beard hung down to his waist. He was a widower with six young children (he had left them in charge of a sister of his to come out there), and the passion of his life was pigeon-flying. He was an enthusiast and a connoisseur. He would rave about pigeons. After work hours he used sometimes to come over from his hut for a talk about his children and his pigeons; at work, when he had to crawl in the mud under the bottom of the steamboat, he would tie up that beard of his in a kind of white serviette he brought for the purpose. It had loops to go over his ears. In the evening he could be seen squatted on the bank rinsing that wrapper in the creek with great care, then spreading it solemnly on a bush to dry. "I slapped him on the back and shouted, 'We shall have rivets!' He scrambled to his feet exclaiming, 'No! Rivets!' as though he couldn't believe his ears. Then in a low voice, 'You... eh?' I don't know why we behaved like lunatics. I put my finger to the side of my nose and nodded mysteriously. 'Good for you!' he cried, snapped his fingers above his head, lifting one foot. I tried a jig. We capered on the iron deck. A frightful clatter came out of that hulk, and the virgin forest on the other bank of the creek sent it back in a thundering roll upon the sleeping station. It must have made some of the pilgrims sit up in their hovels. A dark figure obscured the lighted doorway of the manager's hut, vanished, then, a second or so after, the doorway itself vanished, too. We stopped, and the silence driven away by the stamping of our feet flowed back again from the recesses of the land. The great wall of vegetation, an exuberant and entangled mass of trunks, branches, leaves, boughs, festoons, motionless in the moonlight, was like a rioting invasion of soundless life, a rolling wave of plants, piled up, crested, ready to topple over the creek, to sweep every little man of us out of his little existence. And it moved not. A deadened burst of mighty splashes and snorts reached us from afar, as though an icthyosaurus had been taking a bath of glitter in the great river. 'After all,' said the boiler-maker in a reasonable tone, 'why shouldn't we get the rivets?' Why not, indeed! I did not know of any reason why we shouldn't. 'They'll come in three weeks,' I said confidently. "But they didn't. Instead of rivets there came an invasion, an infliction, a visitation. It came in sections during the next three weeks, each section headed by a donkey carrying a white man in new clothes and tan shoes, bowing from that elevation right and left to the impressed pilgrims. A quarrelsome band of footsore sulky niggers trod on the heels of the donkey; a lot of tents, camp-stools, tin boxes, white cases, brown bales would be shot down in the courtyard, and the air of mystery would deepen a little over the muddle of the station. Five such instalments came, with their absurd air of disorderly flight with the loot of innumerable outfit shops and provision stores, that, one would think, they were lugging, after a raid, into the wilderness for equitable division. It was an inextricable mess of things decent in themselves but that human folly made look like the spoils of thieving. "This devoted band called itself the Eldorado Exploring Expedition, and I believe they were sworn to secrecy. Their talk, however, was the talk of sordid buccaneers: it was reckless without hardihood, greedy without audacity, and cruel without courage; there was not an atom of foresight or of serious intention in the whole batch of them, and they did not seem aware these things are wanted for the work of the world. To tear treasure out of the bowels of the land was their desire, with no more moral purpose at the back of it than there is in burglars breaking into a safe. Who paid the expenses of the noble enterprise I don't know; but the uncle of our manager was leader of that lot. "In exterior he resembled a butcher in a poor neighbourhood, and his eyes had a look of sleepy cunning. He carried his fat paunch with ostentation on his short legs, and during the time his gang infested the station spoke to no one but his nephew. You could see these two roaming about all day long with their heads close together in an everlasting confab. "I had given up worrying myself about the rivets. One's capacity for that kind of folly is more limited than you would suppose. I said Hang!--and let things slide. I had plenty of time for meditation, and now and then I would give some thought to Kurtz. I wasn't very interested in him. No. Still, I was curious to see whether this man, who had come out equipped with moral ideas of some sort, would climb to the top after all and how he would set about his work when there." 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Herz der Finsternis erzählt von Charlie Marlows Reise ins Herz des afrikanischen Kongos, wo er auf den außergewöhnlichen Herrn Kurtz trifft. Diese Kurzgeschichte ist in drei Abschnitte unterteilt. Der erste Abschnitt erzählt Marlows Ernennung zum Dampfbootkapitän einer Firma, die Elfenbein im Kongo beschafft, seine Reise zur äußeren Station der Firma in der Nähe der Küste und seine Fahrt den Kongo hinauf zur zentralen Station. Der zweite Abschnitt beschreibt Marlows fortgesetzte Flussreise zur inneren Station von Kurtz und seine erste Begegnung mit ihm. Im letzten Abschnitt führt Marlow ein privates Gespräch mit Kurtz, Kurtz wird gewaltsam von seiner Station entfernt und stirbt, und Marlow und der Rest der Männer der Firma kehren in die Zivilisation zurück. Mit Ausnahme der Anfangsseiten und einiger weniger Passagen im Laufe des Romans wird die Geschichte aus Marlows Perspektive erzählt. Teil I. Abschnitt eins beginnt mit der Nellie, einem kleinen Schiff, das vor Gravesend, England, im Fluss Thames ankert. Es ist ein friedlicher Sonnenuntergang, und das Schiff wartet auf die Flut, um in See zu stechen. Fünf Männer, darunter ein namenloser Erzähler, der Direktor der Firma, ein Anwalt, ein Buchhalter und Charlie Marlow, versammeln sich auf dem Deck der Nellie. Der Erzähler bemerkt, dass die Männer bereits durch vorherige Abenteuer auf See eine starke Bindung geschmiedet haben, und mehr als einmal erwähnt er eine Art "brütender Trübsinn" am Horizont. Dieser Ort veranlasst den Erzähler, über all die großen Weltenreisenden und Abenteurer nachzudenken, deren Reisen von der Themse ausgingen. Während die Gruppe sich entspannt und den Sonnenuntergang beobachtet, zieht Marlow sie in eine Erzählung seiner Abenteuer auf einer Reise den Kongo hinauf. Marlow eröffnet seine Erzählung, indem er die Männer darum bittet, darüber nachzudenken, wie es wohl für die Römer gewesen sein muss, die vor so vielen Jahren nach England gereist sind. Sie müssen, schlägt er vor, von der beinahe wilden Umgebung überwältigt gewesen sein. Er bemerkt, dass der entscheidende Unterschied zwischen ihnen und den Römern darin liegt, dass sie Kolonisten sind, während die Römer Eroberer waren. Und Eroberer, behauptet er, haben kein anderes Ziel, als so viel wie möglich zu bekommen, mit allen notwendigen Mitteln. Marlow bemerkt, dass Eroberung im Allgemeinen eine abstoßende Sache ist, obwohl sie einige erlösende Qualitäten haben kann. Marlows Abenteuer beginnt in London, wo er nach mehreren Jahren auf See in den "Osten" zurückgekehrt ist. Während seines Aufenthalts in London wird er unruhig und sehnt sich danach, an einen Ort zu reisen, den er noch nie besucht hat. Als er durch die Stadt schlendert, entdeckt er in einem Schaufenster eine Karte von einer Region der Welt, die Europäern noch weitgehend unbekannt ist: Der Kongo. Obwohl er normalerweise ein Seemann ist, sehnt er sich danach, den Kongo, einen Süßwasserfluss, tief in das Herz dieses wenig bekannten Landes zu bereisen. Als seine Versuche, eine Stelle auf einem Boot bei einer Firma zu bekommen, die im Kongo handelt, unerfüllt bleiben, bittet er seine Tante um Hilfe. Durch ihre einflussreichen Freunde sichert Marlow sich eine Stellung als Kapitän eines Flussdampfers und ersetzt einen Kapitän, der kürzlich von Einheimischen getötet wurde. Marlow bemerkt, dass der Mann, den er ersetzt, Captain Fresleven, während eines Streits mit einem einheimischen Häuptling, der zwei Hühner betraf, getötet wurde. Fresleven schlug den alten Häuptling, und der Sohn des Häuptlings erschlug ihn mit einem Speer. Nach Freslevens Tod flüchteten die Einheimischen tiefer in den Dschungel, und die verbliebenen Männer an Bord von Freslevens Schiff flohen aus Angst. Marlow gibt Freslevens Handlung die Schuld für den längeren Aufenthalt des Kapitäns in der Wildnis. Er stellt auch fest, dass er später Freslevens Leiche suchte und sie fast versteckt im hohen Gras in der Nähe eines verlassenen Dorfes fand. Marlow erzählt dann von seinem Besuch im Büro der Firma in Frankreich, wo ihn ein ungutes Gefühl überkommt. Mehrere junge Männer kommen ebenfalls ins Büro, und Marlow erwähnt, wie viele von ihnen den Ort verlassen müssen, ohne je wiederzukommen. Er besucht den Firmenarzt, der eine verkürzte körperliche Untersuchung durchführt und darum bittet, seinen Schädel zu vermessen, offenbar zu Forschungszwecken. Als Marlow fragt, ob der Arzt den Kopf der Männer erneut misst, wenn sie zurückkehren, kommentiert der Arzt, dass er keinen von ihnen jemals wiedersieht. Und, fährt er fort, selbst wenn es Veränderungen zu messen gäbe, wären diese Veränderungen eher intern als extern. Der Arzt warnt Marlow, dass er im Kongo alles tun muss, um ruhig zu bleiben. Bevor er abreist, besucht Marlow seine Tante, um ihr zu danken. Er ist etwas schockiert, als sie von der "Abwendung dieser unwissenden Massen von ihren schrecklichen Wegen" spricht. Er schlägt ihr vor, dass das Hauptziel der Firma darin besteht, Geld zu verdienen, im Gegensatz zu einer zivilisatorischen Mission. Marlow reist in Frankreich an Bord eines Dampfers ab, der auf dem Weg viele Häfen anläuft. Während das Schiff die Küste entlang fährt, bemerkt Marlow eine gewisse Tristesse in seiner Umgebung. Verstreut entlang des Ufers befinden sich kleine Handelsniederlassungen und Zollhäuser, die grob gebaut zu sein scheinen. Weiter unten an der Küste entdeckt er ein von Eingeborenen besetztes Boot, und später sieht er ein französisches Kriegsschiff, das wahllos den Dschungel beschießt. Marlow stellt fest, dass die Franzosen anscheinend in einem Krieg mit den Eingeborenen stehen, von dem er nichts weiß, und hält das Bombardement für einen sinnlosen Akt. Der Dampfer übergibt Briefe an die Männer an Bord des Kriegsschiffs, und Marlow sagt, dass er gehört hat, dass die Männer an Bord des Schiffs an Fieber sterben. Während sie weiterfahren, schildert Marlow eine allgemeine Atmosphäre des Todes und des Verfalls in der Landschaft. Der Dampfer benötigt dreißig Tage, um die Mündung des Kongo zu erreichen, wo Marlow auf ein kleineres Schiff umsteigt. Der Kapitän dieses zweiten Schiffs, ein Schwede, lädt Marlow auf die Brücke ein, und die beiden unterhalten sich. Marlow fragt sich laut, was aus den Männern wird, die den Fluss hinauffahren, und der Kapitän erwähnt, dass ein Mann, den er erst kürzlich ins Landesinnere gebracht hat, sich erhängt hat. Als Marlow fragt warum, antwortet der Kapitän, es müsse entweder die Sonne oder das Land selbst gewesen sein. Als Marlow an der Äußeren Station der Firma ankommt, bemerkt er eine Art Verfall und Chaos in der Station. Die Siedlung scheint im Chaos zu sein. Eine Eisenbahn wird gebaut und eine Kette krimineller Einheimischer, die aneinander gekettet sind und eiserne Halskrausen tragen, zieht an ihm vorbei. Ein anderer Eingeborener in Uniform und mit Gewehr bewacht die Kette. In den Männern sieht Marlow eine Art Torheit. Er stößt auf eine große Gruppe von einheimischen Arbeitern, die unter Bäumen Schutz suchen; sie sind erschöpfte Männer, fast verschwendet von ihrer brutalen Arbeit und den harten Bedingungen. Der erste Europäer, den Marlow trifft, ist der Buchhalter der Station. Er ist tadellos gekleidet, und Marlow ist von diesem Fakt beeindruckt. Marlow sieht einen Strom von einheimischen Arbeitern, die Waren ins Landesinnere bringen, und andere, die mit Ladungen von Elfenbein zur Station zurückkehren. Marlow lebt zehn Tage lang in einer Hütte auf der Station, bevor er weiter ins Landesinnere reist. Er verbringt viel Zeit im schlecht gebauten Büro des Buchhalters, wo er zum ersten Mal von Herrn Kurtz erfährt, einem Mann, der eine Handelsstation tief im Dschungel des Inneren leitet. Der Buchhalter charakterisiert Kurtz als bemerkenswerten Mann und bemerkt, dass er mehr Elfenbein hereinbringt als alle anderen Agenten zusammen. Der Buchhalter bittet Marlow, Kurtz auszurichten, dass an der Äußeren Station alles gut läuft, und bemerkt, dass er glaubt, dass Kurtz ein Mann sei, der bei der Firma für große Dinge bestimmt ist. Am nächsten Tag schließt sich Marlow einem großen Karawanentreck an, der eine zweihundert Meilen lange Reise ins Landesinnere unternimmt. Sie passieren eine Reihe von verlassenen Dörfern und mehrere tote Eingeborene. Ein anderer weißer Mann, übergewichtig und außer Form, reist ebenfalls mit ihnen. Als Marlow fragt, warum er im Inneren ist, antwortet er, dass er dort aus dem einzigen vernünftigen Grund sei: um Geld zu verdienen. Der Mann erkrankt und muss von den Eingeborenen in einer Hängematte getragen werden. Eines Tages verlassen die Träger ihren Dienst und lassen den Mann fallen und verletzen ihn. Am fünfzehnten Tag des Trecks kommen sie dem Fluss nahe und erreichen die Zentrale Station, die von Wald und Gebüsch umgeben und durch einen provisorischen Zaun umgeben ist. Mehrere weiße Männer mit Holzstöcken kommen heraus, um die ankommende Karawane anzusehen, aber nur einer zeigt besonderes Interesse an Marlow. Als der Mann entdeckt, dass Marlow der neue Dampfbootkapitän ist, informiert er ihn, dass das Boot im Fluss gesunken ist und dass Marlow den Stationsleiter so bald wie möglich treffen muss. Marlow ist schockiert über diese Enthüllung und reflektiert, als er die Geschichte den Männern an Bord der Nellie erzählt, dass er etwas Unnatürliches am Wrack hätte ahnen sollen. Am nächsten Tag macht Marlow sich daran, das Boot aus dem Fluss zu bergen. Als Marlow zum ersten Mal den Stationsleiter der Zentralen Station trifft, scheint er ein ziemlich gewöhnlich aussehender Mann zu sein, obwohl er einen eher einzigartigen Ausdruck hat, einen Ausdruck, der nach Marlows Aussage eine Art "Unbehagen" erzeugt. Marlow bemerkt, dass der Manager nicht besonders effizient oder organisiert wirkt; er ist jedoch seit neun Jahren an der Stelle. Allein diese Tatsache verleiht ihm eine gewisse Macht. Der Manager ist sehr daran interessiert, dass das Boot repariert wird, damit er wieder Kontakt zu seinem produktivsten Agenten im Landesinnern herstellen kann: Herrn Kurtz. Während Marlow darum kämpft, das Boot zu reparieren, bemüht er sich, die Aktivitäten der Station zu verstehen. In der Station scheinen die Männer ziellos umherzuirren, während jenseits der Station die Wildnis steht und schweigend darauf wartet, dass die Männer sich zurückziehen. Eines Abends gerät eine Hütte in Brand, und die Männer sehen zu, wie sie bis auf den Grund niedergebrannt wird. Ein Einheimischer wird für das Feuer verantwortlich gemacht, geschlagen und zieht sich später in die Wildnis zurück. Marlow belauscht ein Gespräch zwischen dem Stationsleiter und einem Mann, den andere den Spion des Managers nennen. In dem Gespräch hört Marlow Kurtzs Namen und etwas über Kurtz' "Ausnutzung" des Unfalls. Als der Manager geht, kommt Marlow mit dem Spion ins Gespräch und kehrt in dessen Quartier zurück. Marlow stellt fest, dass er recht kunstvolle Möbel besitzt und tatsächlich seine eigene Kerze hat, die normalerweise nur dem Stationsleiter vorbehalten ist. Angeblich ist der Mann damit beauftragt, Ziegelsteine herzustellen, aber Marlow stellt fest, dass in der Station nirgendwo Ziegel zu finden sind, denn es fehlt ein entscheidender Bestandteil für die Herstellung von Ziegelsteinen. Der Ziegelsteinmacher erzählt Marlow, dass er einfach darauf wartet, dass etwas ankommt, und dass er sich in der Zwischenzeit die Zeit als Sekretär des Stationsleiters vertreibt. Tatsächlich scheinen alle Männer in der Station auf etwas zu warten. Marlow spricht von einem gewissen Misstrauen und Tunken der Männer der Station, das jedoch nicht viel Wirkung hat. Der einzige wahre Wunsch der Männer scheint darin zu bestehen, auf eine Station versetzt zu werden, in der Elfenbein hereinkommt, damit sie einen Gewinn erzielen können. Marlow ist sich nicht sicher, warum der Ziegelsteinmacher ihn in seine Hütte einlädt, um zu reden, aber er hat das Gefühl, dass der Mann versucht, Informationen von ihm zu bekommen. Er fragt Marlow immer wieder und wird wütend, wenn er die gewünschten Informationen nicht erhält. Als Marlow dabei ist, die Hütte des Ziegelsteinmachers zu verlassen, bemerkt er ein Gemälde einer Frau; sie ist verbundenen Auges und trägt eine Fackel. Als Marlow nachfragt, erfährt er, dass Kurtz das Gemälde vor über einem Jahr gemacht hat, als er sich um einige Geschäfte in der Station gekümmert hat. Marlow bittet den Mann dann, ihm von Kurtz zu erzählen. Der Ziegelsteinmacher spricht von Kurtz in eher ehrfürchtigem Ton, als einem großen, aber komplexen Mann, und er besteht darauf, dass Kurtz dazu bestimmt ist, in der Firma weit vorwärts zu kommen. Der Ziegelsteinmacher behauptet, dass Marlow bereits wisse, wie weit Kurtz gehen werde, da dieselben Leute sowohl ihn als auch Kurtz für ihre Positionen empfohlen hätten. Marlow vermutet, dass der Ziegelsteinmacher Zugang zur internen Korrespondenz der Firma hat, und er bemerkt, dass der Ziegelsteinmacher glauben muss, dass Marlow Verbindungen zu einflussreichen Stellen hat. Marlow lacht in sich hinein und weiß, dass er in Wahrheit keine wirklichen Verbindungen zur Firma hat, aber er beschließt, das Spiel mitzumachen und den Ziegelsteinmacher zu necken, dass er, wenn Kurtz Generalmanager wird, die privaten Briefe der Firma nicht mehr lesen kann. Das Duo geht in die Nacht, wo die dunklen Gestalten der Eingeborenen weiterhin Wasser auf die glimmenden Überreste der niedergebrannten Hütte gießen. Marlow hört das Stöhnen des geschlagenen Einheimischen irgendwo in der Dunkelheit. Ein anderer Stationsarbeiter erscheint im Dunkeln und zeigt kein Mitleid mit dem geschlagenen Mann und behauptet, dass sein Leiden als Beispiel für die anderen dienen werde. Als der Mann den Ziegelsteinmacher bemerkt, lenkt er seine Aussagen abrupt um und entschuldigt sich. Marlow geht dann zum Ufer des Flusses, und der Ziegelsteinmacher versucht, Marlow zu versichern, dass er nichts gegen Kurtz hat, da der Ziegelsteinmacher weiß, dass Marlow Kurtz vor ihm begegnen wird. Marlow kommt zu dem Schluss, dass der Ziegelsteinmacher geplant hatte, Assistent des Stationsleiters zu werden, aber die Ankunft von Kurtz hatte diese Pläne durchkreuzt, ebenso wie die Pläne des aktuellen Managers. Während der Ziegelsteinmacher davon spricht, wie genial Kurtz sei und wie schwer es für jemanden sei, unter diesen Bedingungen zu arbeiten, stellt Marlow fest, dass seine Arbeit mit dem Dampfboot aufgrund des Mangels an Nieten, um ein Eisenflicken anzubringen, verzögert wird. Die Station talwärts hatte genügend Nieten, aber er konnte keine zu sich an die Zentralstation schicken lassen. Marlow versucht, den Ziegelsteinmacher zu überzeugen, dass es etwas ist, was Kurtz tun möchte, die Nieten zu bekommen, um das Boot zu reparieren. Der Ziegelsteinmacher lenkt das Gespräch ab und fragt Marlow, der Tag und Nacht gearbeitet und sogar auf dem Boot geschlafen hat, ob ihn das Flusspferd, das sich oft in der Gegend aufhält, je belästigt. Der Ziegelsteinmacher bemerkt, dass die Männer der Station oft versucht haben, das Tier zu schießen, aber es scheint ein charmedes Leben zu führen. Dies ist jedoch nicht bei Männern der Fall, die in der Wildnis leben. Als Marlow zu seinem Boot zurückkehrt, ist der Stationsmeister, ein Kesselbauer, an Bord. Obwohl die anderen Administratoren in der Station den Meister aufgrund seiner etwas derben Manieren ignoriert haben, hat Marlow eine Beziehung zu ihm aufgebaut. Marlow informiert den Meister, dass sie bald einige Nieten bekommen werden, und der Meister ist begeistert. Anstelle der Nieten trifft jedoch eine Karawane von Europäern und Eingeborenen ein, die sich selbst die Eldorado-Expedition nennt. Es handelt sich um eine Gruppe, die darauf aus ist, Schätze aus der Wildnis zu bergen, und die von dem Onkel des Stationsleiters angeführt wird. Nach einer Weile vergisst Marlow die Nieten, obwohl er immer noch an Kurtz denkt und sich fragt, ob dieser Mann mit hohen Idealen tatsächlich in der Firma aufsteigen wird.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Szene Zwei. Betritt Gonerill, der Bastard und der Verwalter. Gon. Willkommen, mein Herr. Ich wundere mich, dass unser sanfter Ehemann uns nicht unterwegs getroffen hat. Und wo ist euer Herr? Verw. Madame drinnen, aber er hat sich nie so sehr verändert. Ich habe ihm von der gelandeten Armee erzählt, er hat darüber gelächelt. Ich habe ihm gesagt, dass ihr kommt, seine Antwort war negativ. Über Gloucesters Verrat und den loyalen Dienst seines Sohnes habe ich ihn informiert. Als ich ihm das mitteilte, hat er mich einen Narren genannt und mir gesagt, dass ich alles falsch herum gedreht habe. Was er am meisten missbilligen sollte, scheint ihm angenehm zu sein; was ihm gefällt, ist unangenehm. Gon. Dann solltet ihr nicht weitergehen. Es ist die feige Angst seines Geistes, die es nicht wagt, sich zu widersetzen. Er wird das Unrecht nicht spüren, das ihn zur Antwort verpflichtet. Unsere Wünsche auf dem Weg könnten sich als Tatsachen erweisen. Geh zurück, Edmond, zu meinem Bruder. Beschleunige seine Truppenmusterung und leite seine Kräfte. Ich muss zu Hause die Namen ändern und das Spinnrad in die Hände meines Mannes geben. Dieser vertrauenswürdige Diener wird zwischen uns hin- und hergehen. Bald werdet ihr wahrscheinlich hören (falls ihr euch selbst vertreten traut) die Anweisung einer Herrin. Tragt dies; vermeidet Worte, senkt euren Kopf. Dieser Kuss, wenn er sprechen dürfte, würde deinen Geist in die Luft erheben. Versteht es und lebt wohl. Bast. Euer in der Rangliste des Todes. Betritt. Gon. Mein liebster Gloster. Oh, der Unterschied zwischen Mann und Mann. Dir sind die Dienste einer Frau zugetan, Mein Narr nimmt mir meinen Körper weg. Verw. Madame, jetzt kommt mein Herr. Betritt Albany. Gon. Ich war die Pfeife wert. Alb. Oh Gonerill, Du bist nicht wert, den Staub im Gesicht zu haben, den der rauhe Wind gegen dich bläst. Gon. Lämmchenhaftiger Mann, Der Schläge erträgt, dem Unrecht widerfährt, Dem es nicht in der Stirn steht, Ehre von Leiden zu unterscheiden. Alb. Schau dich selbst an, Teufel: Angemessene Verunstaltung erscheint nicht im Teufel So abscheulich wie in der Frau. Gon. Oh eitle Narren. Betritt ein Bote. Bot. Oh mein guter Herr, der Herzog von Cornwall ist tot, Getötet von seinem Diener, als er versuchte, Glosters anderes Auge auszustechen. Alb. Glosters Augen? Bot. Ein Diener, den er aufgezogen hat, von Reue erfüllt, Hatte sich gegen die Tat gestellt, das Schwert gegen seinen großen Meister gerichtet, Der, voller Wut, auf ihn gestürzt ist und unter ihnen tot liegen geblieben ist, Aber nicht ohne diesen schädlichen Schlag, der ihn danach erwischt hat. Alb. Das zeigt, dass ihr überlegen seid, Ihr Richter, dass ihr unsere kleineren Verbrechen So schnell rächen könnt. Aber (ach armer Gloster), Hat er sein anderes Auge verloren? Bot. Beide, beide, mein Herr. Dieser Brief, Madam, verlangt eine schnelle Antwort: Es ist von eurer Schwester. Gon. Auf eine Art gefällt mir das gut. Aber als Witwe, und mein Gloster ist bei ihr, Könnte das alles in meinem verhassten Leben zusammenbrechen. Auf eine andere Art ist die Nachricht nicht ganz so bitter. Ich werde lesen und antworten. Alb. Wo war sein Sohn, Als sie ihm die Augen ausstachen? Bot. Komm mit meiner Dame hierher. Alb. Er ist nicht hier. Bot. Nein, mein guter Herr, ich habe ihn wieder getroffen. Alb. Weiß er von der Boshaftigkeit? Bot. Ja, mein guter Herr, er hat gegen ihn ausgesagt Und verließ das Haus absichtlich, damit ihre Strafe den freieren Lauf haben konnte. Alb. Gloster, ich werde leben Um dir für die Liebe zu danken, die du dem König gezeigt hast, Und um deine Augen zu rächen. Komm her, Freund, Sag mir, was du noch mehr weißt. Abgang. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Szene beginnt mit Goneril und Edmund, und sie werden von Oswald begleitet, der Neuigkeiten hat, dass Albany ein anderer Mensch geworden ist. Der Verwalter informiert Goneril, dass Albany erfreut über die bevorstehende Invasion durch Frankreich ist und enttäuscht war, dass Edmund seinen Vater als Graf von Gloucester ersetzt hat. Als Folge übernimmt Goneril das Kommando über ihre Truppen und befiehlt Edmund, nach Cornwall zurückzukehren, während sie sich um ihren Ehemann kümmert. Goneril hat mit Edmund geflirtet und sie schenkt ihm ein Zeichen ihrer Zuneigung und einen Kuss. Goneril ist beeindruckt von dem lebhaften Edmund im Vergleich zu ihrem eigenen schwächlichen Ehemann. Albany tritt ein und schimpft seine Frau für ihre unmenschliche Behandlung von König Lear. Ein Bote kommt an, um die Nachricht zu überbringen, dass der Herzog von Cornwall an der Wunde gestorben ist, die er von seinem Diener erhalten hat. Albany erklärt, dass diese Tat eine Vergeltung der Götter für Cornwalls Behandlung von Gloucester darstellt. Albany schwört Rache gegen Edmund, der seinen Vater der Gnade Cornwalls überlassen hat. In Gonerils bösem Geist versucht sie, aus diesen Umständen einen Vorteil zu ziehen und eine Allianz mit Edmund zu bilden. Allerdings ist sie besorgt, dass ihre verwitwete Schwester auch Edmunds Liebe suchen könnte.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: For a time--at all events until my book should be completed, which would be the work of several months--I took up my abode in my aunt's house at Dover; and there, sitting in the window from which I had looked out at the moon upon the sea, when that roof first gave me shelter, I quietly pursued my task. In pursuance of my intention of referring to my own fictions only when their course should incidentally connect itself with the progress of my story, I do not enter on the aspirations, the delights, anxieties, and triumphs of my art. That I truly devoted myself to it with my strongest earnestness, and bestowed upon it every energy of my soul, I have already said. If the books I have written be of any worth, they will supply the rest. I shall otherwise have written to poor purpose, and the rest will be of interest to no one. Occasionally, I went to London; to lose myself in the swarm of life there, or to consult with Traddles on some business point. He had managed for me, in my absence, with the soundest judgement; and my worldly affairs were prospering. As my notoriety began to bring upon me an enormous quantity of letters from people of whom I had no knowledge--chiefly about nothing, and extremely difficult to answer--I agreed with Traddles to have my name painted up on his door. There, the devoted postman on that beat delivered bushels of letters for me; and there, at intervals, I laboured through them, like a Home Secretary of State without the salary. Among this correspondence, there dropped in, every now and then, an obliging proposal from one of the numerous outsiders always lurking about the Commons, to practise under cover of my name (if I would take the necessary steps remaining to make a proctor of myself), and pay me a percentage on the profits. But I declined these offers; being already aware that there were plenty of such covert practitioners in existence, and considering the Commons quite bad enough, without my doing anything to make it worse. The girls had gone home, when my name burst into bloom on Traddles's door; and the sharp boy looked, all day, as if he had never heard of Sophy, shut up in a back room, glancing down from her work into a sooty little strip of garden with a pump in it. But there I always found her, the same bright housewife; often humming her Devonshire ballads when no strange foot was coming up the stairs, and blunting the sharp boy in his official closet with melody. I wondered, at first, why I so often found Sophy writing in a copy-book; and why she always shut it up when I appeared, and hurried it into the table-drawer. But the secret soon came out. One day, Traddles (who had just come home through the drizzling sleet from Court) took a paper out of his desk, and asked me what I thought of that handwriting? 'Oh, DON'T, Tom!' cried Sophy, who was warming his slippers before the fire. 'My dear,' returned Tom, in a delighted state, 'why not? What do you say to that writing, Copperfield?' 'It's extraordinarily legal and formal,' said I. 'I don't think I ever saw such a stiff hand.' 'Not like a lady's hand, is it?' said Traddles. 'A lady's!' I repeated. 'Bricks and mortar are more like a lady's hand!' Traddles broke into a rapturous laugh, and informed me that it was Sophy's writing; that Sophy had vowed and declared he would need a copying-clerk soon, and she would be that clerk; that she had acquired this hand from a pattern; and that she could throw off--I forget how many folios an hour. Sophy was very much confused by my being told all this, and said that when 'Tom' was made a judge he wouldn't be so ready to proclaim it. Which 'Tom' denied; averring that he should always be equally proud of it, under all circumstances. 'What a thoroughly good and charming wife she is, my dear Traddles!' said I, when she had gone away, laughing. 'My dear Copperfield,' returned Traddles, 'she is, without any exception, the dearest girl! The way she manages this place; her punctuality, domestic knowledge, economy, and order; her cheerfulness, Copperfield!' 'Indeed, you have reason to commend her!' I returned. 'You are a happy fellow. I believe you make yourselves, and each other, two of the happiest people in the world.' 'I am sure we ARE two of the happiest people,' returned Traddles. 'I admit that, at all events. Bless my soul, when I see her getting up by candle-light on these dark mornings, busying herself in the day's arrangements, going out to market before the clerks come into the Inn, caring for no weather, devising the most capital little dinners out of the plainest materials, making puddings and pies, keeping everything in its right place, always so neat and ornamental herself, sitting up at night with me if it's ever so late, sweet-tempered and encouraging always, and all for me, I positively sometimes can't believe it, Copperfield!' He was tender of the very slippers she had been warming, as he put them on, and stretched his feet enjoyingly upon the fender. 'I positively sometimes can't believe it,' said Traddles. 'Then our pleasures! Dear me, they are inexpensive, but they are quite wonderful! When we are at home here, of an evening, and shut the outer door, and draw those curtains--which she made--where could we be more snug? When it's fine, and we go out for a walk in the evening, the streets abound in enjoyment for us. We look into the glittering windows of the jewellers' shops; and I show Sophy which of the diamond-eyed serpents, coiled up on white satin rising grounds, I would give her if I could afford it; and Sophy shows me which of the gold watches that are capped and jewelled and engine-turned, and possessed of the horizontal lever-escape-movement, and all sorts of things, she would buy for me if she could afford it; and we pick out the spoons and forks, fish-slices, butter-knives, and sugar-tongs, we should both prefer if we could both afford it; and really we go away as if we had got them! Then, when we stroll into the squares, and great streets, and see a house to let, sometimes we look up at it, and say, how would THAT do, if I was made a judge? And we parcel it out--such a room for us, such rooms for the girls, and so forth; until we settle to our satisfaction that it would do, or it wouldn't do, as the case may be. Sometimes, we go at half-price to the pit of the theatre--the very smell of which is cheap, in my opinion, at the money--and there we thoroughly enjoy the play: which Sophy believes every word of, and so do I. In walking home, perhaps we buy a little bit of something at a cook's-shop, or a little lobster at the fishmongers, and bring it here, and make a splendid supper, chatting about what we have seen. Now, you know, Copperfield, if I was Lord Chancellor, we couldn't do this!' 'You would do something, whatever you were, my dear Traddles,' thought I, 'that would be pleasant and amiable. And by the way,' I said aloud, 'I suppose you never draw any skeletons now?' 'Really,' replied Traddles, laughing, and reddening, 'I can't wholly deny that I do, my dear Copperfield. For being in one of the back rows of the King's Bench the other day, with a pen in my hand, the fancy came into my head to try how I had preserved that accomplishment. And I am afraid there's a skeleton--in a wig--on the ledge of the desk.' After we had both laughed heartily, Traddles wound up by looking with a smile at the fire, and saying, in his forgiving way, 'Old Creakle!' 'I have a letter from that old--Rascal here,' said I. For I never was less disposed to forgive him the way he used to batter Traddles, than when I saw Traddles so ready to forgive him himself. 'From Creakle the schoolmaster?' exclaimed Traddles. 'No!' 'Among the persons who are attracted to me in my rising fame and fortune,' said I, looking over my letters, 'and who discover that they were always much attached to me, is the self-same Creakle. He is not a schoolmaster now, Traddles. He is retired. He is a Middlesex Magistrate.' I thought Traddles might be surprised to hear it, but he was not so at all. 'How do you suppose he comes to be a Middlesex Magistrate?' said I. 'Oh dear me!' replied Traddles, 'it would be very difficult to answer that question. Perhaps he voted for somebody, or lent money to somebody, or bought something of somebody, or otherwise obliged somebody, or jobbed for somebody, who knew somebody who got the lieutenant of the county to nominate him for the commission.' 'On the commission he is, at any rate,' said I. 'And he writes to me here, that he will be glad to show me, in operation, the only true system of prison discipline; the only unchallengeable way of making sincere and lasting converts and penitents--which, you know, is by solitary confinement. What do you say?' 'To the system?' inquired Traddles, looking grave. 'No. To my accepting the offer, and your going with me?' 'I don't object,' said Traddles. 'Then I'll write to say so. You remember (to say nothing of our treatment) this same Creakle turning his son out of doors, I suppose, and the life he used to lead his wife and daughter?' 'Perfectly,' said Traddles. 'Yet, if you'll read his letter, you'll find he is the tenderest of men to prisoners convicted of the whole calendar of felonies,' said I; 'though I can't find that his tenderness extends to any other class of created beings.' Traddles shrugged his shoulders, and was not at all surprised. I had not expected him to be, and was not surprised myself; or my observation of similar practical satires would have been but scanty. We arranged the time of our visit, and I wrote accordingly to Mr. Creakle that evening. On the appointed day--I think it was the next day, but no matter--Traddles and I repaired to the prison where Mr. Creakle was powerful. It was an immense and solid building, erected at a vast expense. I could not help thinking, as we approached the gate, what an uproar would have been made in the country, if any deluded man had proposed to spend one half the money it had cost, on the erection of an industrial school for the young, or a house of refuge for the deserving old. In an office that might have been on the ground-floor of the Tower of Babel, it was so massively constructed, we were presented to our old schoolmaster; who was one of a group, composed of two or three of the busier sort of magistrates, and some visitors they had brought. He received me, like a man who had formed my mind in bygone years, and had always loved me tenderly. On my introducing Traddles, Mr. Creakle expressed, in like manner, but in an inferior degree, that he had always been Traddles's guide, philosopher, and friend. Our venerable instructor was a great deal older, and not improved in appearance. His face was as fiery as ever; his eyes were as small, and rather deeper set. The scanty, wet-looking grey hair, by which I remembered him, was almost gone; and the thick veins in his bald head were none the more agreeable to look at. After some conversation among these gentlemen, from which I might have supposed that there was nothing in the world to be legitimately taken into account but the supreme comfort of prisoners, at any expense, and nothing on the wide earth to be done outside prison-doors, we began our inspection. It being then just dinner-time, we went, first into the great kitchen, where every prisoner's dinner was in course of being set out separately (to be handed to him in his cell), with the regularity and precision of clock-work. I said aside, to Traddles, that I wondered whether it occurred to anybody, that there was a striking contrast between these plentiful repasts of choice quality, and the dinners, not to say of paupers, but of soldiers, sailors, labourers, the great bulk of the honest, working community; of whom not one man in five hundred ever dined half so well. But I learned that the 'system' required high living; and, in short, to dispose of the system, once for all, I found that on that head and on all others, 'the system' put an end to all doubts, and disposed of all anomalies. Nobody appeared to have the least idea that there was any other system, but THE system, to be considered. As we were going through some of the magnificent passages, I inquired of Mr. Creakle and his friends what were supposed to be the main advantages of this all-governing and universally over-riding system? I found them to be the perfect isolation of prisoners--so that no one man in confinement there, knew anything about another; and the reduction of prisoners to a wholesome state of mind, leading to sincere contrition and repentance. Now, it struck me, when we began to visit individuals in their cells, and to traverse the passages in which those cells were, and to have the manner of the going to chapel and so forth, explained to us, that there was a strong probability of the prisoners knowing a good deal about each other, and of their carrying on a pretty complete system of intercourse. This, at the time I write, has been proved, I believe, to be the case; but, as it would have been flat blasphemy against the system to have hinted such a doubt then, I looked out for the penitence as diligently as I could. And here again, I had great misgivings. I found as prevalent a fashion in the form of the penitence, as I had left outside in the forms of the coats and waistcoats in the windows of the tailors' shops. I found a vast amount of profession, varying very little in character: varying very little (which I thought exceedingly suspicious), even in words. I found a great many foxes, disparaging whole vineyards of inaccessible grapes; but I found very few foxes whom I would have trusted within reach of a bunch. Above all, I found that the most professing men were the greatest objects of interest; and that their conceit, their vanity, their want of excitement, and their love of deception (which many of them possessed to an almost incredible extent, as their histories showed), all prompted to these professions, and were all gratified by them. However, I heard so repeatedly, in the course of our goings to and fro, of a certain Number Twenty Seven, who was the Favourite, and who really appeared to be a Model Prisoner, that I resolved to suspend my judgement until I should see Twenty Seven. Twenty Eight, I understood, was also a bright particular star; but it was his misfortune to have his glory a little dimmed by the extraordinary lustre of Twenty Seven. I heard so much of Twenty Seven, of his pious admonitions to everybody around him, and of the beautiful letters he constantly wrote to his mother (whom he seemed to consider in a very bad way), that I became quite impatient to see him. I had to restrain my impatience for some time, on account of Twenty Seven being reserved for a concluding effect. But, at last, we came to the door of his cell; and Mr. Creakle, looking through a little hole in it, reported to us, in a state of the greatest admiration, that he was reading a Hymn Book. There was such a rush of heads immediately, to see Number Twenty Seven reading his Hymn Book, that the little hole was blocked up, six or seven heads deep. To remedy this inconvenience, and give us an opportunity of conversing with Twenty Seven in all his purity, Mr. Creakle directed the door of the cell to be unlocked, and Twenty Seven to be invited out into the passage. This was done; and whom should Traddles and I then behold, to our amazement, in this converted Number Twenty Seven, but Uriah Heep! He knew us directly; and said, as he came out--with the old writhe,-- 'How do you do, Mr. Copperfield? How do you do, Mr. Traddles?' This recognition caused a general admiration in the party. I rather thought that everyone was struck by his not being proud, and taking notice of us. 'Well, Twenty Seven,' said Mr. Creakle, mournfully admiring him. 'How do you find yourself today?' 'I am very umble, sir!' replied Uriah Heep. 'You are always so, Twenty Seven,' said Mr. Creakle. Here, another gentleman asked, with extreme anxiety: 'Are you quite comfortable?' 'Yes, I thank you, sir!' said Uriah Heep, looking in that direction. 'Far more comfortable here, than ever I was outside. I see my follies, now, sir. That's what makes me comfortable.' Several gentlemen were much affected; and a third questioner, forcing himself to the front, inquired with extreme feeling: 'How do you find the beef?' 'Thank you, sir,' replied Uriah, glancing in the new direction of this voice, 'it was tougher yesterday than I could wish; but it's my duty to bear. I have committed follies, gentlemen,' said Uriah, looking round with a meek smile, 'and I ought to bear the consequences without repining.' A murmur, partly of gratification at Twenty Seven's celestial state of mind, and partly of indignation against the Contractor who had given him any cause of complaint (a note of which was immediately made by Mr. Creakle), having subsided, Twenty Seven stood in the midst of us, as if he felt himself the principal object of merit in a highly meritorious museum. That we, the neophytes, might have an excess of light shining upon us all at once, orders were given to let out Twenty Eight. I had been so much astonished already, that I only felt a kind of resigned wonder when Mr. Littimer walked forth, reading a good book! 'Twenty Eight,' said a gentleman in spectacles, who had not yet spoken, 'you complained last week, my good fellow, of the cocoa. How has it been since?' 'I thank you, sir,' said Mr. Littimer, 'it has been better made. If I might take the liberty of saying so, sir, I don't think the milk which is boiled with it is quite genuine; but I am aware, sir, that there is a great adulteration of milk, in London, and that the article in a pure state is difficult to be obtained.' It appeared to me that the gentleman in spectacles backed his Twenty Eight against Mr. Creakle's Twenty Seven, for each of them took his own man in hand. 'What is your state of mind, Twenty Eight?' said the questioner in spectacles. 'I thank you, sir,' returned Mr. Littimer; 'I see my follies now, sir. I am a good deal troubled when I think of the sins of my former companions, sir; but I trust they may find forgiveness.' 'You are quite happy yourself?' said the questioner, nodding encouragement. 'I am much obliged to you, sir,' returned Mr. Littimer. 'Perfectly so.' 'Is there anything at all on your mind now?' said the questioner. 'If so, mention it, Twenty Eight.' 'Sir,' said Mr. Littimer, without looking up, 'if my eyes have not deceived me, there is a gentleman present who was acquainted with me in my former life. It may be profitable to that gentleman to know, sir, that I attribute my past follies, entirely to having lived a thoughtless life in the service of young men; and to having allowed myself to be led by them into weaknesses, which I had not the strength to resist. I hope that gentleman will take warning, sir, and will not be offended at my freedom. It is for his good. I am conscious of my own past follies. I hope he may repent of all the wickedness and sin to which he has been a party.' I observed that several gentlemen were shading their eyes, each with one hand, as if they had just come into church. 'This does you credit, Twenty Eight,' returned the questioner. 'I should have expected it of you. Is there anything else?' 'Sir,' returned Mr. Littimer, slightly lifting up his eyebrows, but not his eyes, 'there was a young woman who fell into dissolute courses, that I endeavoured to save, sir, but could not rescue. I beg that gentleman, if he has it in his power, to inform that young woman from me that I forgive her her bad conduct towards myself, and that I call her to repentance--if he will be so good.' 'I have no doubt, Twenty Eight,' returned the questioner, 'that the gentleman you refer to feels very strongly--as we all must--what you have so properly said. We will not detain you.' 'I thank you, sir,' said Mr. Littimer. 'Gentlemen, I wish you a good day, and hoping you and your families will also see your wickedness, and amend!' With this, Number Twenty Eight retired, after a glance between him and Uriah; as if they were not altogether unknown to each other, through some medium of communication; and a murmur went round the group, as his door shut upon him, that he was a most respectable man, and a beautiful case. 'Now, Twenty Seven,' said Mr. Creakle, entering on a clear stage with his man, 'is there anything that anyone can do for you? If so, mention it.' 'I would umbly ask, sir,' returned Uriah, with a jerk of his malevolent head, 'for leave to write again to mother.' 'It shall certainly be granted,' said Mr. Creakle. 'Thank you, sir! I am anxious about mother. I am afraid she ain't safe.' Somebody incautiously asked, what from? But there was a scandalized whisper of 'Hush!' 'Immortally safe, sir,' returned Uriah, writhing in the direction of the voice. 'I should wish mother to be got into my state. I never should have been got into my present state if I hadn't come here. I wish mother had come here. It would be better for everybody, if they got took up, and was brought here.' This sentiment gave unbounded satisfaction--greater satisfaction, I think, than anything that had passed yet. 'Before I come here,' said Uriah, stealing a look at us, as if he would have blighted the outer world to which we belonged, if he could, 'I was given to follies; but now I am sensible of my follies. There's a deal of sin outside. There's a deal of sin in mother. There's nothing but sin everywhere--except here.' 'You are quite changed?' said Mr. Creakle. 'Oh dear, yes, sir!' cried this hopeful penitent. 'You wouldn't relapse, if you were going out?' asked somebody else. 'Oh de-ar no, sir!' 'Well!' said Mr. Creakle, 'this is very gratifying. You have addressed Mr. Copperfield, Twenty Seven. Do you wish to say anything further to him?' 'You knew me, a long time before I came here and was changed, Mr. Copperfield,' said Uriah, looking at me; and a more villainous look I never saw, even on his visage. 'You knew me when, in spite of my follies, I was umble among them that was proud, and meek among them that was violent--you was violent to me yourself, Mr. Copperfield. Once, you struck me a blow in the face, you know.' General commiseration. Several indignant glances directed at me. 'But I forgive you, Mr. Copperfield,' said Uriah, making his forgiving nature the subject of a most impious and awful parallel, which I shall not record. 'I forgive everybody. It would ill become me to bear malice. I freely forgive you, and I hope you'll curb your passions in future. I hope Mr. W. will repent, and Miss W., and all of that sinful lot. You've been visited with affliction, and I hope it may do you good; but you'd better have come here. Mr. W. had better have come here, and Miss W. too. The best wish I could give you, Mr. Copperfield, and give all of you gentlemen, is, that you could be took up and brought here. When I think of my past follies, and my present state, I am sure it would be best for you. I pity all who ain't brought here!' He sneaked back into his cell, amidst a little chorus of approbation; and both Traddles and I experienced a great relief when he was locked in. It was a characteristic feature in this repentance, that I was fain to ask what these two men had done, to be there at all. That appeared to be the last thing about which they had anything to say. I addressed myself to one of the two warders, who, I suspected from certain latent indications in their faces, knew pretty well what all this stir was worth. 'Do you know,' said I, as we walked along the passage, 'what felony was Number Twenty Seven's last "folly"?' The answer was that it was a Bank case. "Ein Betrug gegen die Bank of England?" fragte ich. "Ja, Sir. Betrug, Fälschung und Verschwörung. Er und einige andere. Er hat die anderen angeleitet. Es war eine ausgeklügelte Verschwörung für eine große Summe. Strafe: lebenslange Verbannung. Twenty Seven war der gewiefteste Vogel von allen und hätte sich beinahe selbst gerettet. Aber nicht ganz. Die Bank konnte ihm gerade noch auf die Schliche kommen - gerade so." "Wissen Sie, welches Verbrechen Twen Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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David verbringt einige Zeit damit, sein Buch bei seiner Tante zu beenden. Manchmal geht er nach London, um Traddles zu besuchen, der seine geschäftlichen Angelegenheiten regelt. Es stellt sich heraus, dass Sophy als Sekretärin trainiert wurde, um Traddles Arbeit nachzukommen. David lobt Traddles und Sophy als zwei der glücklichsten Menschen der Welt. Traddles stimmt zu: Er kann nicht glauben, wie glücklich er ist. Allerdings gibt Traddles zu, dass er neulich im Gerichtssaal zu seiner Kindheitsgewohnheit zurückgekehrt ist und Skelette gezeichnet hat. Das erinnert David daran, dass er einen Brief von Herrn Creakle, seinem Direktor, erhalten hat. Anscheinend ist Herr Creakle jetzt ein Magistrat - so etwas wie ein lokaler, kleiner Richter. Herr Creakle hat David eingeladen, das Gefängnisdisziplin in Aktion zu sehen. David schlägt vor, dass Traddles ihn begleitet, um Herrn Creakle zu sehen. Herr Creakle ist sehr freundlich zu seinen Gefangenen - viel freundlicher als zu jedem anderen unter seiner Herrschaft. Der ehemalige Schulleiter begrüßt David in seinem Gefängnis wie einen alten Freund, und das macht er auch bei Traddles. Das Geheimnis von Herrn Creakles Gefängnis ist absolute Isolation, was die Gefangenen dazu bringt, ihre bösen Taten zu bereuen. Trotz Herrn Creakles Behauptungen ist David sich ziemlich sicher, dass die Gefangenen aufgrund des Designs ihrer Zellen miteinander sprechen dürfen, als sie tatsächlich durch das Gefängnis als Teil einer Reisegruppe gehen. Einer der vorbildlichen Gefangenen ist Nummer 27, der zweite Nummer 28. Nummer 27 ist sehr fromm und heilig und schreibt oft an seine Mutter. Herr Creakle führt David zu Nummer 27, der geduldig Hymnen liest. Nummer 27 ist natürlich Uriah Heep. Er fragt, wie es David und Traddles geht. Uriah Heep erzählt ihnen, dass er heute sehr demütig ist. Heep behauptet, dass er im Gefängnis deutlich glücklicher ist als außerhalb. Uriah erzählt der Reisegruppe, dass er aufgrund seines Verhaltens im Gefängnis sein muss und seine Strafe ohne Murren ertragen soll. Die Reisegruppe ist sehr zustimmend. Als nächstes werden sie zu Nummer 28 geführt, und wer sollte es sein, außer Littimer! Littimer behauptet, von Erinnerungen an seine früheren Taten und Sünden geplagt zu sein. Er sagt, dass er vollkommen glücklich ist. Littimer erzählt der Gruppe, dass er unter ihnen einen Herren sieht, den er früher kannte. Dieser Herr sollte sein schlechtes Verhalten bereuen, bevor es zu spät ist. Man würde denken, dass dieser "Herren" zweifellos David ist, aber David bemerkt, dass eine Reihe von Männern in der Gruppe ihre Gesichter schuldbewusst verbergen. Littimer klärt dann auf, dass der "Herren" das "junge Mädchen, das in lasterhafte Wege geraten ist" - also Emily - stammen soll. Er vergibt ihr, dass sie ihn in die Irre geführt hat, bevor er allen einen guten Tag wünscht. Sie kehren zu Uriah Heep zurück. Herr Creakle fragt, ob er etwas braucht. Uriah Heep möchte an seine Mutter schreiben; er hat Angst, dass sie nicht in Sicherheit ist. Heep wünscht, dass seine Mutter ins Gefängnis gekommen wäre; tatsächlich denkt er, dass jeder im Gefängnis besser dran wäre. Uriah Heep verspricht Herrn Creakle, dass er ein anderer Mensch geworden ist. Uriah erinnert dann David an seine eigenen gewalttätigen Impulse - warum, er schlug Uriah einmal ins Gesicht! Aber Uriah Heep behauptet, dass er David vergibt, und er hofft, dass David und die Wickfields alle bereuen. Uriah Heep wurde wegen Bankbetrugs ins Gefängnis geschickt. Littimer hat einen Mann, für den er arbeitete, beraubt, wurde aber von einer kleinen Person - Miss Mowcher - verraten! Er hat Miss Mowcher ziemlich übel zugerichtet, aber sie ließ ihn nicht entkommen. David und Traddles erkennen beide, dass es keinen Sinn hat, Mr. Creakle zu sagen, dass Littimer und Uriah lügende Heuchler sind. Sie lassen die beiden dem Strafvollzugssystem überlassen.

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 in the air. White Fang sensed the coming calamity, even before there was tangible evidence of it. In vague ways it was borne in upon him that a change was impending. He knew not how nor why, yet he got his feel of the oncoming event from the gods themselves. In ways subtler than they knew, they betrayed their intentions to the wolf-dog that haunted the cabin-stoop, and that, though he never came inside the cabin, knew what went on inside their brains. "Listen to that, will you!" the dog-musher exclaimed at supper one night. Weedon Scott listened. Through the door came a low, anxious whine, like a sobbing under the breath that had just grown audible. Then came the long sniff, as White Fang reassured himself that his god was still inside and had not yet taken himself off in mysterious and solitary flight. "I do believe that wolf's on to you," the dog-musher said. Weedon Scott looked across at his companion with eyes that almost pleaded, though this was given the lie by his words. "What the devil can I do with a wolf in California?" he demanded. "That's what I say," Matt answered. "What the devil can you do with a wolf in California?" But this did not satisfy Weedon Scott. The other seemed to be judging him in a non-committal sort of way. "White man's dogs would have no show against him," Scott went on. "He'd kill them on sight. If he didn't bankrupt me with damage suits, the authorities would take him away from me and electrocute him." "He's a downright murderer, I know," was the dog-musher's comment. Weedon Scott looked at him suspiciously. "It would never do," he said decisively. "It would never do!" Matt concurred. "Why you'd have to hire a man 'specially to take care of 'm." The other's suspicion was allayed. He nodded cheerfully. In the silence that followed, the low, half-sobbing whine was heard at the door and then the long, questing sniff. "There's no denyin' he thinks a hell of a lot of you," Matt said. The other glared at him in sudden wrath. "Damn it all, man! I know my own mind and what's best!" "I'm agreein' with you, only . . . " "Only what?" Scott snapped out. "Only . . . " the dog-musher began softly, then changed his mind and betrayed a rising anger of his own. "Well, you needn't get so all-fired het up about it. Judgin' by your actions one'd think you didn't know your own mind." Weedon Scott debated with himself for a while, and then said more gently: "You are right, Matt. I don't know my own mind, and that's what's the trouble." "Why, it would be rank ridiculousness for me to take that dog along," he broke out after another pause. "I'm agreein' with you," was Matt's answer, and again his employer was not quite satisfied with him. "But how in the name of the great Sardanapolis he knows you're goin' is what gets me," the dog-musher continued innocently. "It's beyond me, Matt," Scott answered, with a mournful shake of the head. Then came the day when, through the open cabin door, White Fang saw the fatal grip on the floor and the love-master packing things into it. Also, there were comings and goings, and the erstwhile placid atmosphere of the cabin was vexed with strange perturbations and unrest. Here was indubitable evidence. White Fang had already scented it. He now reasoned it. His god was preparing for another flight. And since he had not taken him with him before, so, now, he could look to be left behind. That night he lifted the long wolf-howl. As he had howled, in his puppy days, when he fled back from the Wild to the village to find it vanished and naught but a rubbish-heap to mark the site of Grey Beaver's tepee, so now he pointed his muzzle to the cold stars and told to them his woe. Inside the cabin the two men had just gone to bed. "He's gone off his food again," Matt remarked from his bunk. There was a grunt from Weedon Scott's bunk, and a stir of blankets. "From the way he cut up the other time you went away, I wouldn't wonder this time but what he died." The blankets in the other bunk stirred irritably. "Oh, shut up!" Scott cried out through the darkness. "You nag worse than a woman." "I'm agreein' with you," the dog-musher answered, and Weedon Scott was not quite sure whether or not the other had snickered. The next day White Fang's anxiety and restlessness were even more pronounced. He dogged his master's heels whenever he left the cabin, and haunted the front stoop when he remained inside. Through the open door he could catch glimpses of the luggage on the floor. The grip had been joined by two large canvas bags and a box. Matt was rolling the master's blankets and fur robe inside a small tarpaulin. White Fang whined as he watched the operation. Later on two Indians arrived. He watched them closely as they shouldered the luggage and were led off down the hill by Matt, who carried the bedding and the grip. But White Fang did not follow them. The master was still in the cabin. After a time, Matt returned. The master came to the door and called White Fang inside. "You poor devil," he said gently, rubbing White Fang's ears and tapping his spine. "I'm hitting the long trail, old man, where you cannot follow. Now give me a growl--the last, good, good-bye growl." But White Fang refused to growl. Instead, and after a wistful, searching look, he snuggled in, burrowing his head out of sight between the master's arm and body. "There she blows!" Matt cried. From the Yukon arose the hoarse bellowing of a river steamboat. "You've got to cut it short. Be sure and lock the front door. I'll go out the back. Get a move on!" The two doors slammed at the same moment, and Weedon Scott waited for Matt to come around to the front. From inside the door came a low whining and sobbing. Then there were long, deep-drawn sniffs. "You must take good care of him, Matt," Scott said, as they started down the hill. "Write and let me know how he gets along." "Sure," the dog-musher answered. "But listen to that, will you!" Both men stopped. White Fang was howling as dogs howl when their masters lie dead. He was voicing an utter woe, his cry bursting upward in great heart-breaking rushes, dying down into quavering misery, and bursting upward again with a rush upon rush of grief. The _Aurora_ was the first steamboat of the year for the Outside, and her decks were jammed with prosperous adventurers and broken gold seekers, all equally as mad to get to the Outside as they had been originally to get to the Inside. Near the gang-plank, Scott was shaking hands with Matt, who was preparing to go ashore. But Matt's hand went limp in the other's grasp as his gaze shot past and remained fixed on something behind him. Scott turned to see. Sitting on the deck several feet away and watching wistfully was White Fang. The dog-musher swore softly, in awe-stricken accents. Scott could only look in wonder. "Did you lock the front door?" Matt demanded. The other nodded, and asked, "How about the back?" "You just bet I did," was the fervent reply. White Fang flattened his ears ingratiatingly, but remained where he was, making no attempt to approach. "I'll have to take 'm ashore with me." Matt made a couple of steps toward White Fang, but the latter slid away from him. The dog-musher made a rush of it, and White Fang dodged between the legs of a group of men. Ducking, turning, doubling, he slid about the deck, eluding the other's efforts to capture him. But when the love-master spoke, White Fang came to him with prompt obedience. "Won't come to the hand that's fed 'm all these months," the dog-musher muttered resentfully. "And you--you ain't never fed 'm after them first days of gettin' acquainted. I'm blamed if I can see how he works it out that you're the boss." Scott, who had been patting White Fang, suddenly bent closer and pointed out fresh-made cuts on his muzzle, and a gash between the eyes. Matt bent over and passed his hand along White Fang's belly. "We plumb forgot the window. He's all cut an' gouged underneath. Must 'a' butted clean through it, b'gosh!" But Weedon Scott was not listening. He was thinking rapidly. The _Aurora's_ whistle hooted a final announcement of departure. Men were scurrying down the gang-plank to the shore. Matt loosened the bandana from his own neck and started to put it around White Fang's. Scott grasped the dog-musher's hand. "Good-bye, Matt, old man. About the wolf--you needn't write. You see, I've . . . !" "What!" the dog-musher exploded. "You don't mean to say . . .?" "The very thing I mean. Here's your bandana. I'll write to you about him." Matt paused halfway down the gang-plank. "He'll never stand the climate!" he shouted back. "Unless you clip 'm in warm weather!" The gang-plank was hauled in, and the _Aurora_ swung out from the bank. Weedon Scott waved a last good-bye. Then he turned and bent over White Fang, standing by his side. "Now growl, damn you, growl," he said, as he patted the responsive head and rubbed the flattening ears. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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In diesem Kapitel bereitet sich Weedon Scott darauf vor, nach Kalifornien zurückzukehren, seiner Heimat, obwohl er weiß, dass er White Fang zurücklassen muss. White Fang spürt die bevorstehende Trennung und weigert sich erneut zu essen. Scott ist besorgt um den Wolfshund, aber er hat Angst, dass er niemals zahm genug sein wird, um in Kalifornien zu leben. Am Tag von Scotts Abreise ist White Fang die ganze Zeit an seiner Seite. Zwei Indianer kommen und nehmen das Gepäck mit und bringen es zum Dampfschiff Aurora, das mit Abenteurern und Goldsuchern gefüllt ist. Scott geht dann fort und schließt White Fang in der Kabine ein, bis er sicher abgefahren ist. White Fang bricht jedoch durch das Fenster aus und erscheint später an Bord des Schiffes. Scott, der eine solche Hingabe sieht, entscheidet sich schließlich, ihn mitzunehmen, trotz Matts Warnung, dass das Klima in Kalifornien White Fang nicht passen wird.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: DER plötzliche Tod eines so prominenten Mitglieds der sozialen Welt wie des Ehrwürdigen Richters Jaffrey Pyncheon, erregte eine Sensation (zumindest in den Kreisen, die unmittelbar mit dem Verstorbenen verbunden waren), die sich kaum in einem Fortnight gelegt hatte. Es ist jedoch zu bemerken, dass es unter allen Ereignissen, die eine Personenbiographie ausmachen, kaum eines gibt - jedenfalls keines von ähnlicher Bedeutung -, zu dem sich die Welt so leicht versöhnt wie zu seinem Tod. In den meisten anderen Fällen und Eventualitäten ist die Person unter uns, verwickelt in die tägliche Revolution der Angelegenheiten und bietet einen bestimmten Beobachtungspunkt. Bei seinem Ableben entsteht nur eine Lücke und eine vorübergehende Strömung - sehr klein im Vergleich zur scheinbaren Größe des verschlungenen Objekts - und ein oder zwei Blasen, die aus der schwarzen Tiefe aufsteigen und an der Oberfläche platzen. Was Richter Pyncheon betrifft, schien es auf den ersten Blick wahrscheinlich, dass die Art und Weise seines endgültigen Abschieds ihm mehr posthume Berühmtheit und eine längere Zeit einbringen würde, als dies normalerweise bei der Erinnerung an einen prominenten Mann der Fall ist. Aber als es verstanden wurde, dass das Ereignis auf höchster professioneller Autorität hin als natürlicher Tod und - abgesehen von einigen unwichtigen Details, die auf eine leichte Besonderheit hinweisen - keinesfalls eine ungewöhnliche Todesart war, ging die Öffentlichkeit mit ihrer gewohnten Behändigkeit dazu über, zu vergessen, dass er je gelebt hatte. Kurz gesagt, der ehrenwerte Richter wurde ein abgestandenes Thema, bevor halb so viele Landeszeitungen Zeit hatten, ihre Spalten zu trauern und seinen überaus lobenden Nachruf zu veröffentlichen. Dennoch, in den Orten, in denen sich diese ausgezeichnete Person zu Lebzeiten aufgehalten hatte, gab es eine versteckte Quelle der privaten Gespräche, die es als anständig erscheinen ließ, sie nicht laut auf den Straßenecken zu diskutieren. Es ist sehr eigenartig, wie der Tod eines Menschen den Menschen oft eine wahrere Vorstellung von seinem Charakter vermittelt, ob gut oder böse, als sie je hatten, während er unter ihnen lebte und handelte. Der Tod ist eine so genuine Tatsache, dass er Lüge ausschließt oder ihre Leere zeigt; es ist ein Prüfstein, der das Gold prüft und das mindere Metall entehrt. Wenn der Tote, wer immer er sein mag, eine Woche nach seinem Ableben zurückkehren würde, würde er sich fast immer auf einer höheren oder niedrigeren Stufe befinden, als er zuvor eingenommen hatte, auf der Skala der öffentlichen Wertschätzung. Aber das Gerede oder der Skandal, auf den wir uns jetzt beziehen, bezog sich auf Angelegenheiten, die mindestens dreißig oder vierzig Jahre zurücklagen, wie z. B. auf den vermeintlichen Mord an dem Onkel des verstorbenen Richters Pyncheon. Die medizinische Meinung über sein eigenes kürzlich und bedauerlicherweise eingetretenes Ableben hatte die Idee, dass in dem früheren Fall ein Mord begangen worden war, fast vollständig entkräftet. Dennoch gab es laut den Aufzeichnungen unbestreitbare Umstände, die darauf hindeuteten, dass jemand Zugang zu den Privaträumen von Jaffrey Pyncheon hatte, entweder zum Zeitpunkt seines Todes oder unmittelbar danach. Sein Schreibtisch und seine privaten Schubladen in einem Raum, der an sein Schlafzimmer grenzte, waren durchsucht worden; Geld und wertvolle Gegenstände fehlten; es gab einen blutigen Handabdruck auf den Leinen des alten Mannes; und durch eine kraftvoll geschmiedete Kette deduktiver Beweise war die Urheberschaft des Raubes und des mutmaßlichen Mordes auf Clifford übertragen worden, der damals bei seinem Onkel im Haus der sieben Giebel wohnte. Woher auch immer sie rührte, entstand nun eine Theorie, die versuchte, diese Umstände so zu erklären, dass Clifffords Beteiligung ausgeschlossen wurde. Viele behaupteten, dass die Geschichte und die Aufdeckung der lange so geheimnisvollen Fakten von dem Daguerreotypisten von einem dieser mesmerschen Seher stammten, die die irdischen Angelegenheiten in der heutigen Zeit so seltsam verkomplizieren und die natürliche Sicht der Dinge mit den Wundern, die sie mit geschlossenen Augen sehen, in Verlegenheit bringen. Nach dieser Version der Geschichte war Richter Pyncheon, wie wir ihn in unserer Erzählung dargestellt haben, in seiner Jugend ein scheinbar unverbesserlicher Schlingel. Die animalischen Instinkte waren, wie so oft, früher entwickelt als die intellektuellen Fähigkeiten und die Charakterstärke, für die er später bekannt war. Er hatte sich als wild, ausschweifend und süchtig nach niederen Vergnügungen erwiesen und war in seinen Neigungen fast schon schurkisch, sowie rücksichtslos teuer, ohne andere Ressourcen als die Gunst seines Onkels. Dieser Vorfall hatte die Zuneigung des alten Junggesellen, die einmal stark zu ihm gerichtet war, abgekühlt. Nun wird behauptet - obwohl wir nicht vorgeben, dies auf in einem Gericht akzeptierter Autorität nachgeprüft zu haben -, dass der junge Mann eines Nachts vom Teufel versucht wurde, die privaten Schubladen seines Onkels zu durchsuchen, zu denen er unbemerkt Zugang hatte. Während er also in strafbarer Weise beschäftigt war, wurde er durch das Öffnen der Tür des Zimmers erschreckt. Dort stand der alte Jaffrey Pyncheon in seinem Nachthemd! Die Überraschung über eine solche Entdeckung, seine Aufregung, Angst und Entsetzen führten zu einem Anfall einer Krankheit, für die der alte Junggeselle erblich veranlagt war; er schien am eigenen Blut zu ersticken und fiel mit schwerem Schlag gegen die Ecke eines Tisches auf den Boden. Was nun zu tun war? Der alte Mann war sicherlich tot! Hilfe würde zu spät kommen! Welch ein Unglück wäre es ja, wenn sie zu früh käme, da sein wiederkehendes Bewusstsein die Erinnerung an die schmachvolle Tat zurückbringen würde, die er seinen Neffen gerade begangen hatte! Doch er erholte sich nie. Mit der kühlen Dreistigkeit, die ihm immer eigen war, setzte der junge Mann seine Durchsuchung der Schubladen fort und fand ein kürzlich datiertes Testament zugunsten von Clifford - das er zerstörte - und ein älteres, zugunsten von ihm selbst, das er belassen konnte. Aber bevor Jaffrey ging, fiel ihm ein, dass es in diesen durchsuchten Schubladen Beweise gab, dass jemand mit bösen Absichten das Zimmer besucht hatte. Der Verdacht, sofern er nicht abschwankte, könnte auf den wahren Täter hinweisen. In Anwesenheit des Toten legte er daher eine List fest, die ihn auf Kosten von Clifford, seinem Rivalen, freisprechen sollte, über dessen Charakter er sowohl Verachtung als auch Widerwillen empfand. Es ist nicht wahrscheinlich, dass er mit dem festen Vorsatz handelte, Clifford mit einem Mordvorwurf zu belasten. Da er wusste, dass sein Onkel nicht gewaltsam zu Tode gekommen war, ist es ihm möglicherweise nicht einmal in der Eile der Krise eingefallen, dass ein solcher Schluss gezogen werden könnte. Aber als die Angelegenheit ein düsteres Aussehen annahm, hatte Jaffreys bisher Es war nun in Cliffords Leben viel zu spät, um die gute Meinung der Gesellschaft wert zu sein, die Mühe und Qual einer förmlichen Verteidigung auf sich zu nehmen. Was er brauchte, war die Liebe von sehr wenigen; nicht die Bewunderung oder auch nur den Respekt der unbekannten Vielen. Letzteres hätte ihm wahrscheinlich gewonnen werden können, wenn diejenigen, auf deren Obhut sein Wohl gefallen war, es für ratsam gehalten hätten, Clifford einer elenden Wiederbelebung vergangener Ideen auszusetzen, wenn der Zustand all dessen, was er an Trost erhoffen konnte, im Gleichmut des Vergessens lag. Nach solch einem Leid, wie er erlitten hatte, gibt es keine Wiedergutmachung. Die jämmerliche Verhöhnung dessen, was die Welt bereit gewesen wäre anzubieten, nachdem die Qual ihre größten Wirkungen bereits vollbracht hatte, hätte nur bitteren Spott provoziert, den der arme Clifford nie hätte empfinden können. Es ist eine Wahrheit (und es wäre eine sehr traurige, wenn es nicht durch die höheren Hoffnungen vermittelt würde, die es nahelegt), dass kein großer Fehler, ob begangen oder erlitten, in unserer sterblichen Sphäre jemals wirklich wieder gut gemacht wird. Zeit, die stetige Wechselhaftigkeit der Umstände und die unabänderliche Ungünstigkeit des Todes machen es unmöglich. Wenn, nach langen Jahren, das Richtige in unserer Macht zu sein scheint, finden wir keine Nische, um es zu platzieren. Das bessere Heilmittel ist für den Leidenden, weiterzugehen und das, was er einst für seinen irreparablen Ruin gehalten hat, weit hinter sich zu lassen. Der Schock von Richter Pyncheons Tod hatte eine dauerhaft belebende und letztendlich positive Auswirkung auf Clifford. Dieser starke und massige Mann war Cliffords Alptraum gewesen. Innerhalb des Wirkungsbereichs eines so bösartigen Einflusses konnte man kaum frei atmen. Die erste Wirkung der Freiheit, wie wir in Cliffords ziellosem Flugzeug gesehen haben, war ein zitternder Rausch. Als er sich davon erholt hatte, fiel er nicht in seine frühere intellektuelle Apathie zurück. Es stimmt zwar, dass er nie annähernd das volle Potenzial erreichte, das er hätte haben können. Aber er erlangte genug davon teilweise zurück, um seinen Charakter zu erhellen, um einige Konturen der wunderbaren Anmut, die darin abgeschlossen war, zu zeigen und um ihm das Objekt eines ebenso tiefen, wenn auch weniger melancholischen Interesses zu machen wie zuvor. Offensichtlich war er glücklich. Könnten wir innehalten, um ein weiteres Bild seines täglichen Lebens zu geben, mit all den Möglichkeiten, um seine Instinkt für das Schöne zu befriedigen, würden die Gartenbilder, die ihm so süß erschienen, im Vergleich dazu klein und banal aussehen. Sehr bald nach ihrem Glückswechsel beschlossen Clifford, Hepzibah und die kleine Phoebe mit Zustimmung des Künstlers, das düstere alte Haus der Sieben Giebel zu verlassen und vorerst im eleganten Landsitz des verstorbenen Richters Pyncheon zu wohnen. Chanticleer und seine Familie waren bereits dorthin gebracht worden, wo die beiden Hühner sofort begannen, unermüdlich Eier zu legen, mit offensichtlichem Vorsatz als Pflicht und Gewissen, ihre illustre Nachkommenschaft unter besseren Bedingungen fortzusetzen als in den letzten hundert Jahren. Am Tag der Abreise waren die Hauptpersonen unserer Geschichte, einschließlich des guten Onkels Venner, im Wohnzimmer versammelt. "Das Landhaus ist sicherlich ein sehr schönes, soweit der Plan geht", bemerkte Holgrave, als die Gruppe über ihre zukünftigen Vorkehrungen sprach. "Aber ich frage mich, warum der verstorbene Richter, der so wohlhabend war und in vernünftiger Aussicht, seinen Reichtum an seine eigenen Nachkommen weiterzugeben, nicht die Angemessenheit empfand, ein so ausgezeichnetes Beispiel für häusliche Architektur in Stein statt in Holz zu verkörpern. Dann könnte jede Generation der Familie das Innere nach ihrem eigenen Geschmack und ihrer eigenen Bequemlichkeit ändern, während das Äußere im Laufe der Jahre eine Ehrwürdigkeit zu seiner ursprünglichen Schönheit hinzufügen könnte und so den Eindruck von Beständigkeit vermitteln, was ich als wesentlich für das Glück dieses einen Augenblicks betrachte." "Warum", rief Phoebe, die mit endloser Verwunderung in das Gesicht des Künstlers starrte, "wie wunderbar haben sich deine Ideen geändert! Ein Haus aus Stein, tatsächlich! Es ist doch erst zwei oder drei Wochen her, dass du die Leute in etwas leben lassen wolltest, das so zerbrechlich und vorübergehend ist wie ein Vogelnest!" "Ach, Phoebe, ich habe dir gesagt, wie es sein würde!" sagte der Künstler mit einem halbmelancholischen Lachen. "Du findest mich schon als Konservativen! Nie hätte ich gedacht selbst einer zu werden. Es ist besonders unverzeihlich in dieser Behausung von so viel ererbtendem Unglück und unter dem Blick jener Porträts eines mustergültigen Konservativen, der sich in eben jener Eigenschaft so lange zum bösen Schicksal seines Geschlechts gemacht hat." "Dieses Bild!", sagte Clifford und schien dem strengen Blick auszuweichen. "Immer wenn ich es anschaue, ist da eine alte, träumerische Erinnerung, die mich heimsucht, aber knapp außerhalb der Reichweite meines Verstandes liegt. Reichtum, scheint es zu sagen! Grenzenloser Reichtum! Unermesslicher Reichtum! Ich kann mir vorstellen, dass dieses Porträt zu mir gesprochen und mir ein reiches Geheimnis verraten hat oder mir mit der geschriebenen Aufzeichnung von verborgenem Reichtum seine Hand entgegengestreckt hat. Aber diese alten Angelegenheiten sind für mich heute so dunkel geworden! Was könnte dieser Traum gewesen sein?" "Vielleicht kann ich es mir zurückrufen", antwortete Holgrave. "Sieh! Es gibt hundert zu eins Chancen, dass keine Person, die das Geheimnis nicht kennt, jemals diesen Schalter betätigt hat." "Ein geheimer Schalter!", rief Clifford. "Ah, ich erinnere mich jetzt! Ich habe ihn an einem Sommer-Nachmittag entdeckt, als ich vor so langer Zeit im Haus herumgeirrt und geträumt habe. Aber das Rätsel entzieht sich mir." Der Künstler legte seinen Finger auf die Einrichtung, auf die er verwiesen hatte. Früher hätte die Wirkung wahrscheinlich dazu geführt, dass das Bild nach vorne springt. Aber in so langer Zeit der Verborgenheit war die Mechanik vom Rost zerfressen worden, so dass das Porträt bei Holgraves Druck plötzlich samt Rahmen von seiner Position fiel und mit dem Gesicht nach unten auf dem Boden landete. Eine Nische in der Wand wurde dadurch zum Vorschein gebracht, in der ein Gegenstand lag, der von einem Jahrhundert Staub bedeckt war und nicht sofort als eine gefaltete Pergamentrolle erkannt werden konnte. Holgrave öffnete sie und zeigte eine alte Urkunde, unterzeichnet mit den Hieroglyphen mehrerer Indianerhäuptlinge, die dem Colonel Pyncheon und seinen Erben für immer ein weites Gebiet im Osten übertrug. "Das ist das eigentliche Pergament, dessen Wiederherstellung die wunderschöne Alice Pyncheon ihr Glück und ihr Leben gekostet hat", sagte der Künstler und bezog sich auf seine Sage. "Es ist das, wonach die Pyncheons vergeblich gesucht haben, als es wertvoll war. Und jetzt, da sie den Schatz finden, ist er längst wertlos geworden." "Arme Cousin Jaffrey! Das ist es, was ihn getäuscht hat!" rief Hepzibah aus. "Als sie noch jung waren, hat "Onkel Venner", rief Phoebe und nahm die Hand des geflickten Philosophen, "du darfst nie wieder über deine Farm sprechen! Du wirst dort nie wieder hingehen, solange du lebst! In unserem neuen Garten gibt es eine Hütte - die hübscheste kleine gelblich-braune Hütte, die du je gesehen hast. Und der süßeste Ort, denn es sieht aus, als wäre sie aus Lebkuchen gemacht. Und wir werden sie für dich einrichten und möblieren, extra für dich. Und du wirst nur das tun, was du willst, und so glücklich sein, wie es der Tag lang ist, und Cousin Clifford in Stimmung halten mit der Weisheit und Freundlichkeit, die immer von deinen Lippen tropft!" "Ach, mein liebes Kind", sagte Onkel Venner, ganz überwältigt, "wenn du mit einem jungen Mann genauso sprichst wie mit einem alten, wäre seine Chance, sein Herz noch eine Minute zu behalten, nicht mal einen meiner Westenknöpfe wert! Und - lebendige Seele! - dieser große Seufzer, den du mich ausstoßen ließest, hat den allerletzten von ihnen abgesprengt! Aber das macht nichts! Es war der glücklichste Seufzer, den ich je ausgestoßen habe; und es scheint, als hätte ich einen Schluck himmlischer Luft eingeatmet, um ihn zu machen. Nun gut, nun gut, Fräulein Phoebe! Man wird mich vermissen in den Gärten hier in der Nähe und rund um die Hintertüren. Und ich fürchte, Pyncheon Street wird ohne den alten Onkel Venner kaum mehr so aussehen, wie er sie mit einem Mähdrescher auf der einen Seite und dem Garten der Seven Gables auf der anderen Seite kannte. Aber entweder ich muss deinen Landsitz besuchen oder du musst auf meine Farm kommen - das sind zwei sichere Möglichkeiten; und ich überlasse es dir, zu wählen!" "Oh, komm auf jeden Fall mit uns, Onkel Venner!", sagte Clifford, der eine bemerkenswerte Freude an dem milden, ruhigen und einfachen Geist des alten Mannes hatte. "Ich möchte, dass du immer innerhalb von fünf Minuten Meines Stuhls bist. Du bist der einzige Philosoph, den ich kenne, dessen Weisheit keinen bitteren Kern hat!" "Ach du meine Güte!", rief Onkel Venner aus und begann langsam zu begreifen, welcher Art von Mann er war. "Und dabei haben die Leute mich in meiner Jugend immer zu den Einfältigen gezählt! Aber ich denke, ich bin wie ein Roxbury-Russet-Apfel - je länger ich aufbewahrt werde, desto besser. Ja, und meine Weisheitsworte, von denen du und Phoebe mir erzählen, sind wie die goldenen Löwenzähne, die in den heißen Monaten niemals wachsen, aber manchmal bis Dezember glänzen und zwischen dem vertrockneten Gras und unter den trockenen Blättern zu sehen sind. Und ihr seid willkommen, Freunde, zu meinem Löwenzahnschmaus, auch wenn es doppelt so viele wären!" Eine schlichte, aber hübsche dunkelgrüne Kutsche hatte nun vor dem verfallenen Portal des alten Herrenhauses angehalten. Die Gruppe trat hervor und (mit Ausnahme von Onkel Venner, der in ein paar Tagen folgen sollte) nahm ihre Plätze ein. Sie plauderten und lachten sehr angenehm miteinander - und wie sich oft herausstellt, genau in dem Moment, in dem wir eigentlich vor innerlicher Aufregung platzen sollten - verabschiedeten sich Clifford und Hepzibah endgültig von der Heimstätte ihrer Vorfahren, ohne viel mehr Emotionen zu zeigen, als wenn sie es sich vorgenommen hätten, zur Teatime dorthin zurückzukehren. Mehrere Kinder wurden von dem ungewöhnlichen Anblick der Kutsche mit den beiden grauen Pferden angezogen. Als sie den kleinen Ned Higgins erkannte, steckte Hepzibah ihre Hand in ihre Tasche und schenkte dem Jungen, ihrem treuesten und frühesten Kunden, genug Silber, um die Höhle von Domdaniel in seinem Inneren mit einer ebenso vielfältigen Prozession von Vierbeinern zu bevölkern wie Noahs Arche. Gerade als die Kutsche abfuhr, kamen zwei Männer vorbei. "Nun, Dixey", sagte einer von ihnen, "was hältst du davon? Meine Frau hatte drei Monate lang einen Cent-Shop und hat dabei fünf Dollar Verlust gemacht. Old Maid Pyncheon hat ungefähr genauso lange im Handel gestanden und fährt nun in ihrer Kutsche mit ein paar hunderttausend davon - wenn man ihren Anteil, Cliffords und Phoebes mitrechnet - und einige sagen sogar doppelt so viel! Wenn du es als Glück bezeichnen willst, ist das alles in Ordnung; aber wenn wir es als den Willen Gottes betrachten sollen, ja, das kann ich nicht genau begreifen!" "Ziemlich gutes Geschäft!", sagte der kluge Dixey, "ziemlich gutes Geschäft!" Maules Brunnen war die ganze Zeit über, obwohl verlassen, dabei, eine Folge von kaleidoskopischen Bildern zu erzeugen, in denen ein begabtes Auge das kommende Schicksal von Hepzibah und Clifford und dem Nachkommen des legendären Zauberers und der Dorfjungfrau, über die er den Liebeszauber geworfen hatte, vorhersehen konnte. Die Pyncheon Ulme flüsterte darüber hinaus mit dem wenigen Laub, das der Septembersturm von ihr übrig gelassen hatte, unverständliche Prophezeiungen. Und der weise Onkel Venner, der langsam von der verfallenen Veranda ging, schien eine Melodie zu hören und dachte, dass die süße Alice Pyncheon - nachdem sie diese Taten, dieses vergangene Elend und dieses gegenwärtige Glück ihrer menschlichen Verwandten gesehen hatte - mit ihrer Harpsichord einen abschließenden Hauch von Freude eines Geistes gegeben habe, während sie sich von den Seven Gables himmelwärts erhob! Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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

Bevor Holgrave die Türen des Hauses weit öffnen und das warme Sonnenlicht hereinlassen kann, betreten Hepzibah und Clifford das Haus und umarmen Phoebe, die nun glücklich zu ihnen zurückgekehrt ist. Nach dem, was bald als "natürlicher Tod" bezeichnet wird, gerät Richter Pyncheon schnell in Vergessenheit. Es wird eine Theorie aufgestellt, dass er als Jugendlicher von seinem Onkel überrascht wurde, während er dessen Schreibtisch durchsuchte. Der alte Mann erlitt einen Anfall und starb, und der potenzielle Dieb fand zwei Testamente, eines zugunsten des Richters und ein späteres Testament zugunsten von Clifford. Das letztere zerstörend, legte der Richter Beweise vor, die den Verdacht auf Clifford lenkten, der daraufhin wegen Mordes ins Gefängnis kam. Der Sohn des Richters ist ihm nun vorausgegangen; so erben Clifford und Hepzibah seinen Reichtum und sein Landgut, zu dem sie beschließen, zu ziehen. Clifford ist jetzt ruhiger und glücklicher, aber er ist immer noch nicht gesund. Kein großer Fehler kann jemals wirklich richtiggestellt werden, scheint Hawthorne zu sagen. Holgrave erzählt Phoebe schließlich, dass er ein Maule ist, und mit einem Lachen bringt er zum Ausdruck, dass er als Nicht-Reformer bedauert, dass ihr Landgut aus Holz und nicht aus dauerhaftem Stein besteht. Er entdeckt eine Quelle - an die sich Clifford jetzt vage erinnert - auf dem Ahnenporträt und enthüllt, dass dahinter die nun nutzlose Urkunde für die Indianerländer liegt. Als sie im September beschließen, aufs Land zu ziehen, nehmen sie Onkel Venner mit. Der alte Mann meint, er höre den Schatten von Alice Pyncheon süße Musik spielen.

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: Upon their arrival at Venice, Candide went to search for Cacambo at every inn and coffee-house, and among all the ladies of pleasure, but to no purpose. He sent every day to inquire on all the ships that came in. But there was no news of Cacambo. "What!" said he to Martin, "I have had time to voyage from Surinam to Bordeaux, to go from Bordeaux to Paris, from Paris to Dieppe, from Dieppe to Portsmouth, to coast along Portugal and Spain, to cross the whole Mediterranean, to spend some months, and yet the beautiful Cunegonde has not arrived! Instead of her I have only met a Parisian wench and a Perigordian Abbe. Cunegonde is dead without doubt, and there is nothing for me but to die. Alas! how much better it would have been for me to have remained in the paradise of El Dorado than to come back to this cursed Europe! You are in the right, my dear Martin: all is misery and illusion." He fell into a deep melancholy, and neither went to see the opera, nor any of the other diversions of the Carnival; nay, he was proof against the temptations of all the ladies. "You are in truth very simple," said Martin to him, "if you imagine that a mongrel valet, who has five or six millions in his pocket, will go to the other end of the world to seek your mistress and bring her to you to Venice. If he find her, he will keep her to himself; if he do not find her he will get another. I advise you to forget your valet Cacambo and your mistress Cunegonde." Martin was not consoling. Candide's melancholy increased; and Martin continued to prove to him that there was very little virtue or happiness upon earth, except perhaps in El Dorado, where nobody could gain admittance. While they were disputing on this important subject and waiting for Cunegonde, Candide saw a young Theatin friar in St. Mark's Piazza, holding a girl on his arm. The Theatin looked fresh coloured, plump, and vigorous; his eyes were sparkling, his air assured, his look lofty, and his step bold. The girl was very pretty, and sang; she looked amorously at her Theatin, and from time to time pinched his fat cheeks. "At least you will allow me," said Candide to Martin, "that these two are happy. Hitherto I have met with none but unfortunate people in the whole habitable globe, except in El Dorado; but as to this pair, I would venture to lay a wager that they are very happy." "I lay you they are not," said Martin. "We need only ask them to dine with us," said Candide, "and you will see whether I am mistaken." Immediately he accosted them, presented his compliments, and invited them to his inn to eat some macaroni, with Lombard partridges, and caviare, and to drink some Montepulciano, Lachrymae Christi, Cyprus and Samos wine. The girl blushed, the Theatin accepted the invitation and she followed him, casting her eyes on Candide with confusion and surprise, and dropping a few tears. No sooner had she set foot in Candide's apartment than she cried out: "Ah! Mr. Candide does not know Paquette again." Candide had not viewed her as yet with attention, his thoughts being entirely taken up with Cunegonde; but recollecting her as she spoke. "Alas!" said he, "my poor child, it is you who reduced Doctor Pangloss to the beautiful condition in which I saw him?" "Alas! it was I, sir, indeed," answered Paquette. "I see that you have heard all. I have been informed of the frightful disasters that befell the family of my lady Baroness, and the fair Cunegonde. I swear to you that my fate has been scarcely less sad. I was very innocent when you knew me. A Grey Friar, who was my confessor, easily seduced me. The consequences were terrible. I was obliged to quit the castle some time after the Baron had sent you away with kicks on the backside. If a famous surgeon had not taken compassion on me, I should have died. For some time I was this surgeon's mistress, merely out of gratitude. His wife, who was mad with jealousy, beat me every day unmercifully; she was a fury. The surgeon was one of the ugliest of men, and I the most wretched of women, to be continually beaten for a man I did not love. You know, sir, what a dangerous thing it is for an ill-natured woman to be married to a doctor. Incensed at the behaviour of his wife, he one day gave her so effectual a remedy to cure her of a slight cold, that she died two hours after, in most horrid convulsions. The wife's relations prosecuted the husband; he took flight, and I was thrown into jail. My innocence would not have saved me if I had not been good-looking. The judge set me free, on condition that he succeeded the surgeon. I was soon supplanted by a rival, turned out of doors quite destitute, and obliged to continue this abominable trade, which appears so pleasant to you men, while to us women it is the utmost abyss of misery. I have come to exercise the profession at Venice. Ah! sir, if you could only imagine what it is to be obliged to caress indifferently an old merchant, a lawyer, a monk, a gondolier, an abbe, to be exposed to abuse and insults; to be often reduced to borrowing a petticoat, only to go and have it raised by a disagreeable man; to be robbed by one of what one has earned from another; to be subject to the extortions of the officers of justice; and to have in prospect only a frightful old age, a hospital, and a dung-hill; you would conclude that I am one of the most unhappy creatures in the world."[33] Paquette thus opened her heart to honest Candide, in the presence of Martin, who said to his friend: "You see that already I have won half the wager." Friar Giroflee stayed in the dining-room, and drank a glass or two of wine while he was waiting for dinner. "But," said Candide to Paquette, "you looked so gay and content when I met you; you sang and you behaved so lovingly to the Theatin, that you seemed to me as happy as you pretend to be now the reverse." "Ah! sir," answered Paquette, "this is one of the miseries of the trade. Yesterday I was robbed and beaten by an officer; yet to-day I must put on good humour to please a friar." Candide wanted no more convincing; he owned that Martin was in the right. They sat down to table with Paquette and the Theatin; the repast was entertaining; and towards the end they conversed with all confidence. "Father," said Candide to the Friar, "you appear to me to enjoy a state that all the world might envy; the flower of health shines in your face, your expression makes plain your happiness; you have a very pretty girl for your recreation, and you seem well satisfied with your state as a Theatin." "My faith, sir," said Friar Giroflee, "I wish that all the Theatins were at the bottom of the sea. I have been tempted a hundred times to set fire to the convent, and go and become a Turk. My parents forced me at the age of fifteen to put on this detestable habit, to increase the fortune of a cursed elder brother, whom God confound. Jealousy, discord, and fury, dwell in the convent. It is true I have preached a few bad sermons that have brought me in a little money, of which the prior stole half, while the rest serves to maintain my girls; but when I return at night to the monastery, I am ready to dash my head against the walls of the dormitory; and all my fellows are in the same case." Martin turned towards Candide with his usual coolness. "Well," said he, "have I not won the whole wager?" Candide gave two thousand piastres to Paquette, and one thousand to Friar Giroflee. "I'll answer for it," said he, "that with this they will be happy." "I do not believe it at all," said Martin; "you will, perhaps, with these piastres only render them the more unhappy." "Let that be as it may," said Candide, "but one thing consoles me. I see that we often meet with those whom we expected never to see more; so that, perhaps, as I have found my red sheep and Paquette, it may well be that I shall also find Cunegonde." "Ich wünsche", sagte Martin, "dass sie dich eines Tages sehr glücklich machen wird; aber ich bezweifle es sehr." "Du bist sehr schwer zu überzeugen", sagte Candide. "Ich habe gelebt", sagte Martin. "Siehst du diese Gondolieri", sagte Candide, "singen sie nicht ununterbrochen?" "Du siehst sie nicht", sagte Martin, "zu Hause bei ihren Frauen und Kindern. Der Doge hat seine Sorgen, die Gondolieri haben ihre eigenen. Es ist wahr, dass alles in allem das Leben eines Gondoliers dem eines Doge vorzuziehen ist; aber ich glaube, der Unterschied ist so gering, dass es die Mühe nicht wert ist, ihn zu untersuchen." "Die Leute reden", sagte Candide, "über den Senator Pococurante, der in diesem schönen Palast am Brenta lebt, wo er Ausländer auf höflichste Weise bewirtet. Sie tun so, als ob dieser Mann niemals Unbehagen empfunden habe." "Es würde mich freuen, eine solche Rarität zu sehen", sagte Martin. Candide schickte sofort eine Anfrage an Herrn Pococurante, um um Erlaubnis zu bitten, ihn am nächsten Tag besuchen zu dürfen. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Candide und Martin kommen in Venedig an. Mehrere Monate lang sucht Candide nach Nachrichten von Cacambo und Cunegonde, aber er kann sie nicht finden. Er vermutet das Schlimmste und wird depressiv. Er wünscht, er wäre in Eldorado geblieben. Martin, immer der Pessimist, schlägt vor, dass Candide zu viel Vertrauen in Cacambo hat. Wahrscheinlich, sagt er, hat Cacambo das Vermögen genommen und genießt es, anstatt die Welt nach der schönen Cunegonde zu durchsuchen. Candide und Martin beobachten ein glücklich aussehendes Paar, eine Frau und einen Mönch, die die Straße entlang gehen. Martin wettet mit Candide, dass sie tatsächlich sehr unglücklich sind. Um die Wette zu klären, lädt Martin das Paar zum Abendessen ein. Sie nehmen an, und die Frau stellt sich als Paquette heraus, die Dienerin aus Thunder-ten-tronckh, die Pangloss mit Syphilis infiziert hat. Wir machen keinen Scherz. Candide findet heraus, dass Paquette tatsächlich sehr unglücklich war. Nach einer Reihe unglücklicher Ereignisse musste sie sich zur Prostitution zwingen, um sich selbst zu unterstützen. Der Mönch ist nicht Paquettes Liebhaber, sondern nur ihr Kunde. Candide fragt den Mönch, ob er glücklich ist, und entgegen seiner Erwartung sagt der Mönch, dass er unglücklich ist. Candide und Martin vereinbaren einen Termin, um den Grafen Pococurante zu besuchen, der angeblich ein sehr glücklicher Mann ist.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Actus Quintus. Scena Prima. Enter Buckingham with Halberds, led to Execution. Buc. Will not King Richard let me speake with him? Sher. No my good Lord, therefore be patient Buc. Hastings, and Edwards children, Gray & Riuers, Holy King Henry, and thy faire Sonne Edward, Vaughan, and all that haue miscarried By vnder-hand corrupted foule iniustice, If that your moody discontented soules, Do through the clowds behold this present houre, Euen for reuenge mocke my destruction. This is All-soules day (Fellow) is it not? Sher. It is Buc. Why then Al-soules day, is my bodies doomsday This is the day, which in King Edwards time I wish'd might fall on me, when I was found False to his Children, and his Wiues Allies. This is the day, wherein I wisht to fall By the false Faith of him whom most I trusted. This, this All-soules day to my fearfull Soule, Is the determin'd respit of my wrongs: That high All-seer, which I dallied with, Hath turn'd my fained Prayer on my head, And giuen in earnest, what I begg'd in iest. Thus doth he force the swords of wicked men To turne their owne points in their Masters bosomes. Thus Margarets curse falles heauy on my necke: When he (quoth she) shall split thy heart with sorrow, Remember Margaret was a Prophetesse: Come leade me Officers to the blocke of shame, Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame. Exeunt. Buckingham with Officers. Scena Secunda. Enter Richmond, Oxford, Blunt, Herbert, and others, with drum and colours. Richm. Fellowes in Armes, and my most louing Frends Bruis'd vnderneath the yoake of Tyranny, Thus farre into the bowels of the Land, Haue we marcht on without impediment; And heere receiue we from our Father Stanley Lines of faire comfort and encouragement: The wretched, bloody, and vsurping Boare, (That spoyl'd your Summer Fields, and fruitfull Vines) Swilles your warm blood like wash, & makes his trough In your embowel'd bosomes: This foule Swine Is now euen in the Centry of this Isle, Ne're to the Towne of Leicester, as we learne: From Tamworth thither, is but one dayes march. In Gods name cheerely on, couragious Friends, To reape the Haruest of perpetuall peace, By this one bloody tryall of sharpe Warre Oxf. Euery mans Conscience is a thousand men, To fight against this guilty Homicide Her. I doubt not but his Friends will turne to vs Blunt. He hath no friends, but what are friends for fear, Which in his deerest neede will flye from him Richm. All for our vantage, then in Gods name march, True Hope is swift, and flyes with Swallowes wings, Kings it makes Gods, and meaner creatures Kings. Exeunt. Omnes. Enter King Richard in Armes with Norfolke, Ratcliffe, and the Earle of Surrey. Rich. Here pitch our Tent, euen here in Bosworth field, My Lord of Surrey, why looke you so sad? Sur. My heart is ten times lighter then my lookes Rich. My Lord of Norfolke Nor. Heere most gracious Liege Rich. Norfolke, we must haue knockes: Ha, must we not? Nor. We must both giue and take my louing Lord Rich. Vp with my Tent, heere wil I lye to night, But where to morrow? Well, all's one for that. Who hath descried the number of the Traitors? Nor. Six or seuen thousand is their vtmost power Rich. Why our Battalia trebbles that account: Besides, the Kings name is a Tower of strength, Which they vpon the aduerse Faction want. Vp with the Tent: Come Noble Gentlemen, Let vs suruey the vantage of the ground. Call for some men of sound direction: Let's lacke no Discipline, make no delay, For Lords, to morrow is a busie day. Exeunt. Enter Richmond, Sir William Branden, Oxford, and Dorset. Richm. The weary Sunne, hath made a Golden set, And by the bright Tract of his fiery Carre, Giues token of a goodly day to morrow. Sir William Brandon, you shall beare my Standard: Giue me some Inke and Paper in my Tent: Ile draw the Forme and Modell of our Battaile, Limit each Leader to his seuerall Charge, And part in iust proportion our small Power. My Lord of Oxford, you Sir William Brandon, And your Sir Walter Herbert stay with me: The Earle of Pembroke keepes his Regiment; Good Captaine Blunt, beare my goodnight to him, And by the second houre in the Morning, Desire the Earle to see me in my Tent: Yet one thing more (good Captaine) do for me: Where is Lord Stanley quarter'd, do you know? Blunt. Vnlesse I haue mistane his Colours much, (Which well I am assur'd I haue not done) His Regiment lies halfe a Mile at least South, from the mighty Power of the King Richm. If without perill it be possible, Sweet Blunt, make some good meanes to speak with him And giue him from me, this most needfull Note Blunt. Vpon my life, my Lord, Ile vndertake it, And so God giue you quiet rest to night Richm. Good night good Captaine Blunt: Come Gentlemen, Let vs consult vpon to morrowes Businesse; Into my Tent, the Dew is rawe and cold. They withdraw into the Tent. Enter Richard, Ratcliffe, Norfolke, & Catesby. Rich. What is't a Clocke? Cat. It's Supper time my Lord, it's nine a clocke King. I will not sup to night, Giue me some Inke and Paper: What, is my Beauer easier then it was? And all my Armour laid into my Tent? Cat. It is my Liege: and all things are in readinesse Rich. Good Norfolke, hye thee to thy charge, Vse carefull Watch, choose trusty Centinels, Nor. I go my Lord Rich. Stir with the Larke to morrow, gentle Norfolk Nor. I warrant you my Lord. Exit Rich. Ratcliffe Rat. My Lord Rich. Send out a Pursuiuant at Armes To Stanleys Regiment: bid him bring his power Before Sun-rising, least his Sonne George fall Into the blinde Caue of eternall night. Fill me a Bowle of Wine: Giue me a Watch, Saddle white Surrey for the Field to morrow: Look that my Staues be sound, & not too heauy. Ratcliff Rat. My Lord Rich. Saw'st the melancholly Lord Northumberland? Rat. Thomas the Earle of Surrey, and himselfe, Much about Cockshut time, from Troope to Troope Went through the Army, chearing vp the Souldiers King. So, I am satisfied: Giue me a Bowle of Wine, I haue not that Alacrity of Spirit, Nor cheere of Minde that I was wont to haue. Set it downe. Is Inke and Paper ready? Rat. It is my Lord Rich. Bid my Guard watch. Leaue me. Ratcliffe, about the mid of night come to my Tent And helpe to arme me. Leaue me I say. Exit Ratclif. Enter Derby to Richmond in his Tent. Der. Fortune, and Victory sit on thy Helme Rich. All comfort that the darke night can affoord, Be to thy Person, Noble Father in Law. Tell me, how fares our Noble Mother? Der. I by Attourney, blesse thee from thy Mother, Who prayes continually for Richmonds good: So much for that. The silent houres steale on, And flakie darkenesse breakes within the East. In breefe, for so the season bids vs be, Prepare thy Battell early in the Morning, And put thy Fortune to th' Arbitrement Of bloody stroakes, and mortall staring Warre: I, as I may, that which I would, I cannot, With best aduantage will deceiue the time, And ayde thee in this doubtfull shocke of Armes. But on thy side I may not be too forward, Least being seene, thy Brother, tender George Be executed in his Fathers sight. Farewell: the leysure, and the fearfull time Cuts off the ceremonious Vowes of Loue, And ample enterchange of sweet Discourse, Which so long sundred Friends should dwell vpon: God giue vs leysure for these rites of Loue. Once more Adieu, be valiant, and speed well Richm. Good Lords conduct him to his Regiment: Ile striue with troubled noise, to take a Nap, Lest leaden slumber peize me downe to morrow, When I should mount with wings of Victory: Once more, good night kinde Lords and Gentlemen. Exeunt. Manet Richmond. O thou, whose Captaine I account my selfe, Looke on my Forces with a gracious eye: Put in their hands thy bruising Irons of wrath, That they may crush downe with a heauy fall, Th' vsurping Helmets of our Aduersaries: Make vs thy ministers of Chasticement, That we may praise thee in thy victory: To thee I do commend my watchfull soule, Ere I let fall the windowes of mine eyes: Sleeping, and waking, oh defend me still. Sleeps. Enter the Ghost of Prince Edward, Sonne to Henry the sixt. Gh. to Ri[chard]. Let me sit heauy on thy soule to morrow: Thinke how thou stab'st me in my prime of youth At Teukesbury: Dispaire therefore, and dye. Ghost to Richm[ond]. Be chearefull Richmond, For the wronged Soules Of butcher'd Princes, fight in thy behalfe: King Henries issue Richmond comforts thee. Enter the Ghost of Henry the sixt. Ghost. When I was mortall, my Annointed body By thee was punched full of holes; Thinke on the Tower, and me: Dispaire, and dye, Harry the sixt, bids thee dispaire, and dye. To Richm[ond]. Vertuous and holy be thou Conqueror: Harry that prophesied thou should'st be King, Doth comfort thee in sleepe: Liue, and flourish. Enter the Ghost of Clarence. Ghost. Let me sit heauy in thy soule to morrow. I that was wash'd to death with Fulsome Wine: Poore Clarence by thy guile betray'd to death: To morrow in the battell thinke on me, And fall thy edgelesse Sword, dispaire and dye. To Richm[ond]. Thou off-spring of the house of Lancaster The wronged heyres of Yorke do pray for thee, Good Angels guard thy battell, Liue and Flourish. Enter the Ghosts of Riuers, Gray, and Vaughan. Riu. Let me sit heauy in thy soule to morrow, Riuers, that dy'de at Pomfret: dispaire, and dye Grey. Thinke vpon Grey, and let thy soule dispaire Vaugh. Thinke vpon Vaughan, and with guilty feare Let fall thy Lance, dispaire and dye. All to Richm[ond]. Awake, And thinke our wrongs in Richards Bosome, Will conquer him. Awake, and win the day. Enter the Ghost of Lord Hastings. Gho. Bloody and guilty: guiltily awake, And in a bloody Battell end thy dayes. Thinke on Lord Hastings: dispaire, and dye. Hast. to Rich[ard]. Quiet vntroubled soule, Awake, awake: Arme, fight, and conquer, for faire Englands sake. Enter the Ghosts of the two yong Princes. Ghosts. Dreame on thy Cousins Smothered in the Tower: Let vs be laid within thy bosome Richard, And weigh thee downe to ruine, shame, and death, Thy Nephewes soule bids thee dispaire and dye. Ghosts to Richm[ond]. Sleepe Richmond, Sleepe in Peace, and wake in Ioy, Good Angels guard thee from the Boares annoy, Liue, and beget a happy race of Kings, Edwards vnhappy Sonnes, do bid thee flourish. Enter the Ghost of Anne, his Wife. Ghost to Rich[ard]. Richard, thy Wife, That wretched Anne thy Wife, That neuer slept a quiet houre with thee, Now filles thy sleepe with perturbations, To morrow in the Battaile, thinke on me, And fall thy edgelesse Sword, dispaire and dye: Ghost to Richm[ond]. Thou quiet soule, Sleepe thou a quiet sleepe: Dreame of Successe, and Happy Victory, Thy Aduersaries Wife doth pray for thee. Enter the Ghost of Buckingham. Ghost to Rich[ard]. The first was I That help'd thee to the Crowne: That last was I that felt thy Tyranny. O, in the Battaile think on Buckingham, And dye in terror of thy guiltinesse. Dreame on, dreame on, of bloody deeds and death, Fainting dispaire; dispairing yeeld thy breath. Ghost to Richm[ond]. I dyed for hope Ere I could lend thee Ayde; But cheere thy heart, and be thou not dismayde: God, and good Angels fight on Richmonds side, And Richard fall in height of all his pride. Richard starts out of his dreame. Rich. Giue me another Horse, bind vp my Wounds: Haue mercy Iesu. Soft, I did but dreame. O coward Conscience? how dost thou afflict me? The Lights burne blew. It is not dead midnight. Cold fearefull drops stand on my trembling flesh. What? do I feare my Selfe? There's none else by, Richard loues Richard, that is, I am I. Is there a Murtherer heere? No; Yes, I am: Then flye; What from my Selfe? Great reason: why? Lest I Reuenge. What? my Selfe vpon my Selfe? Alacke, I loue my Selfe. Wherefore? For any good That I my Selfe, haue done vnto my Selfe? O no. Alas, I rather hate my Selfe, For hatefull Deeds committed by my Selfe. I am a Villaine: yet I Lye, I am not. Foole, of thy Selfe speake well: Foole, do not flatter. My Conscience hath a thousand seuerall Tongues, And euery Tongue brings in a seuerall Tale, And euerie Tale condemnes me for a Villaine; Periurie, in the high'st Degree, Murther, sterne murther, in the dyr'st degree, All seuerall sinnes, all vs'd in each degree, Throng all to'th' Barre, crying all, Guilty, Guilty. I shall dispaire, there is no Creature loues me; And if I die, no soule shall pittie me. Nay, wherefore should they? Since that I my Selfe, Finde in my Selfe, no pittie to my Selfe. Me thought, the Soules of all that I had murther'd Came to my Tent, and euery one did threat To morrowes vengeance on the head of Richard. Enter Ratcliffe. Rat. My Lord King. Who's there? Rat. Ratcliffe, my Lord, 'tis I: the early Village Cock Hath twice done salutation to the Morne, Your Friends are vp, and buckle on their Armour King. O Ratcliffe, I feare, I feare Rat. Nay good my Lord, be not affraid of Shadows King. By the Apostle Paul, shadowes to night Haue stroke more terror to the soule of Richard, Then can the substance of ten thousand Souldiers Armed in proofe, and led by shallow Richmond. 'Tis not yet neere day. Come go with me, Vnder our Tents Ile play the Ease-dropper, To heare if any meane to shrinke from me. Exeunt. Richard & Ratliffe, Enter the Lords to Richmond sitting in his Tent. Richm. Good morrow Richmond Rich. Cry mercy Lords, and watchfull Gentlemen, That you haue tane a tardie sluggard heere? Lords. How haue you slept my Lord? Rich. The sweetest sleepe, And fairest boading Dreames, That euer entred in a drowsie head, Haue I since your departure had my Lords. Me thought their Soules, whose bodies Rich[ard]. murther'd, Came to my Tent, and cried on Victory: I promise you my Heart is very iocond, In the remembrance of so faire a dreame, How farre into the Morning is it Lords? Lor. Vpon the stroke of foure Rich. Why then 'tis time to Arme, and giue direction. His Oration to his Souldiers. More then I haue said, louing Countrymen, The leysure and inforcement of the time Forbids to dwell vpon: yet remember this, God, and our good cause, fight vpon our side, The Prayers of holy Saints and wronged soules, Like high rear'd Bulwarkes, stand before our Faces, (Richard except) those whom we fight against, Had rather haue vs win, then him they follow. For, what is he they follow? Truly Gentlemen, A bloudy Tyrant, and a Homicide: One rais'd in blood, and one in blood establish'd; One that made meanes to come by what he hath, And slaughter'd those that were the meanes to help him: A base foule Stone, made precious by the soyle Of Englands Chaire, where he is falsely set: One that hath euer beene Gods Enemy. Then if you fight against Gods Enemy, God will in iustice ward you as his Soldiers. If you do sweare to put a Tyrant downe, You sleepe in peace, the Tyrant being slaine: If you do fight against your Countries Foes, Your Countries Fat shall pay your paines the hyre. If you do fight in safegard of your wiues, Your wiues shall welcome home the Conquerors. If you do free your Children from the Sword, Your Childrens Children quits it in your Age. Then in the name of God and all these rights, Aduance your Standards, draw your willing Swords. For me, the ransome of my bold attempt, Shall be this cold Corpes on the earth's cold face. But if I thriue, the gaine of my attempt, The least of you shall share his part thereof. Sound Drummes and Trumpets boldly, and cheerefully, God, and Saint George, Richmond, and Victory. Enter King Richard, Ratcliffe, and Catesby. K. What said Northumberland as touching Richmond? Rat. That he was neuer trained vp in Armes King. He said the truth: and what said Surrey then? Rat. He smil'd and said, the better for our purpose King. He was in the right, and so indeed it is. Tell the clocke there. Clocke strikes. Giue me a Kalender: Who saw the Sunne to day? Rat. Not I my Lord King. Then he disdaines to shine: for by the Booke He should haue brau'd the East an houre ago, A blacke day will it be to somebody. Ratcliffe Rat. My Lord King. The Sun will not be seene to day, The sky doth frowne, and lowre vpon our Army. I would these dewy teares were from the ground. Not shine to day? Why, what is that to me More then to Richmond? For the selfe-same Heauen That frownes on me, lookes sadly vpon him. Enter Norfolke. Nor. Arme, arme, my Lord: the foe vaunts in the field King. Come, bustle, bustle. Caparison my horse. Call vp Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power, I will leade forth my Soldiers to the plaine, And thus my Battell shal be ordred. My Foreward shall be drawne in length, Consisting equally of Horse and Foot: Our Archers shall be placed in the mid'st; Iohn Duke of Norfolke, Thomas Earle of Surrey, Shall haue the leading of the Foot and Horse. They thus directed, we will follow In the maine Battell, whose puissance on either side Shall be well-winged with our cheefest Horse: This, and Saint George to boote. What think'st thou Norfolke Nor. A good direction warlike Soueraigne, This found I on my Tent this Morning. Iockey of Norfolke, be not so bold, For Dickon thy maister is bought and sold King. A thing deuised by the Enemy. Go Gentlemen, euery man to his Charge, Let not our babling Dreames affright our soules: For Conscience is a word that Cowards vse, Deuis'd at first to keepe the strong in awe, Our strong armes be our Conscience, Swords our Law. March on, ioyne brauely, let vs too't pell mell, If not to heauen, then hand in hand to Hell. What shall I say more then I haue inferr'd? Remember whom you are to cope withall, A sort of Vagabonds, Rascals, and Run-awayes, A scum of Brittaines, and base Lackey Pezants, Whom their o're-cloyed Country vomits forth To desperate Aduentures, and assur'd Destruction. You sleeping safe, they bring you to vnrest: You hauing Lands, and blest with beauteous wiues, They would restraine the one, distaine the other, And who doth leade them, but a paltry Fellow? Long kept in Britaine at our Mothers cost, A Milke-sop, one that neuer in his life Felt so much cold, as ouer shooes in Snow: Let's whip these straglers o're the Seas againe, Lash hence these ouer-weening Ragges of France, These famish'd Beggers, weary of their liues, Who (but for dreaming on this fond exploit) For want of meanes (poore Rats) had hang'd themselues. If we be conquered, let men conquer vs, And not these bastard Britaines, whom our Fathers Haue in their owne Land beaten, bobb'd, and thump'd, And on Record, left them the heires of shame. Shall these enioy our Lands? lye with our Wiues? Rauish our daughters? Drum afarre off Hearke, I heare their Drumme, Right Gentlemen of England, fight boldly yeomen, Draw Archers draw your Arrowes to the head, Spurre your proud Horses hard, and ride in blood, Amaze the welkin with your broken staues. Enter a Messenger. What sayes Lord Stanley, will he bring his power? Mes. My Lord, he doth deny to come King. Off with his sonne Georges head Nor. My Lord, the Enemy is past the Marsh: After the battaile, let George Stanley dye King. A thousand hearts are great within my bosom. Aduance our Standards, set vpon our Foes, Our Ancient word of Courage, faire S[aint]. George Inspire vs with the spleene of fiery Dragons: Vpon them, Victorie sits on our helpes. Alarum, excursions. Enter Catesby. Cat. Rescue my Lord of Norfolke, Rescue, Rescue: The King enacts more wonders then a man, Daring an opposite to euery danger: His horse is slaine, and all on foot he fights, Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death: Rescue faire Lord, or else the day is lost. Alarums. Enter Richard. Rich. A Horse, a Horse, my Kingdome for a Horse Cates. Withdraw my Lord, Ile helpe you to a Horse Rich. Slaue, I haue set my life vpon a cast, And I will stand the hazard of the Dye: I thinke there be sixe Richmonds in the field, Fiue haue I slaine to day, in stead of him. A Horse, a Horse, my Kingdome for a Horse. Alarum, Enter Richard and Richmond, they fight, Richard is slaine. Retreat, and Flourish. Enter Richmond, Derby bearing the Crowne, with diuers other Lords. Richm. God, and your Armes Be prais'd Victorious Friends; The day is ours, the bloudy Dogge is dead Der. Couragious Richmond, Well hast thou acquit thee: Loe, Heere these long vsurped Royalties, From the dead Temples of this bloudy Wretch, Haue I pluck'd off, to grace thy Browes withall. Weare it, and make much of it Richmond. Großer Gott des Himmels, sage Amen zu allem. Aber sag mir, lebt der junge George Stanley? Derby. Ja, mein Lord, er ist sicher in der Stadt Leicester, Wohin wir uns zurückziehen können, wenn Sie wollen. Richmond. Welche namhaften Männer sind auf beiden Seiten gefallen? Derby. Johannes, Herzog von Norfolk, Walter, Lord Ferris, Sir Robert Brokenbury und Sir William Brandon. Richmond. Begrabe ihre Körper angemessen nach ihrer Herkunft, Verkünde eine Amnestie für die geflohenen Soldaten, Die sich unterwerfen und zu uns zurückkehren, Und dann, sobald wir das Sakrament empfangen haben, Werden wir die weiße und die rote Rose vereinen. Möge der Himmel diese schöne Vereinigung lächeln lassen, Die lange Zeit auf ihre Feindschaft herabblickte: Welcher Verräter hört mich und sagt nicht Amen? England ist schon lange verrückt und hat sich selbst verletzt; Der Bruder vergoss blindlings das Blut des Bruders; Der Vater schlachtete rücksichtslos seinen eigenen Sohn; Der Sohn wurde gezwungen, der Schlächter des Vaters zu sein; All dies hat York und Lancaster geteilt, Geteilt durch ihre schreckliche Spaltung. Oh jetzt, lasst Richmond und Elizabeth, Die wahren Erben jedes königlichen Hauses, Durch Gottes gerechte Anordnung miteinander vereint werden: Und mögen deine Erben (falls es Gottes Wille ist), Die Zukunft bereichern mit glatter Friedfertigkeit, Mit einem lächelnden Überfluss und schönen, erfolgreichen Tagen. Mildere den Hass der Verräter, gnädiger Herr, Die diese blutigen Tage wieder heraufbeschwören würden, Und lass Armenien in Strömen von Blut weinen; Lass sie nicht leben, um den Aufschwung dieses Landes zu erleben, Die mit Verrat den Frieden dieses schönen Landes gefährden würden. Nun sind die zivilen Wunden geheilt, der Friede lebt wieder; Möge er hier lange Zeit leben, Gott sage Amen. Abgang. ENDE. Die Tragödie von Richard III: mit der Landung von Earl Richmond und der Schlacht bei Bosworth Field. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Als Buckingham in Salisbury zu seiner Hinrichtung geführt wird, erfährt er, dass Richard ihm keine Audienz gewähren wird. Er denkt an Henry VI., Edwards, Hastings, Rivers, Grey, Vaughan und andere, die "durch hinterhältige korrupte schmutzige Justiz" gestorben sind. Wenn sie aus der anderen Welt sein Schicksal sehen, sollen sie sich darüber lustig machen, sagt er. Es ist Allerseelen Tag, und er erinnert sich daran, dass er an einem solchen heiligen Tag Edward IV. versprochen hatte, mit den sterbenden Kindern des Königs und den Verbündeten der Königin in Frieden zu bleiben, und dass ihn Gottes Strafe treffen möge, wenn er dieses Versprechen brechen würde. Dann erinnert er sich an den Fluch Margarets, als er ihre Warnung verspottet hatte. "Unrecht folgt auf Unrecht, und Vorwurf ist angebracht", schließt er. Er sagt damit, dass dieser ungerechte Tod nur eine Vergeltung für die ungerechten Tode ist, die er zu verantworten hat. Szene 2 verlagert sich zum Lager Richmonds in der Nähe von Tamworth. Richmond betritt mit Trommeln und Trompeten das Lager und wendet sich an seine "Gefährten im Krieg" und "sehr geliebten Freunde", um sie gegen Richard "diesen erbärmlichen, blutigen und usurpierenden Keiler" aufzuhetzen, der ihnen den "Joch der Tyrannei" aufgebürdet und ihre "Sommerfelder und ertragreichen Weinberge" geplündert hat. Er bedankt sich für die guten Nachrichten von Lord Stanley und berichtet, dass Richard in Leicester sei, nur einen Tag entfernt. Im Namen Gottes fordert er sie auf voranzuschreiten. Oxford und Herbert sagen voraus, dass alle Freunde Richards ihn verlassen werden, da sie nur aus Angst Freunde sind. "Alles zu unserem Vorteil", ruft Richmond aus und beschwört erneut den Namen Gottes und befiehlt ihnen in die Schlacht zu marschieren. Auf dem Schlachtfeld von Bosworth betritt Richard, voll bewaffnet, mit Norfolk, dem Grafen von Surrey und anderen das Feld. Er ordnet an, dass ihre Zelte aufgeschlagen werden. Als Richard Surrey tadelt, weil er traurig aussieht, versichert ihm der Graf, dass sein Herz leicht ist. Dann spornt der König Norfolk an, der zustimmt, dass sie nicht nur Schläge einstecken, sondern auch austeilen müssen. Richard erklärt, dass er hier für die Nacht ruhen wird; wo er morgen ruhen wird, weiß er nicht. Philosophisch fügt er hinzu: "Nun, das ist alles dasselbe." Er hat Grund zum Selbstvertrauen, denn er erfährt, dass seine Streitkräfte Richmonds dreifach überlegen sind. Mit charakteristischer Energie gibt er Befehle zur Vorbereitung auf die Schlacht und ruft nach Männern mit angemessener Führungskompetenz. Auf der anderen Seite des Feldes betritt Richmond in Begleitung mehrerer angesehener Adliger das Feld. Während einige Soldaten sein Zelt aufstellen, betrachtet Richmond den Sonnenuntergang, der einen schönen Tag für morgen verspricht. Er ruft nach Tinte und Papier und plant die Aufstellung seiner Kräfte für die Schlacht. Bevor er sich von den anderen trennt, schickt er Captain Blount mit einer wichtigen Botschaft an Stanley, dessen Truppen etwa eine halbe Meile südlich des Königs lagern. Als sie sich zum Beenden der Schlachtvorbereitungen in das Zelt zurückziehen, richtet Richard mit Norfolk, Ratcliff, Catesby und anderen die Aufmerksamkeit auf sich. Es ist nun neun Uhr und Zeit für das Abendmahl, aber Richard beschließt nicht zu speisen. Seine Gedanken gelten ausschließlich dem Kampf gegen Richmond. Er ruft nach Tinte und Papier; er fragt, ob seine Rüstung bereit ist; er befiehlt Norfolk, die Wachen zu überprüfen. Dann erkundigt sich der König bei Catesby nach einem heraldischen Beamten, der Stanley den Befehl geben soll, sein Regiment vor dem Morgen zu bringen, es sei denn, er wolle den Kopf seines Sohnes verlieren. Er fragt nach dem "melancholischen Lord Northumberland" und ist etwas erleichtert zu hören, dass der Earl und Surrey unter den Soldaten herumgehen und sie ermutigen. Aber Richard gibt zu, dass seine eigenen Geister keine Munterkeit und sein Geist keine gewohnte Heiterkeit haben. Deshalb ruft er nach einer Schale Wein. Nachdem er Ratcliff angewiesen hat, ihn in der Mitte der Nacht zu bewaffnen, bittet der König darum, allein gelassen zu werden. Jetzt richtet sich die Aufmerksamkeit auf Richmond, der sich in seinem Zelt mit verschiedenen Adligen und Bediensteten befindet. Derby kommt herein und die beiden begrüßen sich. Derby bringt Segenswünsche von Richmonds Mutter, die ständig für das Wohl ihres Sohnes betet. Er rät Richmond, sein Glück in der morgigen Schlacht zu versuchen, erklärt jedoch, dass er aufgrund des Schicksals seines Sohnes nicht offen in die Reihen der Ankläger treten kann. Bedauernd, dass die bevorstehende Schlacht sie daran hindert, mehr Zeit miteinander zu verbringen, verlässt Stanley den Raum. Richmond bereitet sich auf den Schlaf vor, in dem Bewusstsein, dass er ausgeruht sein muss, bevor er den guten Kampf kämpft. Allein betet er feierlich um Gottes Wohlwollen und empfiehlt ihm seine "wachsame Seele". Während Richard und Richmond schlafen, werden sie von einem Zug von Geistern derer besucht, die der König getötet hatte. Sie treten in der Reihenfolge ihres Todes auf - Prinz Edward, Henry VI, Clarence, Rivers, Grey, Vaughan, die kleinen Prinzen, Hastings, Lady Anne und Buckingham. Jeder Geist erscheint Richard als Bild der Vergeltung, klagt ihn seines Verbrechens an und befiehlt ihm, "zu verzweifeln und zu sterben". In den Worten von Anne erfüllt jeder seinen Schlaf mit Unruhe. Im Gegensatz dazu bieten die Geister dem schlafenden Richmond Lob und tröstende Worte: Er soll "leben und aufblühen", denn gute Engel beschützen ihn und kämpfen auf seiner Seite. Der Geist von Hastings drängt ihn besonders dazu, "sich zu bewaffnen, zu kämpfen und für Englands Wohl zu siegen!" Und die beiden Prinzen fordern ihn auf, "zu leben und eine glückliche Reihe von Königen zu zeugen!" Als die Geister verschwinden, erwacht Richard aus seinem Schlaf. Er hatte von "blutigen Taten und Tod" geträumt. Er ruft nach einem Pferd und nach jemandem, der seine Wunden verbindet. Im Bewusstsein, dass er geträumt hat und dass er Opfer eines "ängstlichen Gewissens" ist, macht er eine Selbstprüfung, die in einer bitteren Verurteilung von isolierter und bedauernswerter Schuld endet. Ratcliff kommt herein, um ihn für die Schlacht zu wecken. Noch immer erbost, erzählt er Ratcliff von seinem Traum. Ratcliff versucht, ihn zu ermutigen, und Richard richtet seine Aufmerksamkeit auf die Frage der Treue seiner Gefolgsleute. Er geht mit Ratcliff zu ihrem Zelt und belauscht, ob jemand sich von ihm abwenden will. Die Aufmerksamkeit richtet sich jetzt auf das Zelt von Richmond, in das die Adligen eintreten, um ihren Anführer zu begrüßen. Er hat gut geruht und "süßeste Schlaf und schönste Orakelträume" genossen. Er erzählt den Herren, wie die Seelen von Richards Opfern zu seinem Zelt gekommen waren und "im Sieg geschrien" hatten. Als man ihm sagt, dass es jetzt vier Uhr morgens ist, antwortet Richmond, dass es "Zeit ist sich zu bewaffnen und Anweisungen zu geben". Danach folgt seine formale Ansprache an seine Soldaten. "Gott und unsere gute Sache kämpfen auf unserer Seite", versichert er den Truppen und fügt hinzu, dass die "Gebete heiliger Heiliger und gekränkter Seelen" vor ihren Gesichtern stehen. Selbst die Gefolgsleute Richards, so fährt er fort, wollen, dass er besiegt wird. Den König als "einen blutigen Tyrannen und Mörder" brandmarkend, fordert Richmond seine Männer auf, gegen Gottes Feinde und die Feinde ihres Landes zu kämpfen. Dann können sie erwarten, in einem gedeihenden Land zu gedeihen, ihre Frauen und Kinder werden vor Gefahren geschützt sein. Richmond erklärt, dass er selbst kämpfen wird, bis zum Tod, wenn nötig. Wenn er gewinnt, werden alle an dem Gewinn teilhaben. Er ruft dazu auf, dass Trommeln und Trompeten "kühn und fröhlich" erklingen sollen. Und mit dem kraftvollen Ruf "Gott und Sankt Georg! Richmond und der Sieg!" führt er den Weg aus dem Blickfeld. Nun ist Richard voll und ganz im Mittelpunkt. Er fragt, was Northumberland über Richmond gesagt hat, und freut sich, als Ratcliff ihm sagt, dass der Earl sehr wenig von Richmond als Soldat hält und dass auch Surrey mit Northumberlands Meinung sehr zufrieden war. Richard fragt dann nach der Tageszeit. Er nimmt das Wetter zur Kenntnis und bemerkt, dass die Sonne vor einer Stunde hätte aufgehen sollen. Zunächst ist Richard von dem Gedanken niedergeschlagen, dass der Himmel auf ihn herabstürzt, aber er erkennt, dass die Sonne auch nicht auf Richmond scheint. Von diesen Gedanken aufgeschreckt von Norfolk, erzählt Richard dem Adligen seinen Schlachtplan. Eine Vorhut von Reiterei und Infanterie soll vorne verteilt werden, mit Bogenschützen in der Mitte. Norfolk und Surrey sollen die Infanterie und die Reiterei befehligen. Richard wird sich in der Hauptschlacht anschließen, seine Macht auf beiden Seiten mit Infanterie und Reiterei gedeihen lassen. Norfolk stimmt all dem zu, übergibt Richard aber auch einen schmähenden Zettel, den er an diesem Morgen an seinem Zelt gefunden hat. Richard lässt ihn aus seinem Sinn und schickt seine Hauptleute zu ihren Befehlen. Er ist entschlossen, dass ihn "schnatternde Träume" nicht beunruhigen und dass sein Gewissen ihn nicht stört. Er wird starke Arme als sein Gewissen haben und Schwerter als sein Gesetz: "Marschiert los, vereinigt tapfer, lasst uns stolpern - / Wenn nicht zum Himmel, dann Hand in Hand zur Hölle". In seiner Rede an die Truppen verurteilt Richard den Feind als eine Bande ausländischer Landstreicher und Räuber, die das Land verwüsten und Frauen und Töchter angreifen wollen. Er macht viel daraus, dass sie Franzosen sind und erinnert seine Soldaten daran, dass ihre Väter die Franzosen auf französischem Boden geschlagen haben. Er schließt mit einem mitreißenden Ruf zu den Waffen. In diesem Moment kommt ein Bote und sagt, dass Stanley sich weigert, seine Truppen mitzubringen. Richard will Georgs Kopf sofort abschlagen lassen, wird aber überredet zu warten, bis nach der Schlacht, da der Feind das Moor bereits passiert hat. Unter Tränen "Ein tausend Herzen sind groß in meiner Brust" und unter Anrufung des Namens des Heiligen Georg stürzt der König in die Schlacht. Der Kampf ist im Gange. Catesby ruft Norfolk zu, den König zu retten, dessen Pferd erschlagen ist und der weiterhin zu Fuß kämpft. Richard betritt das Schlachtfeld und ruft nach einem Pferd. Catesby drängt ihn, sich zurückzuziehen. Er weigert sich, denn er ist entschlossen, alles zu riskieren. Er verlässt diesen Teil des Feldes, immer noch nach einem Pferd rufend und Richmond suchend. Richard und Richmond kämpfen, und Richard wird getötet. Richmond zieht sich zurück und kehrt zurück und empfängt die Glückwünsche seiner Freunde für den Sieg, der jetzt sicher ist. Derby trägt die Krone, die er Richard abgenommen hat. Er setzt sie Richmonds auf den Kopf. Auf Richmonds Frage nach dem jungen George Stanley antwortet Derby, dass der junge Mann sicher in Leicester ist. Richmond fragt nach den Namen der auf beiden Seiten gefallenen Adligen und befiehlt, dass sie "ihrem Geburtsstand entsprechend" begraben werden. Gemäß seinen Wünschen sollen alle Soldaten, die geflohen sind, begnadigt werden, wenn sie sich ihm unterwerfen. Nachdem er das Sakrament eingenommen hat, wird er Elizabeth von York, der Tochter Eduards IV., heiraten und so die Yorkisten und die Lancastrians vereinen. Die harten Kriege, die so viel Kummer und Schaden verursacht haben, auch unter Mitgliedern derselben Familie, sind nun zu Ende. So Gott will, wird England eine Zeit des Friedens und des Wohlstands erleben. Seine abschließenden Worte sind ein Gebet, dass Verräter umkommen mögen und der Friede herrscht, nun da die zivilen Wunden geheilt sind.

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 VII. Another Supper at the Bastile. Seven o'clock sounded from the great clock of the Bastile, that famous clock, which, like all the accessories of the state prison, the very use of which is a torture, recalled to the prisoners' minds the destination of every hour of their punishment. The time-piece of the Bastile, adorned with figures, like most of the clocks of the period, represented St. Peter in bonds. It was the supper hour of the unfortunate captives. The doors, grating on their enormous hinges, opened for the passage of the baskets and trays of provisions, the abundance and the delicacy of which, as M. de Baisemeaux has himself taught us, was regulated by the condition in life of the prisoner. We understand on this head the theories of M. de Baisemeaux, sovereign dispenser of gastronomic delicacies, head cook of the royal fortress, whose trays, full-laden, were ascending the steep staircases, carrying some consolation to the prisoners in the shape of honestly filled bottles of good vintages. This same hour was that of M. le gouverneur's supper also. He had a guest to-day, and the spit turned more heavily than usual. Roast partridges, flanked with quails and flanking a larded leveret; boiled fowls; hams, fried and sprinkled with white wine, _cardons_ of Guipuzcoa and _la bisque ecrevisses_: these, together with soups and _hors d'oeuvres_, constituted the governor's bill of fare. Baisemeaux, seated at table, was rubbing his hands and looking at the bishop of Vannes, who, booted like a cavalier, dressed in gray and sword at side, kept talking of his hunger and testifying the liveliest impatience. M. de Baisemeaux de Montlezun was not accustomed to the unbending movements of his greatness my lord of Vannes, and this evening Aramis, becoming sprightly, volunteered confidence on confidence. The prelate had again a little touch of the musketeer about him. The bishop just trenched on the borders only of license in his style of conversation. As for M. de Baisemeaux, with the facility of vulgar people, he gave himself up entirely upon this point of his guest's freedom. "Monsieur," said he, "for indeed to-night I dare not call you monseigneur." "By no means," said Aramis; "call me monsieur; I am booted." "Do you know, monsieur, of whom you remind me this evening?" "No! faith," said Aramis, taking up his glass; "but I hope I remind you of a capital guest." "You remind me of two, monsieur. Francois, shut the window; the wind may annoy his greatness." "And let him go," added Aramis. "The supper is completely served, and we shall eat it very well without waiters. I like exceedingly to be _tete-a-tete_ when I am with a friend." Baisemeaux bowed respectfully. "I like exceedingly," continued Aramis, "to help myself." "Retire, Francois," cried Baisemeaux. "I was saying that your greatness puts me in mind of two persons; one very illustrious, the late cardinal, the great Cardinal de la Rochelle, who wore boots like you." "Indeed," said Aramis; "and the other?" "The other was a certain musketeer, very handsome, very brave, very adventurous, very fortunate, who, from being abbe, turned musketeer, and from musketeer turned abbe." Aramis condescended to smile. "From abbe," continued Baisemeaux, encouraged by Aramis's smile--"from abbe, bishop--and from bishop--" "Ah! stay there, I beg," exclaimed Aramis. "I have just said, monsieur, that you gave me the idea of a cardinal." "Enough, dear M. Baisemeaux. As you said, I have on the boots of a cavalier, but I do not intend, for all that, to embroil myself with the church this evening." "But you have wicked intentions, nevertheless, monseigneur." "Oh, yes, wicked, I own, as everything mundane is." "You traverse the town and the streets in disguise?" "In disguise, as you say." "And you still make use of your sword?" "Yes, I should think so; but only when I am compelled. Do me the pleasure to summon Francois." "Have you no wine there?" "'Tis not for wine, but because it is hot here, and the window is shut." "I shut the windows at supper-time so as not to hear the sounds or the arrival of couriers." "Ah, yes. You hear them when the window is open?" "But too well, and that disturbs me. You understand?" "Nevertheless I am suffocated. Francois." Francois entered. "Open the windows, I pray you, Master Francois," said Aramis. "You will allow him, dear M. Baisemeaux?" "You are at home here," answered the governor. The window was opened. "Do you not think," said M. de Baisemeaux, "that you will find yourself very lonely, now M. de la Fere has returned to his household gods at Blois? He is a very old friend, is he not?" "You know it as I do, Baisemeaux, seeing that you were in the musketeers with us." "Bah! with my friends I reckon neither bottles of wine nor years." "And you are right. But I do more than love M. de la Fere, dear Baisemeaux; I venerate him." "Well, for my part, though 'tis singular," said the governor, "I prefer M. d'Artagnan to him. There is a man for you, who drinks long and well! That kind of people allow you at least to penetrate their thoughts." "Baisemeaux, make me tipsy to-night; let us have a merry time of it as of old, and if I have a trouble at the bottom of my heart, I promise you, you shall see it as you would a diamond at the bottom of your glass." "Bravo!" said Baisemeaux, and he poured out a great glass of wine and drank it off at a draught, trembling with joy at the idea of being, by hook or by crook, in the secret of some high archiepiscopal misdemeanor. While he was drinking he did not see with what attention Aramis was noting the sounds in the great court. A courier came in about eight o'clock as Francois brought in the fifth bottle, and, although the courier made a great noise, Baisemeaux heard nothing. "The devil take him," said Aramis. "What! who?" asked Baisemeaux. "I hope 'tis neither the wine you drank nor he who is the cause of your drinking it." "No; it is a horse, who is making noise enough in the court for a whole squadron." "Pooh! some courier or other," replied the governor, redoubling his attention to the passing bottle. "Yes; and may the devil take him, and so quickly that we shall never hear him speak more. Hurrah! hurrah!" "You forget me, Baisemeaux! my glass is empty," said Aramis, lifting his dazzling Venetian goblet. "Upon my honor, you delight me. Francois, wine!" Francois entered. "Wine, fellow! and better." "Yes, monsieur, yes; but a courier has just arrived." "Let him go to the devil, I say." "Yes, monsieur, but--" "Let him leave his news at the office; we will see to it to-morrow. To-morrow, there will be time to-morrow; there will be daylight," said Baisemeaux, chanting the words. "Ah, monsieur," grumbled the soldier Francois, in spite of himself, "monsieur." "Take care," said Aramis, "take care!" "Of what? dear M. d'Herblay," said Baisemeaux, half intoxicated. "The letter which the courier brings to the governor of a fortress is sometimes an order." "Nearly always." "Do not orders issue from the ministers?" "Yes, undoubtedly; but--" "And what to these ministers do but countersign the signature of the king?" "Perhaps you are right. Nevertheless, 'tis very tiresome when you are sitting before a good table, _tete-a-tete_ with a friend--Ah! I beg your pardon, monsieur; I forgot it is I who engage you at supper, and that I speak to a future cardinal." "Let us pass over that, dear Baisemeaux, and return to our soldier, to Francois." "Well, and what has Francois done?" "He has demurred!" "He was wrong, then?" "However, he _has_ demurred, you see; 'tis because there is something extraordinary in this matter. It is very possible that it was not Francois who was wrong in demurring, but you, who are in the wrong in not listening to him." "Wrong? I to be wrong before Francois? that seems rather hard." "Pardon me, merely an irregularity. But I thought it my duty to make an observation which I deem important." "Oh! perhaps you are right," stammered Baisemeaux. "The king's order is sacred; but as to orders that arrive when one is at supper, I repeat that the devil--" "If you had said as much to the great cardinal--hem! my dear Baisemeaux, and if his order had any importance." "I do it that I may not disturb a bishop. _Mordioux!_ am I not, then, excusable?" "Do not forget, Baisemeaux, that I have worn the soldier's coat, and I am accustomed to obedience everywhere." "You wish, then--" "I wish that you would do your duty, my friend; yes, at least before this soldier." "'Tis mathematically true," exclaimed Baisemeaux. Francois still waited: "Let them send this order of the king's up to me," he repeated, recovering himself. And he added in a low tone, "Do you know what it is? I will tell you something about as interesting as this. 'Beware of fire near the powder magazine;' or, 'Look close after such and such a one, who is clever at escaping,' Ah! if you only knew, monseigneur, how many times I have been suddenly awakened from the very sweetest, deepest slumber, by messengers arriving at full gallop to tell me, or rather, bring me a slip of paper containing these words: 'Monsieur de Baisemeaux, what news?' 'Tis clear enough that those who waste their time writing such orders have never slept in the Bastile. They would know better; they have never considered the thickness of my walls, the vigilance of my officers, the number of rounds we go. But, indeed, what can you expect, monseigneur? It is their business to write and torment me when I am at rest, and to trouble me when I am happy," added Baisemeaux, bowing to Aramis. "Then let them do their business." "And do you do yours," added the bishop, smiling. Francois re-entered; Baisemeaux took from his hands the minister's order. He slowly undid it, and as slowly read it. Aramis pretended to be drinking, so as to be able to watch his host through the glass. Then, Baisemeaux, having read it: "What was I just saying?" he exclaimed. "What is it?" asked the bishop. "An order of release! There, now; excellent news indeed to disturb us!" "Excellent news for him whom it concerns, you will at least agree, my dear governor!" "And at eight o'clock in the evening!" "It is charitable!" "Oh! charity is all very well, but it is for that fellow who says he is so weary and tired, but not for me who am amusing myself," said Baisemeaux, exasperated. "Will you lose by him, then? And is the prisoner who is to be set at liberty a good payer?" "Oh, yes, indeed! a miserable, five-franc rat!" "Let me see it," asked M. d'Herblay. "It is no indiscretion?" "By no means; read it." "There is 'Urgent,' on the paper; you have seen that, I suppose?" "Oh, admirable! 'Urgent!'--a man who has been there ten years! It is _urgent_ to set him free to-day, this very evening, at eight o'clock!--_urgent!_" And Baisemeaux, shrugging his shoulders with an air of supreme disdain, flung the order on the table and began eating again. "They are fond of these tricks!" he said, with his mouth full; "they seize a man, some fine day, keep him under lock and key for ten years, and write to you, 'Watch this fellow well,' or 'Keep him very strictly.' And then, as soon as you are accustomed to look upon the prisoner as a dangerous man, all of a sudden, without rhyme or reason they write--'Set him at liberty,' and actually add to their missive--'urgent.' You will own, my lord, 'tis enough to make a man at dinner shrug his shoulders!" "What do you expect? It is for them to write," said Aramis, "for you to execute the order." "Good! good! execute it! Oh, patience! You must not imagine that I am a slave." "Gracious Heaven! my very good M. Baisemeaux, who ever said so? Your independence is well known." "Thank Heaven!" "But your goodness of heart is also known." "Ah! don't speak of it!" "And your obedience to your superiors. Once a soldier, you see, Baisemeaux, always a soldier." "And I shall directly obey; and to-morrow morning, at daybreak, the prisoner referred to shall be set free." "To-morrow?" "At dawn." "Why not this evening, seeing that the _lettre de cachet_ bears, both on the direction and inside, '_urgent_'?" "Because this evening we are at supper, and our affairs are urgent, too!" "Dear Baisemeaux, booted though I be, I feel myself a priest, and charity has higher claims upon me than hunger and thirst. This unfortunate man has suffered long enough, since you have just told me that he has been your prisoner these ten years. Abridge his suffering. His good time has come; give him the benefit quickly. God will repay you in Paradise with years of felicity." "You wish it?" "I entreat you." "What! in the very middle of our repast?" "I implore you; such an action is worth ten Benedicites." "It shall be as you desire, only our supper will get cold." "Oh! never heed that." Baisemeaux leaned back to ring for Francois, and by a very natural motion turned round towards the door. The order had remained on the table; Aramis seized the opportunity when Baisemeaux was not looking to change the paper for another, folded in the same manner, which he drew swiftly from his pocket. "Francois," said the governor, "let the major come up here with the turnkeys of the Bertaudiere." Francois bowed and quitted the room, leaving the two companions alone. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Es ist sieben Uhr an der Bastille, und Aramis isst mit Baisemeaux zu Abend. Anscheinend erzählt Aramis recht anzügliche Geschichten. Baisemeaux befiehlt einem seiner Diener, die Fenster zu schließen, aber Aramis bittet darum, dass sie offen bleiben. Er wartet auf das Geräusch der Ankunft eines Boten. Gegen acht Uhr trifft ein Bote ein. Baisemeaux würde es vorziehen, weiter mit Aramis zu essen und zu trinken, anstatt dem Boten Beachtung zu schenken, aber Aramis manipuliert ihn geschickt und bekommt ihn dazu, die Nachricht zu lesen. Es ist ein Freilassungsbefehl für einen Gefangenen namens Seldon. Jetzt muss Aramis Baisemeaux überzeugen, den Gefangenen sofort freizulassen, anstatt bis nach dem Essen zu warten. Der Befehl besagt, dass die Angelegenheit dringend ist, aber Baisemeaux weist darauf hin, dass dieser Mann seit über zehn Jahren im Gefängnis ist und plötzlich seine Freilassung dringend ist. Erneut überzeugt Aramis Baisemeaux, nicht länger zu warten. Er fleht ihn an, den Gefangenen freizulassen. Während Baisemeaux abgelenkt ist, tauscht Aramis heimlich den Befehl gegen einen aus, den er aus seiner Tasche nimmt.

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: Clown. . . . 'Twas in the Bunch of Grapes, where, indeed, you have a delight to sit, have you not? Froth. I have so: because it is an open room, and good for winter. Clo. Why, very well then: I hope here be truths. --Measure for Measure. Five days after the death of Raffles, Mr. Bambridge was standing at his leisure under the large archway leading into the yard of the Green Dragon. He was not fond of solitary contemplation, but he had only just come out of the house, and any human figure standing at ease under the archway in the early afternoon was as certain to attract companionship as a pigeon which has found something worth pecking at. In this case there was no material object to feed upon, but the eye of reason saw a probability of mental sustenance in the shape of gossip. Mr. Hopkins, the meek-mannered draper opposite, was the first to act on this inward vision, being the more ambitious of a little masculine talk because his customers were chiefly women. Mr. Bambridge was rather curt to the draper, feeling that Hopkins was of course glad to talk to _him_, but that he was not going to waste much of his talk on Hopkins. Soon, however, there was a small cluster of more important listeners, who were either deposited from the passers-by, or had sauntered to the spot expressly to see if there were anything going on at the Green Dragon; and Mr. Bambridge was finding it worth his while to say many impressive things about the fine studs he had been seeing and the purchases he had made on a journey in the north from which he had just returned. Gentlemen present were assured that when they could show him anything to cut out a blood mare, a bay, rising four, which was to be seen at Doncaster if they chose to go and look at it, Mr. Bambridge would gratify them by being shot "from here to Hereford." Also, a pair of blacks which he was going to put into the break recalled vividly to his mind a pair which he had sold to Faulkner in '19, for a hundred guineas, and which Faulkner had sold for a hundred and sixty two months later--any gent who could disprove this statement being offered the privilege of calling Mr. Bambridge by a very ugly name until the exercise made his throat dry. When the discourse was at this point of animation, came up Mr. Frank Hawley. He was not a man to compromise his dignity by lounging at the Green Dragon, but happening to pass along the High Street and seeing Bambridge on the other side, he took some of his long strides across to ask the horsedealer whether he had found the first-rate gig-horse which he had engaged to look for. Mr. Hawley was requested to wait until he had seen a gray selected at Bilkley: if that did not meet his wishes to a hair, Bambridge did not know a horse when he saw it, which seemed to be the highest conceivable unlikelihood. Mr. Hawley, standing with his back to the street, was fixing a time for looking at the gray and seeing it tried, when a horseman passed slowly by. "Bulstrode!" said two or three voices at once in a low tone, one of them, which was the draper's, respectfully prefixing the "Mr.;" but nobody having more intention in this interjectural naming than if they had said "the Riverston coach" when that vehicle appeared in the distance. Mr. Hawley gave a careless glance round at Bulstrode's back, but as Bambridge's eyes followed it he made a sarcastic grimace. "By jingo! that reminds me," he began, lowering his voice a little, "I picked up something else at Bilkley besides your gig-horse, Mr. Hawley. I picked up a fine story about Bulstrode. Do you know how he came by his fortune? Any gentleman wanting a bit of curious information, I can give it him free of expense. If everybody got their deserts, Bulstrode might have had to say his prayers at Botany Bay." "What do you mean?" said Mr. Hawley, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and pushing a little forward under the archway. If Bulstrode should turn out to be a rascal, Frank Hawley had a prophetic soul. "I had it from a party who was an old chum of Bulstrode's. I'll tell you where I first picked him up," said Bambridge, with a sudden gesture of his fore-finger. "He was at Larcher's sale, but I knew nothing of him then--he slipped through my fingers--was after Bulstrode, no doubt. He tells me he can tap Bulstrode to any amount, knows all his secrets. However, he blabbed to me at Bilkley: he takes a stiff glass. Damme if I think he meant to turn king's evidence; but he's that sort of bragging fellow, the bragging runs over hedge and ditch with him, till he'd brag of a spavin as if it 'ud fetch money. A man should know when to pull up." Mr. Bambridge made this remark with an air of disgust, satisfied that his own bragging showed a fine sense of the marketable. "What's the man's name? Where can he be found?" said Mr. Hawley. "As to where he is to be found, I left him to it at the Saracen's Head; but his name is Raffles." "Raffles!" exclaimed Mr. Hopkins. "I furnished his funeral yesterday. He was buried at Lowick. Mr. Bulstrode followed him. A very decent funeral." There was a strong sensation among the listeners. Mr. Bambridge gave an ejaculation in which "brimstone" was the mildest word, and Mr. Hawley, knitting his brows and bending his head forward, exclaimed, "What?--where did the man die?" "At Stone Court," said the draper. "The housekeeper said he was a relation of the master's. He came there ill on Friday." "Why, it was on Wednesday I took a glass with him," interposed Bambridge. "Did any doctor attend him?" said Mr. Hawley "Yes. Mr. Lydgate. Mr. Bulstrode sat up with him one night. He died the third morning." "Go on, Bambridge," said Mr. Hawley, insistently. "What did this fellow say about Bulstrode?" The group had already become larger, the town-clerk's presence being a guarantee that something worth listening to was going on there; and Mr. Bambridge delivered his narrative in the hearing of seven. It was mainly what we know, including the fact about Will Ladislaw, with some local color and circumstance added: it was what Bulstrode had dreaded the betrayal of--and hoped to have buried forever with the corpse of Raffles--it was that haunting ghost of his earlier life which as he rode past the archway of the Green Dragon he was trusting that Providence had delivered him from. Yes, Providence. He had not confessed to himself yet that he had done anything in the way of contrivance to this end; he had accepted what seemed to have been offered. It was impossible to prove that he had done anything which hastened the departure of that man's soul. But this gossip about Bulstrode spread through Middlemarch like the smell of fire. Mr. Frank Hawley followed up his information by sending a clerk whom he could trust to Stone Court on a pretext of inquiring about hay, but really to gather all that could be learned about Raffles and his illness from Mrs. Abel. In this way it came to his knowledge that Mr. Garth had carried the man to Stone Court in his gig; and Mr. Hawley in consequence took an opportunity of seeing Caleb, calling at his office to ask whether he had time to undertake an arbitration if it were required, and then asking him incidentally about Raffles. Caleb was betrayed into no word injurious to Bulstrode beyond the fact which he was forced to admit, that he had given up acting for him within the last week. Mr Hawley drew his inferences, and feeling convinced that Raffles had told his story to Garth, and that Garth had given up Bulstrode's affairs in consequence, said so a few hours later to Mr. Toller. The statement was passed on until it had quite lost the stamp of an inference, and was taken as information coming straight from Garth, so that even a diligent historian might have concluded Caleb to be the chief publisher of Bulstrode's misdemeanors. Mr. Hawley was not slow to perceive that there was no handle for the law either in the revelations made by Raffles or in the circumstances of his death. He had himself ridden to Lowick village that he might look at the register and talk over the whole matter with Mr. Farebrother, who was not more surprised than the lawyer that an ugly secret should have come to light about Bulstrode, though he had always had justice enough in him to hinder his antipathy from turning into conclusions. But while they were talking another combination was silently going forward in Mr. Farebrother's mind, which foreshadowed what was soon to be loudly spoken of in Middlemarch as a necessary "putting of two and two together." With the reasons which kept Bulstrode in dread of Raffles there flashed the thought that the dread might have something to do with his munificence towards his medical man; and though he resisted the suggestion that it had been consciously accepted in any way as a bribe, he had a foreboding that this complication of things might be of malignant effect on Lydgate's reputation. He perceived that Mr. Hawley knew nothing at present of the sudden relief from debt, and he himself was careful to glide away from all approaches towards the subject. "Well," he said, with a deep breath, wanting to wind up the illimitable discussion of what might have been, though nothing could be legally proven, "it is a strange story. So our mercurial Ladislaw has a queer genealogy! A high-spirited young lady and a musical Polish patriot made a likely enough stock for him to spring from, but I should never have suspected a grafting of the Jew pawnbroker. However, there's no knowing what a mixture will turn out beforehand. Some sorts of dirt serve to clarify." "It's just what I should have expected," said Mr. Hawley, mounting his horse. "Any cursed alien blood, Jew, Corsican, or Gypsy." "I know he's one of your black sheep, Hawley. But he is really a disinterested, unworldly fellow," said Mr. Farebrother, smiling. "Ay, ay, that is your Whiggish twist," said Mr. Hawley, who had been in the habit of saying apologetically that Farebrother was such a damned pleasant good-hearted fellow you would mistake him for a Tory. Mr. Hawley rode home without thinking of Lydgate's attendance on Raffles in any other light than as a piece of evidence on the side of Bulstrode. But the news that Lydgate had all at once become able not only to get rid of the execution in his house but to pay all his debts in Middlemarch was spreading fast, gathering round it conjectures and comments which gave it new body and impetus, and soon filling the ears of other persons besides Mr. Hawley, who were not slow to see a significant relation between this sudden command of money and Bulstrode's desire to stifle the scandal of Raffles. That the money came from Bulstrode would infallibly have been guessed even if there had been no direct evidence of it; for it had beforehand entered into the gossip about Lydgate's affairs, that neither his father-in-law nor his own family would do anything for him, and direct evidence was furnished not only by a clerk at the Bank, but by innocent Mrs. Bulstrode herself, who mentioned the loan to Mrs. Plymdale, who mentioned it to her daughter-in-law of the house of Toller, who mentioned it generally. The business was felt to be so public and important that it required dinners to feed it, and many invitations were just then issued and accepted on the strength of this scandal concerning Bulstrode and Lydgate; wives, widows, and single ladies took their work and went out to tea oftener than usual; and all public conviviality, from the Green Dragon to Dollop's, gathered a zest which could not be won from the question whether the Lords would throw out the Reform Bill. For hardly anybody doubted that some scandalous reason or other was at the bottom of Bulstrode's liberality to Lydgate. Mr. Hawley indeed, in the first instance, invited a select party, including the two physicians, with Mr Toller and Mr. Wrench, expressly to hold a close discussion as to the probabilities of Raffles's illness, reciting to them all the particulars which had been gathered from Mrs. Abel in connection with Lydgate's certificate, that the death was due to delirium tremens; and the medical gentlemen, who all stood undisturbedly on the old paths in relation to this disease, declared that they could see nothing in these particulars which could be transformed into a positive ground of suspicion. But the moral grounds of suspicion remained: the strong motives Bulstrode clearly had for wishing to be rid of Raffles, and the fact that at this critical moment he had given Lydgate the help which he must for some time have known the need for; the disposition, moreover, to believe that Bulstrode would be unscrupulous, and the absence of any indisposition to believe that Lydgate might be as easily bribed as other haughty-minded men when they have found themselves in want of money. Even if the money had been given merely to make him hold his tongue about the scandal of Bulstrode's earlier life, the fact threw an odious light on Lydgate, who had long been sneered at as making himself subservient to the banker for the sake of working himself into predominance, and discrediting the elder members of his profession. Hence, in spite of the negative as to any direct sign of guilt in relation to the death at Stone Court, Mr. Hawley's select party broke up with the sense that the affair had "an ugly look." But this vague conviction of indeterminable guilt, which was enough to keep up much head-shaking and biting innuendo even among substantial professional seniors, had for the general mind all the superior power of mystery over fact. Everybody liked better to conjecture how the thing was, than simply to know it; for conjecture soon became more confident than knowledge, and had a more liberal allowance for the incompatible. Even the more definite scandal concerning Bulstrode's earlier life was, for some minds, melted into the mass of mystery, as so much lively metal to be poured out in dialogue, and to take such fantastic shapes as heaven pleased. This was the tone of thought chiefly sanctioned by Mrs. Dollop, the spirited landlady of the Tankard in Slaughter Lane, who had often to resist the shallow pragmatism of customers disposed to think that their reports from the outer world were of equal force with what had "come up" in her mind. How it had been brought to her she didn't know, but it was there before her as if it had been "scored with the chalk on the chimney-board--" as Bulstrode should say, "his inside was _that black_ as if the hairs of his head knowed the thoughts of his heart, he'd tear 'em up by the roots." "That's odd," said Mr. Limp, a meditative shoemaker, with weak eyes and a piping voice. "Why, I read in the 'Trumpet' that was what the Duke of Wellington said when he turned his coat and went over to the Romans." "Very like," said Mrs. Dollop. "If one raskill said it, it's more reason why another should. But hypo_crite_ as he's been, and holding things with that high hand, as there was no parson i' the country good enough for him, he was forced to take Old Harry into his counsel, and Old Harry's been too many for him." "Ay, ay, he's a 'complice you can't send out o' the country," said Mr. Crabbe, the glazier, who gathered much news and groped among it dimly. "But by what I can make out, there's them says Bulstrode was for running away, for fear o' being found out, before now." "He'll be drove away, whether or no," said Mr. Dill, the barber, who had just dropped in. "I shaved Fletcher, Hawley's clerk, this morning--he's got a bad finger--and he says they're all of one mind to get rid of Bulstrode. Mr. Thesiger is turned against him, and wants him out o' the parish. And there's gentlemen in this town says they'd as soon dine with a fellow from the hulks. 'And a deal sooner I would,' says Fletcher; 'for what's more against one's stomach than a man coming and making himself bad company with his religion, and giving out as the Ten Commandments are not enough for him, and all the while he's worse than half the men at the tread-mill?' Fletcher said so himself." "It'll be a bad thing for the town though, if Bulstrode's money goes out of it," said Mr. Limp, quaveringly. "Ah, there's better folks spend their money worse," said a firm-voiced dyer, whose crimson hands looked out of keeping with his good-natured face. "But he won't keep his money, by what I can make out," said the glazier. "Don't they say as there's somebody can strip it off him? By what I can understan', they could take every penny off him, if they went to lawing." "No such thing!" said the barber, who felt himself a little above his company at Dollop's, but liked it none the worse. "Fletcher says it's no such thing. He says they might prove over and over again whose child this young Ladislaw was, and they'd do no more than if they proved I came out of the Fens--he couldn't touch a penny." "Look you there now!" said Mrs. Dollop, indignantly. "I thank the Lord he took my children to Himself, if that's all the law can do for the motherless. Then by that, it's o' no use who your father and mother is. But as to listening to what one lawyer says without asking another--I wonder at a man o' your cleverness, Mr. Dill. It's well known there's always two sides, if no more; else who'd go to law, I should like to know? It's a poor tale, with all the law as there is up and down, if it's no use proving whose child you are. Fletcher may say that if he likes, but I say, don't Fletcher _me_!" Mr. Dill affected to laugh in a complimentary way at Mrs. Dollop, as a woman who was more than a match for the lawyers; being disposed to submit to much twitting from a landlady who had a long score against him. "If they come to lawing, and it's all true as folks say, there's more to be looked to nor money," said the glazier. "There's this poor creetur as is dead and gone; by what I can make out, he'd seen the day when he was a deal finer gentleman nor Bulstrode." "Finer gentleman! I'll warrant him," said Mrs. Dollop; "and a far personabler man, by what I can hear. As I said when Mr. Baldwin, the tax-gatherer, comes in, a-standing where you sit, and says, 'Bulstrode got all his money as he brought into this town by thieving and swindling,'--I said, 'You don't make me no wiser, Mr. Baldwin: it's set my blood a-creeping to look at him ever sin' here he came into Slaughter Lane a-wanting to buy the house over my head: folks don't look the color o' the dough-tub and stare at you as if they wanted to see into your backbone for nothingk.' That was what I said, and Mr. Baldwin can bear me witness." "And in the rights of it too," said Mr. Crabbe. "For by what I can make out, this Raffles, as they call him, was a lusty, fresh-colored man as you'd wish to see, and the best o' company--though dead he lies in Lowick churchyard sure enough; and by what I can understan', there's them knows more than they _should_ know about how he got there." "I'll believe you!" said Mrs. Dallop, with a touch of scorn at Mr. Crabbe's apparent dimness. "When a man's been 'ticed to a lone house, and there's them can pay for hospitals and nurses for half the country-side choose to be sitters-up night and day, and nobody to come near but a doctor as is known to stick at nothingk, and as poor as he can hang together, and after that so flush o' money as he can pay off Mr. Byles the butcher as his bill has been running on for the best o' joints since last Michaelmas was a twelvemonth--I don't want anybody to come and tell me as there's been more going on nor the Prayer-book's got a service for--I don't want to stand winking and blinking and thinking." Mrs. Dollop looked round with the air of a landlady accustomed to dominate her company. There was a chorus of adhesion from the more courageous; but Mr. Limp, after taking a draught, placed his flat hands together and pressed them hard between his knees, looking down at them with blear-eyed contemplation, as if the scorching power of Mrs. Dollop's speech had quite dried up and nullified his wits until they could be brought round again by further moisture. "Why shouldn't they dig the man up and have the Crowner?" said the dyer. "It's been done many and many's the time. If there's been foul play they might find it out." "Not they, Mr. Jonas!" said Mrs Dollop, emphatically. "I know what doctors are. They're a deal too cunning to be found out. And this Doctor Lydgate that's been for cutting up everybody before the breath was well out o' their body--it's plain enough what use he wanted to make o' looking into respectable people's insides. He knows drugs, you may be sure, as you can neither smell nor see, neither before they're swallowed nor after. Why, I've seen drops myself ordered by Doctor Gambit, as is our club doctor and a good charikter, and has brought more live children into the world nor ever another i' Middlemarch--I say I've seen drops myself as made no difference whether they was in the glass or out, and yet have griped you the next day. So I'll leave your own sense to judge. Don't tell me! All I say is, it's a mercy they didn't take this Doctor Lydgate on to our club. There's many a mother's child might ha' rued it." The heads of this discussion at "Dollop's" had been the common theme among all classes in the town, had been carried to Lowick Parsonage on one side and to Tipton Grange on the other, had come fully to the ears of the Vincy family, and had been discussed with sad reference to "poor Harriet" by all Mrs. Bulstrode's friends, before Lydgate knew distinctly why people were looking strangely at him, and before Bulstrode himself suspected the betrayal of his secrets. He had not been accustomed to very cordial relations with his neighbors, and hence he could not miss the signs of cordiality; moreover, he had been taking journeys on business of various kinds, having now made up his mind that he need not quit Middlemarch, and feeling able consequently to determine on matters which he had before left in suspense. "We will make a journey to Cheltenham in the course of a month or two," he had said to his wife. "There are great spiritual advantages to be had in that town along with the air and the waters, and six weeks there will be eminently refreshing to us." He really believed in the spiritual advantages, and meant that his life henceforth should be the more devoted because of those later sins which he represented to himself as hypothetic, praying hypothetically for their pardon:--"if I have herein transgressed." As to the Hospital, he avoided saying anything further to Lydgate, fearing to manifest a too sudden change of plans immediately on the death of Raffles. In his secret soul he believed that Lydgate suspected his orders to have been intentionally disobeyed, and suspecting this he must also suspect a motive. But nothing had been betrayed to him as to the history of Raffles, and Bulstrode was anxious not to do anything which would give emphasis to his undefined suspicions. As to any certainty that a particular method of treatment would either save or kill, Lydgate himself was constantly arguing against such dogmatism; he had no right to speak, and he had every motive for being silent. Hence Bulstrode felt himself providentially secured. The only incident he had strongly winced under had been an occasional encounter with Caleb Garth, who, however, had raised his hat with mild gravity. Meanwhile, on the part of the principal townsmen a strong determination was growing against him. A meeting was to be held in the Town-Hall on a sanitary question which had risen into pressing importance by the occurrence of a cholera case in the town. Since the Act of Parliament, which had been hurriedly passed, authorizing assessments for sanitary measures, there had been a Board for the superintendence of such measures appointed in Middlemarch, and much cleansing and preparation had been concurred in by Whigs and Tories. The question now was, whether a piece of ground outside the town should be secured as a burial-ground by means of assessment or by private subscription. The meeting was to be open, and almost everybody of importance in the town was expected to be there. Mr. Bulstrode was a member of the Board, and just before twelve o'clock he started from the Bank with the intention of urging the plan of private subscription. Under the hesitation of his projects, he had for some time kept himself in the background, and he felt that he should this morning resume his old position as a man of action and influence in the public affairs of the town where he expected to end his days. Among the various persons going in the same direction, he saw Lydgate; they joined, talked over the object of the meeting, and entered it together. It seemed that everybody of mark had been earlier than they. But there were still spaces left near the head of the large central table, and they made their way thither. Mr. Farebrother sat opposite, not far from Mr. Hawley; all the medical men were there; Mr. Thesiger was in the chair, and Mr. Brooke of Tipton was on his right hand. Lydgate noticed a peculiar interchange of glances when he and Bulstrode took their seats. After the business had been fully opened by the chairman, who pointed out the advantages of purchasing by subscription a piece of ground large enough to be ultimately used as a general cemetery, Mr. Bulstrode, whose rather high-pitched but subdued and fluent voice the town was used to at meetings of this sort, rose and asked leave to deliver his opinion. Lydgate could see again the peculiar interchange of glances before Mr. Hawley started up, and said in his firm resonant voice, "Mr. Chairman, I request that before any one delivers his opinion on this point I may be permitted to speak on a question of public feeling, which not only by myself, but by many gentlemen present, is regarded as preliminary." Mr. Hawley's mode of speech, even when public decorum repressed his "awful language," was formidable in its curtness and self-possession. Mr. Thesiger sanctioned the request, Mr. Bulstrode sat down, and Mr. Hawley continued. "In what I have to say, Mr. Chairman, I am not speaking simply on my own behalf: I am speaking with the concurrence and at the express request of no fewer than eight of my fellow-townsmen, who are immediately around us. It is our united sentiment that Mr. Bulstrode should be called upon--and I do now call upon him--to resign public positions which he holds not simply as a tax-payer, but as a gentleman among gentlemen. There are practices and there are acts which, owing to circumstances, the law cannot visit, though they may be worse than many things which are legally punishable. Honest men and gentlemen, if they don't want the company of people who perpetrate such acts, have got to defend themselves as they best can, and that is what I and the friends whom I may call my clients in this affair are determined to do. I don't say that Mr. Bulstrode has been guilty of shameful acts, but I call upon him either publicly to deny and confute the scandalous statements made against him by a man now dead, and who died in his house--the statement that he was for many years engaged in nefarious practices, and that he won his fortune by dishonest procedures--or else to withdraw from positions which could only have been allowed him as a gentleman among gentlemen." All eyes in the room were turned on Mr. Bulstrode, who, since the first mention of his name, had been going through a crisis of feeling almost too violent for his delicate frame to support. Lydgate, who himself was undergoing a shock as from the terrible practical interpretation of some faint augury, felt, nevertheless, that his own movement of resentful hatred was checked by that instinct of the Healer which thinks first of bringing rescue or relief to the sufferer, when he looked at the shrunken misery of Bulstrode's livid face. The quick vision that his life was after all a failure, that he was a dishonored man, and must quail before the glance of those towards whom he had habitually assumed the attitude of a reprover--that God had disowned him before men and left him unscreened to the triumphant scorn of those who were glad to have their hatred justified--the sense of utter futility in that equivocation with his conscience in dealing with the life of his accomplice, an equivocation which now turned venomously upon him with the full-grown fang of a discovered lie:--all this rushed through him like the agony of terror which fails to kill, and leaves the ears still open to the returning wave of execration. The sudden sense of exposure after the re-established sense of safety came--not to the coarse organization of a criminal but to--the susceptible nerve of a man whose intensest being lay in such mastery and predominance as the conditions of his life had shaped for him. But in that intense being lay the strength of reaction. Through all his bodily infirmity there ran a tenacious nerve of ambitious self-preserving will, which had continually leaped out like a flame, scattering all doctrinal fears, and which, even while he sat an object of compassion for the merciful, was beginning to stir and glow under his ashy paleness. Before the last words were out of Mr. Hawley's mouth, Bulstrode felt that he should answer, and that his answer would be a retort. He dared not get up and say, "I am not guilty, the whole story is false"--even if he had dared this, it would have seemed to him, under his present keen sense of betrayal, as vain as to pull, for covering to his nakedness, a frail rag which would rend at every little strain. For a few moments there was total silence, while every man in the room was looking at Bulstrode. He sat perfectly still, leaning hard against the back of his chair; he could not venture to rise, and when he began to speak he pressed his hands upon the seat on each side of him. But his voice was perfectly audible, though hoarser than usual, and his words were distinctly pronounced, though he paused between sentence as if short of breath. He said, turning first toward Mr. Thesiger, and then looking at Mr. Hawley-- "I protest before you, sir, as a Christian minister, against the sanction of proceedings towards me which are dictated by virulent hatred. Those who are hostile to me are glad to believe any libel uttered by a loose tongue against me. And their consciences become strict against me. Say that the evil-speaking of which I am to be made the victim accuses me of malpractices--" here Bulstrode's voice rose and took on a more biting accent, till it seemed a low cry--"who shall be my accuser? Not men whose own lives are unchristian, nay, scandalous--not men who themselves use low instruments to carry out their ends--whose profession is a tissue of chicanery--who have been spending their income on their own sensual enjoyments, while I have been devoting mine to advance the best objects with regard to this life and the next." After the word chicanery there was a growing noise, half of murmurs and half of hisses, while four persons started up at once--Mr. Hawley, Mr. Toller, Mr. Chichely, and Mr. Hackbutt; but Mr. Hawley's outburst was instantaneous, and left the others behind in silence. "If you mean me, sir, I call you and every one else to the inspection of my professional life. As to Christian or unchristian, I repudiate your canting palavering Christianity; and as to the way in which I spend my income, it is not my principle to maintain thieves and cheat offspring of their due inheritance in order to support religion and set myself up as a saintly Killjoy. I affect no niceness of conscience--I have not found any nice standards necessary yet to measure your actions by, sir. And I again call upon you to enter into satisfactory explanations concerning the scandals against you, or else to withdraw from posts in which we at any rate decline you as a colleague. I say, sir, we decline to co-operate with a man whose character is not cleared from infamous lights cast upon it, not only by reports but by recent actions." "Allow me, Mr. Hawley," said the chairman; and Mr. Hawley, still fuming, bowed half impatiently, and sat down with his hands thrust deep in his pockets. "Mr. Bulstrode, it is not desirable, I think, to prolong the present discussion," said Mr. Thesiger, turning to the pallid trembling man; "I must so far concur with what has fallen from Mr. Hawley in expression of a general feeling, as to think it due to your Christian profession that you should clear yourself, if possible, from unhappy aspersions. I for my part should be willing to give you full opportunity and hearing. But I must say that your present attitude is painfully inconsistent with those principles which you have sought to identify yourself with, and for the honor of which I am bound to care. I recommend you at present, as your clergyman, and one who hopes for your reinstatement in respect, to quit the room, and avoid further hindrance to business." Bulstrode, after a moment's hesitation, took his hat from the floor and slowly rose, but he grasped the corner of the chair so totteringly that Lydgate felt sure there was not strength enough in him to walk away without support. What could he do? He could not see a man sink close to him for want of help. He rose and gave his arm to Bulstrode, and in that way led him out of the room; yet this act, which might have been one of gentle duty and pure compassion, was at this moment unspeakably bitter to him. It seemed as if he were putting his sign-manual to that association of himself with Bulstrode, of which he now saw the full meaning as it must have presented itself to other minds. He now felt the conviction that this man who was leaning tremblingly on his arm, had given him the thousand pounds as a bribe, and that somehow the treatment of Raffles had been tampered with from an evil motive. The inferences were closely linked enough; the town knew of the loan, believed it to be a bribe, and believed that he took it as a bribe. Poor Lydgate, his mind struggling under the terrible clutch of this revelation, was all the while morally forced to take Mr. Bulstrode to the Bank, send a man off for his carriage, and wait to accompany him home. Meanwhile the business of the meeting was despatched, and fringed off into eager discussion among various groups concerning this affair of Bulstrode--and Lydgate. Mr. Brooke, who had before heard only imperfect hints of it, and was very uneasy that he had "gone a little too far" in countenancing Bulstrode, now got himself fully informed, and felt some benevolent sadness in talking to Mr. Farebrother about the ugly light in which Lydgate had come to be regarded. Mr. Farebrother was going to walk back to Lowick. "Step into my carriage," said Mr. Brooke. "I am going round to see Mrs. Casaubon. She was to come back from Yorkshire last night. She will like to see me, you know." So they drove along, Mr. Brooke chatting with good-natured hope that there had not really been anything black in Lydgate's behavior--a young fellow whom he had seen to be quite above the common mark, when he brought a letter from his uncle Sir Godwin. Mr. Farebrother said little: he was deeply mournful: with a keen perception of human weakness, he could not be confident that under the pressure of humiliating needs Lydgate had not fallen below himself. When the carriage drove up to the gate of the Manor, Dorothea was out on the gravel, and came to greet them. "Well, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, "we have just come from a meeting--a sanitary meeting, you know." "Was Mr. Lydgate there?" said Dorothea, who looked full of health and animation, and stood with her head bare under the gleaming April lights. "I want to see him and have a great consultation with him about the Hospital. I have engaged with Mr. Bulstrode to do so." "Oh, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, "we have been hearing bad news--bad news, you know." They walked through the garden towards the churchyard gate, Mr. Farebrother wanting to go on to the parsonage; and Dorothea heard the whole sad story. She listened with deep interest, and begged to hear twice over the facts and impressions concerning Lydgate. After a short silence, pausing at the churchyard gate, and addressing Mr. Farebrother, she said energetically-- "You don't believe that Mr. Lydgate is guilty of anything base? I will not believe it. Let us find out the truth and clear him!" BOOK VIII. SUNSET AND SUNRISE. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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

Herr Bambridge und verschiedene andere Männer aus Middlemarch sitzen im Green Dragon und tratschen. Bambridge erzählt den Zuhörern, dass er mit einem Typ namens Raffles ein oder fünf Drinks hatte, der behauptete, alle Geheimnisse von Bulstrode zu kennen und damit prahlte, dass er ihn ins Gefängnis bringen könnte, wenn er wollte. Aber Hopkins weiß, dass ein Mann namens Raffles gerade in Middlemarch beerdigt wurde und dass Bulstrode für das Begräbnis bezahlt hat. Alle sind ziemlich schockiert darüber. Hopkins sagt ihnen, dass Lydgate der einzige Arzt war, der den Mann vor seinem Tod gesehen hat, und dass Bulstrode zwei Nächte lang mit ihm im Stone Court aufgepasst hat, bevor er starb. Das Gerede verbreitet sich wie ein Lauffeuer in Middlemarch. Zum Glück wissen die meisten Menschen nicht, dass Bulstrode Lydgate einen großen Kredit gegeben hat, den Tag bevor Raffles starb, sonst würde er auch verdächtigt werden. Aber dann erwähnt Mrs. Bulstrode es ihrer Freundin Mrs. Plymdale, die es ihrer Freundin Mrs. Toller erzählt... und schließlich verbreitet sich diese Information auch. Niemand kann natürlich etwas gegen Bulstrode oder Lydgate beweisen, aber die ganze Sache hat "einen hässlichen Anblick", um die meisten Bewohner von Middlemarch zu zitieren. Alle Stadtbewohner genießen es, ein Skandal zum Tratschen zu haben. Eine Sitzung des Verwaltungsrats des Krankenhauses wird einberufen. Lydgate ist auch dabei, als der Chefarzt des Krankenhauses. Der Verwaltungsrat bittet Bulstrode aufgrund des Skandals zurückzutreten. Und Lydgate erkennt, dass die Stadt glaubt, er habe von Bulstrode Bestechungsgeld angenommen. Nach der Sitzung trifft Farebrother auf Mr. Brooke, der ihm sagt, dass Dorothea ihn treffen möchte. Sie erzählen Dorothea von dem Skandal mit Bulstrode und dass auch Lydgate darin verwickelt ist. Ein Teil des Tratschs über Bulstrode betrifft Will Ladislaws Familie. Die Tatsache, dass er von einem polnischen Musiker und einem Diebstahlschmuckverleiher abstammt, trägt nicht gerade zu seinem Ruf bei ihren Freunden und ihrer Familie bei. Sie ist sofort entschlossen, Lydgates Namen reinzuwaschen - sie weigert sich zu glauben, dass er etwas davon gewusst hat.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: A damn'd cramp piece of penmanship as ever I saw in my life! --She Stoops to Conquer When the Templar reached the hall of the castle, he found De Bracy already there. "Your love-suit," said De Bracy, "hath, I suppose, been disturbed, like mine, by this obstreperous summons. But you have come later and more reluctantly, and therefore I presume your interview has proved more agreeable than mine." "Has your suit, then, been unsuccessfully paid to the Saxon heiress?" said the Templar. "By the bones of Thomas a Becket," answered De Bracy, "the Lady Rowena must have heard that I cannot endure the sight of women's tears." "Away!" said the Templar; "thou a leader of a Free Company, and regard a woman's tears! A few drops sprinkled on the torch of love, make the flame blaze the brighter." "Gramercy for the few drops of thy sprinkling," replied De Bracy; "but this damsel hath wept enough to extinguish a beacon-light. Never was such wringing of hands and such overflowing of eyes, since the days of St Niobe, of whom Prior Aymer told us. [30] A water-fiend hath possessed the fair Saxon." "A legion of fiends have occupied the bosom of the Jewess," replied the Templar; "for, I think no single one, not even Apollyon himself, could have inspired such indomitable pride and resolution.--But where is Front-de-Boeuf? That horn is sounded more and more clamorously." "He is negotiating with the Jew, I suppose," replied De Bracy, coolly; "probably the howls of Isaac have drowned the blast of the bugle. Thou mayst know, by experience, Sir Brian, that a Jew parting with his treasures on such terms as our friend Front-de-Boeuf is like to offer, will raise a clamour loud enough to be heard over twenty horns and trumpets to boot. But we will make the vassals call him." They were soon after joined by Front-de-Boeuf, who had been disturbed in his tyrannic cruelty in the manner with which the reader is acquainted, and had only tarried to give some necessary directions. "Let us see the cause of this cursed clamour," said Front-de-Boeuf--"here is a letter, and, if I mistake not, it is in Saxon." He looked at it, turning it round and round as if he had had really some hopes of coming at the meaning by inverting the position of the paper, and then handed it to De Bracy. "It may be magic spells for aught I know," said De Bracy, who possessed his full proportion of the ignorance which characterised the chivalry of the period. "Our chaplain attempted to teach me to write," he said, "but all my letters were formed like spear-heads and sword-blades, and so the old shaveling gave up the task." "Give it me," said the Templar. "We have that of the priestly character, that we have some knowledge to enlighten our valour." "Let us profit by your most reverend knowledge, then," said De Bracy; "what says the scroll?" "It is a formal letter of defiance," answered the Templar; "but, by our Lady of Bethlehem, if it be not a foolish jest, it is the most extraordinary cartel that ever was sent across the drawbridge of a baronial castle." "Jest!" said Front-de-Boeuf, "I would gladly know who dares jest with me in such a matter!--Read it, Sir Brian." The Templar accordingly read it as follows:--"I, Wamba, the son of Witless, Jester to a noble and free-born man, Cedric of Rotherwood, called the Saxon,--And I, Gurth, the son of Beowulph, the swineherd---" "Thou art mad," said Front-de-Boeuf, interrupting the reader. "By St Luke, it is so set down," answered the Templar. Then resuming his task, he went on,--"I, Gurth, the son of Beowulph, swineherd unto the said Cedric, with the assistance of our allies and confederates, who make common cause with us in this our feud, namely, the good knight, called for the present 'Le Noir Faineant', and the stout yeoman, Robert Locksley, called Cleave-the-Wand. Do you, Reginald Front de-Boeuf, and your allies and accomplices whomsoever, to wit, that whereas you have, without cause given or feud declared, wrongfully and by mastery seized upon the person of our lord and master the said Cedric; also upon the person of a noble and freeborn damsel, the Lady Rowena of Hargottstandstede; also upon the person of a noble and freeborn man, Athelstane of Coningsburgh; also upon the persons of certain freeborn men, their 'cnichts'; also upon certain serfs, their born bondsmen; also upon a certain Jew, named Isaac of York, together with his daughter, a Jewess, and certain horses and mules: Which noble persons, with their 'cnichts' and slaves, and also with the horses and mules, Jew and Jewess beforesaid, were all in peace with his majesty, and travelling as liege subjects upon the king's highway; therefore we require and demand that the said noble persons, namely, Cedric of Rotherwood, Rowena of Hargottstandstede, Athelstane of Coningsburgh, with their servants, 'cnichts', and followers, also the horses and mules, Jew and Jewess aforesaid, together with all goods and chattels to them pertaining, be, within an hour after the delivery hereof, delivered to us, or to those whom we shall appoint to receive the same, and that untouched and unharmed in body and goods. Failing of which, we do pronounce to you, that we hold ye as robbers and traitors, and will wager our bodies against ye in battle, siege, or otherwise, and do our utmost to your annoyance and destruction. Wherefore may God have you in his keeping.--Signed by us upon the eve of St Withold's day, under the great trysting oak in the Hart-hill Walk, the above being written by a holy man, Clerk to God, our Lady, and St Dunstan, in the Chapel of Copmanhurst." At the bottom of this document was scrawled, in the first place, a rude sketch of a cock's head and comb, with a legend expressing this hieroglyphic to be the sign-manual of Wamba, son of Witless. Under this respectable emblem stood a cross, stated to be the mark of Gurth, the son of Beowulph. Then was written, in rough bold characters, the words, "Le Noir Faineant". And, to conclude the whole, an arrow, neatly enough drawn, was described as the mark of the yeoman Locksley. The knights heard this uncommon document read from end to end, and then gazed upon each other in silent amazement, as being utterly at a loss to know what it could portend. De Bracy was the first to break silence by an uncontrollable fit of laughter, wherein he was joined, though with more moderation, by the Templar. Front-de-Boeuf, on the contrary, seemed impatient of their ill-timed jocularity. "I give you plain warning," he said, "fair sirs, that you had better consult how to bear yourselves under these circumstances, than give way to such misplaced merriment." "Front-de-Boeuf has not recovered his temper since his late overthrow," said De Bracy to the Templar; "he is cowed at the very idea of a cartel, though it come but from a fool and a swineherd." "By St Michael," answered Front-de-Boeuf, "I would thou couldst stand the whole brunt of this adventure thyself, De Bracy. These fellows dared not have acted with such inconceivable impudence, had they not been supported by some strong bands. There are enough of outlaws in this forest to resent my protecting the deer. I did but tie one fellow, who was taken redhanded and in the fact, to the horns of a wild stag, which gored him to death in five minutes, and I had as many arrows shot at me as there were launched against yonder target at Ashby.--Here, fellow," he added, to one of his attendants, "hast thou sent out to see by what force this precious challenge is to be supported?" "There are at least two hundred men assembled in the woods," answered a squire who was in attendance. "Here is a proper matter!" said Front-de-Boeuf, "this comes of lending you the use of my castle, that cannot manage your undertaking quietly, but you must bring this nest of hornets about my ears!" "Of hornets?" said De Bracy; "of stingless drones rather; a band of lazy knaves, who take to the wood, and destroy the venison rather than labour for their maintenance." "Stingless!" replied Front-de-Boeuf; "fork-headed shafts of a cloth-yard in length, and these shot within the breadth of a French crown, are sting enough." "For shame, Sir Knight!" said the Templar. "Let us summon our people, and sally forth upon them. One knight--ay, one man-at-arms, were enough for twenty such peasants." "Enough, and too much," said De Bracy; "I should only be ashamed to couch lance against them." "True," answered Front-de-Boeuf; "were they black Turks or Moors, Sir Templar, or the craven peasants of France, most valiant De Bracy; but these are English yeomen, over whom we shall have no advantage, save what we may derive from our arms and horses, which will avail us little in the glades of the forest. Sally, saidst thou? we have scarce men enough to defend the castle. The best of mine are at York; so is all your band, De Bracy; and we have scarcely twenty, besides the handful that were engaged in this mad business." "Thou dost not fear," said the Templar, "that they can assemble in force sufficient to attempt the castle?" "Not so, Sir Brian," answered Front-de-Boeuf. "These outlaws have indeed a daring captain; but without machines, scaling ladders, and experienced leaders, my castle may defy them." "Send to thy neighbours," said the Templar, "let them assemble their people, and come to the rescue of three knights, besieged by a jester and a swineherd in the baronial castle of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf!" "You jest, Sir Knight," answered the baron; "but to whom should I send?--Malvoisin is by this time at York with his retainers, and so are my other allies; and so should I have been, but for this infernal enterprise." "Then send to York, and recall our people," said De Bracy. "If they abide the shaking of my standard, or the sight of my Free Companions, I will give them credit for the boldest outlaws ever bent bow in green-wood." "And who shall bear such a message?" said Front-de-Boeuf; "they will beset every path, and rip the errand out of his bosom.--I have it," he added, after pausing for a moment--"Sir Templar, thou canst write as well as read, and if we can but find the writing materials of my chaplain, who died a twelvemonth since in the midst of his Christmas carousals--" "So please ye," said the squire, who was still in attendance, "I think old Urfried has them somewhere in keeping, for love of the confessor. He was the last man, I have heard her tell, who ever said aught to her, which man ought in courtesy to address to maid or matron." "Go, search them out, Engelred," said Front-de-Boeuf; "and then, Sir Templar, thou shalt return an answer to this bold challenge." "I would rather do it at the sword's point than at that of the pen," said Bois-Guilbert; "but be it as you will." He sat down accordingly, and indited, in the French language, an epistle of the following tenor:--"Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, with his noble and knightly allies and confederates, receive no defiances at the hands of slaves, bondsmen, or fugitives. If the person calling himself the Black Knight have indeed a claim to the honours of chivalry, he ought to know that he stands degraded by his present association, and has no right to ask reckoning at the hands of good men of noble blood. Touching the prisoners we have made, we do in Christian charity require you to send a man of religion, to receive their confession, and reconcile them with God; since it is our fixed intention to execute them this morning before noon, so that their heads being placed on the battlements, shall show to all men how lightly we esteem those who have bestirred themselves in their rescue. Wherefore, as above, we require you to send a priest to reconcile them to God, in doing which you shall render them the last earthly service." This letter being folded, was delivered to the squire, and by him to the messenger who waited without, as the answer to that which he had brought. The yeoman having thus accomplished his mission, returned to the head-quarters of the allies, which were for the present established under a venerable oak-tree, about three arrow-flights distant from the castle. Here Wamba and Gurth, with their allies the Black Knight and Locksley, and the jovial hermit, awaited with impatience an answer to their summons. Around, and at a distance from them, were seen many a bold yeoman, whose silvan dress and weatherbeaten countenances showed the ordinary nature of their occupation. More than two hundred had already assembled, and others were fast coming in. Those whom they obeyed as leaders were only distinguished from the others by a feather in the cap, their dress, arms, and equipments being in all other respects the same. Besides these bands, a less orderly and a worse armed force, consisting of the Saxon inhabitants of the neighbouring township, as well as many bondsmen and servants from Cedric's extensive estate, had already arrived, for the purpose of assisting in his rescue. Few of these were armed otherwise than with such rustic weapons as necessity sometimes converts to military purposes. Boar-spears, scythes, flails, and the like, were their chief arms; for the Normans, with the usual policy of conquerors, were jealous of permitting to the vanquished Saxons the possession or the use of swords and spears. These circumstances rendered the assistance of the Saxons far from being so formidable to the besieged, as the strength of the men themselves, their superior numbers, and the animation inspired by a just cause, might otherwise well have made them. It was to the leaders of this motley army that the letter of the Templar was now delivered. Reference was at first made to the chaplain for an exposition of its contents. "By the crook of St Dunstan," said that worthy ecclesiastic, "which hath brought more sheep within the sheepfold than the crook of e'er another saint in Paradise, I swear that I cannot expound unto you this jargon, which, whether it be French or Arabic, is beyond my guess." He then gave the letter to Gurth, who shook his head gruffly, and passed it to Wamba. The Jester looked at each of the four corners of the paper with such a grin of affected intelligence as a monkey is apt to assume upon similar occasions, then cut a caper, and gave the letter to Locksley. "If the long letters were bows, and the short letters broad arrows, I might know something of the matter," said the brave yeoman; "but as the matter stands, the meaning is as safe, for me, as the stag that's at twelve miles distance." "I must be clerk, then," said the Black Knight; and taking the letter from Locksley, he first read it over to himself, and then explained the meaning in Saxon to his confederates. "Execute the noble Cedric!" exclaimed Wamba; "by the rood, thou must be mistaken, Sir Knight." "Not I, my worthy friend," replied the knight, "I have explained the words as they are here set down." "Then, by St Thomas of Canterbury," replied Gurth, "we will have the castle, should we tear it down with our hands!" "We have nothing else to tear it with," replied Wamba; "but mine are scarce fit to make mammocks of freestone and mortar." "'Tis but a contrivance to gain time," said Locksley; "they dare not do a deed for which I could exact a fearful penalty." "I would," said the Black Knight, "there were some one among us who could obtain admission into the castle, and discover how the case stands with the besieged. Methinks, as they require a confessor to be sent, this holy hermit might at once exercise his pious vocation, and procure us the information we desire." "A plague on thee, and thy advice!" said the pious hermit; "I tell thee, Sir Slothful Knight, that when I doff my friar's frock, my priesthood, my sanctity, my very Latin, are put off along with it; and when in my green jerkin, I can better kill twenty deer than confess one Christian." "I fear," said the Black Knight, "I fear greatly, there is no one here that is qualified to take upon him, for the nonce, this same character of father confessor?" All looked on each other, and were silent. "I see," said Wamba, after a short pause, "that the fool must be still the fool, and put his neck in the venture which wise men shrink from. You must know, my dear cousins and countrymen, that I wore russet before I wore motley, and was bred to be a friar, until a brain-fever came upon me and left me just wit enough to be a fool. I trust, with the assistance of the good hermit's frock, together with the priesthood, sanctity, and learning which are stitched into the cowl of it, I shall be found qualified to administer both worldly and ghostly comfort to our worthy master Cedric, and his companions in adversity." "Hath he sense enough, thinkst thou?" said the Black Knight, addressing Gurth. "I know not," said Gurth; "but if he hath not, it will be the first time he hath wanted wit to turn his folly to account." "On with the frock, then, good fellow," quoth the Knight, "and let thy master send us an account of their situation within the castle. Their numbers must be few, and it is five to one they may be accessible by a sudden and bold attack. Time wears--away with thee." "And, in the meantime," said Locksley, "we will beset the place so closely, that not so much as a fly shall carry news from thence. So that, my good friend," he continued, addressing Wamba, "thou mayst assure these tyrants, that whatever violence they exercise on the persons of their prisoners, shall be most severely repaid upon their own." "Pax vobiscum," said Wamba, who was now muffled in his religious disguise. And so saying he imitated the solemn and stately deportment of a friar, and departed to execute his mission. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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

Front-de-Boeuf, De Bois-Guilbert und De Bracy treffen sich. Sie haben eine schriftliche Forderung von ausgerechnet Wamba und Gurth erhalten. Die Forderung lautet, dass die Ritter ihre Gefangenen innerhalb einer Stunde ausliefern oder die Konsequenzen tragen sollen. Das Dokument ist auch vom Schwarzen Ritter unterschrieben. Locksley hat ebenfalls seine Unterschrift darauf gesetzt. Die Ritter wissen nicht, wie sie reagieren sollen. De Bracy lacht, aber Front-de-Boeuf erkennt, wie ernst das Ultimatum ist. Er weiß, dass eine starke Streitmacht gegen sie aufgeboten ist, und ein Knappe bestätigt, dass ihnen mindestens zweihundert Männer entgegentreten. Aber die Ritter sind zuversichtlich, dass sie die Burg gegen die Angreifer verteidigen können. De Bois-Guilbert verfasst eine Antwort auf die Herausforderung, in der steht, dass sie ihre Gefangenen vor Mittag hinrichten werden. Die Ritter bitten auch darum, dass ein Priester geschickt wird, um die letzten Beichten der Gefangenen zu hören. Als die Männer im Wald diese Nachricht erhalten, müssen sie entscheiden, wen sie als Priester schicken sollen. Der Schwarze Ritter schlägt Friar Tuck vor, aber er lehnt ab. Dann meldet sich Wamba freiwillig für den Job.

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

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

Mr. Utterson und Mr. Enfield machen einen ihrer gewohnten Sonntagsspaziergänge und zufällig führt sie ihr Weg an "dieser Tür" vorbei, der Tür, über die sie sich geeinigt haben, nie wieder zu sprechen. Sie machen jetzt eine Pause und schauen sie an. Enfield denkt, dass man nie wieder von Mr. Hyde hören wird, und Utterson ist schnell einverstanden. Dann fragt er Enfield, ob er seinem alten Freund jemals erzählt habe, dass er tatsächlich Hyde gesehen habe und dass er, als er den Mann sah, von einem starken Gefühl von Abscheu erfüllt war. Enfield bemerkt, dass es unmöglich ist, Hyde zu sehen und sich nicht zu ekeln. Utterson schlägt vor, dass sie in den Hof treten, um sich die Fenster anzuschauen, und während sie das tun, offenbart er seine Besorgnis über Dr. Jekylls Gesundheit. Bedrohlicherweise sagt er, dass vielleicht nur "die Anwesenheit eines Freundes" draußen im Hof den armen Mann stärken könnte. Die beiden Männer betrachten die Fenster von Jekylls Quartieren, und ihre Augen werden von einem Fenster in der Besonderheit angezogen. Es ist halb geöffnet und direkt daneben sitzt Dr. Jekyll, der wie ein Gefangener in Einzelhaft aussieht. Ohne zu zögern ruft Utterson dem Arzt zu: "Jekyll, ich hoffe, es geht dir besser." Jekylls Antwort ist traurig: Er fühlt sich niedergeschlagen, sehr niedergeschlagen, und fürchtet, dass er "nicht mehr lange durchhält, Gott sei Dank." Um seinen alten Freund aufzuheitern, ermutigt Utterson Jekyll, rauszugehen - "die Durchblutung anregen" - und er lädt Jekyll ein, sich ihm und Enfield anzuschließen. Jekyll seufzt. Er sagt, dass Utterson ein guter Mann ist, weil er einen gemeinsamen Spaziergang vorschlägt, aber er kann sich ihnen nicht anschließen; er darf nicht. Trotzdem betont er, dass er sehr froh ist, Utterson zu sehen, und er würde die beiden Männer gerne hinaufbitten, aber "der Ort ist wirklich nicht geeignet". Utterson schlägt dann vor, dass sie dort bleiben und sich unterhalten, und der Vorschlag lässt Jekyll sich umdrehen und sie anlächeln. Doch plötzlich verkrampfen und erstarren seine Gesichtszüge in einem Ausdruck "von abgrundtiefer Angst und Verzweiflung." Der Erzähler sagt uns, dass die Veränderung in Jekylls Gesichtsausdruck so augenblicklich und so schrecklich ist, dass sie "das Blut der beiden Herren unter sich gefrieren lässt." Jekylls Fenster wird so brutal heruntergerissen, dass Utterson und Enfield ohne ein Wort kehrtmachen und den Hof verlassen. Sie sprechen erst wieder miteinander, als sie eine benachbarte Straße erreichen, wo "noch einige reges Treiben herrscht." Beide Männer sind so bleich, dass sie, wenn sie sich ansehen, "eine Antwort des Schreckens in ihren Augen" sehen. Utterson spricht leise: "Gott verzeihe uns, Gott verzeihe uns." Enfield nickt, und die beiden Männer gehen wieder schweigend weiter.

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 Fünf. Es betreten Cornwall und Edmund. Corn. Ich werde mich rächen, bevor ich sein Haus verlasse. Bast. Wie, mein Herr, ich könnte verurteilt werden, dass die Natur so der Loyalität Platz einräumt; etwas beunruhigt mich, daran zu denken. Cornw. Ich verstehe jetzt, dass es nicht allein die schlechte Veranlagung deines Bruders war, die ihn seinen Tod suchen ließ; sondern auch ein anstößiges Verdienen, das durch eine tadelhafte Schlechtigkeit in ihm selbst in Gang gesetzt wurde. Bast. Wie böse ist mein Schicksal, dass ich bereuen muss, gerecht zu sein? Dies ist der Brief, von dem er sprach; der ihn als klugen Verbündeten der Vorteile Frankreichs ausweist. Oh Himmel! dass dieser Verrat nicht wäre, oder dass ich nicht der Entdecker wäre. Corn. Geh mit mir zur Herzogin. Bast. Wenn die Sache dieses Papiers gewiss ist, hast du eine gewaltige Aufgabe vor dir. Corn. Ob wahr oder falsch, es hat dich zum Grafen von Gloucester gemacht: suche heraus, wo dein Vater ist, damit er bereit ist, uns gefangen zu nehmen. Bast. Wenn ich ihn den König trösten finde, wird das seinen Verdacht noch mehr nähren. Ich werde in meinem loyalen Kurs beharren, obwohl der Konflikt zwischen dem und meinem Blut schmerzhaft ist. Corn. Ich werde Vertrauen in dich setzen: und du wirst in meiner Liebe einen geliebten Vater finden. Abgang. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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

In der Zwischenzeit, im Schloss von Gloucester, schreitet Edmunds böser Plan reibungslos voran. Ein böses Grinsen und das Reiben der Hände dürfen nicht fehlen. Er hat Cornwall von der verbotenen Treue seines Vaters zu Lear erzählt und Cornwall auch den belastenden, anti-Cornwall Brief gezeigt. Edmund schlägt demütig vor, dass er ein großes Opfer gebracht hat, indem er seine Loyalität zu Cornwall über seine familiären Pflichten gestellt hat. Cornwall schließt daraus, dass es nun so aussieht, als ob Edgars "Verschwörung", seinen Vater zu töten, irgendwie gerecht war, angesichts der Tatsache, dass Gloucester ein so böser Kerl war. Edmund hält den belastenden Brief hoch und sagt so etwas wie: "Es ist einfach so schrecklich, dass ich meinen eigenen Vater verraten muss, der offensichtlich ein Spion und Informant für Frankreich ist". Cornwall sagt, dass es egal ist, ob der Brief wahr oder falsch ist. Edmund hat große Loyalität gezeigt, also wird er auf jeden Fall der neue Earl of Gloucester sein. Cornwall schickt Edmund los, um Gloucester zu finden und ihn zur Bestrafung zurückzubringen. Edmund hofft, dass sein Vater, wenn er ihn findet, Lear trösten wird, denn dann wird Gloucester für seine Verbrechen doppelt belastet sein.

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 Abend nach der Beerdigung saßen meine junge Dame und ich in der Bibliothek. Wir grübelten traurig - einer von uns verzweifelt - über unseren Verlust nach und wagten Spekulationen über die düstere Zukunft. Wir waren gerade übereingekommen, dass das beste Schicksal, das Catherine erwarten könnte, eine Erlaubnis wäre, im Grange zu bleiben - zumindest während Lintons Leben. Er dürfte sich dort zu ihr gesellen und ich als Haushälterin bleiben. Das schien zu optimistisch zu sein, um darauf zu hoffen, und dennoch hoffte ich und begann mich unter Aussicht, mein Zuhause, meine Arbeit und vor allem meine geliebte junge Herrin zu behalten, zu ermuntern, als ein Diener - einer der entlassenen, der noch nicht gegangen war - eilig hereinstürzte und sagte, dass 'dieser Teufel Heathcliff' durch den Hof kommt: Sollte er ihm die Tür vor der Nase verriegeln? Wenn wir verrückt genug gewesen wären, diesen Schritt anzuordnen, hätten wir keine Zeit gehabt. Er machte keine Zeremonie aus dem Klopfen oder Benennen seines Namens: Er war der Herr und machte sich das Recht des Herrn zunutze, einfach einzutreten, ohne ein Wort zu sagen. Der Klang der Stimme unseres Informanten lenkte ihn zur Bibliothek; er betrat den Raum und wies ihn an, hinauszugehen und schloss die Tür. Es war der gleiche Raum, in den er vor achtzehn Jahren als Gast geleitet worden war: der gleiche Mond schien durch das Fenster; und die gleiche Herbstlandschaft lag draußen. Wir hatten noch keine Kerze angezündet, aber das gesamte Zimmer war sichtbar, sogar die Porträts an der Wand: der prächtige Kopf von Mrs. Linton und der anmutige ihres Mannes. Heathcliff ging zum Kamin. Die Zeit hatte sein Aussehen kaum verändert. Es war immer noch derselbe Mann: sein dunkles Gesicht war vielleicht etwas blasser und ruhiger, sein Körper ein oder zwei Steine schwerer, aber sonst gab es keinen Unterschied. Catherine erhob sich mit dem Impuls, hinauszustürzen, als sie ihn sah. "Stopp!" sagte er und hielt sie am Arm fest. "Keine weiteren Fluchten! Wohin würdest du gehen? Ich bin gekommen, um dich nach Hause zu holen, und ich hoffe, du wirst eine gehorsame Tochter sein und meinen Sohn nicht zu weiterem Ungehorsam ermutigen. Ich war in Verlegenheit, wie ich ihn bestrafen sollte, als ich seine Rolle in der Angelegenheit entdeckte: Er ist so zerbrechlich, eine Prise würde ihn vernichten, aber du wirst an seinem Aussehen sehen, dass er seine gerechte Strafe erhalten hat! Ich habe ihn am Abend vorvorgestern heruntergebracht und ihn einfach in einen Stuhl gesetzt und danach nicht mehr berührt. Ich habe Hareton rausgeschickt, und wir hatten den Raum für uns allein. In zwei Stunden habe ich Joseph gerufen, um ihn wieder nach oben zu tragen, und seitdem ist meine Anwesenheit auf seinen Nerven genauso wirksam wie ein Geist; und ich glaube, er sieht mich oft, obwohl ich nicht in der Nähe bin. Hareton sagt, dass er nachts stundenlang aufwacht und schreit und dich ruft, um ihn vor mir zu beschützen. Und ob du deinen kostbaren Gefährten magst oder nicht, du musst kommen: Er ist jetzt deine Verantwortung; Ich gebe all mein Interesse an ihm an dich." "Warum lässt du Catherine nicht hierbleiben", flehte ich, "und schickst Master Linton zu ihr? Da du beide hasst, würden sie dir nicht fehlen: Sie können nur eine tägliche Plage für dein unnatürliches Herz sein." "Ich suche einen Mieter für das Grange", antwortete er, "und ich möchte meine Kinder um mich haben, ganz sicher. Außerdem verdankt mir dieses Mädchen ihre Dienste für ihr Brot. Ich werde sie nicht in Luxus und Faulheit aufziehen, wenn Linton weg ist. Beeile dich und mach dich bereit und zwing mich nicht, dich zu zwingen." "Ich werde", sagte Catherine. "Linton ist alles, was ich in der Welt liebe, und obwohl du getan hast, was du konntest, um ihn mir verhasst zu machen und mich ihm, kannst du uns nicht voneinander abbringen. Und ich trotze dir, ihm wehzutun, wenn ich da bin, und ich trotze dir, mich zu erschrecken!" "Du bist ein prahlerischer Champion", erwiderte Heathcliff. "Aber ich mag dich nicht genug, um ihm wehzutun: Du wirst den vollen Nutzen von der Qual haben, solange sie dauert. Nicht ich werde ihn dir verhasst machen - es ist sein eigener süßer Geist. Er ist so bitter wie Galle über deine Verlassung und ihre Konsequenzen: Erwarte keinen Dank für diese edle Hingabe. Ich habe gehört, wie er Zillah ein angenehmes Bild davon gezeichnet hat, was er tun würde, wenn er so stark wäre wie ich: Die Neigung ist da, und seine Schwäche wird seinen Verstand schärfen, um einen Ersatz für Stärke zu finden." "Ich weiß, dass er eine schlechte Natur hat", sagte Catherine. "Er ist dein Sohn. Aber ich bin froh, dass ich einen besseren habe, der ihm verzeiht; und ich weiß, dass er mich liebt, und deshalb liebe ich ihn. Mr. Heathcliff, niemand liebt dich, niemand wird um dich weinen, wenn du stirbst! Ich möchte nicht du sein!" Catherine sprach mit einer Art düsterem Triumph: Sie schien sich entschlossen zu haben, sich in den Geist ihrer zukünftigen Familie einzufügen und Freude an den Leiden ihrer Feinde zu finden. "Du wirst dich wünschen, du wärst jetzt jemand anders", sagte ihr Schwiegervater, "wenn du noch eine Minute dort stehen bleibst. Geh weg, Hexe, und hol deine Sachen!" Verächtlich entfernte sie sich. In ihrer Abwesenheit begann ich, um Zillahs Platz in den Höhen zu bitten und ihr meinen Platz anzubieten, aber er ließ es auf keinen Fall zu. Er befahl mir, still zu sein, und erlaubte sich dann zum ersten Mal, den Raum zu betrachten und sich die Bilder anzusehen. Nachdem er Mrs. Lintons Studium beendet hatte, sagte er: "Ich werde dieses Zuhause haben. Nicht, weil ich es brauche, sondern..." Er drehte sich abrupt zum Feuer und fuhr mit dem, was ich aus Mangel an einem besseren Wort als Lächeln bezeichnen muss, fort: "Ich werde dir erzählen, was ich gestern gemacht habe! Ich habe den Totengräber, der Lintons Grab aushob, gebeten, die Erde vom Deckel ihres Sarges zu entfernen, und ich habe ihn geöffnet. Ich dachte, ich würde dort bleiben: als ich ihr Gesicht wieder sah - es gehört immer noch ihr! - er hatte Mühe, mich zu bewegen; aber er sagte, es würde sich ändern, wenn Luft darauf bläst, und deshalb habe ich eine Seite des Sarges gelöst und ihn bedeckt: nicht Lintons Seite, verdammt ihn! Ich wünschte, er wäre in Blei gelötet gewesen. Und ich habe dem Totengräber Schmiergeld gegeben, um ihn wegzuziehen, wenn ich dort hingelegt werde, und auch meinen herauszunehmen; ich werde es so machen lassen: und wenn Linton zu uns kommt, wird er nicht wissen, wer wer ist!" "Du warst sehr böse, Mr. Heathcliff!" rief ich aus. "Hattest du keine Scham, die Toten zu stören?" "Ich habe niemanden gestört, Nelly", antwortete er. "Und ich habe mir etwas Erleichterung verschafft. Ich werde jetzt viel bequemer sein, und du hast eine bessere Chance, mich unter der Erde zu behalten, wenn ich dorthin komme. Sie hat mich gestört? Nein! Sie hat mich achtzehn Jahre lang Tag und Nacht, unaufhörlich, rücksichtslos gestört - bis gestern Nacht; und gestern Nacht war ich ruhig. Ich träumte, ich würde den letzten Schlaf neben dieser Schlafenden schlafen, mit meinem Herzen, das aufhört zu schlagen, und meiner Wange, die an ihr erstarrt ist." "Und wenn sie sich in Erde oder Schlimmeres aufgelöst hätte, was hättest du dann geträumt?" sagte ich. "Mit ihr zu verschmelzen und noch glücklicher zu sein!" antwortete er. "Glaubst du, ich fürchte mich vor einer Veränderung dieser Art? Ich habe eine solche Metamorphose erwartet, als ich den Deckel angehoben habe - aber ich bin zufriedener, dass sie nicht beginnt, bis ich daran teilhabe. Außerdem hätte ich ohne einen deutlichen Eindruck von ihren leidenschaftslosen Gesichtszügen dieses merkwürdige Gefühl kaum beseitigen können. Es begann merkwürdig. Du weißt, ich war wild, nachdem sie gestorben war; und ich habe von Morgendämmerung bis Morgendämmerung immer wieder gebetet, dass ihr Geist zu mir zurückkehren möge! Ich habe einen starken Glauben an Geister: ich bin überzeugt, dass sie unter uns existieren können und tatsächlich auch existieren! Am Tag ihrer Beerdigung gab es einen Schneefall. Am Abend ging ich zum Friedhof. Es blies kalt wie im Winter - ringsherum war es einsam. Ich fürchtete nicht, dass ihr dummer Ehemann so spät den Flusslauf hinaufwandern würde, und niemand hatte sonst einen Grund, sie dort hinzubringen. Alleine zu sein und mir bewusst zu sein, dass nur zwei Meter loser Erde uns trennten, sagte ich zu mir selbst: "Ich werde sie wieder in meinen Armen haben! Wenn sie kalt ist, werde ich denken, dass es der Nordwind ist, der mich kühlt; und wenn sie regungslos ist, dann schläft sie." Ich holte mir eine Schaufel aus der Werkzeugkiste und begann mit aller Kraft zu graben - sie ritzte den Sarg; ich begann mit meinen Händen zu arbeiten; das Holz begann um die Schrauben herum zu knacken; ich war kurz davor, mein Ziel zu erreichen, als es schien, als würde ich einen Seufzer von jemandem oben hören, nahe am Rand des Grabes, und der sich hinunterbeugte. "Wenn ich dasselbe nur wegbekomme", murmelte ich, "wünsche ich mir, dass sie uns beide mit Erde zuschütten!" und ich riss daran noch verzweifelter. Es gab einen weiteren Seufzer, ganz nah an meinem Ohr. Es schien, als würde ich den warmen Atem spüren, der den von Schneegraupel beladenen Wind verdrängte. Ich wusste, dass dort kein Lebewesen aus Fleisch und Blut war, aber genauso wie man im Dunkeln die Annäherung an einen festen Körper wahrnimmt, obwohl man ihn nicht erkennen kann, so fühlte ich ganz sicher, dass Cathy dort war: nicht unter mir, sondern auf der Erde. Ein plötzliches Gefühl der Erleichterung durchströmte mein Herz und breitete sich in jedem meiner Glieder aus. Ich gab meine qualvolle Arbeit auf und fühlte mich sofort getröstet: unsagbar getröstet. Ihre Anwesenheit war bei mir, sie blieb bei mir, während ich das Grab wieder auffüllte und mich nach Hause führte. Du kannst lachen, wenn du willst; aber ich war sicher, dass ich sie dort sehen würde. Ich war sicher, dass sie bei mir war, und ich konnte nicht anders, als mit ihr zu reden. Nachdem ich die Anhöhen erreicht hatte, eilte ich aufgeregt zur Tür. Sie war verschlossen; und ich erinnere mich, dass dieser verfluchte Earnshaw und meine Frau meinen Eintritt verwehrten. Ich erinnere mich, dass ich stehenblieb, um ihm den Atem auszutreten, und dann die Treppe hinaufstürmte, in mein Zimmer und in ihres. Ich schaute ungeduldig umher - ich spürte, dass sie bei mir war - ich konnte sie fast sehen und doch konnte ich es nicht! In diesem Moment hätte ich vor Sehnsucht Blut schwitzen müssen - vor der Intensität meiner Bitten, auch nur einen flüchtigen Blick zu erhaschen! Ich hatte keinen einzigen. Sie zeigte sich mir, so wie sie es oft im Leben war, ein Teufel für mich! Und seitdem, manchmal mehr und manchmal weniger, bin ich das Spiel dieser unerträglichen Qual! Höllisch! Sie bringen meine Nerven so sehr auf die Spitze, dass sie sich, wenn sie nicht wie Darmsaiten wären, schon längst hätte in die Schwäche von Lintons verwandeln müssen. Wenn ich im Haus mit Hareton saß, schien es mir, dass ich sie treffe, wenn ich auf den Heideflächen ging, schien es mir, dass ich ihr dort begegne. Wenn ich von zu Hause wegging, beeilte ich mich zurückzukehren; sie _musste_ irgendwo auf der Heights sein, da war ich mir sicher! Und als ich in ihrem Zimmer schlief - das musste ich aufgeben. Ich konnte dort nicht liegen, denn sobald ich die Augen schloss, war sie entweder draußen am Fenster oder schob die Paneele zurück oder betrat das Zimmer oder legte ihren Lieblingskopf sogar auf dasselbe Kissen, auf dem sie als Kind geschlafen hatte; und ich musste meine Augen öffnen, um zu sehen. Und so öffnete und schloss ich sie hundertmal in der Nacht - um immer wieder enttäuscht zu werden! Es hat mich gequält! Ich habe oft laut gestöhnt, bis dieser alte Bösewicht Joseph zweifellos glaubte, dass mein Gewissen der Teufel sei. Jetzt, nachdem ich sie gesehen habe, bin ich ein wenig beruhigt. Es war eine seltsame Art zu töten: nicht langsam, sondern durch winzige Bruchteile, um mich mit dem Geisterbild einer Hoffnung 18 Jahre lang zu täuschen!" Mr. Heathcliff hielt inne und wischte sich die Stirn; sein Haar klebte daran, vom Schweiß nass; seine Augen waren auf die glühenden Kohlen des Feuers gerichtet, die Augenbrauen waren nicht zusammengezogen, sondern an den Schläfen angehoben, was dem grimmigen Ausdruck seines Gesichts etwas milderte, aber einen besorgten Blick und ein schmerzhaftes Aussehen von geistiger Spannung in Richtung eines einzigen absorbierenden Themas verlieh. Er sprach nur halb zu mir, und ich schwieg. Ich mochte es nicht, ihn reden zu hören! Nach einer kurzen Zeit nahm er seine Betrachtung des Bildes wieder auf, nahm es von der Wand und lehnte es gegen das Sofa, um es besser betrachten zu können; und während er so beschäftigt war, betrat Catherine den Raum und kündigte an, dass sie bereit sei, sobald ihr Pony gesattelt sei. "Schick das morgen rüber", sagte Heathcliff zu mir und wandte sich dann an sie: "Du kannst auf dein Pony verzichten: Es ist ein schöner Abend, und du brauchst keine Ponys auf Wuthering Heights; für die Reisen, die du unternimmst, werden dir deine eigenen Füße genügen. Komm mit." "Auf Wiedersehen, Ellen!", flüsterte meine liebe kleine Herrin. Als sie mich küsste, fühlten sich ihre Lippen eiskalt an. "Komm und besuch mich, Ellen; vergiss es nicht." "Tu ja nicht so etwas, Mrs. Dean!", sagte ihr neuer Vater. "Wenn ich mit dir sprechen möchte, werde ich hierherkommen. Ich will kein neugieriges Verhalten in meinem Haus haben!" Er deutete ihr an, ihm vorauszugehen; und mit einem Blick, der mir das Herz zerriss, gehorchte sie. Von dem Fenster aus beobachtete ich, wie sie den Garten hinuntergingen. Heathcliff führte Catherine am Arm, obwohl sie sich zunächst dagegen wehrte; und mit schnellen Schritten führte er sie in den Alleenweg, in dem die Bäume sie verdeckten. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Nun, da ihr Herr tot ist, hofft Nelly, im Grange bleiben zu können. Heathcliff hat andere Pläne und stürmt als neuer Herrscher ins Haus. Er verkündet sofort seine Absicht, Cathy nach Hause auf die Heights zu bringen, trotz ihres Wunsches, im Grange bei Nelly zu bleiben. Seitdem Linton Cathy bei ihrer Flucht geholfen hat, bestraft Heathcliff ihn mit seiner bloßen Anwesenheit. Heathcliff hat vor, den Grange zu vermieten und braucht Cathy auf Wuthering Heights, um im Haus zu helfen. Heathcliff und Cathy streiten über Linton: Sie behauptet, dass er alles ist, was sie in der Welt liebt; Heathcliff verkündet Lintons Absicht, ein misshandelter Ehemann zu sein. In seiner Trauer und Wut übernimmt Heathcliff kurzzeitig die Erzählung. Heathcliff erzählt Nelly, dass er den Kirchendiener überredet hat, Catherines Grab auszugraben. Er starrt auf ihre staubige Leiche und besticht den Kirchendiener, seinen Körper neben den ihren zu legen, wenn er stirbt. Er hat keine Angst, die Toten zu stören, sagt er Nelly. Cathy erscheint ihm seit achtzehn Jahren. Er fährt fort: "Du weißt, dass ich nach ihrem Tod wild war und von Morgendämmerung bis Morgendämmerung unentwegt zu ihr gebetet habe - zu ihrem Geist. Ich habe einen starken Glauben an Geister; ich bin überzeugt, dass sie existieren und unter uns weilen!" . Er erzählt Nelly, dass er am Tag nach Catherines Tod vor achtzehn Jahren ihr Grab besuchte und ihre Gegenwart dort spürte. Dann rannte er in ihr altes Schlafzimmer nach Hause. "Ich spürte sie bei mir" , sagt er, und das ist seitdem so. Das Anblick ihrer Leiche am Vortag gab ihm ein seltsames Gefühl des Trostes. Heathcliff kehrt in die Gegenwart zurück. Er nimmt Catherines Porträt vom Kamin im Grange herunter und sagt Nelly, es an die Heights zu schicken. Er geht mit Cathy.

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: Sie betete nicht; sie zitterte - sie zitterte am ganzen Körper. Vibrationen fielen ihr leicht, waren bei ihr sogar zu konstant, und sie fand sich jetzt summend wie eine geschlagene Harfe. Allerdings bat sie nur darum, den Vorhang zuzuziehen, sich wieder in braunes Holland zu kleiden, aber sie wollte gegen ihre Aufregung ankämpfen, und die Haltung der Andacht, die sie eine Zeit lang beibehielt, schien ihr dabei zu helfen, still zu sein. Sie freute sich intensiv, dass Caspar Goodwood weg war; etwas darin, ihn auf diese Weise losgeworden zu sein, glich der Bezahlung, für einen behördlich beglaubigten Schuldschein, einer zu lange in ihrem Kopf herumspukenden Schuld. Als sie die erleichternde Freude spürte, senkte sie ihren Kopf etwas tiefer; das Gefühl war da, pulsierte in ihrem Herzen; es war ein Teil ihrer Emotion, aber es war etwas, wofür sie sich schämte - es war profan und unangebracht. Erst nach etwa zehn Minuten erhob sie sich von ihren Knien, und selbst als sie ins Wohnzimmer zurückkehrte, hatte sich ihr Zittern noch nicht ganz gelegt. Es hatte tatsächlich zwei Gründe: Ein Teil davon war auf ihre lange Diskussion mit Herrn Goodwood zurückzuführen, aber es könnte befürchtet werden, dass der Rest einfach die Freude war, die sie beim Ausüben ihrer Macht empfand. Sie setzte sich wieder in den selben Stuhl und nahm ihr Buch auf, ohne es jedoch zu öffnen. Sie lehnte sich zurück, mit diesem leisen, sanften, aufstrebenden Murmeln, mit dem sie oft ihre Reaktion auf Ereignisse äußerte, deren helle Seite nicht oberflächlich offensichtlich war, und gab sich der Befriedigung hin, in zwei Wochen zwei begeisterte Verehrer abgelehnt zu haben. Diese Freiheitsliebe, von der sie Caspar Goodwood so kühn eine Skizze gegeben hatte, war bis jetzt fast ausschließlich theorienhaft; sie hatte sich noch nicht im großen Stil darin ergehen können. Aber es schien ihr, sie hatte etwas getan; sie hatte von dem Genuss gekostet, wenn auch nicht von der Schlacht, zumindest von dem Sieg; sie hatte das getan, was ihrem Plan am treuesten entsprach. Im Glanz dieses Bewusstseins präsentierte sich das Bild von Mr. Goodwood, der traurig durch die schmutzige Stadt nach Hause ging, mit einer gewissen vorwurfsvollen Kraft; so dass sie in demselben Moment, als die Tür des Zimmers geöffnet wurde, aufstand und befürchtete, er sei zurückgekommen. Aber es war nur Henrietta Stackpole, die von ihrem Abendessen zurückkehrte. Miss Stackpole sah sofort, dass unsere junge Dame "etwas durchstanden" hatte, und die Entdeckung erforderte wirklich keine große Durchdringungsfähigkeit. Sie ging direkt auf ihre Freundin zu, die sie ohne Begrüßung empfing. Isabels Aufwallung, Caspar Goodwood zurück nach Amerika geschickt zu haben, setzte voraus, dass sie in gewisser Weise froh war, dass er gekommen war, aber gleichzeitig erinnerte sie sich perfekt daran, dass Henrietta kein Recht hatte, eine Falle für sie zu stellen. "Ist er hier gewesen, Liebes?" fragte Letztere sehnsüchtig. Isabel wandte sich ab und antwortete einige Momente lang nichts. "Du hast dich sehr schlecht benommen", erklärte sie schließlich. "Ich habe es für das Beste gehalten. Ich hoffe nur, dass du dich ebenso gut benommen hast." "Du bist nicht die Richterin. Ich kann dir nicht vertrauen", sagte Isabel. Diese Erklärung war wenig schmeichelhaft, aber Henrietta war viel zu selbstlos, um auf den darin enthaltenen Vorwurf zu achten; sie interessierte sich nur dafür, was es über ihre Freundin aussagte. "Isabel Archer", bemerkte sie mit gleicher Plötzlichkeit und Feierlichkeit, "wenn du einen dieser Menschen heiratest, werde ich nie wieder mit dir sprechen!" "Bevor du eine solch schreckliche Drohung aussprichst, solltest du lieber warten, bis man mich fragt", antwortete Isabel. Da sie Miss Stackpole noch kein Wort über Lord Warburtons Avancen gesagt hatte, hatte sie nun überhaupt keinen Impuls, sich Henrietta zu rechtfertigen, indem sie ihr erklärte, dass sie diesen Edelmann abgelehnt hatte. "Oh, du wirst schnell gefragt werden, sobald du auf den Kontinent kommst. Annie Climber wurde dreimal in Italien gefragt - armes kleines hässliches Annie." "Nun, wenn Annie Climber nicht erobert wurde, warum sollte ich es dann werden?" "Ich glaube nicht, dass Annie bedrängt wurde; aber du wirst es." "Das ist eine schmeichelhafte Überzeugung", sagte Isabel ohne Alarm. "Ich schmeichle dir nicht, Isabel, ich sage dir die Wahrheit!" rief ihre Freundin. "Ich hoffe, du willst mir nicht erzählen, dass du Herrn Goodwood keine Hoffnung gemacht hast." "Ich sehe nicht ein, warum ich dir irgendetwas erzählen sollte; wie ich dir gerade gesagt habe, kann ich dir nicht vertrauen. Aber da du so an Herrn Goodwood interessiert bist, werde ich dir nicht verheimlichen, dass er sofort nach Amerika zurückkehrt." "Du willst doch nicht sagen, dass du ihn fortgeschickt hast?" Henrietta schrie fast. "Ich habe ihn gebeten, mich in Ruhe zu lassen; und ich bitte dich dasselbe, Henrietta." Miss Stackpole funkelte für einen Moment vor Entsetzen und ging dann zum Spiegel über dem Kamin und nahm ihren Hut ab. "Ich hoffe, du hast dein Abendessen genossen", fuhr Isabel fort. Aber ihre Begleiterin ließ sich nicht von belanglosen Vorschlägen ablenken. "Weißt du, wohin du steuerst, Isabel Archer?" "Jetzt gehe ich zu Bett", sagte Isabel hartnäckig belanglos. "Weißt du, wohin du treibst?" fragte Henrietta, indem sie ihren Hut vorsichtig hinhielt. "Nein, ich habe keine Ahnung, und ich finde es sehr angenehm, es nicht zu wissen. Ein schneller Wagen, in einer dunklen Nacht, rumpelnd mit vier Pferden über Straßen, die man nicht sehen kann - das ist meine Vorstellung von Glück." "Herr Goodwood hat dich sicherlich nicht gelehrt, solche Dinge zu sagen, wie die Heldin eines unmoralischen Romans", sagte Miss Stackpole. "Du treibst auf einen großen Fehler zu." Isabel war von der Einmischung ihrer Freundin gereizt, aber sie versuchte immer noch, über die Wahrheit dieser Aussage nachzudenken. Sie konnte nichts finden, was sie davon ablenkte zu sagen: "Du musst sehr sehr an mir hängen, Henrietta, um so aggressiv zu sein zu wollen." "Ich liebe dich überaus, Isabel", sagte Miss Stackpole mit Gefühl. "Nun, wenn du mich so überaus liebst, lasse mich genauso überaus in Ruhe. Das habe ich von Mr. Goodwood verlangt, und das muss ich auch von dir verlangen." "Pass nur auf, dass du nicht zu sehr allein gelassen wirst." Das hat mir Mr. Goodwood auch gesagt. Ich habe ihm gesagt, dass ich die Risiken auf mich nehmen muss." "Du bist ein Wesen voller Risiken - du lässt mich schaudern!" rief Henrietta. "Wann kehrt Mr. Goodwood nach Amerika zurück?" "Ich weiß es nicht - er hat es mir nicht gesagt." "Vielleicht hast du ihn nicht gefragt", meinte Henrietta mit einem Hauch von gerechter Ironie. "Ich habe ihm zu wenig Befriedigung gegeben, um das Recht zu haben, ihm Fragen zu stellen." Diese Behauptung schien Miss Stackpole einen Moment lang jeden Kommentar zu verweigern, aber schließlich rief sie: "Nun, Isabel, wenn ich dich nicht kennen würde, könnte ich denken, du bist herzlos!" "Pass auf," sagte Isabel, "du verdirbst mich." "Ich befürchte, das habe ich bereits getan. Ich hoffe nur", fügte Miss Stackpole hinzu, "dass er mit Annie Climber auf demselben "Ich habe beschlossen, zuerst den großen Doktor Sir Matthew Hope zu treffen", sagte Ralph. "Und durch großes Glück ist er in der Stadt. Er wird mich um halb eins sehen und ich werde sicherstellen, dass er nach Gardencourt kommt - was er umso bereiter tun wird, da er meinen Vater bereits mehrmals hier und in London getroffen hat. Es gibt einen Zug um 14:45 Uhr, den ich nehmen werde. Du kannst entweder mit mir zurückkommen oder noch ein paar Tage länger hier bleiben, ganz wie du willst." "Ich komme auf jeden Fall mit dir", erwiderte Isabel. "Ich denke nicht, dass ich meinem Onkel von großem Nutzen sein kann, aber wenn er krank ist, möchte ich gerne in seiner Nähe sein." "Ich glaube, du magst ihn", sagte Ralph mit einer gewissen scheuen Freude im Gesicht. "Du schätzt ihn, was nicht die ganze Welt getan hat. Die Qualität ist zu fein." "Ich verehre ihn wirklich", sagte Isabel nach einem Moment. "Das ist gut. Nach seinem Sohn bist du sein größter Bewunderer." Sie war über diese Zusicherung erfreut, doch im Geheimen seufzte sie erleichtert bei dem Gedanken, dass Mr. Touchett einer dieser Bewunderer war, der ihr keine Heiratsantrag machen würde. Das war jedoch nicht das, was sie sagte; sie fuhr fort, Ralph davon zu informieren, dass es noch andere Gründe gebe, warum sie nicht in London bleiben könne. Sie hatte genug davon und wollte es verlassen; außerdem würde Henrietta wegfahren - nach Bedfordshire. "In Bedfordshire?" "Bei Lady Pensil, der Schwester von Mr. Bantling, der für die Einladung gebürgt hat." Ralph war besorgt, aber bei dieser Aussage brach er in Gelächter aus. Plötzlich jedoch kehrte seine Ernsthaftigkeit zurück. "Bantling ist ein Mann von Mut. Aber was ist, wenn die Einladung auf dem Weg verloren geht?" "Ich dachte, die britische Post sei makellos." "Der gute Homer ist manchmal schläfrig", sagte Ralph. "Aber der gute Bantling nie, und egal was passiert, er wird sich um Henrietta kümmern." Ralph ging zu seinem Termin mit Sir Matthew Hope und Isabel machte ihre Vorbereitungen, um das Pratt's Hotel zu verlassen. Die Gefahr, in der ihr Onkel schwebte, berührte sie zutiefst, und während sie vor ihrem geöffneten Koffer stand und sich vage umsah, was sie hineinlegen sollte, stiegen ihr plötzlich Tränen in die Augen. Vielleicht war es aus diesem Grund, dass sie um zwei Uhr, als Ralph kam, um sie zum Bahnhof zu bringen, noch nicht bereit war. Er fand jedoch Miss Stackpole im Wohnzimmer, wo sie gerade von ihrem Mittagessen aufgestanden war, und diese Dame drückte sofort ihr Bedauern über die Krankheit seines Vaters aus. "Er ist ein beeindruckender alter Mann", sagte sie. "Er bleibt bis zum Schluss treu. Wenn es wirklich das Ende ist - verzeihen Sie, dass ich es anspreche, aber Sie haben sicherlich oft an die Möglichkeit gedacht -, dann bedauere ich, dass ich nicht in Gardencourt sein werde." "Sie werden sich in Bedfordshire bestimmt besser amüsieren." "Ich werde es bedauern, mich in solch einer Zeit zu amüsieren", sagte Henrietta mit viel Anstand. Aber sie fügte sofort hinzu: "Ich möchte das Abschlussgeschehen gern würdigen." "Mein Vater könnte noch lange leben", sagte Ralph einfach. Dann, in fröhlicherem Ton, fragte er Miss Stackpole nach ihrer eigenen Zukunft. Jetzt, da Ralph in Schwierigkeiten war, sprach sie ihn mit mehr Nachsicht an und bedankte sich bei ihm dafür, dass er sie mit Mr. Bantling bekannt gemacht hatte. "Er erzählt mir genau das, was ich wissen möchte", sagte sie. "Alle Gesellschaftsthemen und alles über die königliche Familie. Ich kann nicht behaupten, dass das, was er mir über die königliche Familie erzählt, ihnen viel Ehre macht, aber er sagt, das sei nur meine eigenartige Art, es zu betrachten. Nun, alles was ich will, ist, dass er mir die Tatsachen gibt. Ich kann sie schnell genug zusammenfügen, sobald ich sie habe." Und sie fügte hinzu, dass Mr. Bantling so nett war, ihr zu versprechen, dass er sie an diesem Nachmittag abholen würde. "Wohin will er dich bringen?" fragte Ralph vorsichtig. "Zum Buckingham Palace. Er wird mir alles zeigen, damit ich mir eine Vorstellung davon machen kann, wie sie dort leben." "Ah", sagte Ralph, "wir lassen dich in guten Händen zurück. Das Erste, was wir hören werden, ist, dass du zu Windsor Castle eingeladen wurdest." "Wenn sie mich fragen, werde ich auf jeden Fall hingehen. Wenn ich erstmal loslege, habe ich keine Angst. Aber trotzdem", fügte Henrietta nach einem Moment hinzu, "bin ich nicht zufrieden; ich bin nicht beruhigt, was Isabel betrifft." "Was hat sie diesmal angestellt?" "Nun, ich habe es Ihnen schon gesagt, und ich denke, es schadet nicht, wenn ich weitermache. Mr. Goodwood war gestern Abend hier." Ralph öffnete die Augen; er wurde sogar ein wenig rot, da seine Röte ein Zeichen einer recht akuten Emotion war. Er erinnerte sich daran, dass Isabel, als sie sich in Winchester Square von ihm trennte, seinen Vorschlag, dass ihr Grund dafür die Erwartung eines Besuchers im Pratt's Hotel war, abgelehnt hatte, und es war ihm ein neuer Schmerz, sie des Doppelspiels zu verdächtigen. Andererseits sagte er sich schnell, was ging es ihn an, dass sie sich mit einem Liebhaber verabredet hatte? War es nicht in jedem Zeitalter als anmutig betrachtet worden, dass junge Damen solche Vereinbarungen geheim hielten? Ralph gab Miss Stackpole eine diplomatische Antwort. "Ich hätte gedacht, dass dies angesichts der Ansichten, die Sie mir neulich geäußert haben, Sie vollkommen zufriedenstellen würde." "Dass er sie besucht? Das war für den Anfang in Ordnung. Es war ein kleiner Trick von mir; ich ließ ihn wissen, dass wir in London sind, und als vereinbart wurde, dass ich den Abend ausgehen würde, schickte ich ihm ein Wort - das Wort, das wir gerade an die ‚Eingeweihten‘ richten. Ich hoffte, er würde sie alleine antreffen; ich will nicht abstreiten, dass ich hoffte, dass Sie nicht da wären. Er kam vorbei, um sie zu sehen, aber er hätte genauso gut wegbleiben können." "War Isabel grausam?" - und Ralphs Gesicht hellte sich erleichtert auf, dass seine Cousine keine Doppelzüngigkeit gezeigt hatte. "Ich weiß nicht genau, was zwischen ihnen vorgefallen ist. Aber sie hat ihm keine Zufriedenstellung gegeben - sie hat ihn zurück nach Amerika geschickt." "Armer Mr. Goodwood!" seufzte Ralph. "Ihre einzige Idee scheint zu sein, ihn loszuwerden", fuhr Henrietta fort. "Armer Mr. Goodwood!" wiederholte Ralph. Man muss zugeben, dass der Ausruf automatisch war; er drückte genau genommen nicht seine Gedanken aus, die eine andere Richtung einschlugen. "Du sagst das nicht, als ob es dich kümmert. Ich glaube nicht, dass du daran interessiert bist." "Ah", sagte Ralph, "du musst bedenken, dass ich diesen interessanten jungen Mann nicht kenne - dass ich ihn nie gesehen habe." "Nun, ich werde ihn sehen und ihm sagen, dass er nicht aufgeben soll. Wenn ich nicht glauben würde, dass Isabel ihre Meinung ändern wird", fügte Miss Stackpole hinzu - "so würde ich selbst aufgeben. Ich meine, ich würde SIE aufgeben!" Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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

Isabel zittert in der Folge von ihrer Absage an Junggeselle Nr. 2. Obwohl sie erschüttert ist, ist Isabel auch stolz darauf, dass sie das gezeigt hat, was sie die ganze Zeit wollte: Freiheit. Sie fühlt, als hätte sie sich selbst und Caspar etwas bewiesen. Henrietta kehrt zurück und Isabel ist verständlicherweise kurz angebunden zu ihr. Sie sagt, dass sie ihrer alten Freundin nicht mehr vertrauen kann. Henrietta ist bestürzt, als sie erfährt, dass Isabel Mr. Goodwood erneut abgelehnt hat. Sie will wirklich nicht, dass Isabel einen Europäer heiratet. Henrietta fragt Isabel, wo sie im Leben hingehen will, und Isabel sagt, dass sie glücklich ist, es nicht zu wissen. Isabel will sowohl Henrietta als auch Caspar Goodwood in Ruhe lassen. Daraufhin warnt Henrietta sie, sich nicht zu sehr zu isolieren. Henrietta beschließt, in London zu bleiben, um Nachrichten von Mr. Bantling und Lady Pensil zu bekommen. Sie freut sich darauf, mit dem Adel Umgang zu haben und einen hochgelobten Artikel darüber zu schreiben. Ralph kommt mit der Nachricht, dass sich Mr. Touchetts Gesundheit verschlechtert hat. Ralph geht, um einen angesehenen Arzt, Sir Matthew Hope, zu holen. Isabel besteht darauf, mit Ralph mitzugehen, und checkt aus dem Hotel aus. Henrietta gibt Ralph ihr Beileid, in der Annahme, dass dies das letzte Mal sein wird, dass sie Mr. Touchett sieht. Sie wird ihre Pläne nicht ruinieren und hat trotzdem vor, Lady Pensil zu besuchen. Henrietta erzählt Ralph, dass Caspar Goodwood gestern Abend gekommen ist, um Isabel zu sehen. Ralph ist traurig über den Gedanken, dass Isabel ihm über den erwarteten Besuch gelogen hätte. Henrietta erzählt Ralph, dass Isabel Caspar erneut abgelehnt hat, und Ralph ist erleichtert, dass Isabel ihn nicht getäuscht hat. Henrietta beschließt, mit Caspar zu sprechen und ihn dazu ermutigen, nicht auf Isabel aufzugeben.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: We went straight to the lake, as it was called at Bly, and I daresay rightly called, though I reflect that it may in fact have been a sheet of water less remarkable than it appeared to my untraveled eyes. My acquaintance with sheets of water was small, and the pool of Bly, at all events on the few occasions of my consenting, under the protection of my pupils, to affront its surface in the old flat-bottomed boat moored there for our use, had impressed me both with its extent and its agitation. The usual place of embarkation was half a mile from the house, but I had an intimate conviction that, wherever Flora might be, she was not near home. She had not given me the slip for any small adventure, and, since the day of the very great one that I had shared with her by the pond, I had been aware, in our walks, of the quarter to which she most inclined. This was why I had now given to Mrs. Grose's steps so marked a direction--a direction that made her, when she perceived it, oppose a resistance that showed me she was freshly mystified. "You're going to the water, Miss?--you think she's IN--?" "She may be, though the depth is, I believe, nowhere very great. But what I judge most likely is that she's on the spot from which, the other day, we saw together what I told you." "When she pretended not to see--?" "With that astounding self-possession? I've always been sure she wanted to go back alone. And now her brother has managed it for her." Mrs. Grose still stood where she had stopped. "You suppose they really TALK of them?" "I could meet this with a confidence! They say things that, if we heard them, would simply appall us." "And if she IS there--" "Yes?" "Then Miss Jessel is?" "Beyond a doubt. You shall see." "Oh, thank you!" my friend cried, planted so firm that, taking it in, I went straight on without her. By the time I reached the pool, however, she was close behind me, and I knew that, whatever, to her apprehension, might befall me, the exposure of my society struck her as her least danger. She exhaled a moan of relief as we at last came in sight of the greater part of the water without a sight of the child. There was no trace of Flora on that nearer side of the bank where my observation of her had been most startling, and none on the opposite edge, where, save for a margin of some twenty yards, a thick copse came down to the water. The pond, oblong in shape, had a width so scant compared to its length that, with its ends out of view, it might have been taken for a scant river. We looked at the empty expanse, and then I felt the suggestion of my friend's eyes. I knew what she meant and I replied with a negative headshake. "No, no; wait! She has taken the boat." My companion stared at the vacant mooring place and then again across the lake. "Then where is it?" "Our not seeing it is the strongest of proofs. She has used it to go over, and then has managed to hide it." "All alone--that child?" "She's not alone, and at such times she's not a child: she's an old, old woman." I scanned all the visible shore while Mrs. Grose took again, into the queer element I offered her, one of her plunges of submission; then I pointed out that the boat might perfectly be in a small refuge formed by one of the recesses of the pool, an indentation masked, for the hither side, by a projection of the bank and by a clump of trees growing close to the water. "But if the boat's there, where on earth's SHE?" my colleague anxiously asked. "That's exactly what we must learn." And I started to walk further. "By going all the way round?" "Certainly, far as it is. It will take us but ten minutes, but it's far enough to have made the child prefer not to walk. She went straight over." "Laws!" cried my friend again; the chain of my logic was ever too much for her. It dragged her at my heels even now, and when we had got halfway round--a devious, tiresome process, on ground much broken and by a path choked with overgrowth--I paused to give her breath. I sustained her with a grateful arm, assuring her that she might hugely help me; and this started us afresh, so that in the course of but few minutes more we reached a point from which we found the boat to be where I had supposed it. It had been intentionally left as much as possible out of sight and was tied to one of the stakes of a fence that came, just there, down to the brink and that had been an assistance to disembarking. I recognized, as I looked at the pair of short, thick oars, quite safely drawn up, the prodigious character of the feat for a little girl; but I had lived, by this time, too long among wonders and had panted to too many livelier measures. There was a gate in the fence, through which we passed, and that brought us, after a trifling interval, more into the open. Then, "There she is!" we both exclaimed at once. Flora, a short way off, stood before us on the grass and smiled as if her performance was now complete. The next thing she did, however, was to stoop straight down and pluck--quite as if it were all she was there for--a big, ugly spray of withered fern. I instantly became sure she had just come out of the copse. She waited for us, not herself taking a step, and I was conscious of the rare solemnity with which we presently approached her. She smiled and smiled, and we met; but it was all done in a silence by this time flagrantly ominous. Mrs. Grose was the first to break the spell: she threw herself on her knees and, drawing the child to her breast, clasped in a long embrace the little tender, yielding body. While this dumb convulsion lasted I could only watch it--which I did the more intently when I saw Flora's face peep at me over our companion's shoulder. It was serious now--the flicker had left it; but it strengthened the pang with which I at that moment envied Mrs. Grose the simplicity of HER relation. Still, all this while, nothing more passed between us save that Flora had let her foolish fern again drop to the ground. What she and I had virtually said to each other was that pretexts were useless now. When Mrs. Grose finally got up she kept the child's hand, so that the two were still before me; and the singular reticence of our communion was even more marked in the frank look she launched me. "I'll be hanged," it said, "if _I_'ll speak!" It was Flora who, gazing all over me in candid wonder, was the first. She was struck with our bareheaded aspect. "Why, where are your things?" "Where yours are, my dear!" I promptly returned. She had already got back her gaiety, and appeared to take this as an answer quite sufficient. "And where's Miles?" she went on. There was something in the small valor of it that quite finished me: these three words from her were, in a flash like the glitter of a drawn blade, the jostle of the cup that my hand, for weeks and weeks, had held high and full to the brim that now, even before speaking, I felt overflow in a deluge. "I'll tell you if you'll tell ME--" I heard myself say, then heard the tremor in which it broke. "Well, what?" Mrs. Grose's suspense blazed at me, but it was too late now, and I brought the thing out handsomely. "Where, my pet, is Miss Jessel?" Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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

Die Gouvernante und Mrs. Grose machen sich auf den Weg zum See. Die Gouvernante ist überzeugt, dass Flora dorthin geflohen ist, wo sie das Bild von Miss Jessel gesehen hat. Weder Flora noch die gegenüberliegende Uferseite sind zu sehen. Die Gouvernante stellt fest, dass Flora das Boot genommen haben muss, das an seinem üblichen Platz fehlt. Sie führt Mrs. Grose auf die andere Seite des Sees. Bald darauf finden sie das Boot und treffen kurz darauf auf Flora, die lächelt. Flora pflückt einen Farnwedel und wartet, bis die Gouvernante und Mrs. Grose näherkommen. Als Mrs. Grose Flora leidenschaftlich umarmt, wirft Flora der Gouvernante über Mrs. Groses Schulter hinweg einen ernsten Blick zu. Mrs. Grose lässt das Kind los. Flora spricht als Erste und fragt, wo ihre "Sachen" sind, da alle keine Hüte tragen. Sie fragt dann, wo Miles ist. Die Gouvernante sagt, sie werde es ihr sagen, wenn Flora der Gouvernante sagt, wo sich Miss Jessel befindet.

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 2. Belmont. Ein Zimmer im Haus von PORTIA. [Treten BASSANIO, PORTIA, GRATIANO, NERISSA und Diener ein.] PORTIA. Ich bitte euch zu verweilen; wartet einen Tag oder zwei, Bevor ihr wagt; indem ihr falsch wählt, Verliere ich eure Gesellschaft; daher haltet euch eine Weile zurück. Etwas sagt mir, aber es ist nicht Liebe, Ich möchte euch nicht verlieren; und ihr selbst wisst Hass gibt keinen solchen Ratschlag in dieser Qualität. Aber damit ihr mich nicht missversteht, - Und doch hat ein Mädchen keine Zunge außer ihrem Gedanken, - Ich würde euch hier einen Monat oder zwei zurückhalten, Bevor ihr euch für mich entscheidet. Ich könnte euch beibringen, Wie man richtig wählt, aber dann wäre ich meine BASSANIO. Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins; And there is such confusion in my powers As, after some oration fairly spoke By a beloved prince, there doth appear Among the buzzing pleased multitude; Where every something, being blent together, Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy, Express'd and not express'd. But when this ring Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence: O! then be bold to say Bassanio's dead. NERISSA. My lord and lady, it is now our time, That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper, To cry, good joy. Good joy, my lord and lady! GRATIANO. My Lord Bassanio, and my gentle lady, I wish you all the joy that you can wish; For I am sure you can wish none from me; And when your honours mean to solemnize The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you Even at that time I may be married too. BASSANIO. With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife. GRATIANO. I thank your lordship, you have got me one. My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours: You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid; You lov'd, I lov'd; for intermission No more pertains to me, my lord, than you. Your fortune stood upon the caskets there, And so did mine too, as the matter falls; For wooing here until I sweat again, And swearing till my very roof was dry With oaths of love, at last, if promise last, I got a promise of this fair one here To have her love, provided that your fortune Achiev'd her mistress. PORTIA. Is this true, Nerissa? NERISSA. Madam, it is, so you stand pleas'd withal. BASSANIO. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith? GRATIANO. Yes, faith, my lord. BASSANIO. Our feast shall be much honour'd in your marriage. GRATIANO. We'll play with them the first boy for a thousand ducats. NERISSA. What! and stake down? GRATIANO. No; we shall ne'er win at that sport, and stake down. But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel? What, and my old Venetian friend, Salanio! [Enter LORENZO, JESSICA, and SALANIO.] BASSANIO. Lorenzo and Salanio, welcome hither, If that the youth of my new interest here Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave, I bid my very friends and countrymen, Sweet Portia, welcome. PORTIA. So do I, my lord; They are entirely welcome. LORENZO. I thank your honour. For my part, my lord, My purpose was not to have seen you here; But meeting with Salanio by the way, He did entreat me, past all saying nay, To come with him along. SALANIO. I did, my lord, And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio Commends him to you. [Gives BASSANIO a letter] BASSANIO. Ere I ope his letter, I pray you tell me how my good friend doth. SALANIO. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind; Nor well, unless in mind; his letter there Will show you his estate. GRATIANO. Nerissa, cheer yon stranger; bid her welcome. Your hand, Salanio. What's the news from Venice? How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio? I know he will be glad of our success: We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece. SALANIO. I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost. PORTIA. There are some shrewd contents in yon same paper. That steal the colour from Bassanio's cheek: Some dear friend dead, else nothing in the world Could turn so much the constitution Of any constant man. What, worse and worse! With leave, Bassanio: I am half yourself, And I must freely have the half of anything That this same paper brings you. BASSANIO. O sweet Portia! Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words That ever blotted paper. Gentle lady, When I did first impart my love to you, I freely told you all the wealth I had Ran in my veins, I was a gentleman; And then I told you true. And yet, dear lady, Rating myself at nothing, you shall see How much I was a braggart. When I told you My state was nothing, I should then have told you That I was worse than nothing; for indeed I have engag'd myself to a dear friend, Engag'd my friend to his mere enemy, To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady, The paper as the body of my friend, And every word in it a gaping wound Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salanio? Hath all his ventures fail'd? What, not one hit? From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England, From Lisbon, Barbary, and India? And not one vessel scape the dreadful touch Of merchant-marring rocks? SALANIO. Not one, my lord. Besides, it should appear that, if he had The present money to discharge the Jew, He would not take it. Never did I know A creature that did bear the shape of man, So keen and greedy to confound a man. He plies the duke at morning and at night, And doth impeach the freedom of the state, If they deny him justice. Twenty merchants, The duke himself, and the magnificoes Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him; But none can drive him from the envious plea Of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond. JESSICA. When I was with him, I have heard him swear To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen, That he would rather have Antonio's flesh Than twenty times the value of the sum That he did owe him; and I know, my lord, If law, authority, and power, deny not, It will go hard with poor Antonio. PORTIA. Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble? BASSANIO. The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, The best condition'd and unwearied spirit In doing courtesies; and one in whom The ancient Roman honour more appears Than any that draws breath in Italy. PORTIA. What sum owes he the Jew? BASSANIO. For me, three thousand ducats. PORTIA. What! no more? Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond; Double six thousand, and then treble that, Before a friend of this description Shall lose a hair through Bassanio's fault. First go with me to church and call me wife, And then away to Venice to your friend; For never shall you lie by Portia's side With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold To pay the petty debt twenty times over: When it is paid, bring your true friend along. My maid Nerissa and myself meantime, Will live as maids and widows. Come, away! For you shall hence upon your wedding day. Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer; Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear. But let me hear the letter of your friend. BASSANIO. 'Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit; and since, in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all debts are clear'd between you and I, if I might but see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure; if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter.' PORTIA. O love, dispatch all business and be gone! BASSANIO. Since I have your good leave to go away, I will make haste; but, till I come again, No bed shall e'er be guilty of my stay, Nor rest be interposer 'twixt us twain. [Exeunt.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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

Bei ihr zu Hause in Belmont bittet Portia Bassanio und offenbart ihre Vorliebe für ihn. Sie bittet ihn, einen Monat oder zwei mit ihr abzuhängen, bevor er den Schatullentest macht, da sie lieber möchte, dass er eine Weile bei ihr bleibt, bevor er gezwungen ist, ihre Gesellschaft zu verlassen, falls er die falsche Wahl trifft. Sie sagt vorsichtig, dass ihre Gefühle keine Liebe sind, aber auch dass sie solche Gefühle nicht hätte, wenn sie ihn hassen würde. Portia streitet darüber, was gerecht ist, angesichts des Testaments ihres Vaters. Sie möchte Bassanio beibringen, wie er die Herausforderung interpretieren kann, damit er die richtige Schatulle auswählt, aber das würde ihren Schwur brechen. Natürlich, wenn er die falsche Wahl trifft, wird sie sowieso sündigen, indem sie sich wünscht, sie hätte ihren Schwur gebrochen. Portia schwärmt und schwärmt noch mehr von Bassanio, und er antwortet einfach, dass er den Test jetzt machen möchte, da das ganze Warten ihm wie das Foltern auf dem Rad vorkommt. Portia spielt mit und fragt, welchen Verrat Bassanio begangen hat, dass er das Rad verdient hat. Bassanio klärt schnell auf: Er sagt, er sei schuldig an Misstrauen - er hat Angst, Portia vollständig zu lieben, da er sich nicht darauf verlassen kann, dass er nach dem Schatullentest noch lange bei ihr bleibt. Trotzdem sagt er, dass seine Liebe zu ihr nichts Falsches oder Unwahres ist. Dann beschließt Bassanio, dass er genug um den heißen Brei geredet hat. Er gesteht, dass er Portia sehr liebt, obwohl es tatsächlich eine quälende Art von Liebe ist. Bassanio darf endlich eine Schatulle wählen. Portia lässt alle zurücktreten, damit er in Ruhe wählen kann. Sie besteht darauf, dass Musik gespielt wird, damit er Musik im Hintergrund hat, wenn er geht, aber wenn er bleibt, haben sie schon Musik für ihre Party. Wie schön! Portia vergleicht dann Bassanio mit Herkules. Sie sagt, Bassanio geht mit nicht weniger Präsenz, aber mit viel mehr Liebe als Herkules, als er die Jungfrau retten musste, die von Troja an ein Seeungeheuer geopfert wurde. Portia sagt, sie selbst sei das Opfer, während alle anderen wie trojanische Ehefrauen dastehen und zuschauen. Portia sagt, wenn Bassanio diesen Test überlebt, dann wird sie wieder leben. Während Bassanio darüber nachdenkt, vernünftig mit sich selbst über die Schatullen zu reden, gibt es ein kleines Lied darüber, wie man sich in jemanden verliebt und ob diese Zuneigung vom Herzen oder vom Verstand kommt. Nach dem musikalischen Zwischenspiel legt Bassanio seine Überlegungen dar, so wie es auch die anderen Freier getan haben. Bassanio beginnt damit zu sagen, dass er weiß, dass das Äußere oft darüber hinwegtäuscht, was im Inneren steckt. Bassanio nennt ein paar Beispiele, bei denen es trickreiche Verzierungen gibt, die einen glauben machen könnten, dass etwas Schlechtes tatsächlich etwas Gutes ist. Bassanio philosophiert noch weiter und fügt Schönheit zu den flüchtigen Übeln hinzu. Frauen können Make-up tragen, und wer am meisten trägt, ist am wenigsten begehrt. Letztendlich ist Schönheit oft verschleiert, und äußere Schönheit kann inneren Hässlichkeiten verbergen. Mit all diesen Überlegungen trifft Bassanio seine Wahl. Er verwirft die Goldschatulle als das prunkhafte Essen des Midas, das ungenießbar war, und das Silber als das blassere der beiden Metalle, die beide durch Geldmünzen entwertet werden. Das lässt ihm die Bleischatulle, die er zwar bedrohlich findet, aber mehr wegen ihrer Blässe bewegt als wegen der Wortgewandtheit der beiden anderen Edelmetallschatullen. Er hofft, dass er richtig liegt und dass Portia, die weiß, dass er die richtige Wahl getroffen hat, heimlich vor Freude ausrastet. Alle ihre anderen Leidenschaften sind der Liebe gewichen, und sie macht sich nun Sorgen, dass sie die Emotion im Übermaß empfindet. Sie fleht die Liebe an, sich in mäßigem Maße zu zeigen, da sie befürchtet, dass sie sonst zu viel davon haben wird. Inzwischen hat Bassanio die Bleischatulle geöffnet und Portias Porträt gefunden. Er schwärmt davon, wie schön das Bild ist, tadelte sich dann aber dafür, das Bild zu loben, das nur ein Schatten der Schönheit der echten Frau ist. Anschließend liest er die in der Schatulle befindliche Schriftrolle, die ihm gratuliert, dass er richtig gewählt hat; obwohl es dem Zufall geschuldet war, hat die Entscheidung des Wählers, über das hinauszuschauen, was sofort ersichtlich war, ihn belohnt. Die Schriftrolle besteht dann darauf, dass er seine neue Frau küssen soll. Bassanio sagt, er ist schockiert über seinen Sieg - im Moment fühlt er sich wie ein Mann, der einen Wettbewerb gewonnen hat und nur glaubt, dass er gewonnen hat, weil alle anderen um ihn herum so glücklich sind. Er ist zu schockiert, um zu glauben, dass dies wirklich passieren könnte, und deshalb wird er es nur als wahr akzeptieren, wenn Portia ihn akzeptiert. Portia ist natürlich begeistert. Sie wünscht sich, sie wäre besser, hübscher und reicher, um ihren neuen Mann noch mehr zu erfreuen. Obwohl sie zugibt, keine Erfahrung zu haben, freut sie sich, dass sie weder zu alt noch zu dumm ist, um zu lernen. Dann gibt sie sich ganz Bassanio hin und akzeptiert ihn glücklich als "ihren Herrn, ihren Regenten, ihren König". Sie sagt, alles, was ihr gehörte, gehört jetzt ihm, einschließlich ihrer Villa, ihrer Diener und sich selbst. Sie gibt ihm einen Ring zur Kennzeichnung ihrer neuen Verbindung und sagt, dass wenn er ihn verliert oder weggibt, das genauso schlimm ist wie ihre Liebe zu ruinieren. Bassanio behauptet noch einmal, dass er von all diesen neuen Entwicklungen zu verblüfft ist, um etwas Bedeutendes zu sagen. Er fügt hinzu, dass seine Gefühle dem Jubel einer Menge nach einer guten Rede eines Prinzen ähneln: Nichts Bestimmtes kann gehört werden, aber alle Freude wird ausgedrückt, ohne einen spezifischen Ausdruck. Er erklärt, dass er für tot erklärt werden kann, wenn der Ring jemals von seinem Finger abgeht. Dann meldet sich Nerissa und gratuliert ihnen. Graziano gibt seinen Senf dazu, nämlich "Großartig, ihr seid verheiratet. Kann ich jetzt Nerissa heiraten?" Graziano erklärt, dass während Bassanio auf Portia fokussiert war, die Dame, auf die er sich konzentriert hat, Nerissa ist, die Leibfrau der Dame. Er hat seinen Mund vom ganzen Liebesschwören trocken gemacht. Bassanio und Portia bestätigen mit Graziano und Nerissa jeweils, dass ihre Liebe in Ordnung ist, und siehe da, zwei Hochzeiten werden in einer Szene geplant. Lorenzo, Jessica und Salerio kommen in Belmont an. Sie werden von allen begrüßt, aber leider bringt Salerio schlechte Nachrichten. Er übergibt Bassanio einen Brief von Antonio. Portia bemerkt, dass Bassanio beim Lesen des Briefes bleich und entsetzt wird - sie ist sicher, dass dessen Inhalt den Tod eines lieben Freundes verkündet, da nichts anderes dazu führen könnte, dass ein Mann wie Bassanio so durcheinander aussieht. Sie besteht darauf, dass Bassanio ihr sagt, was in dem Brief steht, da sie nun die Hälfte von ihm ist und sowohl an seinem Kummer als auch an seiner Freude teilhaben sollte. Bassanio muss nun die ganze Wahrheit gestehen: Er sagt, er habe Portia die Wahrheit gesagt, als er sagte, er sei nur durch Abstammung, nicht durch Reichtum ein Gentleman. Selbst das sei übertrieben gewesen, denn er hatte nicht nur nichts, sondern er hatte das Leben seines Freundes Antonio verwettet, um das Wenige zu bekommen, das er brauchte, um um sie zu werben. Der Brief von Antonio besagt, dass alle seine Unternehmungen in allen Häfen gescheitert sind. Salerio sagt, dass die Dinge noch schlimmer sind, als sie aussehen. Es sieht so aus, als würde

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: HETTY and Dinah both slept in the second story, in rooms adjoining each other, meagrely furnished rooms, with no blinds to shut out the light, which was now beginning to gather new strength from the rising of the moon--more than enough strength to enable Hetty to move about and undress with perfect comfort. She could see quite well the pegs in the old painted linen-press on which she hung her hat and gown; she could see the head of every pin on her red cloth pin-cushion; she could see a reflection of herself in the old-fashioned looking-glass, quite as distinct as was needful, considering that she had only to brush her hair and put on her night-cap. A queer old looking-glass! Hetty got into an ill temper with it almost every time she dressed. It had been considered a handsome glass in its day, and had probably been bought into the Poyser family a quarter of a century before, at a sale of genteel household furniture. Even now an auctioneer could say something for it: it had a great deal of tarnished gilding about it; it had a firm mahogany base, well supplied with drawers, which opened with a decided jerk and sent the contents leaping out from the farthest corners, without giving you the trouble of reaching them; above all, it had a brass candle-socket on each side, which would give it an aristocratic air to the very last. But Hetty objected to it because it had numerous dim blotches sprinkled over the mirror, which no rubbing would remove, and because, instead of swinging backwards and forwards, it was fixed in an upright position, so that she could only get one good view of her head and neck, and that was to be had only by sitting down on a low chair before her dressing-table. And the dressing-table was no dressing-table at all, but a small old chest of drawers, the most awkward thing in the world to sit down before, for the big brass handles quite hurt her knees, and she couldn't get near the glass at all comfortably. But devout worshippers never allow inconveniences to prevent them from performing their religious rites, and Hetty this evening was more bent on her peculiar form of worship than usual. Having taken off her gown and white kerchief, she drew a key from the large pocket that hung outside her petticoat, and, unlocking one of the lower drawers in the chest, reached from it two short bits of wax candle--secretly bought at Treddleston--and stuck them in the two brass sockets. Then she drew forth a bundle of matches and lighted the candles; and last of all, a small red-framed shilling looking-glass, without blotches. It was into this small glass that she chose to look first after seating herself. She looked into it, smiling and turning her head on one side, for a minute, then laid it down and took out her brush and comb from an upper drawer. She was going to let down her hair, and make herself look like that picture of a lady in Miss Lydia Donnithorne's dressing-room. It was soon done, and the dark hyacinthine curves fell on her neck. It was not heavy, massive, merely rippling hair, but soft and silken, running at every opportunity into delicate rings. But she pushed it all backward to look like the picture, and form a dark curtain, throwing into relief her round white neck. Then she put down her brush and comb and looked at herself, folding her arms before her, still like the picture. Even the old mottled glass couldn't help sending back a lovely image, none the less lovely because Hetty's stays were not of white satin--such as I feel sure heroines must generally wear--but of a dark greenish cotton texture. Oh yes! She was very pretty. Captain Donnithorne thought so. Prettier than anybody about Hayslope--prettier than any of the ladies she had ever seen visiting at the Chase--indeed it seemed fine ladies were rather old and ugly--and prettier than Miss Bacon, the miller's daughter, who was called the beauty of Treddleston. And Hetty looked at herself to-night with quite a different sensation from what she had ever felt before; there was an invisible spectator whose eye rested on her like morning on the flowers. His soft voice was saying over and over again those pretty things she had heard in the wood; his arm was round her, and the delicate rose-scent of his hair was with her still. The vainest woman is never thoroughly conscious of her own beauty till she is loved by the man who sets her own passion vibrating in return. But Hetty seemed to have made up her mind that something was wanting, for she got up and reached an old black lace scarf out of the linen-press, and a pair of large ear-rings out of the sacred drawer from which she had taken her candles. It was an old old scarf, full of rents, but it would make a becoming border round her shoulders, and set off the whiteness of her upper arm. And she would take out the little ear-rings she had in her ears--oh, how her aunt had scolded her for having her ears bored!--and put in those large ones. They were but coloured glass and gilding, but if you didn't know what they were made of, they looked just as well as what the ladies wore. And so she sat down again, with the large ear-rings in her ears, and the black lace scarf adjusted round her shoulders. She looked down at her arms: no arms could be prettier down to a little way below the elbow--they were white and plump, and dimpled to match her cheeks; but towards the wrist, she thought with vexation that they were coarsened by butter-making and other work that ladies never did. Captain Donnithorne couldn't like her to go on doing work: he would like to see her in nice clothes, and thin shoes, and white stockings, perhaps with silk clocks to them; for he must love her very much--no one else had ever put his arm round her and kissed her in that way. He would want to marry her and make a lady of her; she could hardly dare to shape the thought--yet how else could it be? Marry her quite secretly, as Mr. James, the doctor's assistant, married the doctor's niece, and nobody ever found it out for a long while after, and then it was of no use to be angry. The doctor had told her aunt all about it in Hetty's hearing. She didn't know how it would be, but it was quite plain the old Squire could never be told anything about it, for Hetty was ready to faint with awe and fright if she came across him at the Chase. He might have been earth-born, for what she knew. It had never entered her mind that he had been young like other men; he had always been the old Squire at whom everybody was frightened. Oh, it was impossible to think how it would be! But Captain Donnithorne would know; he was a great gentleman, and could have his way in everything, and could buy everything he liked. And nothing could be as it had been again: perhaps some day she should be a grand lady, and ride in her coach, and dress for dinner in a brocaded silk, with feathers in her hair, and her dress sweeping the ground, like Miss Lydia and Lady Dacey, when she saw them going into the dining-room one evening as she peeped through the little round window in the lobby; only she should not be old and ugly like Miss Lydia, or all the same thickness like Lady Dacey, but very pretty, with her hair done in a great many different ways, and sometimes in a pink dress, and sometimes in a white one--she didn't know which she liked best; and Mary Burge and everybody would perhaps see her going out in her carriage--or rather, they would HEAR of it: it was impossible to imagine these things happening at Hayslope in sight of her aunt. At the thought of all this splendour, Hetty got up from her chair, and in doing so caught the little red-framed glass with the edge of her scarf, so that it fell with a bang on the floor; but she was too eagerly occupied with her vision to care about picking it up; and after a momentary start, began to pace with a pigeon-like stateliness backwards and forwards along her room, in her coloured stays and coloured skirt, and the old black lace scarf round her shoulders, and the great glass ear-rings in her ears. How pretty the little puss looks in that odd dress! It would be the easiest folly in the world to fall in love with her: there is such a sweet babylike roundness about her face and figure; the delicate dark rings of hair lie so charmingly about her ears and neck; her great dark eyes with their long eye-lashes touch one so strangely, as if an imprisoned frisky sprite looked out of them. Ah, what a prize the man gets who wins a sweet bride like Hetty! How the men envy him who come to the wedding breakfast, and see her hanging on his arm in her white lace and orange blossoms. The dear, young, round, soft, flexible thing! Her heart must be just as soft, her temper just as free from angles, her character just as pliant. If anything ever goes wrong, it must be the husband's fault there: he can make her what he likes--that is plain. And the lover himself thinks so too: the little darling is so fond of him, her little vanities are so bewitching, he wouldn't consent to her being a bit wiser; those kittenlike glances and movements are just what one wants to make one's hearth a paradise. Every man under such circumstances is conscious of being a great physiognomist. Nature, he knows, has a language of her own, which she uses with strict veracity, and he considers himself an adept in the language. Nature has written out his bride's character for him in those exquisite lines of cheek and lip and chin, in those eyelids delicate as petals, in those long lashes curled like the stamen of a flower, in the dark liquid depths of those wonderful eyes. How she will dote on her children! She is almost a child herself, and the little pink round things will hang about her like florets round the central flower; and the husband will look on, smiling benignly, able, whenever he chooses, to withdraw into the sanctuary of his wisdom, towards which his sweet wife will look reverently, and never lift the curtain. It is a marriage such as they made in the golden age, when the men were all wise and majestic and the women all lovely and loving. It was very much in this way that our friend Adam Bede thought about Hetty; only he put his thoughts into different words. If ever she behaved with cold vanity towards him, he said to himself it is only because she doesn't love me well enough; and he was sure that her love, whenever she gave it, would be the most precious thing a man could possess on earth. Before you despise Adam as deficient in penetration, pray ask yourself if you were ever predisposed to believe evil of any pretty woman--if you ever COULD, without hard head-breaking demonstration, believe evil of the ONE supremely pretty woman who has bewitched you. No: people who love downy peaches are apt not to think of the stone, and sometimes jar their teeth terribly against it. Arthur Donnithorne, too, had the same sort of notion about Hetty, so far as he had thought of her nature of all. He felt sure she was a dear, affectionate, good little thing. The man who awakes the wondering tremulous passion of a young girl always thinks her affectionate; and if he chances to look forward to future years, probably imagines himself being virtuously tender to her, because the poor thing is so clingingly fond of him. God made these dear women so--and it is a convenient arrangement in case of sickness. After all, I believe the wisest of us must be beguiled in this way sometimes, and must think both better and worse of people than they deserve. Nature has her language, and she is not unveracious; but we don't know all the intricacies of her syntax just yet, and in a hasty reading we may happen to extract the very opposite of her real meaning. Long dark eyelashes, now--what can be more exquisite? I find it impossible not to expect some depth of soul behind a deep grey eye with a long dark eyelash, in spite of an experience which has shown me that they may go along with deceit, peculation, and stupidity. But if, in the reaction of disgust, I have betaken myself to a fishy eye, there has been a surprising similarity of result. One begins to suspect at length that there is no direct correlation between eyelashes and morals; or else, that the eyelashes express the disposition of the fair one's grandmother, which is on the whole less important to us. No eyelashes could be more beautiful than Hetty's; and now, while she walks with her pigeon-like stateliness along the room and looks down on her shoulders bordered by the old black lace, the dark fringe shows to perfection on her pink cheek. They are but dim ill-defined pictures that her narrow bit of an imagination can make of the future; but of every picture she is the central figure in fine clothes; Captain Donnithorne is very close to her, putting his arm round her, perhaps kissing her, and everybody else is admiring and envying her--especially Mary Burge, whose new print dress looks very contemptible by the side of Hetty's resplendent toilette. Does any sweet or sad memory mingle with this dream of the future--any loving thought of her second parents--of the children she had helped to tend--of any youthful companion, any pet animal, any relic of her own childhood even? Not one. There are some plants that have hardly any roots: you may tear them from their native nook of rock or wall, and just lay them over your ornamental flower-pot, and they blossom none the worse. Hetty could have cast all her past life behind her and never cared to be reminded of it again. I think she had no feeling at all towards the old house, and did not like the Jacob's Ladder and the long row of hollyhocks in the garden better than other flowers--perhaps not so well. It was wonderful how little she seemed to care about waiting on her uncle, who had been a good father to her--she hardly ever remembered to reach him his pipe at the right time without being told, unless a visitor happened to be there, who would have a better opportunity of seeing her as she walked across the hearth. Hetty did not understand how anybody could be very fond of middle-aged people. And as for those tiresome children, Marty and Tommy and Totty, they had been the very nuisance of her life--as bad as buzzing insects that will come teasing you on a hot day when you want to be quiet. Marty, the eldest, was a baby when she first came to the farm, for the children born before him had died, and so Hetty had had them all three, one after the other, toddling by her side in the meadow, or playing about her on wet days in the half-empty rooms of the large old house. The boys were out of hand now, but Totty was still a day-long plague, worse than either of the others had been, because there was more fuss made about her. And there was no end to the making and mending of clothes. Hetty would have been glad to hear that she should never see a child again; they were worse than the nasty little lambs that the shepherd was always bringing in to be taken special care of in lambing time; for the lambs WERE got rid of sooner or later. As for the young chickens and turkeys, Hetty would have hated the very word "hatching," if her aunt had not bribed her to attend to the young poultry by promising her the proceeds of one out of every brood. The round downy chicks peeping out from under their mother's wing never touched Hetty with any pleasure; that was not the sort of prettiness she cared about, but she did care about the prettiness of the new things she would buy for herself at Treddleston Fair with the money they fetched. And yet she looked so dimpled, so charming, as she stooped down to put the soaked bread under the hen-coop, that you must have been a very acute personage indeed to suspect her of that hardness. Molly, the housemaid, with a turn-up nose and a protuberant jaw, was really a tender-hearted girl, and, as Mrs. Poyser said, a jewel to look after the poultry; but her stolid face showed nothing of this maternal delight, any more than a brown earthenware pitcher will show the light of the lamp within it. It is generally a feminine eye that first detects the moral deficiencies hidden under the "dear deceit" of beauty, so it is not surprising that Mrs. Poyser, with her keenness and abundant opportunity for observation, should have formed a tolerably fair estimate of what might be expected from Hetty in the way of feeling, and in moments of indignation she had sometimes spoken with great openness on the subject to her husband. "She's no better than a peacock, as 'ud strut about on the wall and spread its tail when the sun shone if all the folks i' the parish was dying: there's nothing seems to give her a turn i' th' inside, not even when we thought Totty had tumbled into the pit. To think o' that dear cherub! And we found her wi' her little shoes stuck i' the mud an' crying fit to break her heart by the far horse-pit. But Hetty never minded it, I could see, though she's been at the nussin' o' the child ever since it was a babby. It's my belief her heart's as hard as a pebble." "Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, "thee mustn't judge Hetty too hard. Them young gells are like the unripe grain; they'll make good meal by and by, but they're squashy as yet. Thee't see Hetty 'll be all right when she's got a good husband and children of her own." "I don't want to be hard upo' the gell. She's got cliver fingers of her own, and can be useful enough when she likes and I should miss her wi' the butter, for she's got a cool hand. An' let be what may, I'd strive to do my part by a niece o' yours--an' THAT I've done, for I've taught her everything as belongs to a house, an' I've told her her duty often enough, though, God knows, I've no breath to spare, an' that catchin' pain comes on dreadful by times. Wi' them three gells in the house I'd need have twice the strength to keep 'em up to their work. It's like having roast meat at three fires; as soon as you've basted one, another's burnin'." Hetty stood sufficiently in awe of her aunt to be anxious to conceal from her so much of her vanity as could be hidden without too great a sacrifice. She could not resist spending her money in bits of finery which Mrs. Poyser disapproved; but she would have been ready to die with shame, vexation, and fright if her aunt had this moment opened the door, and seen her with her bits of candle lighted, and strutting about decked in her scarf and ear-rings. To prevent such a surprise, she always bolted her door, and she had not forgotten to do so to-night. It was well: for there now came a light tap, and Hetty, with a leaping heart, rushed to blow out the candles and throw them into the drawer. She dared not stay to take out her ear-rings, but she threw off her scarf, and let it fall on the floor, before the light tap came again. We shall know how it was that the light tap came, if we leave Hetty for a short time and return to Dinah, at the moment when she had delivered Totty to her mother's arms, and was come upstairs to her bedroom, adjoining Hetty's. Dinah delighted in her bedroom window. Being on the second story of that tall house, it gave her a wide view over the fields. The thickness of the wall formed a broad step about a yard below the window, where she could place her chair. And now the first thing she did on entering her room was to seat herself in this chair and look out on the peaceful fields beyond which the large moon was rising, just above the hedgerow elms. She liked the pasture best where the milch cows were lying, and next to that the meadow where the grass was half-mown, and lay in silvered sweeping lines. Her heart was very full, for there was to be only one more night on which she would look out on those fields for a long time to come; but she thought little of leaving the mere scene, for, to her, bleak Snowfield had just as many charms. She thought of all the dear people whom she had learned to care for among these peaceful fields, and who would now have a place in her loving remembrance for ever. She thought of the struggles and the weariness that might lie before them in the rest of their life's journey, when she would be away from them, and know nothing of what was befalling them; and the pressure of this thought soon became too strong for her to enjoy the unresponding stillness of the moonlit fields. She closed her eyes, that she might feel more intensely the presence of a Love and Sympathy deeper and more tender than was breathed from the earth and sky. That was often Dinah's mode of praying in solitude. Simply to close her eyes and to feel herself enclosed by the Divine Presence; then gradually her fears, her yearning anxieties for others, melted away like ice-crystals in a warm ocean. She had sat in this way perfectly still, with her hands crossed on her lap and the pale light resting on her calm face, for at least ten minutes when she was startled by a loud sound, apparently of something falling in Hetty's room. But like all sounds that fall on our ears in a state of abstraction, it had no distinct character, but was simply loud and startling, so that she felt uncertain whether she had interpreted it rightly. She rose and listened, but all was quiet afterwards, and she reflected that Hetty might merely have knocked something down in getting into bed. She began slowly to undress; but now, owing to the suggestions of this sound, her thoughts became concentrated on Hetty--that sweet young thing, with life and all its trials before her--the solemn daily duties of the wife and mother--and her mind so unprepared for them all, bent merely on little foolish, selfish pleasures, like a child hugging its toys in the beginning of a long toilsome journey in which it will have to bear hunger and cold and unsheltered darkness. Dinah felt a double care for Hetty, because she shared Seth's anxious interest in his brother's lot, and she had not come to the conclusion that Hetty did not love Adam well enough to marry him. She saw too clearly the absence of any warm, self-devoting love in Hetty's nature to regard the coldness of her behaviour towards Adam as any indication that he was not the man she would like to have for a husband. And this blank in Hetty's nature, instead of exciting Dinah's dislike, only touched her with a deeper pity: the lovely face and form affected her as beauty always affects a pure and tender mind, free from selfish jealousies. It was an excellent divine gift, that gave a deeper pathos to the need, the sin, the sorrow with which it was mingled, as the canker in a lily-white bud is more grievous to behold than in a common pot-herb. By the time Dinah had undressed and put on her night-gown, this feeling about Hetty had gathered a painful intensity; her imagination had created a thorny thicket of sin and sorrow, in which she saw the poor thing struggling torn and bleeding, looking with tears for rescue and finding none. It was in this way that Dinah's imagination and sympathy acted and reacted habitually, each heightening the other. She felt a deep longing to go now and pour into Hetty's ear all the words of tender warning and appeal that rushed into her mind. But perhaps Hetty was already asleep. Dinah put her ear to the partition and heard still some slight noises, which convinced her that Hetty was not yet in bed. Still she hesitated; she was not quite certain of a divine direction; the voice that told her to go to Hetty seemed no stronger than the other voice which said that Hetty was weary, and that going to her now in an unseasonable moment would only tend to close her heart more obstinately. Dinah was not satisfied without a more unmistakable guidance than those inward voices. There was light enough for her, if she opened her Bible, to discern the text sufficiently to know what it would say to her. She knew the physiognomy of every page, and could tell on what book she opened, sometimes on what chapter, without seeing title or number. It was a small thick Bible, worn quite round at the edges. Dinah laid it sideways on the window ledge, where the light was strongest, and then opened it with her forefinger. The first words she looked at were those at the top of the left-hand page: "And they all wept sore, and fell on Paul's neck and kissed him." That was enough for Dinah; she had opened on that memorable parting at Ephesus, when Paul had felt bound to open his heart in a last exhortation and warning. She hesitated no longer, but, opening her own door gently, went and tapped on Hetty's. We know she had to tap twice, because Hetty had to put out her candles and throw off her black lace scarf; but after the second tap the door was opened immediately. Dinah said, "Will you let me come in, Hetty?" and Hetty, without speaking, for she was confused and vexed, opened the door wider and let her in. What a strange contrast the two figures made, visible enough in that mingled twilight and moonlight! Hetty, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glistening from her imaginary drama, her beautiful neck and arms bare, her hair hanging in a curly tangle down her back, and the baubles in her ears. Dinah, covered with her long white dress, her pale face full of subdued emotion, almost like a lovely corpse into which the soul has returned charged with sublimer secrets and a sublimer love. They were nearly of the same height; Dinah evidently a little the taller as she put her arm round Hetty's waist and kissed her forehead. "I knew you were not in bed, my dear," she said, in her sweet clear voice, which was irritating to Hetty, mingling with her own peevish vexation like music with jangling chains, "for I heard you moving; and I longed to speak to you again to-night, for it is the last but one that I shall be here, and we don't know what may happen to-morrow to keep us apart. Shall I sit down with you while you do up your hair?" "Oh yes," said Hetty, hastily turning round and reaching the second chair in the room, glad that Dinah looked as if she did not notice her ear-rings. Dinah sat down, and Hetty began to brush together her hair before twisting it up, doing it with that air of excessive indifference which belongs to confused self-consciousness. But the expression of Dinah's eyes gradually relieved her; they seemed unobservant of all details. "Dear Hetty," she said, "It has been borne in upon my mind to-night that you may some day be in trouble--trouble is appointed for us all here below, and there comes a time when we need more comfort and help than the things of this life can give. I want to tell you that if ever you are in trouble, and need a friend that will always feel for you and love you, you have got that friend in Dinah Morris at Snowfield, and if you come to her, or send for her, she'll never forget this night and the words she is speaking to you now. Will you remember it, Hetty?" "Yes," said Hetty, rather frightened. "But why should you think I shall be in trouble? Do you know of anything?" Hetty had seated herself as she tied on her cap, and now Dinah leaned forwards and took her hands as she answered, "Because, dear, trouble comes to us all in this life: we set our hearts on things which it isn't God's will for us to have, and then we go sorrowing; the people we love are taken from us, and we can joy in nothing because they are not with us; sickness comes, and we faint under the burden of our feeble bodies; we go astray and do wrong, and bring ourselves into trouble with our fellow-men. There is no man or woman born into this world to whom some of these trials do not fall, and so I feel that some of them must happen to you; and I desire for you, that while you are young you should seek for strength from your Heavenly Father, that you may have a support which will not fail you in the evil day." Dinah paused and released Hetty's hands that she might not hinder her. Hetty sat quite still; she felt no response within herself to Dinah's anxious affection; but Dinah's words uttered with solemn pathetic distinctness, affected her with a chill fear. Her flush had died away almost to paleness; she had the timidity of a luxurious pleasure-seeking nature, which shrinks from the hint of pain. Dinah saw the effect, and her tender anxious pleading became the more earnest, till Hetty, full of a vague fear that something evil was some time to befall her, began to cry. It is our habit to say that while the lower nature can never understand the higher, the higher nature commands a complete view of the lower. But I think the higher nature has to learn this comprehension, as we learn the art of vision, by a good deal of hard experience, often with bruises and gashes incurred in taking things up by the wrong end, and fancying our space wider than it is. Dinah had never seen Hetty affected in this way before, and, with her usual benignant hopefulness, she trusted it was the stirring of a divine impulse. She kissed the sobbing thing, and began to cry with her for grateful joy. But Hetty was simply in that excitable state of mind in which there is no calculating what turn the feelings may take from one moment to another, and for the first time she became irritated under Dinah's caress. She pushed her away impatiently, and said, with a childish sobbing voice, "Don't talk to me so, Dinah. Why do you come to frighten me? I've never done anything to you. Why can't you let me be?" Poor Dinah felt a pang. She was too wise to persist, and only said mildly, "Yes, my dear, you're tired; I won't hinder you any longer. Make haste and get into bed. Good-night." She went out of the room almost as quietly and quickly as if she had been a ghost; but once by the side of her own bed, she threw herself on her knees and poured out in deep silence all the passionate pity that filled her heart. As for Hetty, she was soon in the wood again--her waking dreams being merged in a sleeping life scarcely more fragmentary and confused. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Hetty und Dinah machen sich beide fertig fürs Bett in nebeneinanderliegenden Zimmern, spärlich eingerichteten Zimmern, ohne Jalousien, die das Licht abschirmen. Und das ist ziemlich genau der Punkt, an dem die Ähnlichkeiten enden. Ob nebeneinanderliegende Zimmer oder nicht, die beiden Mädchen könnten nicht unterschiedlicher sein - in Bezug auf ihre Persönlichkeit, versteht sich. Hier ist, worum Hetty sich kümmert: ihr hübsches Haar, ihr Ruf als lokale Schönheit und ihre Trinkets. Als sie sich aufs Bett vorbereitet, paradieren sie herum mit "großen Ohrringen in ihren Ohren" und einem "schwarzen Spitzen-Schal um ihre Schultern drapiert". Wie könnte Arthur da widerstehen? Bald, denkt Hetty, wird er sie von diesen langweiligen Poysers wegnehmen und sie zu einer echten Dame machen. Und dann wird dieses kleine Routine-Ritual im Schlafzimmer vorbei sein. Hier ist, worum sich Dinah kümmert: die "weite Aussicht über die Felder" von ihrem Schlafzimmerfenster aus, Gott und ihre Bibel. Während sie sich aufs Bett vorbereitet, denkt sie mitfühlend über all die Menschen nach, denen sie geholfen hat. Aber sie ist besorgt um Hetty, "das süße junge Ding mit dem ganzen Leben und seinen Schwierigkeiten vor sich". Auf der Suche nach göttlicher Führung in diesem schwierigen Fall öffnet Dinah ihre Bibel und zeigt auf einen zufälligen Abschnitt. Sie stößt auf einen Abschnitt über den Apostel Paulus, Weinen, Mitgefühl, was auch immer. Und das überzeugt sie davon, Hetty in ihrem Zimmer zu besuchen. Hetty ist immer noch mitten in ihrem Schal- und Ohrring-Ritual, als Dinah hereinkommt. Aber Dinah will Hetty sagen, dass "wenn du jemals in Schwierigkeiten bist und einen Freund brauchst, der immer für dich da sein wird und dich liebt, dann hast du diesen Freund in Dinah Morris." Hetty ist sich nicht sicher, woher das kommt. Also spricht Dinah mit ihr über Prüfungen und Leiden und bringt Hetty zum Weinen. Wow, Hetty kann bei jeder Kleinigkeit weinen. Also sagt Dinah ein paar nette Worte, bevor sie geht. Dann hört Hetty auf zu weinen und geht schlafen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: SZENE 4. Dasselbe. Ein anderer Teil desselben. [Betreten SALISBURY, PEMBROKE und andere.] SALISBURY. Ich hätte nicht gedacht, dass der König so viele Freunde hat. PEMBROKE. Stehen wir noch einmal auf; bringen wir den Franzosen neuen Mut; Wenn sie scheitern, scheitern wir auch. SALISBURY. Dieser vermaledeite Teufel, Falconbridge, Erhält den Tag trotz allem Übel aufrecht. PEMBROKE. Sie sagen, König Johann, schwer krank, hat das Feld verlassen. [Tritt MELUN verwundet ein, geführt von Soldaten.] MELUN. Bringt mich zu den Aufständischen Englands hier. SALISBURY. Als wir glücklich waren, hatten wir andere Namen. PEMBROKE. Es ist der Graf Melun. SALISBURY. Tödlich verwundet. MELUN. Flieht, edle Engländer, ihr seid gekauft und verkauft; Entlarvt das grobe Auge des Aufstands, Und begrüßt wieder die verstoßene Treue. Sucht König Johann auf und fallt vor seinen Füßen; Denn wenn die Franzosen Herren dieses lauten Tages sind, Beabsichtigt er, euch für eure Mühen zu belohnen Indem er euch den Kopf abschneidet: So hat er geschworen, Und ich mit ihm, und viele weitere mit mir, Am Altar in Saint Edmunds-Bury; Sogar auf demselben Altar, wo wir euch geschworen haben Liebe Freundschaft und ewige Liebe. SALISBURY. Kann das sein? Kann das wahr sein? MELUN. Habe ich nicht den schrecklichen Tod vor Augen, Der nur noch ein bisschen Leben zurücklässt, Das genauso verblasst wie eine Wachsfigur, Die sich gegen das Feuer auflöst? Was in der Welt sollte mich jetzt noch betrügen lassen, Da ich den Gebrauch aller Täuschungen verlieren werde? Warum sollte ich dann falsch sein, wenn es wahr ist, Dass ich hier sterben muss und künftig nur noch durch Wahrheit leben werde? Ich sage noch einmal, wenn Louis den Tag gewinnen will, So ist er Meineid, wenn je diese Augen von euch Ein weiterer Tagesanbruch im Osten erblicken: Aber schon diese Nacht, - deren schwarzer, ansteckender Atem Bereits um die brennende Krone Der alten, schwachen und von Tagesmüdigkeit geplagten Sonne schwelt, - Auch diese üble Nacht wird euer Atmen erlöschen; Den Preis für bewerteten Verrat bezahlend Selbst mit einem hinterhältigem Preis von all euren Leben, Wenn Louis mit eurer Hilfe den Tag gewinnt. Grüßt jemanden namens Hubert von mir, zusammen mit eurem König; Die Liebe zu ihm - und dieser Respekt außerdem, Weil mein Großvater ein Engländer war, - Erwacht mein Gewissen, dies alles zu gestehen. Anstelle davon, bitte ich euch, tragt mich von hier weg Vom Lärm und dem Trubel des Schlachtfeldes, Wo ich die Überreste meiner Gedanken In Ruhe denken und meinen Körper von meiner Seele trennen kann Mit Betrachtung und frommen Wünschen. SALISBURY. Wir glauben dir: - und verflucht meine Seele Wenn ich nicht die Gunst und die Form Dieser schönsten Gelegenheit liebe, durch die Wir die Schritte der verdammten Flucht zurücknehmen werden; Und wie ein zurückfließender und zurückgezogener Fluss, Unsere Ranglosigkeit und unser unregelmäßiger Kurs verlassend, Beugen wir uns tief innerhalb dieser Grenzen, die wir übersehen haben, Und laufen ruhig weiter in Gehorsamkeit Selbst dem Ozean, unserem großen König Johann.- Mein Arm wird dir helfen, dich von hier fortzutragen; Denn ich sehe die grausamen Schmerzen des Todes Direkt in deinem Auge.- Weg, meine Freunde! Neue Flucht, Und glückliche Neuheit, die altes Recht beabsichtigt. [Hinausgehend, MELUN führend.] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Es gibt einen Bühnenauftritt von Salisbury, Pembroke und Lord Bigot. Die Schlacht tobt noch immer. Die Jungs können nicht glauben, dass sich die Truppen von König John noch immer tapfer halten. Trotzdem finden sie es toll, dass König John die Schlacht mit einem ärztlichen Attest verlassen musste. In diesem Moment kommt der französische Graf Melun herein, der versucht, seine Eingeweide zurückzuhalten, damit sie nicht aus seinem Körper fallen. Melun sagt den englischen Lords, dass sie ihren Aufstand aufgeben und erneut König John die Treue schwören sollen, denn wenn die Franzosen und die Rebellen König John besiegen, plant der Dauphin Louis, alle seine englischen Verbündeten zu enthaupten. Zuerst kann Salisbury ihm nicht glauben. Aber dann erklärt Melun, dass er sowieso sterben wird und dass er im Himmel eine bessere Belohnung erhalten wird, indem er jetzt die Wahrheit sagt, als wenn er den Mund hält. Jedenfalls erklärt er, dass sein Großvater Engländer war, also hat er Sympathie für sie. Salisbury will auf keinen Fall geköpft werden, also beschließt er, Melun zu glauben. Salisbury und die anderen englischen Adligen verlassen die Bühne und nehmen Melun mit sich.

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 LIII. King Louis XIV. The king was seated in his cabinet, with his back turned towards the door of entrance. In front of him was a mirror, in which, while turning over his papers, he could see at a glance those who came in. He did not take any notice of the entrance of D'Artagnan, but spread above his letters and plans the large silk cloth he used to conceal his secrets from the importunate. D'Artagnan understood this by-play, and kept in the background; so that at the end of a minute the king, who heard nothing, and saw nothing save from the corner of his eye, was obliged to cry, "Is not M. d'Artagnan there?" "I am here, sire," replied the musketeer, advancing. "Well, monsieur," said the king, fixing his pellucid eyes on D'Artagnan, "what have you to say to me?" "I, sire!" replied the latter, who watched the first blow of his adversary to make a good retort; "I have nothing to say to your majesty, unless it be that you have caused me to be arrested, and here I am." The king was going to reply that he had not had D'Artagnan arrested, but any such sentence appeared too much like an excuse, and he was silent. D'Artagnan likewise preserved an obstinate silence. "Monsieur," at length resumed the king, "what did I charge you to go and do at Belle-Isle? Tell me, if you please." The king while uttering these words looked intently at his captain. Here D'Artagnan was fortunate; the king seemed to place the game in his hands. "I believe," replied he, "that your majesty does me the honor to ask what I went to Belle-Isle to accomplish?" "Yes, monsieur." "Well! sire, I know nothing about it; it is not of me that question should be asked, but of that infinite number of officers of all kinds, to whom have been given innumerable orders of all kinds, whilst to me, head of the expedition, nothing precise was said or stated in any form whatever." The king was hurt: he showed it by his reply. "Monsieur," said he, "orders have only been given to such as were judged faithful." "And, therefore, I have been astonished, sire," retorted the musketeer, "that a captain like myself, who ranks with a marechal of France, should have found himself under the orders of five or six lieutenants or majors, good to make spies of, possibly, but not at all fit to conduct a warlike expedition. It was upon this subject I came to demand an explanation of your majesty, when I found the door closed against me, which, the final insult offered to a brave man, has led me to quit your majesty's service." "Monsieur," replied the king, "you still believe that you are living in an age when kings were, as you complain of having been, under the orders and at the discretion of their inferiors. You seem to forget that a king owes an account of his actions to none but God." "I forget nothing, sire," said the musketeer, wounded by this lesson. "Besides, I do not see in what an honest man, when he asks of his king how he has ill-served him, offends him." "You have ill-served me, monsieur, by siding with my enemies against me." "Who are your enemies, sire?" "The men I sent you to fight." "Two men the enemies of the whole of your majesty's army! That is incredible." "You have no power to judge of my will." "But I have to judge of my own friendships, sire." "He who serves his friends does not serve his master." "I so well understand this, sire, that I have respectfully offered your majesty my resignation." "And I have accepted it, monsieur," said the king. "Before being separated from you I was willing to prove to you that I know how to keep my word." "Your majesty has kept more than your word, for your majesty has had me arrested," said D'Artagnan, with his cold, bantering air; "you did not promise me that, sire." The king would not condescend to perceive the pleasantry, and continued, seriously, "You see, monsieur, to what grave steps your disobedience forces me." "My disobedience!" cried D'Artagnan, red with anger. "It is the mildest term that I can find," pursued the king. "My idea was to take and punish rebels; was I bound to inquire whether these rebels were your friends or not?" "But I was," replied D'Artagnan. "It was a cruelty on your majesty's part to send me to capture my friends and lead them to your gibbets." "It was a trial I had to make, monsieur, of pretended servants, who eat my bread and _should_ defend my person. The trial has succeeded ill, Monsieur d'Artagnan." "For one bad servant your majesty loses," said the musketeer, with bitterness, "there are ten who, on that same day, go through a like ordeal. Listen to me, sire; I am not accustomed to that service. Mine is a rebel sword when I am required to do ill. It was ill to send me in pursuit of two men whose lives M. Fouquet, your majesty's preserver, implored you to save. Still further, these men were my friends. They did not attack your majesty, they succumbed to your blind anger. Besides, why were they not allowed to escape? What crime had they committed? I admit you may contest with me the right of judging their conduct. But why suspect me before the action? Why surround me with spies? Why disgrace me before the army? Why me, in whom till now you showed the most entire confidence--who for thirty years have been attached to your person, and have given you a thousand proofs of my devotion--for it must be said, now that I am accused--why reduce me to see three thousand of the king's soldiers march in battle against two men?" "One would say you have forgotten what these men have done to me!" said the king, in a hollow voice, "and that it was no merit of theirs I was not lost." "Sire, one would imagine you forget that I was there." "Enough, Monsieur d'Artagnan, enough of these dominating interests which arise to keep the sun itself from my interests. I am founding a state in which there shall be but one master, as I promised you; the moment is at hand for me to keep my promise. You wish to be, according to your tastes or private friendships, free to destroy my plans and save my enemies? I will thwart you or will drop you--seek a more compliant master. I know full well that another king would not conduct himself as I do, and would allow himself to be dominated by you, at the risk of sending you some day to keep company with M. Fouquet and the rest; but I have an excellent memory, and for me, services are sacred titles to gratitude, to impunity. You shall only have this lesson, Monsieur d'Artagnan, as the punishment of your want of discipline, and I will not imitate my predecessors in anger, not having imitated them in favor. And, then, other reasons make me act mildly towards you; in the first place, because you are a man of sense, a man of excellent sense, a man of heart, and that you will be a capital servant to him who shall have mastered you; secondly, because you will cease to have any motives for insubordination. Your friends are now destroyed or ruined by me. These supports on which your capricious mind instinctively relied I have caused to disappear. At this moment, my soldiers have taken or killed the rebels of Belle-Isle." D'Artagnan became pale. "Taken or killed!" cried he. "Oh! sire, if you thought what you tell, if you were sure you were telling me the truth, I should forget all that is just, all that is magnanimous in your words, to call you a barbarous king, and an unnatural man. But I pardon you these words," said he, smiling with pride; "I pardon them to a young prince who does not know, who cannot comprehend what such men as M. d'Herblay, M. du Vallon, and myself are. Taken or killed! Ah! Ah! sire! tell me, if the news is true, how much has it cost you in men and money. We will then reckon if the game has been worth the stakes." As he spoke thus, the king went up to him in great anger, and said, "Monsieur d'Artagnan, your replies are those of a rebel! Tell me, if you please, who is king of France? Do you know any other?" "Sire," replied the captain of the musketeers, coldly, "I very well remember that one morning at Vaux you addressed that question to many people who did not answer to it, whilst I, on my part, did answer to it. If I recognized my king on that day, when the thing was not easy, I think it would be useless to ask the question of me now, when your majesty and I are alone." At these words Louis cast down his eyes. It appeared to him that the shade of the unfortunate Philippe passed between D'Artagnan and himself, to evoke the remembrance of that terrible adventure. Almost at the same moment an officer entered and placed a dispatch in the hands of the king, who, in his turn, changed color, while reading it. "Monsieur," said he, "what I learn here you would know later; it is better I should tell you, and that you should learn it from the mouth of your king. A battle has taken place at Belle-Isle." "Is it possible?" said D'Artagnan, with a calm air, though his heart was beating fast enough to choke him. "Well, sire?" "Well, monsieur--and I have lost a hundred and ten men." A beam of joy and pride shone in the eyes of D'Artagnan. "And the rebels?" said he. "The rebels have fled," said the king. D'Artagnan could not restrain a cry of triumph. "Only," added the king, "I have a fleet which closely blockades Belle-Isle, and I am certain not a bark can escape." "So that," said the musketeer, brought back to his dismal idea, "if these two gentlemen are taken--" "They will be hanged," said the king, quietly. "And do they know it?" replied D'Artagnan, repressing his trembling. "They know it, because you must have told them yourself; and all the country knows it." "Then, sire, they will never be taken alive, I will answer for that." "Ah!" said the king, negligently, and taking up his letter again. "Very well, they will be dead, then, Monsieur d'Artagnan, and that will come to the same thing, since I should only take them to have them hanged." D'Artagnan wiped the sweat which flowed from his brow. "I have told you," pursued Louis XIV., "that I would one day be an affectionate, generous, and constant master. You are now the only man of former times worthy of my anger or my friendship. I will not spare you either sentiment, according to your conduct. Could you serve a king, Monsieur d'Artagnan, who should have a hundred kings, his equals, in the kingdom? Could I, tell me, do with such weak instruments the great things I meditate? Did you ever see an artist effect great works with an unworthy tool? Far from us, monsieur, the old leaven of feudal abuse! The Fronde, which threatened to ruin monarchy, has emancipated it. I am master at home, Captain d'Artagnan, and I shall have servants who, lacking, perhaps, your genius, will carry devotion and obedience to the verge of heroism. Of what consequence, I ask you, of what consequence is it that God has given no sense to arms and legs? It is to the head he has given genius, and the head, you know, the rest obey. I am the head." D'Artagnan started. Louis XIV. continued as if he had seen nothing, although this emotion had not by any means escaped him. "Now, let us conclude between us two the bargain I promised to make with you one day when you found me in a very strange predicament at Blois. Do me justice, monsieur, when you admit I do not make any one pay for the tears of shame that I then shed. Look around you; lofty heads have bowed. Bow yours, or choose such exile as will suit you. Perhaps, when reflecting upon it, you will find your king has a generous heart, who reckons sufficiently upon your loyalty to allow you to leave him dissatisfied, when you possess a great state secret. You are a brave man; I know you to be so. Why have you judged me prematurely? Judge me from this day forward, D'Artagnan, and be as severe as you please." D'Artagnan remained bewildered, mute, undecided for the first time in his life. At last he had found an adversary worthy of him. This was no longer trick, it was calculation; no longer violence, but strength; no longer passion, but will; no longer boasting, but council. This young man who had brought down a Fouquet, and could do without a D'Artagnan, deranged the somewhat headstrong calculations of the musketeer. "Come, let us see what stops you?" said the king, kindly. "You have given in your resignation; shall I refuse to accept it? I admit that it may be hard for such an old captain to recover lost good-humor." "Oh!" replied D'Artagnan, in a melancholy tone, "that is not my most serious care. I hesitate to take back my resignation because I am old in comparison with you, and have habits difficult to abandon. Henceforward, you must have courtiers who know how to amuse you--madmen who will get themselves killed to carry out what you call your great works. Great they will be, I feel--but, if by chance I should not think them so? I have seen war, sire, I have seen peace; I have served Richelieu and Mazarin; I have been scorched with your father, at the fire of Rochelle; riddled with sword-thrusts like a sieve, having grown a new skin ten times, as serpents do. After affronts and injustices, I have a command which was formerly something, because it gave the bearer the right of speaking as he liked to his king. But your captain of the musketeers will henceforward be an officer guarding the outer doors. Truly, sire, if that is to be my employment from this time, seize the opportunity of our being on good terms, to take it from me. Do not imagine that I bear malice; no, you have tamed me, as you say; but it must be confessed that in taming me you have lowered me; by bowing me you have convicted me of weakness. If you knew how well it suits me to carry my head high, and what a pitiful mien I shall have while scenting the dust of your carpets! Oh! sire, I regret sincerely, and you will regret as I do, the old days when the king of France saw in every vestibule those insolent gentlemen, lean, always swearing--cross-grained mastiffs, who could bite mortally in the hour of danger or of battle. These men were the best of courtiers to the hand which fed them--they would lick it; but for the hand that struck them, oh! the bite that followed! A little gold on the lace of their cloaks, a slender stomach in their _hauts-de-chausses_, a little sparkling of gray in their dry hair, and you will behold the handsome dukes and peers, the haughty _marechaux_ of France. But why should I tell you all this? The king is master; he wills that I should make verses, he wills that I should polish the mosaics of his ante-chambers with satin shoes. _Mordioux!_ that is difficult, but I have got over greater difficulties. I will do it. Why should I do it? Because I love money?--I have enough. Because I am ambitious?--my career is almost at an end. Because I love the court? No. I will remain here because I have been accustomed for thirty years to go and take the orderly word of the king, and to have said to me 'Good evening, D'Artagnan,' with a smile I did not beg for. That smile I will beg for! Are you content, sire?" And D'Artagnan bowed his silver head, upon which the smiling king placed his white hand with pride. "Thanks, my old servant, my faithful friend," said he. "As, reckoning from this day, I have no longer any enemies in France, it remains with me to send you to a foreign field to gather your marshal's baton. Depend upon me for finding you an opportunity. In the meanwhile, eat of my very best bread, and sleep in absolute tranquillity." "That is all kind and well!" said D'Artagnan, much agitated. "But those poor men at Belle-Isle? One of them, in particular--so good! so brave! so true!" "Do you ask their pardon of me?" "Upon my knees, sire!" "Well! then, go and take it to them, if it be still in time. But do you answer for them?" "With my life, sire." "Gut, dann. Morgen breche ich nach Paris auf. Zurück bis dahin, denn ich möchte nicht, dass du mich in Zukunft verlässt." "Davon kannst du versichert sein, Majestät", sagte D'Artagnan und küsste die königliche Hand. Mit einem Herzen, das vor Freude anschwoll, stürzte er aus dem Schloss auf dem Weg nach Belle-Isle. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Als D'Artagnan in das Gemach des Königs kommt, hat dieser dem Rücken zur Tür und ist damit beschäftigt, einige Papiere durchzugehen. Schließlich ruft der König nach D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan meldet sich zu Wort. Er ist deutlich schlecht gelaunt. Der König fragt D'Artagnan nach seinen Anweisungen bezüglich Belle-Isle. D'Artagnan gibt vor beleidigt zu sein und argumentiert, dass den Offizieren der Expedition viele unterschiedliche Befehle gegeben wurden, während er selbst im Dunkeln gehalten wurde. Der König behauptet, dass die Befehle denen gegeben wurden, die als treu beurteilt wurden. D'Artagnan ist tief getroffen von dieser Aussage. Er ist einer der loyalsten Diener des Königs. Der König argumentiert dann, dass sein Handeln einzig und allein Gott verantwortlich sei und er nicht der Typ von König sei, der sich leicht von seinen Untergebenen wie vergangene Könige manipulieren ließe. Der König weist darauf hin, dass D'Artagnan nicht in der Lage war, gegen die Feinde des Königs zu kämpfen. D'Artagnan argumentiert, dass es sich bei den beiden Männern um seine besten Freunde handelt. Der König sagt, es sei ein Test der Loyalität gewesen. D'Artagnans Freunde waren Rebellen, die der König gefangen nehmen wollte. D'Artagnan hat den Test nicht bestanden. Der König verwendet diese Überlegungen, um ein größeres Thema zu erklären, das Historiker gerne als "absolute Monarchie" bezeichnen. Grob übersetzt bedeutet dies: "Was der König sagt, ist Gesetz. Punkt." Lassen wir Louis zu Wort kommen: "Ich errichte einen Staat, in dem es nur einen Herrscher geben wird." Der König sagt D'Artagnan, dass er sich einen anderen Mann suchen solle, wenn er seinen Herrn manipulieren möchte. Dann sagt der König D'Artagnan, dass er diese eine Verletzung verzeihen wird und fügt hinzu, dass Porthos und Aramis mittlerweile gefangen genommen oder getötet worden sein müssen. D'Artagnan sagt dem König, dass er Porthos und Aramis unterschätzt. Der König fragt D'Artagnan, ob es einen anderen König von Frankreich gibt. D'Artagnan erinnert den König daran, dass er an dem Tag, an dem Philippe im Raum war, seine Verteidigung übernommen hat. Der König ist angemessen zurechtgewiesen. Ein Bote kommt herein und der König erfährt, dass er hundertzehn Männer verloren hat, um Belle-Isle einzunehmen, und dass die Rebellen nirgendwo zu finden sind. D'Artagnan ist stolz auf seine Freunde. Der König erwähnt beiläufig, dass er eine Seeblockade um die Insel herum hat; die Rebellen werden zweifellos gefangen genommen und schließlich gehängt. D'Artagnan verspricht, dass seine Freunde nicht lebend gefangen genommen werden. Der König antwortet in etwa mit den Worten "wie es dir beliebt". Er weist auch darauf hin, dass er der absolute Herrscher von Frankreich ist; D'Artagnan wird entweder den königlichen Zorn oder die königliche Freundschaft erleben. D'Artagnan ist schockiert über die Entschlossenheit des jungen Königs. Der König bietet an, D'Artagnans Rücktritt abzulehnen. D'Artagnan behauptet, dass das Amt des Hauptmanns der Musketiere nicht mehr den gleichen Ruhm und die gleiche Verantwortung mit sich bringt wie früher. Er sagt dem König: "Indem du mich zähmst, hast du mich herabgesetzt." Schließlich sagt er dem König, dass er kooperieren wird. Der König bedankt sich bei D'Artagnan und sagt ihm, dass er in ausländische Gefilde geschickt wird, um den Marschallstab zu erlangen. D'Artagnan bittet den König darum, seine beiden Freunde zu begnadigen. Der König tut dies und erteilt die Erlaubnis, seine Freunde zu finden, ihnen die Begnadigung zu überreichen und dann sofort zurückzukehren. D'Artagnan küsst dem König die Hand und verlässt den Palast.

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 spite of Udolpho and the dressmaker, however, the party from Pulteney Street reached the Upper Rooms in very good time. The Thorpes and James Morland were there only two minutes before them; and Isabella having gone through the usual ceremonial of meeting her friend with the most smiling and affectionate haste, of admiring the set of her gown, and envying the curl of her hair, they followed their chaperones, arm in arm, into the ballroom, whispering to each other whenever a thought occurred, and supplying the place of many ideas by a squeeze of the hand or a smile of affection. The dancing began within a few minutes after they were seated; and James, who had been engaged quite as long as his sister, was very importunate with Isabella to stand up; but John was gone into the card-room to speak to a friend, and nothing, she declared, should induce her to join the set before her dear Catherine could join it too. "I assure you," said she, "I would not stand up without your dear sister for all the world; for if I did we should certainly be separated the whole evening." Catherine accepted this kindness with gratitude, and they continued as they were for three minutes longer, when Isabella, who had been talking to James on the other side of her, turned again to his sister and whispered, "My dear creature, I am afraid I must leave you, your brother is so amazingly impatient to begin; I know you will not mind my going away, and I dare say John will be back in a moment, and then you may easily find me out." Catherine, though a little disappointed, had too much good nature to make any opposition, and the others rising up, Isabella had only time to press her friend's hand and say, "Good-bye, my dear love," before they hurried off. The younger Miss Thorpes being also dancing, Catherine was left to the mercy of Mrs. Thorpe and Mrs. Allen, between whom she now remained. She could not help being vexed at the non-appearance of Mr. Thorpe, for she not only longed to be dancing, but was likewise aware that, as the real dignity of her situation could not be known, she was sharing with the scores of other young ladies still sitting down all the discredit of wanting a partner. To be disgraced in the eye of the world, to wear the appearance of infamy while her heart is all purity, her actions all innocence, and the misconduct of another the true source of her debasement, is one of those circumstances which peculiarly belong to the heroine's life, and her fortitude under it what particularly dignifies her character. Catherine had fortitude too; she suffered, but no murmur passed her lips. From this state of humiliation, she was roused, at the end of ten minutes, to a pleasanter feeling, by seeing, not Mr. Thorpe, but Mr. Tilney, within three yards of the place where they sat; he seemed to be moving that way, but he did not see her, and therefore the smile and the blush, which his sudden reappearance raised in Catherine, passed away without sullying her heroic importance. He looked as handsome and as lively as ever, and was talking with interest to a fashionable and pleasing-looking young woman, who leant on his arm, and whom Catherine immediately guessed to be his sister; thus unthinkingly throwing away a fair opportunity of considering him lost to her forever, by being married already. But guided only by what was simple and probable, it had never entered her head that Mr. Tilney could be married; he had not behaved, he had not talked, like the married men to whom she had been used; he had never mentioned a wife, and he had acknowledged a sister. From these circumstances sprang the instant conclusion of his sister's now being by his side; and therefore, instead of turning of a deathlike paleness and falling in a fit on Mrs. Allen's bosom, Catherine sat erect, in the perfect use of her senses, and with cheeks only a little redder than usual. Mr. Tilney and his companion, who continued, though slowly, to approach, were immediately preceded by a lady, an acquaintance of Mrs. Thorpe; and this lady stopping to speak to her, they, as belonging to her, stopped likewise, and Catherine, catching Mr. Tilney's eye, instantly received from him the smiling tribute of recognition. She returned it with pleasure, and then advancing still nearer, he spoke both to her and Mrs. Allen, by whom he was very civilly acknowledged. "I am very happy to see you again, sir, indeed; I was afraid you had left Bath." He thanked her for her fears, and said that he had quitted it for a week, on the very morning after his having had the pleasure of seeing her. "Well, sir, and I dare say you are not sorry to be back again, for it is just the place for young people--and indeed for everybody else too. I tell Mr. Allen, when he talks of being sick of it, that I am sure he should not complain, for it is so very agreeable a place, that it is much better to be here than at home at this dull time of year. I tell him he is quite in luck to be sent here for his health." "And I hope, madam, that Mr. Allen will be obliged to like the place, from finding it of service to him." "Thank you, sir. I have no doubt that he will. A neighbour of ours, Dr. Skinner, was here for his health last winter, and came away quite stout." "That circumstance must give great encouragement." "Yes, sir--and Dr. Skinner and his family were here three months; so I tell Mr. Allen he must not be in a hurry to get away." Here they were interrupted by a request from Mrs. Thorpe to Mrs. Allen, that she would move a little to accommodate Mrs. Hughes and Miss Tilney with seats, as they had agreed to join their party. This was accordingly done, Mr. Tilney still continuing standing before them; and after a few minutes' consideration, he asked Catherine to dance with him. This compliment, delightful as it was, produced severe mortification to the lady; and in giving her denial, she expressed her sorrow on the occasion so very much as if she really felt it that had Thorpe, who joined her just afterwards, been half a minute earlier, he might have thought her sufferings rather too acute. The very easy manner in which he then told her that he had kept her waiting did not by any means reconcile her more to her lot; nor did the particulars which he entered into while they were standing up, of the horses and dogs of the friend whom he had just left, and of a proposed exchange of terriers between them, interest her so much as to prevent her looking very often towards that part of the room where she had left Mr. Tilney. Of her dear Isabella, to whom she particularly longed to point out that gentleman, she could see nothing. They were in different sets. She was separated from all her party, and away from all her acquaintance; one mortification succeeded another, and from the whole she deduced this useful lesson, that to go previously engaged to a ball does not necessarily increase either the dignity or enjoyment of a young lady. From such a moralizing strain as this, she was suddenly roused by a touch on the shoulder, and turning round, perceived Mrs. Hughes directly behind her, attended by Miss Tilney and a gentleman. "I beg your pardon, Miss Morland," said she, "for this liberty--but I cannot anyhow get to Miss Thorpe, and Mrs. Thorpe said she was sure you would not have the least objection to letting in this young lady by you." Mrs. Hughes could not have applied to any creature in the room more happy to oblige her than Catherine. The young ladies were introduced to each other, Miss Tilney expressing a proper sense of such goodness, Miss Morland with the real delicacy of a generous mind making light of the obligation; and Mrs. Hughes, satisfied with having so respectably settled her young charge, returned to her party. Miss Tilney had a good figure, a pretty face, and a very agreeable countenance; and her air, though it had not all the decided pretension, the resolute stylishness of Miss Thorpe's, had more real elegance. Her manners showed good sense and good breeding; they were neither shy nor affectedly open; and she seemed capable of being young, attractive, and at a ball without wanting to fix the attention of every man near her, and without exaggerated feelings of ecstatic delight or inconceivable vexation on every little trifling occurrence. Catherine, interested at once by her appearance and her relationship to Mr. Tilney, was desirous of being acquainted with her, and readily talked therefore whenever she could think of anything to say, and had courage and leisure for saying it. But the hindrance thrown in the way of a very speedy intimacy, by the frequent want of one or more of these requisites, prevented their doing more than going through the first rudiments of an acquaintance, by informing themselves how well the other liked Bath, how much she admired its buildings and surrounding country, whether she drew, or played, or sang, and whether she was fond of riding on horseback. The two dances were scarcely concluded before Catherine found her arm gently seized by her faithful Isabella, who in great spirits exclaimed, "At last I have got you. My dearest creature, I have been looking for you this hour. What could induce you to come into this set, when you knew I was in the other? I have been quite wretched without you." "My dear Isabella, how was it possible for me to get at you? I could not even see where you were." "So I told your brother all the time--but he would not believe me. Do go and see for her, Mr. Morland, said I--but all in vain--he would not stir an inch. Was not it so, Mr. Morland? But you men are all so immoderately lazy! I have been scolding him to such a degree, my dear Catherine, you would be quite amazed. You know I never stand upon ceremony with such people." "Look at that young lady with the white beads round her head," whispered Catherine, detaching her friend from James. "It is Mr. Tilney's sister." "Oh! Heavens! You don't say so! Let me look at her this moment. What a delightful girl! I never saw anything half so beautiful! But where is her all-conquering brother? Is he in the room? Point him out to me this instant, if he is. I die to see him. Mr. Morland, you are not to listen. We are not talking about you." "But what is all this whispering about? What is going on?" "There now, I knew how it would be. You men have such restless curiosity! Talk of the curiosity of women, indeed! 'Tis nothing. But be satisfied, for you are not to know anything at all of the matter." "And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?" "Well, I declare I never knew anything like you. What can it signify to you, what we are talking of. Perhaps we are talking about you; therefore I would advise you not to listen, or you may happen to hear something not very agreeable." In this commonplace chatter, which lasted some time, the original subject seemed entirely forgotten; and though Catherine was very well pleased to have it dropped for a while, she could not avoid a little suspicion at the total suspension of all Isabella's impatient desire to see Mr. Tilney. When the orchestra struck up a fresh dance, James would have led his fair partner away, but she resisted. "I tell you, Mr. Morland," she cried, "I would not do such a thing for all the world. How can you be so teasing; only conceive, my dear Catherine, what your brother wants me to do. He wants me to dance with him again, though I tell him that it is a most improper thing, and entirely against the rules. It would make us the talk of the place, if we were not to change partners." "Upon my honour," said James, "in these public assemblies, it is as often done as not." "Nonsense, how can you say so? But when you men have a point to carry, you never stick at anything. My sweet Catherine, do support me; persuade your brother how impossible it is. Tell him that it would quite shock you to see me do such a thing; now would not it?" "No, not at all; but if you think it wrong, you had much better change." "There," cried Isabella, "you hear what your sister says, and yet you will not mind her. Well, remember that it is not my fault, if we set all the old ladies in Bath in a bustle. Come along, my dearest Catherine, for heaven's sake, and stand by me." And off they went, to regain their former place. John Thorpe, in the meanwhile, had walked away; and Catherine, ever willing to give Mr. Tilney an opportunity of repeating the agreeable request which had already flattered her once, made her way to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe as fast as she could, in the hope of finding him still with them--a hope which, when it proved to be fruitless, she felt to have been highly unreasonable. "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Thorpe, impatient for praise of her son, "I hope you have had an agreeable partner." "Very agreeable, madam." "I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has not he?" "Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear?" said Mrs. Allen. "No, where is he?" "He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about, that he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask you, if he met with you." "Where can he be?" said Catherine, looking round; but she had not looked round long before she saw him leading a young lady to the dance. "Ah! He has got a partner; I wish he had asked you," said Mrs. Allen; and after a short silence, she added, "he is a very agreeable young man." "Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen," said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently; "I must say it, though I am his mother, that there is not a more agreeable young man in the world." This inapplicable answer might have been too much for the comprehension of many; but it did not puzzle Mrs. Allen, for after only a moment's consideration, she said, in a whisper to Catherine, "I dare say she thought I was speaking of her son." Catherine was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have missed by so little the very object she had had in view; and this persuasion did not incline her to a very gracious reply, when John Thorpe came up to her soon afterwards and said, "Well, Miss Morland, I suppose you and I are to stand up and jig it together again." "Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are over; and, besides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more." "Do not you? Then let us walk about and quiz people. Come along with me, and I will show you the four greatest quizzers in the room; my two younger sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them this half hour." Again Catherine excused herself; and at last he walked off to quiz his sisters by himself. The rest of the evening she found very dull; Mr. Tilney was drawn away from their party at tea, to attend that of his partner; Miss Tilney, though belonging to it, did not sit near her, and James and Isabella were so much engaged in conversing together that the latter had no leisure to bestow more on her friend than one smile, one squeeze, and one "dearest Catherine." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Catherine geht zum Tanz und ist glücklich, einen vorher vereinbarten Partner in John Thorpe zu haben. Sie kommt mit John, James und Isabella zum Ball. John rennt sofort in den Kartenraum. Isabella versucht, mit Catherine zu warten, bis John zurückkommt, um zu tanzen, aber James drängt sie so sehr, dass sie schließlich nachgibt und sich bei Catherine entschuldigt. Catherine ist enttäuscht und genervt von John Thorpe. Sie wartet immer noch auf ihn, als Henry Tilney auftaucht, dieses Mal mit seiner Schwester Eleanor Tilney. Henry bittet Catherine zum Tanz, aber zu ihrer Enttäuschung muss sie ihn wegen ihrer vorherigen Vereinbarung mit John Thorpe ablehnen. John kehrt aus dem Kartenzimmer zurück und die beiden tanzen, aber Catherine ist jetzt genervt von ihm, weil er zu spät gekommen ist. Während des Tanzes wird Catherine Eleanor vorgestellt. Nach dem Tanz verläuft sich John, während Catherine Isabella auf Eleanor aufmerksam macht und versucht, auch Henry zu finden. Isabella gibt vor interessiert zu sein, aber gibt schnell ihre Freundin auf, um mit James zu flirten. Catherine kann nicht umhin, sich etwas misstrauisch zu fühlen, angesichts des Desinteresses ihrer Freundin an Henry Tilney. James drängt Isabella zu einem zweiten Tanz, trotz ihres Protests darüber, wie "skandalös" das ist. Wieder allein, kehrt Catherine zu ihrem Platz bei Mrs. Allen und Mrs. Thorpe zurück. Sie versucht, mit Henry Tilney zu sprechen, aber sie bekommt nie die Gelegenheit dazu. John versucht, mit Catherine zu flirten, aber sie entschuldigt sich höflich.

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: Whatever his motive might have been, Laurie studied to some purpose that year, for he graduated with honor, and gave the Latin oration with the grace of a Phillips and the eloquence of a Demosthenes, so his friends said. They were all there, his grandfather--oh, so proud--Mr. and Mrs. March, John and Meg, Jo and Beth, and all exulted over him with the sincere admiration which boys make light of at the time, but fail to win from the world by any after-triumphs. "I've got to stay for this confounded supper, but I shall be home early tomorrow. You'll come and meet me as usual, girls?" Laurie said, as he put the sisters into the carriage after the joys of the day were over. He said 'girls', but he meant Jo, for she was the only one who kept up the old custom. She had not the heart to refuse her splendid, successful boy anything, and answered warmly... "I'll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing 'Hail the conquering hero comes' on a jew's-harp." Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think in a sudden panic, "Oh, deary me! I know he'll say something, and then what shall I do?" Evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her fears, and having decided that she wouldn't be vain enough to think people were going to propose when she had given them every reason to know what her answer would be, she set forth at the appointed time, hoping Teddy wouldn't do anything to make her hurt his poor feelings. A call at Meg's, and a refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn, still further fortified her for the tete-a-tete, but when she saw a stalwart figure looming in the distance, she had a strong desire to turn about and run away. "Where's the jew's-harp, Jo?" cried Laurie, as soon as he was within speaking distance. "I forgot it." And Jo took heart again, for that salutation could not be called lover-like. She always used to take his arm on these occasions, now she did not, and he made no complaint, which was a bad sign, but talked on rapidly about all sorts of faraway subjects, till they turned from the road into the little path that led homeward through the grove. Then he walked more slowly, suddenly lost his fine flow of language, and now and then a dreadful pause occurred. To rescue the conversation from one of the wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo said hastily, "Now you must have a good long holiday!" "I intend to." Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to find him looking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded moment had come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring, "No, Teddy. Please don't!" "I will, and you must hear me. It's no use, Jo, we've got to have it out, and the sooner the better for both of us," he answered, getting flushed and excited all at once. "Say what you like then. I'll listen," said Jo, with a desperate sort of patience. Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant to 'have it out', if he died in the attempt, so he plunged into the subject with characteristic impetuousity, saying in a voice that would get choky now and then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady... "I've loved you ever since I've known you, Jo, couldn't help it, you've been so good to me. I've tried to show it, but you wouldn't let me. Now I'm going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can't go on so any longer." "I wanted to save you this. I thought you'd understand..." began Jo, finding it a great deal harder than she expected. "I know you did, but the girls are so queer you never know what they mean. They say no when they mean yes, and drive a man out of his wits just for the fun of it," returned Laurie, entrenching himself behind an undeniable fact. "I don't. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went away to keep you from it if I could." "I thought so. It was like you, but it was no use. I only loved you all the more, and I worked hard to please you, and I gave up billiards and everything you didn't like, and waited and never complained, for I hoped you'd love me, though I'm not half good enough..." Here there was a choke that couldn't be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while he cleared his 'confounded throat'. "You, you are, you're a great deal too good for me, and I'm so grateful to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don't know why I can't love you as you want me to. I've tried, but I can't change the feeling, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don't." "Really, truly, Jo?" He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question with a look that she did not soon forget. "Really, truly, dear." They were in the grove now, close by the stile, and when the last words fell reluctantly from Jo's lips, Laurie dropped her hands and turned as if to go on, but for once in his life the fence was too much for him. So he just laid his head down on the mossy post, and stood so still that Jo was frightened. "Oh, Teddy, I'm sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill myself if it would do any good! I wish you wouldn't take it so hard, I can't help it. You know it's impossible for people to make themselves love other people if they don't," cried Jo inelegantly but remorsefully, as she softly patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had comforted her so long ago. "They do sometimes," said a muffled voice from the post. "I don't believe it's the right sort of love, and I'd rather not try it," was the decided answer. There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on the willow by the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind. Presently Jo said very soberly, as she sat down on the step of the stile, "Laurie, I want to tell you something." He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out in a fierce tone, "Don't tell me that, Jo, I can't bear it now!" "Tell what?" she asked, wondering at his violence. "That you love that old man." "What old man?" demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather. "That devilish Professor you were always writing about. If you say you love him, I know I shall do something desperate;" and he looked as if he would keep his word, as he clenched his hands with a wrathful spark in his eyes. Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself and said warmly, for she too, was getting excited with all this, "Don't swear, Teddy! He isn't old, nor anything bad, but good and kind, and the best friend I've got, next to you. Pray, don't fly into a passion. I want to be kind, but I know I shall get angry if you abuse my Professor. I haven't the least idea of loving him or anybody else." "But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?" "You'll love someone else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this trouble." "I can't love anyone else, and I'll never forget you, Jo, Never! Never!" with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words. "What shall I do with him?" sighed Jo, finding that emotions were more unmanagable than she expected. "You haven't heard what I wanted to tell you. Sit down and listen, for indeed I want to do right and make you happy," she said, hoping to soothe him with a little reason, which proved that she knew nothing about love. Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself down on the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the stile, and looked up at her with an expectant face. Now that arrangement was not conducive to calm speech or clear thought on Jo's part, for how could she say hard things to her boy while he watched her with eyes full of love and longing, and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or two her hardness of heart had wrung from him? She gently turned his head away, saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed to grow for her sake--how touching that was, to be sure! "I agree with Mother that you and I are not suited to each other, because our quick tempers and strong wills would probably make us very miserable, if we were so foolish as to..." Jo paused a little over the last word, but Laurie uttered it with a rapturous expression. "Marry--no we shouldn't! If you loved me, Jo, I should be a perfect saint, for you could make me anything you like." "No, I can't. I've tried and failed, and I won't risk our happiness by such a serious experiment. We don't agree and we never shall, so we'll be good friends all our lives, but we won't go and do anything rash." "Yes, we will if we get the chance," muttered Laurie rebelliously. "Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case," implored Jo, almost at her wit's end. "I won't be reasonable. I don't want to take what you call 'a sensible view'. It won't help me, and it only makes it harder. I don't believe you've got any heart." "I wish I hadn't." There was a little quiver in Jo's voice, and thinking it a good omen, Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to bear as he said, in the wheedlesome tone that had never been so dangerously wheedlesome before, "Don't disappoint us, dear! Everyone expects it. Grandpa has set his heart upon it, your people like it, and I can't get on without you. Say you will, and let's be happy. Do, do!" Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she had the strength of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided that she did not love her boy, and never could. It was very hard to do, but she did it, knowing that delay was both useless and cruel. "I can't say 'yes' truly, so I won't say it at all. You'll see that I'm right, by-and-by, and thank me for it..." she began solemnly. "I'll be hanged if I do!" and Laurie bounced up off the grass, burning with indignation at the very idea. "Yes, you will!" persisted Jo. "You'll get over this after a while, and find some lovely accomplished girl, who will adore you, and make a fine mistress for your fine house. I shouldn't. I'm homely and awkward and odd and old, and you'd be ashamed of me, and we should quarrel--we can't help it even now, you see--and I shouldn't like elegant society and you would, and you'd hate my scribbling, and I couldn't get on without it, and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn't done it, and everything would be horrid!" "Anything more?" asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently to this prophetic burst. "Nothing more, except that I don't believe I shall ever marry. I'm happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in a hurry to give it up for any mortal man." "I know better!" broke in Laurie. "You think so now, but there'll come a time when you will care for somebody, and you'll love him tremendously, and live and die for him. I know you will, it's your way, and I shall have to stand by and see it," and the despairing lover cast his hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical, if his face had not been so tragic. "Yes, I will live and die for him, if he ever comes and makes me love him in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can!" cried Jo, losing patience with poor Teddy. "I've done my best, but you won't be reasonable, and it's selfish of you to keep teasing for what I can't give. I shall always be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend, but I'll never marry you, and the sooner you believe it the better for both of us--so now!" That speech was like gunpowder. Laurie looked at her a minute as if he did not quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply away, saying in a desperate sort of tone, "You'll be sorry some day, Jo." "Oh, where are you going?" she cried, for his face frightened her. "To the devil!" was the consoling answer. For a minute Jo's heart stood still, as he swung himself down the bank toward the river, but it takes much folly, sin or misery to send a young man to a violent death, and Laurie was not one of the weak sort who are conquered by a single failure. He had no thought of a melodramatic plunge, but some blind instinct led him to fling hat and coat into his boat, and row away with all his might, making better time up the river than he had done in any race. Jo drew a long breath and unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to outstrip the trouble which he carried in his heart. "That will do him good, and he'll come home in such a tender, penitent state of mind, that I shan't dare to see him," she said, adding, as she went slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some innocent thing, and buried it under the leaves. "Now I must go and prepare Mr. Laurence to be very kind to my poor boy. I wish he'd love Beth, perhaps he may in time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her. Oh dear! How can girls like to have lovers and refuse them? I think it's dreadful." Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she went straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and then broke down, crying so dismally over her own insensibility that the kind old gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter a reproach. He found it difficult to understand how any girl could help loving Laurie, and hoped she would change her mind, but he knew even better than Jo that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly and resolved to carry his boy out of harm's way, for Young Impetuosity's parting words to Jo disturbed him more than he would confess. When Laurie came home, dead tired but quite composed, his grandfather met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the delusion very successfully for an hour or two. But when they sat together in the twilight, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard work for the old man to ramble on as usual, and harder still for the young one to listen to praises of the last year's success, which to him now seemed like love's labor lost. He bore it as long as he could, then went to his piano and began to play. The windows were open, and Jo, walking in the garden with Beth, for once understood music better than her sister, for he played the '_Sonata Pathetique_', and played it as he never did before. "That's very fine, I dare say, but it's sad enough to make one cry. Give us something gayer, lad," said Mr. Laurence, whose kind old heart was full of sympathy, which he longed to show but knew not how. Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for several minutes, and would have got through bravely, if in a momentary lull Mrs. March's voice had not been heard calling, "Jo, dear, come in. I want you." Just what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning! As he listened, he lost his place, the music ended with a broken chord, and the musician sat silent in the dark. "I can't stand this," muttered the old gentleman. Up he got, groped his way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either of the broad shoulders, and said, as gently as a woman, "I know, my boy, I know." No answer for an instant, then Laurie asked sharply, "Who told you?" "Jo herself." "Then there's an end of it!" And he shook off his grandfather's hands with an impatient motion, for though grateful for the sympathy, his man's pride could not bear a man's pity. "Not quite. I want to say one thing, and then there shall be an end of it," returned Mr. Laurence with unusual mildness. "You won't care to stay at home now, perhaps?" "I don't intend to run away from a girl. Jo can't prevent my seeing her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like," interrupted Laurie in a defiant tone. "Not if you are the gentleman I think you. I'm disappointed, but the girl can't help it, and the only thing left for you to do is to go away for a time. Where will you go?" "Anywhere. I don't care what becomes of me," and Laurie got up with a reckless laugh that grated on his grandfather's ear. "Take it like a man, and don't do anything rash, for God's sake. Why not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?" "I can't." "But you've been wild to go, and I promised you should when you got through college." "Ah, but I didn't mean to go alone!" and Laurie walked fast through the room with an expression which it was well his grandfather did not see. "I don't ask you to go alone. There's someone ready and glad to go with you, anywhere in the world." "Who, Sir?" stopping to listen. "Myself." Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying huskily, "I'm a selfish brute, but--you know--Grandfather--" "Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I've been through it all before, once in my own young days, and then with your father. Now, my dear boy, just sit quietly down and hear my plan. It's all settled, and can be carried out at once," said Mr. Laurence, keeping hold of the young man, as if fearful that he would break away as his father had done before him. "Well, sir, what is it?" and Laurie sat down, without a sign of interest in face or voice. "There is business in London that needs looking after. I meant you should attend to it, but I can do it better myself, and things here will get on very well with Brooke to manage them. My partners do almost everything, I'm merely holding on until you take my place, and can be off at any time." "But you hate traveling, Sir. I can't ask it of you at your age," began Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice, but much preferred to go alone, if he went at all. The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularly desired to prevent it, for the mood in which he found his grandson assured him that it would not be wise to leave him to his own devices. So, stifling a natural regret at the thought of the home comforts he would leave behind him, he said stoutly, "Bless your soul, I'm not superannuated yet. I quite enjoy the idea. It will do me good, and my old bones won't suffer, for traveling nowadays is almost as easy as sitting in a chair." A restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chair was not easy, or that he did not like the plan, and made the old man add hastily, "I don't mean to be a marplot or a burden. I go because I think you'd feel happier than if I was left behind. I don't intend to gad about with you, but leave you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in my own way. I've friends in London and Paris, and should like to visit them. Meantime you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland, where you will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery, and adventures to your heart's content." Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken and the world a howling wilderness, but at the sound of certain words which the old gentleman artfully introduced into his closing sentence, the broken heart gave an unexpected leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly appeared in the howling wilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a spiritless tone, "Just as you like, Sir. It doesn't matter where I go or what I do." "It does to me, remember that, my lad. I give you entire liberty, but I trust you to make an honest use of it. Promise me that, Laurie." "Anything you like, Sir." "Good," thought the old gentleman. "You don't care now, but there'll come a time when that promise will keep you out of mischief, or I'm much mistaken." Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while the iron was hot, and before the blighted being recovered spirit enough to rebel, they were off. During the time necessary for preparation, Laurie bore himself as young gentleman usually do in such cases. He was moody, irritable, and pensive by turns, lost his appetite, neglected his dress and devoted much time to playing tempestuously on his piano, avoided Jo, but consoled himself by staring at her from his window, with a tragic face that haunted her dreams by night and oppressed her with a heavy sense of guilt by day. Unlike some sufferers, he never spoke of his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not even Mrs. March, to attempt consolation or offer sympathy. On some accounts, this was a relief to his friends, but the weeks before his departure were very uncomfortable, and everyone rejoiced that the 'poor, dear fellow was going away to forget his trouble, and come home happy'. Of course, he smiled darkly at their delusion, but passed it by with the sad superiority of one who knew that his fidelity like his love was unalterable. When the parting came he affected high spirits, to conceal certain inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert themselves. This gaiety did not impose upon anybody, but they tried to look as if it did for his sake, and he got on very well till Mrs. March kissed him, with a whisper full of motherly solicitude. Then feeling that he was going very fast, he hastily embraced them all round, not forgetting the afflicted Hannah, and ran downstairs as if for his life. Jo followed a minute after to wave her hand to him if he looked round. He did look round, came back, put his arms about her as she stood on the step above him, and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal eloquent and pathetic. "Oh, Jo, can't you?" "Teddy, dear, I wish I could!" That was all, except a little pause. Then Laurie straightened himself up, said, "It's all right, never mind," and went away without another word. Ah, but it wasn't all right, and Jo did mind, for while the curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as if she had stabbed her dearest friend, and when he left her without a look behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never would come again. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Laurie hat sein Studium abgeschlossen; er hat sich wirklich angestrengt und mit Auszeichnung bestanden, in der Hoffnung, Jo zu gewinnen. Er macht ihr trotz ihrer Einwände einen Heiratsantrag und sie sagt ihm, dass sie zwar sehr gern mit ihm zusammen ist, aber nicht auf die Art und Weise, die er sich wünscht. Mr. Laurence hat Verständnis für seinen Enkel, kann aber auch nachvollziehen, dass Liebe nicht erzwungen werden kann. Um Laurie zu trösten und ihn von seinen Gefühlen der Ablehnung abzulenken, plant Mr. Laurence eine Reise nach London. Anfangs wehrt Laurie sich dagegen, aber das Versprechen völliger Freiheit, durch Europa zu reisen, während Mr. Laurence in London geschäftlich tätig ist, überzeugt ihn schließlich. Er hat jedoch kein Interesse an der Reise, und selbst seine letzten Worte an Jo sind eine Bitte an sie, ihre Entscheidung zu überdenken.

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 X. Thus they in lowliest plight repentant stood Praying, for from the Mercie-seat above Prevenient Grace descending had remov'd The stonie from thir hearts, and made new flesh Regenerat grow instead, that sighs now breath'd Unutterable, which the Spirit of prayer Inspir'd, and wing'd for Heav'n with speedier flight Then loudest Oratorie: yet thir port Not of mean suiters, nor important less Seem'd thir Petition, then when th' ancient Pair In Fables old, less ancient yet then these, DEUCALION and chaste PYRRHA to restore The Race of Mankind drownd, before the Shrine Of THEMIS stood devout. To Heav'n thir prayers Flew up, nor missed the way, by envious windes Blow'n vagabond or frustrate: in they passd Dimentionless through Heav'nly dores; then clad With incense, where the Golden Altar fum'd, By thir great Intercessor, came in sight Before the Fathers Throne: Them the glad Son Presenting, thus to intercede began. See Father, what first fruits on Earth are sprung From thy implanted Grace in Man, these Sighs And Prayers, which in this Golden Censer, mixt With Incense, I thy Priest before thee bring, Fruits of more pleasing savour from thy seed Sow'n with contrition in his heart, then those Which his own hand manuring all the Trees Of Paradise could have produc't, ere fall'n From innocence. Now therefore bend thine eare To supplication, heare his sighs though mute; Unskilful with what words to pray, let mee Interpret for him, mee his Advocate And propitiation, all his works on mee Good or not good ingraft, my Merit those Shall perfet, and for these my Death shall pay. Accept me, and in mee from these receave The smell of peace toward Mankinde, let him live Before thee reconcil'd, at least his days Numberd, though sad, till Death, his doom (which I To mitigate thus plead, not to reverse) To better life shall yeeld him, where with mee All my redeemd may dwell in joy and bliss, Made one with me as I with thee am one. To whom the Father, without Cloud, serene. All thy request for Man, accepted Son, Obtain, all thy request was my Decree: But longer in that Paradise to dwell, The Law I gave to Nature him forbids: Those pure immortal Elements that know No gross, no unharmoneous mixture foule, Eject him tainted now, and purge him off As a distemper, gross to aire as gross, And mortal food, as may dispose him best For dissolution wrought by Sin, that first Distemperd all things, and of incorrupt Corrupted. I at first with two fair gifts Created him endowd, with Happiness And Immortalitie: that fondly lost, This other serv'd but to eternize woe; Till I provided Death; so Death becomes His final remedie, and after Life Tri'd in sharp tribulation, and refin'd By Faith and faithful works, to second Life, Wak't in the renovation of the just, Resignes him up with Heav'n and Earth renewd. But let us call to Synod all the Blest Through Heav'ns wide bounds; from them I will not hide My judgments, how with Mankind I proceed, As how with peccant Angels late they saw; And in thir state, though firm, stood more confirmd. He ended, and the Son gave signal high To the bright Minister that watchd, hee blew His Trumpet, heard in OREB since perhaps When God descended, and perhaps once more To sound at general Doom. Th' Angelic blast Filld all the Regions: from thir blissful Bowrs Of AMARANTIN Shade, Fountain or Spring, By the waters of Life, where ere they sate In fellowships of joy: the Sons of Light Hasted, resorting to the Summons high, And took thir Seats; till from his Throne supream Th' Almighty thus pronounced his sovran Will. O Sons, like one of us Man is become To know both Good and Evil, since his taste Of that defended Fruit; but let him boast His knowledge of Good lost, and Evil got, Happier, had it suffic'd him to have known Good by it self, and Evil not at all. He sorrows now, repents, and prayes contrite, My motions in him, longer then they move, His heart I know, how variable and vain Self-left. Least therefore his now bolder hand Reach also of the Tree of Life, and eat, And live for ever, dream at least to live Forever, to remove him I decree, And send him from the Garden forth to Till The Ground whence he was taken, fitter soile. MICHAEL, this my behest have thou in charge, Take to thee from among the Cherubim Thy choice of flaming Warriours, least the Fiend Or in behalf of Man, or to invade Vacant possession som new trouble raise: Hast thee, and from the Paradise of God Without remorse drive out the sinful Pair, From hallowd ground th' unholie, and denounce To them and to thir Progenie from thence Perpetual banishment. Yet least they faint At the sad Sentence rigorously urg'd, For I behold them soft'nd and with tears Bewailing thir excess, all terror hide. If patiently thy bidding they obey, Dismiss them not disconsolate; reveale To ADAM what shall come in future dayes, As I shall thee enlighten, intermix My Cov'nant in the Womans seed renewd; So send them forth, though sorrowing, yet in peace: And on the East side of the Garden place, Where entrance up from EDEN easiest climbes, Cherubic watch, and of a Sword the flame Wide waving, all approach farr off to fright, And guard all passage to the Tree of Life: Least Paradise a receptacle prove To Spirits foule, and all my Trees thir prey, With whose stol'n Fruit Man once more to delude. He ceas'd; and th' Archangelic Power prepar'd For swift descent, with him the Cohort bright Of watchful Cherubim; four faces each Had, like a double JANUS, all thir shape Spangl'd with eyes more numerous then those Of ARGUS, and more wakeful then to drouze, Charm'd with ARCADIAN Pipe, the Pastoral Reed Of HERMES, or his opiate Rod. Meanwhile To resalute the World with sacred Light LEUCOTHEA wak'd, and with fresh dews imbalmd The Earth, when ADAM and first Matron EVE Had ended now thir Orisons, and found, Strength added from above, new hope to spring Out of despaire, joy, but with fear yet linkt; Which thus to EVE his welcome words renewd. EVE, easily may Faith admit, that all The good which we enjoy, from Heav'n descends But that from us ought should ascend to Heav'n So prevalent as to concerne the mind Of God high blest, or to incline his will, Hard to belief may seem; yet this will Prayer, Or one short sigh of humane breath, up-borne Ev'n to the Seat of God. For since I saught By Prayer th' offended Deitie to appease, Kneel'd and before him humbl'd all my heart, Methought I saw him placable and mild, Bending his eare; perswasion in me grew That I was heard with favour; peace returnd Home to my brest, and to my memorie His promise, that thy Seed shall bruise our Foe; Which then not minded in dismay, yet now Assures me that the bitterness of death Is past, and we shall live. Whence Haile to thee, EVE rightly call'd, Mother of all Mankind, Mother of all things living, since by thee Man is to live, and all things live for Man. To whom thus EVE with sad demeanour meek. Ill worthie I such title should belong To me transgressour, who for thee ordaind A help, became thy snare; to mee reproach Rather belongs, distrust and all dispraise: But infinite in pardon was my Judge, That I who first brought Death on all, am grac't The sourse of life; next favourable thou, Who highly thus to entitle me voutsaf't, Farr other name deserving. But the Field To labour calls us now with sweat impos'd, Though after sleepless Night; for see the Morn, All unconcern'd with our unrest, begins Her rosie progress smiling; let us forth, I never from thy side henceforth to stray, Wherere our days work lies, though now enjoind Laborious, till day droop; while here we dwell, What can be toilsom in these pleasant Walkes? Here let us live, though in fall'n state, content. So spake, so wish'd much-humbl'd EVE, but Fate Subscrib'd not; Nature first gave Signs, imprest On Bird, Beast, Aire, Aire suddenly eclips'd After short blush of Morn; nigh in her sight The Bird of JOVE, stoopt from his aerie tour, Two Birds of gayest plume before him drove: Down from a Hill the Beast that reigns in Woods, First Hunter then, pursu'd a gentle brace, Goodliest of all the Forrest, Hart and Hinde; Direct to th' Eastern Gate was bent thir flight. ADAM observ'd, and with his Eye the chase Pursuing, not unmov'd to EVE thus spake. O EVE, some furder change awaits us nigh, Which Heav'n by these mute signs in Nature shews Forerunners of his purpose, or to warn Us haply too secure of our discharge From penaltie, because from death releast Some days; how long, and what till then our life, Who knows, or more then this, that we are dust, And thither must return and be no more. VVhy else this double object in our sight Of flight pursu'd in th' Air and ore the ground One way the self-same hour? why in the East Darkness ere Dayes mid-course, and Morning light More orient in yon VVestern Cloud that draws O're the blew Firmament a radiant white, And slow descends, with somthing heav'nly fraught. He err'd not, for by this the heav'nly Bands Down from a Skie of Jasper lighted now In Paradise, and on a Hill made alt, A glorious Apparition, had not doubt And carnal fear that day dimm'd ADAMS eye. Not that more glorious, when the Angels met JACOB in MAHANAIM, where he saw The field Pavilion'd with his Guardians bright; Nor that which on the flaming Mount appeerd In DOTHAN, cover'd with a Camp of Fire, Against the SYRIAN King, who to surprize One man, Assassin-like had levied Warr, Warr unproclam'd. The Princely Hierarch In thir bright stand, there left his Powers to seise Possession of the Garden; hee alone, To finde where ADAM shelterd, took his way, Not unperceav'd of ADAM, who to EVE, While the great Visitant approachd, thus spake. EVE, now expect great tidings, which perhaps Of us will soon determin, or impose New Laws to be observ'd; for I descrie From yonder blazing Cloud that veils the Hill One of the heav'nly Host, and by his Gate None of the meanest, some great Potentate Or of the Thrones above, such Majestie Invests him coming; yet not terrible, That I should fear, nor sociably mild, As RAPHAEL, that I should much confide, But solemn and sublime, whom not to offend, With reverence I must meet, and thou retire. He ended; and th' Arch-Angel soon drew nigh, Not in his shape Celestial, but as Man Clad to meet Man; over his lucid Armes A militarie Vest of purple flowd Livelier then MELIBOEAN, or the graine Of SARRA, worn by Kings and Hero's old In time of Truce; IRIS had dipt the wooff; His starrie Helme unbuckl'd shew'd him prime In Manhood where Youth ended; by his side As in a glistering ZODIAC hung the Sword, Satans dire dread, and in his hand the Spear. ADAM bowd low, hee Kingly from his State Inclin'd not, but his coming thus declar'd. ADAM, Heav'ns high behest no Preface needs: Sufficient that thy Prayers are heard, and Death, Then due by sentence when thou didst transgress, Defeated of his seisure many dayes Giv'n thee of Grace, wherein thou may'st repent, And one bad act with many deeds well done Mayst cover: well may then thy Lord appeas'd Redeem thee quite from Deaths rapacious claimes; But longer in this Paradise to dwell Permits not; to remove thee I am come, And send thee from the Garden forth to till The ground whence thou wast tak'n, fitter Soile. He added not, for ADAM at the newes Heart-strook with chilling gripe of sorrow stood, That all his senses bound; EVE, who unseen Yet all had heard, with audible lament Discover'd soon the place of her retire. O unexpected stroke, worse then of Death! Must I thus leave thee Paradise? thus leave Thee Native Soile, these happie Walks and Shades, Fit haunt of Gods? where I had hope to spend, Quiet though sad, the respit of that day That must be mortal to us both. O flours, That never will in other Climate grow, My early visitation, and my last At Eev'n, which I bred up with tender hand From the first op'ning bud, and gave ye Names, Who now shall reare ye to the Sun, or ranke Your Tribes, and water from th' ambrosial Fount? Thee lastly nuptial Bowre, by mee adornd With what to sight or smell was sweet; from thee How shall I part, and whither wander down Into a lower World, to this obscure And wilde, how shall we breath in other Aire Less pure, accustomd to immortal Fruits? Whom thus the Angel interrupted milde. Lament not EVE, but patiently resigne What justly thou hast lost; nor set thy heart, Thus over fond, on that which is not thine; Thy going is not lonely, with thee goes Thy Husband, him to follow thou art bound; Where he abides, think there thy native soile. ADAM by this from the cold sudden damp Recovering, and his scatterd spirits returnd, To MICHAEL thus his humble words addressd. him His offerings were sincere and yet they were not accepted by Heaven. T' whom MICHAEL thus, hee also mov'd, repli'd. These two are Brethren, ADAM, and to come Out of thy loyns; th' unjust the just hath slain, For envie that his Brothers Offering found From Heav'n acceptance; but the bloodie Fact Will be aveng'd, and th' others Faith approv'd Loose no reward, though here thou see him die, Rowling in dust and gore. To which our Sire. Alas, both for the deed and for the cause! But have I now seen Death? Is this the way I must return to native dust? O sight Of terrour, foul and ugly to behold, Horrid to think, how horrible to feel! To whom thus MICHAEL. Death thou hast seen In his first shape on man; but many shapes Of Death, and many are the wayes that lead To his grim Cave, all dismal; yet to sense More terrible at th' entrance then within. Some, as thou saw'st, by violent stroke shall die, By Fire, Flood, Famin, by Intemperance more In Meats and Drinks, which on the Earth shal bring Diseases dire, of which a monstrous crew Before thee shall appear; that thou mayst know What miserie th' inabstinence of EVE Shall bring on men. Immediately a place Before his eyes appeard, sad, noysom, dark, A Lazar-house it seemd, wherein were laid Numbers of all diseas'd, all maladies Of gastly Spasm, or racking torture, qualmes Of heart-sick Agonie, all feavorous kinds, Convulsions, Epilepsies, fierce Catarrhs, Intestin Stone and Ulcer, Colic pangs, Dropsies, and Asthma's, and Joint-racking Rheums. Dire was the tossing, deep the groans, despair Tended the sick busiest from Couch to Couch; And over them triumphant Death his Dart Shook, but delaid to strike, though oft invok't With vows, as thir chief good, and final hope. Sight so deform what heart of Rock could long Drie-ey'd behold? ADAM could not, but wept, Though not of Woman born; compassion quell'd His best of Man, and gave him up to tears A space, till firmer thoughts restraind excess, And scarce recovering words his plaint renew'd. O miserable Mankind, to what fall Degraded, to what wretched state reserv'd? Better end heer unborn. Why is life giv'n To be thus wrested from us? rather why Obtruded on us thus? who if we knew What we receive, would either not accept Life offer'd, or soon beg to lay it down, Glad to be so dismist in peace. Can thus Th' Image of God in man created once So goodly and erect, though faultie since, To such unsightly sufferings be debas't Under inhuman pains? Why should not Man, Retaining still Divine similitude In part, from such deformities be free, And for his Makers Image sake exempt? Thir Makers Image, answerd MICHAEL, then Forsook them, when themselves they villifi'd To serve ungovern'd appetite, and took His Image whom they serv'd, a brutish vice, Inductive mainly to the sin of EVE. Therefore so abject is thir punishment, Disfiguring not Gods likeness, but thir own, Or if his likeness, by themselves defac't While they pervert pure Natures healthful rules To loathsom sickness, worthily, since they Gods Image did not reverence in themselves. I yeild it just, said ADAM, and submit. But is there yet no other way, besides These painful passages, how we may come To Death, and mix with our connatural dust? There is, said MICHAEL, if thou well observe The rule of not too much, by temperance taught In what thou eatst and drinkst, seeking from thence Due nourishment, not gluttonous delight, Till many years over thy head return: So maist thou live, till like ripe Fruit thou drop Into thy Mothers lap, or be with ease Gatherd, not harshly pluckt, for death mature: This is old age; but then thou must outlive Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will change To witherd weak & gray; thy Senses then Obtuse, all taste of pleasure must forgoe, To what thou hast, and for the Aire of youth Hopeful and cheerful, in thy blood will reigne A melancholly damp of cold and dry To waigh thy spirits down, and last consume The Balme of Life. To whom our Ancestor. Henceforth I flie not Death, nor would prolong Life much, bent rather how I may be quit Fairest and easiest of this combrous charge, Which I must keep till my appointed day Of rendring up. MICHAEL to him repli'd. Nor love thy Life, nor hate; but what thou livst Live well, how long or short permit to Heav'n: And now prepare thee for another sight. He lookd and saw a spacious Plaine, whereon Were Tents of various hue; by some were herds Of Cattel grazing: others, whence the sound Of Instruments that made melodious chime Was heard, of Harp and Organ; and who moovd Thir stops and chords was seen: his volant touch Instinct through all proportions low and high Fled and pursu'd transverse the resonant fugue. In other part stood one who at the Forge Labouring, two massie clods of Iron and Brass Had melted (whether found where casual fire Had wasted woods on Mountain or in Vale, Down to the veins of Earth, thence gliding hot To som Caves mouth, or whether washt by stream From underground) the liquid Ore he dreind Into fit moulds prepar'd; from which he formd First his own Tooles; then, what might else be wrought Fulfil or grav'n in mettle. After these, But on the hether side a different sort From the high neighbouring Hills, which was thir Seat, Down to the Plain descended: by thir guise Just men they seemd, and all thir study bent To worship God aright, and know his works Not hid, nor those things lost which might preserve Freedom and Peace to men: they on the Plain Long had not walkt, when from the Tents behold A Beavie of fair Women, richly gay In Gems and wanton dress; to the Harp they sung Soft amorous Ditties, and in dance came on: The Men though grave, ey'd them, and let thir eyes Rove without rein, till in the amorous Net Fast caught, they lik'd, and each his liking chose; And now of love they treat till th' Eevning Star Loves Harbinger appeerd; then all in heat They light the Nuptial Torch, and bid invoke Hymen, then first to marriage Rites invok't; With Feast and Musick all the Tents resound. Such happy interview and fair event Of love & youth not lost, Songs, Garlands, Flours, And charming Symphonies attach'd the heart Of ADAM, soon enclin'd to admit delight, The bent of Nature; which he thus express'd. True opener of mine eyes, prime Angel blest, Much better seems this Vision, and more hope Of peaceful dayes portends, then those two past; Those were of hate and death, or pain much worse, Here Nature seems fulfilld in all her ends. To whom thus MICHAEL. Judg not what is best By pleasure, though to Nature seeming meet, Created, as thou art, to nobler end Holie and pure, conformitie divine. Those Tents thou sawst so pleasant, were the Tents Of wickedness, wherein shall dwell his Race Who slew his Brother; studious they appere Of Arts that polish Life, Inventers rare, Unmindful of thir Maker, though his Spirit Taught them, but they his gifts acknowledg'd none. Yet they a beauteous ofspring shall beget; For that fair femal Troop thou sawst, that seemd Of Goddesses, so blithe, so smooth, so gay, Yet empty of all good wherein consists Womans domestic honour and chief praise; Bred onely and completed to the taste Of lustful apperence, to sing, to dance, To dress, and troule the Tongue, and roule the Eye. To these that sober Race of Men, whose lives Religious titl'd them the Sons of God, Shall yeild up all thir vertue, all thir fame Ignobly, to the trains and to the smiles Of these fair Atheists, and now swim in joy, (Erelong to swim at larg) and laugh; for which The world erelong a world of tears must weepe. To whom thus ADAM of short joy bereft. O pittie and shame, that they who to live well Enterd so faire, should turn aside to tread Paths indirect, or in the mid way faint! But still I see the tenor of Mans woe Holds on the same, from Woman to begin. From Mans effeminate slackness it begins, Said th' Angel, who should better hold his place By wisdome, and superiour gifts receavd. But now prepare thee for another Scene. He lookd and saw wide Territorie spred Before him, Towns, and rural works between, Cities of Men with lofty Gates and Towrs, Concours in Arms, fierce Faces threatning Warr, Giants of mightie Bone, and bould emprise; Part wield thir Arms, part courb the foaming Steed, Single or in Array of Battel rang'd Both Horse and Foot, nor idely mustring stood; One way a Band select from forage drives A herd of Beeves, faire Oxen and faire Kine From a fat Meddow ground; or fleecy Flock, Ewes and thir bleating Lambs over the Plaine, Thir Bootie; scarce with Life the Shepherds flye, But call in aide, which tacks a bloody Fray; With cruel Tournament the Squadrons joine; Where Cattel pastur'd late, now scatterd lies With Carcasses and Arms th' ensanguind Field Deserted: Others to a Citie strong Lay Siege, encampt; by Batterie, Scale, and Mine, Assaulting; others from the Wall defend With Dart and Jav'lin, Stones and sulfurous Fire; On each hand slaughter and gigantic deeds. In other part the scepter'd Haralds call To Council in the Citie Gates: anon Grey-headed men and grave, with Warriours mixt, Assemble, and Harangues are heard, but soon In factious opposition, till at last Of middle Age one rising, eminent In wise deport, spake much of Right and Wrong, Of Justice, of Religion, Truth and Peace, And Judgement from above: him old and young Exploded, and had seiz'd with violent hands, Had not a Cloud descending snatch'd him thence Unseen amid the throng: so violence Proceeded, and Oppression, and Sword-Law Through all the Plain, and refuge none was found. ADAM was all in tears, and to his guide Lamenting turnd full sad; O what are these, Deaths Ministers, not Men, who thus deal Death Inhumanly to men, and multiply Ten thousand fould the sin of him who slew His Brother; for of whom such massacher Make they but of thir Brethren, men of men? But who was that Just Man, whom had not Heav'n Rescu'd, had in his Righteousness bin lost? To whom thus MICHAEL; These are the product Of those ill-mated Marriages thou saw'st; Where good with bad were matcht, who of themselves Abhor to joyn; and by imprudence mixt, Produce prodigious Births of bodie or mind. Such were these Giants, men of high renown; For in those dayes Might onely shall be admir'd, And Valour and Heroic Vertu call'd; To overcome in Battel, and subdue Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite Man-slaughter, shall be held the highest pitch Of human Glorie, and for Glorie done Of triumph, to be styl'd great Conquerours, Patrons of Mankind, Gods, and Sons of Gods, Destroyers rightlier call'd and Plagues of men. Thus Fame shall be achiev'd, renown on Earth, And what most merits fame in silence hid. But hee the seventh from thee, whom thou beheldst The onely righteous in a World perverse, And therefore hated, therefore so beset With Foes for daring single to be just, And utter odious Truth, that God would come To judge them with his Saints: Him the most High Rapt in a balmie Cloud with winged Steeds Did, as thou sawst, receave, to walk with God High in Salvation and the Climes of bliss, Exempt from Death; to shew thee what reward Awaits the good, the rest what punishment; Which now direct thine eyes and soon behold. He look'd, & saw the face of things quite chang'd; The brazen Throat of Warr had ceast to roar, All now was turn'd to jollitie and game, To luxurie and riot, feast and dance, Marrying or prostituting, as befell, Rape or Adulterie, where passing faire Allurd them; thence from Cups to civil Broiles. At length a Reverend Sire among them came, And of thir doings great dislike declar'd, And testifi'd against thir wayes; hee oft Frequented thir Assemblies, whereso met, Triumphs or Festivals, and to them preachd Conversion and Repentance, as to Souls In prison under Judgements imminent: But all in vain: which when he saw, he ceas'd Contending, and remov'd his Tents farr off; Then from the Mountain hewing Timber tall, Began to build a Vessel of huge bulk, Measur'd by Cubit, length, & breadth, and highth, Smeard round with Pitch, and in the side a dore Contriv'd, and of provisions laid in large For Man and Beast: when loe a wonder strange! Of everie Beast, and Bird, and Insect small Came seavens, and pairs, and enterd in, as taught Thir order; last the Sire, and his three Sons With thir four Wives, and God made fast the dore. Meanwhile the Southwind rose, & with black wings Wide hovering, all the Clouds together drove From under Heav'n; the Hills to their supplie Vapour, and Exhalation dusk and moist, Sent up amain; and now the thick'nd Skie Like a dark Ceeling stood; down rush'd the Rain Impetuous, and continu'd till the Earth No more was seen; the floating Vessel swum Uplifted; and secure with beaked prow Rode tilting o're the Waves, all dwellings else Flood overwhelmd, and them with all thir pomp Deep under water rould; Sea cover'd Sea, Sea without shoar; and in thir Palaces Where luxurie late reign'd, Sea-monsters whelp'd And stabl'd; of Mankind, so numerous late, All left, in one small bottom swum imbark't. How didst thou grieve then, ADAM, to behold The end of all thy Ofspring, end so sad, Depopulation; thee another Floud, Of tears and sorrow a Floud thee also drown'd, And sunk thee as thy Sons; till gently reard By th' Angel, on thy feet thou stoodst at last, Though comfortless, as when a Father mourns His Childern, all in view destroyd at once; And scarce to th' Angel utterdst thus thy plaint. O Visions ill foreseen! better had I Liv'd ignorant of future, so had borne My part of evil onely, each dayes lot Anough to bear; those now, that were dispenst The burd'n of many Ages, on me light At once, by my foreknowledge gaining Birth Abortive, to torment me ere thir being, With thought that they must be. Let no man seek Henceforth to be foretold what shall befall Him or his Childern, evil he may be sure, Which neither his foreknowing can prevent, And hee the future evil shall no less In apprehension then in substance feel Grievous to bear: but that care now is past, Man is not whom to warne: those few escap't Famin and anguish will at last consume Wandring that watrie Desert: I had hope When violence was ceas't, and Warr on Earth, All would have then gon well, peace would have crownd With length of happy days the race of man; But I was farr deceav'd; for now I see Peace to corrupt no less then Warr to waste. How comes it thus? unfould, Celestial Guide, And whether here the Race of man will end. To whom thus MICHAEL. Those whom last thou sawst In triumph and luxurious wealth, are they First seen in acts of prowess eminent And great exploits, but of true vertu void; Who having spilt much blood, and don much waste Subduing Nations, and achievd thereby Fame in the World, high titles, and rich prey, Shall change thir course to pleasure, ease, and sloth, Surfet, and lust, till wantonness and pride Raise out of friendship hostil deeds in Peace. The conquerd also, and enslav'd by Warr Shall with thir freedom lost all vertu loose And feare of God, from whom thir pietie feign'd In sharp contest of Battel found no aide Against invaders; therefore coold in zeale Thenceforth shall practice how to live secure, Worldlie or dissolute, on what thir Lords Shall leave them to enjoy; for th' Earth shall bear More then anough, that temperance may be tri'd: So all shall turn degenerate, all deprav'd, Justice and Temperance, Truth and Faith forgot; One Man except, the onely Son of light In a dark Age, against example good, Against allurement, custom, and a World Offended; fearless of reproach and scorn, Or violence, hee of thir wicked wayes Shall them admonish, and before them set The paths of righteousness, how much more safe, And full of peace, denouncing wrauth to come On thir impenitence; and shall returne Of them derided, but of God observd The one just Man alive; by his command Shall build a wondrous Ark, as thou beheldst, To save himself and houshold from amidst A World devote to universal rack. No sooner hee with them of Man and Beast Select for life shall in the Ark be lodg'd, And shelterd round, but all the Cataracts Of Heav'n set open on the Earth shall powre Raine day and night, all fountaines of the Deep Broke up, shall heave the Ocean to usurp Beyond all bounds, till inundation rise Above the highest Hills: then shall this Mount Of Paradise by might of Waves be moovd Out of his place, pushd by the horned floud, With all his verdure spoil'd, and Trees adrift Down the great River to the op'ning Gulf, And there take root an Iland salt and bare, The haunt of Seales and Orcs, and Sea-mews clang. To teach thee that God attributes to place No sanctitie, if none be thither brought By Men who there frequent, or therein dwell. And now what further shall ensue, behold. He lookd, and saw the Ark hull on the floud, Which now abated, for the Clouds were fled, Drivn by a keen North-winde, that blowing drie Wrinkl'd the face of Deluge, as decai'd; And the cleer Sun on his wide watrie Glass Gaz'd hot, and of the fresh Wave largely drew, As after thirst, which made thir flowing shrink From standing lake to tripping ebbe, that stole With soft foot towards the deep, who now had stopt His Sluces, as the Heav'n his windows shut. The Ark no more now flotes, but seems on ground Fast on the top of som high mountain fixt. And now the tops of Hills as Rocks appeer; With clamor thence the rapid Currents drive Towards the retreating Sea thir furious tyde. Forthwith from out the Arke a Raven flies, And after him, the surer messenger, A Dove sent forth once and agen to spie Green Tree or ground whereon his foot may light; The second time returning, in his Bill An Olive leafe he brings, pacific signe: Anon drie ground appeers, and from his Arke The ancient Sire descends with all his Train; Then with uplifted hands, and eyes devout, Grateful to Heav'n, over his head beholds A dewie Cloud, and in the Cloud a Bow Conspicuous with three lifted colours gay, Betok'ning peace from God, and Cov'nant new. Whereat the heart of ADAM erst so sad Greatly rejoyc'd, and thus his joy broke forth. O thou that future things canst represent As present, Heav'nly instructer, I revive At this last sight, assur'd that Man shall live With all the Creatures, and thir seed preserve. Farr less I now lament for one whole World Of wicked Sons destroyd, then I rejoyce For one Man found so perfet and so just, That God voutsafes to raise another World From him, and all his anger to forget. But say, what mean those colourd streaks in Heavn, Distended as the Brow of God appeas'd, Or serve they as a flourie verge to binde The fluid skirts of that same watrie Cloud, Least it again dissolve and showr the Earth? To whom th' Archangel. Dextrously thou aim'st; So willingly doth God remit his Ire, Though late repenting him of Man deprav'd, Griev'd at his heart, when looking down he saw The whole Earth fill'd with violence, and all flesh Corrupting each thir way; yet those remoov'd, Such grace shall one just Man find in his sight, That he relents, not to blot out mankind, And makes a Covenant never to destroy The Earth again by flood, nor let the Sea Surpass his bounds, nor Rain to drown the World With Man therein or Beast; but when he brings Over the Earth a Cloud, will therein set His triple-colour'd Bow, whereon to look And call to mind his Cov'nant: Day and Night, Seed time and Harvest, Heat and hoary Frost Shall hold thir course, till fire purge all things new, Both Heav'n and Earth, wherein the just shall dwell. Thus thou hast seen one World begin and end; And Man as from a second stock proceed. Much thou hast yet to see, but I perceave Thy mortal sight to faile; objects divine Must needs impaire and wearie human sense: Henceforth what is to com I will relate, Thou therefore give due audience, and attend. This second sours of Men, while yet but few, And while the dread of judgement past remains Fresh in thir mindes, fearing the Deitie, With some regard to what is just and right Shall lead thir lives, and multiplie apace, Labouring the soile, and reaping plenteous crop, Corn wine and oyle; and from the herd or flock, Oft sacrificing Bullock, Lamb, or Kid, With large Wine-offerings pour'd, and sacred Feast Shal spend thir dayes in joy unblam'd, and dwell Long time in peace by Families and Tribes Under paternal rule; till one shall rise Of proud ambitious heart, who not content With fair equalitie, fraternal state, Will arrogate Dominion undeserv'd Over his brethren, and quite dispossess Concord and law of Nature from the Earth; Hunting (and Men not Beasts shall be his game) With Warr and hostile snare such as refuse Subjection to his Empire tyrannous: A mightie Hunter thence he shall be styl'd Before the Lord, as in despite of Heav'n, Or from Heav'n claming second Sovrantie; And from Rebellion shall derive his name, Though of Rebellion others he accuse. Hee with a crew, whom like Ambition joyns With him or under him to tyrannize, Marching from EDEN towards the West, shall finde The Plain, wherein a black bituminous gurge Boiles out from under ground, the mouth of Hell; Of Brick, and of that stuff they cast to build A Citie & Towre, whose top may reach to Heav'n; And get themselves a name, least far disperst In foraign Lands thir memorie be lost, Regardless whether good or evil fame. But God who oft descends to visit men Unseen, and through thir habitations walks To mark thir doings, them beholding soon, Comes down to see thir Citie, ere the Tower Obstruct Heav'n Towrs, and in derision sets Upon thir Tongues a various Spirit to rase Quite out thir Native Language, and instead To sow a jangling noise of words unknown: Forthwith a hideous gabble rises loud Among the Builders; each to other calls Not understood, till hoarse, and all in rage, As mockt they storm; great laughter was in Heav'n And looking down, to see the hubbub strange And hear the din; thus was the building left Ridiculous, and the work Confusion nam'd. Whereto thus ADAM fatherly displeas'd. O execrable Son so to aspire Above his Brethren, to himself affirming Authoritie usurpt, from God not giv'n: He gave us onely over Beast, Fish, Fowl Dominion absolute; that right we hold By his donation; but Man over men He made not Lord; such title to himself Reserving, human left from human free. But this Usurper his encroachment proud Stayes not on Man; to God his Tower intends Siege and defiance: Wretched man! what food Will he convey up thither to sustain Himself and his rash Armie, where thin Aire Above the Clouds will pine his entrails gross, And famish him of Breath, if not of Bread? To whom thus MICHAEL. Justly thou abhorr'st That Son, who on the quiet state of men Such trouble brought, affecting to subdue Rational Libertie; yet know withall, Since thy original lapse, true Libertie Is lost, which alwayes with right Reason dwells Twinn'd, and from her hath no dividual being: Reason in man obscur'd, or not obeyd, Immediately inordinate desires And upstart Passions catch the Government From Reason, and to servitude reduce Man till then free. Therefore since hee permits Within himself unworthie Powers to reign Over free Reason, God in Judgement just Subjects him from without to violent Lords; Who oft as undeservedly enthrall His outward freedom: Tyrannie must be, Though to the Tyrant thereby no excuse. Yet somtimes Nations will decline so low From vertue, which is reason, that no wrong, But Justice, and some fatal curse annext Deprives them of thir outward libertie, Thir inward lost: Witness th' irreverent Son Of him who built the Ark, who for the shame Don to his Father, heard this heavie curse, SERVANT OF SERVANTS, on his vitious Race. Thus will this latter, as the former World, Still tend from bad to worse, till God at last Wearied with their iniquities, withdraw His presence from among them, and avert His holy Eyes; resolving from thenceforth To leave them to thir own polluted wayes; And one peculiar Nation to select From all the rest, of whom to be invok'd, A Nation from one faithful man to spring: Him on this side EUPHRATES yet residing, Bred up in Idol-worship; O that men (Canst thou believe?) should be so stupid grown, While yet the Patriark liv'd, who scap'd the Flood, As to forsake the living God, and fall To-worship thir own work in Wood and Stone For Gods! yet him God the most High voutsafes To call by Vision from his Fathers house, His kindred and false Gods, into a Land Which he will shew him, and from him will raise A mightie Nation, and upon him showre His benediction so, that in his Seed All Nations shall be blest; hee straight obeys, Not knowing to what Land, yet firm believes: I see him, but thou canst not, with what Faith He leaves his Gods, his Friends, and native Soile UR of CHALDAEA, passing now the Ford To HARAN, after him a cumbrous Train Of Herds and Flocks, and numerous servitude; Not wandring poor, but trusting all his wealth With God, who call'd him, in a land unknown. CANAAN he now attains, I see his Tents Pitcht about SECHEM, and the neighbouring Plaine Of MOREB; there by promise he receaves Gift to his Progenie of all that Land; From HAMATH Northward to the Desert South (Things by thir names I call, though yet unnam'd) From HERMON East to the great Western Sea, Mount HERMON, yonder Sea, each place behold In prospect, as I point them; on the shoare Mount CARMEL; here the double-founted stream JORDAN, true limit Eastward; but his Sons Shall dwell to SENIR, that long ridge of Hills. This ponder, that all Nations of the Earth Shall in his Seed be blessed; by that Seed Is meant thy great deliverer, who shall bruise The Serpents head; whereof to thee anon Plainlier shall be reveald. This Patriarch blest, Whom FAITHFUL ABRAHAM due time shall call, A Son, and of his Son a Grand-childe leaves, Like him in faith, in wisdom, and renown; The Grandchilde with twelve Sons increast, departs From CANAAN, to a Land hereafter call'd EGYPT, divided by the River NILE; See where it flows, disgorging at seaven mouthes Into the Sea: to sojourn in that Land He comes invited by a yonger Son In time of dearth, a Son whose worthy deeds Raise him to be the second in that Realme Of PHARAO: there he dies, and leaves his Race Growing into a Nation, and now grown Suspected to a sequent King, who seeks To stop thir overgrowth, as inmate guests Too numerous; whence of guests he makes them slaves Inhospitably, and kills thir infant Males: Till by two brethren (those two brethren call MOSES and AARON) sent from God to claime His people from enthralment, they return With glory and spoile back to thir promis'd Land. But first the lawless Tyrant, who denies To know thir God, or message to regard, Must be compelld by Signes and Judgements dire; To blood unshed the Rivers must be turnd, Frogs, Lice and Flies must all his Palace fill With loath'd intrusion, and fill all the land; His Cattel must of Rot and Murren die, Botches and blaines must all his flesh imboss, And all his people; Thunder mixt with Haile, Haile mixt with fire must rend th' EGYPTIAN Skie And wheel on th' Earth, devouring where it rouls; What it devours not, Herb, or Fruit, or Graine, A darksom Cloud of Locusts swarming down Must eat, and on the ground leave nothing green: Darkness must overshadow all his bounds, Palpable darkness, and blot out three dayes; Last with one midnight stroke all the first-born Of EGYPT must lie dead. Thus with ten wounds This River-dragon tam'd at length submits To let his sojourners depart, and oft Humbles his stubborn heart, but still as Ice More hard'nd after thaw, till in his rage Pursuing whom he late dismissd, the Sea Swallows him with his Host, but them lets pass As on drie land between two christal walls, Aw'd by the rod of MOSES so to stand Divided, till his rescu'd gain thir shoar: Such wondrous power God to his Saint will lend, Though present in his Angel, who shall goe Before them in a Cloud, and Pillar of Fire, To guide them in thir journey, and remove Behinde them, while th' obdurat King pursues: All night he will pursue, but his approach Darkness defends between till morning Watch; Then through the Firey Pillar and the Cloud God looking forth will trouble all his Host And craze thir Chariot wheels: when by command MOSES once more his potent Rod extends Over the Sea; the Sea his Rod obeys; On thir imbattelld ranks the Waves return, And overwhelm thir Warr: the Race elect Safe towards CANAAN from the shoar advance Through the wilde Desert, not the readiest way, Least entring on the CANAANITE allarmd Warr terrifie them inexpert, and feare Return them back to EGYPT, choosing rather Inglorious life with servitude; for life To noble and ignoble is more sweet Untraind in Armes, where rashness leads not on. This also shall they gain by thir delay In the wide Wilderness, there they shall found Thir government, and thir great Senate choose Through the twelve Tribes, to rule by Laws ordaind: God from the Mount of SINAI, whose gray top Shall tremble, he descending, will himself In Thunder Lightning and loud Trumpets sound Ordaine them Lawes; part such as appertaine To civil Justice, part religious Rites Of sacrifice, informing them, by types And shadowes, of that destind Seed to bruise The Serpent, by what meanes he shall achieve Mankinds deliverance. But the voice of God To mortal eare is dreadful; they beseech That MOSES might report to them his will, And terror cease; he grants them thir desire, Instructed that to God is no access Without Mediator, whose high Office now MOSES in figure beares, to introduce One greater, of whose day he shall foretell, And all the Prophets in thir Age the times Of great MESSIAH shall sing. Thus Laws and Rites Establisht, such delight hath God in Men Obedient to his will, that he voutsafes Among them to set up his Tabernacle, The holy One with mortal Men to dwell: By his prescript a Sanctuary is fram'd Of Cedar, overlaid with Gold, therein An Ark, and in the Ark his Testimony, The Records of his Cov'nant, over these A Mercie-seat of Gold between the wings Of two bright Cherubim, before him burn Seaven Lamps as in a Zodiac representing The Heav'nly fires; over the Tent a Cloud Shall rest by Day, a fierie gleame by Night, Save when they journie, and at length they come, Conducted by his Angel to the Land Promisd to ABRAHAM and his Seed: the rest Were long to tell, how many Battels fought, How many Kings destroyd, and Kingdoms won, Or how the Sun shall in mid Heav'n stand still A day entire, and Nights due course adjourne, Mans voice commanding, Sun in GIBEON stand, And thou Moon in the vale of AIALON, Till ISRAEL overcome; so call the third From ABRAHAM, Son of ISAAC, and from him His whole descent, who thus shall CANAAN win. Here ADAM interpos'd. O sent from Heav'n, Enlightner of my darkness, gracious things Thou hast reveald, those chiefly which concerne Just ABRAHAM and his Seed: now first I finde Mine eyes true op'ning, and my heart much eas'd, Erwhile perplext with thoughts what would becom Of mee and all Mankind; but now I see His day, in whom all Nations shall be blest, Favour unmerited by me, who sought Forbidd'n knowledge by forbidd'n means. This yet I apprehend not, why to those Among whom God will deigne to dwell on Earth So many and so various Laws are giv'n; So many Laws argue so many sins Among them; how can God with such reside? To whom thus MICHAEL. Doubt not but that sin Will reign among them, as of thee begot; And therefore was Law given them to evince Thir natural pravitie, by stirring up Sin against Law to fight; that when they see Law can discover sin, but not remove, Save by those shadowie expiations weak, The bloud of Bulls and Goats, they may conclude Some bloud more precious must be paid for Man, Just for unjust, that in such righteousness To them by Faith imputed, they may finde Justification towards God, and peace Of Conscience, which the Law by Ceremonies Cannot appease, nor Man the moral part Perform, and not performing cannot live. So Law appears imperfet, and but giv'n With purpose to resign them in full time Up to a better Cov'nant, disciplin'd From shadowie Types to Truth, from Flesh to Spirit, From imposition of strict Laws, to free Acceptance of large Grace, from servil fear To filial, works of Law to works of Faith. And therefore shall not MOSES, though of God Highly belov'd, being but the Minister Of Law, his people into CANAAN lead; But JOSHUA whom the Gentiles JESUS call, His Name and Office bearing, who shall quell The adversarie Serpent, and bring back Through the worlds wilderness long wanderd man Safe to eternal Paradise of rest. Meanwhile they in thir earthly CANAAN plac't Long time shall dwell and prosper, but when sins National interrupt thir public peace, Provoking God to raise them enemies: From whom as oft he saves them penitent By Judges first, then under Kings; of whom The second, both for pietie renownd And puissant deeds, a promise shall receive Irrevocable, that his Regal Throne For ever shall endure; the like shall sing All Prophecie, That of the Royal Stock Of DAVID (so I name this King) shall rise A Son, the Womans Seed to thee foretold, Foretold to ABRAHAM, as in whom shall trust All Nations, and to Kings foretold, of Kings The last, for of his Reign shall be no end. But first a long succession must ensue, And his next Son for Wealth and Wisdom fam'd, The clouded Ark of God till then in Tents Wandring, shall in a glorious Temple enshrine. Such follow him, as shall be registerd Part good, part bad, of bad the longer scrowle, Whose foul Idolatries, and other faults Heapt to the popular summe, will so incense God, as to leave them, and expose thir Land, Thir Citie, his Temple, and his holy Ark With all his sacred things, a scorn and prey To that proud Citie, whose high Walls thou saw'st Left in confusion, BABYLON thence call'd. There in captivitie he lets them dwell The space of seventie years, then brings them back, Remembring mercie, and his Cov'nant sworn To DAVID, stablisht as the dayes of Heav'n. Returnd from BABYLON by leave of Kings Thir Lords, whom God dispos'd, the house of God They first re-edifie, and for a while In mean estate live moderate, till grown In wealth and multitude, factious they grow; But first among the Priests dissension springs, Men who attend the Altar, and should most Endeavour Peace: thir strife pollution brings Upon the Temple it self: at last they seise The Scepter, and regard not DAVIDS Sons, Then loose it to a stranger, that the true Anointed King MESSIAH might be born Barr'd of his right; yet at his Birth a Starr Unseen before in Heav'n proclaims him com, And guides the Eastern Sages, who enquire His place, to offer Incense, Myrrh, and Gold; His place of birth a solemn Angel tells To simple Shepherds, keeping watch by night; They gladly thither haste, and by a Quire Of squadrond Angels hear his Carol sung. A Virgin is his Mother, but his Sire The Power of the most High; he shall ascend The Throne hereditarie, and bound his Reign With earths wide bounds, his glory with the Heav'ns. He ceas'd, discerning ADAM with such joy Surcharg'd, as had like grief bin dew'd in tears, Without the vent of words, which these he breathd. O Prophet of glad tidings, finisher Of utmost hope! now clear I understand What oft my steddiest thoughts have searcht in vain, Why our great expectation should be call'd The seed of Woman: Virgin Mother, Haile, High in the love of Heav'n, yet from my Loynes Thou shalt proceed, and from thy Womb the Son Of God most High; So God with man unites. Needs must the Serpent now his capital bruise Expect with mortal paine: say where and when Thir fight, what stroke shall bruise the Victors heel. To whom thus MICHAEL. Dream not of thir fight, As of a Duel, or the local wounds Of head or heel: not therefore joynes the Son Manhood to God-head, with more strength to foil Thy enemie; nor so is overcome SATAN, whose fall from Heav'n, a deadlier bruise, Disabl'd not to give thee thy deaths wound: Which hee, who comes thy Saviour, shall recure, Not by destroying SATAN, but his works In thee and in thy Seed: nor can this be, But by fulfilling that which thou didst want, Obedience to the Law of God, impos'd On penaltie of death, and suffering death, The penaltie to thy transgression due, And due to theirs which out of thine will grow: So onely can high Justice rest appaid. The Law of God exact he shall fulfill Both by obedience and by love, though love Alone fulfill the Law; thy punishment He shall endure by coming in the Flesh To a reproachful life and cursed death, Proclaiming Life to all who shall believe In his redemption, and that his obedience Imputed becomes theirs by Faith, his merits To save them, not thir own, though legal works. For this he shall live hated, be blasphem'd, Seis'd on by force, judg'd, and to death condemnd A shameful and accurst, naild to the Cross By his own Nation, slaine for bringing Life; But to the Cross he nailes thy Enemies, The Law that is against thee, and the sins Of all mankinde, with him there crucifi'd, Never to hurt them more who rightly trust In this his satisfaction; so he dies, But soon revives, Death over him no power Shall long usurp; ere the third dawning light Returne, the Starres of Morn shall see him rise Out of his grave, fresh as the dawning light, Thy ransom paid, which Man from death redeems, His death for Man, as many as offerd Life Neglect not, and the benefit imbrace By Faith not void of works: this God-like act Annuls thy doom, the death thou shouldst have dy'd, In sin for ever lost from life; this act Shall bruise the head of SATAN, crush his strength Defeating Sin and Death, his two maine armes, And fix farr deeper in his head thir stings Then temporal death shall bruise the Victors heel, Or theirs whom he redeems, a death like sleep, A gentle wafting to immortal Life. Nor after resurrection shall he stay Longer on Earth then certaine times to appeer To his Disciples, Men who in his Life Still follow'd him; to them shall leave in charge To teach all nations what of him they learn'd And his Salvation, them who shall beleeve Baptizing in the profluent streame, the signe Of washing them from guilt of sin to Life Pure, and in mind prepar'd, if so befall, For death, like that which the redeemer dy'd. All Nations they shall teach; for from that day Not onely to the Sons of ABRAHAMS Loines Salvation shall be Preacht, but to the Sons Of ABRAHAMS Faith wherever through the world; So in his seed all Nations shall be blest. Then to the Heav'n of Heav'ns he shall ascend With victory, triumphing through the aire Over his foes and thine; there shall surprise The Serpent, Prince of aire, and drag in Chaines Through all his realme, & there confounded leave; Then enter into glory, and resume His Seat at Gods right hand, exalted high Above all names in Heav'n; and thence shall come, When this worlds dissolution shall be ripe, With glory and power to judge both quick & dead, To judge th' unfaithful dead, but to reward His faithful, and receave them into bliss, Whether in Heav'n or Earth, for then the Earth Shall all be Paradise, far happier place Then this of EDEN, and far happier daies. So spake th' Archangel MICHAEL, then paus'd, As at the Worlds great period; and our Sire Replete with joy and wonder thus repli'd. O goodness infinite, goodness immense! That all this good of evil shall produce, And evil turn to good; more wonderful Then that which by creation first brought forth Light out of darkness! full of doubt I stand, Whether I should repent me now of sin By mee done and occasiond, or rejoyce Much more, that much more good thereof shall spring, To God more glory, more good will to Men From God, and over wrauth grace shall abound. But say, if our deliverer up to Heav'n Must reascend, what will betide the few His faithful, left among th' unfaithful herd, The enemies of truth; who then shall guide His people, who defend? will they not deale Wors with his followers then with him they dealt? Be sure they will, said th' Angel; but from Heav'n Hee to his own a Comforter will send, The promise of the Father, who shall dwell His Spirit within them, and the Law of Faith Working through love, upon thir hearts shall write, To guide them in all truth, and also arme With spiritual Armour, able to resist SATANS assaults, and quench his fierie darts What Man can do against them, not affraid, Though to the death, against such cruelties With inward consolations recompenc't, And oft supported so as shall amaze Thir proudest persecuters: for the Spirit Powrd first on his Apostles, whom he sends To evangelize the Nations, then on all Baptiz'd, shall them with wondrous gifts endue To speak all Tongues, and do all Miracles, As did thir Lord before them. Thus they win Great numbers of each Nation to receave With joy the tidings brought from Heav'n: at length Thir Ministry perform'd, and race well run, Thir doctrine and thir story written left, They die; but in thir room, as they forewarne, Wolves shall succeed for teachers, grievous Wolves, Who all the sacred mysteries of Heav'n To thir own vile advantages shall turne Of lucre and ambition, and the truth With superstitions and traditions taint, Left onely in those written Records pure, Though not but by the Spirit understood. Then shall they seek to avail themselves of names, Places and titles, and with these to joine Secular power, though feigning still to act By spiritual, to themselves appropriating The Spirit of God, promisd alike and giv'n To all Beleevers; and from that pretense, Spiritual Lawes by carnal power shall force On every conscience; Laws which none shall finde Left them inrould, or what the Spirit within Shall on the heart engrave. What will they then But force the Spirit of Grace it self, and binde His consort Libertie; what, but unbuild His living Temples, built by Faith to stand, Thir own Faith not anothers: for on Earth Who against Faith and Conscience can be heard Infallible? yet many will presume: Whence heavie persecution shall arise On all who in the worship persevere Of Spirit and Truth; the rest, farr greater part, Will deem in outward Rites and specious formes Religion satisfi'd; Truth shall retire Bestuck with slandrous darts, and works of Faith Rarely be found: so shall the World goe on, To good malignant, to bad men benigne, Under her own waight groaning, till the day Appeer of respiration to the just, And vengeance to the wicked, at return Of him so lately promis'd to thy aid, The Womans seed, obscurely then foretold, Now amplier known thy Saviour and thy Lord, Last in the Clouds from Heav'n to be reveald In glory of the Father, to dissolve SATAN with his perverted World, then raise From the conflagrant mass, purg'd and refin'd, New Heav'ns, new Earth, Ages of endless date Founded in righteousness and peace and love, To bring forth fruits Joy and eternal Bliss. He ended; and thus ADAM last reply'd. How soon hath thy prediction, Seer blest, Measur'd this transient World, the Race of time, Till time stand fixt: beyond is all abyss, Eternitie, whose end no eye can reach. Greatly instructed I shall hence depart, Greatly in peace of thought, and have my fill Of knowledge, what this vessel can containe; Beyond which was my folly to aspire. Henceforth I learne, that to obey is best, And love with feare the onely God, to walk As in his presence, ever to observe His providence, and on him sole depend, Merciful over all his works, with good Still overcoming evil, and by small Accomplishing great things, by things deemd weak Subverting worldly strong, and worldly wise By simply meek; that suffering for Truths sake Is fortitude to highest victorie, And to the faithful Death the Gate of Life; Taught this by his example whom I now Acknowledge my Redeemer ever blest. To whom thus also th' Angel last repli'd: This having learnt, thou hast attaind the summe Of wisdom; hope no higher, though all the Starrs Thou knewst by name, and all th' ethereal Powers, All secrets of the deep, all Natures works, Or works of God in Heav'n, Air, Earth, or Sea, And all the riches of this World enjoydst, And all the rule, one Empire; onely add Deeds to thy knowledge answerable, add Faith, Add Vertue, Patience, Temperance, add Love, By name to come call'd Charitie, the soul Of all the rest: then wilt thou not be loath To leave this Paradise, but shalt possess A Paradise within thee, happier farr. Let us descend now therefore from this top Of Speculation; for the hour precise Exacts our parting hence; and see the Guards, By mee encampt on yonder Hill, expect Thir motion, at whose Front a flaming Sword, In signal of remove, waves fiercely round; We may no longer stay: go, waken Eve; Her also I with gentle Dreams have calm'd Portending good, and all her spirits compos'd To meek submission: thou at season fit Let her with thee partake what thou hast heard, Chiefly what may concern her Faith to know, The great deliverance by her Seed to come (For by the Womans Seed) on all Mankind. That ye may live, which will be many dayes, Both in one Faith unanimous though sad, With cause for evils past, yet much more cheer'd With meditation on the happie end. He ended, and they both descend the Hill; Descended, ADAM to the Bowre where EVE Lay sleeping ran before, but found her wak't; And thus with words not sad she him receav'd. Whence thou returnst, & whither wentst, I know; For God is also in sleep, and Dreams advise, Which he hath sent propitious, some great good Presaging, since with sorrow and hearts distress VVearied I fell asleep: but now lead on; In mee is no delay; with thee to goe, Is to stay here; without thee here to stay, Is to go hence unwilling; thou to mee Art all things under Heav'n, all places thou, VVho for my wilful crime art banisht hence. This further consolation yet secure I carry hence; though all by mee is lost, Such favour I unworthie am voutsaft, By mee the Promis'd Seed shall all restore. So spake our Mother EVE, and ADAM heard VVell pleas'd, but answer'd not; for now too nigh Th' Archangel stood, and from the other Hill To thir fixt Station, all in bright array The Cherubim descended; on the ground Gliding meteorous, as Ev'ning Mist Ris'n from a River o're the marish glides, And gathers ground fast at the Labourers heel Homeward returning. High in Front advanc't, The brandisht Sword of God before them blaz'd Fierce as a Comet; which with torrid heat, And vapour as the LIBYAN Air adust, Began to parch that temperate Clime; whereat In either hand the hastning Angel caught Our lingring Parents, and to th' Eastern Gate Let them direct, and down the Cliff as fast To the subjected Plaine; then disappeer'd. They looking back, all th' Eastern side beheld Of Paradise, so late thir happie seat, Wav'd over by that flaming Brand, the Gate With dreadful Faces throng'd and fierie Armes: Som natural tears they drop'd, but wip'd them soon; The World was all before them, where to choose Thir place of rest, and Providence thir guide: They hand in hand with wandring steps and slow, Through EDEN took thir solitarie way. THE END. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Gott ist sich bewusst, was geschehen ist; was kann seinem Auge entkommen? Adam und Eva verdienten es, zu fallen, sagt der Erzähler, weil sie die Macht hatten, der Versuchung zu widerstehen, es aber nicht taten. Eine Traurigkeit erfüllt den Himmel, als die Engelsquadrons von ihrer Wache zurückkehren und die schlechten Nachrichten überbringen. Gott spricht und sagt, sie sollen sich nicht "entsetzen", denn es gab nichts, was irgendjemand tun konnte. Er sagt, er werde seinen Sohn hinunter schicken, um Gerechtigkeit an Adam und Eva auszuüben. Der Sohn antwortet und sagt, er werde die Gerechtigkeit mit Barmherzigkeit mildern; niemand außer Adam und Eva wird das Urteil miterleben. Die Schlange ist natürlich unschuldig. Der Richter geht in den Garten; es ist fast Abend, und Adam und Eva verstecken sich, als sie bemerken, dass Gottes Stimme dort ist. Der Sohn fragt Adam, wo er ist. Adam und Eva erscheinen, offensichtlich verärgert und ohne Liebe in ihren Augen. Adam sagt dem Sohn, dass er sich versteckt hat, weil er Angst hatte und nackt war. Der Sohn ist verärgert und fragt ihn, wie er weiß, dass er nackt ist? Hat er von dem Baum gegessen? Adam antwortet indirekt, indem er über seine Frau spricht und wie die Dinge schlecht laufen; schließlich gibt er zu, dass Eva ihm die Frucht gegeben hat und er sie gegessen hat. Der Sohn schimpft Adam und sagt ihm, dass er Evas Forderungen nicht nachgeben sollte; Adam erhielt die Macht, zu regieren, nicht Eva. Dann spricht er Eva an, die ihren Fehler zugibt. Der Sohn verflucht dann die Schlange und sagt, dass sie von nun an auf ihrem Bauch laufen soll. Dann bestraft er Adam und Eva. Er sagt Eva, dass die Geburt schmerzhaft sein wird und dass sie sich ihrem Ehemann unterwerfen muss. Für Adam wird der Boden nicht mehr so fruchtbar sein wie einst. Dann macht er ihnen Kleidung, bevor er wieder an die Seite seines Vaters im Himmel zurückkehrt. In der Zwischenzeit warten unsere alten Freunde Sünde und Tod an den Toren der Hölle; Sünde sagt Tod, dass sie glaubt, dass Satan Erfolg hatte. Sie spürt eine neue Stärke in sich und schlägt vor, dass sie eine Brücke von der Hölle zur Erde bauen, falls Satan seinen Weg nicht zurückfinden kann. Tod antwortet, dass er ihr helfen wird; er riecht frische Beute auf der Erde, fast wie ein Geier, der sich um ein Schlachtfeld schart, und wartet darauf, dass alle sterben, damit er sich daran laben kann. Die beiden beginnen, die Elemente des Chaos zu trennen, und bauen eine Brücke, die die Hölle mit den Mauern der Erde verbindet, die nun "mauerlos" ist. Sie reisen die Brücke entlang und treffen auf Satan, der in Gestalt eines Engels auf sie zukommt; sie erkennen ihren Vater. Nachdem er davongeschlichen ist, verändert Satan seine Gestalt und beobachtet die Fortsetzung dessen, was er initiiert hat. Sünde sagt Satan, dass sie eine Verbindung haben; sie kann fühlen, dass er seine Aufgabe erfolgreich erfüllt hat. Er hat Sünde und Tod aus der Hölle befreit, sagt sie. Die Hölle konnte die drei sowieso nicht festhalten. Satan ist nun der Herr der Erde, sagt sie. Satan antwortet, dass Sünde und Tod sich als würdig erwiesen haben, das Geschlecht Satans zu sein. Er sagt ihnen, sie sollen ruhig nach Eden gehen und Unheil stiften; er wird zurück zur Hölle gehen und seinen Legionen die freudige Botschaft überbringen. Satan betritt die Tore der Hölle; seine Legionen halten sich in der Umgebung von Pandemonium auf. Andere debattieren im Ratssaal drinnen. Er schleicht sich als geringfügiger Engel getarnt herein; er macht sich unsichtbar, nimmt seinen Thron ein und erscheint plötzlich. Seine Legionen rufen voller Zustimmung. Er sagt ihnen, dass er gekommen ist, um sie aus der Hölle zu führen und die neue Welt zu besitzen, die er erobert hat. Er erzählt die Geschichte, wie er Adam und Eva getäuscht hat; er erwartet dann Applaus zu hören, hört aber stattdessen "Ein düsteres allgemeines Zischen." Er spürt, wie sich sein Körper verändert und bemerkt, dass er sich in eine Schlange verwandelt! Auch alle anderen gefallenen Engel um ihn herum verwandeln sich in Schlangen; das ist die Bestrafung für ihre Vergehen. Satan und seine Legionen verlassen Pandemonium; die anderen gefallenen Engel sehen ihre Kameraden als Schlangen und verwandeln sich dann selbst in Schlangen. In der Nähe entsteht ein Hain, beladen mit Früchten, die der Verbotenen Frucht ähneln. Alle Schlangen werden gezwungen, davon zu essen, weil sie plötzlich so durstig geworden sind. Doch wenn sie davon essen, verwandelt es sich in Asche in ihrem Mund! Schließlich dürfen sie ihre ursprüngliche Gestalt wieder annehmen, obwohl sie einige dies alle paar Jahre tun müssen. Inzwischen kommen Sünde und Tod in Eden an. Sie gehen getrennte Wege, um Unheil anzurichten. Gott sieht das und sagt, dass es Adams Schuld ist, dass diese Teufel jetzt in Eden sind. Er sagt, dass der Sohn sie letztendlich für immer vertreiben wird. Aber das passiert später. Die Engel im Himmel singen Gott ihr Loblied, während er die Jahreszeiten einführt und die Umlaufbahnen der fünf Planeten festlegt. Große klimatische Veränderungen finden statt. Die Tiere im Paradies kommen nicht mehr miteinander aus; sie töten sich gegenseitig für Nahrung und fliehen vor der Gegenwart des Menschen. Adam sieht das, fühlt sich schrecklich und bricht mit einer Beschwerde aus. Er sagt, es wäre großartig, wenn das alles jetzt enden würde, denn seine Kinder werden alle verflucht sein. Er stellt sich vor, wie zukünftige Generationen ihn verfluchen und beklagt, dass er nie darum gebeten hat, erschaffen zu werden, und daher solle Gott ihn zurück in den Staub bringen. Dann erkennt er, dass er von Anfang an Gottes Bedingungen akzeptiert hat und dass es unlogisch ist, Argumente darüber anzuführen, dass man nicht geboren sein möchte. Er sagt, er erwartet diesen Tag gespannt, aber spekuliert dann eine Zeit lang darüber, wie der Tod wohl ist. Er fragt sich, ob er auch nach dem Tod noch leiden wird. Schließlich gibt Adam zu, dass Gott im Recht war, ihn zu bestrafen. Während er sich beklagt, kommt Eva herüber und versucht, ihn zu trösten, aber er sagt ihr, sie solle verschwinden und nennt sie eine Schlange. Er sagt: "Aber für dich/ wäre ich glücklich geblieben" und macht ihr weiterhin Vorwürfe, zumindest teilweise, für ihre Übertretungen. Sie ist sehr verletzt; sie fällt ihm weinend zu Füßen und bittet Adam, sie nicht im Stich zu lassen. Sie übernimmt die volle Verantwortung und möchte Frieden zwischen ihnen haben. Adam wird zum "Mitgefühl" bewegt und sagt ihr, sie solle aufstehen. Sie haben sich genug gegenseitig die Schuld gegeben. Eva antwortet und sagt, der beste Weg, dem Tod zu entgehen, sei es, keine Kinder zu haben und sich "den vereinbarten Freuden der Liebe" zu enthalten. Noch besser, sie schlägt vor, sie sollten einfach jetzt den Tod suchen. Adam antwortet, dass Gott das wahrscheinlich durchschaut hat. Außerdem, wie wollen sie Satan "verletzen", wenn sie tot sind oder keine Kinder haben? Er sagt, Gott hat sie nicht sofort getötet, sondern ihnen Kleidung gegeben und nur gesagt, dass Eva Wehen haben wird und Adam für seine Nahrung arbeiten muss. Es hätte schlimmer kommen können, sagt er; und außerdem besteht Grund zur Hoffnung, dass Gott ihnen helfen wird, mit dem, was die Zukunft bringt, umzugehen. "Wir müssen keine Angst haben/ dieses Leben wohltuend zu durchwandern". Er sagt, sie sollten zu Gott beten und den Boden mit ihren Tränen bewässern, was sie auch tun.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: XIII. Fifty-two In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited their fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two were to roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless everlasting sea. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants were appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday, the blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already set apart. Two score and twelve were told off. From the farmer-general of seventy, whose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose poverty and obscurity could not save her. Physical diseases, engendered in the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees; and the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering, intolerable oppression, and heartless indifference, smote equally without distinction. Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with no flattering delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. In every line of the narrative he had heard, he had heard his condemnation. He had fully comprehended that no personal influence could possibly save him, that he was virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units could avail him nothing. Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife fresh before him, to compose his mind to what it must bear. His hold on life was strong, and it was very, very hard, to loosen; by gradual efforts and degrees unclosed a little here, it clenched the tighter there; and when he brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded, this was closed again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts, a turbulent and heated working of his heart, that contended against resignation. If, for a moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife and child who had to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a selfish thing. But, all this was at first. Before long, the consideration that there was no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that numbers went the same road wrongfully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to stimulate him. Next followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind enjoyable by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So, by degrees he calmed into the better state, when he could raise his thoughts much higher, and draw comfort down. Before it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, he had travelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the means of writing, and a light, he sat down to write until such time as the prison lamps should be extinguished. He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had known nothing of her father's imprisonment, until he had heard of it from herself, and that he had been as ignorant as she of his father's and uncle's responsibility for that misery, until the paper had been read. He had already explained to her that his concealment from herself of the name he had relinquished, was the one condition--fully intelligible now--that her father had attached to their betrothal, and was the one promise he had still exacted on the morning of their marriage. He entreated her, for her father's sake, never to seek to know whether her father had become oblivious of the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled to him (for the moment, or for good), by the story of the Tower, on that old Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If he had preserved any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt that he had supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he had found no mention of it among the relics of prisoners which the populace had discovered there, and which had been described to all the world. He besought her--though he added that he knew it was needless--to console her father, by impressing him through every tender means she could think of, with the truth that he had done nothing for which he could justly reproach himself, but had uniformly forgotten himself for their joint sakes. Next to her preservation of his own last grateful love and blessing, and her overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their dear child, he adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her father. To her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told her father that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care. And he told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him from any despondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he foresaw he might be tending. To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly affairs. That done, with many added sentences of grateful friendship and warm attachment, all was done. He never thought of Carton. His mind was so full of the others, that he never once thought of him. He had time to finish these letters before the lights were put out. When he lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done with this world. But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in shining forms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho (though it had nothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light of heart, he was with Lucie again, and she told him it was all a dream, and he had never gone away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had even suffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and yet there was no difference in him. Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the sombre morning, unconscious where he was or what had happened, until it flashed upon his mind, "this is the day of my death!" Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-two heads were to fall. And now, while he was composed, and hoped that he could meet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began in his waking thoughts, which was very difficult to master. He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life. How high it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he would be stood, how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyed red, which way his face would be turned, whether he would be the first, or might be the last: these and many similar questions, in nowise directed by his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countless times. Neither were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no fear. Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what to do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the few swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was more like the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own. The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone for ever, ten gone for ever, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. After a hard contest with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed him, he had got the better of it. He walked up and down, softly repeating their names to himself. The worst of the strife was over. He could walk up and down, free from distracting fancies, praying for himself and for them. Twelve gone for ever. He had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he knew he would be summoned some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily and slowly through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to keep Two before his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in the interval that he might be able, after that time, to strengthen others. Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a very different man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro at La Force, he heard One struck away from him, without surprise. The hour had measured like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his recovered self-possession, he thought, "There is but another now," and turned to walk again. Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped. The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, or as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English: "He has never seen me here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone; I wait near. Lose no time!" The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton. There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the first moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner's hand, and it was his real grasp. "Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?" he said. "I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now. You are not"--the apprehension came suddenly into his mind--"a prisoner?" "No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her--your wife, dear Darnay." The prisoner wrung his hand. "I bring you a request from her." "What is it?" "A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you in the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well remember." The prisoner turned his face partly aside. "You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I have no time to tell you. You must comply with it--take off those boots you wear, and draw on these of mine." There was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner. Carton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got him down into it, and stood over him, barefoot. "Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put your will to them. Quick!" "Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done. You will only die with me. It is madness." "It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I? When I ask you to pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Change that cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do it, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like this of mine!" With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action, that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him. The prisoner was like a young child in his hands. "Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it never can be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore you not to add your death to the bitterness of mine." "Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that, refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand steady enough to write?" "It was when you came in." "Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick!" Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table. Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him. "Write exactly as I speak." "To whom do I address it?" "To no one." Carton still had his hand in his breast. "Do I date it?" "No." The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him with his hand in his breast, looked down. "'If you remember,'" said Carton, dictating, "'the words that passed between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it. You do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.'" He was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to look up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon something. "Have you written 'forget them'?" Carton asked. "I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?" "No; I am not armed." "What is it in your hand?" "You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words more." He dictated again. "'I am thankful that the time has come, when I can prove them. That I do so is no subject for regret or grief.'" As he said these words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly moved down close to the writer's face. The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the table, and he looked about him vacantly. "What vapour is that?" he asked. "Vapour?" "Something that crossed me?" "I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up the pen and finish. Hurry, hurry!" As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the prisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton with clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton--his hand again in his breast--looked steadily at him. "Hurry, hurry!" The prisoner bent over the paper, once more. "'If it had been otherwise;'" Carton's hand was again watchfully and softly stealing down; "'I never should have used the longer opportunity. If it had been otherwise;'" the hand was at the prisoner's face; "'I should but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had been otherwise--'" Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off into unintelligible signs. Carton's hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang up with a reproachful look, but Carton's hand was close and firm at his nostrils, and Carton's left arm caught him round the waist. For a few seconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his life for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on the ground. Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he softly called, "Enter there! Come in!" and the Spy presented himself. "You see?" said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast: "is your hazard very great?" "Mr. Carton," the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, "my hazard is not _that_, in the thick of business here, if you are true to the whole of your bargain." "Don't fear me. I will be true to the death." "You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being made right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear." "Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the rest will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get assistance and take me to the coach." "You?" said the Spy nervously. "Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the gate by which you brought me in?" "Of course." "I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now you take me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has happened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands. Quick! Call assistance!" "You swear not to betray me?" said the trembling Spy, as he paused for a last moment. "Man, man!" returned Carton, stamping his foot; "have I sworn by no solemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious moments now? Take him yourself to the courtyard you know of, place him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him yourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of last night, and his promise of last night, and drive away!" The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting his forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men. "How, then?" said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. "So afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of Sainte Guillotine?" "A good patriot," said the other, "could hardly have been more afflicted if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank." They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had brought to the door, and bent to carry it away. "The time is short, Evremonde," said the Spy, in a warning voice. "I know it well," answered Carton. "Be careful of my friend, I entreat you, and leave me." "Come, then, my children," said Barsad. "Lift him, and come away!" The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed, footsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he sat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two. Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then began to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and finally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely saying, "Follow me, Evremonde!" and he followed into a large dark room, at a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows within, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern the others who were brought there to have their arms bound. Some were standing; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion; but, these were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking fixedly at the ground. As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-two were brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him, as having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of discovery; but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a young woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was no vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from the seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him. "Citizen Evremonde," she said, touching him with her cold hand. "I am a poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force." He murmured for answer: "True. I forget what you were accused of?" "Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any. Is it likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature like me?" The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears started from his eyes. "I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have done nothing. I am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good to us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be, Citizen Evremonde. Such a poor weak little creature!" As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it warmed and softened to this pitiable girl. "I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I hoped it was true?" "It was. But, I was again taken and condemned." "If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you let me hold your hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me more courage." As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young fingers, and touched his lips. "Are you dying for him?" she whispered. "And his wife and child. Hush! Yes." "O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?" "Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last." ***** The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about it, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined. "Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!" The papers are handed out, and read. "Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?" This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering old man pointed out. "Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?" Greatly too much for him. "Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which is she?" This is she. "Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evremonde; is it not?" It is. "Hah! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English. This is she?" She and no other. "Kiss me, child of Evremonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican; something new in thy family; remember it! Sydney Carton. Advocate. English. Which is he?" He lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed out. "Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?" It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented that he is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is under the displeasure of the Republic. "Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under the displeasure of the Republic, and must look out at the little window. Jarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he?" "I am he. Necessarily, being the last." It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous questions. It is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach door, replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round the carriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it carries on the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer to the coach doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its mother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife of an aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine. "Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned." "One can depart, citizen?" "One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good journey!" "I salute you, citizens.--And the first danger passed!" These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his hands, and looks upward. There is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there is the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller. "Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go faster?" asks Lucie, clinging to the old man. "It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too much; it would rouse suspicion." "Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!" "The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued." Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country, avenues of leafless trees. The hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on either side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the stones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we stick in ruts and sloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so great, that in our wild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running--hiding--doing anything but stopping. Out of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitary farms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and threes, avenues of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and taken us back by another road? Is not this the same place twice over? Thank Heaven, no. A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush! the posting-house. Leisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach stands in the little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it of ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into visible existence, one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and plaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count their money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results. All the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that would far outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled. At length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the old are left behind. We are through the village, up the hill, and down the hill, and on the low watery grounds. Suddenly, the postilions exchange speech with animated gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up, almost on their haunches. We are pursued? "Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!" "What is it?" asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window. "How many did they say?" "I do not understand you." "--At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day?" "Fifty-two." "I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizen here would have it forty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes handsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop!" The night comes on dark. He moves more; he is beginning to revive, and to speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks him, by his name, what he has in his hand. O pity us, kind Heaven, and help us! Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued. Der Wind eilt uns hinterher und die Wolken fliegen uns hinterher und der Mond stürzt sich hinterher und die ganze wilde Nacht ist hinter uns her, aber bis jetzt werden wir von nichts anderem verfolgt. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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In seiner Zelle im Gefängnis zählt Darnay die Stunden bis zu seinem Tod. Er denkt ständig an Lucie. Schließlich schreibt er Briefe an Lucie, ihren Vater und Mr. Lorry. Dann geht er im Zimmer auf und ab und zählt die letzten Stunden seines Lebens. Er weiß, dass er um drei Uhr zum Wagen gerufen wird, der ihn zur Guillotine bringen wird. Um eins jedoch hört Darnay Schritte näher kommen. Carton tritt in das Zimmer ein. Er hat eine dringende Bitte an Darnay: Er hat keine Zeit, zu erklären, warum er die Dinge braucht, die er verlangt. Erschrocken tut Darnay, was Carton verlangt. Sie tauschen Stiefel, Haargummis und Hemden aus. Darnay beginnt zu verstehen, was Cartons Plan ist, aber er ist sicher, dass es nicht funktionieren wird. Schnell sprechend bittet Carton Darnay, sich hinzusetzen und einen Brief zu schreiben, den er diktieren wird. Darnay gehorcht. Carton sagt ihm, einen nicht adressierten Brief zu schreiben, in dem steht, dass die Zeit gekommen ist, sein Versprechen einzulösen, das er einst gegeben hat. Er weiß, dass der Leser das Versprechen nicht vergessen wird. Er möchte, dass sie versichert ist, dass er froh darüber ist, dass seine Zeit gekommen ist. Verwirrt hört Darnay auf zu schreiben. Er glaubt, einen seltsamen Dampf zu riechen. Er fängt an, Carton die Flasche aus der Hand zu reißen, aber Carton ist schneller als er. Darnay sackt benommen zu Boden. Carton ruft Barsad, der Darnay aus dem Gefängnis schleift. Sie legen Darnay auf eine Bahre, und Barsad trägt ihn fort. Um zwei Uhr betritt ein Kerkermeister das Zimmer und ruft nach Evremonde. Carton folgt ihm. Er stellt sich in eine Reihe mit anderen 51 Gefangenen, die alle zum Tod verurteilt sind. Sie steigen in Wagen, die sie zur Guillotine bringen werden. Carton steht neben einer jungen Näherin, die ihn leidenschaftlich anschaut. Sie kennt Darnay; sie war mit ihm in La Force. Sie sagt, dass sie keine Angst habe, für die Republik zu sterben ... aber sie kann nicht verstehen, wie der Tod einer unbedeutenden, unschuldigen Frau überhaupt von Bedeutung sein kann. Plötzlich erkennt sie, dass Carton nicht Darnay ist. Erschrocken fragt sie, ob Carton für Darnay sterben wird. Er sagt, er sterbe für Darnays Frau und Kind. Die Näherin bittet darum, die Hand des "tapferen Fremden" halten zu dürfen, während sie zur Guillotine fahren. In der Zwischenzeit passieren die Manettes und Mr. Lorry die Kontrollpunkte am Stadtrand. Angespannt beobachten sie, wie die Wachen ihre Papiere überprüfen und erneut überprüfen. Doch bald fliegt die Kutsche aus Paris hinaus. Als sie in einem Dorf anhalten, werden sie erneut gestoppt. Nervös fragt Mr. Lorry, woran es liegt. Es stellt sich heraus, dass die Wachen nur wissen wollen, wie viele Menschen heute der Guillotine zugeführt werden. Die Antwort lautet zweiundfünfzig. Zufrieden lassen die Wachen die Kutsche in die Nacht rollen.

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: As spring came on, a new set of amusements became the fashion, and the lengthening days gave long afternoons for work and play of all sorts. The garden had to be put in order, and each sister had a quarter of the little plot to do what she liked with. Hannah used to say, "I'd know which each of them gardings belonged to, ef I see 'em in Chiny," and so she might, for the girls' tastes differed as much as their characters. Meg's had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange tree in it. Jo's bed was never alike two seasons, for she was always trying experiments. This year it was to be a plantation of sun flowers, the seeds of which cheerful and aspiring plant were to feed Aunt Cockle-top and her family of chicks. Beth had old-fashioned fragrant flowers in her garden, sweet peas and mignonette, larkspur, pinks, pansies, and southernwood, with chickweed for the birds and catnip for the pussies. Amy had a bower in hers, rather small and earwiggy, but very pretty to look at, with honeysuckle and morning-glories hanging their colored horns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it, tall white lilies, delicate ferns, and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as would consent to blossom there. Gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower hunts employed the fine days, and for rainy ones, they had house diversions, some old, some new, all more or less original. One of these was the 'P.C.', for as secret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to have one, and as all of the girls admired Dickens, they called themselves the Pickwick Club. With a few interruptions, they had kept this up for a year, and met every Saturday evening in the big garret, on which occasions the ceremonies were as follows: Three chairs were arranged in a row before a table on which was a lamp, also four white badges, with a big 'P.C.' in different colors on each, and the weekly newspaper called, The Pickwick Portfolio, to which all contributed something, while Jo, who reveled in pens and ink, was the editor. At seven o'clock, the four members ascended to the clubroom, tied their badges round their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity. Meg, as the eldest, was Samuel Pickwick, Jo, being of a literary turn, Augustus Snodgrass, Beth, because she was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman, and Amy, who was always trying to do what she couldn't, was Nathaniel Winkle. Pickwick, the president, read the paper, which was filled with original tales, poetry, local news, funny advertisements, and hints, in which they good-naturedly reminded each other of their faults and short comings. On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles without any glass, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and having stared hard at Mr. Snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he arranged himself properly, began to read: _________________________________________________ "THE PICKWICK PORTFOLIO" MAY 20, 18-- POET'S CORNER ANNIVERSARY ODE Again we meet to celebrate With badge and solemn rite, Our fifty-second anniversary, In Pickwick Hall, tonight. We all are here in perfect health, None gone from our small band: Again we see each well-known face, And press each friendly hand. Our Pickwick, always at his post, With reverence we greet, As, spectacles on nose, he reads Our well-filled weekly sheet. Although he suffers from a cold, We joy to hear him speak, For words of wisdom from him fall, In spite of croak or squeak. Old six-foot Snodgrass looms on high, With elephantine grace, And beams upon the company, With brown and jovial face. Poetic fire lights up his eye, He struggles 'gainst his lot. Behold ambition on his brow, And on his nose, a blot. Next our peaceful Tupman comes, So rosy, plump, and sweet, Who chokes with laughter at the puns, And tumbles off his seat. Prim little Winkle too is here, With every hair in place, A model of propriety, Though he hates to wash his face. The year is gone, we still unite To joke and laugh and read, And tread the path of literature That doth to glory lead. Long may our paper prosper well, Our club unbroken be, And coming years their blessings pour On the useful, gay 'P. C.'. A. SNODGRASS ________ THE MASKED MARRIAGE (A Tale Of Venice) Gondola after gondola swept up to the marble steps, and left its lovely load to swell the brilliant throng that filled the stately halls of Count Adelon. Knights and ladies, elves and pages, monks and flower girls, all mingled gaily in the dance. Sweet voices and rich melody filled the air, and so with mirth and music the masquerade went on. "Has your Highness seen the Lady Viola tonight?" asked a gallant troubadour of the fairy queen who floated down the hall upon his arm. "Yes, is she not lovely, though so sad! Her dress is well chosen, too, for in a week she weds Count Antonio, whom she passionately hates." "By my faith, I envy him. Yonder he comes, arrayed like a bridegroom, except the black mask. When that is off we shall see how he regards the fair maid whose heart he cannot win, though her stern father bestows her hand," returned the troubadour. "Tis whispered that she loves the young English artist who haunts her steps, and is spurned by the old Count," said the lady, as they joined the dance. The revel was at its height when a priest appeared, and withdrawing the young pair to an alcove, hung with purple velvet, he motioned them to kneel. Instant silence fell on the gay throng, and not a sound, but the dash of fountains or the rustle of orange groves sleeping in the moonlight, broke the hush, as Count de Adelon spoke thus: "My lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by which I have gathered you here to witness the marriage of my daughter. Father, we wait your services." All eyes turned toward the bridal party, and a murmur of amazement went through the throng, for neither bride nor groom removed their masks. Curiosity and wonder possessed all hearts, but respect restrained all tongues till the holy rite was over. Then the eager spectators gathered round the count, demanding an explanation. "Gladly would I give it if I could, but I only know that it was the whim of my timid Viola, and I yielded to it. Now, my children, let the play end. Unmask and receive my blessing." But neither bent the knee, for the young bridegroom replied in a tone that startled all listeners as the mask fell, disclosing the noble face of Ferdinand Devereux, the artist lover, and leaning on the breast where now flashed the star of an English earl was the lovely Viola, radiant with joy and beauty. "My lord, you scornfully bade me claim your daughter when I could boast as high a name and vast a fortune as the Count Antonio. I can do more, for even your ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of Devereux and De Vere, when he gives his ancient name and boundless wealth in return for the beloved hand of this fair lady, now my wife." The count stood like one changed to stone, and turning to the bewildered crowd, Ferdinand added, with a gay smile of triumph, "To you, my gallant friends, I can only wish that your wooing may prosper as mine has done, and that you may all win as fair a bride as I have by this masked marriage." S. PICKWICK Why is the P. C. like the Tower of Babel? It is full of unruly members. _________ THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH Once upon a time a farmer planted a little seed in his garden, and after a while it sprouted and became a vine and bore many squashes. One day in October, when they were ripe, he picked one and took it to market. A grocerman bought and put it in his shop. That same morning, a little girl in a brown hat and blue dress, with a round face and snub nose, went and bought it for her mother. She lugged it home, cut it up, and boiled it in the big pot, mashed some of it with salt and butter, for dinner. And to the rest she added a pint of milk, two eggs, four spoons of sugar, nutmeg, and some crackers, put it in a deep dish, and baked it till it was brown and nice, and next day it was eaten by a family named March. T. TUPMAN _________ Mr. Pickwick, Sir:-- I address you upon the subject of sin the sinner I mean is a man named Winkle who makes trouble in his club by laughing and sometimes won't write his piece in this fine paper I hope you will pardon his badness and let him send a French fable because he can't write out of his head as he has so many lessons to do and no brains in future I will try to take time by the fetlock and prepare some work which will be all commy la fo that means all right I am in haste as it is nearly school time. Yours respectably, N. WINKLE [The above is a manly and handsome acknowledgment of past misdemeanors. If our young friend studied punctuation, it would be well.] _________ A SAD ACCIDENT On Friday last, we were startled by a violent shock in our basement, followed by cries of distress. On rushing in a body to the cellar, we discovered our beloved President prostrate upon the floor, having tripped and fallen while getting wood for domestic purposes. A perfect scene of ruin met our eyes, for in his fall Mr. Pickwick had plunged his head and shoulders into a tub of water, upset a keg of soft soap upon his manly form, and torn his garments badly. On being removed from this perilous situation, it was discovered that he had suffered no injury but several bruises, and we are happy to add, is now doing well. ED. _________ THE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT It is our painful duty to record the sudden and mysterious disappearance of our cherished friend, Mrs. Snowball Pat Paw. This lovely and beloved cat was the pet of a large circle of warm and admiring friends; for her beauty attracted all eyes, her graces and virtues endeared her to all hearts, and her loss is deeply felt by the whole community. When last seen, she was sitting at the gate, watching the butcher's cart, and it is feared that some villain, tempted by her charms, basely stole her. Weeks have passed, but no trace of her has been discovered, and we relinquish all hope, tie a black ribbon to her basket, set aside her dish, and weep for her as one lost to us forever. _________ A sympathizing friend sends the following gem: A LAMENT (FOR S. B. PAT PAW) We mourn the loss of our little pet, And sigh o'er her hapless fate, For never more by the fire she'll sit, Nor play by the old green gate. The little grave where her infant sleeps Is 'neath the chestnut tree. But o'er her grave we may not weep, We know not where it may be. Her empty bed, her idle ball, Will never see her more; No gentle tap, no loving purr Is heard at the parlor door. Another cat comes after her mice, A cat with a dirty face, But she does not hunt as our darling did, Nor play with her airy grace. Her stealthy paws tread the very hall Where Snowball used to play, But she only spits at the dogs our pet So gallantly drove away. She is useful and mild, and does her best, But she is not fair to see, And we cannot give her your place dear, Nor worship her as we worship thee. A.S. _________ ADVERTISEMENTS MISS ORANTHY BLUGGAGE, the accomplished strong-minded lecturer, will deliver her famous lecture on "WOMAN AND HER POSITION" at Pickwick Hall, next Saturday Evening, after the usual performances. A WEEKLY MEETING will be held at Kitchen Place, to teach young ladies how to cook. Hannah Brown will preside, and all are invited to attend. The DUSTPAN SOCIETY will meet on Wednesday next, and parade in the upper story of the Club House. All members to appear in uniform and shoulder their brooms at nine precisely. Mrs. BETH BOUNCER will open her new assortment of Doll's Millinery next week. The latest Paris fashions have arrived, and orders are respectfully solicited. A NEW PLAY will appear at the Barnville Theatre, in the course of a few weeks, which will surpass anything ever seen on the American stage. "The Greek Slave, or Constantine the Avenger," is the name of this thrilling drama!!! HINTS If S.P. didn't use so much soap on his hands, he wouldn't always be late at breakfast. A.S. is requested not to whistle in the street. T.T. please don't forget Amy's napkin. N.W. must not fret because his dress has not nine tucks. WEEKLY REPORT Meg--Good. Jo--Bad. Beth--Very Good. Amy--Middling. _________________________________________________ As the President finished reading the paper (which I beg leave to assure my readers is a bona fide copy of one written by bona fide girls once upon a time), a round of applause followed, and then Mr. Snodgrass rose to make a proposition. "Mr. President and gentlemen," he began, assuming a parliamentary attitude and tone, "I wish to propose the admission of a new member--one who highly deserves the honor, would be deeply grateful for it, and would add immensely to the spirit of the club, the literary value of the paper, and be no end jolly and nice. I propose Mr. Theodore Laurence as an honorary member of the P. C. Come now, do have him." Jo's sudden change of tone made the girls laugh, but all looked rather anxious, and no one said a word as Snodgrass took his seat. "We'll put it to a vote," said the President. "All in favor of this motion please to manifest it by saying, 'Aye'." A loud response from Snodgrass, followed, to everybody's surprise, by a timid one from Beth. "Contrary-minded say, 'No'." Meg and Amy were contrary-minded, and Mr. Winkle rose to say with great elegance, "We don't wish any boys, they only joke and bounce about. This is a ladies' club, and we wish to be private and proper." "I'm afraid he'll laugh at our paper, and make fun of us afterward," observed Pickwick, pulling the little curl on her forehead, as she always did when doubtful. Up rose Snodgrass, very much in earnest. "Sir, I give you my word as a gentleman, Laurie won't do anything of the sort. He likes to write, and he'll give a tone to our contributions and keep us from being sentimental, don't you see? We can do so little for him, and he does so much for us, I think the least we can do is to offer him a place here, and make him welcome if he comes." This artful allusion to benefits conferred brought Tupman to his feet, looking as if he had quite made up his mind. "Yes; we ought to do it, even if we are afraid. I say he may come, and his grandpa, too, if he likes." This spirited burst from Beth electrified the club, and Jo left her seat to shake hands approvingly. "Now then, vote again. Everybody remember it's our Laurie, and say, 'Aye!'" cried Snodgrass excitedly. "Aye! Aye! Aye!" replied three voices at once. "Good! Bless you! Now, as there's nothing like 'taking time by the fetlock', as Winkle characteristically observes, allow me to present the new member." And, to the dismay of the rest of the club, Jo threw open the door of the closet, and displayed Laurie sitting on a rag bag, flushed and twinkling with suppressed laughter. "You rogue! You traitor! Jo, how could you?" cried the three girls, as Snodgrass led her friend triumphantly forth, and producing both a chair and a badge, installed him in a jiffy. "The coolness of you two rascals is amazing," began Mr. Pickwick, trying to get up an awful frown and only succeeding in producing an amiable smile. But the new member was equal to the occasion, and rising, with a grateful salutation to the Chair, said in the most engaging manner, "Mr. President and ladies--I beg pardon, gentlemen--allow me to introduce myself as Sam Weller, the very humble servant of the club." "Good! Good!" cried Jo, pounding with the handle of the old warming pan on which she leaned. "My faithful friend and noble patron," continued Laurie with a wave of the hand, "who has so flatteringly presented me, is not to be blamed for the base stratagem of tonight. I planned it, and she only gave in after lots of teasing." "Come now, don't lay it all on yourself. You know I proposed the cupboard," broke in Snodgrass, who was enjoying the joke amazingly. "Never mind what she says. I'm the wretch that did it, sir," said the new member, with a Welleresque nod to Mr. Pickwick. "But on my honor, I never will do so again, and henceforth devote myself to the interest of this immortal club." "Hear! Hear!" cried Jo, clashing the lid of the warming pan like a cymbal. "Go on, go on!" added Winkle and Tupman, while the President bowed benignly. "I merely wish to say, that as a slight token of my gratitude for the honor done me, and as a means of promoting friendly relations between adjoining nations, I have set up a post office in the hedge in the lower corner of the garden, a fine, spacious building with padlocks on the doors and every convenience for the mails, also the females, if I may be allowed the expression. It's the old martin house, but I've stopped up the door and made the roof open, so it will hold all sorts of things, and save our valuable time. Letters, manuscripts, books, and bundles can be passed in there, and as each nation has a key, it will be uncommonly nice, I fancy. Allow me to present the club key, and with many thanks for your favor, take my seat." Great applause as Mr. Weller deposited a little key on the table and subsided, the warming pan clashed and waved wildly, and it was some time before order could be restored. A long discussion followed, and everyone came out surprising, for everyone did her best. So it was an unusually lively meeting, and did not adjourn till a late hour, when it broke up with three shrill cheers for the new member. No one ever regretted the admittance of Sam Weller, for a more devoted, well-behaved, and jovial member no club could have. He certainly did add 'spirit' to the meetings, and 'a tone' to the paper, for his orations convulsed his hearers and his contributions were excellent, being patriotic, classical, comical, or dramatic, but never sentimental. Jo regarded them as worthy of Bacon, Milton, or Shakespeare, and remodeled her own works with good effect, she thought. The P. O. was a capital little institution, and flourished wonderfully, for nearly as many queer things passed through it as through the real post office. Tragedies and cravats, poetry and pickles, garden seeds and long letters, music and gingerbread, rubbers, invitations, scoldings, and puppies. The old gentleman liked the fun, and amused himself by sending odd bundles, mysterious messages, and funny telegrams, and his gardener, who was smitten with Hannah's charms, actually sent a love letter to Jo's care. How they laughed when the secret came out, never dreaming how many love letters that little post office would hold in the years to come. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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

Als das warme Wetter näher rückte, beschlossen die Schwestern, einen geheimen Club namens Pickwick Club zu gründen und unter verschiedenen Namen Mitglieder zu werden. Meg, da sie die Älteste war, wurde die Präsidentin des Clubs, und jede Woche veröffentlichten sie eine Zeitung mit ihren eigenen Beiträgen. In einer solchen Woche las Meg die Zeitung, und Jo schlug vor, Laurie als neues Mitglied aufzunehmen. Jo und Beth waren dafür, aber Amy und Meg waren dagegen. Jo argumentierte jedoch für ihn und schließlich stimmten sie zu. Laurie kam überraschend aus dem Schrank und alle waren böse auf Jo, dass sie nicht gesagt hatte, dass er dort drin war. Dann erzählte er ihnen von der Post, die im Garten zwischen ihren Häusern gebaut wurde, und sie wurde zum Austausch von Nachrichten und Besitztümern für alle, einschließlich Mr. Laurence, Hannah und dem Gärtner der Laurence, genutzt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: My lady's tongue is like the meadow blades, That cut you stroking them with idle hand. Nice cutting is her function: she divides With spiritual edge the millet-seed, And makes intangible savings. As Mr. Casaubon's carriage was passing out of the gateway, it arrested the entrance of a pony phaeton driven by a lady with a servant seated behind. It was doubtful whether the recognition had been mutual, for Mr. Casaubon was looking absently before him; but the lady was quick-eyed, and threw a nod and a "How do you do?" in the nick of time. In spite of her shabby bonnet and very old Indian shawl, it was plain that the lodge-keeper regarded her as an important personage, from the low curtsy which was dropped on the entrance of the small phaeton. "Well, Mrs. Fitchett, how are your fowls laying now?" said the high-colored, dark-eyed lady, with the clearest chiselled utterance. "Pretty well for laying, madam, but they've ta'en to eating their eggs: I've no peace o' mind with 'em at all." "Oh, the cannibals! Better sell them cheap at once. What will you sell them a couple? One can't eat fowls of a bad character at a high price." "Well, madam, half-a-crown: I couldn't let 'em go, not under." "Half-a-crown, these times! Come now--for the Rector's chicken-broth on a Sunday. He has consumed all ours that I can spare. You are half paid with the sermon, Mrs. Fitchett, remember that. Take a pair of tumbler-pigeons for them--little beauties. You must come and see them. You have no tumblers among your pigeons." "Well, madam, Master Fitchett shall go and see 'em after work. He's very hot on new sorts; to oblige you." "Oblige me! It will be the best bargain he ever made. A pair of church pigeons for a couple of wicked Spanish fowls that eat their own eggs! Don't you and Fitchett boast too much, that is all!" The phaeton was driven onwards with the last words, leaving Mrs. Fitchett laughing and shaking her head slowly, with an interjectional "Sure_ly_, sure_ly_!"--from which it might be inferred that she would have found the country-side somewhat duller if the Rector's lady had been less free-spoken and less of a skinflint. Indeed, both the farmers and laborers in the parishes of Freshitt and Tipton would have felt a sad lack of conversation but for the stories about what Mrs. Cadwallader said and did: a lady of immeasurably high birth, descended, as it were, from unknown earls, dim as the crowd of heroic shades--who pleaded poverty, pared down prices, and cut jokes in the most companionable manner, though with a turn of tongue that let you know who she was. Such a lady gave a neighborliness to both rank and religion, and mitigated the bitterness of uncommuted tithe. A much more exemplary character with an infusion of sour dignity would not have furthered their comprehension of the Thirty-nine Articles, and would have been less socially uniting. Mr. Brooke, seeing Mrs. Cadwallader's merits from a different point of view, winced a little when her name was announced in the library, where he was sitting alone. "I see you have had our Lowick Cicero here," she said, seating herself comfortably, throwing back her wraps, and showing a thin but well-built figure. "I suspect you and he are brewing some bad polities, else you would not be seeing so much of the lively man. I shall inform against you: remember you are both suspicious characters since you took Peel's side about the Catholic Bill. I shall tell everybody that you are going to put up for Middlemarch on the Whig side when old Pinkerton resigns, and that Casaubon is going to help you in an underhand manner: going to bribe the voters with pamphlets, and throw open the public-houses to distribute them. Come, confess!" "Nothing of the sort," said Mr. Brooke, smiling and rubbing his eye-glasses, but really blushing a little at the impeachment. "Casaubon and I don't talk politics much. He doesn't care much about the philanthropic side of things; punishments, and that kind of thing. He only cares about Church questions. That is not my line of action, you know." "Ra-a-ther too much, my friend. I have heard of your doings. Who was it that sold his bit of land to the Papists at Middlemarch? I believe you bought it on purpose. You are a perfect Guy Faux. See if you are not burnt in effigy this 5th of November coming. Humphrey would not come to quarrel with you about it, so I am come." "Very good. I was prepared to be persecuted for not persecuting--not persecuting, you know." "There you go! That is a piece of clap-trap you have got ready for the hustings. Now, _do not_ let them lure you to the hustings, my dear Mr. Brooke. A man always makes a fool of himself, speechifying: there's no excuse but being on the right side, so that you can ask a blessing on your humming and hawing. You will lose yourself, I forewarn you. You will make a Saturday pie of all parties' opinions, and be pelted by everybody." "That is what I expect, you know," said Mr. Brooke, not wishing to betray how little he enjoyed this prophetic sketch--"what I expect as an independent man. As to the Whigs, a man who goes with the thinkers is not likely to be hooked on by any party. He may go with them up to a certain point--up to a certain point, you know. But that is what you ladies never understand." "Where your certain point is? No. I should like to be told how a man can have any certain point when he belongs to no party--leading a roving life, and never letting his friends know his address. 'Nobody knows where Brooke will be--there's no counting on Brooke'--that is what people say of you, to be quite frank. Now, do turn respectable. How will you like going to Sessions with everybody looking shy on you, and you with a bad conscience and an empty pocket?" "I don't pretend to argue with a lady on politics," said Mr. Brooke, with an air of smiling indifference, but feeling rather unpleasantly conscious that this attack of Mrs. Cadwallader's had opened the defensive campaign to which certain rash steps had exposed him. "Your sex are not thinkers, you know--varium et mutabile semper--that kind of thing. You don't know Virgil. I knew"--Mr. Brooke reflected in time that he had not had the personal acquaintance of the Augustan poet--"I was going to say, poor Stoddart, you know. That was what _he_ said. You ladies are always against an independent attitude--a man's caring for nothing but truth, and that sort of thing. And there is no part of the county where opinion is narrower than it is here--I don't mean to throw stones, you know, but somebody is wanted to take the independent line; and if I don't take it, who will?" "Who? Why, any upstart who has got neither blood nor position. People of standing should consume their independent nonsense at home, not hawk it about. And you! who are going to marry your niece, as good as your daughter, to one of our best men. Sir James would be cruelly annoyed: it will be too hard on him if you turn round now and make yourself a Whig sign-board." Mr. Brooke again winced inwardly, for Dorothea's engagement had no sooner been decided, than he had thought of Mrs. Cadwallader's prospective taunts. It might have been easy for ignorant observers to say, "Quarrel with Mrs. Cadwallader;" but where is a country gentleman to go who quarrels with his oldest neighbors? Who could taste the fine flavor in the name of Brooke if it were delivered casually, like wine without a seal? Certainly a man can only be cosmopolitan up to a certain point. "I hope Chettam and I shall always be good friends; but I am sorry to say there is no prospect of his marrying my niece," said Mr. Brooke, much relieved to see through the window that Celia was coming in. "Why not?" said Mrs. Cadwallader, with a sharp note of surprise. "It is hardly a fortnight since you and I were talking about it." "My niece has chosen another suitor--has chosen him, you know. I have had nothing to do with it. I should have preferred Chettam; and I should have said Chettam was the man any girl would have chosen. But there is no accounting for these things. Your sex is capricious, you know." "Why, whom do you mean to say that you are going to let her marry?" Mrs. Cadwallader's mind was rapidly surveying the possibilities of choice for Dorothea. But here Celia entered, blooming from a walk in the garden, and the greeting with her delivered Mr. Brooke from the necessity of answering immediately. He got up hastily, and saying, "By the way, I must speak to Wright about the horses," shuffled quickly out of the room. "My dear child, what is this?--this about your sister's engagement?" said Mrs. Cadwallader. "She is engaged to marry Mr. Casaubon," said Celia, resorting, as usual, to the simplest statement of fact, and enjoying this opportunity of speaking to the Rector's wife alone. "This is frightful. How long has it been going on?" "I only knew of it yesterday. They are to be married in six weeks." "Well, my dear, I wish you joy of your brother-in-law." "I am so sorry for Dorothea." "Sorry! It is her doing, I suppose." "Yes; she says Mr. Casaubon has a great soul." "With all my heart." "Oh, Mrs. Cadwallader, I don't think it can be nice to marry a man with a great soul." "Well, my dear, take warning. You know the look of one now; when the next comes and wants to marry you, don't you accept him." "I'm sure I never should." "No; one such in a family is enough. So your sister never cared about Sir James Chettam? What would you have said to _him_ for a brother-in-law?" "I should have liked that very much. I am sure he would have been a good husband. Only," Celia added, with a slight blush (she sometimes seemed to blush as she breathed), "I don't think he would have suited Dorothea." "Not high-flown enough?" "Dodo is very strict. She thinks so much about everything, and is so particular about what one says. Sir James never seemed to please her." "She must have encouraged him, I am sure. That is not very creditable." "Please don't be angry with Dodo; she does not see things. She thought so much about the cottages, and she was rude to Sir James sometimes; but he is so kind, he never noticed it." "Well," said Mrs. Cadwallader, putting on her shawl, and rising, as if in haste, "I must go straight to Sir James and break this to him. He will have brought his mother back by this time, and I must call. Your uncle will never tell him. We are all disappointed, my dear. Young people should think of their families in marrying. I set a bad example--married a poor clergyman, and made myself a pitiable object among the De Bracys--obliged to get my coals by stratagem, and pray to heaven for my salad oil. However, Casaubon has money enough; I must do him that justice. As to his blood, I suppose the family quarterings are three cuttle-fish sable, and a commentator rampant. By the bye, before I go, my dear, I must speak to your Mrs. Carter about pastry. I want to send my young cook to learn of her. Poor people with four children, like us, you know, can't afford to keep a good cook. I have no doubt Mrs. Carter will oblige me. Sir James's cook is a perfect dragon." In less than an hour, Mrs. Cadwallader had circumvented Mrs. Carter and driven to Freshitt Hall, which was not far from her own parsonage, her husband being resident in Freshitt and keeping a curate in Tipton. Sir James Chettam had returned from the short journey which had kept him absent for a couple of days, and had changed his dress, intending to ride over to Tipton Grange. His horse was standing at the door when Mrs. Cadwallader drove up, and he immediately appeared there himself, whip in hand. Lady Chettam had not yet returned, but Mrs. Cadwallader's errand could not be despatched in the presence of grooms, so she asked to be taken into the conservatory close by, to look at the new plants; and on coming to a contemplative stand, she said-- "I have a great shock for you; I hope you are not so far gone in love as you pretended to be." It was of no use protesting, against Mrs. Cadwallader's way of putting things. But Sir James's countenance changed a little. He felt a vague alarm. "I do believe Brooke is going to expose himself after all. I accused him of meaning to stand for Middlemarch on the Liberal side, and he looked silly and never denied it--talked about the independent line, and the usual nonsense." "Is that all?" said Sir James, much relieved. "Why," rejoined Mrs. Cadwallader, with a sharper note, "you don't mean to say that you would like him to turn public man in that way--making a sort of political Cheap Jack of himself?" "He might be dissuaded, I should think. He would not like the expense." "That is what I told him. He is vulnerable to reason there--always a few grains of common-sense in an ounce of miserliness. Miserliness is a capital quality to run in families; it's the safe side for madness to dip on. And there must be a little crack in the Brooke family, else we should not see what we are to see." "What? Brooke standing for Middlemarch?" "Worse than that. I really feel a little responsible. I always told you Miss Brooke would be such a fine match. I knew there was a great deal of nonsense in her--a flighty sort of Methodistical stuff. But these things wear out of girls. However, I am taken by surprise for once." "What do you mean, Mrs. Cadwallader?" said Sir James. His fear lest Miss Brooke should have run away to join the Moravian Brethren, or some preposterous sect unknown to good society, was a little allayed by the knowledge that Mrs. Cadwallader always made the worst of things. "What has happened to Miss Brooke? Pray speak out." "Very well. She is engaged to be married." Mrs. Cadwallader paused a few moments, observing the deeply hurt expression in her friend's face, which he was trying to conceal by a nervous smile, while he whipped his boot; but she soon added, "Engaged to Casaubon." Sir James let his whip fall and stooped to pick it up. Perhaps his face had never before gathered so much concentrated disgust as when he turned to Mrs. Cadwallader and repeated, "Casaubon?" "Even so. You know my errand now." "Good God! It is horrible! He is no better than a mummy!" (The point of view has to be allowed for, as that of a blooming and disappointed rival.) "She says, he is a great soul.--A great bladder for dried peas to rattle in!" said Mrs. Cadwallader. "What business has an old bachelor like that to marry?" said Sir James. "He has one foot in the grave." "He means to draw it out again, I suppose." "Brooke ought not to allow it: he should insist on its being put off till she is of age. She would think better of it then. What is a guardian for?" "As if you could ever squeeze a resolution out of Brooke!" "Cadwallader might talk to him." "Not he! Humphrey finds everybody charming. I never can get him to abuse Casaubon. He will even speak well of the bishop, though I tell him it is unnatural in a beneficed clergyman; what can one do with a husband who attends so little to the decencies? I hide it as well as I can by abusing everybody myself. Come, come, cheer up! you are well rid of Miss Brooke, a girl who would have been requiring you to see the stars by daylight. Between ourselves, little Celia is worth two of her, and likely after all to be the better match. For this marriage to Casaubon is as good as going to a nunnery." "Oh, on my own account--it is for Miss Brooke's sake I think her friends should try to use their influence." "Well, Humphrey doesn't know yet. But when I tell him, you may depend on it he will say, 'Why not? Casaubon is a good fellow--and young--young enough.' These charitable people never know vinegar from wine till they have swallowed it and got the colic. However, if I were a man I should prefer Celia, especially when Dorothea was gone. The truth is, you have been courting one and have won the other. I can see that she admires you almost as much as a man expects to be admired. If it were any one but me who said so, you might think it exaggeration. Good-by!" Sir James handed Mrs. Cadwallader to the phaeton, and then jumped on his horse. He was not going to renounce his ride because of his friend's unpleasant news--only to ride the faster in some other direction than that of Tipton Grange. Now, why on earth should Mrs. Cadwallader have been at all busy about Miss Brooke's marriage; and why, when one match that she liked to think she had a hand in was frustrated, should she have straightway contrived the preliminaries of another? Was there any ingenious plot, any hide-and-seek course of action, which might be detected by a careful telescopic watch? Not at all: a telescope might have swept the parishes of Tipton and Freshitt, the whole area visited by Mrs. Cadwallader in her phaeton, without witnessing any interview that could excite suspicion, or any scene from which she did not return with the same unperturbed keenness of eye and the same high natural color. In fact, if that convenient vehicle had existed in the days of the Seven Sages, one of them would doubtless have remarked, that you can know little of women by following them about in their pony-phaetons. Even with a microscope directed on a water-drop we find ourselves making interpretations which turn out to be rather coarse; for whereas under a weak lens you may seem to see a creature exhibiting an active voracity into which other smaller creatures actively play as if they were so many animated tax-pennies, a stronger lens reveals to you certain tiniest hairlets which make vortices for these victims while the swallower waits passively at his receipt of custom. In this way, metaphorically speaking, a strong lens applied to Mrs. Cadwallader's match-making will show a play of minute causes producing what may be called thought and speech vortices to bring her the sort of food she needed. Her life was rurally simple, quite free from secrets either foul, dangerous, or otherwise important, and not consciously affected by the great affairs of the world. All the more did the affairs of the great world interest her, when communicated in the letters of high-born relations: the way in which fascinating younger sons had gone to the dogs by marrying their mistresses; the fine old-blooded idiocy of young Lord Tapir, and the furious gouty humors of old Lord Megatherium; the exact crossing of genealogies which had brought a coronet into a new branch and widened the relations of scandal,--these were topics of which she retained details with the utmost accuracy, and reproduced them in an excellent pickle of epigrams, which she herself enjoyed the more because she believed as unquestionably in birth and no-birth as she did in game and vermin. She would never have disowned any one on the ground of poverty: a De Bracy reduced to take his dinner in a basin would have seemed to her an example of pathos worth exaggerating, and I fear his aristocratic vices would not have horrified her. But her feeling towards the vulgar rich was a sort of religious hatred: they had probably made all their money out of high retail prices, and Mrs. Cadwallader detested high prices for everything that was not paid in kind at the Rectory: such people were no part of God's design in making the world; and their accent was an affliction to the ears. A town where such monsters abounded was hardly more than a sort of low comedy, which could not be taken account of in a well-bred scheme of the universe. Let any lady who is inclined to be hard on Mrs. Cadwallader inquire into the comprehensiveness of her own beautiful views, and be quite sure that they afford accommodation for all the lives which have the honor to coexist with hers. With such a mind, active as phosphorus, biting everything that came near into the form that suited it, how could Mrs. Cadwallader feel that the Miss Brookes and their matrimonial prospects were alien to her? especially as it had been the habit of years for her to scold Mr. Brooke with the friendliest frankness, and let him know in confidence that she thought him a poor creature. From the first arrival of the young ladies in Tipton she had prearranged Dorothea's marriage with Sir James, and if it had taken place would have been quite sure that it was her doing: that it should not take place after she had preconceived it, caused her an irritation which every thinker will sympathize with. She was the diplomatist of Tipton and Freshitt, and for anything to happen in spite of her was an offensive irregularity. As to freaks like this of Miss Brooke's, Mrs. Cadwallader had no patience with them, and now saw that her opinion of this girl had been infected with some of her husband's weak charitableness: those Methodistical whims, that air of being more religious than the rector and curate together, came from a deeper and more constitutional disease than she had been willing to believe. "However," said Mrs. Cadwallader, first to herself and afterwards to her husband, "I throw her over: there was a chance, if she had married Sir James, of her becoming a sane, sensible woman. He would never have contradicted her, and when a woman is not contradicted, she has no motive for obstinacy in her absurdities. But now I wish her joy of her hair shirt." It followed that Mrs. Cadwallader must decide on another match for Sir James, and having made up her mind that it was to be the younger Miss Brooke, there could not have been a more skilful move towards the success of her plan than her hint to the baronet that he had made an impression on Celia's heart. For he was not one of those gentlemen who languish after the unattainable Sappho's apple that laughs from the topmost bough--the charms which "Smile like the knot of cowslips on the cliff, Not to be come at by the willing hand." He had no sonnets to write, and it could not strike him agreeably that he was not an object of preference to the woman whom he had preferred. Already the knowledge that Dorothea had chosen Mr. Casaubon had bruised his attachment and relaxed its hold. Although Sir James was a sportsman, he had some other feelings towards women than towards grouse and foxes, and did not regard his future wife in the light of prey, valuable chiefly for the excitements of the chase. Neither was he so well acquainted with the habits of primitive races as to feel that an ideal combat for her, tomahawk in hand, so to speak, was necessary to the historical continuity of the marriage-tie. On the contrary, having the amiable vanity which knits us to those who are fond of us, and disinclines us to those who are indifferent, and also a good grateful nature, the mere idea that a woman had a kindness towards him spun little threads of tenderness from out his heart towards hers. Thus it happened, that after Sir James had ridden rather fast for half an hour in a direction away from Tipton Grange, he slackened his pace, and at last turned into a road which would lead him back by a shorter cut. Various feelings wrought in him the determination after all to go to the Grange to-day as if nothing new had happened. He could not help rejoicing that he had never made the offer and been rejected; mere friendly politeness required that he should call to see Dorothea about the cottages, and now happily Mrs. Cadwallader had prepared him to offer his congratulations, if necessary, without showing too much awkwardness. He really did not like it: giving up Dorothea was very painful to him; but there was something in the resolve to make this visit forthwith and conquer all show of feeling, which was a sort of file-biting and counter-irritant. And without his distinctly recognizing the impulse, there certainly was present in him the sense that Celia would be there, and that he should pay her more attention than he had done before. Wir Sterblichen, Männer und Frauen, verschlingen so manch eine Enttäuschung zwischen Frühstück und Abendessen; wir halten die Tränen zurück, sehen ein wenig blass um die Lippen aus und antworten auf Nachfragen nur mit "Oh, nichts!". Stolz hilft uns dabei; und Stolz ist keine schlechte Sache, solange er uns nur dazu treibt, unsere eigenen Verletzungen zu verbergen - nicht andere zu verletzen. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Der langsame, aber unaufhaltbare Fortschritt von Dorotheas bevorstehender Hochzeit wird hier durch eine lebendige Abwechslung unterbrochen. Die geizige und aufgeschlossene Mrs. Cadwallader, ohne die "die Gegend etwas langweiliger wäre", tritt auf den Plan. Als Ehefrau des Pfarrers der Gemeinde Tipton ist bekannt, dass sie "von unbekannten Grafen abstammt", eine Tatsache, die sie nie jemanden vergessen lässt. Sie besucht Brookes Haus in der Vermutung, dass es "eine Geschichte" hinter Casaubons häufigen Besuchen gibt. Mr. Brooke fürchtet ihre spöttische Zunge und zögert damit, ihr von der Verlobung zu erzählen, aber Celia informiert sie darüber. Voller Missbilligung flitzt die Dorfklatsche nach Freshitt, Chettams Anwesen, um ihm von der Zerstörung seiner Hoffnungen zu berichten. Während er noch seine Wunden leckt, gibt ihm Mrs. Cadwallader muntere Ratschläge, Dorothea zu vergessen und Celia als weit bessere Partie in Betracht zu ziehen. Sie deutet an, dass Celia bereits Interesse an ihm zeigt. Sir James fühlt sich unglücklich, aber beruhigt durch zwei Tatsachen: dass er noch nicht offiziell um ihre Hand angehalten und eine Ablehnung erhalten hat; und dass Celia sich im Grange aufhält und er ihr mehr Aufmerksamkeit schenken könnte.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Dearest People, Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel, Piccadilly. It's not a fashionable place, but Uncle stopped here years ago, and won't go anywhere else. However, we don't mean to stay long, so it's no great matter. Oh, I can't begin to tell you how I enjoy it all! I never can, so I'll only give you bits out of my notebook, for I've done nothing but sketch and scribble since I started. I sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable, but after that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with plenty of pleasant people to amuse me. Everyone was very kind to me, especially the officers. Don't laugh, Jo, gentlemen really are very necessary aboard ship, to hold on to, or to wait upon one, and as they have nothing to do, it's a mercy to make them useful, otherwise they would smoke themselves to death, I'm afraid. Aunt and Flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let alone, so when I had done what I could for them, I went and enjoyed myself. Such walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid air and waves! It was almost as exciting as riding a fast horse, when we went rushing on so grandly. I wish Beth could have come, it would have done her so much good. As for Jo, she would have gone up and sat on the maintop jib, or whatever the high thing is called, made friends with the engineers, and tooted on the captain's speaking trumpet, she'd have been in such a state of rapture. It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and found it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here and there, ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen's countryseats in the valleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It was early in the morning, but I didn't regret getting up to see it, for the bay was full of little boats, the shore so picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I never shall forget it. At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us, Mr. Lennox, and when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney, he sighed, and sung, with a look at me... "Oh, have you e'er heard of Kate Kearney? She lives on the banks of Killarney; From the glance of her eye, Shun danger and fly, For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney." Wasn't that nonsensical? We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It's a dirty, noisy place, and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a pair of dogskin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an umbrella, and got shaved _a la_ mutton chop, the first thing. Then he flattered himself that he looked like a true Briton, but the first time he had the mud cleaned off his shoes, the little bootblack knew that an American stood in them, and said, with a grin, "There yer har, sir. I've given 'em the latest Yankee shine." It amused Uncle immensely. Oh, I must tell you what that absurd Lennox did! He got his friend Ward, who came on with us, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing I saw in my room was a lovely one, with "Robert Lennox's compliments," on the card. Wasn't that fun, girls? I like traveling. I never shall get to London if I don't hurry. The trip was like riding through a long picture gallery, full of lovely landscapes. The farmhouses were my delight, with thatched roofs, ivy up to the eaves, latticed windows, and stout women with rosy children at the doors. The very cattle looked more tranquil than ours, as they stood knee-deep in clover, and the hens had a contented cluck, as if they never got nervous like Yankee biddies. Such perfect color I never saw, the grass so green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark, I was in a rapture all the way. So was Flo, and we kept bouncing from one side to the other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along at the rate of sixty miles an hour. Aunt was tired and went to sleep, but Uncle read his guidebook, and wouldn't be astonished at anything. This is the way we went on. Amy, flying up--"Oh, that must be Kenilworth, that gray place among the trees!" Flo, darting to my window--"How sweet! We must go there sometime, won't we Papa?" Uncle, calmly admiring his boots--"No, my dear, not unless you want beer, that's a brewery." A pause--then Flo cried out, "Bless me, there's a gallows and a man going up." "Where, where?" shrieks Amy, staring out at two tall posts with a crossbeam and some dangling chains. "A colliery," remarks Uncle, with a twinkle of the eye. "Here's a lovely flock of lambs all lying down," says Amy. "See, Papa, aren't they pretty?" added Flo sentimentally. "Geese, young ladies," returns Uncle, in a tone that keeps us quiet till Flo settles down to enjoy the _Flirtations of Captain Cavendish_, and I have the scenery all to myself. Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was nothing to be seen but fog and umbrellas. We rested, unpacked, and shopped a little between the showers. Aunt Mary got me some new things, for I came off in such a hurry I wasn't half ready. A white hat and blue feather, a muslin dress to match, and the loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping in Regent Street is perfectly splendid. Things seem so cheap, nice ribbons only sixpence a yard. I laid in a stock, but shall get my gloves in Paris. Doesn't that sound sort of elegant and rich? Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while Aunt and Uncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned afterward that it wasn't the thing for young ladies to ride in them alone. It was so droll! For when we were shut in by the wooden apron, the man drove so fast that Flo was frightened, and told me to stop him, but he was up outside behind somewhere, and I couldn't get at him. He didn't hear me call, nor see me flap my parasol in front, and there we were, quite helpless, rattling away, and whirling around corners at a breakneck pace. At last, in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and on poking it open, a red eye appeared, and a beery voice said... "Now, then, mum?" I gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down the door, with an "Aye, aye, mum," the man made his horse walk, as if going to a funeral. I poked again and said, "A little faster," then off he went, helter-skelter as before, and we resigned ourselves to our fate. Today was fair, and we went to Hyde Park, close by, for we are more aristocratic than we look. The Duke of Devonshire lives near. I often see his footmen lounging at the back gate, and the Duke of Wellington's house is not far off. Such sights as I saw, my dear! It was as good as Punch, for there were fat dowagers rolling about in their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous Jeameses in silk stockings and velvet coats, up behind, and powdered coachmen in front. Smart maids, with the rosiest children I ever saw, handsome girls, looking half asleep, dandies in queer English hats and lavender kids lounging about, and tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin caps stuck on one side, looking so funny I longed to sketch them. Rotten Row means 'Route de Roi', or the king's way, but now it's more like a riding school than anything else. The horses are splendid, and the men, especially the grooms, ride well, but the women are stiff, and bounce, which isn't according to our rules. I longed to show them a tearing American gallop, for they trotted solemnly up and down, in their scant habits and high hats, looking like the women in a toy Noah's Ark. Everyone rides--old men, stout ladies, little children--and the young folks do a deal of flirting here, I saw a pair exchange rose buds, for it's the thing to wear one in the button-hole, and I thought it rather a nice little idea. In the P.M. to Westminster Abbey, but don't expect me to describe it, that's impossible, so I'll only say it was sublime! This evening we are going to see Fechter, which will be an appropriate end to the happiest day of my life. It's very late, but I can't let my letter go in the morning without telling you what happened last evening. Who do you think came in, as we were at tea? Laurie's English friends, Fred and Frank Vaughn! I was so surprised, for I shouldn't have known them but for the cards. Both are tall fellows with whiskers, Fred handsome in the English style, and Frank much better, for he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches. They had heard from Laurie where we were to be, and came to ask us to their house, but Uncle won't go, so we shall return the call, and see them as we can. They went to the theater with us, and we did have such a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and Fred and I talked over past, present, and future fun as if we had known each other all our days. Tell Beth Frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of her ill health. Fred laughed when I spoke of Jo, and sent his 'respectful compliments to the big hat'. Neither of them had forgotten Camp Laurence, or the fun we had there. What ages ago it seems, doesn't it? Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must stop. I really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing here so late, with my room full of pretty things, and my head a jumble of parks, theaters, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say "Ah!" and twirl their blond mustaches with the true English lordliness. I long to see you all, and in spite of my nonsense am, as ever, your loving... AMY PARIS Dear girls, In my last I told you about our London visit, how kind the Vaughns were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I enjoyed the trips to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum more than anything else, for at Hampton I saw Raphael's cartoons, and at the Museum, rooms full of pictures by Turner, Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other great creatures. The day in Richmond Park was charming, for we had a regular English picnic, and I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I could copy, also heard a nightingale, and saw larks go up. We 'did' London to our heart's content, thanks to Fred and Frank, and were sorry to go away, for though English people are slow to take you in, when they once make up their minds to do it they cannot be outdone in hospitality, I think. The Vaughns hope to meet us in Rome next winter, and I shall be dreadfully disappointed if they don't, for Grace and I are great friends, and the boys very nice fellows, especially Fred. Well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again, saying he had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland. Aunt looked sober at first, but he was so cool about it she couldn't say a word. And now we get on nicely, and are very glad he came, for he speaks French like a native, and I don't know what we should do without him. Uncle doesn't know ten words, and insists on talking English very loud, as if it would make people understand him. Aunt's pronunciation is old-fashioned, and Flo and I, though we flattered ourselves that we knew a good deal, find we don't, and are very grateful to have Fred do the '_parley vooing_', as Uncle calls it. Such delightful times as we are having! Sight-seeing from morning till night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay _cafes_, and meeting with all sorts of droll adventures. Rainy days I spend in the Louvre, revelling in pictures. Jo would turn up her naughty nose at some of the finest, because she has no soul for art, but I have, and I'm cultivating eye and taste as fast as I can. She would like the relics of great people better, for I've seen her Napoleon's cocked hat and gray coat, his baby's cradle and his old toothbrush, also Marie Antoinette's little shoe, the ring of Saint Denis, Charlemagne's sword, and many other interesting things. I'll talk for hours about them when I come, but haven't time to write. The Palais Royale is a heavenly place, so full of _bijouterie_ and lovely things that I'm nearly distracted because I can't buy them. Fred wanted to get me some, but of course I didn't allow it. Then the Bois and Champs Elysees are _tres magnifique_. I've seen the imperial family several times, the emperor an ugly, hard-looking man, the empress pale and pretty, but dressed in bad taste, I thought--purple dress, green hat, and yellow gloves. Little Nap is a handsome boy, who sits chatting to his tutor, and kisses his hand to the people as he passes in his four-horse barouche, with postilions in red satin jackets and a mounted guard before and behind. We often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are lovely, though the antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better. Pere la Chaise is very curious, for many of the tombs are like small rooms, and looking in, one sees a table, with images or pictures of the dead, and chairs for the mourners to sit in when they come to lament. That is so Frenchy. Our rooms are on the Rue de Rivoli, and sitting on the balcony, we look up and down the long, brilliant street. It is so pleasant that we spend our evenings talking there when too tired with our day's work to go out. Fred is very entertaining, and is altogether the most agreeable young man I ever knew--except Laurie, whose manners are more charming. I wish Fred was dark, for I don't fancy light men, however, the Vaughns are very rich and come of an excellent family, so I won't find fault with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower. Next week we are off to Germany and Switzerland, and as we shall travel fast, I shall only be able to give you hasty letters. I keep my diary, and try to 'remember correctly and describe clearly all that I see and admire', as Father advised. It is good practice for me, and with my sketchbook will give you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles. Adieu, I embrace you tenderly. _"Votre Amie."_ HEIDELBERG My dear Mamma, Having a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I'll try to tell you what has happened, for some of it is very important, as you will see. The sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed it with all my might. Get Father's old guidebooks and read about it. I haven't words beautiful enough to describe it. At Coblentz we had a lovely time, for some students from Bonn, with whom Fred got acquainted on the boat, gave us a serenade. It was a moonlight night, and about one o'clock Flo and I were waked by the most delicious music under our windows. We flew up, and hid behind the curtains, but sly peeps showed us Fred and the students singing away down below. It was the most romantic thing I ever saw--the river, the bridge of boats, the great fortress opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart of stone. When they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw them scramble for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and go laughing away, to smoke and drink beer, I suppose. Next morning Fred showed me one of the crumpled flowers in his vest pocket, and looked very sentimental. I laughed at him, and said I didn't throw it, but Flo, which seemed to disgust him, for he tossed it out of the window, and turned sensible again. I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble with that boy, it begins to look like it. The baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden-Baden, where Fred lost some money, and I scolded him. He needs someone to look after him when Frank is not with him. Kate said once she hoped he'd marry soon, and I quite agree with her that it would be well for him. Frankfurt was delightful. I saw Goethe's house, Schiller's statue, and Dannecker's famous 'Ariadne.' It was very lovely, but I should have enjoyed it more if I had known the story better. I didn't like to ask, as everyone knew it or pretended they did. I wish Jo would tell me all about it. I ought to have read more, for I find I don't know anything, and it mortifies me. Now comes the serious part, for it happened here, and Fred has just gone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite fond of him. I never thought of anything but a traveling friendship till the serenade night. Since then I've begun to feel that the moonlight walks, balcony talks, and daily adventures were something more to him than fun. I haven't flirted, Mother, truly, but remembered what you said to me, and have done my very best. I can't help it if people like me. I don't try to make them, and it worries me if I don't care for them, though Jo says I haven't got any heart. Now I know Mother will shake her head, and the girls say, "Oh, the mercenary little wretch!", but I've made up my mind, and if Fred asks me, I shall accept him, though I'm not madly in love. I like him, and we get on comfortably together. He is handsome, young, clever enough, and very rich--ever so much richer than the Laurences. I don't think his family would object, and I should be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous people, and they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have the estate, I suppose, and such a splendid one it is! A city house in a fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses, but twice as comfortable and full of solid luxury, such as English people believe in. I like it, for it's genuine. I've seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants, and pictures of the country place, with its park, great house, lovely grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be all I should ask! And I'd rather have it than any title such as girls snap up so readily, and find nothing behind. I may be mercenary, but I hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer than I can help. One of us _must_ marry well. Meg didn't, Jo won't, Beth can't yet, so I shall, and make everything okay all round. I wouldn't marry a man I hated or despised. You may be sure of that, and though Fred is not my model hero, he does very well, and in time I should get fond enough of him if he was very fond of me, and let me do just as I liked. So I've been turning the matter over in my mind the last week, for it was impossible to help seeing that Fred liked me. He said nothing, but little things showed it. He never goes with Flo, always gets on my side of the carriage, table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we are alone, and frowns at anyone else who ventures to speak to me. Yesterday at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us and then said something to his friend, a rakish-looking baron, about '_ein wonderschones Blondchen'_, Fred looked as fierce as a lion, and cut his meat so savagely it nearly flew off his plate. He isn't one of the cool, stiff Englishmen, but is rather peppery, for he has Scotch blood in him, as one might guess from his bonnie blue eyes. Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset, at least all of us but Fred, who was to meet us there after going to the Post Restante for letters. We had a charming time poking about the ruins, the vaults where the monster tun is, and the beautiful gardens made by the elector long ago for his English wife. I liked the great terrace best, for the view was divine, so while the rest went to see the rooms inside, I sat there trying to sketch the gray stone lion's head on the wall, with scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it. I felt as if I'd got into a romance, sitting there, watching the Neckar rolling through the valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band below, and waiting for my lover, like a real storybook girl. I had a feeling that something was going to happen and I was ready for it. I didn't feel blushy or quakey, but quite cool and only a little excited. By-and-by I heard Fred's voice, and then he came hurrying through the great arch to find me. He looked so troubled that I forgot all about myself, and asked what the matter was. He said he'd just got a letter begging him to come home, for Frank was very ill. So he was going at once on the night train and only had time to say good-by. I was very sorry for him, and disappointed for myself, but only for a minute because he said, as he shook hands, and said it in a way that I could not mistake, "I shall soon come back, you won't forget me, Amy?" I didn't promise, but I looked at him, and he seemed satisfied, and there was no time for anything but messages and good-byes, for he was off in an hour, and we all miss him very much. I know he wanted to speak, but I think, from something he once hinted, that he had promised his father not to do anything of the sort yet a while, for he is a rash boy, and the old gentleman dreads a foreign daughter-in-law. We shall soon meet in Rome, and then, if I don't change my mind, I'll say "Yes, thank you," when he says "Will you, please?" Of course this is all _very private_, but I wished you to know what was going on. Don't be anxious about me, remember I am your 'prudent Amy', and be sure I will do nothing rashly. Send me as much advice as you like. I'll use it if I can. I wish I could see you for a good talk, Marmee. Love and trust me. Ever your AMY Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Unsere Auslandskorrespondentin Amy schickt mehrere Briefe aus Europa, in denen sie ihre Erlebnisse in England, Frankreich, Deutschland und der Schweiz schildert. Sie sagt, dass sie versucht, jede schöne Sehenswürdigkeit aufzunehmen. Unterwegs trifft sie auf Fred und Frank Vaughn, Lauries englische Freunde. Sie verbringt viel Zeit mit ihnen und Florence, der Tochter von Tante Carrol, und es wird klar, dass Fred an Amy interessiert ist. Sie beschließt, ihn zu akzeptieren, wenn er ihr einen Heiratsantrag macht. Sie ist nicht wahnsinnig verliebt in ihn, mag ihn aber und denkt, dass sein Vermögen der ganzen Familie helfen wird. Doch Fred erfährt, dass Frank sehr krank ist und abrupt abreisen muss. Fred bittet Amy, sich an ihn zu erinnern, und sagt ihr bedeutungsvoll, dass er bald zu ihr zurückkehren wird.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: AFTER a week Mrs. Lapham returned, leaving Irene alone at the old homestead in Vermont. "She's comfortable there--as comfortable as she can be anywheres, I guess," she said to her husband as they drove together from the station, where he had met her in obedience to her telegraphic summons. "She keeps herself busy helping about the house; and she goes round amongst the hands in their houses. There's sickness, and you know how helpful she is where there's sickness. She don't complain any. I don't know as I've heard a word out of her mouth since we left home; but I'm afraid it'll wear on her, Silas." "You don't look over and above well yourself, Persis," said her husband kindly. "Oh, don't talk about me. What I want to know is whether you can't get the time to run off with her somewhere. I wrote to you about Dubuque. She'll work herself down, I'm afraid; and THEN I don't know as she'll be over it. But if she could go off, and be amused--see new people----" "I could MAKE the time," said Lapham, "if I had to. But, as it happens, I've got to go out West on business,--I'll tell you about it,--and I'll take Irene along." "Good!" said his wife. "That's about the best thing I've heard yet. Where you going?" "Out Dubuque way." "Anything the matter with Bill's folks?" "No. It's business." "How's Pen?" "I guess she ain't much better than Irene." "He been about any?" "Yes. But I can't see as it helps matters much." "Tchk!" Mrs. Lapham fell back against the carriage cushions. "I declare, to see her willing to take the man that we all thought wanted her sister! I can't make it seem right." "It's right," said Lapham stoutly; "but I guess she ain't willing; I wish she was. But there don't seem to be any way out of the thing, anywhere. It's a perfect snarl. But I don't want you should be anyways ha'sh with Pen." Mrs. Lapham answered nothing; but when she met Penelope she gave the girl's wan face a sharp look, and began to whimper on her neck. Penelope's tears were all spent. "Well, mother," she said, "you come back almost as cheerful as you went away. I needn't ask if 'Rene's in good spirits. We all seem to be overflowing with them. I suppose this is one way of congratulating me. Mrs. Corey hasn't been round to do it yet." "Are you--are you engaged to him, Pen?" gasped her mother. "Judging by my feelings, I should say not. I feel as if it was a last will and testament. But you'd better ask him when he comes." "I can't bear to look at him." "I guess he's used to that. He don't seem to expect to be looked at. Well! we're all just where we started. I wonder how long it will keep up." Mrs. Lapham reported to her husband when he came home at night--he had left his business to go and meet her, and then, after a desolate dinner at the house, had returned to the office again--that Penelope was fully as bad as Irene. "And she don't know how to work it off. Irene keeps doing; but Pen just sits in her room and mopes. She don't even read. I went up this afternoon to scold her about the state the house was in--you can see that Irene's away by the perfect mess; but when I saw her through the crack of the door I hadn't the heart. She sat there with her hands in her lap, just staring. And, my goodness! she JUMPED so when she saw me; and then she fell back, and began to laugh, and said she, 'I thought it was my ghost, mother!' I felt as if I should give way." Lapham listened jadedly, and answered far from the point. "I guess I've got to start out there pretty soon, Persis." "How soon?" "Well, to-morrow morning." Mrs. Lapham sat silent. Then, "All right," she said. "I'll get you ready." "I shall run up to Lapham for Irene, and then I'll push on through Canada. I can get there about as quick." "Is it anything you can tell me about, Silas?" "Yes," said Lapham. "But it's a long story, and I guess you've got your hands pretty full as it is. I've been throwing good money after bad,--the usual way,--and now I've got to see if I can save the pieces." After a moment Mrs. Lapham asked, "Is it--Rogers?" "It's Rogers." "I didn't want you should get in any deeper with him." "No. You didn't want I should press him either; and I had to do one or the other. And so I got in deeper." "Silas," said his wife, "I'm afraid I made you!" "It's all right, Persis, as far forth as that goes. I was glad to make it up with him--I jumped at the chance. I guess Rogers saw that he had a soft thing in me, and he's worked it for all it was worth. But it'll all come out right in the end." Lapham said this as if he did not care to talk any more about it. He added casually, "Pretty near everybody but the fellows that owe ME seem to expect me to do a cash business, all of a sudden." "Do you mean that you've got payments to make, and that people are not paying YOU?" Lapham winced a little. "Something like that," he said, and he lighted a cigar. "But when I tell you it's all right, I mean it, Persis. I ain't going to let the grass grow under my feet, though,--especially while Rogers digs the ground away from the roots." "What are you going to do?" "If it has to come to that, I'm going to squeeze him." Lapham's countenance lighted up with greater joy than had yet visited it since the day they had driven out to Brookline. "Milton K. Rogers is a rascal, if you want to know; or else all the signs fail. But I guess he'll find he's got his come-uppance." Lapham shut his lips so that the short, reddish-grey beard stuck straight out on them. "What's he done?" "What's he done? Well, now, I'll tell you what he's done, Persis, since you think Rogers is such a saint, and that I used him so badly in getting him out of the business. He's been dabbling in every sort of fool thing you can lay your tongue to,--wild-cat stocks, patent-rights, land speculations, oil claims,--till he's run through about everything. But he did have a big milling property out on the line of the P. Y. & X.,--saw-mills and grist-mills and lands,--and for the last eight years he's been doing a land-office business with 'em--business that would have made anybody else rich. But you can't make Milton K. Rogers rich, any more than you can fat a hide-bound colt. It ain't in him. He'd run through Vanderbilt, Jay Gould, and Tom Scott rolled into one in less than six months, give him a chance, and come out and want to borrow money of you. Well, he won't borrow any more money of ME; and if he thinks I don't know as much about that milling property as he does he's mistaken. I've taken his mills, but I guess I've got the inside track; Bill's kept me posted; and now I'm going out there to see how I can unload; and I shan't mind a great deal if Rogers is under the load when it's off once." "I don't understand you, Silas." "Why, it's just this. The Great Lacustrine & Polar Railroad has leased the P. Y. & X. for ninety-nine years,--bought it, practically,--and it's going to build car-works right by those mills, and it may want them. And Milton K. Rogers knew it when he turned 'em in on me." "Well, if the road wants them, don't that make the mills valuable? You can get what you ask for them!" "Can I? The P. Y. & X. is the only road that runs within fifty miles of the mills, and you can't get a foot of lumber nor a pound of flour to market any other way. As long as he had a little local road like the P. Y. & X. to deal with, Rogers could manage; but when it come to a big through line like the G. L. & P., he couldn't stand any chance at all. If such a road as that took a fancy to his mills, do you think it would pay what he asked? No, sir! He would take what the road offered, or else the road would tell him to carry his flour and lumber to market himself." "And do you suppose he knew the G. L. & P. wanted the mills when he turned them in on you?" asked Mrs. Lapham aghast, and falling helplessly into his alphabetical parlance. The Colonel laughed scoffingly. "Well, when Milton K. Rogers don't know which side his bread's buttered on! I don't understand," he added thoughtfully, "how he's always letting it fall on the buttered side. But such a man as that is sure to have a screw loose in him somewhere." Mrs. Lapham sat discomfited. All that she could say was, "Well, I want you should ask yourself whether Rogers would ever have gone wrong, or got into these ways of his, if it hadn't been for your forcing him out of the business when you did. I want you should think whether you're not responsible for everything he's done since." "You go and get that bag of mine ready," said Lapham sullenly. "I guess I can take care of myself. And Milton K. Rogers too," he added. That evening Corey spent the time after dinner in his own room, with restless excursions to the library, where his mother sat with his father and sisters, and showed no signs of leaving them. At last, in coming down, he encountered her on the stairs, going up. They both stopped consciously. "I would like to speak with you, mother. I have been waiting to see you alone." "Come to my room," she said. "I have a feeling that you know what I want to say," he began there. She looked up at him where he stood by the chimney-piece, and tried to put a cheerful note into her questioning "Yes?" "Yes; and I have a feeling that you won't like it--that you won't approve of it. I wish you did--I wish you could!" "I'm used to liking and approving everything you do, Tom. If I don't like this at once, I shall try to like it--you know that--for your sake, whatever it is." "I'd better be short," he said, with a quick sigh. "It's about Miss Lapham." He hastened to add, "I hope it isn't surprising to you. I'd have told you before, if I could." "No, it isn't surprising. I was afraid--I suspected something of the kind." They were both silent in a painful silence. "Well, mother?" he asked at last. "If it's something you've quite made up mind to----" "It is!" "And if you've already spoken to her----" "I had to do that first, of course." "There would be no use of my saying anything, even if I disliked it." "You do dislike it!" "No--no! I can't say that. Of course I should have preferred it if you had chosen some nice girl among those that you had been brought up with--some friend or associate of your sisters, whose people we had known----" "Yes, I understand that, and I can assure you that I haven't been indifferent to your feelings. I have tried to consider them from the first, and it kept me hesitating in a way that I'm ashamed to think of; for it wasn't quite right towards--others. But your feelings and my sisters' have been in my mind, and if I couldn't yield to what I supposed they must be, entirely----" Even so good a son and brother as this, when it came to his love affair, appeared to think that he had yielded much in considering the feelings of his family at all. His mother hastened to comfort him. "I know--I know. I've seen for some time that this might happen, Tom, and I have prepared myself for it. I have talked it over with your father, and we both agreed from the beginning that you were not to be hampered by our feeling. Still--it is a surprise. It must be." "I know it. I can understand your feeling. But I'm sure that it's one that will last only while you don't know her well." "Oh, I'm sure of that, Tom. I'm sure that we shall all be fond of her,--for your sake at first, even--and I hope she'll like us." "I am quite certain of that," said Corey, with that confidence which experience does not always confirm in such cases. "And your taking it as you do lifts a tremendous load off me." But he sighed so heavily, and looked so troubled, that his mother said, "Well, now, you mustn't think of that any more. We wish what is for your happiness, my son, and we will gladly reconcile ourselves to anything that might have been disagreeable. I suppose we needn't speak of the family. We must both think alike about them. They have their--drawbacks, but they are thoroughly good people, and I satisfied myself the other night that they were not to be dreaded." She rose, and put her arm round his neck. "And I wish you joy, Tom! If she's half as good as you are, you will both be very happy." She was going to kiss him, but something in his looks stopped her--an absence, a trouble, which broke out in his words. "I must tell you, mother! There's been a complication--a mistake--that's a blight on me yet, and that it sometimes seems as if we couldn't escape from. I wonder if you can help us! They all thought I meant--the other sister." "O Tom! But how COULD they?" "I don't know. It seemed so glaringly plain--I was ashamed of making it so outright from the beginning. But they did. Even she did, herself!" "But where could they have thought your eyes were--your taste? It wouldn't be surprising if any one were taken with that wonderful beauty; and I'm sure she's good too. But I'm astonished at them! To think you could prefer that little, black, odd creature, with her joking and----" "MOTHER!" cried the young man, turning a ghastly face of warning upon her. "What do you mean, Tom?" "Did you--did--did you think so too--that it was IRENE I meant?" "Why, of course!" He stared at her hopelessly. "O my son!" she said, for all comment on the situation. "Don't reproach me, mother! I couldn't stand it." "No. I didn't mean to do that. But how--HOW could it happen?" "I don't know. When she first told me that they had understood it so, I laughed--almost--it was so far from me. But now when you seem to have had the same idea--Did you all think so?" "Yes." They remained looking at each other. Then Mrs. Corey began: "It did pass through my mind once--that day I went to call upon them--that it might not be as we thought; but I knew so little of--of----" "Penelope," Corey mechanically supplied. "Is that her name?--I forgot--that I only thought of you in relation to her long enough to reject the idea; and it was natural after our seeing something of the other one last year, that I might suppose you had formed some--attachment----" "Yes; that's what they thought too. But I never thought of her as anything but a pretty child. I was civil to her because you wished it; and when I met her here again, I only tried to see her so that I could talk with her about her sister." "You needn't defend yourself to ME, Tom," said his mother, proud to say it to him in his trouble. "It's a terrible business for them, poor things," she added. "I don't know how they could get over it. But, of course, sensible people must see----" "They haven't got over it. At least she hasn't. Since it's happened, there's been nothing that hasn't made me prouder and fonder of her! At first I WAS charmed with her--my fancy was taken; she delighted me--I don't know how; but she was simply the most fascinating person I ever saw. Now I never think of that. I only think how good she is--how patient she is with me, and how unsparing she is of herself. If she were concerned alone--if I were not concerned too--it would soon end. She's never had a thought for anything but her sister's feeling and mine from the beginning. I go there,--I know that I oughtn't, but I can't help it,--and she suffers it, and tries not to let me see that she is suffering it. There never was any one like her--so brave, so true, so noble. I won't give her up--I can't. But it breaks my heart when she accuses herself of what was all MY doing. We spend our time trying to reason out of it, but we always come back to it at last, and I have to hear her morbidly blaming herself. Oh!" Doubtless Mrs. Corey imagined some reliefs to this suffering, some qualifications of this sublimity in a girl she had disliked so distinctly; but she saw none in her son's behaviour, and she gave him her further sympathy. She tried to praise Penelope, and said that it was not to be expected that she could reconcile herself at once to everything. "I shouldn't have liked it in her if she had. But time will bring it all right. And if she really cares for you----" "I extorted that from her." "Well, then, you must look at it in the best light you can. There is no blame anywhere, and the mortification and pain is something that must be lived down. That's all. And don't let what I said grieve you, Tom. You know I scarcely knew her, and I--I shall be sure to like any one you like, after all." "Yes, I know," said the young man drearily. "Will you tell father?" "If you wish." "He must know. And I couldn't stand any more of this, just yet--any more mistake." "I will tell him," said Mrs. Corey; and it was naturally the next thing for a woman who dwelt so much on decencies to propose: "We must go to call on her--your sisters and I. They have never seen her even; and she mustn't be allowed to think we're indifferent to her, especially under the circumstances." "Oh no! Don't go--not yet," cried Corey, with an instinctive perception that nothing could be worse for him. "We must wait--we must be patient. I'm afraid it would be painful to her now." He turned away without speaking further; and his mother's eyes followed him wistfully to the door. There were some questions that she would have liked to ask him; but she had to content herself with trying to answer them when her husband put them to her. There was this comfort for her always in Bromfield Corey, that he never was much surprised at anything, however shocking or painful. His standpoint in regard to most matters was that of the sympathetic humorist who would be glad to have the victim of circumstance laugh with him, but was not too much vexed when the victim could not. He laughed now when his wife, with careful preparation, got the facts of his son's predicament fully under his eye. "Really, Bromfield," she said, "I don't see how you can laugh. Do you see any way out of it?" "It seems to me that the way has been found already. Tom has told his love to the right one, and the wrong one knows it. Time will do the rest." "If I had so low an opinion of them all as that, it would make me very unhappy. It's shocking to think of it." "It is upon the theory of ladies and all young people," said her husband, with a shrug, feeling his way to the matches on the mantel, and then dropping them with a sign, as if recollecting that he must not smoke there. "I've no doubt Tom feels himself an awful sinner. But apparently he's resigned to his sin; he isn't going to give her up." "I'm glad to say, for the sake of human nature, that SHE isn't resigned--little as I like her," cried Mrs. Corey. Her husband shrugged again. "Oh, there mustn't be any indecent haste. She will instinctively observe the proprieties. But come, now, Anna! you mustn't pretend to me here, in the sanctuary of home, that practically the human affections don't reconcile themselves to any situation that the human sentiments condemn. Suppose the wrong sister had died: would the right one have had any scruple in marrying Tom, after they had both 'waited a proper time,' as the phrase is?" "Bromfield, you're shocking!" "Not more shocking than reality. You may regard this as a second marriage." He looked at her with twinkling eyes, full of the triumph the spectator of his species feels in signal exhibitions of human nature. "Depend upon it, the right sister will be reconciled; the wrong one will be consoled; and all will go merry as a marriage bell--a second marriage bell. Why, it's quite like a romance!" Here he laughed outright again. "Well," sighed the wife, "I could almost wish the right one, as you call her, would reject Tom, I dislike her so much." "Ah, now you're talking business, Anna," said her husband, with his hands spread behind the back he turned comfortably to the fire. "The whole Lapham tribe is distasteful to me. As I don't happen to have seen our daughter-in-law elect, I have still the hope--which you're disposed to forbid me--that she may not be quite so unacceptable as the others." "Do you really feel so, Bromfield?" anxiously inquired his wife. "Yes--I think I do;" and he sat down, and stretched out his long legs toward the fire. "But it's very inconsistent of you to oppose the matter now, when you've shown so much indifference up to this time. You've told me, all along, that it was of no use to oppose it." "So I have. I was convinced of that at the beginning, or my reason was. You know very well that I am equal to any trial, any sacrifice, day after to-morrow; but when it comes to-day it's another thing. As long as this crisis decently kept its distance, I could look at it with an impartial eye; but now that it seems at hand, I find that, while my reason is still acquiescent, my nerves are disposed to--excuse the phrase--kick. I ask myself, what have I done nothing for, all my life, and lived as a gentleman should, upon the earnings of somebody else, in the possession of every polite taste and feeling that adorns leisure, if I'm to come to this at last? And I find no satisfactory answer. I say to myself that I might as well have yielded to the pressure all round me, and gone to work, as Tom has." Mrs. Corey looked at him forlornly, divining the core of real repugnance that existed in his self-satire. "I assure you, my dear," he continued, "that the recollection of what I suffered from the Laphams at that dinner of yours is an anguish still. It wasn't their behaviour,--they behaved well enough--or ill enough; but their conversation was terrible. Mrs. Lapham's range was strictly domestic; and when the Colonel got me in the library, he poured mineral paint all over me, till I could have been safely warranted not to crack or scale in any climate. I suppose we shall have to see a good deal of them. They will probably come here every Sunday night to tea. It's a perspective without a vanishing-point." "It may not be so bad, after all," said his wife; and she suggested for his consolation that he knew very little about the Laphams yet. He assented to the fact. "I know very little about them, and about my other fellow-beings. I dare say that I should like the Laphams better if I knew them better. But in any case, I resign myself. And we must keep in view the fact that this is mainly Tom's affair, and if his affections have regulated it to his satisfaction, we must be content." "Oh yes," sighed Mrs. Corey. "And perhaps it won't turn out so badly. It's a great comfort to know that you feel just as I do about it." "I do," said her husband, "and more too." It was she and her daughters who would be chiefly annoyed by the Lapham connection; she knew that. But she had to begin to bear the burden by helping her husband to bear his light share of it. To see him so depressed dismayed her, and she might well have reproached him more sharply than she did for showing so much indifference, when she was so anxious, at first. But that would not have served any good end now. She even answered him patiently when he asked her, "What did you say to Tom when he told you it was the other one?" "What could I say? I could do nothing, but try to take back what I had said against her." "Yes, you had quite enough to do, I suppose. It's an awkward business. If it had been the pretty one, her beauty would have been our excuse. But the plain one--what do you suppose attracted him in her?" Mrs. Corey sighed at the futility of the question. "Perhaps I did her injustice. I only saw her a few moments. Perhaps I got a false impression. I don't think she's lacking in sense, and that's a great thing. She'll be quick to see that we don't mean unkindness, and can't, by anything we say or do, when she's Tom's wife." She pronounced the distasteful word with courage, and went on: "The pretty one might not have been able to see that. She might have got it into her head that we were looking down on her; and those insipid people are terribly stubborn. We can come to some understanding with this one; I'm sure of that." She ended by declaring that it was now their duty to help Tom out of his terrible predicament. "Oh, even the Lapham cloud has a silver lining," said Corey. "In fact, it seems really to have all turned out for the best, Anna; though it's rather curious to find you the champion of the Lapham side, at last. Confess, now, that the right girl has secretly been your choice all along, and that while you sympathise with the wrong one, you rejoice in the tenacity with which the right one is clinging to her own!" He added with final seriousness, "It's just that she should, and, so far as I understand the case, I respect her for it." "Oh yes," sighed Mrs. Corey. "It's natural, and it's right." But she added, "I suppose they're glad of him on any terms." "That is what I have been taught to believe," said her husband. "When shall we see our daughter-in-law elect? I find myself rather impatient to have that part of it over." Mrs. Corey hesitated. "Tom thinks we had better not call, just yet." "She has told him of your terrible behaviour when you called before?" "No, Bromfield! She couldn't be so vulgar as that?" "But anything short of it?" Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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

Frau Lapham, die Irene begleitet hat, kehrt ohne sie von Lapham zurück. Silas sagt, dass er das Mädchen mit auf eine Geschäftsreise in den Westen nehmen wird. Lapham muss versuchen, die von Rogers als Sicherheit gestellten Mühlen zu verkaufen. Er hat Rogers zu viel Geld geliehen, um das ursprüngliche Darlehen zu schützen, und kann seine Schulden nicht bezahlen. "So ziemlich jeder außer den Leuten, die mir Geld schulden, erwartet plötzlich von mir, dass ich alles bar bezahle", sagt er. Er fährt fort, Persis zu erzählen, dass die Mühlen, die Rogers als Sicherheit gestellt hat, bis vor kurzem einen guten Preis erzielt hätten, als eine Eisenbahn eine 99-jährige Pacht auf die einzige Strecke dorthin übernommen hat. Wenn sie die Mühlen kaufen wollen, müssten Rogers und Lapham das Angebot der Eisenbahn annehmen oder das Holz und Mehl selbst zum Markt bringen. In der Zwischenzeit sagt Tom Corey seiner Mutter, dass er nicht Irene, sondern Penelope, die Tochter von Lapham, heiraten möchte. Obwohl überrascht, erkennt Frau Corey sofort die unangenehme Position des Mädchens, aber Bromfield Corey sagt: "Angenommen, die falsche Schwester wäre gestorben - hätte die richtige dann Skrupel gehabt, Tom zu heiraten? Das ist nicht schockierender als die Realität. Es ist fast wie in einem Roman", schließt er. Beide beschließen, mit der Situation umzugehen, auch wenn Bromfield sagt: "Als ich mit Silas gesprochen habe, hat er mir Mineralfarbe übergeschüttet, bis ich in jedem Klima sicher nicht knacken oder abblättern würde". Frau Corey weist darauf hin, dass Penelope zumindest nicht an Verstand mangelt. "Sie wird schnell merken, dass wir keine Boshaftigkeit meinen. Das hübsche Mädchen hätte denken können, dass wir auf sie hinabsehen", sagt sie.

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: XVII. LITTLE FAITHFUL. For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied the neighborhood. It was really amazing, for every one seemed in a heavenly frame of mind, and self-denial was all the fashion. Relieved of their first anxiety about their father, the girls insensibly relaxed their praiseworthy efforts a little, and began to fall back into the old ways. They did not forget their motto, but hoping and keeping busy seemed to grow easier; and after such tremendous exertions, they felt that Endeavor deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many. Jo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough, and was ordered to stay at home till she was better, for Aunt March didn't like to hear people read with colds in their heads. Jo liked this, and after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on the sofa to nurse her cold with arsenicum and books. Amy found that housework and art did not go well together, and returned to her mud pies. Meg went daily to her pupils, and sewed, or thought she did, at home, but much time was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or reading the Washington despatches over and over. Beth kept on, with only slight relapses into idleness or grieving. All the little duties were faithfully done each day, and many of her sisters' also, for they were forgetful, and the house seemed like a clock whose pendulum was gone a-visiting. When her heart got heavy with longings for mother or fears for father, she went away into a certain closet, hid her face in the folds of a certain dear old gown, and made her little moan and prayed her little prayer quietly by herself. Nobody knew what cheered her up after a sober fit, but every one felt how sweet and helpful Beth was, and fell into a way of going to her for comfort or advice in their small affairs. All were unconscious that this experience was a test of character; and, when the first excitement was over, felt that they had done well, and deserved praise. So they did; but their mistake was in ceasing to do well, and they learned this lesson through much anxiety and regret. "Meg, I wish you'd go and see the Hummels; you know mother told us not to forget them," said Beth, ten days after Mrs. March's departure. "I'm too tired to go this afternoon," replied Meg, rocking comfortably as she sewed. "Can't you, Jo?" asked Beth. "Too stormy for me with my cold." "I thought it was almost well." "It's well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well enough to go to the Hummels'," said Jo, laughing, but looking a little ashamed of her inconsistency. "Why don't you go yourself?" asked Meg. "I _have_ been every day, but the baby is sick, and I don't know what to do for it. Mrs. Hummel goes away to work, and Lottchen takes care of it; but it gets sicker and sicker, and I think you or Hannah ought to go." Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go to-morrow. "Ask Hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, Beth; the air will do you good," said Jo, adding apologetically, "I'd go, but I want to finish my writing." "My head aches and I'm tired, so I thought may be some of you would go," said Beth. "Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us," suggested Meg. "Well, I'll rest a little and wait for her." So Beth lay down on the sofa, the others returned to their work, and the Hummels were forgotten. An hour passed: Amy did not come; Meg went to her room to try on a new dress; Jo was absorbed in her story, and Hannah was sound asleep before the kitchen fire, when Beth quietly put on her hood, filled her basket with odds and ends for the poor children, and went out into the chilly air, with a heavy head, and a grieved look in her patient eyes. It was late when she came back, and no one saw her creep upstairs and shut herself into her mother's room. Half an hour after Jo went to "mother's closet" for something, and there found Beth sitting on the medicine chest, looking very grave, with red eyes, and a camphor-bottle in her hand. "Christopher Columbus! What's the matter?" cried Jo, as Beth put out her hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly,-- "You've had the scarlet fever, haven't you?" "Years ago, when Meg did. Why?" "Then I'll tell you. Oh, Jo, the baby's dead!" "What baby?" "Mrs. Hummel's; it died in my lap before she got home," cried Beth, with a sob. "My poor dear, how dreadful for you! I ought to have gone," said Jo, taking her sister in her arms as she sat down in her mother's big chair, with a remorseful face. "It wasn't dreadful, Jo, only so sad! I saw in a minute that it was sicker, but Lottchen said her mother had gone for a doctor, so I took baby and let Lotty rest. It seemed asleep, but all of a sudden it gave a little cry, and trembled, and then lay very still. I tried to warm its feet, and Lotty gave it some milk, but it didn't stir, and I knew it was dead." [Illustration: It didn't stir, and I knew it was dead] "Don't cry, dear! What did you do?" "I just sat and held it softly till Mrs. Hummel came with the doctor. He said it was dead, and looked at Heinrich and Minna, who have got sore throats. 'Scarlet fever, ma'am. Ought to have called me before,' he said crossly. Mrs. Hummel told him she was poor, and had tried to cure baby herself, but now it was too late, and she could only ask him to help the others, and trust to charity for his pay. He smiled then, and was kinder; but it was very sad, and I cried with them till he turned round, all of a sudden, and told me to go home and take belladonna right away, or I'd have the fever." "No, you won't!" cried Jo, hugging her close, with a frightened look. "O Beth, if you should be sick I never could forgive myself! What _shall_ we do?" "Don't be frightened, I guess I shan't have it badly. I looked in mother's book, and saw that it begins with headache, sore throat, and queer feelings like mine, so I did take some belladonna, and I feel better," said Beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead, and trying to look well. "If mother was only at home!" exclaimed Jo, seizing the book, and feeling that Washington was an immense way off. She read a page, looked at Beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then said gravely; "You've been over the baby every day for more than a week, and among the others who are going to have it; so I'm afraid _you_ are going to have it, Beth. I'll call Hannah, she knows all about sickness." "Don't let Amy come; she never had it, and I should hate to give it to her. Can't you and Meg have it over again?" asked Beth, anxiously. "I guess not; don't care if I do; serve me right, selfish pig, to let you go, and stay writing rubbish myself!" muttered Jo, as she went to consult Hannah. The good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at once, assuring Jo that there was no need to worry; every one had scarlet fever, and, if rightly treated, nobody died,--all of which Jo believed, and felt much relieved as they went up to call Meg. "Now I'll tell you what we'll do," said Hannah, when she had examined and questioned Beth; "we will have Dr. Bangs, just to take a look at you, dear, and see that we start right; then we'll send Amy off to Aunt March's, for a spell, to keep her out of harm's way, and one of you girls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two." "I shall stay, of course; I'm oldest," began Meg, looking anxious and self-reproachful. "_I_ shall, because it's my fault she is sick; I told mother I'd do the errands, and I haven't," said Jo decidedly. "Which will you have, Beth? there ain't no need of but one," said Hannah. "Jo, please;" and Beth leaned her head against her sister, with a contented look, which effectually settled that point. "I'll go and tell Amy," said Meg, feeling a little hurt, yet rather relieved, on the whole, for she did not like nursing, and Jo did. Amy rebelled outright, and passionately declared that she had rather have the fever than go to Aunt March. Meg reasoned, pleaded, and commanded: all in vain. Amy protested that she would _not_ go; and Meg left her in despair, to ask Hannah what should be done. Before she came back, Laurie walked into the parlor to find Amy sobbing, with her head in the sofa-cushions. She told her story, expecting to be consoled; but Laurie only put his hands in his pockets and walked about the room, whistling softly, as he knit his brows in deep thought. Presently he sat down beside her, and said, in his most wheedlesome tone, "Now be a sensible little woman, and do as they say. No, don't cry, but hear what a jolly plan I've got. You go to Aunt March's, and I'll come and take you out every day, driving or walking, and we'll have capital times. Won't that be better than moping here?" [Illustration: He sat down beside her] "I don't wish to be sent off as if I was in the way," began Amy, in an injured voice. "Bless your heart, child, it's to keep you well. You don't want to be sick, do you?" "No, I'm sure I don't; but I dare say I shall be, for I've been with Beth all the time." "That's the very reason you ought to go away at once, so that you may escape it. Change of air and care will keep you well, I dare say; or, if it does not entirely, you will have the fever more lightly. I advise you to be off as soon as you can, for scarlet fever is no joke, miss." "But it's dull at Aunt March's, and she is so cross," said Amy, looking rather frightened. "It won't be dull with me popping in every day to tell you how Beth is, and take you out gallivanting. The old lady likes me, and I'll be as sweet as possible to her, so she won't peck at us, whatever we do." "Will you take me out in the trotting wagon with Puck?" "On my honor as a gentleman." "And come every single day?" "See if I don't." "And bring me back the minute Beth is well?" "The identical minute." "And go to the theatre, truly?" "A dozen theatres, if we may." "Well--I guess--I will," said Amy slowly. "Good girl! Call Meg, and tell her you'll give in," said Laurie, with an approving pat, which annoyed Amy more than the "giving in." Meg and Jo came running down to behold the miracle which had been wrought; and Amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing, promised to go, if the doctor said Beth was going to be ill. "How is the little dear?" asked Laurie; for Beth was his especial pet, and he felt more anxious about her than he liked to show. "She is lying down on mother's bed, and feels better. The baby's death troubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold. Hannah _says_ she thinks so; but she _looks_ worried, and that makes me fidgety," answered Meg. "What a trying world it is!" said Jo, rumpling up her hair in a fretful sort of way. "No sooner do we get out of one trouble than down comes another. There doesn't seem to be anything to hold on to when mother's gone; so I'm all at sea." "Well, don't make a porcupine of yourself, it isn't becoming. Settle your wig, Jo, and tell me if I shall telegraph to your mother, or do anything?" asked Laurie, who never had been reconciled to the loss of his friend's one beauty. "That is what troubles me," said Meg. "I think we ought to tell her if Beth is really ill, but Hannah says we mustn't, for mother can't leave father, and it will only make them anxious. Beth won't be sick long, and Hannah knows just what to do, and mother said we were to mind her, so I suppose we must, but it doesn't seem quite right to me." "Hum, well, I can't say; suppose you ask grandfather after the doctor has been." "We will. Jo, go and get Dr. Bangs at once," commanded Meg; "we can't decide anything till he has been." "Stay where you are, Jo; I'm errand-boy to this establishment," said Laurie, taking up his cap. "I'm afraid you are busy," began Meg. "No, I've done my lessons for the day." "Do you study in vacation time?" asked Jo. "I follow the good example my neighbors set me," was Laurie's answer, as he swung himself out of the room. "I have great hopes of my boy," observed Jo, watching him fly over the fence with an approving smile. "He does very well--for a boy," was Meg's somewhat ungracious answer, for the subject did not interest her. Dr. Bangs came, said Beth had symptoms of the fever, but thought she would have it lightly, though he looked sober over the Hummel story. Amy was ordered off at once, and provided with something to ward off danger, she departed in great state, with Jo and Laurie as escort. Aunt March received them with her usual hospitality. "What do you want now?" she asked, looking sharply over her spectacles, while the parrot, sitting on the back of her chair, called out,-- [Illustration: What do you want now?] "Go away. No boys allowed here." Laurie retired to the window, and Jo told her story. "No more than I expected, if you are allowed to go poking about among poor folks. Amy can stay and make herself useful if she isn't sick, which I've no doubt she will be,--looks like it now. Don't cry, child, it worries me to hear people sniff." Amy _was_ on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the parrot's tail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak, and call out,-- "Bless my boots!" in such a funny way, that she laughed instead. "What do you hear from your mother?" asked the old lady gruffly. "Father is much better," replied Jo, trying to keep sober. "Oh, is he? Well, that won't last long, I fancy; March never had any stamina," was the cheerful reply. "Ha, ha! never say die, take a pinch of snuff, good by, good by!" squalled Polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old lady's cap as Laurie tweaked him in the rear. "Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird! and, Jo, you'd better go at once; it isn't proper to be gadding about so late with a rattle-pated boy like--" "Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!" cried Polly, tumbling off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the "rattle-pated" boy, who was shaking with laughter at the last speech. "I don't think I _can_ bear it, but I'll try," thought Amy, as she was left alone with Aunt March. "Get along, you fright!" screamed Polly; and at that rude speech Amy could not restrain a sniff. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Eine Woche nachdem Frau March nach Washington fährt, benehmen sich ihre Töchter einwandfrei. Sie arbeiten hart und versuchen, alles perfekt zu machen. Doch nach der ersten Aufregung vernachlässigen die Mädchen ihre Aufgaben. Jo wird krank und muss zuhause bleiben anstatt zu Tante March zu gehen, danach versinkt sie in einem Muster aus Lesen und Faulenzen. Amy hört auf, im Haushalt mitzuhelfen und experimentiert stattdessen mit Kunst und Plastik. Meg beginnt Zeit damit zu verschwenden, die Nachrichten immer wieder zu lesen und lange Briefe an ihre Mutter zu schreiben. Nur Beth erledigt weiterhin alle ihre Aufgaben - tatsächlich übernimmt sie sogar viele ihrer Schwesterns Aufgaben. Als Frau March bereits zehn Tage weg ist, bittet Beth Meg, die Hummels zu besuchen. Frau March hatte die Mädchen gebeten, die arme Familie nicht zu vergessen. Meg sagt, sie sei zu müde, um zu gehen, und Jo sagt, dass sie zu krank sei. Meg sagt Beth, sie solle selbst gehen. Beth sagt, dass sie jeden Tag bereits gegangen sei, aber das Baby ist krank und sie weiß nicht, wie sie sich darum kümmern soll. Meg sagt, dass sie morgen gehen wird oder dass Amy, die bald nach Hause kommt, gehen kann. Beth hat Kopfschmerzen und ist müde, also legt sie sich auf das Sofa. Eine Stunde vergeht, aber Amy kommt nicht nach Hause. Jo ist in ihr Schreiben vertieft, Meg geht nach oben, um ein neues Kleid anzuprobieren, und Hannah schläft ein. Beth steht auf und geht leise mit einem Korb voller Dinge zu den Hummels. Beth kommt spät nach Hause und schließt sich in das Zimmer ihrer Mutter ein. Als Jo dort etwas sucht, findet sie Beth mit traurigen Augen, die betrübt aussieht. Jo fragt, was los ist. Beth fragt sie, ob sie Scharlach hatte. Jo sagt ja, dass sie und Meg es hatten, als sie klein waren. Beth erzählt Jo, dass das Baby der Hummels an diesem Nachmittag auf ihrem Schoß gestorben ist. Der Arzt kam und sagte, dass es Scharlachfieber sei und schickte Beth nach Hause. Beth erklärt, dass sie in dem medizinischen Wörterbuch der Familie nachgeschlagen hat und festgestellt hat, dass sie die ersten Symptome hatte. Sie nahm etwas Belladonna und sagt, dass es ihr besser geht. Jo ist sich sicher, dass Beth krank wird - sie hat die letzten Woche jeden Tag mit dem kranken Baby verbracht. Beth warnt sie, Amy nicht nach Hause zu lassen; im Gegensatz zu Meg und Jo hatte Amy noch nie Scharlach und wäre anfällig. Jo erzählt Hannah, was los ist. Hannah bestellt Dr. Bangs und beschließt, dass Amy bei Tante March bleiben wird. Jo plant, zuhause zu bleiben und Beth zu pflegen, während Meg weiterarbeitet. Als Amy nach Hause kommt und erfährt, dass sie gehen muss, ist sie sehr aufgebracht. Laurie kommt ins Haus und findet sie weinend auf dem Sofa. Laurie verspricht Amy, dass er, wenn sie zu Tante March geht und brav ist, sie jeden Tag besuchen und mit ihr spazieren oder fahren wird. Amy stimmt widerwillig zu. Meg und Jo sind erleichtert, dass Laurie Amy überzeugt hat, ruhig zu Tante March zu gehen. Laurie fragt Meg und Jo, wie es Beth geht. Sie sagen ihm, dass sie im Bett liegt und sich besser fühlt. Laurie fragt, ob er ein Telegramm an Frau March schicken soll, um ihr mitzuteilen, dass Beth krank ist. Jo und Meg sind sich nicht sicher; sie wollen ihre Mutter nicht beunruhigen und wissen nicht, wie krank Beth wirklich ist. Sie beschließen, zuerst den Arzt zu konsultieren. Laurie geht, um den Arzt zu holen. Dr. Bangs kommt und sagt, dass sie wahrscheinlich Scharlach haben wird, jedoch nur "leicht". Jo und Laurie bringen Amy zu Tante March. Tante March stimmt zu, sich um Amy zu kümmern, während Beth krank ist. Tante Marchs Papagei, Polly, sagt ständig lächerliche Dinge, die Amy, Laurie und Jo amüsieren - besonders wenn Laurie ihm am Schwanz zieht. Amy ist deprimiert bei dem Gedanken an mehrere Wochen bei Tante March.

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 eight o'clock when we landed; we walked for a short time on the shore, enjoying the transitory light, and then retired to the inn, and contemplated the lovely scene of waters, woods, and mountains, obscured in darkness, yet still displaying their black outlines. The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with great violence in the west. The moon had reached her summit in the heavens, and was beginning to descend; the clouds swept across it swifter than the flight of the vulture, and dimmed her rays, while the lake reflected the scene of the busy heavens, rendered still busier by the restless waves that were beginning to rise. Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended. I had been calm during the day; but so soon as night obscured the shapes of objects, a thousand fears arose in my mind. I was anxious and watchful, while my right hand grasped a pistol which was hidden in my bosom; every sound terrified me; but I resolved that I would sell my life dearly, and not relax the impending conflict until my own life, or that of my adversary, were extinguished. Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid and fearful silence; at length she said, "What is it that agitates you, my dear Victor? What is it you fear?" "Oh! peace, peace, my love," replied I, "this night, and all will be safe: but this night is dreadful, very dreadful." I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I reflected how dreadful the combat which I momentarily expected would be to my wife, and I earnestly entreated her to retire, resolving not to join her until I had obtained some knowledge as to the situation of my enemy. She left me, and I continued some time walking up and down the passages of the house, and inspecting every corner that might afford a retreat to my adversary. But I discovered no trace of him, and was beginning to conjecture that some fortunate chance had intervened to prevent the execution of his menaces; when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful scream. It came from the room into which Elizabeth had retired. As I heard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind, my arms dropped, the motion of every muscle and fibre was suspended; I could feel the blood trickling in my veins, and tingling in the extremities of my limbs. This state lasted but for an instant; the scream was repeated, and I rushed into the room. Great God! why did I not then expire! Why am I here to relate the destruction of the best hope, and the purest creature of earth. She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging down, and her pale and distorted features half covered by her hair. Every where I turn I see the same figure--her bloodless arms and relaxed form flung by the murderer on its bridal bier. Could I behold this, and live? Alas! life is obstinate, and clings closest where it is most hated. For a moment only did I lose recollection; I fainted. When I recovered, I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn; their countenances expressed a breathless terror: but the horror of others appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that oppressed me. I escaped from them to the room where lay the body of Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy. She had been moved from the posture in which I had first beheld her; and now, as she lay, her head upon her arm, and a handkerchief thrown across her face and neck, I might have supposed her asleep. I rushed towards her, and embraced her with ardour; but the deathly languor and coldness of the limbs told me, that what I now held in my arms had ceased to be the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished. The murderous mark of the fiend's grasp was on her neck, and the breath had ceased to issue from her lips. While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened to look up. The windows of the room had before been darkened; and I felt a kind of panic on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon illuminate the chamber. The shutters had been thrown back; and, with a sensation of horror not to be described, I saw at the open window a figure the most hideous and abhorred. A grin was on the face of the monster; he seemed to jeer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards the window, and drawing a pistol from my bosom, shot; but he eluded me, leaped from his station, and, running with the swiftness of lightning, plunged into the lake. The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to the spot where he had disappeared, and we followed the track with boats; nets were cast, but in vain. After passing several hours, we returned hopeless, most of my companions believing it to have been a form conjured by my fancy. After having landed, they proceeded to search the country, parties going in different directions among the woods and vines. I did not accompany them; I was exhausted: a film covered my eyes, and my skin was parched with the heat of fever. In this state I lay on a bed, hardly conscious of what had happened; my eyes wandered round the room, as if to seek something that I had lost. At length I remembered that my father would anxiously expect the return of Elizabeth and myself, and that I must return alone. This reflection brought tears into my eyes, and I wept for a long time; but my thoughts rambled to various subjects, reflecting on my misfortunes, and their cause. I was bewildered in a cloud of wonder and horror. The death of William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly of my wife; even at that moment I knew not that my only remaining friends were safe from the malignity of the fiend; my father even now might be writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his feet. This idea made me shudder, and recalled me to action. I started up, and resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed. There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the lake; but the wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in torrents. However, it was hardly morning, and I might reasonably hope to arrive by night. I hired men to row, and took an oar myself, for I had always experienced relief from mental torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing misery I now felt, and the excess of agitation that I endured, rendered me incapable of any exertion. I threw down the oar; and, leaning my head upon my hands, gave way to every gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up, I saw the scenes which were familiar to me in my happier time, and which I had contemplated but the day before in the company of her who was now but a shadow and a recollection. Tears streamed from my eyes. The rain had ceased for a moment, and I saw the fish play in the waters as they had done a few hours before; they had then been observed by Elizabeth. Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change. The sun might shine, or the clouds might lour; but nothing could appear to me as it had done the day before. A fiend had snatched from me every hope of future happiness: no creature had ever been so miserable as I was; so frightful an event is single in the history of man. But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed this last overwhelming event. Mine has been a tale of horrors; I have reached their _acme_, and what I must now relate can but be tedious to you. Know that, one by one, my friends were snatched away; I was left desolate. My own strength is exhausted; and I must tell, in a few words, what remains of my hideous narration. I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet lived; but the former sunk under the tidings that I bore. I see him now, excellent and venerable old man! his eyes wandered in vacancy, for they had lost their charm and their delight--his niece, his more than daughter, whom he doated on with all that affection which a man feels, who, in the decline of life, having few affections, clings more earnestly to those that remain. Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery on his grey hairs, and doomed him to waste in wretchedness! He could not live under the horrors that were accumulated around him; an apoplectic fit was brought on, and in a few days he died in my arms. What then became of me? I know not; I lost sensation, and chains and darkness were the only objects that pressed upon me. Sometimes, indeed, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows and pleasant vales with the friends of my youth; but awoke, and found myself in a dungeon. Melancholy followed, but by degrees I gained a clear conception of my miseries and situation, and was then released from my prison. For they had called me mad; and during many months, as I understood, a solitary cell had been my habitation. But liberty had been a useless gift to me had I not, as I awakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge. As the memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their cause--the monster whom I had created, the miserable daemon whom I had sent abroad into the world for my destruction. I was possessed by a maddening rage when I thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed that I might have him within my grasp to wreak a great and signal revenge on his cursed head. Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes; I began to reflect on the best means of securing him; and for this purpose, about a month after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge in the town, and told him that I had an accusation to make; that I knew the destroyer of my family; and that I required him to exert his whole authority for the apprehension of the murderer. The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness: "Be assured, sir," said he, "no pains or exertions on my part shall be spared to discover the villain." "I thank you," replied I; "listen, therefore, to the deposition that I have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange, that I should fear you would not credit it, were there not something in truth which, however wonderful, forces conviction. The story is too connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood." My manner, as I thus addressed him, was impressive, but calm; I had formed in my own heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to death; and this purpose quieted my agony, and provisionally reconciled me to life. I now related my history briefly, but with firmness and precision, marking the dates with accuracy, and never deviating into invective or exclamation. The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as I continued he became more attentive and interested; I saw him sometimes shudder with horror, at others a lively surprise, unmingled with disbelief, was painted on his countenance. When I had concluded my narration, I said. "This is the being whom I accuse, and for whose detection and punishment I call upon you to exert your whole power. It is your duty as a magistrate, and I believe and hope that your feelings as a man will not revolt from the execution of those functions on this occasion." This address caused a considerable change in the physiognomy of my auditor. He had heard my story with that half kind of belief that is given to a tale of spirits and supernatural events; but when he was called upon to act officially in consequence, the whole tide of his incredulity returned. He, however, answered mildly, "I would willingly afford you every aid in your pursuit; but the creature of whom you speak appears to have powers which would put all my exertions to defiance. Who can follow an animal which can traverse the sea of ice, and inhabit caves and dens, where no man would venture to intrude? Besides, some months have elapsed since the commission of his crimes, and no one can conjecture to what place he has wandered, or what region he may now inhabit." "I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit; and if he has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted like the chamois, and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I perceive your thoughts: you do not credit my narrative, and do not intend to pursue my enemy with the punishment which is his desert." As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes; the magistrate was intimidated; "You are mistaken," said he, "I will exert myself; and if it is in my power to seize the monster, be assured that he shall suffer punishment proportionate to his crimes. But I fear, from what you have yourself described to be his properties, that this will prove impracticable, and that, while every proper measure is pursued, you should endeavour to make up your mind to disappointment." "That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail. My revenge is of no moment to you; yet, while I allow it to be a vice, I confess that it is the devouring and only passion of my soul. My rage is unspeakable, when I reflect that the murderer, whom I have turned loose upon society, still exists. You refuse my just demand: I have but one resource; and I devote myself, either in my life or death, to his destruction." I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there was a phrenzy in my manner, and something, I doubt not, of that haughty fierceness, which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed. But to a Genevan magistrate, whose mind was occupied by far other ideas than those of devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of madness. He endeavoured to soothe me as a nurse does a child, and reverted to my tale as the effects of delirium. "Man," I cried, "how ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom! Cease; you know not what it is you say." I broke from the house angry and disturbed, and retired to meditate on some other mode of action. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Während Victor durch die Gänge des Gasthauses schleicht, wo das Paar lebte, erfüllt das Monster seine Drohung an Victor, betritt ihr Schlafzimmer und erwürgt Elizabeth. Als der Monster flieht, schießt Victor auf ihn, doch das Monster entkommt unverletzt. Als Alphonse von Elizabeths Tod erfährt, überkommt ihn die Trauer und er stirbt. Victor geht zu einem örtlichen Richter und erzählt ihm die ganze Geschichte. Da die örtlichen Behörden unschlüssig darüber sind, wie sie handeln sollen, macht sich Victor auf die Suche nach dem Monster, um Rache zu üben.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: ACT II On the carriage drive in the park of a country house near Richmond a motor car has broken down. It stands in front of a clump of trees round which the drive sweeps to the house, which is partly visible through them: indeed Tanner, standing in the drive with the car on his right hand, could get an unobstructed view of the west corner of the house on his left were he not far too much interested in a pair of supine legs in blue serge trousers which protrude from beneath the machine. He is watching them intently with bent back and hands supported on his knees. His leathern overcoat and peaked cap proclaim him one of the dismounted passengers. THE LEGS. Aha! I got him. TANNER. All right now? THE LEGS. All right now. Tanner stoops and takes the legs by the ankles, drawing their owner forth like a wheelbarrow, walking on his hands, with a hammer in his mouth. He is a young man in a neat suit of blue serge, clean shaven, dark eyed, square fingered, with short well brushed black hair and rather irregular sceptically turned eyebrows. When he is manipulating the car his movements are swift and sudden, yet attentive and deliberate. With Tanner and Tanner's friends his manner is not in the least deferential, but cool and reticent, keeping them quite effectually at a distance whilst giving them no excuse for complaining of him. Nevertheless he has a vigilant eye on them always, and that, too, rather cynically, like a man who knows the world well from its seamy side. He speaks slowly and with a touch of sarcasm; and as he does not at all affect the gentleman in his speech, it may be inferred that his smart appearance is a mark of respect to himself and his own class, not to that which employs him. He now gets into the car to test his machinery and put his cap and overcoat on again. Tanner takes off his leather overcoat and pitches it into the car. The chauffeur (or automobilist or motoreer or whatever England may presently decide to call him) looks round inquiringly in the act of stowing away his hammer. THE CHAUFFEUR. Had enough of it, eh? TANNER. I may as well walk to the house and stretch my legs and calm my nerves a little. [Looking at his watch] I suppose you know that we have come from Hyde Park Corner to Richmond in twenty-one minutes. THE CHAUFFEUR. I'd have done it under fifteen if I'd had a clear road all the way. TANNER. Why do you do it? Is it for love of sport or for the fun of terrifying your unfortunate employer? THE CHAUFFEUR. What are you afraid of? TANNER. The police, and breaking my neck. THE CHAUFFEUR. Well, if you like easy going, you can take a bus, you know. It's cheaper. You pay me to save your time and give you the value of your thousand pound car. [He sits down calmly]. TANNER. I am the slave of that car and of you too. I dream of the accursed thing at night. THE CHAUFFEUR. You'll get over that. If you're going up to the house, may I ask how long you're goin to stay there? Because if you mean to put in the whole morning talkin to the ladies, I'll put the car in the stables and make myself comfortable. If not, I'll keep the car on the go about here til you come. TANNER. Better wait here. We shan't be long. There's a young American gentleman, a Mr Malone, who is driving Mr Robinson down in his new American steam car. THE CHAUFFEUR. [springing up and coming hastily out of the car to Tanner] American steam car! Wot! racin us down from London! TANNER. Perhaps they're here already. THE CHAUFFEUR. If I'd known it! [with deep reproach] Why didn't you tell me, Mr Tanner? TANNER. Because I've been told that this car is capable of 84 miles an hour; and I already know what YOU are capable of when there is a rival car on the road. No, Henry: there are things it is not good for you to know; and this was one of them. However, cheer up: we are going to have a day after your own heart. The American is to take Mr Robinson and his sister and Miss Whitefield. We are to take Miss Rhoda. THE CHAUFFEUR. [consoled, and musing on another matter] That's Miss Whitefield's sister, isn't it? TANNER. Yes. THE CHAUFFEUR. And Miss Whitefield herself is goin in the other car? Not with you? TANNER. Why the devil should she come with me? Mr Robinson will be in the other car. [The Chauffeur looks at Tanner with cool incredulity, and turns to the car, whistling a popular air softly to himself. Tanner, a little annoyed, is about to pursue the subject when he hears the footsteps of Octavius on the gravel. Octavius is coming from the house, dressed for motoring, but without his overcoat]. We've lost the race, thank Heaven: here's Mr Robinson. Well, Tavy, is the steam car a success? OCTAVIUS. I think so. We came from Hyde Park Corner here in seventeen minutes. [The Chauffeur, furious, kicks the car with a groan of vexation]. How long were you? TANNER. Oh, about three quarters of an hour or so. THE CHAUFFEUR. [remonstrating] Now, now, Mr Tanner, come now! We could ha done it easy under fifteen. TANNER. By the way, let me introduce you. Mr Octavius Robinson: Mr Enry Straker. STRAKER. Pleased to meet you, sir. Mr Tanner is gittin at you with his Enry Straker, you know. You call it Henery. But I don't mind, bless you. TANNER. You think it's simply bad taste in me to chaff him, Tavy. But you're wrong. This man takes more trouble to drop his aiches than ever his father did to pick them up. It's a mark of caste to him. I have never met anybody more swollen with the pride of class than Enry is. STRAKER. Easy, easy! A little moderation, Mr Tanner. TANNER. A little moderation, Tavy, you observe. You would tell me to draw it mild, But this chap has been educated. What's more, he knows that we haven't. What was that board school of yours, Straker? STRAKER. Sherbrooke Road. TANNER. Sherbrooke Road! Would any of us say Rugby! Harrow! Eton! in that tone of intellectual snobbery? Sherbrooke Road is a place where boys learn something; Eton is a boy farm where we are sent because we are nuisances at home, and because in after life, whenever a Duke is mentioned, we can claim him as an old schoolfellow. STRAKER. You don't know nothing about it, Mr. Tanner. It's not the Board School that does it: it's the Polytechnic. TANNER. His university, Octavius. Not Oxford, Cambridge, Durham, Dublin or Glasgow. Not even those Nonconformist holes in Wales. No, Tavy. Regent Street, Chelsea, the Borough--I don't know half their confounded names: these are his universities, not mere shops for selling class limitations like ours. You despise Oxford, Enry, don't you? STRAKER. No, I don't. Very nice sort of place, Oxford, I should think, for people that like that sort of place. They teach you to be a gentleman there. In the Polytechnic they teach you to be an engineer or such like. See? TANNER. Sarcasm, Tavy, sarcasm! Oh, if you could only see into Enry's soul, the depth of his contempt for a gentleman, the arrogance of his pride in being an engineer, would appal you. He positively likes the car to break down because it brings out my gentlemanly helplessness and his workmanlike skill and resource. STRAKER. Never you mind him, Mr Robinson. He likes to talk. We know him, don't we? OCTAVIUS. [earnestly] But there's a great truth at the bottom of what he says. I believe most intensely in the dignity of labor. STRAKER. [unimpressed] That's because you never done any, Mr Robinson. My business is to do away with labor. You'll get more out of me and a machine than you will out of twenty laborers, and not so much to drink either. TANNER. For Heaven's sake, Tavy, don't start him on political economy. He knows all about it; and we don't. You're only a poetic Socialist, Tavy: he's a scientific one. STRAKER. [unperturbed] Yes. Well, this conversation is very improvin; but I've got to look after the car; and you two want to talk about your ladies. I know. [He retires to busy himself about the car; and presently saunters off towards the house]. TANNER. That's a very momentous social phenomenon. OCTAVIUS. What is? TANNER. Straker is. Here have we literary and cultured persons been for years setting up a cry of the New Woman whenever some unusually old fashioned female came along; and never noticing the advent of the New Man. Straker's the New Man. OCTAVIUS. I see nothing new about him, except your way of chaffing him. But I don't want to talk about him just now. I want to speak to you about Ann. TANNER. Straker knew even that. He learnt it at the Polytechnic, probably. Well, what about Ann? Have you proposed to her? OCTAVIUS. [self-reproachfully] I was brute enough to do so last night. TANNER. Brute enough! What do you mean? OCTAVIUS. [dithyrambically] Jack: we men are all coarse. We never understand how exquisite a woman's sensibilities are. How could I have done such a thing! TANNER. Done what, you maudlin idiot? OCTAVIUS. Yes, I am an idiot. Jack: if you had heard her voice! if you had seen her tears! I have lain awake all night thinking of them. If she had reproached me, I could have borne it better. TANNER. Tears! that's dangerous. What did she say? OCTAVIUS. She asked me how she could think of anything now but her dear father. She stifled a sob--[he breaks down]. TANNER. [patting him on the back] Bear it like a man, Tavy, even if you feel it like an ass. It's the old game: she's not tired of playing with you yet. OCTAVIUS. [impatiently] Oh, don't be a fool, Jack. Do you suppose this eternal shallow cynicism of yours has any real bearing on a nature like hers? TANNER. Hm! Did she say anything else? OCTAVIUS. Yes; and that is why I expose myself and her to your ridicule by telling you what passed. TANNER. [remorsefully] No, dear Tavy, not ridicule, on my honor! However, no matter. Go on. OCTAVIUS. Her sense of duty is so devout, so perfect, so-- TANNER. Yes: I know. Go on. OCTAVIUS. You see, under this new arrangement, you and Ramsden are her guardians; and she considers that all her duty to her father is now transferred to you. She said she thought I ought to have spoken to you both in the first instance. Of course she is right; but somehow it seems rather absurd that I am to come to you and formally ask to be received as a suitor for your ward's hand. TANNER. I am glad that love has not totally extinguished your sense of humor, Tavy. OCTAVIUS. That answer won't satisfy her. TANNER. My official answer is, obviously, Bless you, my children: may you be happy! OCTAVIUS. I wish you would stop playing the fool about this. If it is not serious to you, it is to me, and to her. TANNER. You know very well that she is as free to choose as you. She does not think so. OCTAVIUS. She does not think so. TANNER. Oh, doesn't she! just! However, say what you want me to do. OCTAVIUS. I want you to tell her sincerely and earnestly what you think about me. I want you to tell her that you can trust her to me--that is, if you feel you can. TANNER. I have no doubt that I can trust her to you. What worries me is the idea of trusting you to her. Have you read Maeterlinck's book about the bee? OCTAVIUS. [keeping his temper with difficulty] I am not discussing literature at present. TANNER. Be just a little patient with me. I am not discussing literature: the book about the bee is natural history. It's an awful lesson to mankind. You think that you are Ann's suitor; that you are the pursuer and she the pursued; that it is your part to woo, to persuade, to prevail, to overcome. Fool: it is you who are the pursued, the marked down quarry, the destined prey. You need not sit looking longingly at the bait through the wires of the trap: the door is open, and will remain so until it shuts behind you for ever. OCTAVIUS. I wish I could believe that, vilely as you put it. TANNER. Why, man, what other work has she in life but to get a husband? It is a woman's business to get married as soon as possible, and a man's to keep unmarried as long as he can. You have your poems and your tragedies to work at: Ann has nothing. OCTAVIUS. I cannot write without inspiration. And nobody can give me that except Ann. TANNER. Well, hadn't you better get it from her at a safe distance? Petrarch didn't see half as much of Laura, nor Dante of Beatrice, as you see of Ann now; and yet they wrote first-rate poetry--at least so I'm told. They never exposed their idolatry to the test of domestic familiarity; and it lasted them to their graves. Marry Ann and at the end of a week you'll find no more inspiration than in a plate of muffins. OCTAVIUS. You think I shall tire of her. TANNER. Not at all: you don't get tired of muffins. But you don't find inspiration in them; and you won't in her when she ceases to be a poet's dream and becomes a solid eleven stone wife. You'll be forced to dream about somebody else; and then there will be a row. OCTAVIUS. This sort of talk is no use, Jack. You don't understand. You have never been in love. TANNER. I! I have never been out of it. Why, I am in love even with Ann. But I am neither the slave of love nor its dupe. Go to the bee, thou poet: consider her ways and be wise. By Heaven, Tavy, if women could do without our work, and we ate their children's bread instead of making it, they would kill us as the spider kills her mate or as the bees kill the drone. And they would be right if we were good for nothing but love. OCTAVIUS. Ah, if we were only good enough for Love! There is nothing like Love: there is nothing else but Love: without it the world would be a dream of sordid horror. TANNER. And this--this is the man who asks me to give him the hand of my ward! Tavy: I believe we were changed in our cradles, and that you are the real descendant of Don Juan. OCTAVIUS. I beg you not to say anything like that to Ann. TANNER. Don't be afraid. She has marked you for her own; and nothing will stop her now. You are doomed. [Straker comes back with a newspaper]. Here comes the New Man, demoralizing himself with a halfpenny paper as usual. STRAKER. Now, would you believe it: Mr Robinson, when we're out motoring we take in two papers, the Times for him, the Leader or the Echo for me. And do you think I ever see my paper? Not much. He grabs the Leader and leaves me to stodge myself with his Times. OCTAVIUS. Are there no winners in the Times? TANNER. Enry don't old with bettin, Tavy. Motor records are his weakness. What's the latest? STRAKER. Paris to Biskra at forty mile an hour average, not countin the Mediterranean. TANNER. How many killed? STRAKER. Two silly sheep. What does it matter? Sheep don't cost such a lot: they were glad to ave the price without the trouble o sellin em to the butcher. All the same, d'y'see, there'll be a clamor agin it presently; and then the French Government'll stop it; an our chance will be gone see? That what makes me fairly mad: Mr Tanner won't do a good run while he can. TANNER. Tavy: do you remember my uncle James? OCTAVIUS. Yes. Why? TANNER. Uncle James had a first rate cook: he couldn't digest anything except what she cooked. Well, the poor man was shy and hated society. But his cook was proud of her skill, and wanted to serve up dinners to princes and ambassadors. To prevent her from leaving him, that poor old man had to give a big dinner twice a month, and suffer agonies of awkwardness. Now here am I; and here is this chap Enry Straker, the New Man. I loathe travelling; but I rather like Enry. He cares for nothing but tearing along in a leather coat and goggles, with two inches of dust all over him, at sixty miles an hour and the risk of his life and mine. Except, of course, when he is lying on his back in the mud under the machine trying to find out where it has given way. Well, if I don't give him a thousand mile run at least once a fortnight I shall lose him. He will give me the sack and go to some American millionaire; and I shall have to put up with a nice respectful groom-gardener-amateur, who will touch his hat and know his place. I am Enry's slave, just as Uncle James was his cook's slave. STRAKER. [exasperated] Garn! I wish I had a car that would go as fast as you can talk, Mr Tanner. What I say is that you lose money by a motor car unless you keep it workin. Might as well ave a pram and a nussmaid to wheel you in it as that car and me if you don't git the last inch out of us both. TANNER. [soothingly] All right, Henry, all right. We'll go out for half an hour presently. STRAKER. [in disgust] Arf an ahr! [He returns to his machine; seats himself in it; and turns up a fresh page of his paper in search of more news]. OCTAVIUS. Oh, that reminds me. I have a note for you from Rhoda. [He gives Tanner a note]. TANNER. [opening it] I rather think Rhoda is heading for a row with Ann. As a rule there is only one person an English girl hates more than she hates her mother; and that's her eldest sister. But Rhoda positively prefers her mother to Ann. She--[indignantly] Oh, I say! OCTAVIUS. What's the matter? TANNER. Rhoda was to have come with me for a ride in the motor car. She says Ann has forbidden her to go out with me. Straker suddenly begins whistling his favorite air with remarkable deliberation. Surprised by this burst of larklike melody, and jarred by a sardonic note in its cheerfulness, they turn and look inquiringly at him. But he is busy with his paper; and nothing comes of their movement. OCTAVIUS. [recovering himself] Does she give any reason? TANNER. Reason! An insult is not a reason. Ann forbids her to be alone with me on any occasion. Says I am not a fit person for a young girl to be with. What do you think of your paragon now? OCTAVIUS. You must remember that she has a very heavy responsibility now that her father is dead. Mrs Whitefield is too weak to control Rhoda. TANNER. [staring at him] In short, you agree with Ann. OCTAVIUS. No; but I think I understand her. You must admit that your views are hardly suited for the formation of a young girl's mind and character. TANNER. I admit nothing of the sort. I admit that the formation of a young lady's mind and character usually consists in telling her lies; but I object to the particular lie that I am in the habit of abusing the confidence of girls. OCTAVIUS. Ann doesn't say that, Jack. TANNER. What else does she mean? STRAKER. [catching sight of Ann coming from the house] Miss Whitefield, gentlemen. [He dismounts and strolls away down the avenue with the air of a man who knows he is no longer wanted]. ANN. [coming between Octavius and Tanner]. Good morning, Jack. I have come to tell you that poor Rhoda has got one of her headaches and cannot go out with you to-day in the car. It is a cruel disappointment to her, poor child! TANNER. What do you say now, Tavy. OCTAVIUS. Surely you cannot misunderstand, Jack. Ann is showing you the kindest consideration, even at the cost of deceiving you. ANN. What do you mean? TANNER. Would you like to cure Rhoda's headache, Ann? ANN. Of course. TANNER. Then tell her what you said just now; and add that you arrived about two minutes after I had received her letter and read it. ANN. Rhoda has written to you! TANNER. With full particulars. OCTAVIUS. Never mind him, Ann. You were right, quite right. Ann was only doing her duty, Jack; and you know it. Doing it in the kindest way, too. ANN. [going to Octavius] How kind you are, Tavy! How helpful! How well you understand! Octavius beams. TANNER. Ay: tighten the coils. You love her, Tavy, don't you? OCTAVIUS. She knows I do. ANN. Hush. For shame, Tavy! TANNER. Oh, I give you leave. I am your guardian; and I commit you to Tavy's care for the next hour. ANN. No, Jack. I must speak to you about Rhoda. Ricky: will you go back to the house and entertain your American friend? He's rather on Mamma's hands so early in the morning. She wants to finish her housekeeping. OCTAVIUS. I fly, dearest Ann [he kisses her hand]. ANN. [tenderly] Ricky Ticky Tavy! He looks at her with an eloquent blush, and runs off. TANNER. [bluntly] Now look here, Ann. This time you've landed yourself; and if Tavy were not in love with you past all salvation he'd have found out what an incorrigible liar you are. ANN. You misunderstand, Jack. I didn't dare tell Tavy the truth. TANNER. No: your daring is generally in the opposite direction. What the devil do you mean by telling Rhoda that I am too vicious to associate with her? How can I ever have any human or decent relations with her again, now that you have poisoned her mind in that abominable way? ANN. I know you are incapable of behaving badly. TANNER. Then why did you lie to her? ANN. I had to. TANNER. Had to! ANN. Mother made me. TANNER. [his eye flashing] Ha! I might have known it. The mother! Always the mother! ANN. It was that dreadful book of yours. You know how timid mother is. All timid women are conventional: we must be conventional, Jack, or we are so cruelly, so vilely misunderstood. Even you, who are a man, cannot say what you think without being misunderstood and vilified--yes: I admit it: I have had to vilify you. Do you want to have poor Rhoda misunderstood and vilified to the same way? Would it be right for mother to let her expose herself to such treatment before she is old enough to judge for herself? TANNER. In short, the way to avoid misunderstanding is for everybody to lie and slander and insinuate and pretend as hard as they can. That is what obeying your mother comes to. ANN. I love my mother, Jack. TANNER. [working himself up into a sociological rage] Is that any reason why you are not to call your soul your own? Oh, I protest against this vile abjection of youth to age! look at fashionable society as you know it. What does it pretend to be? An exquisite dance of nymphs. What is it? A horrible procession of wretched girls, each in the claws of a cynical, cunning, avaricious, disillusioned, ignorantly experienced, foul-minded old woman whom she calls mother, and whose duty it is to corrupt her mind and sell her to the highest bidder. Why do these unhappy slaves marry anybody, however old and vile, sooner than not marry at all? Because marriage is their only means of escape from these decrepit fiends who hide their selfish ambitions, their jealous hatreds of the young rivals who have supplanted them, under the mask of maternal duty and family affection. Such things are abominable: the voice of nature proclaims for the daughter a father's care and for the son a mother's. The law for father and son and mother and daughter is not the law of love: it is the law of revolution, of emancipation, of final supersession of the old and worn-out by the young and capable. I tell you, the first duty of manhood and womanhood is a Declaration of Independence: the man who pleads his father's authority is no man: the woman who pleads her mother's authority is unfit to bear citizens to a free people. ANN. [watching him with quiet curiosity] I suppose you will go in seriously for politics some day, Jack. TANNER. [heavily let down] Eh? What? Wh--? [Collecting his scattered wits] What has that got to do with what I have been saying? ANN. You talk so well. TANNER. Talk! Talk! It means nothing to you but talk. Well, go back to your mother, and help her to poison Rhoda's imagination as she has poisoned yours. It is the tame elephants who enjoy capturing the wild ones. ANN. I am getting on. Yesterday I was a boa constrictor: to-day I am an elephant. TANNER. Yes. So pack your trunk and begone; I have no more to say to you. ANN. You are so utterly unreasonable and impracticable. What can I do? TANNER. Do! Break your chains. Go your way according to your own conscience and not according to your mother's. Get your mind clean and vigorous; and learn to enjoy a fast ride in a motor car instead of seeing nothing in it but an excuse for a detestable intrigue. Come with me to Marseilles and across to Algiers and to Biskra, at sixty miles an hour. Come right down to the Cape if you like. That will be a Declaration of Independence with a vengeance. You can write a book about it afterwards. That will finish your mother and make a woman of you. ANN. [thoughtfully] I don't think there would be any harm in that, Jack. You are my guardian: you stand in my father's place, by his own wish. Nobody could say a word against our travelling together. It would be delightful: thank you a thousand times, Jack. I'll come. TANNER. [aghast] You'll come!!! ANN. Of course. TANNER. But-- [he stops, utterly appalled; then resumes feebly] No: look here, Ann: if there's no harm in it there's no point in doing it. ANN. How absurd you are! You don't want to compromise me, do you? TANNER. Yes: that's the whole sense of my proposal. ANN. You are talking the greatest nonsense; and you know it. You would never do anything to hurt me. TANNER. Well, if you don't want to be compromised, don't come. ANN. [with simple earnestness] Yes, I will come, Jack, since you wish it. You are my guardian; and think we ought to see more of one another and come to know one another better. [Gratefully] It's very thoughtful and very kind of you, Jack, to offer me this lovely holiday, especially after what I said about Rhoda. You really are good--much better than you think. When do we start? TANNER. But-- The conversation is interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Whitefield from the house. She is accompanied by the American gentleman, and followed by Ramsden and Octavius. Hector Malone is an Eastern American; but he is not at all ashamed of his nationality. This makes English people of fashion think well of him, as of a young fellow who is manly enough to confess to an obvious disadvantage without any attempt to conceal or extenuate it. They feel that he ought not to be made to suffer for what is clearly not his fault, and make a point of being specially kind to him. His chivalrous manners to women, and his elevated moral sentiments, being both gratuitous and unusual, strike them as being a little unfortunate; and though they find his vein of easy humor rather amusing when it has ceased to puzzle them (as it does at first), they have had to make him understand that he really must not tell anecdotes unless they are strictly personal and scandalous, and also that oratory is an accomplishment which belongs to a cruder stage of civilization than that in which his migration has landed him. On these points Hector is not quite convinced: he still thinks that the British are apt to make merits of their stupidities, and to represent their various incapacities as points of good breeding. English life seems to him to suffer from a lack of edifying rhetoric (which he calls moral tone); English behavior to show a want of respect for womanhood; English pronunciation to fail very vulgarly in tackling such words as world, girl, bird, etc.; English society to be plain spoken to an extent which stretches occasionally to intolerable coarseness; and English intercourse to need enlivening by games and stories and other pastimes; so he does not feel called upon to acquire these defects after taking great paths to cultivate himself in a first rate manner before venturing across the Atlantic. To this culture he finds English people either totally indifferent as they very commonly are to all culture, or else politely evasive, the truth being that Hector's culture is nothing but a state of saturation with our literary exports of thirty years ago, reimported by him to be unpacked at a moment's notice and hurled at the head of English literature, science and art, at every conversational opportunity. The dismay set up by these sallies encourages him in his belief that he is helping to educate England. When he finds people chattering harmlessly about Anatole France and Nietzsche, he devastates them with Matthew Arnold, the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, and even Macaulay; and as he is devoutly religious at bottom, he first leads the unwary, by humorous irreverences, to wave popular theology out of account in discussing moral questions with him, and then scatters them in confusion by demanding whether the carrying out of his ideals of conduct was not the manifest object of God Almighty in creating honest men and pure women. The engaging freshness of his personality and the dumbfoundering staleness of his culture make it extremely difficult to decide whether he is worth knowing; for whilst his company is undeniably pleasant and enlivening, there is intellectually nothing new to be got out of him, especially as he despises politics, and is careful not to talk commercial shop, in which department he is probably much in advance of his English capitalist friends. He gets on best with romantic Christians of the amoristic sect: hence the friendship which has sprung up between him and Octavius. In appearance Hector is a neatly built young man of twenty-four, with a short, smartly trimmed black beard, clear, well shaped eyes, and an ingratiating vivacity of expression. He is, from the fashionable point of view, faultlessly dressed. As he comes along the drive from the house with Mrs Whitefield he is sedulously making himself agreeable and entertaining, and thereby placing on her slender wit a burden it is unable to bear. An Englishman would let her alone, accepting boredom and indifference of their common lot; and the poor lady wants to be either let alone or let prattle about the things that interest her. Ramsden strolls over to inspect the motor car. Octavius joins Hector. ANN. [pouncing on her mother joyously] Oh, mamma, what do you think! Jack is going to take me to Nice in his motor car. Isn't it lovely? I am the happiest person in London. TANNER. [desperately] Mrs Whitefield objects. I am sure she objects. Doesn't she, Ramsden? RAMSDEN. I should think it very likely indeed. ANN. You don't object, do you, mother? MRS WHITEFIELD. I object! Why should I? I think it will do you good, Ann. [Trotting over to Tanner] I meant to ask you to take Rhoda out for a run occasionally: she is too much in the house; but it will do when you come back. TANNER. Abyss beneath abyss of perfidy! ANN. [hastily, to distract attention from this outburst] Oh, I forgot: you have not met Mr Malone. Mr Tanner, my guardian: Mr Hector Malone. HECTOR. Pleased to meet you, Mr Tanner. I should like to suggest an extension of the travelling party to Nice, if I may. ANN. Oh, we're all coming. That's understood, isn't it? HECTOR. I also am the modest possessor of a motor car. If Miss Robinson will allow me the privilege of taking her, my car is at her service. OCTAVIUS. Violet! General constraint. ANN. [subduedly] Come, mother: we must leave them to talk over the arrangements. I must see to my travelling kit. Mrs Whitefield looks bewildered; but Ann draws her discreetly away; and they disappear round the corner towards the house. HECTOR. I think I may go so far as to say that I can depend on Miss Robinson's consent. Continued embarrassment. OCTAVIUS. I'm afraid we must leave Violet behind, There are circumstances which make it impossible for her to come on such an expedition. HECTOR. [amused and not at all convinced] Too American, eh? Must the young lady have a chaperone? OCTAVIUS. It's not that, Malone--at least not altogether. HECTOR. Indeed! May I ask what other objection applies? TANNER. [impatiently] Oh, tell him, tell him. We shall never be able to keep the secret unless everybody knows what it is. Mr Malone: if you go to Nice with Violet, you go with another man's wife. She is married. HECTOR. [thunderstruck] You don't tell me so! TANNER. We do. In confidence. RAMSDEN. [with an air of importance, lest Malone should suspect a misalliance] Her marriage has not yet been made known: she desires that it shall not be mentioned for the present. HECTOR. I shall respect the lady's wishes. Would it be indiscreet to ask who her husband is, in case I should have an opportunity of consulting him about this trip? TANNER. We don't know who he is. HECTOR. [retiring into his shell in a very marked manner] In that case, I have no more to say. They become more embarrassed than ever. OCTAVIUS. You must think this very strange. HECTOR. A little singular. Pardon me for saving so. RAMSDEN. [half apologetic, half huffy] The young lady was married secretly; and her husband has forbidden her, it seems, to declare his name. It is only right to tell you, since you are interested in Miss--er--in Violet. OCTAVIUS. [sympathetically] I hope this is not a disappointment to you. HECTOR. [softened, coming out of his shell again] Well it is a blow. I can hardly understand how a man can leave a wife in such a position. Surely it's not customary. It's not manly. It's not considerate. OCTAVIUS. We feel that, as you may imagine, pretty deeply. RAMSDEN. [testily] It is some young fool who has not enough experience to know what mystifications of this kind lead to. HECTOR. [with strong symptoms of moral repugnance] I hope so. A man need be very young and pretty foolish too to be excused for such conduct. You take a very lenient view, Mr Ramsden. Too lenient to my mind. Surely marriage should ennoble a man. TANNER. [sardonically] Ha! HECTOR. Am I to gather from that cacchination that you don't agree with me, Mr Tanner? TANNER. [drily] Get married and try. You may find it delightful for a while: you certainly won't find it ennobling. The greatest common measure of a man and a woman is not necessarily greater than the man's single measure. HECTOR. Well, we think in America that a woman's moral number is higher than a man's, and that the purer nature of a woman lifts a man right out of himself, and makes him better than he was. OCTAVIUS. [with conviction] So it does. TANNER. No wonder American women prefer to live in Europe! It's more comfortable than standing all their lives on an altar to be worshipped. Anyhow, Violet's husband has not been ennobled. So what's to be done? HECTOR. [shaking his head] I can't dismiss that man's conduct as lightly as you do, Mr Tanner. However, I'll say no more. Whoever he is, he's Miss Robinson's husband; and I should be glad for her sake to think better of him. OCTAVIUS. [touched; for he divines a secret sorrow] I'm very sorry, Malone. Very sorry. HECTOR. [gratefully] You're a good fellow, Robinson, Thank you. TANNER. Talk about something else. Violet's coming from the house. HECTOR. I should esteem it a very great favor, men, if you would take the opportunity to let me have a few words with the lady alone. I shall have to cry off this trip; and it's rather a delicate-- RAMSDEN. [glad to escape] Say no more. Come Tanner, Come, Tavy. [He strolls away into the park with Octavius and Tanner, past the motor car]. Violet comes down the avenue to Hector. VIOLET. Are they looking? HECTOR. No. She kisses him. VIOLET. Have you been telling lies for my sake? HECTOR. Lying! Lying hardly describes it. I overdo it. I get carried away in an ecstasy of mendacity. Violet: I wish you'd let me own up. VIOLET. [instantly becoming serious and resolute] No, no. Hector: you promised me not to. HECTOR. I'll keep my promise until you release me from it. But I feel mean, lying to those men, and denying my wife. Just dastardly. VIOLET. I wish your father were not so unreasonable. HECTOR. He's not unreasonable. He's right from his point of view. He has a prejudice against the English middle class. VIOLET. It's too ridiculous. You know how I dislike saying such things to you, Hector; but if I were to--oh, well, no matter. HECTOR. I know. If you were to marry the son of an English manufacturer of office furniture, your friends would consider it a misalliance. And here's my silly old dad, who is the biggest office furniture man in the world, would show me the door for marrying the most perfect lady in England merely because she has no handle to her name. Of course it's just absurd. But I tell you, Violet, I don't like deceiving him. I feel as if I was stealing his money. Why won't you let me own up? VIOLET. We can't afford it. You can be as romantic as you please about love, Hector; but you mustn't be romantic about money. HECTOR. [divided between his uxoriousness and his habitual elevation of moral sentiment] That's very English. [Appealing to her impulsively] Violet: Dad's bound to find us out some day. VIOLET. Oh yes, later on of course. But don't let's go over this every time we meet, dear. You promised-- HECTOR. All right, all right, I-- VIOLET. [not to be silenced] It is I and not you who suffer by this concealment; and as to facing a struggle and poverty and all that sort of thing I simply will not do it. It's too silly. HECTOR. You shall not. I'll sort of borrow the money from my dad until I get on my own feet; and then I can own up and pay up at the same time. VIOLET. [alarmed and indignant] Do you mean to work? Do you want to spoil our marriage? HECTOR. Well, I don't mean to let marriage spoil my character. Your friend Mr Tanner has got the laugh on me a bit already about that; and-- VIOLET. The beast! I hate Jack Tanner. HECTOR. [magnanimously] Oh, he's all right: he only needs the love of a good woman to ennoble him. Besides, he's proposed a motoring trip to Nice; and I'm going to take you. VIOLET. How jolly! HECTOR. Yes; but how are we going to manage? You see, they've warned me off going with you, so to speak. They've told me in confidence that you're married. That's just the most overwhelming confidence I've ever been honored with. Tanner returns with Straker, who goes to his car. TANNER. Your car is a great success, Mr Malone. Your engineer is showing it off to Mr Ramsden. HECTOR. [eagerly--forgetting himself] Let's come, Vi. VIOLET. [coldly, warning him with her eyes] I beg your pardon, Mr Malone, I did not quite catch-- HECTOR. [recollecting himself] I ask to be allowed the pleasure of showing you my little American steam car, Miss Robinson. VIOLET. I shall be very pleased. [They go off together down the avenue]. TANNER. About this trip, Straker. STRAKER. [preoccupied with the car] Yes? TANNER. Miss Whitefield is supposed to be coming with me. STRAKER. So I gather. TANNER. Mr Robinson is to be one of the party. STRAKER. Yes. TANNER. Well, if you can manage so as to be a good deal occupied with me, and leave Mr Robinson a good deal occupied with Miss Whitefield, he will be deeply grateful to you. STRAKER. [looking round at him] Evidently. TANNER. "Evidently!" Your grandfather would have simply winked. STRAKER. My grandfather would have touched his at. TANNER. And I should have given your good nice respectful grandfather a sovereign. STRAKER. Five shillins, more likely. [He leaves the car and approaches Tanner]. What about the lady's views? TANNER. She is just as willing to be left to Mr Robinson as Mr Robinson is to be left to her. [Straker looks at his principal with cool scepticism; then turns to the car whistling his favorite air]. Stop that aggravating noise. What do you mean by it? [Straker calmly resumes the melody and finishes it. Tanner politely hears it out before he again addresses Straker, this time with elaborate seriousness]. Enry: I have ever been a warm advocate of the spread of music among the masses; but I object to your obliging the company whenever Miss Whitefield's name is mentioned. You did it this morning, too. STRAKER. [obstinately] It's not a bit o use. Mr Robinson may as well give it up first as last. TANNER. Why? STRAKER. Garn! You know why. Course it's not my business; but you needn't start kiddin me about it. TANNER. I am not kidding. I don't know why. STRAKER. [Cheerfully sulky] Oh, very well. All right. It ain't my business. TANNER. [impressively] I trust, Enry, that, as between employer and engineer, I shall always know how to keep my proper distance, and not intrude my private affairs on you. Even our business arrangements are subject to the approval of your Trade Union. But don't abuse your advantages. Let me remind you that Voltaire said that what was too silly to be said could be sung. STRAKER. It wasn't Voltaire: it was Bow Mar Shay. TANNER. I stand corrected: Beaumarchais of course. Now you seem to think that what is too delicate to be said can be whistled. Unfortunately your whistling, though melodious, is unintelligible. Come! there's nobody listening: neither my genteel relatives nor the secretary of your confounded Union. As man to man, Enry, why do you think that my friend has no chance with Miss Whitefield? STRAKER. Cause she's arter summun else. TANNER. Bosh! who else? STRAKER. You. TANNER. Me!!! STRAKER. Mean to tell me you didn't know? Oh, come, Mr Tanner! TANNER. [in fierce earnest] Are you playing the fool, or do you mean it? STRAKER. [with a flash of temper] I'm not playin no fool. [More coolly] Why, it's as plain as the nose on your face. If you ain't spotted that, you don't know much about these sort of things. [Serene again] Ex-cuse me, you know, Mr Tanner; but you asked me as man to man; and I told you as man to man. TANNER. [wildly appealing to the heavens] Then I--I am the bee, the spider, the marked down victim, the destined prey. STRAKER. I dunno about the bee and the spider. But the marked down victim, that's what you are and no mistake; and a jolly good job for you, too, I should say. TANNER. [momentously] Henry Straker: the moment of your life has arrived. STRAKER. What d'y'mean? TANNER. That record to Biskra. STRAKER. [eagerly] Yes? TANNER. Break it. STRAKER. [rising to the height of his destiny] D'y'mean it? TANNER. I do. STRAKER. When? TANNER. Now. Is that machine ready to start? STRAKER. [quailing] But you can't-- TANNER. [cutting him short by getting into the car] Off we go. First to the bank for money; then to my rooms for my kit; then to your rooms for your kit; then break the record from London to Dover or Folkestone; then across the channel and away like mad to Marseilles, Gibraltar, Genoa, any port from which we can sail to a Mahometan country where men are protected from women. STRAKER. Garn! you're kiddin. TANNER. [resolutely] Stay behind then. If you won't come I'll do it alone. [He starts the motor]. STRAKER. [running after him] Here! Mister! arf a mo! steady on! [he scrambles in as the car plunges forward]. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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

Der Schauplatz ist die Auffahrt im Park des Hauses in der Nähe von Richmond. Jack Tanner, gekleidet in zeitgenössischer Motorbekleidung, beobachtet seinen Chauffeur Henry Straker, der das Auto repariert. Das Gespräch zwischen den beiden zeigt, dass Enry einer neuen Art von Bediensteten angehört, einem, der sich seiner Überlegenheit in der Welt der Maschinen durchaus bewusst ist. Jack Tanner hat zweifellos recht, wenn er spöttisch feststellt, dass der Herr zum Sklaven des Autos und des Chauffeurs geworden ist. Tanner erzählt Enry, dass ein Herr Malone, ein amerikanischer Gentleman, Octavius mit einem neuen amerikanischen Dampfwagen hinunterfährt. Enry drückt seine Enttäuschung aus, dass er nicht mit ihnen um die Wette fahren konnte, wird aber durch die Nachricht getröstet, dass beide Autos zur Beförderung der gesamten Gruppe verwendet werden, zu der auch Octavius, Violet, Ann, Rhoda und Jack selbst gehören. Er ist jedoch ungläubig, als ihm gesagt wird, dass Ann nicht in Jacks Auto fahren wird. Octavius kehrt zurück und es folgt eine amüsante Unterhaltung, in der Tanner Enrys Stellung als der Neue Mensch, ein Mitglied der klassenbewussten Ingenieure, erklärt. Der Chauffeur ist nicht respektlos, aber alles andere als unterwürfig. Er ist sich bewusst, dass er mehr über Maschinen - und Frauen - weiß als sein Herr. Allein gelassen mit Tanner, bittet Octavius um sein Mitgefühl. Er hatte Ann einen Heiratsantrag gemacht und wurde abgewiesen. Jack besteht darauf, dass er überhaupt nicht abgewiesen wurde und dass Ann lediglich noch nicht mit ihm fertig ist. Sie ist die Verfolgerin, argumentiert er, und Octavius ist ihr auserwähltes Opfer. Aber der arme, verliebte Octavius weist diesen Rat als nur ein weiteres Beispiel von Jacks "ewig flacher Zynismus" zurück. Als Tanner erfährt, dass Ann seinen Freund dafür getadelt hat, dass er ihr nicht die Erlaubnis erteilt hat, sie anzusprechen, spricht er Segenswünsche für die beiden aus und wünscht ihnen Glück. Aber er fügt hinzu, dass Ann genauso frei in ihrer Wahl ist wie Octavius. Es folgt eine Auseinandersetzung über das Thema Liebe, wie es von Tanner und Octavius betrachtet wird. Als Straker wieder auftaucht, wechselt das Gespräch auf Enrys Besessenheit von Motorsport. Octavius übergibt Jack eine Notiz von Rhoda Whitefield, in der sie schreibt, dass ihre ältere Schwester Ann ihr verboten hat, an der Motorreise mit Tanner teilzunehmen und überhaupt in seiner Gegenwart zu sein, da er "keine geeignete Person für ein junges Mädchen" sei. Octavius steht auf der Seite von Ann und argumentiert, dass Jacks Ansichten sicherlich nicht angemessen für die Entwicklung des Geistes und Charakters eines jungen Mädchens sind. Ann erscheint mit der Nachricht, dass die arme Rhoda wegen einer ihrer Kopfschmerzen nicht an der Ausfahrt teilnehmen kann. Jack findet es höchst amüsant; er hat Ann in einer Lüge gefangen, aus der er sicher ist, dass sie sich nicht befreien kann. Aber Ann schafft es genau das zu tun. Nachdem sie Octavius beauftragt hat, sich um seinen amerikanischen Freund zu kümmern, erklärt sie, dass sie nur die gehorsame Tochter war, die die Anweisungen ihrer Mutter befolgte - eine weitere Lüge natürlich. Das gibt Tanner das Stichwort für eine Tirade über die Tyrannei der Mütter und um Ann herauszufordern, ihre Unabhängigkeit zu zeigen, indem sie sich ihm auf einer kontinentalen Motorreise anschließt. Zu seinem Entsetzen stimmt sie sofort zu. Schließlich erklärt sie, dass dabei keine Unanständigkeit im Spiel wäre, denn Jack ist ihr Vormund und tritt an die Stelle ihres Vaters. Mrs. Whitefield kommt, begleitet von Hector Malone, dem jungen Amerikaner, und gefolgt von Ramsden und Octavius. Jack hofft, dass Mrs. Whitefield Ann absolut verbieten wird, mit ihm auf den Kontinent zu gehen. Ihm wird gesagt, dass sie keinerlei Einwände hat - warum sollte sie Einwände haben? Tatsächlich sagt Mrs. Whitefield, dass sie beabsichtigt hatte, Jack zu bitten, ab und zu mit Rhoda spazieren zu fahren. So erfährt er, dass Ann wieder gelogen hat. "Abyssus unter Abyssus von Verrat!" ruft er aus. Ann stellt Hector schnell Jack vor, um die Aufmerksamkeit von diesem Ausbruch abzulenken. Im Gespräch mit Tanner und Octavius offenbart Hector seine Hingabe an Violet und wird gewarnt, dass sie eine verheiratete Frau ist, deren Ehemann unbekannt ist. Hector, der Inbegriff von Ritterlichkeit, sagt, dass er den Wünschen der Dame Respekt zollen wird, aber nicht verstehen kann, warum ein Ehemann seiner Frau verbieten sollte, seine Identität preiszugeben. All dies führt zu einer Diskussion über Weiblichkeit und Ehe, wobei Tanner wie immer unorthodoxe Meinungen äußert. Hector bittet darum, ein paar Worte in privatem Rahmen mit Violet wechseln zu dürfen. Allein auf der Bühne tauschen die beiden Küsse aus, und das Publikum erfährt dann eindeutig, dass sie verheiratet sind. Der Grund für ihre Geheimhaltung war die Tatsache, dass Hectors millionenschwerer Vater darauf bestand, dass sein Sohn eine Angehörige der Aristokratie heiratet, jemanden mit einem "Titel". Hector drängt Violet, ihre Ehe auch öffentlich bekannt zu geben, selbst wenn sein Vater ihn enterbt. Aber Violet will von solchem "Unsinn" nichts wissen. Hector darf sich nicht romantisch über Geld äußern, stellt sie klar; sie hat nicht vor, einen Kampf und Armut zu erleben. Als Hector sagt, dass er Geld leihen und dann arbeiten könne, ist sie entsetzt: "Willst du unsere Ehe ruinieren?" Der junge Amerikaner ist besorgt darüber, eine Lüge leben zu müssen, besonders nachdem Jack Tanner argumentiert hat, dass die Ehe die unbekannten Ehemann Violet nicht adeln würde. Für Violet ist Jack ein abscheuliches Biest, aber der tolerante Hector ist sicher, dass alles, was er braucht, die Liebe einer guten Frau ist. Tanner kehrt mit Straker zurück, während Violet und ihr Mann sich entfernen, um den Dampfwagen zu inspizieren. Jack und Enry diskutieren über die Kontinentalreise. Im Laufe ihres Gesprächs sagt der scharfsinnige Chauffeur seinem Herrn, dass Octavius keine Chance hat, Ann zu heiraten, und dass es Jack selbst ist, dem sie nachstellt. Tanner ist entsetzt bei dem Gedanken, dass er "die Biene, die Spinne, das markierte Opfer" ist, das Ann einfangen will. Auf der Suche nach einer Fluchtmöglichkeit ruft er Enry auf, einen neuen Motorrekord aufzustellen, um weit über den Kontinent hinauszufahren und außerhalb von Anns Reichweite zu kommen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The next morning Angelique, Amedee's wife, was in the kitchen baking pies, assisted by old Mrs. Chevalier. Between the mixing-board and the stove stood the old cradle that had been Amedee's, and in it was his black-eyed son. As Angelique, flushed and excited, with flour on her hands, stopped to smile at the baby, Emil Bergson rode up to the kitchen door on his mare and dismounted. "'Medee is out in the field, Emil," Angelique called as she ran across the kitchen to the oven. "He begins to cut his wheat to-day; the first wheat ready to cut anywhere about here. He bought a new header, you know, because all the wheat's so short this year. I hope he can rent it to the neighbors, it cost so much. He and his cousins bought a steam thresher on shares. You ought to go out and see that header work. I watched it an hour this morning, busy as I am with all the men to feed. He has a lot of hands, but he's the only one that knows how to drive the header or how to run the engine, so he has to be everywhere at once. He's sick, too, and ought to be in his bed." Emil bent over Hector Baptiste, trying to make him blink his round, bead-like black eyes. "Sick? What's the matter with your daddy, kid? Been making him walk the floor with you?" Angelique sniffed. "Not much! We don't have that kind of babies. It was his father that kept Baptiste awake. All night I had to be getting up and making mustard plasters to put on his stomach. He had an awful colic. He said he felt better this morning, but I don't think he ought to be out in the field, overheating himself." Angelique did not speak with much anxiety, not because she was indifferent, but because she felt so secure in their good fortune. Only good things could happen to a rich, energetic, handsome young man like Amedee, with a new baby in the cradle and a new header in the field. Emil stroked the black fuzz on Baptiste's head. "I say, Angelique, one of 'Medee's grandmothers, 'way back, must have been a squaw. This kid looks exactly like the Indian babies." Angelique made a face at him, but old Mrs. Chevalier had been touched on a sore point, and she let out such a stream of fiery PATOIS that Emil fled from the kitchen and mounted his mare. Opening the pasture gate from the saddle, Emil rode across the field to the clearing where the thresher stood, driven by a stationary engine and fed from the header boxes. As Amedee was not on the engine, Emil rode on to the wheatfield, where he recognized, on the header, the slight, wiry figure of his friend, coatless, his white shirt puffed out by the wind, his straw hat stuck jauntily on the side of his head. The six big work-horses that drew, or rather pushed, the header, went abreast at a rapid walk, and as they were still green at the work they required a good deal of management on Amedee's part; especially when they turned the corners, where they divided, three and three, and then swung round into line again with a movement that looked as complicated as a wheel of artillery. Emil felt a new thrill of admiration for his friend, and with it the old pang of envy at the way in which Amedee could do with his might what his hand found to do, and feel that, whatever it was, it was the most important thing in the world. "I'll have to bring Alexandra up to see this thing work," Emil thought; "it's splendid!" When he saw Emil, Amedee waved to him and called to one of his twenty cousins to take the reins. Stepping off the header without stopping it, he ran up to Emil who had dismounted. "Come along," he called. "I have to go over to the engine for a minute. I gotta green man running it, and I gotta to keep an eye on him." Emil thought the lad was unnaturally flushed and more excited than even the cares of managing a big farm at a critical time warranted. As they passed behind a last year's stack, Amedee clutched at his right side and sank down for a moment on the straw. "Ouch! I got an awful pain in me, Emil. Something's the matter with my insides, for sure." Emil felt his fiery cheek. "You ought to go straight to bed, 'Medee, and telephone for the doctor; that's what you ought to do." Amedee staggered up with a gesture of despair. "How can I? I got no time to be sick. Three thousand dollars' worth of new machinery to manage, and the wheat so ripe it will begin to shatter next week. My wheat's short, but it's gotta grand full berries. What's he slowing down for? We haven't got header boxes enough to feed the thresher, I guess." Amedee started hot-foot across the stubble, leaning a little to the right as he ran, and waved to the engineer not to stop the engine. Emil saw that this was no time to talk about his own affairs. He mounted his mare and rode on to Sainte-Agnes, to bid his friends there good-bye. He went first to see Raoul Marcel, and found him innocently practising the "Gloria" for the big confirmation service on Sunday while he polished the mirrors of his father's saloon. As Emil rode homewards at three o'clock in the afternoon, he saw Amedee staggering out of the wheatfield, supported by two of his cousins. Emil stopped and helped them put the boy to bed. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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

Am nächsten Morgen fährt Emil zu seinem Freund Amedee. Er findet Angelique, seine Frau, die mit der alten Frau Chevalier, Amedees Mutter, in der Küche Kuchen backt, und den kleinen Jungen Hector Baptiste. Sie erzählt Emil, dass Amedee draußen auf den Feldern arbeitet. Er bedient eine neue Mähdrescherbiene, eine Maschine zum Ernten von Weizen. Sie erzählt ihm auch, dass Amedee die ganze Nacht mit Magenschmerzen wach gelegen hat und ins Bett sollte. Trotzdem klingt sie überhaupt nicht besorgt. Wie uns der Erzähler mitteilt, könnte sie nicht zuversichtlicher in die Jugend und Stärke ihres Mannes und ihres kleinen Jungen sein. Emil spielt eine Weile mit dem Baby und bemerkt scherzhaft, dass es wie ein kleiner Indianer aussieht. Seine Großmutter ist nicht erfreut. Emil fährt zu den Feldern. Er ist wirklich beeindruckt von seinem Freund und seiner neuen Maschine, aber es wird schnell klar, dass sein Freund wirklich krank ist. Er krümmt sich vor Magenschmerzen und scheint Fieber zu haben. Als Emil ihm sagt, er solle sich ausruhen, wirkt Amedee besorgt um die rechtzeitige Ernte des Weizens. Emil sieht, dass er zu beschäftigt ist, um zu reden, also macht er sich auf den Weg zur französischen Kirche, um sich von einem anderen Freund zu verabschieden. Als er wieder an dem Feld vorbeikommt, hilft er einigen Männern, Amedee abzutransportieren und ins Bett zu bringen.

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. Marilla, die an einem späten Aprilabend von einem Aid-Treffen nach Hause ging, wurde sich bewusst, dass der Winter vorüber war und mit dem begeisterten Frühlingsgefühl, das der ältesten und traurigsten sowie der jüngsten und fröhlichsten Person niemals fehlt, dahingegangen war. Marilla neigte nicht zu einer subjektiven Analyse ihrer Gedanken und Gefühle. Sie bildete sich wahrscheinlich ein, über die Aid-Gruppe und deren Missionskiste und den neuen Teppich für den Sakristeiraum nachzudenken, aber unter diesen Betrachtungen lag ein harmonisches Bewusstsein für rote Felder, die in blass-lila Nebel im untergehenden Sonnenlicht eintauchten, für lange, spitze Schatten der Tannen, die über die Wiesen jenseits des Baches fielen, für ruhige, kirschblütenknospende Ahornbäume um einen spiegelglatten Waldteich, für ein Erwachen in der Welt und für ein unruhiges Pochen unter dem grauen Gras. Der Frühling war im Land und Marillas nüchterner, mittleren Schrittes wurde leichter und schneller wegen seiner tiefen, ursprünglichen Freude. Ihre Augen betrachteten Green Gables liebevoll, sie spähte durch das Netzwerk der Bäume und reflektierte das Sonnenlicht von den Fenstern in mehreren kleinen Glorien. Marilla dachte, während sie den feuchten Weg entlangschritt, dass es wirklich befriedigend war zu wissen, dass sie nach Hause zu einem fröhlich knisternden Holzfeuer und einem schön gedeckten Tisch für Tee zurückkehrte, anstatt zur kalten Trostlosigkeit der alten Aid-Treffenabende, bevor Anne nach Green Gables gekommen war. Deshalb war Marilla enttäuscht und verärgert, als sie in die Küche kam und das Feuer schwarz war und nirgendwo ein Zeichen von Anne zu sehen war. Sie hatte Anne gebeten, pünktlich um fünf Uhr Tee bereitzuhalten, aber nun musste sie sich beeilen, ihr zweitbestes Kleid auszuziehen und das Essen selbst zuzubereiten, bis Matthew vom Pflügen zurückkehrte. "Ich werde Miss Anne zur Rede stellen, wenn sie nach Hause kommt," sagte Marilla grimmig, während sie Anmachholz mit einem Schnitzmesser zerkleinerte und dabei mehr Schwung setzte, als unbedingt notwendig war. Matthew war hereingekommen und wartete geduldig in seiner Ecke auf seinen Tee. "Sie zieht irgendwo mit Diana umher und schreibt Geschichten oder übt Dialoge oder irgendeinen solchen Unsinn und denkt dabei kein einziges Mal an die Zeit oder ihre Pflichten. Sie muss plötzlich und nachdrücklich aufhören mit dieser Art von Verhalten. Es kümmert mich nicht, ob Mrs. Allan sagt, dass sie das klügste und netteste Kind ist, das sie je gekannt hat. Sie mag klug und nett genug sein, aber ihr Kopf ist voller Unsinn und man weiß nie, in welcher Form er als Nächstes ausbricht. Sobald sie einen Spleen abgelegt hat, hängt sie sich an einen neuen. Aber da! Hier rede ich genau das, wofür ich heute so über Rachel Lynde aufgebracht war. Ich war wirklich froh, als sich Mrs. Allan für Anne aussprach, denn wenn sie das nicht getan hätte, weiß ich, dass ich vor aller Welt zu Rachel etwas zu Scharfes gesagt hätte. Anne hat sicherlich genug Fehler, Gott sei Dank, und ich würde es niemals leugnen. Aber ich ziehe sie groß, nicht Rachel Lynde, die selbst den Engel Gabriel bemängeln würde, wenn er in Avonlea leben würde. Trotzdem hat Anne nichts im Haus zu suchen, wenn ich ihr gesagt habe, dass sie heute Nachmittag zu Hause bleiben und nach den Dingen schauen soll. Ich muss sagen, dass ich, trotz all ihrer Fehler, sie noch nie ungehorsam oder unzuverlässig gefunden habe und ich finde es wirklich schade, dass sie jetzt so ist." "Nun, das weiß ich nicht", sagte Matthew, der geduldig und weise und vor allem hungrig war und beschlossen hatte, Marilla ihre Wut ungestört ausreden zu lassen, da er aus Erfahrung gelernt hatte, dass sie durch unzeitgemäße Argumente schneller mit allem fertig wurde, was anstand. "Vielleicht beurteilst du sie zu voreilig, Marilla. Nenn sie nicht unzuverlässig, bis du sicher bist, dass sie dir ungehorsam gewesen ist. Vielleicht lässt sich alles erklären - Anne ist sehr gut darin, Dinge zu erklären." "Sie ist nicht hier, als ich ihr sagte, dass sie bleiben soll", erwiderte Marilla. "Ich nehme an, es wird für sie schwer sein, das zu meiner Zufriedenheit zu erklären. Natürlich wusste ich, dass du Partei für sie ergreifen würdest, Matthew. Aber ich ziehe sie groß, nicht du." Es war dunkel, als das Abendessen fertig war und immer noch keine Spur von Anne zu sehen war, wie sie über die Holzbrücke eilte oder die Lover's Lane hinaufkam, außer Atem und reumütig wegen vernachlässigter Aufgaben. Marilla wusch und verräumte das Geschirr grimmig. Dann, weil sie eine Kerze brauchte, um ihren weg in den Keller zu beleuchten, ging sie auf das östliche Giebeldach, um jene Kerze zu holen, die normalerweise auf Annes Tisch stand. Sie zündete sie an, drehte sich um und sah Anne selbst auf dem Bett liegen, mit dem Gesicht nach unten in den Kissen. "Du meine Güte", sagte die erstaunte Marilla, "warst du eingeschlafen, Anne?" "Nein", war die erstickte Antwort. "Bist du krank?", fragte Marilla besorgt und ging zum Bett. Anne duckte sich tiefer in die Kissen, als wolle sie sich für immer vor menschlichen Augen verstecken. "Nein. Aber bitte, Marilla, geh weg und sieh mich nicht an. Ich bin in tiefste Verzweiflung geraten und es ist mir egal, wer in der Klasse an erster Stelle steht oder die beste Komposition schreibt oder im Sonntagsschulchor singt. Kleine Dinge wie das sind jetzt nicht mehr wichtig, weil ich vermutlich nie wieder irgendwohin gehen kann. Meine Karriere ist vorbei. Bitte, Marilla, geh weg und sieh mich nicht an." "Hat man je so etwas gehört?", wollte die verwirrte Marilla wissen. "Anne Shirley, was ist nur mit dir los? Was hast du getan? Steh sofort auf und sag es mir. Sofort, sage ich. Na gut, was ist es denn?" Anne rutschte verzweifelt auf den Boden. "Schau auf meine Haare, Marilla", flüsterte sie. Daher hob Marilla ihre Kerze und betrachtete Annes Haare eingehend, die in schweren Massen über ihren Rücken flossen. Sie hatten sicherlich ein sehr eigenartiges Aussehen. "Anne Shirley, was hast du deinen Haaren angetan? Sie sind ja _grün_!" Man könnte sagen, dass es grün war, wenn es eine irdische Farbe hätte - ein seltsam dumpfes, bronzegrünes Haar, mit hier und da Streifen des ursprünglichen Rots, um die gespenstische Wirkung zu verstärken. Nie zuvor hatte Marilla in ihrem ganzen Leben etwas so groteskes wie Annes Haare in diesem Moment gesehen. "Ja, es ist grün", stöhnte Anne. "Ich dachte, nichts könnte so schlimm sein wie rote Haare. Aber jetzt weiß ich, dass es zehnmal schlimmer ist, grüne Haare zu haben. Oh, Marilla, du weißt nicht, wie unendlich unglücklich ich bin." "Ich weiß nicht, wie du in diese Lage geraten bist, aber ich werde es herausfinden", sagte Marilla. "Komm sofort in die Küche - es ist hier oben zu kalt - und sag mir genau, was du getan hast. Ich habe schon seit einiger Zeit etwas Seltsames erwartet. Du bist seit über zwei Monaten nicht in Schwierigkeiten geraten und ich war sicher, dass eine neue bevorstand. Also, was hast du mit deinen Haaren gemacht?" "Ich habe sie gefärbt." "Gefärbt! Deine Haare gefärbt! Anne Shirley, wusstest du nicht, dass das eine böse Sache ist?" "Ja, ich wusste, dass es ein bisschen böse war", gab Anne zu. "Aber "Oh, ich habe ihn nicht ins Haus gelassen. Ich erinnerte mich an das, was du mir gesagt hast, und ich bin hinausgegangen, habe die Tür sorgfältig geschlossen und seine Sachen auf der Treppe betrachtet. Außerdem war er kein Italiener - er war ein deutscher Jude. Er hatte eine große Kiste voller sehr interessanter Dinge und er hat mir erzählt, dass er hart arbeitet, um genug Geld zu verdienen, um seine Frau und Kinder aus Deutschland hierher zu holen. Er sprach so mitfühlend über sie, dass es mein Herz berührte. Ich wollte etwas von ihm kaufen, um ihm bei einem so würdigen Ziel zu helfen. Dann sah ich plötzlich die Flasche mit Haarfärbemittel. Der Hausierer sagte, es würde jedes Haar wunderschön rabenschwarz färben und nicht abwaschen. Auf einmal sah ich mich selbst mit schönem, rabenschwarzem Haar und die Versuchung war unwiderstehlich. Aber der Preis für die Flasche betrug 75 Cent und ich hatte nur noch 50 Cent von meinem Hühnergeld übrig. Ich denke, der Hausierer hatte ein sehr gutes Herz, denn er sagte, wenn er es wäre, würde er es mir für 50 Cent verkaufen und das war geradezu ein Geschenk. Also kaufte ich es und als er gegangen war, bin ich hierher gekommen und habe es mit einer alten Haarbürste wie auf der Packung beschrieben aufgetragen. Ich habe die ganze Flasche aufgebraucht und oh, Marilla, als ich die schreckliche Farbe sah, in die mein Haar sich verwandelte, bereute ich meine Boshaftigkeit, das kann ich dir sagen. Und ich bereue es immer noch." "Nun, ich hoffe, du bereust es zu recht", sagte Marilla streng, "und dass du erkannt hast, wohin dich deine Eitelkeit geführt hat, Anne. Gott weiß, was nun getan werden soll. Ich nehme an, das erste ist, dein Haar gründlich zu waschen und zu sehen, ob das etwas nützt." Folglich wusch Anne ihr Haar und rieb es kräftig mit Seife und Wasser, aber es machte keinerlei Unterschied, es war genauso rot wie zuvor. Der Hausierer hatte mit Sicherheit die Wahrheit gesprochen, als er behauptete, die Farbe würde nicht abwaschen, wie auch immer seine Glaubwürdigkeit in anderen Belangen sein mochte. "Oh, Marilla, was soll ich nur tun?", fragte Anne weinend. "Ich kann das niemals vergessen machen. Die Leute haben meine anderen Fehler so ziemlich vergessen - den Liniment-Kuchen und dass ich Diana betrunken gemacht habe und dass ich mich über Mrs. Lynde aufgeregt habe. Aber das hier werden sie nie vergessen. Sie werden denken, dass ich nicht anständig bin. Oh, Marilla, 'was für ein kompliziertes Netz wir spinnen, wenn wir anfangen, zu täuschen.' Das ist Poesie, aber es ist wahr. Und oh, wie wird Josie Pye lachen! Marilla, ich bin das unglücklichste Mädchen auf Prince Edward Island." Annes Unglück dauerte eine Woche lang an. In dieser Zeit ging sie nirgendwohin und wusch sich jeden Tag das Haar. Nur Diana wusste als Außenstehende das tödliche Geheimnis, aber sie versprach feierlich, niemals etwas zu verraten, und hier und jetzt darf gesagt werden, dass sie ihr Wort gehalten hat. Am Ende der Woche sagte Marilla entschieden: "Es hat keinen Zweck, Anne. Diese Farbe hält anscheinend für immer. Dein Haar muss abgeschnitten werden, es gibt keine andere Möglichkeit. Mit so einer Frisur kannst du nicht herumlaufen." Annes Lippen zitterten, aber sie erkannte die bittere Wahrheit von Marillas Bemerkungen. Mit einem traurigen Seufzer holte sie die Schere. "Schneid es bitte sofort ab, Marilla, und lass es hinter uns. Oh, ich fühle, dass mein Herz gebrochen ist. Das ist so ein unromantisches Unglück. Die Mädchen in Büchern verlieren ihr Haar durch Fieber oder verkaufen es, um Geld für eine gute Tat zu bekommen, und ich würde meinen Haarverlust in solch einer Mode viel weniger stören. Aber es ist nicht tröstlich, das Haar abzuschneiden, weil man es in einer schrecklichen Farbe gefärbt hat, oder? Ich werde weinen, solange du es abschneidest, wenn es nicht stört. Es scheint so tragisch zu sein." Anne weinte dann, aber später, als sie nach oben ging und in den Spiegel schaute, war sie ruhig vor Verzweiflung. Marilla hatte ihre Arbeit gründlich erledigt und es war notwendig gewesen, das Haar so kurz wie möglich zu scheren. Das Ergebnis war nicht gerade vorteilhaft, um es milde auszudrücken. Anne drehte prompt ihren Spiegel zur Wand. "Ich werde mich nie, nie wieder anschauen, bis mein Haar nachgewachsen ist", rief sie leidenschaftlich aus. Dann richtete sie den Spiegel plötzlich wieder auf. "Doch, werde ich. Ich werde Buße tun für meine Boshaftigkeit. Ich werde mich jedes Mal anschauen, wenn ich in mein Zimmer komme, und sehen, wie hässlich ich bin. Und ich werde nicht versuchen, es wegzudenken. Ich dachte nie, dass ich eitel wegen meines Haares war, von allen Dingen, aber jetzt weiß ich, dass ich es war, trotz seiner Röte, weil es so lang und dick und lockig war. Ich erwarte als Nächstes etwas Schlimmes mit meiner Nase." Annes kahler Kopf sorgte für Aufsehen in der Schule am folgenden Montag, aber zu ihrer Erleichterung errät niemand den wahren Grund dafür, nicht einmal Josie Pye, die es dennoch nicht versäumte, Anne mitzuteilen, dass sie wie ein perfekter Vogelscheuchen aussieht. "Ich habe nichts gesagt, als Josie das zu mir sagte", vertraute Anne an jenem Abend Marilla an, die sich auf dem Sofa ausgestreckt hatte nach einer ihrer Kopfschmerzen, "weil ich dachte, es sei Teil meiner Strafe und ich sollte es geduldig ertragen. Es ist schwer, dir sagen zu hören, dass du wie eine Vogelscheuche aussiehst, und ich wollte etwas erwidern. Aber ich tat es nicht. Ich schenkte ihr nur einen verächtlichen Blick und dann vergab ich ihr. Es lässt dich sehr tugendhaft fühlen, wenn du Menschen vergibst, oder? Nach all dem bedeutet mir das, gut zu sein, so viel und ich werde nie wieder versuchen, schön zu sein. Natürlich ist es besser, gut zu sein. Das weiß ich. Aber manchmal ist es so schwer, etwas zu glauben, selbst wenn man es weiß. Ich will wirklich gut sein, Marilla, so wie du und Mrs. Allan und Miss Stacy, und aufwachsen und dir Ehre machen. Diana sagt, dass ich, wenn mein Haar anfängt nachzuwachsen, ein schwarzes Samtband um meinen Kopf binden und eine Schleife an die Seite machen soll. Sie sagt, sie denkt, das wird sehr gut aussehen. Ich werde es Snood nennen - das klingt so romantisch. Aber rede ich zu viel, Marilla? Tut dir dein Kopf weh?" "Mir geht es jetzt besser. Es war heute Nachmittag schrecklich schlimm. Diese Kopfschmerzen werden immer schlimmer. Ich muss einen Arzt deshalb aufsuchen. Was dein Geplapper betrifft, ich glaube, es stört mich nicht - ich habe mich so daran gewöhnt." Das war Marillas Art zu sagen, dass sie es mochte, es zu hören. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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

Der Frühling kommt erneut nach Avonlea und selbst Marilla spürt die Aufregung, als sie von einem Unterstützungstreffen nach Hause geht. Sie denkt glücklich, dass es so viel schöner ist, nach Hause zu Anne zu kommen, als in ein leeres Haus. Aber als sie zu Hause ankommt, ist Anne nirgendwo zu finden. Marilla wartet bis es dunkel wird, aber Anne kommt nicht nach Hause. Dann, als Marilla in Annes Zimmer geht, um eine Kerze zu holen, findet sie Anne verzweifelt mit dem Gesicht nach unten im Bett liegend. Es stellt sich heraus, dass Anne versucht hat, ihre Haare mit Farbe von einem reisenden Verkäufer schwarz zu färben, aber stattdessen wurden ihre Haare grün. Marilla versucht, Annes Haare zu schrubben, aber die Farbe geht nicht raus. Marilla beschließt, dass sie Annes Haare komplett bis auf die Kopfhaut abschneiden müssen. Als Anne mit ihrem abgeschnittenen Haar zur Schule zurückkehrt, sorgt es für Aufsehen, aber niemand ahnt, dass es wegen ihrer grünen Haare abgeschnitten wurde. Anne erzählt Marilla davon, als sie nach Hause kommt, aber dann fragt sie Marilla, ob sie weniger reden soll, weil sie weiß, dass Marilla vorher Kopfschmerzen hatte. Marilla sagt, dass sie sich jetzt gut fühlt, aber dass ihre Kopfschmerzen immer schlimmer werden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: _Derselbe Tag, 23 Uhr abends_ - Oh, ich bin aber müde! Wenn mein Tagebuch nicht eine Pflicht wäre, würde ich es heute Abend nicht aufschlagen. Wir hatten einen schönen Spaziergang. Lucy war nach einer Weile in guter Stimmung, wahrscheinlich wegen einiger liebevoller Kühe, die sich uns auf einer Wiese in der Nähe des Leuchtturms näherten und uns ordentlich erschreckten. Ich glaube, wir haben alles andere vergessen, außer natürlich der persönlichen Angst, und es schien, als würde es unsere Sorgen beiseite wischen und uns einen frischen Start ermöglichen. Wir hatten eine grandiose "schwere Tea" in Robin Hoods Bay in einem süßen, altmodischen Gasthaus mit einer Fensternische direkt über den mit Seetang bedeckten Felsen des Strandes. Ich glaube, wir hätten die "New Woman" mit unserem Appetit geschockt. Männer sind toleranter, Gott sei Dank! Dann sind wir mit einigen, oder eher vielen, Zwischenstopps zum Ausruhen nach Hause gelaufen und mit ständiger Furcht vor wilden Bullen in unseren Herzen. Lucy war wirklich müde und wir beabsichtigten, uns so schnell wie möglich ins Bett zu schleichen. Der junge Vikar kam jedoch herein und Mrs. Westenra bat ihn zum Abendessen zu bleiben. Lucy und ich haben beide einen Kampf mit dem staubigen Müller ausgefochten; ich weiß, dass es ein harter Kampf für mich war und ich bin ganz heroisch. Ich glaube, die Bischöfe sollten sich eines Tages zusammensetzen und darüber beraten, eine neue Klasse von Vikaren zu züchten, die kein Abendessen zu sich nehmen, egal wie sehr sie gedrängt werden, und die wissen, wann Mädchen müde sind. Lucy schläft und atmet leise. Sie hat mehr Farbe in ihren Wangen als gewöhnlich und sieht so süß aus. Wenn Herr Holmwood sich in sie verliebt hat, nur weil er sie im Wohnzimmer gesehen hat, frage ich mich, was er sagen würde, wenn er sie jetzt sehen würde. Einige der "New Women" Schriftstellerinnen werden vielleicht irgendwann die Idee aufbringen, dass Männer und Frauen sich gegenseitig im Schlaf sehen dürfen, bevor sie einen Heiratsantrag machen oder ihn annehmen. Aber ich nehme an, dass die "New Woman" in Zukunft keine Anträge mehr annimmt; sie wird selbst den Antrag machen. Und eine schöne Arbeit wird sie daraus machen! Darin liegt ein Trost. Ich bin so glücklich heute Abend, weil es Lucy besser zu gehen scheint. Ich glaube wirklich, sie hat den Wendepunkt überwunden und wir haben ihre Träume hinter uns gelassen. Ich wäre wirklich glücklich, wenn ich nur wüsste, wie es Jonathan geht... Gott segne und beschütze ihn. _11. August, 3 Uhr morgens_ - Wieder das Tagebuch. Kein Schlaf jetzt, also kann ich genauso gut schreiben. Ich bin zu aufgewühlt zum Schlafen. Wir haben so ein Abenteuer erlebt, so eine quälende Erfahrung. Ich bin sofort eingeschlafen, nachdem ich mein Tagebuch geschlossen hatte... Plötzlich wurde ich hellwach und setzte mich auf, mit einer furchtbaren Angst und einem Gefühl der Leere um mich herum. Das Zimmer war dunkel, daher konnte ich Lucys Bett nicht sehen; Ich schlich hinüber und tastete nach ihr. Das Bett war leer. Ich zündete ein Streichholz an und stellte fest, dass sie nicht im Zimmer war. Die Tür war geschlossen, aber nicht abgeschlossen, wie ich sie verlassen hatte. Ich fürchtete, ihre Mutter zu wecken, die in letzter Zeit mehr als gewöhnlich krank war, also zog ich mich an und machte mich bereit, nach ihr zu suchen. Als ich das Zimmer verließ, fiel mir ein, dass die Kleidung, die sie trug, mir einen Hinweis auf ihre Absicht geben könnte. Morgenmantel würde bedeuten, sie ist im Haus; Kleidung bedeutet draußen. Morgenmantel und Kleid waren beide an ihren Plätzen. "Gott sei Dank", sagte ich zu mir selbst, "sie kann nicht weit sein, da sie nur ihr Nachthemd trägt." Ich rannte die Treppe hinunter und schaute ins Wohnzimmer. Nicht da! Dann schaute ich in alle anderen offenen Räume des Hauses, mit einer immer größer werdenden Angst, die mein Herz erstarren ließ. Schließlich kam ich zur Haustür und fand sie offen. Sie war nicht weit offen, aber der Riegel hatte nicht eingerastet. Die Leute im Haus achten darauf, die Tür jede Nacht abzuschließen, also fürchtete ich, dass Lucy so herausgegangen sein musste, wie sie war. Es blieb keine Zeit, über das nachzudenken, was passieren könnte; eine vage, überwältigende Angst verschleierte all die Details. Ich nahm einen großen, schweren Schal und rannte hinaus. Die Uhr schlug eins, als ich auf der Crescent war, und es war keine Menschenseele zu sehen. Ich lief entlang der North Terrace, konnte aber keine Anzeichen der weißen Gestalt sehen, die ich erwartete. Am Rand des West Cliffs über der Mole schaute ich über den Hafen zum East Cliff, in der Hoffnung oder Furcht - ich weiß nicht, welche -, Lucy auf unserem Lieblingsplatz zu sehen. Es war ein hell leuchtender Vollmond mit schweren, schwarzen, treibenden Wolken, die die ganze Szene in eine flüchtige Licht- und Schattendiavorama verwandelten, während sie hinübersegelten. Für einen Moment oder zwei konnte ich nichts sehen, da der Schatten einer Wolke St. Mary's Church und alles um sie herum verdeckte. Dann, als die Wolke vorbeizog, konnte ich die Ruinen der Abtei in Sicht bekommen; und als der Rand eines schmalen, so scharf wie ein Schwertstreiches, langsam beweglichen Lichtbands entlang zog, wurden sowohl die Kirche als auch der Friedhof allmählich sichtbar. Was auch immer meine Erwartung war, sie wurde nicht enttäuscht, denn dort auf unserem Lieblingsplatz leuchtete das silberne Licht des Mondes auf eine halb liegende, schneeweiße Gestalt. Der Übergang der Wolke war zu schnell für mich, um viel zu sehen, denn der Schatten überwältigte das Licht fast unmittelbar; aber es schien mir, als stünde etwas Dunkles hinter dem Sitz, wo die weiße Gestalt schimmerte, und beugte sich darüber. Was es war, ob Mensch oder Tier, konnte ich nicht erkennen; ich wartete nicht auf einen weiteren Blick, sondern rannte die steilen Stufen hinunter zur Mole und entlang dem Fischmarkt zur Brücke, dem einzigen Weg zum East Cliff. Die Stadt schien so tot, denn ich sah keine Menschenseele; ich freute mich darüber, denn ich wollte keinen Zeugen für den Zustand von armen Lucy. Zeit und Distanz schienen endlos, und meine Knie zitterten und mein Atem kam schwer, als ich die endlosen Stufen zur Abtei hinaufstieg. Ich muss schnell gegangen sein, und doch schien es mir, als wären meine Füße mit Blei beschwert und als wären alle Gelenke meines Körpers rostig. Als ich fast oben ankam, konnte ich den Sitz und die weiße Gestalt sehen, denn ich war jetzt nah genug, um sie selbst durch die Schatten zu erkennen. Dort stand zweifellos etwas, lang und schwarz, über der halb liegenden weißen Gestalt gebeugt. Ich rief erschrocken "Lucy! Lucy!" und etwas hob den Kopf und von dort, wo ich war, konnte ich ein weißes Gesicht und rote, glänzende Augen sehen. Lucy antwortete nicht und ich lief zum Eingang des Friedhofs. Als ich eintrat, befand sich die Kirche zwischen mir und dem Sitz und ich verlor sie für eine Minute oder so aus den Augen. Als sie wieder in Sicht kam, war die Wolke vorbeigezogen und das Mondlicht schien so hell, dass ich Lucy halb liegend mit dem Kopf über die Rückenlehne des Sitzes sehen konnte. Sie war völlig allein und es gab keine Anzeichen von irgendwelchen lebenden Wesen in der Nähe. When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lips were parted, and she was breathing--not softly as usual with her, but in long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at every breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled the collar of her nightdress close around her throat. Whilst she did so there came a little shudder through her, as though she felt the cold. I flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight round her neck, for I dreaded lest she should get some deadly chill from the night air, unclad as she was. I feared to wake her all at once, so, in order to have my hands free that I might help her, I fastened the shawl at her throat with a big safety-pin; but I must have been clumsy in my anxiety and pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her breathing became quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and moaned. When I had her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her feet and then began very gently to wake her. At first she did not respond; but gradually she became more and more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. At last, as time was passing fast, and, for many other reasons, I wished to get her home at once, I shook her more forcibly, till finally she opened her eyes and awoke. She did not seem surprised to see me, as, of course, she did not realise all at once where she was. Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her body must have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled at waking unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. She trembled a little, and clung to me; when I told her to come at once with me home she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child. As we passed along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince. She stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes; but I would not. However, when we got to the pathway outside the churchyard, where there was a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet with mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went home, no one, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare feet. Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul. Once we saw a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front of us; but we hid in a door till he had disappeared up an opening such as there are here, steep little closes, or "wynds," as they call them in Scotland. My heart beat so loud all the time that sometimes I thought I should faint. I was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only for her health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her reputation in case the story should get wind. When we got in, and had washed our feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her into bed. Before falling asleep she asked--even implored--me not to say a word to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-walking adventure. I hesitated at first to promise; but on thinking of the state of her mother's health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her, and thinking, too, of how such a story might become distorted--nay, infallibly would--in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do so. I hope I did right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied to my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is sleeping soundly; the reflex of the dawn is high and far over the sea.... * * * * * _Same day, noon._--All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her and seemed not to have even changed her side. The adventure of the night does not seem to have harmed her; on the contrary, it has benefited her, for she looks better this morning than she has done for weeks. I was sorry to notice that my clumsiness with the safety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it might have been serious, for the skin of her throat was pierced. I must have pinched up a piece of loose skin and have transfixed it, for there are two little red points like pin-pricks, and on the band of her nightdress was a drop of blood. When I apologised and was concerned about it, she laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it. Fortunately it cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny. * * * * * _Same day, night._--We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and the sun bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to Mulgrave Woods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I walking by the cliff-path and joining her at the gate. I felt a little sad myself, for I could not but feel how _absolutely_ happy it would have been had Jonathan been with me. But there! I must only be patient. In the evening we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard some good music by Spohr and Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy seems more restful than she has been for some time, and fell asleep at once. I shall lock the door and secure the key the same as before, though I do not expect any trouble to-night. * * * * * _12 August._--My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night I was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in her sleep, to be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and heard the birds chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and, I was glad to see, was even better than on the previous morning. All her old gaiety of manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside me and told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I was about Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeeded somewhat, for, though sympathy can't alter facts, it can help to make them more bearable. * * * * * _13 August._--Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as before. Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed, still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly, and pulling aside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant moonlight, and the soft effect of the light over the sea and sky--merged together in one great, silent mystery--was beautiful beyond words. Between me and the moonlight flitted a great bat, coming and going in great whirling circles. Once or twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose, frightened at seeing me, and flitted away across the harbour towards the abbey. When I came back from the window Lucy had lain down again, and was sleeping peacefully. She did not stir again all night. * * * * * _14 August._--On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy seems to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard to get her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or dinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We were coming home for dinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier and stopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The setting sun, low down in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness; the red light was thrown over on the East Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed to bathe everything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, and suddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself:-- "His red eyes again! They are just the same." Es war ein so merkwürdiger Ausdruck, der so aus dem Nichts kam, dass er mich ziemlich erschreckte. Ich drehte mich ein wenig um, um Lucy gut sehen zu können, ohne dass es so aussah, als würde ich starren, und sah, dass sie in einem halbträumerischen Zustand war, mit einem merkwürdigen Ausdruck im Gesicht, den ich nicht ganz deuten konnte. Also sagte ich nichts, sondern folgte ihrem Blick. Es schien, als ob sie zu unserer eigenen Sitzgelegenheit hinüberblickte, auf der eine dunkle Gestalt alleine saß. Ich erschrak ein wenig, denn es schien für einen Moment, als hätte der Fremde große Augen wie brennende Flammen; aber ein zweiter Blick zerstreute die Illusion. Das rote Sonnenlicht schien auf die Fenster von St. Mary's Church hinter unserem Sitz, und als die Sonne unterging, gab es gerade genug Veränderung in der Brechung und Reflektion, um es so aussehen zu lassen, als würde das Licht sich bewegen. Ich lenkte Lucys Aufmerksamkeit auf den besonderen Effekt, und sie wurde selbst mit einem Schrecken wach, aber sie sah dennoch traurig aus; es könnte gewesen sein, dass sie an diese schreckliche Nacht dort oben dachte. Wir sprechen nie darüber; also sagte ich nichts, und wir gingen zum Abendessen nach Hause. Lucy hatte Kopfschmerzen und ging früh ins Bett. Ich sah sie schlafen und machte einen kleinen Spaziergang selbst; ich lief entlang der Klippen in westlicher Richtung und war voller süßer Traurigkeit, denn ich dachte an Jonathan. Als ich nach Hause kam – es war dann helllichter Mondenschein, so hell, dass man, obwohl die Vorderseite unseres Teils der Crescent im Schatten lag, alles gut sehen konnte – warf ich einen Blick auf unser Fenster und sah Lucys Kopf herausragen. Ich dachte, vielleicht schaut sie nach mir, also öffnete ich mein Taschentuch und winkte damit. Sie bemerkte es nicht und machte keinerlei Bewegung. Gerade in diesem Moment schlich sich der Mondenschein um eine Ecke des Gebäudes und das Licht fiel auf das Fenster. Da war deutlich Lucy, mit dem Kopf an der Seite der Fensterbank gelehnt und die Augen geschlossen. Sie schlief tief und fest und neben ihr auf der Fensterbank sah etwas aus wie ein ziemlich großer Vogel. Ich fürchtete, sie könnte sich erkälten, also rannte ich die Treppe hoch, aber als ich ins Zimmer kam, bewegte sie sich gerade zurück zu ihrem Bett, schlafend und schwer atmend; sie hielt ihre Hand an ihre Kehle, als wollte sie sie vor Kälte schützen. Ich weckte sie nicht auf, sondern deckte sie warm zu; ich habe dafür gesorgt, dass die Tür abgeschlossen ist und das Fenster sicher verriegelt ist. Sie sieht so süß aus, wenn sie schläft; aber sie ist blasser als gewöhnlich, und es liegt ein müder, abgespannter Blick unter ihren Augen, den ich nicht mag. Ich fürchte, sie macht sich Sorgen um etwas. Ich wünschte, ich könnte herausfinden, was es ist. * * * * * 15. August. Ich stand später auf als gewöhnlich. Lucy war schlaff und müde und schlief weiter, nachdem wir geweckt worden waren. Wir hatten eine glückliche Überraschung beim Frühstück. Arthurs Vater ist besser und möchte, dass die Hochzeit bald stattfindet. Lucy ist voller ruhiger Freude, und ihre Mutter ist gleichzeitig froh und traurig. Später am Tag erzählte sie mir den Grund. Sie ist traurig, Lucy als ihre eigene zu verlieren, aber sie freut sich, dass sie bald jemanden haben wird, der sie beschützt. Arme liebe, süße Frau! Sie vertraute mir an, dass sie ihr Todesurteil hat. Sie hat es Lucy nicht erzählt und mich um Verschwiegenheit gebeten; ihr Arzt hat ihr gesagt, dass sie innerhalb weniger Monate, höchstens, sterben muss, denn ihr Herz wird schwächer. Zu jeder Zeit, selbst jetzt, würde ein plötzlicher Schock sie fast sicher töten. Ah, wir waren klug, sie von der Geschichte der schrecklichen Nacht von Lucys Schlafwandeln fernzuhalten. * * * * * 17. August. Zwei ganze Tage lang kein Tagebucheintrag. Ich hatte nicht das Herz zu schreiben. Eine Art schattiger Schleier scheint über unser Glück zu kommen. Keine Nachricht von Jonathan, und Lucy scheint schwächer zu werden, während die Stunden ihrer Mutter gezählt sind. Ich verstehe nicht, wie Lucy dahinschwindet, wie sie es tut. Sie isst gut, schläft gut und genießt die frische Luft; aber die ganze Zeit verblassen die Rosen auf ihren Wangen, und sie wird schwächer und energieloser von Tag zu Tag; nachts höre ich sie keuchend nach Luft ringen. Nachts halte ich den Schlüssel unserer Tür immer an meinem Handgelenk fest, aber sie steht auf und geht im Zimmer umher und setzt sich ans offene Fenster. Letzte Nacht fand ich sie lehnend, als ich aufwachte, und als ich versuchte, sie aufzuwecken, konnte ich es nicht; sie war in Ohnmacht. Als ich sie wieder zu Bewusstsein brachte, war sie so schwach wie Wasser und weinte still zwischen langen, schmerzhaften Atemzügen. Als ich sie fragte, wie sie zum Fenster gekommen sei, schüttelte sie den Kopf und wandte sich ab. Ich hoffe, dass ihr Unwohlsein nicht von diesem unglücklichen Stich mit der Sicherheitsnadel kommt. Gerade eben habe ich mir ihren Hals angesehen, als sie schlief, und die winzigen Wunden scheinen sich nicht zu schließen. Sie sind immer noch offen und, wenn überhaupt, größer als zuvor, und ihre Ränder sind schwach weiß. Sie sehen aus wie kleine weiße Punkte mit roten Zentren. Wenn sie sich innerhalb von ein oder zwei Tagen nicht schließen, werde ich insistieren, dass der Arzt sich darum kümmert. _Brief, Samuel F. Billington & Son, Rechtsanwälte, Whitby, an Messrs. Carter, Paterson & Co., London._ "_17. August._ "Liebe Herren, "In der Anlage erhalten Sie bitte eine Rechnung über die von der Great Northern Railway versandten Waren. Diese sollen sofort nach Erhalt am Güterbahnhof King's Cross, Carfax, in der Nähe von Purfleet, geliefert werden. Das Haus ist derzeit leer, aber in der Anlage finden Sie die beschrifteten Schlüssel. "Sie sollen die 50 Kisten, die Teil der Sendung sind, im teilweise zerstörten Gebäude, das Teil des Hauses ist und auf der beiliegenden groben Skizze mit 'A' markiert ist, abstellen. Ihr Agent wird den Ort leicht erkennen können, da es sich um die alte Kapelle des Herrenhauses handelt. Die Waren fahren mit dem Zug um 21:30 Uhr heute Abend ab und werden morgen um 16:30 Uhr am King's Cross erwartet. Da unser Kunde sofortige Lieferung wünscht, wären wir Ihnen dankbar, wenn Sie zur angegebenen Zeit Teams bereitstellen würden, um die Waren sofort zum Bestimmungsort zu transportieren. Um mögliche Verzögerungen aufgrund von Zahlungsroutinen in Ihren Abteilungen zu umgehen, legen wir Ihnen hiermit einen Scheck über zehn Pfund (L10) bei, dessen Erhalt bitte bestätigt wird. Sollte der Betrag geringer sein als dieser, können Sie den Restbetrag zurückschicken; ist er größer, werden wir umgehend einen Scheck über die Differenz senden, sobald wir von Ihnen hören. Sie sollen die Schlüssel beim Verlassen des Hauses im Haupteingang ablegen, wo der Eigentümer sie mit seinem Duplikatschlüssel bekommen kann. "Bitte sehen Sie es nicht als eine Überschreitung der Grenzen der Geschäftshöflichkeit an, wenn wir Sie in jeder Hinsicht auffordern, die größtmögliche Eile walten zu lassen. "Mit freundlichen Grüßen, "SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SOHN." _Brief, Messrs. Carter, Paterson & Co., London, an Messrs. Billington & Sohn, Whitby._ "_21. August._ "Liebe Herren, "Wir danken Ihnen für die Erhalt des 10 Pf "Meine armen kleinen Füße haben damals nicht viel Lärm gemacht! Ich denke, der arme alte Herr Swales hätte mir gesagt, dass es daran lag, dass ich Geordie nicht wecken wollte." Da sie so mitteilungsbereit war, fragte ich sie, ob sie in dieser Nacht überhaupt geträumt hätte. Bevor sie antwortete, kam dieser süße, zusammengezogene Blick auf ihre Stirn, den Arthur - ich nenne ihn Arthur wegen ihrer Gewohnheit - sagt, dass er liebt; und ehrlich gesagt, ich wundere mich nicht darüber. Dann sprach sie halb träumend weiter, so als ob sie versuchte, sich daran zu erinnern: "Ich habe nicht direkt geträumt, aber es schien alles real zu sein. Ich wollte einfach nur an diesem Ort sein - ich weiß nicht warum, denn ich hatte Angst vor etwas - ich weiß nicht was. Ich erinnere mich daran, dass ich, obwohl ich vermutlich geschlafen habe, durch die Straßen und über die Brücke gegangen bin. Ein Fisch sprang, als ich vorbeiging, und ich lehnte mich über, um ihn anzusehen, und ich hörte eine Menge Hunde heulen - die ganze Stadt schien, als wäre sie voller Hunde, die alle gleichzeitig heulten - als ich die Stufen hochging. Dann hatte ich eine vage Erinnerung an etwas Langes und Dunkles mit roten Augen, genau wie wir es im Sonnenuntergang gesehen haben, und etwas sehr Süßes und Bitteres, das mich gleichzeitig umgab; und dann schien ich in tiefes grünes Wasser zu sinken, und es gab ein Singen in meinen Ohren, wie ich gehört habe, dass es ertrinkende Menschen gibt; und dann schien alles von mir wegzuschwinden; meine Seele schien aus meinem Körper herauszugehen und in der Luft herumzuschweben. Ich erinnere mich, dass einmal der Westleuchtturm direkt unter mir war, und dann gab es ein Art quälendes Gefühl, als ob ich in einem Erdbeben wäre, und ich kam zurück und fand dich dabei, meinen Körper zu schütteln. Ich habe gesehen, wie du es gemacht hast, bevor ich es gefühlt habe." Dann begann sie zu lachen. Es schien mir ein wenig unheimlich und ich hörte ihr atemlos zu. Ich mochte es nicht ganz und dachte, es wäre besser, sie nicht auf das Thema zu bringen, also drifteten wir zu anderen Themen ab und Lucy war wieder ganz sie selbst. Als wir nach Hause kamen, hatte die frische Brise sie aufgefrischt und ihre blassen Wangen waren wirklich rosiger geworden. Ihre Mutter freute sich, als sie sie sah, und wir verbrachten einen sehr glücklichen Abend zusammen. * * * * * _19. August._ - Freude, Freude, Freude! Aber nicht nur Freude. Endlich Neuigkeiten von Jonathan. Der liebe Kerl war krank; deshalb hat er nicht geschrieben. Ich habe keine Angst, es zu denken oder zu sagen, jetzt da ich es weiß. Mr. Hawkins hat mir den Brief überlassen und selbst sehr nett geschrieben. Ich soll morgen abreisen und zu Jonathan gehen und ihn notfalls pflegen und nach Hause bringen. Mr. Hawkins sagt, es wäre keine schlechte Idee, wenn wir dort geheiratet würden. Ich habe über den Brief der lieben Schwester geweint, bis ich ihn an meiner Brust spüren konnte, wo er liegt. Er handelt von Jonathan und muss mir nahe sein, denn er ist in meinem Herzen. Meine Reise ist vollständig geplant und mein Gepäck ist bereit. Ich nehme nur einen Kleiderwechsel mit; Lucy wird meinen Koffer nach London bringen und aufbewahren, bis ich danach frage, denn es könnte sein, dass ... Ich darf nicht mehr schreiben; ich muss es aufheben, um es Jonathan, meinem Ehemann, zu sagen. Der Brief, den er gesehen und berührt hat, muss mich trösten, bis wir uns treffen. _Brief, Schwester Agatha, Krankenhaus St. Joseph und Ste. Mary, Buda-Pesth, an Fräulein Wilhelmina Murray._ "_12. August._ "Liebe Frau, "Im Auftrag von Herrn Jonathan Harker schreibe ich Ihnen, da er selbst nicht stark genug ist, um zu schreiben, obwohl es ihm gut geht, Dank sei Gott und St. Joseph und Ste. Mary. Er war fast sechs Wochen bei uns in Behandlung und litt an einem heftigen Gehirnfieber. Er wünscht, Ihnen seine Liebe zu übermitteln und mitteilen zu lassen, dass er Mr. Peter Hawkins in Exeter per Post schreiben wird, um sich zu entschuldigen und mitzuteilen, dass er seine Arbeit abgeschlossen hat. Er wird einige Wochen Erholung in unserem Sanatorium in den Bergen benötigen, kehrt aber dann zurück. Er möchte Ihnen sagen, dass er nicht genug Geld bei sich hat und gerne für seinen Aufenthalt bezahlen möchte, damit anderen, die Hilfe benötigen, nichts fehlt. "Glauben Sie mir, "Ihre mit Mitgefühl und all Segnungen, "SCHWESTER AGATHA. "P. S. - Mein Patient schläft, deshalb öffne ich das, um Ihnen noch etwas mitzuteilen. Er hat mir alles über Sie erzählt und dass Sie in Kürze seine Frau sein werden. Segnungen für Sie beide! Er hat einen schrecklichen Schock erlitten - so sagt unser Arzt - und in seinem Wahnsinn waren seine Reden schrecklich: von Wölfen und Gift und Blut; von Geistern und Dämonen; und ich befürchte zu sagen, von was noch. Seien Sie vorsichtig mit ihm, damit nichts gibt, was ihn noch lange aufregt; die Spuren einer solchen Krankheit verschwinden nicht einfach so leicht. Wir hätten schon vor langer Zeit schreiben sollen, aber wir kannten nichts über seine Freunde und an ihm konnte niemand etwas verstehen. Er kam mit dem Zug von Klausenburg an und der Schaffner wurde vom Bahnhofsvorsteher angewiesen, ihm ein Ticket nach Hause zu geben, da er sich lautstark danach erkundigte. Da er an seinem gewalttätigen Verhalten erkannte, dass er Engländer war, gaben sie ihm ein Ticket bis zur entgegengesetzten Endstation. "Seien Sie versichert, dass er gut versorgt wird. Er hat alle Herzen mit seiner Liebenswürdigkeit und Sanftmut gewonnen. Es geht ihm wirklich gut und ich habe keinen Zweifel daran, dass er in ein paar Wochen wieder ganz der Alte ist. Aber passen Sie auf ihn auf, um der Sicherheit willen. Es gibt, ich bitte Gott und St. Joseph und Ste. Mary, noch viele, viele glückliche Jahre für Sie beide." _Dr. Sewards Tagebuch._ _19. August._ - Seltsame und plötzliche Veränderung bei Renfield letzte Nacht. Gegen acht Uhr begann er aufgeregt zu werden und schnüffelte wie ein Hund, der eine Spur verfolgt. Der Pfleger war von seinem Verhalten überrascht und ermutigte ihn, zu sprechen, da er wusste, dass ich an ihm interessiert bin. Normalerweise ist er respektvoll gegenüber dem Pfleger und manchmal unterwürfig; aber heute Abend, so sagte mir der Mann, war er ziemlich hochnäsig. Er wollte nicht einmal mit ihm reden. Alles, was er sagte, war: "Ich möchte nicht mit dir reden: Du zählst nichts mehr; der Meister ist zur Hand." Der Pfleger glaubt, dass er von einer plötzlichen Form von religiösem Wahn befallen ist. Wenn das der Fall ist, müssen wir uns auf Unruhen vorbereiten, denn ein starker Mann mit mörderischem und religiösem Wahn auf einmal könnte gefährlich sein. Die Kombination ist schrecklich. Um neun Uhr besuchte ich ihn selbst. Seine Haltung mir gegenüber war die gleiche wie die gegenüber dem Pfleger; in seinem erhabenen Selbstgefühl schien ihm der Unterschied zwischen mir und dem Pfleger als nichts vorzukommen. Es sieht nach religiösem Wahn aus, und er wird bald denken, dass er selbst Gott ist. Diese winzigen Unterschiede zwischen Mensch und Mensch sind für ein allmächtiges Wesen zu unbedeutend. Wie offenbaren Ich bin heute Abend müde und niedergeschlagen. Ich kann nicht anders, als an Lucy zu denken und wie anders die Dinge hätten sein können. Wenn ich nicht sofort einschlafe, Chloral, der moderne Morpheus – C_{2}HCl_{3}O. H_{2}O! Ich muss vorsichtig sein, dass es sich nicht zur Gewohnheit entwickelt. Nein, heute Nacht nehme ich keins! Ich habe an Lucy gedacht und ich werde sie nicht entehren, indem ich die beiden mische. Wenn es sein muss, werde ich heute Nacht schlaflos sein.... Später - Ich bin froh, dass ich diesen Entschluss gefasst habe; umso glücklicher, dass ich dabei geblieben bin. Ich hatte mich im Bett herumgeworfen und die Uhr nur zweimal schlagen hören, als der Nachtwächter zu mir kam, von der Station geschickt, um mir mitzuteilen, dass Renfield entkommen ist. Ich habe sofort meine Kleider angezogen und bin hinuntergelaufen; mein Patient ist zu gefährlich, um frei herumzulaufen. Seine Ideen könnten sich mit Fremden gefährlich entwickeln. Der Wärter wartete auf mich. Er sagte, er habe ihn noch vor zehn Minuten gesehen, scheinbar schlafend in seinem Bett, als er durch die Beobachtungsluke in der Tür geschaut habe. Seine Aufmerksamkeit wurde durch das Geräusch des gewaltsam geöffneten Fensters aufmerksam gemacht. Er rannte zurück und sah, wie seine Füße durch das Fenster verschwanden, und schickte sofort jemanden nach mir. Er war nur mit seinem Nachthemd bekleidet und kann nicht weit sein. Der Wärter dachte, es wäre nützlicher, zu beobachten, wohin er geht, als ihm zu folgen, da er ihn aus den Augen verlieren könnte, während er durch die Tür aus dem Gebäude herauskommt. Er ist ein stämmiger Mann und konnte nicht durch das Fenster kommen. Ich bin schlank, also bin ich mit seiner Hilfe herausgekommen, aber mit den Füßen zuerst, und da wir nur ein paar Meter über dem Boden waren, bin ich unverletzt gelandet. Der Wärter hat mir gesagt, dass der Patient nach links gegangen sei und einen geraden Weg eingeschlagen habe, also bin ich so schnell wie möglich gerannt. Als ich den Streifen aus Bäumen durchquerte, sah ich eine weiße Gestalt über die hohe Mauer klettern, die unser Gelände von dem des verlassenen Hauses trennt. Ich bin sofort zurückgefahren, habe den Nachtwächter gebeten, sofort drei oder vier Männer zu holen und mir in das Carfax-Gelände zu folgen, falls unser Freund gefährlich sein könnte. Ich habe mir selbst eine Leiter geholt und bin über die Mauer geklettert, auf die andere Seite gefallen. Ich konnte Renfields Gestalt gerade hinter der Ecke des Hauses verschwinden sehen, also bin ich ihm hinterhergelaufen. Auf der anderen Seite des Hauses fand ich ihn eng an der alten eisernen Eingangstür der Kapelle gedrückt. Er sprach anscheinend mit jemandem, aber ich traute mich nicht, nahe genug heranzugehen, um zu hören, was er sagte, aus Angst, ihn zu erschrecken und ihn rennen zu lassen. Eine Herde wilder Bienen zu verfolgen ist nichts im Vergleich zu einem nackten Verrückten, wenn er fliehen will! Nach ein paar Minuten konnte ich jedoch sehen, dass er nichts um sich herum bemerkte, und wagte es daher, ihm näher zu kommen - umso mehr, als meine Männer nun die Mauer überquert hatten und ihn einschlossen. Ich hörte ihn sagen: "Ich bin hier, um deinen Befehlen zu gehorchen, Meister. Ich bin dein Sklave und du wirst mich belohnen, denn ich werde treu sein. Ich habe dich lange und aus der Ferne verehrt. Jetzt, da du nahe bist, erwarte ich deine Befehle, und du wirst mich nicht übersehen, wirst du, lieber Meister, bei der Verteilung der guten Dinge?" Er ist ohnehin ein egoistischer alter Bettler. Er denkt an Brot und Fische, auch wenn er glaubt, dass er im Angesicht des Herrn ist. Seine Manien ergeben eine erstaunliche Kombination. Als wir ihn einkreisten, kämpfte er wie ein Tiger. Er ist enorm stark, denn er war mehr wie ein wildes Tier als ein Mann. Ich habe noch nie einen Verrückten in einem derartigen Wutanfall gesehen, und ich hoffe, ich werde es auch nie wieder tun. Es ist ein Glück, dass wir seine Stärke und seine Gefährlichkeit rechtzeitig entdeckt haben. Mit Stärke und Entschlossenheit wie seiner hätte er vor seiner Gefangenschaft verheerende Arbeit leisten können. Nun ist er zumindest sicher. Selbst Jack Sheppard selbst konnte sich nicht aus dem Zwangsjacken befreien, der ihn festhält, und er ist an die Wand in dem gepolsterten Raum gekettet. Seine Schreie sind manchmal furchtbar, aber die Stille, die ihnen folgt, ist noch tödlicher, denn er hat in jeder Bewegung und Drehung Mord im Sinn. Gerade sprach er zum ersten Mal zusammenhängende Worte: "Ich werde geduldig sein, Meister. Es kommt - kommt - kommt!" Also nahm ich den Hinweis und kam auch. Ich war zu aufgeregt, um zu schlafen, aber dieses Tagebuch hat mich beruhigt und ich glaube, ich werde heute Nacht etwas schlafen können. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Am 10. August wacht Mina auf und findet Lucys Bett leer vor. Sie geht nach draußen, um Lucy zu suchen, und sieht sie auf ihrer Lieblingsbank im Kirchhof, wo sich eine dunkle Gestalt über sie beugt. Als Mina sich nähert, schaut die Gestalt zu ihr herüber und zeigt ein blasses Gesicht und glühend rote Augen. Als Mina jedoch bei Lucy ankommt, ist die Gestalt verschwunden. Lucy scheint zu schlafen, ringt aber nach Luft, also wickelt Mina sie in ein Tuch und bringt sie nach Hause. Als Lucy aufwacht, entdeckt Mina "zwei kleine rote Punkte wie Nadelstiche" an ihrem Hals und entscheidet, dass sie Lucy versehentlich gestochen haben muss, als sie ihr mit ihrem Tuch geholfen hat. Lucy versucht in den nächsten beiden Nächten erneut zu schlafwandeln, aber Mina vereitelt Lucys Versuche, indem sie die Schlafzimmertür abschließt. Später machen die beiden Frauen einen Spaziergang zusammen. Als die Sonne untergeht, sehen sie eine dunkle Gestalt auf dem Friedhof, und Lucy bemerkt den roten Glanz in seinen Augen. In dieser Nacht wacht Mina auf und sieht Lucy im Bett sitzen und auf das Fenster zeigen. Mina schaut nach draußen und sieht eine große Fledermaus im Mondlicht flattern. Als sie sich umdreht, findet sie Lucy friedlich schlafend vor. In den nächsten Tagen wird Lucy blass und abgemagert, und die Bisswunden an ihrem Hals werden größer. Mina sorgt sich um das Wohlergehen ihrer Freunde: um Lucys schlechte Gesundheit, um Lucys Mutter, die zu krank ist, um sich wegen Lucys Zustand Sorgen zu machen, und um Jonathan Harker, der immer noch vermisst wird. Ein Brief eines Whitby Anwalts folgt auf Minas Tagebucheintrag und bestellt, dass die Kisten mit Erde von der Demeter zum Anwesen Carfax geliefert werden, das Dracula gekauft hat. Wir kehren zu Minas Tagebuch zurück, wo sie schreibt, dass sich Lucys Gesundheit zu verbessern scheint. Es kommt die Nachricht, dass Jonathan in einem ungarischen Krankenhaus in Buda-Pest aufgetaucht ist und an Hirnfieber leidet. Mina bereitet sich darauf vor, England zu verlassen, um bei Jonathan zu sein. Die Erzählung wechselt zu John Sewards Berichten über seinen Patienten Renfield, der sowohl gewalttätig als auch angeberisch geworden ist und dem Arzt sagt, dass "der Meister nahe ist". Eines Nachts entkommt Renfield und läuft nach Carfax, wo Dr. Seward ihn an der Tür der Kapelle des Herrenhauses findet und er um seinen Meister und Gehorsam fleht. Die Pfleger bringen Renfield zurück in seine Zelle, wo er seinen Meister bittet, geduldig zu sein.

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: "Ah, Pangloss! Pangloss! Ah, Martin! Martin! Ah, my dear Cunegonde, what sort of a world is this?" said Candide on board the Dutch ship. "Something very foolish and abominable," said Martin. "You know England? Are they as foolish there as in France?" "It is another kind of folly," said Martin. "You know that these two nations are at war for a few acres of snow in Canada,[31] and that they spend over this beautiful war much more than Canada is worth. To tell you exactly, whether there are more people fit to send to a madhouse in one country than the other, is what my imperfect intelligence will not permit. I only know in general that the people we are going to see are very atrabilious." Talking thus they arrived at Portsmouth. The coast was lined with crowds of people, whose eyes were fixed on a fine man kneeling, with his eyes bandaged, on board one of the men of war in the harbour. Four soldiers stood opposite to this man; each of them fired three balls at his head, with all the calmness in the world; and the whole assembly went away very well satisfied. "What is all this?" said Candide; "and what demon is it that exercises his empire in this country?" He then asked who was that fine man who had been killed with so much ceremony. They answered, he was an Admiral.[32] "And why kill this Admiral?" "It is because he did not kill a sufficient number of men himself. He gave battle to a French Admiral; and it has been proved that he was not near enough to him." "But," replied Candide, "the French Admiral was as far from the English Admiral." "There is no doubt of it; but in this country it is found good, from time to time, to kill one Admiral to encourage the others." Candide was so shocked and bewildered by what he saw and heard, that he would not set foot on shore, and he made a bargain with the Dutch skipper (were he even to rob him like the Surinam captain) to conduct him without delay to Venice. The skipper was ready in two days. They coasted France; they passed in sight of Lisbon, and Candide trembled. They passed through the Straits, and entered the Mediterranean. At last they landed at Venice. "God be praised!" said Candide, embracing Martin. "It is here that I shall see again my beautiful Cunegonde. I trust Cacambo as myself. All is well, all will be well, all goes as well as possible." Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Als das Schiff in der Nähe der Küste ist, werden Martin und Candide Zeuge der Hinrichtung eines Admirals. Sie erfahren, dass England regelmäßig Admirale hinrichtet, um den Rest der Flotte zur härteren Kämpfen zu ermutigen. Dieser bestimmte Admiral wurde zum Tode verurteilt, weil er es versäumt hatte, seine Männer während einer Schlacht mit den Franzosen in Kanada dazu zu bewegen, sich dem Feind näher zu bringen. Candide weigert sich, England zu betreten, und organisiert, dass der Kapitän des Schiffes ihn nach Venedig bringt, wo er sich sicher ist, Cunegonde wiederzutreffen. "Siehst du," sagte Candide zu Martin, "Verbrechen werden manchmal bestraft; dieses Schurkenstück von einem holländischen Kaufmann hat das verdiente Schicksal ereilt." "Ja", sagte Martin, "aber mussten auch die Passagiere an Bord seines Schiffes ums Leben kommen?"

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: 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. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Die Wölfin lässt nun öfter ihr Junges alleine, um auf Jagdausflüge zu gehen. Es wurde ihm klar gemacht, dass er den Höhlenausgang nicht betreten sollte. Da sich in ihm der Instinkt entwickelt, akzeptiert er die Angst als eine der Einschränkungen des Lebens und nähert sich nicht dem Höhleneingang. Eines Tages hört er ein seltsames Schnüffeln an der Höhle, das von einem Vielfraß stammt. Seine Mutter kommt rechtzeitig, um ihn zu beschützen. Eines Tages geht das Junge ins Freie, rollt den Hang hinunter, ist geblendet vom Licht und fängt an wie ein ängstlicher Welpe zu weinen. Als er endlich einen Halt findet, erkundet er das grasbewachsene Gebiet um ihn herum. Er erschrickt vor einem Eichhörnchen und einem Specht. Er entdeckt ein Alpenschneehuhn-Nest, frisst die Küken und traut sich, gegen die Mutter Alpenschneehuhn zu kämpfen und verletzt sie dabei. Ein Falke unterbricht den Kampf, den das Alpenschneehuhn scheinbar gewinnen würde, und tötet den Vogel. Das Junge fällt daraufhin in einen Fluss. Es kämpft sich ans Ufer, schwimmt zum ersten Mal im Wasser, wird aber abwärts getrieben und sicher abgesetzt. Es trifft auch auf einen Wiesel, mit dem es einen Kampf beginnt. Es wäre von der Mutter des Wiesels getötet worden, wäre nicht rechtzeitig seine eigene Mutter dazwischen gekommen. Als sie das Wiesel tötet, essen sie es zusammen.